10



Outside, Kastor could see the trail he’d left while being dragged through the snow. Stiaan’s footprints went right down the middle of it. The prints were all toe; Stiaan had been running flat-out, right up to where he slowed outside the door to act casual.

As they began to retrace the way to the road, Kastor said, “Why did you rescue me? I don’t understand.”

“Charis and Serifar called me. It was very interesting. I wouldn’t think they’d have been able to do it, but perhaps their combined effort was stronger. I teleported; risky, without proper preparation, but their beacon helped. When they described the Mara who stole you, I took the time to construct that spell. I knew he’d be torturing you, and I’m sorry for what you endured, but if I’d gone in at once --”

“He would’ve beat the stuffing out of you, I know, you said. But I asked why, not how. You don’t owe me anything.”

Stiaan cocked an eyebrow. “Do you mean to say you don’t blame me for Mikah’s end?”

“Of course I do. But that’s not something you owe me. You owe him. The fact that he no longer exists to be repaid -- well, I’d say that was punishment enough, if I thought Mara experienced the same emotions as mortals.”

With a thoughtful frown, Stiaan nodded slightly.

“Were you trying to repay me, then?” Kastor said.

“I... I don’t suppose I thought it through.”

“Mikah said you were the methodical one. The rational one.”

“Not since -- I’ve been a bit -- can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. Let’s talk about the zillion other things that are puzzling me. I can’t even figure out what the game is, let alone how many players there are or whose piece I am.”

Stiaan winced. “Oh dear.”

“What?”

“I had that chess-game metaphor in my own head. I’d hoped I was jumping to conclusions. But if it looks the same to you...” He scowled. “I decline to be a pawn. I dislike it immensely.”

“Not sure we get a choice. Things just happen, you know, and they predict how you’ll react. Or they do things to your head. Like this... this thing that...” He trailed off, examining the barrier between himself and his feelings, and saw it begin to dissolve.

First came a sense that the day was a little too bright. Then the lines of black branches against snow scored into his eyes like thaumaturgic runes. He could smell himself, sick-sweat and blood; he could smell Stiaan, that sun-on-stone Mara smell and something like crushed sharp herbs; he could smell a change in the weather, the west wind bringing a thaw; too much, all at once.

He just had time to murmur, “Oh hell,” before his throat closed. There was no fighting it. The memory of the last hour hadn’t been blotted out, just set aside, and now it returned with all the emotions it should have called up in the first place. He whimpered.

“What is it? Are you under attack?” Stiaan reached; Kastor flinched back.

He sank to his knees, hugging himself. Shaking his head, denying it; all useless. He was shaking. His guts knotted, nausea rolled through him, he was dizzy, he couldn’t see straight. There was a tightness in his head behind his eyes. Pictures flashed inside him, horrors, the destruction of his body, the violation, the terrible humiliation of being entered with knives and hooks and files and pincers and made to scream and groan whether he willed it or not -- and the unbearable fear of knowing death could not be denied this time --

“I don’t sense any magic,” Stiaan was saying with helpless urgency. “Could it be a poison? You must tell me, or I can’t help you!”

Kastor shook his head. “No, it’s just... just my own... it all hit me at once and... gad hlyn, it was so awful...” He covered his mouth with his hands, but his breath hitched anyway, and scalding tears poured down his face.

“Is there something I can...?” Stiaan knelt next to him, reached out gingerly to give him an awkward pat on the back. “Uh -- there there.”

The absurdity of it broke through the barrage of memory. Kastor laughed through his tears. The thought that this was Stiaan trying to comfort him -- his old enemy, and all that -- brought a stronger laugh. And the bewildered expression on Stiaan’s face dealt the final blow to horror. He wiped his eyes, sniffed hard, and was done. He knew there would be nightmares. He’d be nervous around rug hooks and woodworking implements for a while. But that was later. For now, he was alive, and that would do.

He stuck out his hand. “Help me up.” When Stiaan had complied, he said, “Any clean space left on your handkerchief? I’d hate to get this nice shirt snotty.”

“Here. Keep it. Please.”

“Let me guess. You can get a new one, and I go through them faster.”

“Something like that. Can you continue?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. Actually he felt weak and shaky as a newborn foal, but that didn’t change anything. “We should get back to reassure Charis. Though I suppose Serifar will be more distraught -- are all new Mara so emotional?”

“What’s new got to do with it? You don’t need to grow calluses on your feelings when you’ve got the option of forgetting. Emotion is always fresh and new to us. We’re perpetual adolescents. I suspect it makes us tiresome. I’ve conducted several experiments to see whether that changes if one refrains from erasing memories for a prolonged period. According to my notes, in one case it did, in one it didn’t, and in two I went insane. I’ve no idea what it was actually like, as I removed the experiences from my mind. I’m very selective about what I erase, though, unlike Rema, who is an eternal ignoramus because he removes whole swathes of time without saving anything out of them.” He caught Kastor’s elbow as the mortal stumbled. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Maybe I could use a short rest.” Kastor leaned against a tree. Its immobility felt good. “Why would I be wobbly? The crown healed me.”

“It used your own substance to replace what was lost. You’ll likely be dizzy for a day or so.”

“Did you know it would do that?”

“Yes. I didn’t know how close he’d come to killing you, or whether you’d have to run, which you were in no shape to do. And I didn’t need it. The angel has great power, but only for healing and soothing and --” he flapped a hand -- “you know, good things. It doesn’t like violence. About the only thing it could have helped me do to Rema is an exorcism, but as he’s posessed by nothing but his own puerile sadism, I doubt it would have been effective.” Then he gave Kastor a funny look. “What? What did I do?”

Kastor shook his head, unable to erase the grin that was confusing Stiaan. “I just like the way you talk.”

