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Copyright ©2004 by Elaine Corvidae

First published in 2004, 2004

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Tyrant Moon

By Elaine Corvidae

Tyrant Moon copyright © 2004 by Elaine Corvidae

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Cover Art © 2004 by Stacey L. King

Book Design and Layout by Daniel J. Reitz, Sr.

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Editing by Daniel J. Reitz, Sr. and Audra A.F. Brooks eBook ISBN: 1-59426-097-4

First Edition * September 2004

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2004107190

Chapter One—Messenger

"We have a visitor,” Vilhardouin said.

Thraxis carefully folded himself onto the small cushion. Voluminous black robes tried to entangle his limbs with yards of extra fabric. The stone floor of the small chamber sent a chill through the thin pillow beneath him. At one time, he would have used magic to warm himself without giving the spell any more thought than he gave to breathing. Conscious of Vilhardouin's sharp eyes, he repressed a shiver.

"I fail to see why you should disturb my studies over a stranger,” he said, reaching for the old, easy arrogance.

Vilhardouin watched him like a crow interested in an insect. The soft light from the scrying ball edged her black robes and glittered in the obsidian beads braided into her hair. The braids—the same silver of her eyes—formed an intricate pattern of loops and knots that precisely defined her power and rank to anyone who knew how to read them.

Thraxis self-consciously tugged his hood farther forward. His hair had horribly fallen out in clumps two months back.

"You should be interested,” Vilhardouin said, noting the gesture as she noted everything else. “She brings news of Balthazar."

A cold more harsh than the frigid air of the room went through him, but he kept his expression neutral. Vilhardouin passed one age-wrinkled hand over the scrying ball. An image formed within, showing a small waiting room near the entrance to the Sanctum. A woman crouched there, her back braced against the wall, disdaining the comfortable chairs. Her red hair was long and tangled, held back from her face by a few simple braids. Trousers and a sleeveless shirt made of stitched-together leathers snugly outlined a lean, rangy body. The blue lines of tattoos showed on each bare shoulder: a simple spiral and a deer in an oddly contorted position. Another tattoo, a thick horizontal line, bisected her rather ordinary face, centered about her dark eyes. Even a cursory glance revealed that she was heavily armed.

"A barbarian,” Thraxis said, surprised.

"Do you know which kind?” Vilhardouin asked. Always pushing, always prodding. Thraxis pursed his lips in annoyance. “I haven't made barbarians my study,” he said defensively. “One of the northeastern tribes, I would guess. A Chok?"

"Close. A Skald."

"What news could a barbarian bring of Balthazar?"

"She has come to ask for our help defeating him. She claims that he has begun a war among her people. That he has used his powers to help some petty chieftain destroy his neighbors.” Her shrug was elegant— nothing to do with us. “I would not believe it if I did not know what he had done to you." Thraxis looked away from the barbarian's image. “He has used the doyan'si again, then?"

"The jewel gives him the power of one who wears the black. Did you expect him to leave it untouched?"

"No.” He shrugged. “Even so, this has nothing to do with me."

"It has everything to do with you. I'm sending you with the barbarian." Thraxis’ head snapped up. “What—you cannot be serious!"

Vilhardouin's eyes were utterly dispassionate. “I am completely serious. Balthazar has broken his Vows and gone renegade. To simply allow him to do as he will without any response would reflect badly upon us."

"So you're sending me? What brilliant line of thought led to that? ‘Balthazar has stolen the doyan'si and gone renegade. I know—let's send Thraxis! After all, he's dying anyway!’”

"Let me remind you that this entire affair is your responsibility."

"I had nothing to do with it!"

Withered lips flexed in a brittle smile. “You are the only one who thinks so. Truth is a harsh god, Thraxis. That is why the humans don't worship it as we do.” She settled back and watched him thoughtfully. “I will offer you a choice, then. You may leave the Sanctum and go with the barbarian. Or you may stay here and sire a child whose powers may some day compensate us for the loss of your own." He felt as though a noose was tightening around his throat. “I told you, I need time for my studies if I am to find a counterspell for Balthazar's curse."

"So you said twelve months ago. You are no closer to a cure now than you were then.” Her lips pursed in annoyance. “And I fail to see your objections in any case. After all, you would be partnered with the Beautiful Melilandra."

"The Bitch Melilandra."

"You aren't being asked to marry her.” Now she smiled. “And it is said that none can give pleasure like the Athraskani. It would only have to be once—there are spells to make certain that she would conceive."

He bit back the angry words that humiliation brought to his mouth. Long experience had taught him that Vilhardouin's icy calm always out-maneuvered passion in an argument. Instead, he forced himself to smile back at her. “And there are spells to make certain that she would not."

"True. But are you willing to cut days from your life just to ensure that?" He closed his eyes and mentally spoke a mantra to calm his racing heart. So this was what it came down to—the great Thraxis, no longer of use even as a tool, reduced to nothing more than a stud that might serve the Black Council's interests one last time. He saw now that the business with the barbarian had been nothing more than a feint. Given such a choice—go out to face Balthazar unable to use his magic, or sleep with the Beautiful Melilandra—he was certain to pick the option that they truly wanted. He was no Balthazar willing to break his Vow of obedience. Vilhardouin knew that—it was why she had made the show of giving him a choice.

"Very well.” He opened his eyes and looked at her steadily. “I will go with the barbarian." It was the only time in his life that he had ever seen Vilhardouin surprised.

* * * *

The Arrow that Flies the Farthest crouched nervously in the stone chamber, her every nerve pulled taut as a bowstring. The tiny room with its cold, ornately carved walls was as different a place as she could have imagined from the felt tents and open plains of her home. Strange smells assaulted her nose, and she fought not to jump at every sound. It was not a trap, she told herself again and again, but her body refused to believe it.

"Can I get you anything?” the Athraskani youth asked from his position near the door. His accent was thick, almost unintelligible, and she suspected that his command of her language was the reason he had been assigned to her. Whether he was meant to be a guard, a servant, or merely a companion, she did not know. Certainly his slight frame would be odd on a guard—but then, the Athraskani had no need of physical force to restrain anyone.

"No.” She glanced up briefly, met his golden eyes. They reminded her uncomfortably of Balthazar, and she looked away.

"It ... might be a while,” he said uncertainly. “The, um, Black Council sometimes takes days to make a decision."

"I will wait."

"Er, of course.” He lapsed back into silence. A moment later, the door swung open behind him on quiet hinges. Startled, he leapt to his feet and bowed to the pair who entered. Both of them were robed in black—the color of power among the Athraskani. Arrow stood up slowly, careful that her movements betrayed nothing unusual. She couldn't guess their reaction if they discovered the berserker magic that Balthazar had given her.

"They are nothing but hypocrites and liars," he had said once, his words twisted with bitterness. “

They claim that they are peaceful, that they do no harm to any living thing. By which they mean that they do not kill.

" But they do harm. By the gods, they do harm."

The first of the black-robes, an old woman whose eyes had faded from gold to silver, looked at Arrow for a long moment. Then with a shake of her head, as if she doubted the wisdom of the proceedings, she reached into her robes and drew out two round stones, each strung on a short cord. She held one out; after a moment, Arrow took it uncertainly. At a gesture from the woman, she slipped the cord over her head. The other stone went to the second black-robe.

"These are translator stones,” the old woman said. For a moment, Arrow thought that she spoke Skaldai, before realizing that what her ears heard didn't match what her mind comprehended. “They will allow you to speak and understand one another's languages. Unfortunately, you both must be in earshot of a conversation for it to work."

"Ah,” said the second black-robe, a man. “How ... thoughtful of you.” He stepped smoothly around the elder and stood looking at Arrow. She stared nervously back. Although she was tall for a woman, he still towered over her, his height further accentuated by a form that verged on gauntness. His features were striking, with prominent cheekbones and a nose long and thin as a knife. Elegant black brows arched over eyes the pale, clear yellow of wine.

"I will also require a traveling robe,” he added, turning to address the woman behind him. The motion shifted his hood back a little, revealing a head bald as a rock. “And a staff."

"But staves are for novices!” the guard blurted out. Then he flushed bright red with embarrassment.

“I—I'm sorry, Thraxis."

Thraxis gave him a searing look but said nothing. Instead, he returned his attention to Arrow. His expression suggested that he wished she had vanished into the earth while he wasn't looking. “I am Thraxis. The Black Council is sending me to help you."

Relief washed over her. They were going to help after all—her long journey had not been in vain. She folded her arms across her chest, placing her hands on her shoulders in a gesture of gratitude. “I am the Arrow that Flies the Farthest, Champion of the Red Feather Clan." He arched a quizzical brow at her. Before she could fathom his question, the old woman behind him spoke. “The various Skald clans have warriors called Champions. They settle disputes by having them fight one another. It's all very barbaric."

Her description was not quite accurate, but it would suffice. “It keeps the clans from war and blood feud,” Arrow said. Her stomach tightened. “At least, it was supposed to."

"Hmm. We'll put a stop to all that,” Thraxis said with a wave of his hand. Now that she was more used to the disorienting effect of the translator stone, Arrow realized that he had a beautiful baritone voice that resonated in the small room like a song. “The Arrow that Flies the Farthest, eh? That's a bit long—if we were to get into trouble on the road, you would be dead before I could finish warning you. What about Arrow?"

She stiffened. Was he implying that he didn't think her able to take care of herself? “Arrow will do. After all, I wouldn't want you to get killed because it took you too long to call for help." To her surprise, a sudden, self-deprecating smile flashed across his features. “Of course.” The smile disappeared too quickly, replaced by arrogance once again. “I see no need to dawdle. We will leave early tomorrow morning."

The old woman gestured to the youth who had waited with Arrow. “Sakarax will take you to a room for the night. Your dinner will be brought to you there. I'm afraid I must ask you to remain within your quarters. Our novices are not allowed contact with outsiders."

She means their children when she speaks of these novices, Arrow realized. It seemed a cold way to refer to offspring, but it matched the picture Balthazar had created for her. “I wish to check on my cousins,” she said. “To make certain they have been cared for as well." Thraxis frowned slightly. “There are more of you?"

"She means her horses,” the old woman said with a disapproving sigh. “Very well. Sakarax, show her the stables, then take her to the room that has been prepared."

Sakarax bowed. The two black-robes looked at Arrow as if they expected her to do the same. When she did not, the elder sniffed haughtily and left. Thraxis left also, but before he turned away, Arrow caught sight of an approving smile.

* * * *

Thraxis walked slowly down corridors that he had known all his life. For the first time, he felt trepidation at the idea of leaving the Sanctum. True, he had read extensively about the world outside, so he felt certain that he would be well prepared for anything he might meet. But still, the thought of venturing out into the unknown, especially at such a time...

I'll never see these halls again, he realized. If the journey doesn't kill me, confrontation with Balthazar certainly will.

Fear gripped his heart for an instant, and it was all he could do not to run back to Vilhardouin and beg her to let him change his mind. He would submit to anything that the Black Council wanted, if only it meant that he didn't have to die alone, far from everything he had ever known, with only an ignorant barbarian for company.

He swallowed hard and controlled his breathing using a lifetime's worth of meditation techniques. Submitting wasn't even an option, he reminded himself. He couldn't give them what they wanted, even if he had wished to do so. That decision had been made years ago, when he had realized that they would someday demand a child from him. He had known then that he could not abandon an innocent to the Council's embrace, no matter what the personal consequences. It was too horrible to contemplate. After all, they had raised him.

As he walked down corridors carved straight from the living rock of the cliff, he became aware of eyes on him. Most of them belonged to initiates—adults—although a few of the novices old enough to understand the gossip loitered about also. Their conversations fell silent as he approached, then sprang up again once he was past, a constant, incredulous murmur. Undoubtedly, they all thought that the curse had infected his brain and driven him mad.

Reaching the sanctuary of his cell, he closed the door behind him. There was no lock—anyone but the smallest child could bar a door with magic, so why waste money on mechanical means? Thraxis briefly considered setting the spell, and then realized how foolish it would be to drain himself for something so trivial. Hopefully his reputation was still enough to keep the curious away. And as for friends coming to wish him farewell ... there were none.

Like all Athraskani living quarters, his cell was spartan, containing only a narrow cot, a writing table, a chair, and a shelf for books. A traveling robe already lay folded on the bed, and a staff leaned in the corner like an accusation. A wave of humiliation passed over him for needing a prop normally used only by children and senile elders. But pride was not enough reason to leave it behind, not when he knew that he would need it.

He sighed and sank to the bed, feeling hideously tired. His joints ached, faintly but persistently, and he wondered if the pain came from simple weariness or from some new phase of Balthazar's curse. Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, coming to a stop on the other side of the heavy door. Thraxis held his breath, as if that would somehow keep the other person from knocking. After a moment, the footsteps resumed, and he sighed in relief. He had not wanted to face a curiosity seeker, but even more he had not wanted to face the Beautiful Melilandra.

Perhaps he was mad, he reflected ruefully. Rather than go to bed with a beautiful woman, he had chosen to undertake a journey certain to end in his death, accompanied by a barbarian who not only smelled like her horses but considered herself related to them. What in the name of truth was he thinking?

Melilandra would not take this well; her Vow to do no harm was probably in serious jeopardy of being broken tonight. Despite the string of broken hearts and shattered egos she left in her wake, most men seemed to find her beauty and power enough of an aphrodisiac to overlook her vicious tongue and loveless nature. She prided herself on being able to do anything, have anyone that she wanted. No, Melilandra would not be happy. Having hated her for years, Thraxis saw this as the single bright spot in the whole affair.

That, and Vilhardouin's disconcertment. Thraxis frowned, folding his legs tailor-fashion under him on the bed and propping his sharp chin on a fist. The Black Council could have simply ordered him to make a child. He had never told anyone about the spell he had set on himself years ago, torn by the terror that his will would fail, and he would give them the child-tool they wanted. In ignorance of that, they could have commanded him. What did they think he would have done—break his Vow of obedience as Balthazar had?

The thought made him pause. Perhaps that was it, indeed. Perhaps Balthazar's unexpected and violent rebellion had surprised them so much that they feared to back Thraxis into a corner. Crippled or not, he was still wore the black. He could do incalculable damage before his magic ran out and the curse killed him. He never would, of course, but perhaps the Black Council had not felt entirely certain of that, having already failed to predict Balthazar's spectacular disobedience.

So instead they offered him a choice, a choice so ridiculously one-sided that he would probably thank them for their mercy in not forcing him to go with the barbarian after all. And it had all fallen apart.

Thraxis sighed and bowed his head. He had managed to discomfit the Black Council, yes, and probably wreck any number of future plans centered on potentially powerful offspring. But in the end, the price was likely to be the hastening of his death. If that was a victory, it was a hollow one indeed.

* * * *

Arrow stood in the Athraskani stables, quietly brushing Nightwing while her escort waited outside. The horse did not like the building, having never known such enclosure except in the worst of winter storms. Still, the bay gelding was trained well enough to remain anywhere its rider left it. Arrow sighed, knowing that she couldn't take refuge in the familiar smells and sounds of her horses for the rest of the night. But the narrow halls, stone walls, and often-windowless rooms of Athraskani Sanctum weighed as heavily on her soul as a trap. It would be good to have the wind on her face again tomorrow.

Leaning her forehead against Nightwing's side, she gave silent thanks to the Lady of Beasts. The Athraskani had not turned her away as she had feared they would but had agreed to dispatch one of their most powerful to stop Balthazar. She would have felt a little better if they had decided to send more than one wizard, but perhaps no more were needed. After all, Balthazar by himself had been sufficient to the task of upsetting her entire world.

* * * *

Arrow stood in the morning sun, letting the wind raise goose bumps on her arms. A mixture of terror and excitement soured her belly and set adrenaline coursing through her limbs. The wind picked up, shaking the sea of grass that stretched out on every side. High above, a falcon let the breeze carry it arrow-fast across the hard blue sky.

Leaf Dancing emerged from the yurt behind her. Like all Skald men, he kept the hair on the left side of his head trimmed short enough to stand upright. The wind snatched the shoulder-length braids hanging from the right side, clinking together the bones woven into them. He gave her an encouraging smile, which caused a forest of new wrinkles to spring up in his seamed face.

"Nervous?” he asked.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Of course not."

Vole Under the Snow heard her as he came out to join them. “It's natural if you are,” he said soothingly.

“This is your first Challenge. After you've won this one, you'll feel better about the next." Her mouth twisted wryly. “You seem certain I'm going to win."

"Of course you are.” Leaf Dancing put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Have you seen that muscle-bound Champion from the Burning Grass clan? Doesn't have a chance.” He sighed theatrically. “It seems a shame, though. He's terribly good-looking." Vole, Leaf Dancing's husband of more than fifty years, rolled his eyes, as if to imply that there was no accounting for taste. Arrow managed a shaky laugh.

They walked slowly away from the yurt, heading for the meeting-place that had been set halfway between the camps of the two clans. Almost everyone else was already there, and Arrow felt another flutter of fear in her belly as she passed through the crowd. Each clan had gathered in a loose semi-circle, leaving a large open space between them. The Burning Grass chieftain and Champion already waited there. Arrow barely noticed the chief, all her attention caught by the Champion, who was indeed a towering hulk of a man.

As she stepped into the open circle, her own chief, Blood on the Wind, joined her. He was a middle-aged man with a handsome face and hair the color of gold in shadow. His expression was that of a man who has been given a lame horse to ride and knows he must make the best of it. The Red Feather clan had already suffered a recent defeat in a dispute with the Burning Grass clan, a defeat that had cost the old Champion his life. Now the rival clan was trying to claim valuable pasturage that belonged to the Red Feathers.

Arrow glanced at the other clan briefly and saw only smiles. They knew that their Champion would have no trouble defeating a woman. It occurred to her that they would not want this to be a combat to the death, because the Red Feather clan would be an easy target for as long as it was burdened with a female Champion.

The bitter part of it was that her own people were probably hoping she did get killed, so that the Lady of Beasts would appoint someone else to defend them. Preferably a strong, male warrior. She turned and looked back at Leaf Dancing, who gave her an encouraging smile. She had lived with her granduncle and his husband since her fifth birthday. They were the only members of the clan who hadn't thought that her appointment as a future Champion was some cruel jest played by the gods. Until now. Because tonight, it would be the Red Feathers laughing while the women of the Burning Grass clan wept.

The Burning Grass clan had issued the Challenge, so Arrow was allowed to choose the method of combat. “Don't ever fight on their terms,” Leaf Dancing had told her. It had been her first lesson. “Pick your battles for your strengths, not theirs."

When she declared her choice, there were murmurs from both clans. The murmurs became cries of shock when she added the words “To the death.” The Burning Grass Champion only shrugged his massive shoulders, as if to say that there was nothing he could do about her madness. Some of Arrow's people looked at her with sad respect, and she realized that they believed she had chosen to sacrifice her own life to make way for a Champion able to defend them.

The knowledge twisted in her gut. The day of her birth, the priestesses had read the signs declaring her the next Champion. From that moment, everyone except for Leaf Dancing and Vole had simply been waiting for her to die, as if she suffered from some unusually protracted illness. But no more, she swore to herself. No more.

The two Champions were blindfolded, bound, and put into a cart. Silent men drove them far out onto the grasslands, where they were unloaded and left behind, with only a single knife lying out of reach. Arrow could hear the Burning Grass Champion swearing and muttering angrily as he tried to break the ropes with strength, and she remembered stories of past Challenges that had ended with both Champions dead from animals or dehydration, unable to escape their bonds.

Years of practice with Leaf Dancing's torturous knots had made her flexible, and she had wriggled free of the ropes around her wrists before the creaking of the cart had entirely faded from earshot. Pulling off her blindfold, she saw the bindings around the other Champion's wrists beginning to give way. Without wasting a moment, she fished the knife from the tall grass where it had been hidden. The other Champion staggered to his feet, snatching off the blindfold. A bellow of surprise and anger escaped him when he saw her already waiting for him, knife in hand. Still, it was a tiny weapon against a man of his size, and the confident arrogance never left his eyes as he rushed her. If she had allowed him to close with her, the battle would have ended with her death. Instead, she waited patiently, gauging his speed and distance, then whipping away when he was almost upon her. The knife flicked out as he passed, slicing his upper arm to the bone.

He came to a sharp halt, staring at the blood running down his arm as if unable to believe that it belonged to him. His blue eyes lifted slowly to hers, condescension replaced by rage. She exposed her teeth in a feral grin, daring him to come after her again.

He did, of course, not having any choice. The hit she scored on him this time was not so deep, but it was enough to make him think about caution. He stood away from her, eyes narrowed. “Cowardly bitch!” he snarled. “Face me like a true warrior!"

