11



Kastor groaned. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “Just what I needed.”

Charis was in a similar frame of mind. “Why’s Uncle Tamiris here? I don’t want to see him. Da, can we go around?”

For a minute or two, Kastor seriously considered it. The river was too shallow for shipping, this far west, and fords were plentiful. It wouldn’t be hard to get around Tamiris. But that would’ve added at least a day to the trip, and even in its shallowest spots the river could be treacherous in winter. Submerged ice shelves could slice open a horse’s legs; sand could be frozen enough to seem solid until the animal put weight on it, then give way with disastrous suddenness; and of course everything would be slippery.

Besides, much as Kastor disliked his former brother-in-law, having the Arthane for an escort would spare a lot of explanations.

“We’re already here, so we may as well cross. If he doesn’t mind his manners I’ll teach him some. It seems a little strange that he’s here, though. If Alys thought we needed company, why didn’t she ride out herself?”

“Didn’t care, I bet,” said Charis darkly. “So Uncle Tamiris came out so he could get hold of me and say I had an accident.”

“Come on, kid, he’s not that bad. I mean, he’s a jerk, but he’s not plotting your death.” Kastor wasn’t sure he believed his reassurance. The possibility had crossed his mind as well. He told himself he was just being paranoid.

“But what if he is? Da, let’s not go across. Mother’s not here, that means she’s not interested. Let’s leave.” From Charis’s tone, he didn’t really expect an answer.

Serifar gave him one. “I’m strong again now, so I can look out for you. No one will harm you while I’m here.”

Charis gave him a grateful smile. They continued on toward the bridge.

There were a few small structures on the near bank, housing for the Imperial Legionnaires who were there more to monitor traffic than to guard the crossing. This post had more to do with trade and taxation than national security; raiders could cross anywhere along the border, but traders wouldn’t risk their livestock at a ford when there was a bridge to use.

Now, however, the central section of the wooden bridge was drawn up, preventing crossing. Apparently Tamiris had made the Legionnaires nervous.

A man in Imperial blue came out of the guardhouse and held up a hand to indicate that they should stop; as if they had much choice. He looked them up and down, glanced over his shoulder at the encampment on the opposite bank, and then addressed Kastor in very bad Kyri. “You about there? Yes, no? No bad this.”

Kastor answered him in Nestrian: “Buddy, I have no idea what you just tried to say. How come the bridge is up?”

The guard’s relief at hearing his native language was apparent. “That group’s been a little... unruly. We have the authority to stop troublemakers, at least on the main roads. What I was trying to ask you was whether you know what they’re about. They’ve been there three days, getting drunk and chopping down the trees. I got the impression they’re looking for someone. I didn’t understand too well, though.”

“Looking for someone, huh?”

“A kid,” the guard said significantly, with a look at Charis.

“Well, that’s probably us. You might as well let the bridge down.” Kastor scratched his chin. “But you may want to lift it again once we’re past. Just for a few hours.”

The guard was skeptical. “Can you guarantee their good behavior?”

“Me?” Kastor barked a laugh. “Even the Queen can’t keep Tamiris in line. But I think he wants to bother us, not you. If he wanted to attack you --”

“I know, he’d just go upstream a few miles. Well, all right, it’s out of my hands. Just make sure you remind them that destruction of Imperial property could be taken as an act of war.”

He went back into the guardhouse, and came out with another man. The two Legionnaires worked the winch that lowered the center section of the bridge. Kastor’s group rode out, hooves booming on the heavy planks.

At the other end of the bridge, Tamiris waited, with half a dozen of his men. Another ten or so were still involved in breaking camp. The Arthane was wearing everything his rank allowed: eagle and phoenix feathers in his ponytail, gold chain across his brow, dragon crest cloak pin, gilded mail, clothes of midnight blue silk with scarlet dragons embroidered all over the place. A larger or sterner man might have been impressive in that stuff. Tamiris was only nineteen, though, and looked younger because of soft living. He was starting to get a bit thick in the middle. The petulant expression on his face didn’t help. He looked ridiculous.