“I talk too much. I shouldn’t have indulged myself with Rema. I wish I hadn’t said that thing about antimagic, and ‘read a book’ -- rule of thumb, never point out to your enemy what he’s doing wrong. He might remedy it.”

“Ah.” Kastor leaned his head against the tree trunk. The forest was quiet for a moment, the wind stilling between gusts. When it started again, there was a pattering of wet snow falling from branches. The thaw was starting. Though his little breakdown was past, everything still felt too real. Tree bark under his fingers. Damp seeping through the hole in his boot. Stiaan beside him, looking at him expectantly, his beauty no longer blinding like sun on ice, but restful to the eyes, and very still. Was this pleasant, anxious, clever man the one Mikah had known?

He stood there thinking for a while. Stiaan was silent and let him do so, which added to the sum of his information, and he came to a decision.

“Stiaan, there’s something interesting about you and me. I mean, about the way we’re acting. I have all kinds of reasons to dislike you, but somehow, I don’t quite. I don’t trust you much, but I don’t blame you for it. I’m just... oddly comfortable around you. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” Stiaan said in a bemused tone, “because I’m experiencing the same curious sensation. I feel terribly guilty over what you’ve suffered as a consequence of my mistakes; that should make me cringe in your presence, but it doesn’t. I just find myself resolved to make it up to you. And for some reason that seems possible.”

“It’s weird. Someone overhearing this conversation might think we were attracted to each other. But...”

“Yes, not that you’re not perfectly lovely, but no thank you.”

“Exactly.”

For several seconds, neither spoke; considering.

Stiaan said, “You know what it is? It’s that we’re so much alike.”

“Are you nuts? We’re not remotely similar.”

“Ignoring past instances of me in which I was a horrible person, we’re currently a lot alike.”

“But... I get the impression you’re the scholarly type, and, well, refined. Which I’m so very not.”

“Circumstance.” Stiaan dismissed it. “But in terms of analytical thought, and ill-considered honesty, and pretty much any other character trait you’d care to name... not to mention that we can trade clothing like schoolgirls.”

Kastor snickered. “Except that if I tried to buckle my boot I’d rip out the back of your shirt.”

“Did I mention unsolicited pedantry?”

“All right, I see your point. Maybe we should upgrade our truce to a treaty.”

“Mutual assistance?”

“I’m not up to an alliance yet. I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Besides, anything you’d need help with would just squish me like a bug. I was thinking of a trade pact. Information. We’re both picking up pieces, and I think they’re pieces of the same picture. And while I don’t consider you reliable, I don’t believe you lie.”

“Done.” Stiaan stuck out his hand, and Kastor clasped it.

Kastor was feeling a bit steadier, so he pushed away from the tree. Glancing back the way they’d come, he saw that the farmhouse wasn’t on fire yet. There was a bit of smoke threading from one corner of the thatch, though. He hoped it wouldn’t start a forest fire. Things were fairly wet, so it didn’t seem likely. He just couldn’t bring himself to care any more than that. He turned his back on the problem and resumed walking. Stiaan walked beside him in a sort of hovering way, as if expecting him to faint at any moment. It was a bit irritating, and kind of considerate, and didn’t really require a comment.

“I’ll go first,” he said, “since I proposed the arrangement. I have fairly strong evidence that at least two gods are involved. The Hunter claimed me last spring, while I was in the Forge. Called me his hound. I forgot about it, because I had a lot on my mind at the time, but it’s been brought to my attention recently. He was... nearly subtle. Then, after finishing a job for him, while I was being worked on by a healer, I had one of those vision dreams. I’m not sure whether I was dead during it or just unconscious.”

“Dead?” Stiaan looked puzzled. “How? And how’d you get back?”

“How I got there, I was in a fight, and my wounds got infected. I think I remember my heart doing an odd fluttery thing, just before the dream, but I wasn’t paying much attention. How I got back, I suppose the healer did that. Anyway, that’s beside the point.” He paused, then gave a dry laugh. “Although I’d like to mention that I’ve been chopped up so much on this trip, I’m thinking of crawling under a rock and never coming out again.”

“If only that worked.”

“In any case, this dream, there was a girl who looked a lot like me. Exactly like me, except for being female. Said her name was Irina Suneater. Does that ring a bell?” He paused hopefully, but Stiaan shook his head. Disappointed, Kastor went on, “She warned me about the key, and everyone being after it. She was working for someone, but she wouldn’t say who. She was speaking Semnian, so it might even be one of the Pantheon.”

“She said it was a god?”

“No, but when I woke up, in rotten shape and a ton of pain, I called out that if Irina wanted me to do anything at all, she’d have to arrange for me to be in shape to do it. This freezing wind comes out of nowhere -- indoors, mind you -- and when it’s finished throwing the furniture around, not only am I completely healed, Serifar’s got his arm back.”

“Arm?”

“A wyr bit it off. Ah, hell, Stiaan, you should’ve seen him. The poor little guy was such a wreck, the boy that helped me carry him in had to run outside and puke. How could you let an infant like that go wandering off by himself?”

Stiaan made an unhappy face. “I wish I could have helped him more. But I wasn’t finished -- am still not finished binding my vishira. I couldn’t --”

“Your what?”

“The Mara I made. There were rather a lot of them, you know, and hardly any of them are as gentle as Serifar. Even unbound, he couldn’t keep up with me, and I couldn’t do the job with a score of ducklings trailing me anyway.”

Kastor was aghast. “A score?”

“Thirty-two, actually.”

“Siacha! Ran ashusa!”

“Yes, do go on, swearing at me just might make it not have happened.”

“Sorry.” After a moment, Kastor snorted. “No, actually, I’m not sorry. I think, considering the magnitude of your fuckup, you’re going to have to put up with being bitched at for many years to come. Might as well get used to it.”