The words hurt, but she clung to the patience that Leaf had taught her in the face of a lifetime of such taunts, forcing her opponent to move first. Unused to waiting games, he gave her what she wanted. They circled one another for a long time, until the Burning Grass Champion was a mass of shallow, bleeding cuts. Arrow allowed herself to smile, for she was quicker than he and had greater endurance. In time, the battle would be hers.

She forgot to take desperation into account.

With a wild battle cry, the other Champion charged her. She started to side-step, but he anticipated her move and was there before her. One powerful hand closed around her wrist, struggling to force the knife from her grasp. The other hammered towards her face.

Arrow twisted back, pulling hard against the thumb that encircled her wrist, knowing that it was the weak spot in a man's grip. His hold loosened, and she dropped her weight, wrenching herself free. Letting herself fall to the ground, she brought up both legs and punched her feet into his groin as hard as she could. He crumpled, yelling and clutching at his injured parts. The instant he touched the ground, she rolled towards him, grabbed his hair in one hand, jerked back his head, and slit his throat. She let herself rest for a while, sitting in the grass by his corpse. Reaction made her limbs tremble, but gradually a feeling of pride replaced the aftershock. She had faced a seasoned Champion and won. Singing a song of joy, she scalped her opponent with quick efficiency, and then started back to camp. That night the Red Feather clan held a celebration. Koumiss flowed freely, and women sang songs of thanks to the Lady of Beasts. Arrow sat in the place of honor at Blood's right hand. Looking around the fire at the glad faces, hearing the praise offered her, her heart swelled with joy. She had waited her entire life for this moment. At last, her people believed that she held some worth, that she was something more than a joke.

Didn't they? Even as she laughed and ate, a seed of doubt crept into her heart. Did they truly believe in her, or did they simply see her victory as a fluke, something that owed more to luck than to any skill on her part?

Bitterness turned the stewed mutton sour in her mouth. They probably did. But she would show them. There would be another Challenge soon, as other clans tried to take advantage of what they perceived as a weakness in the Red Feathers. And then she would show everyone her true value.

Chapter Two—Thraxis

Sakarax awakened Arrow at dawn. She rose and hurriedly bathed beneath an outflow of water in the chamber adjoining the tiny, cramped room that she had been given. The warm water, gushing in streamers from the mouth of a stone dragon, made her laugh aloud in delight. This was magic she could truly appreciate.

Once she was dressed, her guide led her back to the stables. Nightwing and Stalker both snorted and pawed eagerly as she saddled and bridled them, glad to be leaving the confined space. Gold plaques flashed on their bridles, and the dyed leather of the straps stood out handsomely against the horses’ bay hides. Their saddlecloths were of yellow felt, covered with red and blue appliqués. Quieting the horses with a word, she led them out into the courtyard. Behind them, the cliff housing the Sanctum towered overhead. Practically every inch of the gray stone had been carved into the fantastic shapes of beasts, monsters, plants, and humans. Windows showed here and there amidst the ornate profusion of figures, and the pale smears of faces peeked out from many of them. Apparently, the early departure was the subject of some curiosity.

Thraxis waited in the courtyard, his bony arms folded across his chest and his hood pulled up to hide most of his face. A youth in a brown robe was leading out a black stallion several hands shorter than either of the Skald-bred geldings. “This is Shadow Lord,” the youth said to Thraxis. His words came out between gasps for breath, as if he had been in a struggle. “The finest we have." Arrow eyed the horse doubtfully as it tried to bite the youth on the shoulder. It was pretty enough at first glance, with its flowing mane and glossy black hide. But she wouldn't have trusted it to hold up over a long gallop, and its obvious ill temper made it unfit for anyone who didn't have a lot of time to waste trying to control it. Nightwing and Stalker gave it a long, thoughtful look, and then glanced away, as if they had made no more favorable a judgment.

"Ah, there you are,” Thraxis said as she approached. For some reason he sounded as though he had expected to be kept waiting. He glanced briefly at her horses, and then frowned. “You actually sit on the animals’ backs?"

One of the strangest things about her travels, she thought, was the fact that she had not encountered a single mounted rider once out of the steppe. “Yes."

"Oh. I thought that was only a myth.” His feral yellow eyes touched her brightly-colored gear, and he smiled slightly. “Well, we'll certainly stand out, I suppose."

The sweating youth dragged a light cart into the courtyard. It had room for two people to sit in front and a plain arched covering over the bed. Arrow looked away while they hitched the stallion to it, trying to fight down her anger at the sight. Pulling carts was for oxen— no one among the Skald would ever think to devalue a horse in such a way. It would be like tying a member of your own clan among the traces. The cart itself was ugly to her eyes, lacking paintings or appliqués on the cover and without decoration on wheels or sides. The harness they strapped the horse in was plain woven rope, undecorated by dye or gold. The Athraskani, she decided, were a people lacking appreciation for beauty. If not for the carved cliff that they lived in, she would have thought them without any concept of art at all. Thraxis eyed the cart with some trepidation. “I suppose we should be off, then,” he said at last. Arrow nodded and mounted, only to find everyone in the courtyard staring at her, as if she had sprouted from the horse's back. “What an ... interesting custom,” Thraxis said tactfully, and then swung himself up on the cart.

The moment his fingers touched the reins, Shadow Lord decided to head off in the direction of the gate at a gallop. Thraxis let out a wild yelp and tugged inexpertly on the reins, to no avail. Mane flying, Shadow Lord charged happily out into the road, dragging the cart easily behind. Arrow stared nonplussed at the youth, who could only shrug. Feeling more isolated than ever from all that was familiar, she started Nightwing off at a more normal pace, Stalker in tow behind. They caught up with Thraxis a few miles down the road. Shadow Lord had apparently run out his good spirits and was now standing idly by the highway, alternately cropping grass and trying to bite anyone else who passed by. The Athraskani sat stiff and straight in the driver's seat, his embarrassment apparent in every line of his body. The stony expression on his face said that he clearly expected her to mock him. Had he looked a bit less humiliated, she might have tried to tease him about the incident. Instead, she kept her comments to herself as he gingerly guided the stallion back onto the road. It snapped threateningly at Nightwing's rump, and Arrow gave it a swat on the nose. The horse looked at her in complete affront, and the expression reminded her so irresistibly of Thraxis that she had to bite her lip not to laugh.

"I've heard it said that some barbarian tribes spend their whole lives in the saddle,” Thraxis said after a little while. “Is it true that the women give birth on horseback?"

"That would be a difficult feat even for a Skald,” Arrow replied with a grin. “But we do spend most of our lives with the cousins. A child is judged ready to ride as soon as it's old enough to walk."

"Oh. It isn't like that here."

"I'd noticed."

His pale skin flushed red, but a rueful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, quickly hidden. Uncertain what to make of him, Arrow looked away and observed the other travelers on the highway. A phalanx of warriors clanked past, marching in regimented lines that any Skald would scorn. Farmers on foot drove herds of goats and sheep, occasionally aided in the task by brown and white dogs. Other wagons rattled by, some loaded with goods, others with passengers. One of the carts was covered like theirs, only decorated, and Arrow caught the scent of some exotic perfume wafting from within.

"Are all these people going to the Sanctum?” she asked after a while.

"No. Some are, though. The Emperor Darius himself often consults with us. The rest of the nobility purchase spells as well."

She frowned. “I don't understand. How can someone buy magic?"

His tall frame slumped a little, yellow eyes going remote. “We don't often leave the Sanctum Majoris. Occasionally people are transferred to one of the minor Sancta, either at their own request or because there is a need for someone with a special skill. A few of us leave the Sancta altogether, in order to study other cultures and compose books about them that can be sent back to the libraries here, so that the rest might learn of the world."

"Are you one of those?"

He looked surprised. “Of course not! No one who wears the black ever leaves the Sanctum Majoris except under extraordinary circumstances."

She blinked, wondering if the translator stones had garbled his words somehow. “You've never been outside before?"

"Of course I have. I regularly went on short trips to Viticus when I was a novice. That's at least ten miles away."

She hauled Nightwing to a halt in the road. Shadow Lord continued happily on for several lengths, doing his best to ignore Thraxis’ tugs on the reins. Eventually the stallion stopped, tossing his head and nearly backing the cart into a flock of sheep. The shepherd started to curse, took one look at Thraxis, and went pale. With a hasty bow, he urged the sheep around the obstruction.

"What is it?” Thraxis asked impatiently, oblivious to either herder or sheep.

"You've never traveled anywhere?” To someone whose life consisted of riding from winter pasture to summer, it was inconceivable. To someone whose people depended on the safe arrival of a man utterly ignorant of the hazards that waited on the road, it was horrifying.

He let out an impatient sigh, obviously wondering why she was being so difficult. “I've read the complete Histories of the Known World by Nexolotus, plus the accounts of the Wandering Monk. I am quite familiar with the lands that lie between the Empire and the steppes of the horse nomads. I assure you that I am well-prepared for this journey."

Arrow had never actually seen a book but was aware that written symbols contained great magic. Even so, she had doubts. “Are you certain? That is, if someone else only told you about what they had seen, it wouldn't be the same as seeing it yourself, would it?"

Thraxis frowned, vexed. “I thought you were asking about the purchase of spells, not questioning my abilities."

"I'm sorry.” She urged Nightwing back into a walk, still feeling rather less than reassured. Shadow Lord showed his big teeth as she passed and obstinately refused to budge. Thraxis flicked the reins harder, resulting in a sudden burst of movement that came close to unseating him.

"As I was saying,” he continued, once he more or less had the horse back under control, “we do not generally leave the Sanctum. So if someone wants a spell, we have to invest it in an object so that the person can take it away with them."

"Like the translator stones?"

"Exactly."

"What kind of spells do people ask for?"

He pursed his lips slightly, as if troubled. “Often they ask for things we cannot give them. Death spells and the like. We all take a Vow in our tenth year that we will do no harm. So we cannot cast spells to kill or to make anyone ill. Most of the enchantments are to see things far away, or to hear words spoken in certain rooms. A few make the caster invisible or alter his appearance." Arrow considered the implications. “I can think of quite a few harmful uses for such spells."

"Perhaps. But they are not specifically crafted to kill or harm. What is done with them after they leave our possession is none of our affair."

Arrow's heart chilled. The attitude fit far too well with all that Balthazar had told her of his people. "They use technicalities to escape blame," he had said once, deep in his cups. "The Vows and the Rule were meant to force them into a life of virtue, but they will exploit the tiniest loophole so that they can do whatever they want."

"Do you approve of such things?” she asked softly.

Thraxis glanced at her briefly. There was an odd look in his wine-yellow eyes, something that might have been disappointment or grief. Then he turned his attention back to controlling his horse. “It is not my place to approve or disapprove,” he said at last. “That judgment is for the Black Council alone." He tugged his hood forward with his free hand and urged Shadow Lord faster, as if he wished to put distance between himself and Arrow's uncomfortable questions. For the rest of the day, she watched his austere profile and wondered whether it had been wise to deal with the Athraskani after all.

* * * *

They stopped that night at an inn. Arrow had seen such places during her travel through the Empire but had not ventured close, repulsed by the sturdy walls and daunted by the fact that she spoke very little of the language. Now she felt unease prick at the nape of her neck as they drew close to the tall structure with its whitewashed walls and heavy thatched roof. Although it was not as alien as the Athraskani Sanctum, she would still have preferred a rough camp in the woods.

Thraxis, on the other hand, seemed to perk up a bit at the sight of the inn. He had spoken little to her after their early conversation, except to tell her at their noon rest that he was required to meditate three times a day. She had watched him sit still, hands folded in an odd configuration, until he finally stood up and stumped off behind some trees where he had more privacy.

They dismounted by a small corral near the inn stables. Thraxis moved stiffly, undoubtedly in pain after a long day on the hard driver's seat. A young boy emerged from the nearby stable, and Arrow saw his face go pale as he took in Thraxis’ black robes.

"L-let me take your horse, my lord,” he stammered. “The stable's tight—we'll take the best care of him, I swear. No extra charge, my lord."

Thraxis frowned a little but nodded. Arrow unsaddled her own horses and turned them out into the corral. When her companion and the boy both gave her curious looks, she shrugged. “It's bad enough you expect me to sleep in there,” she said, jerking a thumb back over her shoulder to indicate the inn. “I don't see why my cousins have to be stuck a little box, too. The weather's good enough that they'll be happier out here."

"You're welcome to sleep out here with them, barbarian,” Thraxis muttered acerbically, rubbing at his hip. “But I for one shall be glad for a soft bed in civilized surroundings." Arrow sighed and followed him into the building, not wanting to estrange her newfound ally in a pointless argument. If he had never been so far from home before, this experience might be as alien to him as to her. Remembering the intense homesickness that had accompanied her journey south, she decided that she would allow him a little snappishness for now.

They stepped into a small room that was far too crowded for Arrow's taste. A thick haze hung amid the beams despite the smoke hole above the fire pit. A few clay lamps shed dim light over the inn's other patrons: scribes in their brown robes, soldiers in bronze scale armor, and merchants wrapped in brightly-dyed fabrics. Women in the sleeveless dresses of the Empire moved among the tables, their faces bright with cosmetics. The air smelled strongly of wine, beer, perfume, and cooking meat. Arrow's stomach growled, but Thraxis wore a faint look of disgust.

Although the room had been abuzz with conversation, dead silence fell within moments of their entry. The hair at the nape of Arrow's neck prickled, and time seemed to slow as defensive instinct rose in her. Not now, she thought frantically, fighting to control her body's reactions. She forced herself to move as though she walked through molasses, and even so nearly trod on Thraxis. Fortunately, the Athraskani didn't seem to notice anything amiss. It occurred to her that he probably had not seen so many strangers at once in his entire life. His chin came up in a gesture of hauteur, and his yellow eyes narrowed, giving his thin face a look of utter arrogance.

A man in a stained apron bustled out from the silent crowd, his face pale. “M-my lord,” he gasped, bowing frantically in front of Thraxis. “W-welcome to my inn. What—what service can I do for you?" Thraxis frowned, as if puzzled by the obeisance, and then shrugged. “My companion and I require a meal and two rooms for the night,” he said, looking down his long nose. He plucked a purse heavy with coins from somewhere in the folds of his robe. “I believe that I have enough money for these things." Some eyes followed the sack. Others, however, continued to watch Arrow. Suddenly aware of the gold torque around her neck, the gold rings on her fingers, and the gold earrings in her ears, she took a nervous step back. In her homeland, most people went ornamented as she did. Here, though, she saw no such jewelry, only a sort of poverty she had never dreamed of before.

The innkeeper grew even paler, if that was possible. “No charge, my lord!” he squeaked. “I would be honored to have one of your kind under my roof.” He hesitated, taking in Arrow's attire, particularly the knife strapped to her left thigh, the sword at her right side, and the gorytus containing her bow and arrows hanging from her left hip. “The same for your, uh, bodyguard, of course. Let me take you to a private room to dine while your chambers are prepared."

To Arrow's vast relief, Thraxis gave the man a condescending nod. At least now we'll be out of the sight of thieves, she thought. The innkeeper scuttled ahead of them down a short hallway, before bowing and waving them into what was probably his best private room.

Arrow sniffed in displeasure as they settled in at a wooden table. The walls had one or two simple hangings on them, and a wide window overlooked the inn's small garden, letting in the scent of herbs. To her eyes, the place seemed unforgivably plain. Even the poorest Skald had a tent decorated with colorful hangings and carpets that would put to shame anything offered by the inn. Thraxis didn't seem to notice anything amiss, which didn't surprise her considering how drab and dreary the Sanctum had been. Something seemed to go out of him as he eased himself into the chair with a wince for his sore backside. His shoulders slumped, and the mask of arrogance was replaced by a look of profound weariness. Long, delicate fingers rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

"How long did the journey south take you?” he asked hesitantly, as if dreading the answer.

"Six waxings of the moon,” she admitted. “But that included the worst part of winter. The weather was hard this year, and I had to hole up more than once and wait out blizzards. I would guess that the trip should be no more than two or three moons for us now that spring has come."

"Oh.” The look on his face was so demoralized that Arrow felt sorry for him. But he brightened a little when the innkeeper reappeared in the doorway and announced that dinner had arrived. Making a grand show, the man gestured in a young woman carrying a platter of savory mutton.

"The best in the Empire,” he declared.

Thraxis stared for a long moment at the joint of mutton in front of him. All the color drained from his face, to be replaced by a sickly greenish hue. A moment later, he was bolting for the door, one hand clapped over his mouth.

The innkeeper began pulling his hair and jabbering frantically at Arrow, but as Thraxis was now out of earshot, she could no longer understand the Empire's language. Shrugging, she picked a sliver of meat from the offending joint, and then reluctantly motioned for the girl to take it away. A few minutes later, Thraxis returned, leaning unsteadily against the doorframe. His eyes darted around the room nervously, as if he half-expected to be attacked by a servant wielding a mutton cudgel. At his reappearance, the innkeeper's words instantly became intelligible to Arrow once again. As she had expected, they consisted of frantic apologies interspersed with pleas not to cast a hex on the inn. Thraxis shook his head and took his seat slowly. “I am Athraskani,” he said indignantly. “We take an oath to do no harm.” At the innkeeper's blank look, he scowled impatiently. “We don't kill. That includes

... whatever that poor thing was on the plate.” He began to look distinctly green again. Arrow supposed he had never even seen cooked flesh before. Its appearance on the table must have been something of a shock.

"I ... I could have the cook make up a vegetable stew,” the innkeeper said reluctantly, as if he was in the midst of seriously questioning Thraxis’ sanity but was too fearful to say so.

"No. No, just some wine. Unless you make a habit of putting blood in it."

"Oh no! Just grapes!” The innkeeper scurried away quickly, perhaps afraid to linger too long. Thraxis sighed again, now looking utterly wretched. However, recalling his companion, he made a weak attempt at a smile. “I'm sorry. You should feel free to eat ... whatever ... according to your beliefs."

"I'll eat later,” she said with a shrug.

The innkeeper bowed himself into the room, an amphora of wine in his hands. The girl trailed after him, her eyes downcast. Arrow noticed that the bodice of her dress was riding much lower on her small breasts than it had before.

"Forgive my mistake, my lord,” the innkeeper said, all but groveling as he set out two cups and poured wine the color of Thraxis’ eyes into them. “Mari has prepared your rooms. She will happily await you in yours."

Thraxis stared at the girl in surprise. Then his black brows drew together. “No." The innkeeper paled, his last chance of making a dangerous guest happy disappearing before his eyes.

“Another, then? There are some kitchen-women you might choose from. Or a boy?" Thraxis sighed, looking painfully tired. “No. I have ... taken a kind of oath of chastity, one might say."

"Oh.” The innkeeper and Mari both looked mystified. “Then what should I—"

"Just go away!"

They both departed with alacrity. Thraxis sighed again, took a sip of his wine, and cast Arrow a rueful smile. “Ah, well. At least that's one thing for which I'm used to being thought odd."

"You don't seem odd to me,” she said. “Well, not any more than anyone in the Empire." His dark brows arched quizzically. “I don't?"

"Not really. I was raised by my granduncle and his husband—"

"His what?"

She frowned, puzzled. “His husband. Don't tell me people in the Empire don't get married." Thraxis looked vaguely horrified. “They do—but only men and women. Two men together would be ... I can't even imagine it."

She shrugged. “Well, among the Skald, two men—or two women—can get married if they really want to. I mean, it isn't common or anything. Most people want children, after all. But it happens. At any rate, my granduncle's husband, Vole Under the Snow, was from one of the easternmost Skald clans, on the other side of the Black Mountains. His people met and traded with mystics from another empire in the east. They didn't eat meat, either. Although, according to Vole, anyway, they only drank water."

"We are permitted a single glass of wine a day,” Thraxis said, as if he expected her to accuse him of debauchery.

She hid a smile behind her own cup. “Of course. He said that they were forbidden sex as well. Something about it diluting their energies, I think."

He shook his head, a soft rustle of cloth over hairless skin. “It isn't that. It's just ... well, it doesn't matter, I suppose.” He rose, a tall, thin shadow against the pale walls of the room. “I'm going to bed." She sat by herself for a time after Thraxis had left, chewing on the restored mutton and staring blindly out the window. Their conversation had stirred up memories of Vole and the others that she had left behind—memories she would just as soon have cut out of her heart. Despite the fact that he had helped Leaf Dancing raise her from the age of five, the only image of Vole's face that she could call to mind was the last one she had seen. There had been tears in his almond-shaped eyes that day, and she wondered if he had argued with Leaf, trying to persuade him not to repudiate her. If so, Vole had lost the argument and had stood silently by his husband, giving her no comfort.