The old Gethane’s youngest son, Tamiris had once been the pampered pet of a large family. There had been four children between Alys and her baby brother. Then all four of those middle children had died in a disastrous late-spring blizzard. This had left Tamiris suddenly his sister’s heir at the age of nine, with his father on the verge of retiring. Too much responsibility, no preparation.

Kastor understood this. He supposed he ought to have a certain sympathy for the boy, since he himself had been made, in rapid succession, Arthane, a father, and a scapegoat, all within his sixteenth year, and hadn’t handled it particularly well. But neither had he ever used his unexpected rank to puff himself up and boss people around, which seemed to be Tamiris’s favorite mode of expression.

Nor did the young prince deal well with anything that could be interpreted as a slight to his authority; such as, for instance, the fact that Kastor was riding a tall Southern horse, and thus towered over the whole company as they reined in at the middle of the bridge to stare at each other.

“Dismount,” Tamiris ordered haughtily. “Bow to your Arthane, deviant, or I’ll have my bowmen make a hedgehog of you. And be grateful I haven’t already.”

Kastor sighed. So it was going to be like this. “I’m still on the Nestrian side of the border, Tamiris. If you make this too difficult, I can always cross somewhere else. I just thought you might like to see that your nephew is safe.”

“I see that. You may go. Charis, come here.”

Charis didn’t move. Kastor said, “I’ll be coming with him.”

“You will not. I’ll see you dead before I let you set foot in the Sei again.”

“I don’t trust you to get him home safe.”

Tamiris raised a hand.“Bowmen!”

“What? Stop!” Kastor hastily shoved in front of Charis, though the mare came close to shying at being shouldered aside. “Are you mad?” Then he saw the look on the Arthane’s face, the half smirk that the men behind him couldn’t see, and realized that Charis had been right. Tamiris wouldn’t mind at all if his nephew had an accident.

And most of his men would do whatever he ordered, because he’d chosen his Circle based on blind obedience. A few, though, looked concerned, well aware what would happen to anyone who risked harming the Gethanein’s son.

So Kastor spoke to them instead of to Tamiris. “Don’t be stupid. If you shoot me you might hit Charis. It would be smarter to cut your own throat.” Now that it was stated plainly, there was a bit more hesitation in the ranks. Kastor made it even plainer. “It would be treason. As I recall, the penalty for treason is flogging through the camp followed by burning alive. Really, just stab yourself in the eye, it’s faster.”

Tamiris sneered. “The brat’s not in the succession, exile. My sister only lets him live out of pity.”

“Right, that settles it, he’s not going anywhere with you.” Not, Kastor reflected, that there were a lot of other options at the moment. If he hadn’t had Charis to protect, he might have simply charged the lot of them, trusting to surprise and bad management on their part. Tamiris was really the problem, but these men would protect him even at the risk of treason. Although... possibly...

Kastor gave his nastiest grin. “How about we settle this one on one? Man to man -- if a candyfaced butterball like you can really be called a man.”

Tamiris’s hand dropped to his saber hilt, and in that moment Kastor knew he’d picked the right strategy. The Arthane’s voice cracked as he yelled, “How dare you address me in that insulting manner? You’ll die for that!”

“So you accept my challenge. Good. The choice of weapons is yours, then.”

“I -- the --” Tamiris sputtered, realizing belatedly that he’d committed himself to a duel. “I never --” But he didn’t finish the denial; cowardice was the lowest of sins.

Kastor said kindly, “I’d advise against choosing swords, kid. I’m something of an expert.”

For almost a minute, Tamiris just glared, lips pressed tight, nostrils sucking in with each furious breath. At last he signaled one of his men. “Long spears. A joust.”

“To disablement, if you don’t mind,” said Kastor without much hope of getting agreement. “I’d rather not be known as the fellow who killed the Arthane. My reputation’s sufficiently overblown without that. I’m not asking quarter,” he added quickly when Tamiris looked about to refuse. “I’m sure you’ll aim to kill. But if I --”

“Yes, yes, fine. Play at virtue if you like. It won’t change anyone’s opinion. Someone give him a spear, and measure the field for us.” Fortunately for the mental health of the border guards, he gestured to the Kyri side. He turned back to Kastor with a gloating smile. “I’ve been trained at mounted combat since I was six. Everyone knows you lived like a wild beast until my sister tamed you. You’re outclassed, exile.”