“You’re right, of course. It’s just that nothing you can say is as bad as what I say to myself. But we’ve gone on a tangent. Two gods, Hunter and mysterious cold-wind healing god who speaks through your feminine twin.”

“Feminine’s the wrong word for her. I suspect her gender is a technicality. But yes, that’s two, who both seem to be interested in me rather than the key. Then there’s Rema’s goddess, whoever that is, and she’s after the key. The way Irina told it, everything that’s not pure mud-footed human is after this damn key, whether they know it or not. Oh, wait, there’s one other thing. The healer said there was an irregularity in my aura, whatever the hell that means, and he thought it was a god’s mark, possibly two. One was clearly the Hunter, but he also mentioned a sense like a tomb. No clue what that means. One would assume Death, that is, Telar, but he’s a major, major god -- what would he want with the Hunter’s sloppy seconds? Besides which, he’d have had the power to do something about Rema, and damn am I glad I didn’t think of that while the bastard was still cutting on me. It would’ve wrecked my composure.”

Stiaan had been nodding thoughtfully during this. Now he rubbed his chin like a wise man in a play. “Hmmm, very interesting. Yes, you are definitely being dicked around by divinities. The only cure is to be transformed into a constellation as soon as possible. Otherwise they’ll never leave you alone.”

“Oh har har, Stiaan. Thank you so much.”

“I can be flippant; I’m in the same sinking ship.”

“Well, it’s your turn.”

“Nothing new, I’m afraid. Just those infernal dreams.”

“You had another?”

“Four of them, since we last spoke, bringing the total to five. Every damn time I sleep, in fact. Unfortunately, I’ve had to sleep quite a bit, since I’ve been using myself up at an incredible rate. There’s not much left of me at the moment. Just about enough to get myself back to Garwater to restock.”

“Garwater? That’s in Semnia! I thought teleporting got exponentially more dangerous with distance.”

“It’s only about a hundred fifty miles, actually. It’s in the narrow neck of Semnia, and we’re toward the eastern border of Nestria. Garwater’s pretty much due east.”

“My mental map is all turned around.”

“Besides, I flatter myself that I’m unusually accurate about my teleports. It helps if one does the calculations from scratch each time, rather than substituting known values.”

“You lost me. No, please don’t explain.”

A disappointed sigh. “Oh, all right. But it’s very interesting. You’re missing out.”

“Dreams, Stiaan. ”

“Very well. There’s not much to tell. They were all variations on the theme. You, me, horns or antlers, sex and death.”

“You didn’t mention sex before -- do not take that as fishing for compliments.”

“It seemed likely you’d throw me down the stairs if I told you that part. But the fact is that all these dreams are freighted with an overwhelming lust that exists only within the context of the dream. I find it disturbing and unrealistic.”

Kastor made a hurt face. “Thanks a lot.”

“I thought you weren’t fishing!”

“That was before you said ‘disturbing and unrealistic.’”

“You’re mortal. There’s a smell.”

“Hint: when in a hole, stop digging. Smells indeed -- you’re one to talk. What have you been rolling in, poultry seasoning?” Kastor kept a straight face for all of two seconds before he burst out laughing at Stiaan’s expression. It felt good to laugh, good to speak with someone who wasn’t relying on him for protection. It was hard to leave off teasing and go back to the subject at hand. “If those dreams are sent, who the hell is sending them?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m a bit thrown by the Hunter imagery; I don’t see why he’d want to give you that kind of association in my mind. I’ve considered that he might wish me to assist you, but trying to make me do so out of lust -- and overdoing it like that -- doesn’t seem his style. He and his consort are the most straightforward of all the Ascended.”

“Maybe whatever Rema was working for? He said desire, right?”

“Even if the bitch has the power to get dreams through my wards, it doesn’t explain the antlers.”

“Tell me about this ‘bitch’.”

Stiaan made a sour face. “Her name is Astaria, she’s a minor goddess, not part of any pantheon, much given to meddling, and I’ve been itching to slam her face in a door for quite some time now. Tries to bill herself as the goddess of love, but no one’s buying. She’s been using Rema for many years; my relationship with him was one of her schemes, an attempt to turn me into her pawn. I showed her that using me is like playing chess with pieces made of water.” He gave a lopsided smile. “I wasted a quantity of her time, but I don’t think I harmed her.”

“Huh. Well, I’m thinking, whatever game they’re all dragging me into, I’m going to be like having a live scorpion on the board. This shit’s got me that close to killed twice in one week. That’s unacceptable.”

“I agree. Unfortunately, I can’t think of a way you can break free of it.”

“I’ll find one.”

“Do you mean to defy your Hunter as well?”

“Maybe. If he pushes too hard. As for the rest, Irina’s boss will have to identify himself and ask nicely. And Astaria -- can we kill her?”

“I gather there are ways.”

“Well, if you ever get to the door-slamming stage, count me in.”

“I wonder if you ought to consider some solution involving the key.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Less than you do, at this stage. I know it has something to do with the location of Mikah’s storehouse, and I know it exerts a faint but constant call that pulls supernaturally sensitive individuals toward it. I doubt it’s strong enough to get someone to leave familiar haunts, but anything wandering will naturally wander in your direction. I don’t know what it does, or even if that’s its true form.”

“You don’t know what would’ve happened if I’d given it to Rema?”

“Aside from the fact that he would have tortured you to death even after you gave in, no, I don’t know.”

“I guessed that much. It’s why I didn’t. That and Irina said anyone who took it by killing me would be cursed. I like the idea of him being cursed. Say, is there any way we could know when he comes back to life? I want to think up ways to make his world an unpleasant place.”