* * * *

For once, meditation failed to soothe Thraxis’ fractured nerves. He sat cross-legged on the inn's poor bed, wishing in vain for the magically warmed blankets of the Sanctum. His muscles ached from the day's riding, and every movement shot spears of pain through his joints. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and it was all he could do to force himself to eat some of the rations that he found in the depthless pockets of the traveling robe. His appetite had been negligible for the past few months anyway, as the curse turned his stomach inside out on a regular basis.

He wished that he could go home one more time, if only to sleep in his own bed. Although life at the Sanctum had been harsh in some respects, at least it was familiar. He never again wanted to lay eyes on another horse, inn, or plate of burned carrion. Or on the barbarian who had dragged him into this mess. The Arrow that Flies the Farthest was not what he had expected, and he wasn't certain whether that fact pleased or annoyed him. He had assumed that her conversations would be made up of grunts interspersed with monosyllables—but also that her primitive nature would be overawed by his power and that she would accept his judgment as naturally better.

Instead, she was not only articulate but surprisingly perceptive as well. Which alone could be troubling, given that he had hoped to conceal his condition from her. But worse, she actually dared to question him— him!

Not only had he once been the most powerful of the Athraskani, but he had always considered himself to be among the most educated as well. All Athraskani were immersed in books from early childhood, but normally this intellectual pursuit was balanced by physical games and manual labor. Because of his great potential, however, the Black Council had decided to dedicate him solely to learning and magic by the time he was eight. The decree had come as a great relief to him, given that most of the physical games he had played until that time seemed to feature him being shoved and hit by older, stronger boys. After that, the torments of the other novices at least had only been verbal.

So, curse it all, when he told her that he knew about the land they would be traveling through, she should listen to him, not act as though he had taken leave of his senses. Any Athraskani would have simply nodded and been relieved to have such a knowledgeable companion. Was it so difficult to ask the same of her?

I don't belong here, he thought unhappily. He had never interacted with humans very much—his main experience of them had been as tradesmen or supplicants. Conversation with their kind had been far beneath the dignity of a man of his stature. Now he was adrift in a sea of them. The barbarian was bad enough, but the innkeeper was a nightmare. Had he actually expected Thraxis to sleep with some girl he had never even laid eyes on before?

Thraxis pursed his lips and looked wistfully at his traveling robe where it lay folded up on a chair beside his staff. If only he had been able to bring more with him. He would have liked to console himself with readings from Kahven's Natura Amria, but as with all other books, the spiritualist's writings had been communal property of the Sanctum. Not that anyone would have missed the tome even if he had taken it. Everyone he knew looked down on the philosophy as romantic drivel, and his adherence to it had been hidden carefully in an attempt to avoid mockery. The last thing he needed was to give the Beautiful Melilandra more barbs for her arsenal.

I wish I could go home, he thought wistfully, despite the unpleasant image of Melilandra. I wish none of this had ever happened.

But even for an Athraskani, such wishes could not change reality.

* * * *

Arrow awoke in the deeps of the night, her every nerve taut. She remained motionless on her straw mattress, keeping her breathing steady so as not to betray her wakefulness. A moment later, the sound that had interrupted her dreams came again: stealthy footsteps and the muted whisper of voices in the hall.

Senses hyper-alert, she sorted out three different patterns of breathing. Cloth brushed over skin like the rolling of boulders, and the loosening of a dagger from its sheath became a shriek. Two of the men tiptoed farther down the hall to Thraxis’ room, each footfall the clanging of drums. The third remained in front of Arrow's door.

A moment later, a knife slipped through the gap between door and frame, tripping the latch easily. Arrow forced herself to remain still while the door swung slowly open and a man stepped through. It seemed to take him a hundred years to reach the side of her pallet. Cracking her eyes slightly, she saw that he was alone. Good—there would be no witnesses to what came next.

She rose to her feet swiftly. Her attacker blinked stupidly, his eyes lifting from pallet to her face in seeming slow motion. She watched as his arm gradually came up, bringing the dagger to bear. With little effort, she stepped past his languid movements, grabbed his arm, and snapped it. He tried to stagger back, to escape the preternatural creature he had so mistakenly unleashed. The shattering of his neck put a final end to his efforts.

For an instant, she almost ran out the door. Then, remembering that Thraxis might see, she forced herself into slowness, to match the painful speed of normal humans. The crash of a door being kicked in came to her ears as she passed into the hall. Swearing softly, she made for Thraxis’ room. She reached the splintered door in time to see two men descending on her companion. She shouted a warning, saw him roll over and fling up his hands, as if warding off a blow. There was a flash of light, and one of the men let out a startled yell as he stepped into what looked like a fragile, near-invisible membrane surrounding the bed. “Magic!” the other shouted, and stabbed viciously at the barrier, only to have his knife turned easily aside.

Then Thraxis let out an incongruous gasp of horror. The membrane collapsed and vanished with a faint pop, leaving him defenseless.

Why did he do that? Arrow wondered, aghast. Realizing that Thraxis’ life was now in peril, she stole forwards and shoved her sword to the hilt in the back of one of the men. He screamed and fell onto the bed, blood splattering Thraxis’ face and the smooth curve of his bald head. The other spun around and tried to make for the door. Arrow stepped into his path, languidly dashed his knife away, and neatly severed his head from his body.

Silence fell. The small room stank of blood and released bowels. Thraxis clutched the bedclothes to him, staring in wide-eyed shock at the dead man lying on his legs. As he seemed unharmed, Arrow bent to wipe the blood from her sword. Footsteps and voices sounded from elsewhere in the inn, and a moment later the innkeeper appeared, pale and sweating. When he caught sight of the dead bodies, he moaned and leaned against the wall.

Arrow fixed a stern glare on him. “Ready Thraxis’ cart. We're leaving. Now."

"But—"

She put her hand on her sword. The little color that remained in the innkeeper's face drained away, and he beat a hasty retreat. With a sigh, she turned back to her companion. “Get your things ready." He blinked slowly, like a man emerging from a dream. “W-why did they attack us?" She shrugged. “To steal money, maybe. Or perhaps they believed they could steal your powers. Or maybe they were just scared. Judging by the innkeeper's reaction, your kind is feared here." That had obviously never occurred to him. “But why? We do no harm!" She thought back to their conversation on the road. “Perhaps. But if those who buy your spells use them to do harm, the distinction might be lost in the minds of others. And people are always afraid of those who have powers they don't understand. Now clean the blood off your face and get dressed. We're not spending another moment in this accursed place."

The innkeeper all but clung to Thraxis’ sleeve as they left, apologizing for harboring brigands under his roof and begging the Athraskani to think kindly of him. Thraxis glared at him, then turned back towards the inn. Raising his hands in a dramatic gesture, he spoke a brief string of words in a guttural language. The innkeeper shrieked and prostrated himself in the dirt.

"What did you do to him?” Arrow asked curiously once the inn had vanished into the distance behind them. The gray gleam of dawn lit the sky above and glowed faintly in the paler dust of the highway. Although the shadow of the hood hid his face, she heard the smile in his voice. “Nothing. It was just nonsense. Although I expect he'll spend the next few weeks worrying about it." She laughed aloud. “That was cruel."

"Perhaps. But I must say, I didn't think much of his service."

* * * *

It was high summer now, and the sun had burned the steppe into a golden plain of dying grass. This was the lean time of the year, when horses grew thin and desperation made predators bold. Flocks of vultures rode the hot wind like black ghosts, searching for the unwary or the doomed. Despite the drought, the Red Feather horses were sleeker and fatter than they had been in forty years. Sitting on Stalker's back, Arrow admired the row of scalps decorating her harness and knew that she was responsible for the clan's good fortune. During the two years that she had been Champion, the Red Feathers had been able to take back all the pasturage that had traditionally been theirs, some of which their cousins had not grazed since her great-grandfather's time. Now even in the dry season there was clean water and sweet grass to be found in their territory. Blood sat beside her, his keen gaze fixed on the horizon. He had asked her to ride out with him to this distant edge of their territory, and she had agreed willingly. His father's Champion had lost this particular bit of land decades ago, and it pleased them both to be able to ride through it at their leisure, knowing that they would be unchallenged by anyone.

Now he stared at a low line of kurgans in the distance, his eyes hawk-hungry. “Do you know what those mounds mean?” he asked. The wind whipped his braids back and blew a few loose strands of hair into his mouth.

"They mark the edge of the Falcon clan's pastures,” she replied, wondering what he had in mind. “Those are the kurgans of their greatest chiefs. It is said that, under their watchful gaze, no one can ever take the land away from the Falcons."

Blood smiled. “So it is said. But we will prove them wrong."

A little chill went through Arrow despite the heat of the day, but she strove to ignore it. “I don't understand."

"I am sending a messenger to the Falcon chief to tell him that the Red Feathers now claim those pastures. No doubt, he will disagree and issue a Challenge to settle our differences. Once he does that, the grass is as good as ours. His Champion will never be able to stand against you." Unease churned in her belly. “But we have no ancestral claim to those lands. Until now, we have merely taken back what was once ours."

"Until now. But why be content with that? With the Falcons’ pastures added to our own, our herds will expand and we will prosper.” He paused briefly. “Let me speak frankly with you, the Arrow that Flies the Farthest. My father left me very little. When he died, our lands had been whittled away to a few meager pastures. The first year that I was chief, I watched children and horses starve in the summer. The winter took most of those who remained. I swore then that when it came time to raise my kurgan, my son would look to the future with joy instead of despair.

"I have done my best by my clan since then. But now, finally, I have the opportunity to fulfill my vow."

"Because of me?"

"Indeed, my Champion.” There was real fondness in his smile, but it seemed more the fondness of a man for a hunting hound than for a friend. “We will add the Falcons’ pastures to our own so that our people may prosper."

Arrow nodded. A part of her felt uncertain about Blood's plan, for if the Red Feathers were to prosper by taking that to which they had no right, then the Falcons must by necessity suffer. But isn't that what the other clans did to us? she asked herself uneasily. Why not do the same ourselves?

The reasoning did not sit well with her, but she forced herself to accept it. Her people revered her now for all that she had gained them. But if she balked at Blood's new plan, was it not possible that she would lose their respect? They would turn against her, calling her a coward, hating her for daring to be a woman and a Champion both.

"If those pastures will be ours by right of strength,” she said at last, “then let us take them." Chapter Three—Beauty

As the sun went down on a long day of riding, Arrow led them to a clearing alongside the road. A thin stream ran near enough for her to hear its soft burble, and she took the horses there first. Thraxis, his face gray with weariness, clambered awkwardly from the cart and leaned tiredly against the nearest tree. Dust clung to the hem of his black robe, and the sun had reddened the tip of his long nose where it protruded beyond his hood.

"How much farther to the next inn?” he asked, like a man inquiring how much more torture he must endure before execution.

Arrow unsaddled Nightwing and began to rub the gelding down. “We're camping here." Thraxis blinked at her, and for a moment she glimpsed something like panic in his eyes. “We can't!"

"Of course we can. Between the two of us, we have both gear and food."

"I refuse to sit by a smoking fire and eat half-charred rations like a savage, when there are wine and clean sheets to be had a few miles down the road!"

Arrow's hands tightened into fists, and she felt her altered heart ratchet its pace up to something that would have killed a normal human. Taking a deep breath for calm, she forced herself to speak slowly.

“Go ahead, then. But I'm staying here. I slept under the stars on my way to find you because I knew that the people of the Empire don't like barbarians. But going by what happened last night, they hate Athraskani."

"That's absurd!"

"They fear you. And neither you, nor I know how to deal with them.” She shouldered Nightwing's gear, carried it to the spot she had selected in the clearing, and then returned to attend to Stalker. “You can go on if you like, but I'm staying here."

Thraxis said nothing, only turned and stalked away to the clearing. When he failed to return, Arrow decided that he had chosen to be reasonable and help set up camp. As he didn't seem to mind perfect strangers touching Shadow Lord, she cared for the horse along with her own, and then led the animals back to the clearing, expecting to be greeted by a fire and a meal in progress. What she found was Thraxis, sitting hunched up on a fallen tree like a giant raven. His hands were tucked into his sleeves, and his hood was pulled far forward to hide his face. The sun was almost down, but no firelight illuminated the campsite.

Struck by sudden annoyance, Arrow dropped the reins. Shadow Lord immediately started to wander away, and she grabbed him back with an oath. “You could have at least started the fire,” she shot over her shoulder as she set about hobbling the horse.

"I came on this journey to stop Balthazar, not to become a forester's apprentice. If we had gone to an inn like civilized people, there would be servants to do these things for us."

"So in their absence I become one?” She walked across the clearing and stood in front of him, forcing him to look at her. The last gleam of sunset cut through the trees and illuminated a single yellow eye. “I'm not a slave."

"And I'm not a novice or a weakling!"

The reply made absolutely no sense. “What are you babbling about?" His long-fingered hands clenched and unclenched in the dark folds of robe that covered his lap. He dropped his feral gaze from her face, and his lower lip jutted out sulkily. “I don't know how to do these things,” he said at last, sounding like a man admitting to impotence.

Arrow frowned. His words made sense, considering that he had never left the Sanctum before, but why hadn't he simply told her to begin with instead of arguing about servants and inns? “Then I'll show you." He looked up quickly, as though he suspected her of mockery. “You think I'm a fool."

"I think that you're someone who hasn't ever made camp before, as strange as the concept seems to me. You're the one acting as though he's admitted to a shameful secret." He pursed his lips and rose to his feet. In the night, he towered over her like a standing stone. “It is shameful. Especially for me."

"How are you supposed to learn if you can't admit that you don't know something?" He turned away from her. “We learn basic things when we are novices. Afterwards, we are expected to apply ourselves to our chosen courses of study. It is a cliché among us that knowledge is power. In Council, it is not unusual for one of us to try to gain the upper hand over a rival by maneuvering the discussion in such a way as to test the other's knowledge. If he cannot answer a question, or elaborate on a topic, he loses face before everyone."

They Challenge one another just like we do, she realized, surprised. Only they fight with facts instead of swords and bows.

"Well, you aren't in your Council, and I'm not testing you,” she said briskly. “I don't care if you've never made a campfire in your life before, so long as you're willing to help me build one now." She felt his hesitation in the tension of his body. But after a moment, he turned back to her and nodded. The last glow of light picked out his face and hands, as if they hovered disembodied in the gloaming.

“Very well."

The work went slower than usual, with Arrow having to explain and demonstrate things that seemed obvious to her. To his credit, Thraxis listened intently, his total concentration on her words and movements. When first spark of fire turned into a merry blaze, a look of pleasure softened his yellow eyes.

Arrow settled a small copper cauldron over the fire and started a stew of beans, onions, and garlic, careful to avoid adding anything that Thraxis couldn't eat as well. To her surprise, he contributed an assortment of fresh-looking turnips and carrots that he drew out of the pockets of his robe. At the question in her eyes, he shrugged self-consciously. “Traveling robes have magic worked into them. The pockets, er, hold more than one might think, but without adding weight for the wearer to carry. The spells keep food fresh, as well."

"Oh,” she said, impressed. It seemed that magic had good uses as well as the evil ones that she had seen. After the meal, Thraxis politely asked her to show him how to boil water for tea. Once the water was ready, he pulled out a packet of herbs from one of his magic pockets and carefully steeped it. A heady, mint smell wafted up, and Arrow breathed deeply. “Can I have some?" Thraxis’ face closed to her immediately. “No. That is, this is a special tea. Meant to sharpen concentration for spell casting."

He was lying, she realized. Not because he was a bad liar—rather the opposite. But at the same time, he didn't act like the one or two habitual liars she had known, either, whose words flowed easily off their tongues. There was something about Thraxis that reminded her of the Empire soldiers they had seen, clanking about in their ridiculous armor. And when he lied, it was like a man raising a shield, deflecting attack.

Arrow settled back, pretending that she accepted the answer but continuing to study his face from beneath her lashes. Why he should lie about something as unimportant as a cup of tea eluded her, and for a moment she questioned whether or not she should pursue the matter. After all, she was hiding things from him—very big things, which would probably have him galloping back to the Sanctum if he ever found out about them. If she didn't want him to pry into her secrets, could she justify prying into his?

Yes, she decided. Because she wasn't going to bet her life or the lives of her people that whatever he was hiding was benign enough not to have consequences for their journey. She had to get him back to Bird Bones Broken, alive and in the mood to be helpful, or else everything was lost. And if that meant lying, spying, and betrayal, then so be it.

Thraxis was no fool, however. When he finished drinking his tea, he casually flung the dregs into the fire, thus eliminating any possibility that she might investigate them and learn just what herbs he had been using. Standing up, he bowed slightly to her and left the clearing to do his nightly meditation in private, by the stream. She noted that, despite his claim about the tea, no spells appeared to be forthcoming. Arrow let the fire burn down but stayed awake long enough to see her charge returned to camp and settled on the opposite side of the ashes, wrapped in his robe with his head pillowed on a blanket. She set no watch that night, trusting the horses to warn her if anyone approached, but nevertheless her sleep was an uneasy one.

* * * *

The next morning, Arrow awoke cold and sore from lying on the ground. The fire had burned down, but life remained in the coals underneath, and she coaxed a few flames from them. Thraxis stirred and sat up with a moan, moving as if his joints pained him. He looked pale and drawn, and for a moment Arrow thought that he was going to start arguing about inns again. But instead his gaze went past her, eyes widening in sudden wonder. Startled, she looked back, but saw nothing.

"Is something wrong?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly. “No. It's just—beautiful."

It was indeed one of those spectacular sunrises that sometimes come on cold mornings. The low clouds caught fire underneath, then faded through pink to soft purple at their tops. The golden light reflecting from the sky gilded the trees. Birds sang of spring, their voices spangling the air like jewels. The scent of green life and rich earth permeated everything, underlain by the gentle perfume of wildflowers. An unexpected smile caught at her mouth. “I suppose it is at that,” she agreed. They ate breakfast, and Thraxis swallowed another cup of his mysterious tea before meditating. Arrow glanced at him frequently while she readied the horses. He sat very still, his hands folded in a ritual position, and she wondered what it was he meditated upon.

Later, once they had again joined the stream of people hurrying up and down the Empire's roads, she watched him as he wrangled with Shadow Lord. It's like I'm traveling with two different people, she thought. One Thraxis was haughty and arrogant, easily upset when she questioned him or when he didn't get his way. That one made her believe every negative thing that Balthazar had said about his people. Then there was the other Thraxis, the one who stared in awe at the sunrise. Who had given her that unexpected smile when she stood up to him the first day they met. That one made her wonder what secrets lay behind his eyes and forced him to put the other Thraxis between himself and the world. She shook her head, wondering why she bothered with the attempt to ever understand anyone. Even understanding her own clan, people she had grown up with and known her entire life, had proved beyond her capabilities. Why should she expect better success with an Athraskani?

* * * *

"No! I will not accept this! You have no right!” shouted the Dreaming Rock chief. He stood in the center of the circle between his clan and the Red Feathers, hands coiled into fists, his entire body shaking with outrage. His mother had been from the eastern Skald, and her heritage showed in his dark hair and almond-shaped eyes. Under other circumstances, Arrow would have thought him handsome. But now his face was flushed with a mix of rage and fear, and his eyes darted worriedly to the bloody scalp in her hand.

"My Champion defeated yours,” Blood said laconically, as if enjoying the spectacle of the other chief's fear.

"But those pastures have belonged to my clan since the first Skald was born! You have no rightful claim to them.” The chief drew himself up suddenly, eyes hardening. “We will not recognize your ownership of them."

Blood spat to one side. “Then it will be blood feud between us."

"So be it."

The two clans withdrew to their own territories, ostensibly to prepare for war. But, unlike his counterpart among the Dreaming Rocks, Blood had been expecting these events for some time now. The Falcon and Spotted Frog clans had given up pasturage to avoid blood feud after Arrow killed their Champions, but it had only been a matter of time before someone refused.

So when the Red Feathers swept down on the main camp of the Dreaming Rocks a few days later, they found their enemy woefully unprepared.

Arrow rode in the forefront of the charge, mounted on Nightwing. Her gut was clenched tight as it had not been since her first Challenge. Although she had killed Champions aplenty, she had never faced anyone outside the strict boundaries of Challenge. A pitched battle would be different, she thought, and that worried her.

And, she discovered as they cut into the thin line of hastily-mounted men, it was different. It was easy.

All men spent their lives training for battle from the time they were old enough to sit a horse. But they had other responsibilities as well: herding, hunting, and raising families. Champions were exempt from all these things and did nothing save hone their battle skills. So when Arrow finally found herself facing an ordinary man, the advantage was all hers.