Kastor didn’t feel like answering that. Trading insults with Tamiris was like stepping on ants. He took the spear someone was holding out to him, examined it. Not that he thought they’d try to give him a bad spear, since they wouldn’t have anything on hand but what they’d been prepared to fight with themselves, but it wouldn’t do to be sloppy. Once satisfied as to the quality of the weapon, he turned to reassure Charis.

The boy didn’t seem to want comforting, though. His eyes were shining with eagerness. When he saw his father looking at him, he made a shamanic hand sign, the horned sign invoking the Hunter; he’d been watching his grandmother closely, it seemed. He said, “You’ll win. He doesn’t have a right to his throne.”

Surprised, Kastor only nodded. He hadn’t considered it in that light. He glanced up at the Arthane’s banner flying at the flagbearer’s spearhead, the stag sign of the Horned Throne, and wondered if his god had engineered this confrontation. If so, could he expect divine assistance?

Not a chance. Not the Hunter. If Kastor couldn’t win through by his own strength and cunning, he’d be unworthy of the post. Which raised the question of what the hell good it did for the Hunter to lay his hand on anyone, but there really wasn’t time for philosophy. A stretch of relatively flat ground had been marked out, and Tamiris was riding to the far end of it. The west end, Kastor noted, in the hope of putting the sun in Kastor’s eyes. Kastor let his disdain show as he took his own place. That trick didn’t work too well when it was only an hour past noon. Besides, the snow underfoot was brighter than the sky, and would blind them both equally.

Their preparations took only a few moments. Kastor put his gloves on and retied his tail. Tamiris dismounted and examined his saddle, making sure it wouldn’t shift. Kastor had seen what southerners called jousting, more a sport than a fight, involving heavy armor and thick, blunt lances. Hardly anyone died in those bouts. But the Kyri had adopted the word for this form of duel which was frequently fatal for both parties. It was a game of chicken more than anything else. The only way to avoid getting skewered was to veer off, but one couldn’t attack while turning, and so in order to end the duel one had to stay on course, taking the more-than-even chance of being spitted like a lamb-and-pepper shuni. It was pretty much a contest of stupidity. Kastor wasn’t surprised Tamiris had chosen it.

He also didn’t expect to die. He was perfectly composed. That strange calm had fallen over him again. What Tamiris had said was true -- Kastor hadn’t had a horse of his own until he was fourteen, while Tamiris must’ve been learning to ride almost since birth -- but he still felt he had the advantage.

It occurred to Kastor that this kind of confidence might be a sign of encroaching insanity.

Tamiris remounted and took up his spear. One of his men went to the side of the field and raised his arm. He held it there for a long, dramatic moment, while sun reflecting off the snow wreathed everything in bright blurriness.

The man dropped his arm. “Vhas!”

The duellists spurred toward each other. Tamiris rode low against his horse’s neck, presenting the smallest target possible, spear butt braced tight under his arm. This was the accepted form. Kastor had never learned the accepted form. He rode upright on his tall horse, spear loose and far out to the side like a sword, gripped at the middle for balance. He planned to block his opponent’s spear with his own.

As they met, there was a disappointing clack sound, and then they had passed.

They wheeled for another run. Kastor noticed a thoughtful look on Tamiris’s face as they blocked each other again. The Arthane had noticed that Kastor was making no effort to attack, but was using his greater mobility to prevent Tamiris’s rigidly-held spear from coming near him.

They paused at the ends of the field. Tamiris shifted his grip. He was going to try it Kastor’s way.

Tamiris gave a war cry as he put heel to flank. Kastor didn’t bother yelling. He was watching the way Tamiris’s spear wobbled. As he’d hoped, the boy had nowhere near the strength to use the spear that way, and the match was as good as over.

On the approach, Kastor scooped Tamiris’s point aside with his own; following that motion through, he spun his spear up to the horizontal; half a second after the clatter of the block, there was a meaty sound and a yelp as Kastor’s shaft hit Tamiris across the middle of the face.