Stiaan shook his head, looking solemn. “Don’t even think about it. To give you an idea of the difference in power, not all Mara can teleport themselves -- to do it reliably, I use thaumaturgy instead of shtedtzaar -- but Rema can teleport other people. Or just parts of them.”

“Eugh.” Kastor shuddered. “But all that means is I have to be clever.”

“Really, no, don’t even try it.”

“I’m not going to promise that. The thought of wrecking his life will keep me sane when the nightmares start.”

“But revenge, brooding and plotting... aren’t those evil traits? Kastor, I thought you were on the the side of good.”

Kastor chuckled. “I’m on my own side. ‘Good’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe myself.”

“This sounds alarming. Maybe it’ll get better if you explain.”

“Different people use the words to mean different things. If there are absolutes, they’re so far beyond us that even gods don’t agree on the details. Evil is an especially slippery concept. You might say that you were previously evil -- well, I don’t know enough about the situation, but I got the impression that you were just weak and lazy, and the nastiness was coming from the demon.”

“What a relief that is,” Stiaan said dryly.

“All right, then let’s use Rema as an example. He’s not even properly evil. Horrible, and worthy of all sorts of unpleasantness, but not evil. That’s because he’s outright insane. The pain he inflicts on others, I don’t think he correlates it to his own experience of pain. I don’t think he understands that other people are real, do you see?”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong there,” Stiaan said sadly. “That’s the only way it would make sense for a mortal to be like that. But Rema is perfectly capable of understanding the reality of others. He sometimes uses an empathic link to experience what he’s inflicting, in order to improve his ‘art’. He knows what he does is wrong. He likes that it’s wrong.”

“That sounds like insanity to me, but I’ll take your word for it. How the hell did you ever end up with that moral turd for a lover?”

Stiaan winced. “Long story. You’d have to get me very drunk.”

“Anyway, as for me being one of the good guys, as you say -- well, I’m not generally malicious, I don’t take pleasure in others’ pain, but I would if it were Rema. I’d love to watch him choke on his own medicine. And not because it would teach him anything; I can tell it wouldn’t. Not for any reason except I’m angry and I’d like to lash out. I don’t even have the moral high ground, since only a few days ago I threatened to cut a guy’s ear off -- and I would’ve done it, too, if he hadn’t talked. So no, not a good guy. Not a bad guy, though, I don’t think. At least, I’m reasonably nice to people as a default, and usually if they prove unpleasant I just leave them alone.” He shrugged. “Make your own judgement.”

“Judgement? I’m in no position to judge you!”

“True.” Kastor chewed his lip for a moment, then went on slowly, “And I can’t judge you either. I don’t know why you did what you did. I’m not really entitled to have opinions about you. You can stop seeking my forgiveness, Stiaan. It’s not mine to give or withhold.”

Stiaan took a sharp breath. “Oh my. You’re impressive. I thought it took at least a century to gain that kind of clarity.”

“Don’t mock; I’m serious.”

“So am I, Kastor. And grateful.”

A bit embarrassed, Kastor changed the subject. “Back to the key. This isn’t all some sneaky ploy to get it for yourself, is it?”

Stiaan made a warding gesture. “Heaven forbid! I’d be far too busy defending it to do my other work, and I’d be too tempted to use it.”

“What would happen if you used it? Or if I did?”

“No idea. I’m curious to find out, which is dangerous since I suspect it’s something awful.”

“Mikah’s letter said he foresaw me coming to great things by it.”

“Hardship builds character?”

Kastor snorted. “You must know something more than that. Didn’t he --?”

“No. Please, let’s not.”

Reluctantly, Kastor nodded and let it drop. “One other thing you could tell me about. Rema put a weak binding of some kind on me at first, and I broke it. Not that this would be such a big deal, except I didn’t know it was possible. In his prattling he mentioned that I had shtedtzaar.” He was proud of himself for remembering the word.

“You broke his binding?” Stiaan was curious, but not surprised.

“Was he wrong? I think he was wrong. I have barely enough magic to do a few charms.”

“Like what?”

“Firestarting, seeking, charsraun --”

“What?”

“Charsen rauna,” he elucidated. “Makes arrows go awry near you. Slow or miss. Not enough to save you from a good shot, just improves your chances. But you see? I might make a decent thaumaturge, if I had the education, but I’m a weak sorcerer.”

“Ah, there it is.” Stiaan pointed at Kastor as if making a clever argument. “Sensing and probability. The finer the point of probability, the more effective you are. Sorcery isn’t water in a bucket, you realize; it fluctuates, it can be stronger for some tasks than others, it varies from person to person and within the same person over time. You have little power but a great deal of focus, which would be precisely right for breaking the sort of sloppy binding I expect Rema used.”

“Um... you did hear that I was asking about shtedtzaar, not sorcery, right?”

Leaning close with a conspiratorial smile, Stiaan whispered loudly, “They’re the same thing. Shh, don’t tell anyone.”

“You’re joking.” Kastor studied his face. “You’re not joking.”

“It’s just a question of magnitude. I have acres of notes about this at home; I’d be glad to show you, when we both have time.”

“So what you’re telling me is that Mara are naturally strong sorcerers, and the reason you say schtedtzaar instead of sorcery...?”

“I assure you most Mara don’t even know why they do what they do, let alone how. Lazy-minded, the lot of them. I’m not about to go telling them, either; half of them would come up with some superficially attractive but ultimately unworkable plan for using that knowlege to take over the world, and I’d have to go spank them, and I really have enough work to do without that.” He took a long breath and pasted on a smile. “I’m sure you’ll use it responsibly, though. Perhaps perform a few experiments to test your limits? Vary the focus elements of your charms? I suspect you could also learn to augment your physical strength, if you’re not doing so already.”

“That might be what happens when I go feahar. Was that what you did to Rema? Because let me say, that was the most elegant smackdown I have ever seen delivered. Short and to the point.”