The first kill was fast, a young man whose face she saw clearly in the instant before her arrow clove his skull between the eyes. Hoping to avoid the deadly volley of returning arrows, she and the other Red Feathers closed with their enemies. Her bronze sword sang briefly against another before sliding through flesh, tendon, and lung.

Nightwing moved under her like an extension of her own body, rider and horse a single coordinated organism. The gelding kicked savagely at a man fallen from his own mount, sending him sprawling, then bit the arm of another reaching to pull Arrow from the saddle. Within moments, both were splashed with blood and gore, and lesser warriors fled from their path.

The Dreaming Rocks were surprised and disorganized, and the sun had not advanced far along its path before the last of them had been captured or slaughtered. Horses galloped among the yurts, while women and children either fought or fled. Smoke hung in the air along with the screams of the vanquished. Arrow found Blood at the periphery of the devastation, patiently removing the scalp from one of his kills. Hunts Mice, Blood's closest friend, stood nearby with his sword still in his hand. “What of the survivors?”

he asked his chief.

"Take those you think would make good slaves—the more easily cowed women, the young children,”

Blood replied. “Then kill the rest."

Hunts Mice smiled hungrily and left. As Arrow drew to a halt, Blood glanced up at her. “A good day, my Champion,” he said. “You slew many enemies. Tell Hunts Mice that you may have the first pick of spoils."

An odd, queasy feeling settled into Arrow's stomach, but she forced herself to nod. She would take no slaves—she couldn't even imagine what she would do with one—but there might be jewelry or the like that she could use. “Thank you,” she managed to say beyond the obstruction in her throat. Blood nodded easily, like a king granting favors. Then a frown creased his brow, and he scanned the horizon, as if looking for enemies. “As I said, a good day. But the only one like it, I fear. The next time, our enemies will be more prepared.” He shook his head, obviously thinking hard. “We need something more—some sort of advantage."

Arrow turned her horse and headed back towards the ruined camp, where booty was being sorted. “The next time” rang in her ears so loudly that she forgot Blood's final words. Until Balthazar came.

Chapter Four—Lia* * * *

The next few days passed quietly enough. They traveled northeast, heading on a direct line out of the Empire. Even so, the roads remained in good condition, either because Emperor Darius maintained them in case he decided to invade someone in that direction, or because they had been built so well in the first place that they needed no human hand to keep them passable. The villages they rode through grew smaller and the people spoke in odd accents, although they still wore the toga-and-sandals costume of the Empire.

They continued to draw odd looks, although most people didn't react overtly to Thraxis unless they were close enough to see his wine-yellow eyes. The robes of the Athraskani were not known so well here, farther from the Sanctum. Arrow felt some relief over that, although not enough to suggest that they break their habit of camping far from the sight of others.

Some of Thraxis’ moodiness slipped away, although his imperiousness remained in full force. Still, it was he who suggested they pass the time learning one another's tongue, in case they needed to converse with others outside the range of the translator stones. Surprised by the sensibility of this suggestion, Arrow readily agreed. The Empire's language was difficult for her, and progress with it was slow. But Thraxis picked up Skaldai with ease. When asked about it, he wryly said that he had spent half of his life studying languages, so he ought to have some skill for the task. Privately, she suspected that a natural talent had a hand in things.

The weather chilled as they went north, turning spring back to its earliest days. On the tenth day, they came to a gorge spanned by a stone bridge that Arrow remembered crossing in a driving snowstorm. Patches of white still clung to the shadowed sides of the ravine. Far below, the faint silver line of a river flowed, its roar muted by distance. Waterfalls draped the gray rock, like the white hair of old women. Stunted trees clung stubbornly to the steep sides of the gorge, lifting their limbs perpendicular to their roots in an attempt to reach the sun. Peering down at the birds swirling below, Arrow breathed in the cold wind that rose from the depths, smelling wet rock and winter. If the snow had not blinded her, she thought, she would never have dared take Nightwing and Stalker over the ice-slick bridge in such a storm.

"This must be the Gorge of Caius,” Thraxis said slowly. He kept Shadow Lord far back from the edge, which Arrow thought wise, given the animal's temperament. He glanced at her for confirmation, but she only shrugged, ignorant of the names in this foreign place. “The Wandering Monk mentions it in his Travels. That should be the Forest of Wer on the other side. If so, then we're in luck—the Wandering Monk says that the Emperor keeps it strictly patrolled and free of bandits." Arrow peered across the gulf to the trees on the other side. Unlike the land behind them, this one looked never to have been put to the plow. Huge oaks shadowed the gorge, the pale bark of hollies gleaming among them. “I don't know. I remember having trouble finding the path. Although I admit it was snowing fairly hard at the time."

Thraxis gave her an annoyed look. “You didn't see any bandits, did you?"

"No, but it was still winter. Only a fool would have been out and about then."

" You were out and about."

"I didn't have a choice,” she snapped, becoming annoyed in her turn. “I was in a hurry. Otherwise, I would never have tried to ride all the way from the steppe to the Empire in the middle of winter. As it was, I had to bleed the horses twice when the weather got too bad to go on and my supplies ran out." Thraxis paled. “You—did what?"

"Bled them. Drank their blood to stay alive. By the Lady, stop looking at me like that! We all three survived, didn't we?"

Thraxis made a face. “I suppose so,” he allowed, but his tone clearly said barbarian. Fine, she thought angrily to herself. I am a barbarian.

"Come, then,” she said, urging Stalker towards the bridge. “If your books say it's safe, then it must be so."

The stone bridge leapt the gorge in a single, graceful arch that proclaimed the prowess of Empire architects. Winged lions carved from marble upheld the granite balustrade at either end. There were a few holes in the paving where stones had cracked and dropped out, but for the most part the bridge was in excellent repair. Unconvinced by this, Shadow Lord refused even to step foot on it and in the end had to be blindfolded and led across. Thraxis looked as though he would have preferred to have a blindfold himself, clinging hard to the horse's bridle and staring resolutely at Nightwing's rump. If she were to be honest, Arrow didn't like the height much either. But she put on a show of stepping along confidently, whistling happily and stopping to toss a stray clump of mud over the side so that she could watch it fall. Once safely on the other side, they found themselves moving through interlacing shadow and sun. Silence lay beneath the trees, broken only by the occasional chatter of a squirrel. The tracks of fox and marten showed in the remaining patches of snow. A few wildflowers bloomed valiantly, snatching up the available sun before the trees awoke and blocked it with leaves. Although the track was readily distinguishable, fallen branches lay across it in places, indicating that they were the first to pass through after the last winter storms. Arrow walked ahead on foot, removing the branches so that they wouldn't entangle the wheels of the cart.

Despite Arrow's misgivings, the day passed quietly. Her hands twitched once or twice when she caught a glimpse of the reddish hides of deer, but she refrained from touching her bow out of respect for Thraxis’

beliefs. The Athraskani remained uncharacteristically silent, but his eyes were alive, drinking in the sights the woodland had to offer. She supposed it was the first time he had ever seen a forest. They set up camp a short distance from the track, near a small spring. Thraxis helped her settle the horses and make the fire with a resigned air, apparently having abandoned any hope that she would suddenly change her mind and do all the chores for him. For dinner, they looted the apparently inexhaustible contents of the robe's pockets.

The fire crackled merrily to itself, sending up spirals of fragrant smoke. From somewhere nearby, an owl hooted loudly and was answered by another. Thraxis settled himself cross-legged on the ground and eased his cowl back so that the firelight gleamed off the smooth curve of his skull. He seemed far too young to be naturally bald, and Arrow wondered if she could ask him what had happened to his hair without offending him. Among the Skald, those warriors unfortunate enough to survive their defeat in battle had their braids cut off as a mark of shame. She wondered if the Athraskani had the same tradition, given the elaborate coiffures she had seen among them.

Thraxis drew a deep breath, then let it out slowly. The fire made strange shadows on his gaunt face.

“You know,” he said at length, “I had some doubts about this journey at first. But, really, this isn't so bad."

Nightwing let out a snort and lifted his head. Stalker looked up as well, suddenly tense. Even Shadow Lord left off grazing the tender leaves off the trees and tried to back away, hobbled as he was. Arrow let out a hiss of warning and drew her sword, motioning for her companion to get away from the fire.

"What are you doing?” Thraxis asked irritably. “And why on earth are you waving at me like that?" Then the familiar thrum of an arrow in flight went past her ear, ending in an equally-familiar thok as it met flesh. Thraxis let out a wild yell and fell backwards, even as four shapes surged out of the dark wood. Bandits, Arrow thought as she ran to meet them. And not ones that were doing very well as outlaws, by the look of them. Their clothing was a jumble of crudely-stitched hides, uncured furs, finely-dyed cottons, and silks. Hunger had thinned their faces behind thick beards, and she smelled the stink of malnutrition on their breath.

Arrow's heart sped and her body tried to kick into motion. Cursing mentally, she forced herself to hold back, fighting the instincts of a lifetime and praying that she could maintain her disguise of normality, yet still keep herself and Thraxis from getting killed.

Two of the bandits ran past, one made for the horses, and the other faced her. Surprise showed on his hollow features. “This one's a woman!” he shouted.

"Keep her alive,” ordered another, presumably the leader.

The first fixed his eyes on Arrow, and she caught a glimpse of desperation and despair that bordered on madness. Whoever he was, she doubted that he had chosen this life willingly. It was even possible that he had done nothing to deserve it but had succumbed instead to bad luck or the ill will of others. For an instant, she wondered if her victims had seen something similar in her eyes. Thrusting the thought away, she whipped her sword around in sudden fury. Her opponent clumsily lifted a blade green with corrosion, only to have it shatter as she met it with her own. For a moment he seemed confused, clearly having not expected such resistance from a woman. Then her sword clove his heart, and his eyes glazed over with death.

She turned as he fell, caught a glimpse of Shadow Lord rearing wildly, hobbles cut. “Nightwing! Stalker!

Kill!” she shouted automatically, although the cousins probably didn't need her encouragement by now. Stalker whinnied shrilly, spun, and lashed out with his rear hooves at a shadowy form. The outlaw let out a strangled scream and tried to flail away, only to be knocked over by Nightwing's broad shoulder. Satisfied that the horses would not be lost, Arrow completed her turn and saw that the other two bandits had cornered Thraxis. The Athraskani cowered back against a tree trunk, his hands half-raised as if he would cast a spell. One of the bandits laughed incredulously, bent over, and seized a handful of robe.

“What the hell is this? A scribe? You should have stayed with your books, ink-eater." A crude bone knife caught the firelight. Arrow swore and leapt over the fire, certain that Thraxis was beyond noticing whether or not her jump was inhumanly high. She came down lightly behind the one with the knife, her sword sliding through his kidney and up into his lungs. He made an odd, gurgling sound, then fell to the ground, vomiting blood. Putting her back to him, she prepared to face his companion, only to discover that the man had already fled.

The camp was a wreck, their dinner scattered into the fire and on the ground. The stench of blood and entrails fouled the night air. Stalker and Nightwing were too well trained to run, but their nostrils were flared and their eyes rimmed with white. Of Shadow Lord, there was no sign. Fury slammed through Arrow, and she spun around and marched over to Thraxis. “Lady of Beasts curse you!” she shouted. “Why didn't you do something? You have magic—by the gods, use it, don't just sit there and wait to get killed!"

Thraxis lay propped against the tree, his skin pale as chalk. An arrow stood out from his left shoulder, and the front of his robe was dark with blood. The last bandit lay at Thraxis's feet, still moaning and blowing bubbles of blood from his nostrils. With a grunt of annoyance, Arrow leaned over and dealt the dying man a mercy stroke. Thraxis turned his head away from the sight.

"I'm hurt,” he said at last. His voice was thin and weak.

Arrow sighed and knelt beside him. Her fingers probed gingerly at the protruding shaft. Thraxis winced and went even paler.

"I'm going to have to cut away your robe,” she said, reaching for the knife sheathed on her left thigh.

"No."

Frustration went through her—couldn't he see that she was trying to help? “Fine,” she said, gripped the arrow, and snapped off the haft. Thraxis yelped and tried to jerk away.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"I'm trying to save your life, you ass!” Batting away his hands, she reached for the front of his robe. Although she found a seam, there appeared to be no laces or buttons anywhere. “Damn it, doesn't this thing open?"

Thraxis looked as though he was going to argue. She aimed a harsh glare at him, and he glanced down, glowering and muttering something about magic. At the touch of his good hand, the robe parted enough to allow her to pull it off over the broken haft. He wore a black shirt beneath, which she cut through quickly.

After a moment of examining the wound, she bit her lip grimly. “Can you use your magic to heal yourself?"

He looked at her warily. “Why?"

"Because the arrow severed the great artery going to the arm. You're bleeding a river, and it won't get any better after I pull the arrowhead out."

Thraxis closed his eyes in an odd gesture of defeat. “Are you certain that you can't stop it by more ordinary means?"

She sat back on her heels, staring at him. His reluctance this time went beyond simple pig-headedness.

“Why don't you want to use your magic?” she asked. “You started to at the inn that night, but then dropped the spell. Tonight, you almost got your throat slit, but you didn't raise a hand. And now you want me to staunch the bleeding without your help. Why?"

Thraxis met her eyes for a moment, and then turned away. Something seemed to go out of him, like a man surrendering to an enemy. “Because—I can't."

Arrow froze. “Can't what?"

"I can't use my magic,” he snapped, as though she were being willfully obtuse. “I'm under a curse. When Balthazar turned renegade and fled, he left behind a trap on one of the spell books that I was studying. The moment I touched it, it unleashed a fatal curse. Anyone else, it would have killed instantly, but I was the greatest among the Athraskani, and my magic was enough to hold it at bay. Temporarily.” He sighed and shook his head. “It takes every bit of my magic to keep the curse from killing me outright. But even my power isn't great enough to break the curse, only to slow it. It has been eating away at me for some time now. My hair fell out, I've lost weight, and my joints hurt like hot coals at the end of the day." Arrow stiffened. “You're dying."

His mouth twisted wryly. “Yes. When we left the Sanctum, I thought that I might have six months left—but only if I retained my full power to battle the curse. Every time I cast another spell, though, I divert some of that power away. Essentially, my choice now is to either risk dying tonight if you can't staunch the wound, or else use my magic to heal myself. By saving my life today, I remove several other days from the end of my span."

Arrow winced, pity stirring her heart unexpectedly. “Not much of a choice." His face closed to her, like a mask clicking into place. “I have no need for sympathy."

"Don't need it—or have never had it?"

The mask cracked, showing surprise. Then he turned away. “Pull the arrow. I shall heal the wound when you're done."

He cried out in agony when she pulled the crude bone arrowhead free, and for a moment she thought that he had fainted and she would have to try to save his life without him. But after a moment, the gush of blood grew less, and then ceased altogether. When she inspected the wound, she found the skin unbroken beneath a layer of clotting gore. The arrowhead stank of blood when she held it to her nose, but she detected no scent of poison. Sloppy, she thought—the Skald poisoned their arrows as a matter of course.

She made him comfortable near the fire, and then set about putting the camp in order. The bodies she tied to Stalker and dragged deeper into the forest so that any predators drawn by the blood wouldn't be attracted to the camp. Thraxis’ undershirt was a ruin and went into the fire. The robe, he claimed, would clean and mend itself, so she left him wrapped in it. Once she was done, she settled down cross-legged by his makeshift bed of saddle and blankets.

"So,” she said softly, voice bitter with rage, “I come to the Athraskani and ask for help, and they give me a man who can't work magic."

Thraxis winced. “Well—yes."

"And when were you going to tell me this? You led me to believe that you were coming with me to help defeat Balthazar, but it was just a lie!"

"No. It wasn't. I don't need spells to stop Balthazar."

"Then what are you going to do?"

He avoided her gaze. “I can destroy the source of his power. You see, Balthazar was not the strongest among us. But he—took a magical object when he fled, a red gemstone set in gold. He may wear it as a piece of jewelry."

Arrow tried to look interested but confused, as if she did not know this part of the story already. Balthazar would have laughed—or perhaps cried—to have heard himself dismissed with the casual understatement "was not the strongest among us." That one phrase concealed a lifetime of pain and humiliation. No wonder he had unleashed a curse on Thraxis, who claimed to be the most powerful of all the Athraskani.

But Thraxis was not evil. Arrow had seen evil, and she knew that, for all his faults, Thraxis would never have a part of it. No matter what Balthazar might claim.

"You must not have wanted to come with me,” she said, considering a great many of his words and reactions from a new perspective. “I suppose they didn't give you a choice." Thraxis smiled unexpectedly. “Actually, they did. I could either come with you or impregnate a beautiful woman."

She laughed. “That's not much of a joke."

"Oh, no. I'm quite serious."

She arched a brow at him. “Then you're mad."

"Probably. I've certainly had cause to think so several times since we left the Sanctum.” The smile faded from his face. “The Athraskani worship many gods, Arrow, but the one we hold above all is the god of Truth. And the sad truth is that I was of no more use to my people. I had lost my great power. The only thing I had left for them to use was my seed, so that they could perhaps breed a replacement for me." There was a ragged edge of pain in his voice that made her look at him more closely. Leaf Dancing's final words came back to her: "A man does not love his arrows, only the glory that they bring him from their use." Grief constricted her throat, and she tried to shunt the memory aside. “I suppose this explains the oath of chastity you mentioned before."

Thraxis closed his eyes. “I didn't want to give them a child who would just be another tool. Not even if I could have."

She waited for him to elaborate on his last words, but he remained silent. After a while, she heard his breathing deepen and saw some of the pain ease from his face. Leaving him to sleep, she let the fire die down and settled in to watch over the camp until dawn.

* * * *

Arrow had thought to let Thraxis sleep while she woke the fire and made breakfast, but her movements roused him. He groaned softly when he sat up, and she could see lines of pain forming around his eyes and mouth.

"Stay still,” she told him. “I'll do this."

But, to her surprise, he shook his head. “No. I'm well enough. I just need to make my tea.” He hesitated, and then glanced down in shame. “I lied about its properties before, I'm afraid. The tea helps with the pain in my joints."

"Ah.” She glanced up at him as she set the pot over the fire. “If you worship the god of Truth, then wouldn't lying be taboo?"

He laughed ruefully. “It is against the Rule, although I think it is the stricture most often violated."

"What is this Rule you speak of?"

He sighed and shifted his weight, as if searching for a comfortable position. “There are two strictures that we live by: the Rule and our Vows. The Rule is composed of what you might call our daily laws. It tells us that we should not drink more than one glass of wine a day, that we must meditate in the morning, at noon, and at sunset—that sort of thing. To break a part of the Rule is a serious matter, of course, but it can be forgiven.

"The Vows, though—they are the foundation of who and what we are. Each of us takes them on our tenth birthday. The First and the Last Vow are to do no harm. Obedience is another Vow, although there is an allowance for rebellion if blind obedience will lead to the breaking of another Vow or to evil. There are others, although I have to admit that I haven't had nearly as much trouble with any of them as the Vow of Obedience."

Arrow passed him a horn cup for his tea. “It seems strange to me, to base a society on the commitment not to fight. How do you hold what is yours? How do you keep yourselves safe from enemies?" Thraxis took a sip of his tea and made a face. “Atrocious stuff. At one time, the Athraskani lived much as humans do. We fought among ourselves, though, and were almost annihilated. The survivors constructed our current way of life as an attempt to preserve our race. It has worked well enough for several centuries, although to be frank I often wonder what the founders would think of us today. Whether they would see us as corrupt, the way we sell spells and squabble for power. But, to answer your questions, we use our magic to preserve our independence. Just because we do not hurt others doesn't mean that we can't defend ourselves. If I was free to use my magic, for example, I could easily have stopped those bandits last night by setting a veil around our camp. They could not have penetrated it, but it would not have harmed them."

"Hmm.” Arrow chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Of course, if you had been able to use your magic, you wouldn't have been in the camp at all."

He nodded gravely. “I would probably have never left the Sanctum."

"I don't think I could live like that."

"No.” He shrugged. “But it was all I ever knew."

They finished the rest of their breakfast in silence. Once they were done, Thraxis started to pick up his things, but Arrow made a short gesture to stop him. “We aren't leaving yet."

"I assure you, I'm well enough to travel,” he replied sharply.

"Glad to hear it.” She pulled his staff from the bed of the cart and tossed it to him. He fumbled the catch and had to retrieve it from the ground. “I'm going to show you how to defend yourself with that fancy walking-stick."

Thraxis looked faintly horrified. “I already told you that my Vows don't permit me to hurt others, even if they intend harm to me."

"I heard you. It doesn't make any sense, but I heard you. You also said that you are permitted to defend yourself.” She drew her sword casually and swung it in a lazy arc. “At the very least, you can keep yourself from being carved into tiny pieces until I can come help you." He looked uncertain. “I couldn't strike back."