The Arthane tumbled backward off his horse’s rump. Kastor rode past and turned, not certain whether they were finished. For a moment, Tamiris lay stunned, chest hitching, wind knocked out. His nose was smashed flat and gushing blood, and he seemed to have bitten through his lip when he landed. None of that was disabling, though, and shortly he got up. Glaring at Kastor with watering eyes, he drew his saber.

Kastor shrugged. He dismounted and sent Aunethan away with a slap to the flank. He began the motion to set his spear aside and draw steel, but hesitated. He really didn’t want to kill Tamiris. It would cause far too much trouble.

That was all the thinking time he got. Tamiris bellowed rage and charged. He was using his saber two-handed, knowing Kastor would block him, aiming to chop through the spear shaft and deprive Kastor of the advantage of reach. In the split-second before the attack, Kastor decided that he didn’t mind having the spear broken, as that would give him two nicely sword-length chunks of wood with which to ruin Tamiris’s day. He raised the spear with his hands far apart, giving the Arthane a nice easy target.

There was a flash of light and a musical gonging sound, and Tamiris was flung away.

Kastor jumped back a step, ready to fend off -- whatever -- before he saw what had happened. His spear shaft was unmarked. Tamiris’s hand gripped a broken hilt. The blade of the sword lay around their feet in shards.

Tamiris gaped at his shattered sword in disbelief. Kastor, nearly as surprised, took one more step back and grounded his spear; he wasn’t going to attack an unarmed opponent. He’d been wrong to dismiss the possibility that his god might help him. Not that he’d particularly needed help. Could it be pure chance? Some flaw in the sword’s metal, a dull spot on the blade, a hard knot in the wood, all coming together just right?

Then, as if to answer the unspoken question, there was a sudden gust of wind, which brought a ripping sound from the edge of the field: the stag banner tore loose from its shaft and blew high over the watching men to catch on the point of Kastor’s spear.

For a stretched-out moment, everyone was very still. Kastor stood bemused under the snapping flag. He wondered if he was supposed to say something. Make some pronouncement. He sent up a silent prayer of apology: I can’t help it, I’m dense, I don’t know what you’re trying to get at here.

He looked down at Tamiris. “Are we done?”

With a snarl, the Arthane threw down the hilt and stalked off to grab his horse. “My revered sister will deal with you. You’ve used up your trial by ordeal. It’s execution for you this time.” Blood sprayed from his lips with his words. Once mounted, he pointed an accusing finger at Charis. “And don’t think you’ll escape punishment for all the trouble you’ve caused, you little freak!” With an angry yell, he spurred away, though the drama of his exit was a little foiled by the fact that the trail grew too steep for a gallop within the first hundred yards.

The men of his circle -- there were no women among the Arthane’s guard -- milled in confusion. He hadn’t given them any orders. A couple started off after him right away. One was still trying to finish breaking camp, without help from any of his comrades. One had got a leather sack and was collecting the shards of the broken sword. Several were standing around gossiping. One was trying to talk to Serifar, with unsatisfactory results, since Charis was too busy trying to get Kastor’s attention to translate. It was chaos.

Kastor basked in this evidence of his replacement’s idiocy. Not that his own circle had been a model of discipline, when he’d been Arthane, but even at sixteen he’d kept better order than this.

“All right, boys,” he bellowed when he was done gloating. “That’s enough screwing around. Let’s get moving.” He pointed at two of the chatterers. “You two help pack up. You have five minutes. You four, go catch up with Tamiris before he lames his horse. Whose spear is this? There you go, thanks for the loan. See if you can get the flag back on its right pole. Horses fed and watered? Good, the rest of you mount and form up, and I don’t want to hear any gossip. He’ll still be your Arthane no matter how many times I kick his ass.”

They didn’t dare smile at that, though a few lips quirked, but they obeyed. Most were young enough that they’d been children during Kastor’s brief tenure as Arthane, and didn’t know anything about him but the rumors that had spread after his departure. Kastor wasn’t sure exactly what those rumors were, except that his supposed demon father figured heavily in them. Apparently the stories made him out to be rather scary, from the alacrity with which these boys jumped to his orders. The ones he’d sent after Tamiris were the older ones, including a couple of familiar faces; they hadn’t been part of his own circle, but he’d known them. They’d remember him as an upstart kid, so he was glad to have them out of his way, and they were probably glad not to have to deal with him.