Stiaan gave an ironic bow. “Thank you. And yes, that’s what I did, though not as much as he assumed. I’m actually quite strong these days. All this wandering.”

“You don’t look any bigger.”

“We don’t put on muscle the same way you do. We just --” He broke off, listening. “I told them not to follow me.”

“I can’t hear anything.”

“I don’t suppose you can. Well, I told the young ones to stay, and they didn’t stay.”

Kastor grinned. “Of course not.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Ho, Charis! All’s well!”

Now he could hear the voices, and through the trees he could make out some movement. He would have liked to run the rest of the way, but knew if he tried he’d just end up head-down in a snowbank, the way he was feeling. He waited impatiently as they came nearer. He was grinning like a fool, watching his son running toward him. Charis was hardly using his cane at all, he was so ecstatic. He fell a couple times, but got right up again. Serifar was scrambling behind him, always a little too late to help.

Charis charged straight at Kastor and hit him at full speed, and they both went over into the snow. Kastor was laughing, and Charis was laughing, and it was the best moment of his life ever, despite the wet cold down his collar.

“You’re not hurt, Da? You’re all right? Stiaan got there in time?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just tired.” Kastor had to grab a nearby tree to sit up; he kept the other arm around his son.

Charis examined him. “How come you’re wearing different clothes?” He scratched at something behind Kastor’s ear. “Is that blood?”

“Guess I missed a spot. Don’t worry, Stiaan healed me. I got a bit hacked up in the fight, is all.” He caught Stiaan’s eye over Charis’s head, warning him. Stiaan nodded slightly. He wouldn’t mention torture.

“Hullo, Stiaan!” Charis gave the elder Mara a brilliant smile. “I didn’t get to say before -- do you still have the bracelet I made you? I was trying to focus on that. Is that why it worked?”

“It may well be,” Stiaan said, holding up a hand and shaking his wrist so the sleeve fell back, displaying a flat braid of brown leather cord.

“I was right!” The boy turned his attention back to Kastor. “Did you beat him up? That bad guy in the red robe?”

“No, Stiaan did. I was getting my ass kicked pretty seriously until he showed up. You called him here?”

“Me and Serifar. But it was my idea.”

Kastor took Charis by the shoulders to look him in the eyes. He said solemnly, “You saved my life, son. Thank you.”

“Um. You’re welcome.” Charis’s mouth went twisty, as if he were trying to smile and cry at the same time. He hid in Kastor’s shirt front again.

Serifar was standing awkwardly nearby, hands folded, looking attentive. Glancing from Kastor to Stiaan as if not certain which one to address. He settled on Kastor. “We picked up your things that were in the road. They’re not harmed.”

“Good. Thank you.” Kastor reached for him. “Give me a hand?”

Serifar clasped his wrist in a grip like steel, and effortlessly pulled both him and Charis upright. Then he fussed around dusting snow off of them, which made them both laugh. Stiaan was looking at him appraisingly.

“You’ve been eating and sleeping quite a bit, haven’t you, Serifar?”

Serifar turned guilty wide eyes on Stiaan. “Is that bad?”

“Not at all. May I test something?” Once Serifar had nodded assent, Stiaan set his hands around the smaller Mara’s waist and lifted. Stiaan’s feet sank two inches into the ground. Granted, it was mostly snow and leaf mold, but it still implied that Serifar was far heavier than he should be.

After setting Serifar down, Stiaan said, “I think you’ve about reached the limit of mass you can store. You might want to stop eating for a week or two. Since I bound you, you can’t use energy very fast, so all you’re doing is tiring out horses and wasting people’s supplies.”

“I’m sorry.” Serifar looked devastated.

“No, I didn’t mean it as a rebuke. It’s information. Don’t look at me like that. Kastor, help! I’m wretched at this kind of thing.”

“And I’m an expert? What’s this about storing mass?”

“I don’t know any simpler way to say it. Shtedtzaar is powered by our very substance, so we grow lighter after using it. And, conversely, denser if we don’t use it for a time. Serifar is about as dense as he can be.”

Not sure if the pun was intentional, Kastor managed to keep a straight face. “How much would you say he weighs at the moment?”

“At a rough estimate, about two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Kastor considered Serifar, who still looked childlike despite being about twice as heavy as he should be. “Guess that’s convenient. I mean, to be able to stock up like that. But I think I’ll be cooking for two for a while here. You can have tea or something to keep us company. Speaking of food, Stiaan, do you need something before you go?”

“No. I really should be on my way. But thank you for offering.”

“Thank you for the rescue. I won’t forget it.” Kastor glanced down; Charis was tugging his sleeve. “Yes?”

Charis pointed. “Da, there’s something burning back there!”

“Yes, I know. Rema’s house. We set it on fire.”

“Oh.” The boy was disappointed that his news wasn’t news, but then his disappointment vanished as he heard the rest. “You did? Can we go watch?”

“No; I’d rather get back on the road before something else interesting happens.” He grinned at Stiaan. “So now you’re off again, eh? Got more spawn to shackle?”

“It’s really not funny.”

“From here it is.”

“It’s tedious, and I worry about every one of them, lest they end up in trouble like Serifar did. But the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can get to the next stage.”

“Which is?”

“I have no idea.” He closed his eyes, mouth moving, fingers twitching; not as if he were spellcasting, exactly, but more like he was doing math in his head. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, waved at everyone, spoke a series of sharp words, and vanished.

“Funny,” Kastor said. “When that Silver Circle fellow teleported, he went pop. This was silent. Finesse, I suppose.” Then he glanced at Serifar in annoyance, because of the sniffles coming from that direction. “What’s the matter?”

“He... he hardly spoke to me at all. Do you think he’s mad at me?”