"I'm not asking you to. Now, you hold the staff like this—." The faint chime of bronze on hard wood filled much of the rest of the morning. The staff apparently had magical properties of its own, because it never showed the slightest nick from the edge of her sword. Not that she was hitting it as hard as she could. Poor Thraxis was not proving to be the most apt of pupils; where he had excelled at the mental challenge of learning her language, he failed miserably in terms of physical coordination and strength. His blocks were slow, clumsy, and too timid for her liking, and he spent most of the time backing away from her. Still, she thought that if they continued to practice for a time each day, he would improve and gain confidence.

By the time they were done, his bald scalp was shiny with sweat, and his breath came in short gasps. Arrow let him rest while she finished packing their things, then set about sorting out the things from the cart. Thraxis gave her a puzzled look. “What are you doing?"

"Deciding what's important and what isn't. We and the horses can't carry as much as a cart."

"Aren't you just going to hitch one of your horses to it?"

His ways are different, she reminded herself firmly, trying to keep down a surge of anger at the suggestion. “Pulling carts is for oxen, not horses."

"Both your animals are hands taller than Shadow Lord. Surely they wouldn't have any trouble with the cart."

Arrow clenched her fists. “Aren't you listening to me? Pulling carts isn't for horses! Would you put your sister or brother in a harness?"

Thraxis’ face drained of expression, and the cold mask came back. “The Black Council took me from my parents when I was five. I have no family."

Damn. Conversation with Thraxis was such a quagmire, with no clue as to when a casual remark might turn into a misstep. Of course, he probably feels the same way about me.

"Just accept that it's something I won't do,” she said evenly. “I haven't been complaining about the lack of meat in the stew, have I? And I don't mean for you to walk—I'll lend one of my cousins to you."

"Oh.” He thought it over for a moment. “I don't suppose there's any chance of finding Shadow Lord again?” he asked wistfully.

"No.” And good riddance. “We'll have to abandon the cart and anything we can't take with us." Fortunately, there was really nothing that they couldn't carry easily enough. Thraxis stared at Stalker with great trepidation when Arrow led the horse over to him. Having spent her life in the saddle, Arrow was used to mounting from the ground when unburdened. Although the spectacle of watching Thraxis making the same attempt might be amusing, it wouldn't be very nice, so she ordered Stalker to kneel. Once Thraxis was in the saddle, his robe hitched up to his knees, she gave him a quick lesson in how to hold on with his legs, how to handle the reins, and how to direct the horse.

"For the most part,” she added, “he'll just follow Nightwing, so don't worry too much about anything except holding on. That's particularly true if we have to gallop—just let go of the reins and hold on tight." When Stalker was back up, Thraxis in place, she mounted herself. Her companion was staring rather worriedly at the ground, she saw, as if thinking how far away it was. Suppressing a smile at his discomfiture, she turned her own mount and set an easy pace.

Behind her, Thraxis cleared his throat to get her attention. “Can I ask why you call the horses your cousins?"

"That's what they are."

"But they're horses."

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “I see it was your talent for keen observation that made you so valuable to the Athraskani."

"You're full of wit this morning."

Arrow stretched in the saddle, trying to work a kink out of her back. Her eyes scanned the trail constantly, searching for any sign of others in the wood. “The first Skald and the first horse were brothers, born from the womb of the Great Mare,” she replied, wondering that someone so educated could be ignorant of such a thing. “As I am descended from one brother, so are Nightwing and Stalker descended from the other."

"Fascinating,” Thraxis murmured, brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder if that's ever been recorded before? I wasn't much interested in barbarian folktales, I'm afraid, although some Athraskani have made a study of them. I seem to recall that the Chok believe themselves descended from a half-serpent half-woman."

Arrow snorted. “What do the Chok know? They grub in the soil for food."

"So do my people,” he reminded her tartly.

"True. And since you dismissed the knowledge I gave you as a ‘barbarian folktale,’ I must conclude that you are much like the Chok."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"That's all right. The Chok aren't so bad. My sister married one, in fact."

"You have a sister?"

"Several.” But thoughts of home brought back too many memories. “We should be silent. There might be more bandits in the wood."

Thraxis paled and looked about, as if expecting a horde of enemies to come pouring from behind the trees. Arrow closed her eyes and let herself doze, trusting the horses to stick to the path and to warn her of any danger.

* * * *

It took them several more days to reach the far side of the wood. The journey was not easy for Thraxis. At Arrow's insistence, they rode from dawn to dusk and made a cold camp at night. Although he didn't want to risk an encounter with any more bandits, he missed the light and heat provided by a fire. He tried steeping his tea in cold water, but the drink seemed less efficacious, and by the end of the day his entire body ached with every movement. His stomach objected to the cold rations even more than it had to the hot stews they had been making, and he had to force himself to eat anything at all. Sleep seemed far away most nights, the ground damp and uncomfortable beneath him.

Although he had expected to feel shamed after admitting his secret to Arrow, he instead felt as though a burden had been taken from him. The Black Council had treated him like a worthless pariah, once his magic was gone. But after her initial—and justified, he had to admit—anger, Arrow simply went on as she had before. Perhaps it was that she didn't understand enough about what he had lost to realize the extent of his helplessness. Or perhaps she simply did the best she could with what she had been given. His new existence was so different from the life that had gone before that it was hard to compare the two. But, despite his near-constant discomfort, he began to think that there were compensations for leaving the Sanctum. For one thing, the act of actually sitting on an animal's back and riding it might be intimidating and occasionally painful, but it was also fun. For another, the Forest of Wer itself was full of sounds, sights, and smells that he had never experienced before. At first, he had no idea how to interpret them. Noticing his curiosity, Arrow began to teach him what she knew of the wood, although she admitted that her true home was the steppe. Although he suspected that he would never be much of a woodsman, at least he could identify the alarm call of a bird from its territorial song, recognize the musky scent of a male deer, and tell a raccoon track from that of a weasel.

The lessons gave him an unexpected pleasure, but it took him a while to realize why. When Arrow pointed out trees whose bark had been stripped by stags rubbing the velvet from their antlers, she didn't seem to either be mocking him for his lack of knowledge or demanding anything in return. The rest of the time, she treated him as an equal, acting neither subservient, nor superior. It was radically different from anything he had known, and at first it made him uneasy because he simply didn't know how to respond. After a few days, though, he began to feel more comfortable with this odd companionship. The Forest of Wer finally came to an end on the sixth day after the bandit attack. On the last two days, they had begun passing small settlements nestled in the forest. The people here were barbarians, although of a different kind than Arrow. The eyes of their gods looked out from carved tree trunks, and gruesome wind chimes of bone clinked in the breeze to frighten away evil spirits. Arrow was wary of these people, declining their offers of food and shelter. Although the Wandering Monk had mentioned them and declared them hospitable towards strangers, Thraxis decided to keep silent and let Arrow have her way. When they at last broke free from the beneath the shadow of the forest, they found themselves in the bright sunlight of a mild afternoon. The land ahead of them was grassy, broken here and there by fields and settlements. To the south lay marshes bordering the sea, while to the north mountains made a low purple streak against the horizon. The path Arrow intended to chart lay between the two. Thraxis cleared his throat, feeling suddenly nervous. Arrow and her people needed help against Balthazar, and he knew that he was not what they had hoped to receive. For the last several days, he had wracked his brain, trying to think of some other way to aid them. At first, it had seemed impossible—the Sanctum had sent him alone, and no more Athraskani would be forthcoming. At least, not from there.

"Do you think we could spare a day or two to head north?” he asked. Arrow had been sitting motionless in her saddle, savoring the feel of the breeze on her face. Now she turned and frowned at him a little. The broad blue band of the tattoo over her eyes made her expression hard to read. “Why?"

He took a deep breath. “Not all of the Athraskani live in the Sancta. I think I told you that some of us occasionally go out and live among other peoples, making a study of them.” And some of us are forced out, he added mentally. Although it might be best not to mention that fact just yet.

"I remember.” She glanced towards the low mountains. “Are you saying that one of your kind lives there?"

"I don't know him very well, you understand—he left when I was just a child and has only been back once since. He might not want to help us at all. But he seemed a decent sort, and there's a chance he might agree to travel with us."

Arrow gave him a skeptical look. “Just what we need—more Athraskani,” she muttered. “Can this one at least do magic?"

Heat scalded his cheeks, but he forced himself to nod. “Yes. He only wears the blue, but his powers should be accessible to him."

"If he does come, can we trust him? I don't need another Balthazar." Thraxis looked away. “I know. But you need something more than me, and this is the only option I can think of."

After a moment, she turned her horse's head north. “All right, then. Let's find out if he's interested."

* * * *

He came during a v'juga , one of the fierce blizzards that lasted for days and turned the steppe into a wasteland of blinding white. No one dared venture from the yurts during such a storm. The driving snow could turn into a curtain so thick that any sign of shelter was lost as soon as one stepped away from it, and men had frozen to death only feet from their own homes. Even the herds were brought under cover, crowding into yurts and wooden shelters that broke the wind and kept away the killing cold.

So it was a wonder indeed when a traveler appeared in the midst of the v'juga . He bore a staff with him, which shed a light so bright that it pierced even the blowing snow. His body was wrapped in rough furs and woolens, all of them badly stained and travel-worn. Ice crusted his short black hair and thick beard, but his skin was free of frostbite. At his throat he wore a single piece of jewelry: a medallion set with a stone the size of a child's heart and red as blood. His survival in the storm would have marked him as a man of power even without the glowing staff. Intrigued and somewhat afraid, Blood invited him into his own yurt, and then sent for his most trusted warriors and advisors. Arrow was one of those who followed a guide rope strung between yurts to Blood's home. Even the short journey left her shaking with the cold. The stranger sat at ease on the rich woven carpets that covered Blood's floor, sipping carefully from a flask of koumiss. Steam rose from his clothes and hair as they dried. The fire illuminated his face poorly, but Arrow could see the hollows of his cheeks, the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Those eyes were golden as the links of the chain around his neck, but when he looked at her, she saw a very human sorrow in their depths.

"I have traveled far,” he said in accented Skaldai when Blood questioned him. He cradled a bowl of mutton stew in his hands, eating it in small bites, as if afraid the warmth would burn him from the inside. “I began in the Empire, but I have been wandering aimlessly since leaving it." Blood offered the stranger more koumiss. “We do not travel in the winter,” he said.

"I see why.” The stranger smiled ruefully. “The truth is, I am weary to the bone of wandering. I miss hearing human voices. I would stay here for a while, if I might." Blood watched him like a falcon eyeing up a lark. “The winter is hard here. We cannot feed anyone who doesn't contribute in some way."

The stranger smiled again. One hand moved in a slight gesture, and he murmured softly in some tongue unfamiliar to Arrow. With that, the yurt was suddenly warm, as if summer had come again. Light chased shadows from all the corners, but it seemed to come from no source. A murmur of surprise came from the warriors, and more than one made a sign against evil.

Blood, however, showed no fear; instead, his brow furrowed in thought. “You are—like our soothsayers?” he asked uncertainly.

The stranger snorted rudely. “Hardly. My power is real, not a trick. In exchange for shelter, I will offer my services to you, Blood on the Wind."

"What is your name?” asked Arrow, intrigued by the stranger. He was obviously powerful, and yet the tired pain in his eyes made him seem accessible, human.

Meeting her gaze, he bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I am Balthazar of the Athraskani. And who are you?"

She straightened unconsciously, expecting scorn. Later, she wondered if he had noticed the gesture and realized what it meant. “I am the Arrow that Flies the Farthest, Champion of the Red Feather clan." Balthazar did not scorn her for being a woman in a man's position, however. Instead, he inclined his head again, and this time the gesture was one of respect. “I am glad to meet you, Arrow,” he said softly. And, for the first time in her life, she knew that the words were truly meant. Chapter Five—Viabold

It took them two days to reach the home of the Athraskani whom Thraxis hoped to recruit. The land they rode through was sparsely populated compared with much of the Empire, but it still felt crowded to Arrow. The people here seemed related to those in the Forest of Wer and like them lived in large homesteads. Fields with the green blush of sprouting crops abounded, and herds of cows and goats stared at them over fenced-in pastures. Arrow eyed the fences with scorn, fiercely glad that she had not lived restrained by them. Such things were the work of cowards, she thought, as were the thick walls built around the houses.

Nevertheless, they went to several homesteads so that Thraxis could make inquiries about the other Athraskani, whose name was Viabold. The farmers eyed them warily but gave directions readily enough. Viabold lived a half-day's ride from the settlements and apparently kept to himself most of the time, except when he traded his skills with herbs and healing for necessities that he couldn't grow or make himself.

They found the track leading to the lone homestead easily enough. It wound through a beech wood, crossing numerous small streams and springs. The gentle land grew rougher, until at last they were in the foothills of the low mountains. The forest around them looked as though it might have been farmed many years ago, for the occasional ruined wall made a hump beneath the trees, but the land had been abandoned for a long time now.

The track led straight to their destination without fork or turning. At length, they broke free from the wood and found themselves in a small clearing. A cottage leaned against a rocky hillside, taking advantage of the natural outcropping to form its rear wall. Neat rows of vegetables surrounded the house, and a riot of rosebushes half-covered the stone walls. A lone man stood in the garden, leaning on a hoe. He was dressed like any farmer, but his brown hair hung in a simple tail that reached all the way to his waist. When he turned at the sound of their horses’ hooves, Arrow caught the gleam of golden eyes. Thraxis started to tug his hood nervously forward, then hesitated and instead shoved it all the way back. He rode Stalker to the end of the row Viabold was hoeing, and then stopped, looking at a loss. Viabold frowned, but in confusion rather than displeasure. He had a broad, weatherworn face that Arrow immediately found likeable. “Hello,” he said uncertainly, in the language of the Empire. “Do I know you?"

Thraxis winced. “It's me—Thraxis."

Viabold's eyes widened, making Arrow wonder how much her companion's appearance had been affected by the curse. “Dear heavens, it is! You've lost weight, my boy."

"And my hair,” Thraxis pointed out dryly.

"An unusual fashion to my eyes, but it makes a statement,” Viabold said with an effort at a smile. “Please, come inside. My cottage may not be what you're used to, but it has its charms.” He hesitated, still obviously nonplussed. “I don't mean to be rude, but why in the world would the Black Council send you, of all people, to my garden?"

Thraxis dismounted slowly, as though his joints pained him. His expression was bleak. “I need your help, Viabold. Balthazar stole a doyan'si and fled the Sanctum. He's been hiding among the Skald. My companion, the Arrow that Flies the Farthest, came to us for help, and the Black Council sent me with her.” He took a deep breath, like a man steeling himself for a blow. “Balthazar also cast a death curse on me that I am unable to break."

Several emotions flitted over Viabold's face but were gone before Arrow could interpret them. Then he shook his head and clasped Thraxis on the arm. “It sounds like you do need my help,” he agreed grimly.

“Let's go inside and talk."

* * * *

The cottage consisted of a single room, its walls lined with shelves and its floor crowded with furniture. Drying herbs hung from the rafters and brushed against Arrow's hair, leaving pungent fragrances behind. The warm light of the fire shone softly on the rough wood of the chairs and single bed, complemented by the dying sunset showing through the western window.

Viabold proved to be a good host, laying out a rich table of fresh-baked bread and stew. Both frothy beer and clear wine were brought from the root cellar, and Arrow noted that Viabold cheerfully helped himself to more than one flagon of the former. Thraxis gave him a disapproving look, as if already wondering at the wisdom of this side-trip, and sipped sparingly at his single small glass of wine. As they ate, Thraxis detailed their journey for Viabold. The older man listened carefully, occasionally breaking in to ask a question. Once dinner was over, he refilled his and Arrow's flagons, and then moved his rough-hewn chair closer to the hearth. There was a troubled look in his eyes that puzzled Arrow, as if he had been able to see more in Thraxis’ story than was immediately apparent to someone unfamiliar with magic.

"There are things you and I should discuss,” he said at last, casting the other Athraskani a meaningful glance.

Arrow stood, not wanting to leave but seeing no choice. “I'll go and check on the cousins." Viabold gave her a warm smile and held out his hands. Puzzled, she took them, felt the calluses of hard labor on his palms. “There's no need to inconvenience you,” he said. “Especially as I can see how tired you are. Perhaps you'd prefer to sleep for a while."

Sudden weariness turned her limbs to lead. A part of her wondered at it—the day had not been at all strenuous, and only a few moments ago she had felt fine. But it was too tiring to consider anything other than closing her eyes.

She felt someone catch her before she hit the floor. “Tall girl,” Viabold grunted. He laid her down on something soft and drew a warm coverlet over her.

"You didn't have to do that,” Thraxis said peevishly. “She wouldn't have eavesdropped. I don't think."

"I couldn't take the risk."

He cast a spell on me! Arrow thought indignantly. But something had gone wrong, whether from some mistake on Viabold's part or as an unforeseen consequence of the berserker nature that Balthazar had gifted her with. Although her body remained somnolent, she understood their words perfectly. Viabold's chair creaked softly as he lowered himself back into it. “Why was there a doyan'si in the Sanctum to begin with?” he asked quietly. “Their making was outlawed—they go against all of our most basic principles."

Thraxis took a deep breath, then let it out as a sigh. “I made it." Silence. Then: “What sort of monster are you?"

"I wasn't going to use it!” Thraxis snapped back.

"The doyan'si use human souls to give power to an Athraskani. Whether you intended to use it or not, its existence is an abomination. Why would you create such a thing?"

Thraxis’ robes rustled, and Arrow imagined him leaning over in sudden despair, resting his head in his hands. “Because I thought that, if I made one, I might learn enough of its workings to create something similar. Something that didn't rely on death to give power. Sunlight, perhaps. Not souls, not blood." Viabold was silent for a while longer. Then he sighed. “Why?"

"Because I thought that, if I could present the Black Council with a device that would give enormous power to any Athraskani, no matter how ungifted—then they would let me go. I would be free to just do whatever I wanted. No one would care whether or not I sat up all night reading love poetry, or learned how to garden, or—whatever."

"Ah.” Viabold's flagon clinked as he set it on the table. “I left the Sanctum when you were only five years old, but I remember the Black Council's interest in you even then. They never should have taken you away from Cyaraxes and Jumica."

Robes rustled in interest. “Did you know my parents well?"

"Well enough. The Council ordered them together, you know, but they had great respect for one another. I think they fell in love while Jumica was pregnant.” He sighed. “But the Black Council decided that your potential was too great to ‘risk’ having you raised by anyone save for them. It destroyed your parents."

"They left the Sanctum."

"Yes. Not because they didn't care what happened to you, but because they couldn't bear to see you and yet not treat you as their child. They went to the Sanctum Minoris in Gypta. The Black Council, of course, didn't object."

"Of course."

"And when I returned briefly five years ago, I saw that I had been right all those years ago."

"How so?"

"You were an arrogant, insufferable prick, even for a twenty-year-old." Thraxis laughed without humor. “I suppose I deserved that. Balthazar would certainly agree with your assessment."

"I have to confess, I don't remember Balthazar all that well."

"Of course you don't. He still wore the brown—he never advanced beyond children's magic. I never paid much attention to him myself, to be honest. He was always just—there—in the background, doing the unimportant things that no one else wanted to do. Shelving books in the library, tilling the earth for the garden, that sort of thing."

"And he resented you, the brilliant protégé of the Black Council?"

"I suppose. He wasn't the first. I don't think anyone else could know what it was like to be taken in and raised by the Council. They never had time for me as a child, only as an instrument they were shaping. No one read me bedtime stories, or kissed my knee when I fell down. But they were certainly interested in whether or not I could recite the fifty-nine secret names of the stars, or recall the investiture dates of every Primus since Allacara.

"The amazing thing is that other children resented me for it. Called me names when they thought they could get away with it. I suppose they didn't like the fact that I got so much attention from the adults.” He sighed. “The other boys in particular would do things—try to push me down during exercises or sports. They went too far, and my arm was broken. That was when the Council decided that, because of my potential, I could be exempt from the requirements of physical exercise and would from then on devote myself solely to honing my mental gifts. I was glad not to have to play sports anymore, but the verbal teasing grew worse than ever, because I had once again been singled out from all the rest of the children." Colors bloomed on the inside of Arrow's eyelids, or perhaps only in her mind. She saw a young, dark-haired boy, sitting alone in a windowless stone room, surrounded by books. His brow was furrowed in thought beyond his years, but she could just make out the drying tracks of tears on his cheeks.

My imagination? she wondered. Or a vision?

"So why did Balthazar single you out when he stole this abominable thing you had made?” Viabold asked. “I take it that no one else tried to kill you, so why did he?" Regret showed in Thraxis’ voice. “I—I said some things to him that I should not have. The Black Council had decided to mate me with the Beautiful Melilandra and—."