When he had things a little more under control, he gave Charis his attention. The boy was jittering with excitement. Once he knew Kastor was listening, Charis blurted, “Did you see the stag, Da? Did you see it?”

“The banner? It was sort of hard to miss.”

“No, a real one! Right there!” He pointed downriver, toward a twisted willow whose bare branches were full of crows. “He was standing right there watching the fight! I wanted to tell you but you were busy.”

One of the men said uncertainly, “No cover big enough to hide a stag, around here, and I don’t see one now. You must’ve imagined it, boy.”

“I didn’t! Serifar saw it too! And don’t call me boy.”

Kastor gave his son a grin. “I bet I know who that was. He’s being really obvious today. I guess Tamiris pissed him off. Could be only people with magic could see him.”

“Maybe,” Charis said thoughtfully. “Da, I was thinking, maybe I’ll be a shaman after all. Since I have the magic.” He turned to the skeptical warrior. “My grandma sent you here, didn’t she? She told you what route we’d take.”

The man looked surprised. “Yes, she did, but how did you know?”

“I dunno. I just do. But why didn’t Mother come herself?”

“She’s very sick, child. After you vanished, she couldn’t rest from looking for you, and she fell ill. She can’t ride; she’s not even supposed to get out of bed. That’s why she sent the Arthane to bring you home.”

Charis’s eyes grew wide. Guilt and joy warred in his expression, and all he could say was, “Oh.”

The news divided Kastor’s mood as well. This unexpected evidence of Alys’s feelings resolved the question of who Charis would stay with. He would have to leave his son, and that was going to hurt, but Charis would be safe from the danger that was dogging Kastor’s heels, which was a relief.

He said, “Let’s go show your mother you’re safe, so she can get better, all right?”

Charis nodded mutely. He reached out to Serifar, who took his hand. The Mara hadn’t understood enough of the conversation to know why Charis needed reassurance just now, but offered it without asking for an explanation. Kastor wished he could grab hold of someone solid as well, but for a different reason; now he was going to have to get out of being executed for breaking exile. He’d done it once, but as Tamiris had pointed out, that option was used up. And he was out of ideas.



They caught up with Tamiris about a mile in from the top of the bluff. After that, the Arthane’s warriors refused to look at Kastor or listen to him, but neither did they show any inclination to mess with him. Charis talked with Serifar in Nestrian; no one else spoke if they could help it. All the rest of the day, they rode in near silence up the winding trail that climbed hill after hill. When they camped for the night, some talk was necessary, but only orders and acknowlegements. Charis slept with his head on Kastor’s knee and Serifar curled against his back. Kastor sat up with his swords in his arms and didn’t sleep at all.

For three dour days, they travelled in quiet hostility. The trail climbed for most of the second day, quite steeply in some places, and the air grew noticeably thinner. The climb ended with startling suddenness; they topped one more hill just like all the others, and were abruptly looking out over endless gentle swells of brown grass and hollows of thin snow.

Kastor felt something inside his mind unknot and stretch, as if his sight had been cramped from the lack of horizons. It was painful, how much he missed the steppes. Everything about the place jerked his heartstrings -- the huge, pale sky, the muted colors of winter, even the bitter wind that scoured their faces red within the first few minutes. He wrapped a scarf around his head and neck, making Charis do the same. Everyone who wasn’t suicidally proud followed suit. A couple of the younger warriors pretended the cold didn’t bother them, but Kastor noticed them serruptitiously holding their hands over their ears and noses at intervals. Serifar got some funny looks for his apparent indifference to the cold.

Their camp that night was a short and huddled affair. It wasn’t really a camp, just a stop. They picked a hollow, curled against the lee sides of their horses, and waited out the dark. Again, Kastor spent the night sitting up, his sleep fitful and shallow. He was beginning to be very tired, but he didn’t trust Tamiris an inch.

The third day, Kastor was able to doze a little while riding. Aunethan was starting to show signs of strain, as was Duaradda; the southern animals were having some trouble with the thin air and the cold. That didn’t go unnoticed. There was some cheerfully snide talk about the advantages of steppe horses, which Kastor ignored. He drifted in and out of wakefulness. He was almost entirely asleep when a smell of campsmoke caught his attention.