“No, he’s not mad. He’s just tired. And so am I, I’m really exhausted, so can we please not have any drama for a while?”

“Sorry.” Serifar rubbed his nose with his sleeve, then put on a brave face. It wasn’t very convincing, but Kastor didn’t have the energy to try for something more genuine.

He held out his hand to Charis, beckoned Serifar, and headed for the road.



* * *



In a place that was constructed more of symbolism and expectation than matter, Rema thought himself a body. He made it just like his flesh body had been; there was no improving on that. He gave himself eyes to see with, and let there be vision instead of dreamlike knowlege. This allowed him to believe he was seeing a rosy void around him, glowing with warm light; that light and color was, in fact, power and potential, but seeing it was simpler.

Below him, drifting gently nearer, was a palace constructed of thoughts other than his own. It extended in all directions from its center, both vast and compact, so that one could percieve either the thing in its entirety or a part of it but not both. This made it look strange to dream eyes, knotted, inside-out. Its towers and arcades and domes were made of pink marble, suggestively flesh-colored, with gilded roofs and windows of colored glass. From every opening veils floated, some like curtains and some unattached so that they swam like fish through the idea of air.

He gave himself a sense of weight, landed in a mosaic-floored courtyard garden. Larger once he was in it, the courtyard was full of symbolic plants -- roses, blood-oranges, orchids -- and lined with fountains. The liquid flowing in the fountains was red. All different reds; the purple-red of wine, the opaque crimson of blood, something pale and sweet-smelling that might be strawberry juice. He considered, as he sometimes did, drinking from one of these, to see whether they conferred some magical effect, but reflected that now was not the time for disobedience. He’d been told not to eat or drink anything in the astral, and so he wouldn’t. Not while the goddess was likely to be irritated with him. He’d wait until he’d soothed her anger, if she was angry.

With that in mind, he considered his attire. He was wearing the memory of the clothes he’d died in; those wouldn’t do. While Astaria sometimes liked complex garments because they were difficult to get through, she’d be pettish now, and he thought he’d better mollify her with the sight of skin. He erased the heavy robes and imagined a kilt of white linen belted with a chain of gold. His goddess hadn’t quite kept up with fashion, so the ancient form of dress might comfort her.

It was funny, to be older than one’s patron deity. The difference in power between them, though, was not funny at all, especially when he’d just failed her. He hurried. This was more difficult than it should have been, since the goddess maintained a semblance of normal space inside the palace, and he had to walk as if he were material.

He passed through rooms and courtyards and halls, and spaces that didn’t fit any label. Some were empty, some lavishly furnished, some full of various things: flowers, meat, glass, tools, squeaking animals. Some rooms were occupied by those of Astaria’s followers she’d prized enough to take to her after their deaths. Most were beautiful, a few grotesque, none ordinary-looking. All were locked in some form of excess: battle, sex, torture, gluttony. A curled smile spread across Rema’s face as he considered how he would occupy himself here while his body was rebuilt. Ideas were already forming. But that depended on the fickle goddess’s whim, and she might be unhappy with him.

Not, he guessed, because of his failure, so much as because the whole process had been so passionless. He was disappointed as well.

At last he came into a space more vast by far than any other within the palace. Open to the rose-gold sky, edged on three sides by the nothingness beyond, the courtyard was outside the bounds of the rules that prevailed in the rest of the palace, flaunting the goddess’s power. Pillars of diamond and gold, impossibly tall, delicate and unbalanced, acted as flagpoles for rippling banners made of water. There were fountains of small birds, tapestries of living insects wriggling in midair, pools of writhing flesh and molten stone and flowers that smelled like frying fish. Here, in greater numbers than elsewhere, worshippers acted out their dramas. Rema was pleased to see that copulation was the most common activity at the moment; though he personally enjoyed torture more than sex, he preferred to be the artist rather than the canvas, and if Astaria had been in one of her bloodier moods she would have wanted his pain, not his skill.

The goddess herself occupied the far end of the court, overshadowing all and visible from any point even though she was not, at present, being any larger than anyone else. Her throne was a bed, piled deep with soft and glittering cushions, with plenty of room for the several men and women -- and some other things -- honored with the task of pleasing her. She was pink and blonde and fat today. Another good sign; when she was thin and blue-skinned and her throne was made of glass, she wouldn’t be satisfied by anything but the most exquisite mental agonies, and Rema wasn’t particularly good at those.

He’d hoped that she’d watch his approach, giving him time to work with walking and smiling, but she didn’t look up from her business even when he knelt before the bed-throne. Considering what was being done to her by two men, an adolescent boy, and a female woodwight with teeth like upholstery needles, he supposed he wasn’t surprised she didn’t have much attention to spare. It crossed his mind to join them; there was a chance she’d find that amusing. But then, she might consider it presumptuous. He waited.

Finally, with a bellow that shook the floor, the goddess climaxed, sending a ripple of her pleasure through her whole realm. The marble of the palace flushed pinker. The polished stone under Rema’s knees grew warm, and a film of condensation like sweat beaded on it. Sighing enormous contentment, Astaria sent her dead lovers away with playful slaps and shoves. She made a pouting face and reached for Rema.

“Poor Rema. Poor pretty monster, all dead again. Come here.”

He obeyed with as much grace as he could summon. When he responded to her fondling with purring sounds, it was more due to the heat of power she exuded than to her present voluptuous form. Not that he hadn’t taken to his bed every kind of sentient creature he’d encountered, but that had been curiosity, not lust.

As her hands wandered, the goddess murmured, “Is my monster sad? Did that nasty cold-hearted Stiaan strike off your head? What does it feel like, little Rema, when your head comes off? Do you feel it?”