Arrow beheld the stone room once again. Soft yellow light illuminated it, although she saw no lamps or candles from which the glow might have come. The walls were lined with more books than she would have thought existed in the entire world. A man sat alone at one of the many tables scattered about the room, reading from an enormous tome. The gentle light gleamed off thick black hair decorated with onyx beads and twined into elaborate braids. His black robes strained around his ample belly, and fat blurred the line of jaw and cheekbone. Even so, Arrow recognized the long nose and wine-yellow eyes. No wonder Viabold didn't recognize him, she thought in shock. The door opened and admitted the slender figure of a woman, also dressed in black robes. She was exquisite, the sort of woman men got into knife-fights over, but who would never herself be blamed for any wrong-doing. The coldness in her eyes told Arrow that she was well aware of the power of her beauty and would use it as she pleased.

Thraxis didn't bother to look up from his reading. Annoyed, the woman sauntered to the table, reached out, and slammed the book shut. “Put that away."

Thraxis raised his eyes slowly, as though loath to look at her. “I am studying, Melilandra." She leaned against the table, the curves of her hip perfectly displayed. “The Council has given you to me,” she said, displeasure clear in her voice.

His chubby fingers rested lightly on the closed tome. “Have they?” he asked without inflection.

"I am constrained by my Vow of obedience. Know that I would never touch you otherwise.” She paused briefly. “I suppose I had best be on top so that you don't crush me." He looked at her thoughtfully, and then sighed in irritation. “Really, I do think this could wait until some other time."

Bafflement flashed in her eyes. “You should be groveling in front of the Black Council, thanking them for this opportunity. You should be on your knees, apologizing to me for being a fat, hideous slug." The line of his jaw tightened, but no other sign of emotion touched his face. “I have important studies to attend to, Melilandra. Please go away."

She drew back and her nostrils flared, her face going white with anger. “What game are you playing?"

"No game. I merely have work."

Her long nails trailed lightly over her own breast. “You think to gain advantage by pretending that you don't want me—that you are doing me a favor by consenting to touch me with that pallid white pudding you call a body.” Her eyes narrowed in rage. “Then suffer your desire— I will decide when and where to grant you relief."

"Excellent. Just make certain that it's at least a few months from now—I really do think I'll be busy for some time. Perhaps you can check back next summer.” And with that, he reopened the book and returned to his studies.

Melilandra drew herself up, turned, and left, slamming the door behind her. For a few moments, Thraxis sat exquisitely still, without even the tiniest movement to rattle the beads in his hair. Then he surged abruptly to his feet, his chair flying back and striking the stone floor with a clatter. With a soft, pained moan, he grabbed another book off a shelf and opened it to a marked page.

"For the reign of the tyrant shall last but a moon,” he read aloud, desperation in his voice, “but love shall endure, even unto the sundering of the world."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then slammed the book down on the table and covered his face with his hands. “It's not true,” he whispered, agonized. “Oh, gods, please, let it be true, please. Don't do this to me."

Arrow didn't understand what he meant, or why it caused him such pain. But she recognized a man who had reached a crisis of faith.

The door opened a second time, and Balthazar walked in.

He looked terrible, even worse than he had after coming in from the v'juga. His hair was long and braided, his face beardless. Brown robes covered him, and he walked with his head down, as if hoping that no one would notice his presence. The look in his golden eyes was one of grief so great that it bordered on madness.

Thraxis snapped straight at the sound of the door. The mask closed down over his face, and he stared at Balthazar with a mixture of fury and arrogance. “What are you doing here, disturbing my studies?” he demanded.

Balthazar stared at him, eyes glazed as if he had taken a mortal wound. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I thought no one would be in here this time of night. I needed to be alone.” Tears gathered in his eyes.

“Phaedra—she's dead."

Thraxis stared at him impatiently. “Who?"

"My wife!” Balthazar put a hand over his mouth, as if to hold back a scream. “She was killed today—some barrels fell off a cart onto the road, just as it was passing her—"

"Oh, yes—the human woman,” Thraxis said, making a dismissive gesture. Some of the grief in Balthazar's face was replaced by fury. “I loved her." Thraxis’ eyes strayed to the book from which he had read a passage. “You mean you liked getting between her legs. That's what people really mean when they talk about love, isn't it?" Rage settled in Balthazar's eyes, and he ground his teeth together. “I shouldn't have expected you to understand. I heard about the Council's decision—you and Melilandra will be perfect together."

"At least she's Athraskani.” Thraxis turned away. “I don't see why you bother mourning Phaedra. After all, she was only human."

For a moment, Balthazar stared at him with such wild hatred that Arrow thought he might try to kill Thraxis on the spot. Then he turned and stormed out. Thraxis jumped at the sound of the door slamming.

"No,” he said after a moment, his own rage spent. One hand wiped away tears from his eyes, and he picked up his book and tucked it in his robes. “No, I'm sorry, Balthazar. I'm sorry." The vision faded. Thraxis’ voice came back to Arrow, speaking softly from the direction of Viabold's hearth. “The things I said to Balthazar that day were inexcusable.” He had not, Arrow guessed, told Viabold all of the painful details that she had glimpsed. “Evil. But—I was having some problems of my own, and for a moment nothing in the world seemed to matter. After I'd had a chance to calm down, I regretted what I'd done. I intended to seek out Balthazar and apologize to him, tell him that I hadn't meant any of it."

"But you didn't,” Viabold guessed.

"No. I think now that I was too ashamed to face him again."

"And then you foolishly constructed the doyan'si, and Balthazar saw his chance for revenge." And to make the Black Council finally see him as someone worthy of its attention, Arrow thought but could not say.

"Yes,” Thraxis agreed sadly. “And now, because of my actions, innocent people have suffered. I—I didn't think about it so much to begin with, you know. I mostly came on this journey to get away from the Council and Melilandra. But I've gotten to know Arrow better and she's become a—a friend, I suppose. And now I realize that her people have suffered because of my actions."

"Does she know that you made the doyan'si?"

"No. I wouldn't know how to tell her that all of this is my fault." Viabold sighed and shifted in his chair. “A tangled tale. I'm going to have to think about this. I've grown accustomed to life here, and I don't know if I want to lose everything I have to help a foolish man who brought a great deal of this upon himself."

"I understand,” Thraxis replied, subdued.

Viabold's feet sounded on the earthen floor. Arrow felt a light touch between her eyes, as if he had brushed his fingers against her face. “Your friend will wake up shortly,” he said. The door opened and closed behind him.

After a few moments, Arrow felt the lethargy lift from her body. Moving carefully, she decided that Viabold's spell had not done any harm that she could detect. Muffling a yawn, she sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes.

Thraxis sat hunched in front of the hearth, staring at the fire as if it held some message for him. Hearing her movements, he looked over and gave her a sad smile. “Are you all right?" She nodded, wondering whether she should pretend that she believed her sudden sleep to have been a natural one. Then again, she didn't want him to think her a fool. “I don't usually fall asleep that quickly,”

she said dryly.

He winced. “I'm sorry. Viabold wanted to ask me some things in private."

"Athraskani business?"

"Yes."

She stood up and looked down at him thoughtfully. He gazed back, feral eyes oddly wistful. Thraxis blamed himself for what had happened to her people, but he was wrong to do so. In her heart of hearts, she couldn't even blame Balthazar for it. The Red Feathers had chosen their own path. Suddenly sad, Arrow reached out and put a hand on Thraxis’ shoulder. The soft fabric of his robe felt warm under her fingers. The hard curve of bone lay beneath, no longer padded by fat or even muscle. The curse was devouring Thraxis from the inside, she realized, and would continue to do so until nothing remained of him.

And then will Balthazar be satisfied? Will he finally be able to find peace with his life?

Did becoming the greatest of Champions bring me peace? Then why should the completion of Balthazar's dreams be any different?

Thraxis smiled wanly and covered her hand with his own. “You're a good friend,” he said, out of what thoughts she couldn't know.

She squeezed his shoulder, and then let go. “So are you."

Viabold sat outside, perched atop the rocky outcrop that formed the back of his house. Arrow climbed up to him. The night air was cold, and she gladly accepted the amphora of wine that he offered her.

"Next time, just ask me to step outside,” she said once she had taken a swallow. He laughed and leaned back against the bole of a craggy tree. “Ah. Have you come to toss me over the cliff, then?"

"Not yet.” She eyed the amphora askance. “I thought you Athraskani were supposed to only have a single drink a day."

"And so we are. I've simply been savoring the same one since dawn." She laughed and shook her head. “I don't think Thraxis would accept that."

"No.” He stoppered the amphora and set it reluctantly aside. “Neither would the Black Council. That's why I'm out here in the hinterlands."

"Oh?"

He sighed and propped his chin on his hands. Moonlight caught the strands of gray woven into his brown hair and hinted at the first appearance of silver in his eyes. “We aren't all able to abide by the Rule, you know. Me, I like to enjoy life. Have a drink, perhaps a song or two at the nearest inn, and then find a willing woman for my bed. Unfortunately, the Black Council thinks that if you're enjoying life, you can't possibly be living it right.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “So it was ‘suggested’ twenty years ago that I find myself some barbarian group that I would like to study, preferably for an extended period of time."

"You were exiled, then?"

"Let's say that the Council and I were both equally relieved by my departure. I went back about five years ago, to deliver some notes I'd made on the people I'd lived among. And to see if anything had changed. It hadn't, so I came here."

"Ah.” The stars shone out from above the treetops, and she thought how much more clearly they would be visible on the steppe. Did Bird Bones Broken watch those same stars tonight? Did he wonder what had become of her, and if she would ever return with the help she had gone to seek? “Are you coming with us?"

"What do you think of Thraxis?” Viabold asked instead.

She looked at him curiously. Only shadows met her gaze. “Why does my opinion matter to you?"

"Because you strike me as a sensible young woman. And because, after so many years away from the Sanctum, I would trust the opinion of a Skald before trusting one of my own people." Like Balthazar, she thought. The Athraskani seemed to have a talent for engendering bitterness in one another. “He can be a pompous ass when he wants. Sometimes that's because he doesn't know how else to respond, and sometimes it's because that's just the way he is. But underneath all of that, I think Thraxis is someone who wants to be good, to do the proper thing, even though he isn't always certain what that is."

Viabold was silent for a while, turning over her words. Then he heaved himself to his feet with a grunt.

“My old bones won't like it,” he said ruefully. “But I suppose I might as well come along and see what I can do."

* * * *

Balthazar moved into the yurt of a married couple, as was customary for guests. Horse With a Broken Back and Crow Feather had no children, despite the fact that they had been married for many years. But, within a month of Balthazar's arrival, Crow Feather's courses stopped. Horse with a Broken Back told everyone that Balthazar was good luck, and others began to hope that the wanderer would grace their yurts once Crow Feather was too far gone in her pregnancy. Arrow watched all of this from afar. Although winter had brought a halt to the season of Challenges and war, there was still much for her to do. She made arrows and the poison to go on them, repaired the loose grip on her nagaica , and oiled her sword. Practice with Leaf Dancing was frequent, although they seldom sparred together anymore. Her granduncle's bones pained him now in the cold, and he seemed oddly subdued, even reserved, with her. So it was with surprise that she accepted Balthazar's offer to go hunting one day when the weather was good. The men said that Balthazar did not know how to shoot an arrow, but instead used his magic to find and slay game. Such a thing troubled Arrow, and she hoped that they offered no offense to the Lady of Beasts by allowing him to continue. They rode across the snow-coated steppe, looking for the tracks of reindeer, rabbit, or fox. The world around them was silent and still. Once they came upon the carcass of a stag being scavenged upon by an eagle. After the great bird had flown away, Balthazar lingered, staring at the bloody snow.

"I am told that, in other winters, the Red Feather clan would have taken whatever remained of the carcass back to camp,” he said unexpectedly. “Your herds were often so weak and poor that they could not feed you. You lived like that eagle, picking at the scraps others had left behind." Arrow nodded. “That is so."

Balthazar looked at her through his golden eyes. “You are the source of your people's good fortune." She shrugged uncomfortably. “Perhaps."

"Everyone says so. They praise you whenever your name is mentioned.” He tilted his head to one side, watching her. “I was drinking with Vole Under the Snow a few nights ago. He told me that it has not always been this way for you."

Her hands tightened on her reins. “No,” she said in a clipped tone. What did he want from her? “Leaf Dancing is my granduncle. On my Naming Day, when I was five, he told my mother that she was a fool for ignoring me. He took me into his household, gave me my name, and began to train me to be the Champion."

"What did you mother say?"

"She told him not to get too attached to me, as I would surely be killed the first time I faced a real Champion."

Balthazar nodded. “But you have shown that she was wrong and that Leaf Dancing was right. You have made her regret her words."

"I suppose.” Arrow looked away, wondering why bitterness remained in her heart if she had in fact gained all that she had ever wanted.

"I understand,” Balthazar said. “You and I have more in common than you might guess. My people, the Athraskani, equate magical power with personal worth. Great magicians are held in high regard, no matter how vile they are, while those with little power are ignored, treated worse than servants, no matter their other accomplishments."

"But you have great power."

"Now.” His hand lightly stroked the red jewel at his throat. “But that has not always been the case. My magic never advanced beyond the simple abilities of a child. I tried to please them in other ways, ways that would mean little to you. I studied obscure languages and deciphered old hieroglyphs. I excelled at those things requiring thought rather than magic. But it didn't matter. I was still mocked and scorned. Without worth."

Arrow nodded. “I understand."

He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile. “I know that you do, Arrow. And like you, I have finally reached a time and a place where I can show my people that I have worth. They will have to pay attention to me, to mark my actions and listen to my words."

Arrow didn't see how he could accomplish such a thing here on the steppe, so far from the Empire and his people. But Balthazar obviously believed that he could. “Then I wish you luck,” she said fervently. Balthazar nodded and clapped her on the shoulder. “We are alike, you and I. I will help you in any way that I can."

Her heart lightened suddenly. She was no longer alone, apart. Now there was someone else who understood. Someone who would be her true friend. Surely loneliness was why she had remained so bitter despite all her victories. “And I will help you,” she said solemnly, gripping his wrist with her hand. “From this day on, you will be as my brother."

Chapter Six—Pride

Viabold closed his door with an air of regret, as if he did not expect to see it again. He wore a shabby blue robe that appeared to have been washed several thousand times. Beside Thraxis’ resplendent black traveling robe, it made him look like a wandering huckster rather than a true man of power.

"I've spelled the house against mice and weather,” he said. “The wards will start to wear thin just in time for winter, I expect. A shame you couldn't help me, my boy—I suppose that a spell you set stays set forever."

Thraxis tugged his hood forward and stared at Stalker's cropped mane. “If I could help you, I wouldn't be taking you from your home in the first place."

"True, true,” Viabold replied, as if they were commenting on the weather. But Arrow saw the close eye he kept on the other Athraskani.

The day went quietly. The older Athraskani had a mule that pulled him in a tiny cart, which he had in the past used to visit the nearby settlements. Stalker and Nightwing looked at the animal askance, for the Skald kept no such creatures, but eventually resigned themselves to it as just one more oddity of their journey. That night, they camped in a pleasant field near a stream. Viabold offered to take a turn at watch, and Arrow agreed. He also showed no reticence in pitching in to help make the camp, perhaps because he had done things for himself for so long.

The next morning, Thraxis composed himself for his first meditation of the day at the base of a tree near the stream. Viabold studied him for a moment, and then walked over so that he stood between Thraxis and the rising sun. Thraxis frowned at the sudden shadow and looked up. “What?"

"Are you going to just sit there?"

Thraxis’ brows climbed towards a non-existent hairline. “No. I'm going to flap my arms and fly to the top of the tree."

"Hmph.” Viabold folded his arms across his chest. “I've always found that a kai'ten is a good way to start the morning. Gets the blood moving."

Thraxis scowled. “I get my blood to move just fine using my heart alone, thank you." Arrow looked up from where she was apologizing to the Fire Goddess prior to smothering the campfire.

“What is a kai'ten?” she asked curiously. Thraxis had not taught her this word. Viabold smiled at her, apparently pleased to have an interested student. “It is the coupling of meditation and movement,” he said. “We Athraskani believe that the mind and body are closely linked. Movements of the body in a set pattern can focus and free the mind. There are many different kinds of kai'ten, some very complex and demanding. I've always found them to be more satisfactory than thinking alone."

"You would,” Thraxis muttered. “I don't. Novices are forced to practice them in the morning as a group, and I don't recall the experience as a pleasant one. Fortunately, the Black Council realized that my valuable time was being wasted by such silly exercises and excused me from them." Although his tone was arrogant, Arrow remembered the vision she'd had at Viabold's house. It seemed likely that part of Thraxis’ aversion to the kai'ten stemmed from the fact that he was not the most graceful and coordinated person in the world. She knew all too well the cruel taunts that children could inflict on one another.

Viabold turned to Arrow and winked. “I should leave Thraxis alone, then. I'm sure he doesn't remember any of the kai'ten after so much time."

"I do so,” Thraxis snapped, rising to the bait so quickly that Arrow had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. If knowledge equaled status, then Viabold had just handed him a profound insult. “It's a waste of time, but I can see already that you're going to plague me until I perform one with you." Arrow settled back onto her heels to watch. The two men took up position beside one another in a clear space near the stream. A stiff breeze cut across the meadow, flapping Thraxis’ robes around his bony frame and twisting Viabold's long tail of hair into knots. “Which shall we do?” Viabold asked.

“Something easy, for my old bones, if you please."

Thraxis scowled at him briefly, probably suspecting that Viabold's bones had nothing to do with it. “The Graceful Swan Comes to Earth."

"Good choice."

They started into a series of slow, ritualized movements that flowed from one to the other with the grace of a dance. Or, at least, Viabold's did. Thraxis, long out of practice, moved with stiff awkwardness. Viabold said nothing, however—in fact, he had his eyes closed, as if concentrating on inner peace. Arrow watched, fascinated. These movements would be good for limbering the muscles, she saw immediately, and could be valuable to a warrior's training. She wondered if outsiders were permitted to learn the kai'ten. But no—it would be too easy to reveal her unnatural transformation through such movements.

"This might help the pain in your joints,” Viabold remarked to Thraxis, not bothering to open his eyes. Thraxis’ face was flushed with effort. “Perhaps,” he said, as if he seriously doubted that it would do anything but kill him faster.

"If nothing else, it keeps a man flexible. The ladies like that, as I'm sure you know." Thraxis’ face got even redder, but he made no reply. Viabold opened one eye and gave him an assessing look. “Oh, come on. A powerful black robe such as you must have had women fighting over him. You've surely had at least a dalliance or two."

"Don't tell me what I have to have done."

Now Viabold was starting to look truly surprised. “There aren't any strictures against love-making in the Rule or the Vows."

"There are a lot of things that aren't expressly forbidden in the Rule and Vows. That doesn't mean that they should therefore be done."

Viabold laughed. “You sound like a Kahvenite!"

Thraxis dropped out of the kai'ten. His hands curled into fists, and he glared at Viabold as if wishing he had something to hurl at him. “Why does everyone suppose that, just because I wear the black, I must be like some kind of—of stallion, ready to mount anything that walks by?” Flinging up his arms in anger, he stalked away. As he passed by Arrow, his smoke-scented robes almost brushing her face, she saw that his hands were shaking.

An uneasy silence descended over the little camp. Thraxis stormed off until he was far out of earshot, then stood with his back to them, facing the mountains. Viabold sighed and came to stand by Arrow. “I think I may have pushed too far,” he said ruefully. “It's something I do well." She looked at Thraxis’ far-off figure with concern. “I don't think he likes being teased,” she said after a while. “If you've always been teased in a mean-spirited way, it's hard to understand when it's offered in a good-spirited way."

"You're very perceptive."

Her mouth twitched. “No. I just know what he's going through."

"A woman Champion would, I suppose.” Viabold sighed. “I should go apologize, or else he's likely to sulk all day."

She put a hand to his arm, restraining him. “What's a Kahvenite?" Viabold shook his head. “It's a silly philosophy put forth a couple centuries ago by an Athraskani named Kahven. The only people who follow it are love-struck, fourteen-year-old girls. I can't imagine why Thraxis took such offense over it."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"Kahven believed that, as we discover the divine within ourselves through meditation, we can discover the divine within others through the act of love. He felt that sex was a sacred thing and should be undertaken only with someone with whom you have an emotional connection. Moreover, he wrote that everyone has an amria— amrian would be the masculine term. An amria is a sort of—of soul mate, I suppose you might say, a one true love above all others. If you met your amria and she approved of you, then everything was fine and you continued towards enlightenment. But if you were so awful that your amria couldn't love you, well, it definitely set you back in terms of your next life.” Viabold shrugged. “Silly, like I said. Sophisticated people recognize it as a bunch of melodramatic tripe." Seeing that he had satisfied her curiosity, he headed off towards Thraxis. Arrow stood still, watching the two men wave their arms at one another; Thraxis, apparently, was not in a mood to either talk or listen. Heaviness weighed down her heart suddenly, and she bowed her head, letting a tangle of red hair fall into her eyes.