He was the first to notice it. There was nothing to be seen, but with the wind howling the way it was, the fire could be right over the next hill and they wouldn’t see the smoke. It crossed his mind to mention it to someone, but reminded himself that he wasn’t in charge here. Things could get messy if he tried to usurp Tamiris’s authority over their route.

He still felt a bit vindicated, though, when one of the Arthane’s men noticed the smell five minutes later, and the group turned straight into the wind, riding up the smoke.

The hills here were so shallow as to be invisible from a distance, but that was deceptive. There were valleys big enough to hide whole herds, especially this near the edge of the plains, where eroded cuts were common. Though there was no sensation of climbing, they were suddenly looking down on a huge, elaborate camp spread across the bottom of a marshy valley, along the bank of a frozen stream. It would have been a rotten campsite in summer, Kastor reflected, and wasn’t that fabulous in winter either, if a tent sat in one place long enough to melt the boggy ground under it.

Then he woke up the rest of the way and realized the tents were flying Auberlane colors, and one especially fine wagon had the mare’s banner over it. Alys had come to meet them after all.

Parked next to the Gethanein’s wagon, he saw with a pang, was a smaller, shabbier vehicle, every line of which was as familiar as his own hands. It had been so long since he’d seen it, and so many years since he’d lived in it, that he was surprised at the strength of his reaction. It seemed out of place, there beside the painted and gilded affair Alys had brought. It was as if he was looking at a portrait of himself as a child. He was filled with a sudden longing to climb up on the roof and go to sleep among the bales of wool and rice and millet heaped up there.

He didn’t pay much attention to the business of sentries and challenges. If anyone commented on his presence, he didn’t hear it. A few gawkers gathered as the group rode through the encampment, but not so many as last time he’d come to the Sei uninvited. That time, the clans had been gathered for trials and rituals, and the camp had resembled a city. This was just a travelling entourage. Maybe forty tents and a dozen house-wagons, a score or so of hauling wagons, and only a few hundreds of animals, mostly horses. He ignored the curious stares as they approached the gilded wagon.

Tamiris dismounted first, and went in before anyone could delay him. Kastor wasn’t too happy with that, suspecting that the Arthane would do his best to warp Kastor’s welcome. But then, it wasn’t as if he was legally entitled to any welcome at all. He helped Charis down, giving Serifar the reins of both their horses. Charis clung to his hand, hanging back. Now that it came to facing his mother, the boy was scared, and too tired not to show it. Kastor tried to give him a smile.

“Ready?”

“No,” said Charis, and started up the steps.

When Kastor pulled aside the curtain, warmth and humidity billowed out, carrying with it a reek of medicinal herbs. He followed Charis in, pulling the hangings closed behind him, peering into the darkness. There were only a pair of small lamps to provide light. By this, he could see his mother Nhedra sitting on a stool beside the bed that took up the far end of the wagon. A pot of something pungent steamed on a brazier; the steam instantly began to scour out his sinuses. The bed was heaped with rugs and cushions; presumably Alys was in there somewhere. Tamiris was kneeling by the bed, talking urgently.

Tamiris’s voice sped up, desperate to get his spin on the story, but before Kastor could make out what he was saying, a hand emerged from the piled covers and gestured for him to move away. With sullen reluctance, Tamiris stepped aside so that Charis could approach.

Kastor approached the bed as well; he had to, since Charis was hauling him by the hand. Nhedra nodded at him, but didn’t say anything. She was there as shaman, not family. He steeled himself for any kind of reception, and looked down at his former wife, the mother of his child, and his probable executioner. She didn’t look at all weak. Though buried in cushions and coverlets, sallow and sunken-eyed, she still exuded authority. Her gaze was clear and arrogant as ever. For a moment, Kastor thought she’d make some snippy pronouncement in the royal ‘we’ and thus commend Charis to his care after all.

But when her eyes found her son, her face transformed.

“Oh, Charis,” she rasped hoarsely, reaching for him. “I was so worried. Come here, let me feel that you’re real.”

“I’m all right, Mother.” Charis came cautiously near enough to take her hand. He held himself rigid, fighting for dignity. When she pulled him closer, though, he flew into her arms and buried his face in her bosom. “Mama!”