“Yes, it’s very interesting. Very strange, to feel air on the severed end of one’s spine, and coming up one’s windpipe from the wrong direction. I was still slightly conscious when he put my head in the fire, but I’m afraid I can’t describe the flames coming out my eye sockets, as I gave up trying to keep my head alive at that point.”

“Did it hurt very much?” She was curious, not sympathetic.

“Not as much as one might think. Shock, I assume.”

“A ghost can’t die, my pretty monster. Would you like to try it again here where you can study it better?”

He considered. “Not just now, thank you.”

She made a sulking mew of discontent. “Then what would my poor little nasty like to have, to make it all better?”

“Stiaan on a red-hot iron rack,” he answered promptly, “and that beastly mortal of his shivering in a cage.”

“Aaaaaah.” Astaria smiled proudly, as if he’d passed some test, and she’d hoped he would. She was in a surprisingly good mood, considering. “I’m so glad you didn’t say you want the mortal dead. The cage, perhaps, we could manage. We don’t want him dead, my dear, not at all.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may, and I will answer: because someone shielded him from his fear, so that I couldn’t taste him at all, though I reached ever so.”

“Ah! Is that what happened?” Ideas scrambled and rearranged themselves in his mind. The only thing that could have protected the boy, if Astaria had been digging for his terror, was a god more powerful than she. The only reason for a god to do such a thing was if the boy was a special pet, as Rema was to Astaria. Some god had made the mistake of openly taking a mortal agent, and that created a point of vulnerability. “My goddess, it seems we’ve discovered a tender spot. If you’d be so kind as to reconstitute me, I’ll capture that rotten mortal and flay his mind for you to pick through.”

She closed his lips with her finger. “Ah-ah, don’t be in such a hurry. Though I think I know whose he is, I’m not yet sure. We want to be sure, don’t we? We wouldn’t want to make any new enemies until we’ve disposed of the old, do we?”

“As you say.”

“I’ll put your bloody bones back together, never fear. But not yet. I shall spend some time investigating. Until then, take what amusement you will -- so long as it doesn’t bore me, of course.” With that, she threw him flat on his back and straddled him; worship time.

She was capable of inciting desire in any being with only a tiny expenditure of her power, but sometimes -- as now -- it amused her to refrain. This left it up to Rema to become aroused somehow, so as not to insult her, despite the fat pink mammary glands hanging over him. Fixing a suitably ecstatic expression on his face, he thought of the prey Stiaan had robbed him of, recalling the sweeter moments of their time together. He heard again the mortal’s shrieks and groans, saw knotting muscles and fluttering stomach, stretched throat and wild eyes as agony piled on agony. Blood on white skin; very beautiful. He considered that someday he’d have that boy in his power again, and then he’d make certain he had all the time he wanted. Someday he’d bite out that boy’s tongue and suck the blood from his howling mouth.

With that thought in mind, he had no difficulty pleasing his goddess.



* * *



Some small object bounced off Kastor’s forehead, startling him out of his reverie. He looked to find Charis playing innocent, pointing at Serifar behind his back.

Kastor put on a pathetic face. “What did I do to deserve having things thrown at my head, Charis?”

Charis gave up pretending he hadn’t done it. “Well, I said ‘Da’ about a million times, but you didn’t look.”

“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking.”

Serifar said, “About what?”

“Just that it’s been so quiet. It makes me nervous.” He put his chin on the fist and looked into the campfire again. “Feel like the minute I relax, something’s going to happen.”

It had been four days since that business with Rema. Since then, not a single thing had gone wrong. It was unnatural. The weather had been a little wet, but that didn’t count. He felt that something should have tried to kill him by now. He had a superstitious idea that if he let himself enjoy the quiet, something would come along to wreck it.

Charis was not so paranoid. “We’re almost home. It’ll be all right.”

“Of course it will.” Kastor put on a smile for him. “I’m just being an old lady.”

“Is it Midwinter tomorrow?”

To this, Kastor just cocked an eyebrow. Charis knew perfectly well that the start of the festival was a week off, and the holiday itself two days past that, but he’d still been asking that question every day.

Serifar made a mock stern face and poked Charis in the arm. “Stop disturbing your father. You know if he doesn’t get in at least a solid hour of brooding every day he’ll dry up. Like oatmeal. Or glue.”

Giggling, Charis let himself be distracted into a discussion of gooey substances, and left Kastor to his worrying. As a nanny, Serifar was priceless. He was child enough to keep Charis amused, but adult enough to keep him out of trouble. Kastor fervently hoped Alys would allow Charis to keep his new ‘servant’ once he got home. It would be good for them both. Charis needed someone to be close to, a real friend; someone his own mental age, regardless of size. Serifar needed examples of normal life, some way to learn the context of humanity so he could coexist with it. And of course Kastor liked the idea of his son having an immortal as companion and personal bodyguard.

But that was for when they arrived. They weren’t there yet.

It was tempting to let himself feel they were already home, and crossing the river was a technicality. Over the past days the road had been climbing steadily, so that they were now among pine-black hills at almost the same altitude as the Sei. It only remained to descend the switchbacked trail that led down the bluffs, cross the bridge at the border -- guarded, but only for bureaucratic purposes -- and they’d be home. They’d be on the Sei by tomorrow noon.

Of course, after that, there was the task of getting Charis to his mother’s camp, which could prove tricky since Kastor was still technically outlawed. He was fairly sure he could talk his way through any patrols he encountered, though. Their natural inclination would be to take him to the Gethanein and let her deal with it, which served his purpose. At least, his purpose of getting Charis home. His more general purpose of continued survival might prove trickier.

It was time to think about what he’d do if Alys wasn’t glad to have Charis back. Kastor was regretting his promise now. He had to consider the possibility of breaking it. It hurt his teeth to think about going back on his word, but staying with him could get Charis killed. If that Irina person had been correct and truthful, near Kastor was the most dangerous place for the boy to be.