And if I had an amrian , could he love me after what I have done? she wondered bleakly. For a moment she let herself think about that last night before she had set out on her journey, about the taste of Bird Bones’ mouth and the feel of his skin. The only thing she had felt that night had been despair, not love. As for what he had thought or felt, she could no longer say.

Stalker raised his head, his mouth full of grass. With a wistful smile, she ran her hand along his neck. His mane had grown out and would have to be cropped soon, so that it would not block her sight or tangle her bow if she had to shoot from horseback. “You love me, though, don't you, cousin?” she asked. He investigated her palm for a moment, leaving it slick with drool and chewed grass. “Not as messy as a human male, at least."

The two Athraskani came back. Thraxis looked calm enough, but she recognized the glint of pain in the volatile depths of his eyes. A fragment of vision flashed before her again: Thraxis standing over a book, body quivering, quietly terrified that he had put his faith in a lie. Because worldly, sophisticated citizens of the Empire did not believe in such things. Only a desperate young man, whose chiefs told him to put his seed in a woman he hated so that they could have another powerful tool, bred the way the Skald bred cattle.

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, illogically. But then she would have to explain her vision, and all the careful lies that she had built between them would unravel. And Thraxis most certainly would hate her for that.

* * * *

That night, once the men had finished their evening meditation, Arrow came and sat down by Thraxis. Viabold was off washing the cauldron and bowls in a nearby stream, so they were alone for the nonce.

"Can I ask—what is it that you meditate upon?” she asked hesitantly. “Viabold said that it was a way of finding the divine within yourself. You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to,” she added hastily. The question surprised him—he hadn't expected her to be interested in such a thing. It pleased him unexpectedly, and he gave her an encouraging smile. “It isn't any great secret. For the most part, we use meditation to center ourselves, to discover spiritual balance. I find that I often take the opportunity to reflect on the day and examine any lessons that it has brought me.” His smile faded a little. “We are taught as novices that, as we seek spiritual balance, we should also seek to separate ourselves from the cares of the world. We Athraskani are apart—we have no connection to the outside world. So we are supposed to seek emotional distance between ourselves and all things of the world."

"You don't sound like you've found it easy to do that."

"I'm on this journey, aren't I? Taking an interest in something that is occurring beyond the Sanctum's walls?"

"Ah.” She idly traced circles in the dirt with the end of a stick while considering his words. “I am not some great philosopher,” she said finally. “But I did a lot of thinking on my way south, and I realized that no one can ever be that detached. Because if you see an evil act, and you do nothing to stop it, then you've acted for evil as well."

Thraxis was quiet for a time. The sentiment was simple, but he felt that there was profundity behind it.

“Your words make sense,” he said finally. “I will have to meditate on them." She blushed and ducked her head, which made him grin. She was pretty, he thought in surprise. It had been a long time since he had given much thought to a woman's appearance, but Arrow appealed to him. Her face didn't contain a classical beauty, true, but he liked it. And, though she might be tall and have the lean musculature of a fighter, the curves of her breasts and hips would certainly catch the attention of any man.

Perhaps it's just as well that I can't respond to her in that way, he thought wryly. That complication is the last thing any of us need right now.

"It was just a thought,” Arrow said, as if she hadn't expected him to take her seriously.

"A good thought. I've been doing some thinking myself, lately, to be honest. As we travel, I've been looking at the forests and the grass and the animals, and I wonder if we Athraskani haven't got it backwards. If we aren't, in fact, deeply connected to everything else." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she would mock him for his sentiments. But she only nodded, and he wondered if her people, tied to the land and its animals so deeply, already had such a concept. The firelight brushed over her skin-tight leathers and discovered hidden sparks in her coppery mane of hair. Her small movements with the stick recalled the competent grace with which she walked, rode, and fought. She really was very nice to look at. At that moment, Viabold emerged from the forest, leaves in his hair and the clean pots in his hands. He said something witty that Thraxis didn't quite catch, but which made Arrow laugh. Obscurely annoyed with the other man, he wrapped himself in his bedroll and left them to one another's company.

* * * *

Thraxis rubbed at his wrists, seeking to soothe the shooting pains that had flared up in his joints as the day wore on. He had drunk the last of his tea two days before, and ever since then an unremitting ache had been building in his body. Exacerbated, no doubt, by Viabold's ridiculous kai'ten. A scowl crossed his face at the thought of the older Athraskani. It was not so much the man's incessant teasing that bothered him, although he would have certainly preferred to do without that. Viabold's easy good nature and quick humor made him feel awkward and dull in comparison. But the truth was that he chiefly resented Viabold's presence in their camp.

After weeks spent traveling alone with Arrow, Viabold felt like an intruder. Thraxis hadn't realized how much he enjoyed the quiet evenings with her, seated about their campfire, talking about the landscape, or the phases of the moon, or how to tell if a horse had hooves too fragile for riding. Her presence had become a constant in his otherwise overturned life.

But now it was Viabold talking to her, he thought irritably. Viabold making her smile with his cleverness, Viabold helping her carry the dishes to the nearest stream, Viabold making a damned nuisance of himself. Indeed, when Thraxis had volunteered to look for edible mushrooms to supplement dinner just now, they had both simply nodded and gone back to talking about the barbarian tribe Viabold had lived among for so many years. Obviously, Thraxis’ presence wasn't going to be missed, unless his absence caused a delay in dinner.

Not that he would know an edible mushroom from a deadly one if it jumped at him, Thraxis thought grumpily as he picked his way through the underbrush of the light forest in which they had camped. Viabold claimed that the forest was a young one because of the types of trees that grew in it, but it seemed old and thick enough to him. Certainly there were enough holes under the leaves that had once contained stumps, enough trailing vines, and enough fallen trunks.

Thraxis sighed and tried to take his thoughts off Viabold. He had struck out from camp looking not for mushrooms but for the herbs to make his tea. He was no herbalist, but he had seen Xertrevar grind the original plants and felt certain that he could recognize the wild versions easily enough. Still, it might have been useful to pay a bit more attention to herb lore when I had the chance, he thought ruefully. But why bother to know which plant brings down a fever and which is good for setting bones when your magic can do the same thing with little effort?

As his eyes scanned the vegetation, they lighted on a slender, delicate plant. Yes, he recognized the frilly leaves, and he was certain that he had seen those tiny white flowers before. Smiling with relief, he reached down and carefully uprooted the plant. Perhaps he should have told Arrow and Viabold about his search after all, just to show them that he wasn't the helpless fool they seemed to think him.

* * * *

"I didn't see any mushrooms that I recognized as edible,” Thraxis said—not quite untruthfully—in response to his companion's questioning looks when he returned to camp. He had prepared a small packet of herbs while still in the forest, and now he sat and poured boiling water over them. Arrow smiled at him. “Thanks for looking anyway,” she said kindly. She had set aside the elaborate, appliquéd jacket that she wore on cold nights, leaving her arms bare. The tattooed stag on her shoulder writhed in the firelight when she moved.

"Of course,” he said, regretting the lie he had told earlier. Openness with other people had never been an option before, not in the Sanctum where any confidence or admission of weakness could be turned into a weapon against him. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to change, in these last few months of his life.

He took a cautious sip of tea and almost spat it back out. The stuff was more foul than usual, probably because of the freshness of the herbs. Holding his breath, he drank down the rest of the cup and hoped that it would be more efficacious as well.

"Now, the Imperial soldiers had raped two of Queen Bryanna's daughters,” Viabold said, obviously in continuation of an earlier conversation. Thraxis turned his thoughts away from the story, already familiar with its tragic end, although Arrow listened with grave attention. He wondered if it bothered her to hear of such atrocities, given that Balthazar and the renegade chieftain he was allied with had undoubtedly committed similar acts against her own people.

At least Arrow is a warrior and capable of defending herself, he thought. Then an odd shiver of fear ran along his nerves. Nothing so awful could happen to someone like Arrow—could it? He looked at her worriedly, as if expecting to see some sign written on her face, but her features were impassive, the blue band obscuring any emotion in her dark eyes.

Suddenly anxious, he took a long drink from his water flask. Gods, but he was thirsty—Viabold must have over-salted the stew. The fire was too warm as well, the flames too bright. Heat crept along his skin and his heart pounded, as if he had just finished a long run. Lifting the flask to his lips again, he found that it was empty.

Viabold's voice drifted disembodied from the other side of the blinding sheet of flame. “So you see, Queen Bryanna was able to triumph over a greater army, at least for a time. But in the end, her own people betrayed her, and she was captured and tortured to death. What—." The words became meaningless, lost. Thraxis closed his eyes, wishing that the fire wasn't so bright, that his mouth wasn't so dry. Arrow's husky voice floated up from all around, smoke and strong drink turned into sound. “—sacrifice men to the Lady of Beasts. Male children are killed and girls turned into slaves. Their camps smell like blood and ring with the screams of raped women—." There were horsemen coming across the plain, he could see them clearly, the hooves of their steeds churning up dust amidst the dying grass. Fire raged out of control, sweeping over the parched land and darkening the sky with smoke. Rags of human hair hung from the bridles of the horses, and blood covered the bronze swords that slashed through the drift of dust. Arrow was in danger, he realized with a sudden, pure terror that made his heart trip even faster. They were going to kill her slowly, listening to her screams.

He lurched to his feet, lifting his hands to shape a protective ward for her. But the spell eluded him, lost in the chaos of fire and blood.

Then he was lying on his back, the flames in his eyes. Dark shapes bent over him. It was the riders, come to kill him. He had failed.

One of the riders turned into Viabold, who said: “Pupils are dilated." Arrow leaned over him, fear in her dark eyes. She was dead, her skin tinged blue. Flies crawled over her face. Thraxis tried to brush them away, but she caught his hand in her own, holding it still. “What's wrong?” she asked, and he wondered how she could still worry about him when his inability to cast a spell had led to her death.

"Thirsty,” he managed, tongue like dust. Viabold swore softly, then turned into a wisp of smoke and blew away. Thraxis closed his eyes for what seemed like only an instant. When he opened them again, the other Athraskani had returned to human form.

"What did you put in the tea?” he was asking insistently, as if he had been asking for some time.

"The same things Xertrevar used,” Thraxis replied, feeling vaguely annoyed. His irritation grew when Viabold disappeared again, and then came back. “Stop that."

Viabold had changed his position, although Arrow remained in place, still holding his hand tightly. “Did one of the plants have white flowers with a purple center?” Viabold demanded.

"Yes."

"You've poisoned yourself, you fool!” Viabold shouted, and then went on in the same vein for some time. Thraxis closed his eyes and went away himself for a while, since his companion was going to be so rude about everything. When he came back, it was to discover Arrow propping him up and Viabold trying to pour some unknown concoction down his throat. He sputtered and tried to pull away, but Arrow's grip seemed preternaturally strong, and it was either swallow or drown. The stuff was incredibly vile, tasting like vinegar with something equally unpleasant mixed in. His stomach turned, and he vomited helplessly. After that, everything flew apart into fragments of consciousness flung onto a dark void. Most of the lucid parts consisted of retching until his stomach muscles hurt, Arrow's arms about him for support. So he was just as glad when oblivion at last wiped out all recollection.

* * * *

War came in earnest as soon as the snows melted enough for travel. Fear of the Red Feather clan had spread across the steppe, and those clans that had lost lives to them turned to their neighbors for help, warning that they might be next. So it was that, by spring, a number of clans had forged an alliance with the intention of breaking the power of the Red Feathers. But just as some clans saw the Red Feathers as a threat, others beheld them as a promise. Throughout the winter, messengers had come to Blood on the Wind, sent by chiefs eager to make an alliance of their own. Arrow and a few other warriors always attended these meetings, and she saw the pleasure in Blood's eyes when the messengers offered gifts of gold and cattle, paying tribute to him as if he were a king. She wondered what would happen when the true king began to see the Red Feathers as a threat to his reign.

One morning in early spring, the warriors of the Red Feathers and their allies rode out. Behind them, women and children moved the herds, temporarily scattering across the pastures so that the army coming for them would find itself without a target. Some of the other chiefs seethed at the idea of running from an enemy, but Blood only smiled and told them that the reward would be great enough to assuage any slighted honor.

They rode fast, keeping out of sight of the other army. When the two forces passed one another without their enemies the wiser, Arrow realized what Blood had in mind, and her heart turned to ice. Their women and children had fled to safety—but those of their enemies had not. They thundered down on a large encampment of the Falcon clan within six days of setting out. Old men rushed towards them with corroded swords, and women shot arrows from behind yurts, but the slender defense was not enough.

Arrow tried not to look as she rode through the camp, tried not to see the victims whose blood reddened her sword. They are enemies, she told herself desperately. I'm doing this for my clan. But her stomach turned until she was sick.

Again and again they attacked helpless encampments, trying to account for as many different clans as they could. Women, children, and old people were either slaughtered or, if it seemed feasible, made into slaves. At night the camps were filled with sobs and screams, and Arrow had to stop her ears in order to sleep. Not that it helped: the screams followed her into her dreams, accompanied by the scalped bodies of the dead, the tear-streaked faces of ravished children.

Somehow, she had never thought it would come to this. Never realized, in all those years of training, that her success as a Champion might carry such a cost.

Is this really what the Lady of Beasts wanted when she made me Champion? she asked herself as she rode behind Blood through league after league of enemy pastures. At times she wondered whether or not she should try to dissuade her chief from his campaign. But if she did, she knew that the other warriors would forget all their praise of her, would deride her and call her a coward. She had spent her entire life hungry for her clan's acceptance and could not throw it away so easily. They finally met with the enemy army after almost twenty days of rampaging through their territories. Blood had accomplished his goal of both weakening and demoralizing his foes. But now their hearts were hot with the need for revenge, and Arrow was unsure whether the Red Feathers and their allies could successfully fight against a larger and angrier force.

She need not have worried.

Chapter Seven—Desire

"Will he be all right?” Arrow asked quietly.

A long, sleepless night had deepened the lines around Viabold's silver-flecked eyes. Concern had worn him as surely as a day of hard riding, and he looked on the verge of collapse. Still, he somehow summoned up a smile as he patted her hand. “He's past the worst of it now, I think. The purgative rid most of the poison from his system, and I wove a bit of magic that should help neutralize the rest. Still, he isn't in the best of health, and that will delay his recovery."

"Oh.” Arrow looked down at Thraxis. He lay in a restless sleep near the fire, his pale face haggard and drawn. His sudden illness had frightened her, and she was profoundly glad that Viabold had been with them. Her own experience with poison came from the traditional potion the Skald dipped their arrows in, and for which there was no antidote. If the adder venom didn't kill a warrior quickly, the rotted human blood and dung that finished the recipe would take them within the next week or two. Only the very lucky escaped with their lives.

"Young fool,” Viabold muttered with a scathing glance at the sleeping Thraxis. “Too proud and stubborn and scared to ask for help."

"So he just confused two plants?” she asked uncertainly.

"So it seems. Not something a trained herbalist would have done—not something I would have done—but easy enough if you have only a vague notion of what to look for." Arrow regarded Thraxis’ face gravely. His eyebrows and long lashes stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin. She suspected that later on she would feel the urge to knock his head in for such foolishness. Right now, she was too relieved. “A good thing he didn't bring any mushrooms back, then."

"Quite,” Viabold agreed dryly. “We need to keep him warm. The traveling robe keeps its wearer cool or warm depending on the surrounding air, but extra body heat wouldn't hurt him at this point. And I think we all need the sleep."

They curled against Thraxis, Arrow behind him and Viabold in front, and spread the robe over them all as best they could. Lying in silence, listening to Thraxis’ breathing and Viabold's snores, Arrow found herself unable to rest. Thraxis could be so damned frustrating sometimes, she thought. It was just like him to almost kill himself because he was frightened of appearing ignorant in front of his companions. How could anyone be so smart and so stupid at the same time?

She settled one arm around him for comfort and felt how thin he was, how close his bones were to the skin. It occurred to her that it took a great deal of bravery to come on a journey such as theirs when you were sick, and your body hurt all the time, and you knew that you were still going to die at the end no matter how things turned out. Balthazar would not have done it. She wasn't certain that she would have, either.

Balthazar had been her oath brother, and she thought that he had understood her better than anyone, even Leaf Dancing. But she had the feeling that Thraxis—problematical and prickly as he was—would probably be a truer friend in the long run, because he lacked Balthazar's deep selfishness. I don't always understand you, she thought, snuggling closer to his back, but I'm glad you're alive.

* * * *

Thraxis drifted up from the void into pleasant warmth. From a great distance, he was aware of a pain in his stomach, but it seemed small and unimportant. Sluggish thoughts stirred dimly, memories of confusion and fear interspersed with Viabold's curses. None of it seemed cause for concern at the moment. The faint sounds of someone moving nearby drew him farther up towards wakefulness. He was lying on his side, the warmth of a fire coming from somewhere near his feet. The weight of thick cloth lay over him, accompanied by the unfamiliar heaviness of a limp arm flung loosely about his waist. Awareness of another body against his nudged at his senses: the feel of breasts against his back, the roundness of thighs against his own. It was nice, he decided drowsily. Comfortable. Arrow's scent, of leather, smoke, horses, and a woman's musk, surrounded him. His body responded to hers, the feeling so natural that for a moment he didn't even realize what was happening.

He sat up with a sharp cry, flinging blankets everywhere. Viabold leaped to his feet, nearly dumping the flat bread he was making into the fire. Ignoring him, Thraxis twisted about to see Arrow sitting up, sleepily pushing the mass of her hair out of her face.

Oh my gods—

"Are you all right, lad?” Viabold asked anxiously.

"What?” Thraxis’ heart pounded in his chest. Arrow gave him a quizzical look, and he realized that he had been staring at her. “Yes—nothing—just a dream."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Some."

Arrow stood up and stretched. “You poisoned yourself trying to concoct your tea,” she said accusingly.

“Viabold saved your life."

"Yes—I remember—why were you lying there like that?—with me?"

"Oh, for the gods’ sakes,” Viabold muttered. “We've been trying to keep you warm. Stop yammering like an idiot and tell me how you feel."

"Ill,” he said faintly, uncertain whether it was the lingering effects of the poison or this new shock. Viabold snorted. “That's better than you have a right to feel. I may only wear the blue, but I must say that healing spells were always my forté. Otherwise, you would be bedridden for days.” A frown furrowed his brow. “Not jumping about as though a hornet had just stung your backside. You aren't hallucinating again, are you?"

He shook his head, wishing that it were so simple. “No. Er, Viabold, I feel a little shaky. Do you think you could help me—?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Arrow, child, would you mind keeping an eye on these cakes?"

"Of course not.” As Thraxis hesitantly climbed to his feet, she reached out and put a hand lightly on his forearm. Startled, he looked down into grave brown eyes. “I'm glad that you're all right,” she said softly. He put his other hand over hers briefly, felt the strength in her fingers. “I, er, thank you."

"But,” she added, giving him a little shake, “if you ever do anything like that again—"

"Don't worry,” Viabold said, taking Thraxis’ arm for support. “I have no intention of letting him live this down."

Wonderful, Thraxis thought sourly as Viabold led him off into the woods. Then again, perhaps I deserve it.

Once they were out of view, Thraxis shook off Viabold's hand. “I have to talk to you. Do you think we're out of earshot?"

Viabold arched his brow in surprise. “Yes. Is something wrong?"

Thraxis sighed, moved as if to run his hand through his hair, then recalled that he had none. I can't believe I'm asking advice—and from Viabold of all people. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"I have a problem,” he said, before he could change his mind. “A very big problem, actually." Now Viabold was starting to look worried. “Well, what is it?"

Thraxis took a deep breath, let it back out. “I—when I woke up just now, with Arrow there, I—desired her."

Viabold rolled his eyes. “Is that it? I would think the reaction natural enough."

"You don't understand. It shouldn't have been possible."

Uncertainty flickered in the other man's eyes. “Our barbarian may not be the prettiest thing I've ever laid eyes on, but I wouldn't call her repellent, either."

Thraxis made an angry gesture of impatience. “Don't be ridiculous. Arrow is lovely. It shouldn't be possible because I put a spell on myself to keep me from feeling physical desire. The spell would last until I—until I met my amria."