“There now, there now, everything’s fine. It’s over, you’re home.” She went on murmuring this way, nuzzling his hair and squeezing him, as if she had no intention of stopping. She didn’t weep, but it was more than enough; Charis would stay.

Kastor turned away, looking at his own mother, who met his eyes across the steam of her medicines. He had never in his life called her Mama. He suddenly felt that had been a mistake. She’d been distant, true, but he’d been a stiff-necked, chilly little rotter, and laying the blame on her was idiotic. There was really no way to tell her that, though.

She gave him a short nod, as if she’d heard his thoughts. Perhaps she had. She glanced toward the door.

He understood. If he left now, he could get away. No one had been given orders to detain him. His horse was too tired and too winded from altitude to outrun pursuit, but perhaps no one would bother chasing him. He’d wanted to say goodbye to Charis, give him all sorts of useless advice, but staying alive was more important. He started toward the door.

Alys’s voice stopped him with his hand on the curtain. “Kastor. Come here. I wish to speak to you.”

He stifled a sigh. Well, maybe he’d think of something else. If it came to the worst, he supposed he could fight his way out. This was a small camp, he wasn’t outnumbered more than fifty to one. He returned to his former wife’s bedside.

Charis snatched a handful of his sleeve. “You weren’t going to leave? You can’t leave now! Mama, you have to let him stay. Whoever said he’s bad was wrong. He took really good care of me, and did lots of good things, and he said he’d stay if you’d let him, so you could get back together and we could all be --”

“Charis.” Alys’s voice was sharp, but then it softened. “I’m sorry, child. I understand why you want that, but it can’t happen.” She looked up at Kastor, and what he saw in her eyes now was more pain than anger. She said to him, “I think, in truth, you’re glad to be free of me. When last we spoke, you told me I’d never known you. You were right. You were too young, and too wild.” She paused to cough, then went on more strongly. “Nhedra tells me you had no part in Charis’s abduction. Yes, abduction,” she insisted when Charis began a protest, “for no one should have taken you away even at your request. But I am also told that the one who did so was... was not human, so there’s little chance of punishing him.”

Kastor thought it was significant that she didn’t call Stiaan a demon. “I chewed him out for it, if that counts.”

To his astonishment, Alys laughed a little. “It will have to do, I suppose. I thank you for bringing my son back to me. Your mother has suggested that, in light of this, and for the boy’s sake, I should lift your exile, so that you might visit him. I did consider it, Kastor. But that would require the council’s agreement, and they will not agree. Too much weight has been placed on the idea of your villainy. The law doesn’t give me the power to lift your sentence of exile.”

Kastor nodded. The only thing that surprised him was that she’d even considered forgiving him. Charis, however, hadn’t thought about the subject at all, it seemed; the boy started up with a gasp.

“Mama, you can’t be going to -- you can’t! He hasn’t done anything wrong! It’s my fault he’s here, he had to bring me home!”

“He could’ve given you into the charge of your uncle without crossing into the Sei. That’s why I sent Tamiris -- so that Kastor wouldn’t be forced to break the law for your sake.”

“But -- but he couldn’t! Uncle tried to kill me!”

Her face went still and hard. With a great effort of will, she sat up in bed. She fixed her brother in the heat of her glare. “Tamiris, is there anything to what he says?”

“No, of course not! He’s lying. Probably the exile coached him to say it.”

This didn’t sit well with the Gethanein. Her brows drew together. “Kastor is many things, brother, but not a schemer. And my son is no liar.” She turned to Kastor. “Tell me why Charis thinks his uncle tried to kill him.”

Kastor didn’t like having to accuse Tamiris -- it was too likely to backfire on him -- but Charis’s safety required that he answer. “He ordered his men to shoot at me while Charis was in the line of fire.”

“Nonsense!” Tamiris squawked through his swollen nose. “I did no such thing!”

Nhedra spoke for the first time, voice cool behind her shaman’s mask of indifference. “His men will verify that he gave the order. Provided he isn’t given time to speak to them beforehand.” She gave Tamiris a hard stare. “Won’t they, boy?”