Or was it? Kastor, at least, was devoted to protecting him. Alys might not be, and Tamiris, from the comments that Charis had related, might be actively working to harm him. If the Arthane saw Charis as a rival for his sister’s esteem -- and Tamiris was just the kind of ego-blinded idiot who would, despite the fact that Charis couldn’t inherit -- the boy’s life could be in danger in his mother’s camp. And Kastor wouldn’t have to spend his life on some interminable road trip through semi-hostile wilderness, either. It had crossed his mind a couple times that he might like to learn a little thaumaturgy, make some use of what little sorcery he had. Much as it chafed him to stay long in one place, he could surely stand living in a city if he had books to distract him, and if it were for Charis’s sake.

In fact, that might not be a bad idea even if he didn’t end up taking charge of Charis. Thaumaturgy aside, he had an urge to look a few things up. A key, a goddess, sorcery and shtedtzaar, the weaknesses of Mara, and what the hell Stiaan had used to blow Rema’s spell. The latter would be extremely handy if he should encounter Rema again. Kastor had no illusions that he’d seen the last of that sick little bastard. If anyone needed proof that Mara and demons were related...

Oh, hell, he’d forgotten about that demon. It was too tough for him, but he was going to have to try it unless he wanted the world’s most powerful guild baying for his blood, and so planning past that was sort of optimistic, wasn’t it?

Maybe the Circle would be merciful if he begged them to let him off the hook. They seemed to believe their own publicity about being white-light goody-goodies, and goodies wouldn’t make a cute kid like Charis fatherless, would they? It would be humiliating, but that was what he’d have to do if Alys was indifferent to her son’s return.

Or, he reminded himself, if she acted indifferent. Which she always, under all circumstances, did.

“Time’s up, Kastor,” Serifar chirped. “That’s your hour. You have to stop worrying now.”

Kastor manufactured a smile. “I wasn’t really worrying. I was just planning. Thanks for being quiet, by the way,” he added, as he realized he hadn’t heard either of them speak for quite a while.

“You’re welcome,” said Charis without looking up. He was bent over some of his braidwork. He was running out of cord; Kastor was wearing three leather bracelets, and Serifar had most of a dozen. Charis had explained that Serifar got lots of them because he liked all the colors, but there was only so much black cord. What he was working on now looked black, though, and rather too long for a bracelet. Ambitious, too, with lots of strands going into it, and something glittering among them.

“What’re you working on?” Kastor said, leaning close.

Charis pulled the project away, hiding it behind him. “No peeking!”

“It’s for me, huh?”

“Maybe. Stop looking.”

Kastor busied himself with tidying the camp, in preparation for sleep. When he finished, Charis was no longer working on his project, but watching his father with an anticipatory air. Kastor prepared himself to be enthusiastic about yet another bit of leather braid that would make a painful lump under his armor if he put his bracers on.

“Close your eyes,” Charis ordered.

Kastor obeyed and held out his hands. Something cold and surprisingly heavy coiled into them. He looked, and his planned thanks dropped out of his head. He gaped insead. After a few moments he tore his eyes from it. “Charis, this is gorgeous!”

“It’s a necklace.”

“I can see that.” Kastor held it up by the ends. The intricate pattern of black cord had a few strands of blue running through it, and a row of beads down the center. Tubular silver beads, dozens of them. “Charis, where did you get all these --”

“I didn’t steal them!”

“I know you wouldn’t do that. But I’m curious.”

Charis looked sheepish for a moment, then lifted his chin defiantly. “They came from my festival shirt. I can’t do the dances, but Mother gave me a dance shirt anyway. I hate it. So I took the beads off and kept them in my pocket all the time, in case I got a chance to run away. Since I might need money.” His look softened a little. “But I didn’t need money. So I wanted to make something really nice for you. I can tell the bracelets aren’t impressing anybody, they’re no big deal, I’m just wasting time on those. But I wanted to make something special.”

“You’ve been working on this all along?”

Charis nodded. “Mostly where you couldn’t see. Some of it while we were at Marten’s. But I had it out yesterday and the day before, and you didn’t notice. I’m glad, though, because it could be a surprise. You like it?”

“I love it. I love it to bits. It’s really beautiful. I’m serious, a grownup could make a living doing this kind of work, and you’re just a kid doing it for fun -- do you have any idea how impressive you are?” Kastor reached for his son, and Charis allowed himself to be hugged; though he affected to be embarrassed by it, the boy was squirming with happiness.

Serifar said, “Would you like help getting it on?”

“Sure.” Kastor was perfectly capable of tying it himself, but he didn’t want Serifar to feel left out. He held the necklace in place and his hair out of the way, letting the Mara be useful for a moment. When Serifar was done, the necklace rested close against the base of Kastor’s throat, much shorter than he’d expected, but also less likely to get in the way. He straightened up and spread his hands. “How’s it look?”

“It’s nice,” said Charis with an air of relief. “I was afraid it would look girly, but it doesn’t. I’m pretty good, huh?”

“Wonderful,” Kastor agreed, and they were both grinning ear to ear.



Morning came bright and warm, almost springlike, in defiance of the season. They made good time down into the river valley. It was even warmer down there, and the thick forest of birch and elm that choked the flood plain was loud with birds and hurrying animals. The three travellers were in high spirits, singing silly songs at the top of their lungs, when they came around the last bend and saw the border station and the bridge before them.

The songs failed, though, at the sight of what waited for them across the bridge. On the other side of the river’s shallow gorge, at the base of the trail that led uphill to the Sei, was a cloud of campsmoke, a milling of horses and men, a clutch of tents. All those warriors were wearing Auberlane colors.

And over the camp flew the Arthane’s banner.