The Arthane froze. He didn’t reply.

Alys said levelly, “I shall assume that you were moved by stupidity, Tamiris, rather than malice. But we are not pleased with you. Go now.”

“But Alys --”

“Go!” Shouting was too much for her. She fell to coughing.

Tamiris looked stricken. He dashed from the wagon.

Charis petted his mother’s lank hair until she’d finished coughing. He said, “I’m sorry I made you get sick.”

“It’s my own fault. Nhedra divined that you were safe, and no longer on the Sei, but I didn’t believe her. Even so, I could have left the searching to others. Leading the search myself was useless. I’m told that if I stay out of the wind for a few more days, I’ll be fine. Nevertheless,” she said sternly, “you are in a great deal of trouble, young man. Whatever possessed you to run away like that?”

It took Charis a moment to summon up the courage to answer, but when he did, he lifted his chin and said it defiantly: “I thought you didn’t want me here. Everyone knows you’re ashamed of me. You think I’m weak and useless and you won’t even let me try to do anything normal! But you’re wrong! I’m not weak, I rode my own horse without a special saddle or anything, and Da gave me a sword, and I drew his bow almost halfway!”

Alys stared, open-mouthed, at her son while he spoke. Now she turned that look on Kastor. “You gave him a sword? You gave him a horse?”

Kastor nodded. “And a servant, as it happens, though that wasn’t planned. We picked up the poor fellow out of charity, and he developed such a devotion that it would be cruel to send him away again. You’ll have to let Charis tell you all about it. Of course,” he added dryly, “that would involve listening to him, which I gather you don’t do much. Hand and hoof, woman, did you plan to raise him as an invalid all his life?”

“You may not speak to me that way,” she said, but he thought he detected amusement in her tone. When she spoke to Charis, though, it changed to regret. “I’m sorry I let you think I didn’t care. You know how busy I am. I do love you, and I’m proud of you, and I want you to stay with me and never run away again. Will you promise?”

Charis thought it through, then nodded. “I will -- but only if you promise not to harm Father. He only broke the law for my sake. It would be wrong.”

“Hmm.” She glanced at Kastor, eyes narrowed, but it wasn’t a hostile look. She was considering. “Well, there might be a way. I don’t have the authority to lift your exile -- nor am I sure I want to. But I can let it be known that you needn’t be killed if you leave peacefully. Say your goodbyes, Kastor, and go. You may not spend the night in my camp.”

“Thank you, Alys,” he said sincerely. He hadn’t expected mercy from her a second time, but she seemed to have softened a little. Maybe it was because she was ill.

He went to one knee and hugged Charis, and the boy returned the embrace fiercely. “I love you, Da,” Charis said.

“I love you too. I’ll be thinking about you. I’ll write to you, when I can.”

“When I’m grown up, I’ll come find you, and we’ll travel together again. And next time I’ll help you fight the monsters.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Don’t forget to say goodbye to Serifar.”

“I won’t.”

“And, and -- be careful, and --” Charis was hunting for things to say to prolong their parting. Kastor gave him a final squeeze and stood up.

“I wish I could watch you grow up,” he said. “Be good. I love you.” He backed three steps, then turned and fled.

Outside, Serifar was still holding the horses. He gave Kastor an apprehensive look. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Goodbye, Serifar. Take good care of Charis for me.” He clasped the Mara’s hand briefly. He swung into the saddle, turned Aunethan’s head, and kicked the horse to a weary trot.

He didn’t look back until he was sure the camp was well out of sight.



When he reached the bridge at the border, the guards remembered him. The one he’d spoken to before seemed pleased to see him.

“Didn’t think I’d get a chance to ask what the hell that was all about. But here you are back again. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“If it’s none of my business just say so, but it looked like something to me. You and that fancy fellow had some kind of fight, and then everyone rode off, and now you’re back --?”

“I was just delivering the kid to his mother. ‘That fancy fellow’ didn’t feel like letting me come along, so I smacked him around a bit. That’s all. Now I’m going home.”

The guard looked from Kastor -- obviously Kyri in dress and manner despite his white skin and tall horse -- to the Kyri land he was leaving. “Where’s home, then?”

Kastor thought that over. He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I just know it’s not here.”