Viabold stared at him a moment—then burst out laughing.

Thraxis felt his face go scarlet. “It isn't funny, you drunken fool!"

"You are a Kahvenite! I knew it!"

"Shut up!"

"And you—I mean, what kind of man makes a eunuch out of himself? At least until he meets his ‘ amria

.'” Viabold clasped his hands together in an exaggerated motion and batted his eyelashes coquettishly. Rage tore through Thraxis, and he turned away, barely able to restrain himself from striking Viabold.

“Gods, why did I even think you might understand!” For a moment, memory touched him, pain and confusion and a terrible sort of fear. “Don't you see? It was the only way to make sure that the Council didn't get what they wanted from me."

Viabold sobered a little at that. “I suppose that explains why you didn't give in to Melilandra." Thraxis leaned against a tree, feeling tired and sick. The rough bark grated painfully against his skin, but he didn't care. “I loathe Melilandra. I like to think that would have been enough. But I was afraid it wouldn't be.” He closed his eyes. “The point is, the spell is broken. I don't know when it happened, exactly. The spell was designed to loosen itself slowly, and after nine years—"

"You set it when you were sixteen?” Viabold asked incredulously. “A sixteen-year-old boy, casting a spell to castrate himself? Thraxis, you are a very peculiar person." Thraxis raised his head and glared acid. “You're missing the point! It was only supposed to break when I met my amria!"

"Arrow?"

"It can't be! She's a—a barbarian!” He gestured vaguely in the direction of their camp. “Not only that, she's a trained killer! It's not possible. It would be a disaster!" Amusement flickered through Viabold's eyes. “So what do you want from me? Love advice?"

"Gods, no! No, I need your help to find exactly when the spell was broken. Its mark should still be on me."

"Ah.” Viabold's golden eyes narrowed with thought, and for a moment all humor was discarded in favor of the serious business of magic. “Could the curse have disrupted your spell?" Thraxis’ shoulders slumped. “I don't see how. Once the spell was set, it no longer required any of my magic to sustain it. Indeed, I couldn't have done anything to alter it even if I'd wanted to. The curse shouldn't have affected it any more than it would affect, say, the spells on the traveling robe just because I'm wearing it."

"Hmm. All right, then, let's see what we can see."

Viabold stepped closer and touched his fingertips lightly to Thraxis’ temples. Thraxis held himself still, his Athraskani perceptions feeling the flow and pulse of magic. Instinct prompted him to join his own power to it, but he held firm, unwilling to waste any of the time remaining to him when Viabold was perfectly capable of tracing the unraveling ends of the spell to wherever they led. At last, after what seemed like hours, Viabold dropped his hands and sighed. “You aren't going to like this. The spell started to unravel the exact moment you met Arrow. It's been coming apart ever since, a little at a time, until now it's faded altogether."

Thraxis moaned and sat down on the damp leaves. “No. That can't be." Viabold shrugged. “Personally, I don't believe in this Kahvenite nonsense. If you don't like her, don't worry about it."

"It isn't that I don't like her,” Thraxis protested. “Arrow is my friend, probably one of the first true friends I've ever had in my life. But—she's—."

"Not what you expected?” prompted Viabold. “I'm guessing you imagined it would be some cute little Athraskani witch, probably in a red or black robe. A female version of yourself. Instead, you have an illiterate barbarian. A human."

What had he said to Balthazar about his dead wife? "She was only human." Probably the gods were laughing at him even now.

Thraxis sighed and closed his eyes. “I just—it doesn't feel the way I thought it would. I don't love her."

"Not all love is a thunderbolt from the sky, my lad,” Viabold pointed out dryly. “In fact, most of it is quite the opposite. You might grow to love her with time."

"Time is one of the things I don't have in large amounts,” Thraxis said quietly. With a shake of his head, he rose to his feet and dusted off his robes. “I don't know. I have to think about it."

"Don't think about it too hard,” Viabold advised, slapping him on the shoulder. “Maybe you're going about it the wrong way. A tumble in the blankets might clear your confusion up considerably." Thraxis glared at him, which caused Viabold to burst out laughing again. Swearing angrily, he turned on his heel and marched away.

* * * *

The two armies faced one another in an eerie silence. Tall spears topped with golden animals proclaimed the identity of the gathered clans. Naming them to herself, Arrow realized that there had never before been such a gathering of the Skald. There had never been a battle such as she was about to take part in.

What have we done? she wondered. Lady of Beasts, what have we done?

It had never been the way of the Skald to meet in pitched battle, but rather to strike from ambush or to harry the flanks of an opponent. But Blood had played with his enemies, drawing them back into their own territories in a single mass bent on revenge. What his reasons for this were, Arrow did not know, and she feared to find out. Beneath her, Nightwing shifted restively, feeling her tension. She patted him quietly and wished that her chief would simply get things over with. Instead, Blood rode out into the clear space between the armies with Balthazar and Hunts Mice by his side. Drawing up, Blood eyed his enemies and smiled. “I give you one final chance,” he declared. “Acknowledge my dominance and pay tribute to me and my allies, and I will let you leave here alive. Refuse, and your scalped bodies will feed the eagles while your sons become our slaves and your women warm our beds."

Someone in the opposing army let out a scream of rage. An arrow arced into the sky, then fell, streaking towards Blood's head.

Balthazar lifted his hands, and the jewel about his neck flashed. The arrow burst into flames, then disintegrated entirely, so that not even a dusting of ash remained.

As if that was a signal, the two armies began shooting at one another. The arrows from Blood's army flew unimpeded into their enemies’ ranks, but all return volleys flamed and vanished before they had crossed half the distance. Individual warriors began to charge at one another, and the chaos of hand-to-hand fighting took over.

Then the magic began.

Even as Arrow rode among the warriors, fighting with sword and nagaica, she saw the racing shapes of beasts flickering through the ranks. The creatures looked insubstantial, more mist than animal, but they fell upon Blood's enemies and savaged them. Farther off, the ground opened beneath a clot of warriors from the Falcon tribe, swallowing them like a mouth and then sealing shut. Swarms of vicious insects burrowed under clothing, stinging and harassing. The battle became a rout, their enemies fleeing in terror. This is Balthazar's doing, she realized in awe. Turning in her saddle, she caught a glimpse of her oath brother standing quietly by Blood. There was a wild gleam in his eye, as if he defied the very gods to stand against him.

No. Not the gods. His people.

The battle soon ended. Warriors bent over the bodies of the fallen, taking scalps. Others, following a new fashion, also removed the skin from the hands of their enemies to make decorative covers for their goryti. Loot was brought to Blood so that he could divide it among his warriors, rewarding the valiant. As always, Arrow had first choice.

Once that was done, Blood gathered all the warriors together. He and Balthazar stood beside a crude pile of rocks. Nearby, all those taken prisoner were herded into a line, their eyes wide with fear.

"The Lady of Beasts has given us her blessing,” Blood said. “She has rewarded our courage and our honor. For that, we should not be ungrateful. Today, I will give her our thanks by offering sacrifice." He made a grand gesture with his hand, and the first prisoner was led forward. Hunts Mice and Tracks in the Snow shoved the prisoner to his knees, bending him over the pile of rocks. Blood solemnly poured a small trickle of wine onto the man's head. As he did so, Balthazar pressed the red jewel he wore to the man's forehead and whispered something in a tongue Arrow did not know. Then, the jewel still in place, Blood slit the prisoner's throat.

The same scene was enacted again and again, until all of the prisoners were dead. Then, with their booty and their slaves, Blood's army mounted up and set off for home. Arrow studied Balthazar, as she rode by him near the head of the column, and saw that the jewel at his throat had a soft glow to it. But when she asked him what it meant, he only smiled fondly and refused to answer.

Chapter Eight—Her Mother's Tea* * * *

Thraxis spent the next few days behaving strangely—which, given that Arrow found many of his attitudes and ways incomprehensible to begin with, was something of a stretch. The night of his recovery, he sat moodily by the fire, speaking to no one, with his hood drawn up too far for her to see anything but the tip of his long nose. At first, she thought that he was simply not feeling well after the poisoning. But the uncharacteristic silence remained after they set out again.

She also caught him staring at her frequently, although he quickly tried to hide it. He looked rather aghast in the beginning, although later his stares became more thoughtful. After a few days of such scrutiny, she began to wonder if a third eye were growing from her forehead and Thraxis was simply being polite about not mentioning it to her.

Whatever was bothering him seemed to cease preying so heavily on his mind after a time, however. He began to talk to her again and spent his days riding beside her while Viabold followed at a distance in the cart. She also found herself doing more things with him that had been split with Viabold before, such as cooking the evening meal or grooming the horses. Viabold didn't object to this sudden change in routine, so Arrow said nothing either. If it made her two peculiar companions happy, then who was she to object?

Two weeks after Thraxis’ accidental poisoning, they crossed over the border into Chok territory, and Arrow felt her spirits lighten. Although their lifestyle was very different, the Chok spoke the same language as her own people, and many of their customs were the same. No longer did she feel completely alien, adrift in a land incomprehensibly different from her own. Here, she had kin.

"My sister married a Chok man,” she told Thraxis, eagerly scanning her surroundings for familiar landmarks. “I stayed with them briefly, when I was on my way south to find you. She'll be delighted to put us all up for an evening."

Thraxis rode beside her on Stalker. Although he would never be a good horseman by Skald standards, he at least looked comfortable in the saddle now. The sun cut through the interlacing branches above them, striping his austere face and naked head with a mix of sun and shadow. “Is she much like you?” he asked politely.

"Kestrel? No, thank the Lady.” Arrow's mouth curved in a rueful smile. “She's sweet, charming, and beautiful. Everyone in the clan adored her when we were growing up, but she's too nice to feel jealousy towards. We weren't precisely close, living in different households, but we were always fond of one another."

It was near sundown by the time they reached the small homestead. Upon seeing it for the first time, Arrow had wondered how Kestrel must have felt when her husband brought her to a place so foreign to the yurts and carts of the Skald. The house was a sturdy, two-story structure with walls of timber filled in with wattle-and-daub. Corrals for goats and cattle sprawled out from it in all directions, interspersed by fields just sprouting with new shoots. A large barn provided shelter for the animals in cold weather, as well as a storage space for their feed.

Arrow spotted her sister's husband as he came out of the barn. He was a pleasant-faced man with auburn hair worn in the double braids of the Chok. “Ranulf!” she shouted, waving at him. With a cry of delight, he raced across the barnyard towards them, scattering chickens from his path.

"Arrow!” he exclaimed. She slid from Nightwing's back, and he caught her up in a tight embrace. “You're all right! You've come back!"

The door to the house opened, spilling out three young children who dashed fearlessly around the horses and mule. Kestrel followed them at a more sedate pace, one hand on the small of her back.

"I knew you'd return,” she said, giving Arrow an embrace made difficult by the huge mound of her belly. Arrow touched her sister's taut stomach, feeling suddenly wistful. “When will the baby come?"

"Any moment now, and the sooner the better,” Kestrel said wryly. Her blue eyes went past Arrow to the two Athraskani waiting awkwardly in the background. “You found what you sought, then?" Not exactly. But close enough. “This is Thraxis and Viabold." Thraxis dismounted gracelessly, took Kestrel's hand, and bowed over it. “A pleasure,” he said with a smile.

Kestrel smiled back and arched a brow. “What an interesting gesture."

"It is how we greet women in the Empire."

"You didn't greet me that way,” Arrow pointed out.

Thraxis looked vaguely chagrined. “Yes, well, circumstances were different then." Viabold clambered down from his cart to add his greeting to Thraxis'. As the men and children set about corralling the horses and mule, Kestrel caught Arrow's elbow and lightly steered her back to the house.

“You're just in time to help me make dinner."

"You can't have forgotten what my cooking tastes like."

Kestrel sniffed. “I would blame it on the lack of a strong feminine presence in your life, except that Vole and Leaf could both boil a leather strap and have it come out tasting like the finest venison." The memory of the men who had raised her was still painful, but enough time had passed that Arrow was able to smile a little. “Then blame it on lack of motivation. Why should I learn when either of them could do better in my place?"

"Well, you can at least chop."

"I need the sword practice."

"With a knife, silly. I don't want you to kill supper, just help prepare it." They went into the warm house together. Most of the ground floor was a single room that reached up to the rafters. A long table dominated the room, flanked on either side by benches. Straw littered the hard-packed earth of the floor. Two dogs rested near the large fire pit, idly watching threads of smoke wend their way out the hole in the thatch roof.

The back of the house was divided into two small rooms, a kitchen on the ground floor and a sleeping loft above. The Chok considered the sight of food preparation obscene, so only a narrow door hung with a curtain connected the kitchen to the main room. From within the kitchen, Arrow heard Ranulf, the children, and the Athraskani enter the building and take their seats at the table. Having warned Kestrel about her companion's dietary restrictions, Arrow found herself set to work chopping carrots, parsnips, and other winter vegetables. Kestrel took them from her and put them into a stew, simmering it slowly over the fire.

"So,” Kestrel said casually as they worked, “you look better than you did the last time I saw you. I take it the south agreed with you?"

Arrow kept her gaze fixed on the onion she was slicing. Despair had still eaten at her heart when she had come to Kestrel last, and she had spent the night of her brief visit in her sister's arms, struggling not to cry. Everything had been confessed that night—her success as a Champion, the things she had done under Blood's orders, the alterations she had allowed Balthazar to make to her body, the night in Bird Bones’ arms—everything. Kestrel had simply listened, held her, and accepted it all.

"I am better,” she said at last. “Time makes even the worst pain feel distant, I suppose."

"Not always."

"No. But the change in my surroundings helped—the Empire is so strange, so unlike the steppe. I've had the journey to focus on, to take my mind off things."

"What about the two Athraskani? They seemed nice. The skinny one has a pretty face."

"Thraxis?” Arrow asked, surprised.

"Have you noticed his eyelashes? It's a crime for them to be wasted on a man. Give him some hair and a little more meat on his bones and he'd be quite charming."

Arrow smothered a laugh. “'Charming’ isn't really an adjective I would use to describe Thraxis."

"What would you use?"

"Arrogant, stubborn, irritating—."

Kestrel grinned at her. “It sounds as though you like him."

Arrow shrugged. “I do. He's been a good friend to me."

"Hmm."

Arrow wrapped a cloth around her hand to pull the stew off the fire. “And what does that mean?"

"Nothing.” Kestrel smiled sweetly. “Nothing at all."

* * * *

Ranulf poured the two Athraskani large tankards of a drink he called “mead.” Although Viabold set into his with relish, Thraxis eyed the drink askance. He wasn't entirely certain that such a large portion could really be considered the “single glass” required by the Rule. Taking a cautious sip, he almost choked on the smooth liquor. Certainly this mead was far stronger than any wine he'd ever tasted. Kestrel and Arrow emerged from the kitchen in the back, Arrow carrying a large stewpot for her sister. They did not look much alike, Thraxis mused, taking another sip of his drink and finding it more palatable. They had the same upturned nose, and there was some resemblance in the mouth and forehead, but beyond that they could have been unrelated. Kestrel's hair was flaxen in contrast to Arrow's fiery red, her eyes blue rather than dark. She was much shorter than her tall, lanky sister, and her body might have been more voluptuous, although the advanced pregnancy made it difficult to tell. Her face was certainly more feminine, more delicate. And yet, despite the physical differences, he sensed the same strength in them both.

"I hope the stew is to your liking,” Kestrel said as the children laid out bowls and wooden spoons for everyone. “Arrow mentioned your beliefs to me, so you should have no problem eating it."

"You're very kind,” Viabold said graciously.

"Hospitality is important among us.” Kestrel sighed and patted her swollen belly ruefully. “I'm afraid that I can't show you proper hospitality with the baby so far along. But you should stop in and visit us again on your way back south once all of this is over."

Her last statement sent a cold shock of realization through Thraxis. I won't be coming back, he thought with a mixture of grief and horror. Viabold will be, perhaps, but not me. No matter how events turn out, I'll be dead. I will never see Kestrel's baby or sit at her table on my way home.

"You've finished your drink, Thraxis. Would you like some more?” Ranulf asked helpfully. About to refuse, Thraxis felt a sudden surge of recklessness. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? “Please,” he said and ignored startled looks from Arrow and Viabold. The mead was sweet, and its warmth settled in his belly and limbs, driving back the darkness of his future. The murmur of pleasant conversation lapped around him. At some point, the children were banished to the sleeping loft above. The stew disappeared, and the mead flowed freely. When next Thraxis began to truly pay attention to the conversation, Ranulf seemed to be answering a question from Viabold.

"I was a trader in those days, wandering all over the steppe and the forests,” he said, casting a fond glance at Kestrel. “But as soon as I saw Kestrel, I knew that my wandering days were over. She wouldn't have anything to do with me at first, though."

Kestrel's laughter tinkled like chimes. “And who could blame me?"

"But I finally won her over. I sat outside her family's yurt every night and sang courting songs for an entire moon."

Arrow grinned. “She finally gave up and agreed to marry him so that she could get some sleep." Everyone else laughed, but Ranulf's romantic gesture had caught Thraxis’ attention. Ranulf's songs had impressed Arrow's sister—perhaps such singing would impress Arrow as well. It was a wonderful idea, and he was amazed that he had thought of it.

"I can sing,” he announced.

Kestrel turned to him with a little smile playing on her lips. “Can you?"

"Yes. Very well."

"Then by all means, let us hear you."

Suitably encouraged—Kestrel was obviously on his side, although he hadn't quite realized until just now that he even had a side—Thraxis rose to his feet. The room swayed a little, then settled down. Taking a deep breath, he began to sing.

It was a beautiful song. Not the sort of thing he would ever have admitted interest in before, no more than he would have admitted to being a Kahvenite. It was, of course, a love song, an ardent declaration by a lover recalling the hours of pleasure spent with his lady. His performance also pleased him, considering that he seldom sang in front of an audience.

When the last refrain died away, he looked expectantly at Arrow. Rather than impressed, however, she seemed merely puzzled. “You didn't like it?” he asked, crestfallen.

"Um, you have a lovely voice,” she said diplomatically. “But I haven't been wearing the translator stones since you learned Skaldai, and because Viabold already knew it—and I don't speak your language well enough to follow a song."

"Just as well,” Viabold muttered. “Thank goodness the children were already in bed." Kestrel arched a brow. “A bit ribald, was it?"

" No,” Thraxis said, glaring at Viabold.

"Erotic,” Viabold clarified. He grabbed a fistful of Thraxis’ robe and pulled him back down into his seat.

“Just don't favor us with a translated version. It wouldn't rhyme nearly so well."

"It was a good song,” Thraxis muttered sulkily.

"It was very nice, even if only Viabold understood the content,” Arrow said soothingly. She smiled at him, and he felt suddenly dazzled. The firelight played off her red hair and found hidden depths in her dark eyes. She lifted her tankard to her lips, and the shift of muscle made the twisted stag on her arm dance.

"What do they mean?” he asked. “I mean, the tattoos,” he added, realizing that she hadn't been privy to his thoughts.

"You should see them all,” Kestrel said.

"There are more?” He looked at Arrow with renewed interest. “Where?" Kestrel winked. “That's why you should see them."

Arrow rolled her eyes at her sister and stood up. “I'm going to bed. I'll be happy to discuss any tattoos you like tomorrow, but for now I'm falling asleep where I sit."

"You can share the loft,” Ranulf offered.

But Arrow shook her head. “Not with all the singing and carousing going on in here. The hayloft in the barn will suit me fine."

Ranulf also chose to say his goodnights, pausing long enough to give his wife a kiss before heading up to the sleeping loft above. Thraxis propped his chin on his fist and looked at Kestrel, comparing her again to Arrow. Aware of his scrutiny, Kestrel mimicked his position so that their faces were only inches apart.

"You're pretty,” he decided.

Kestrel smiled mischievously. “Thank you."

Viabold sighed, grabbed Thraxis’ shoulder, and hauled him back. “Wrong sister,” he pointed out. “This one's married. Besides, you wouldn't have a chance."

"Oh?” Thraxis asked, miffed. “And why ever not?"

Viabold paused delicately. “Women—like a man with—well, more."

"More?” Thraxis demanded, offended. He surged to his feet and fumbled at the catches on the front of his robe. “I'll show you more—"

"Not that, you drunken fool!” Viabold grabbed the back of his robe again and jerked him down. “I meant more as in more hair, more muscles. More experience."

"Oh.” Thraxis’ shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Kestrel laughed and shook her head. “Viabold, you sound just like Leaf Dancing. I remember him giving Arrow advice when she was a girl. ‘Never marry a man who can't carry his own horse.’”

"Hmm, well, I wouldn't go that far,” Viabold allowed, taking a healthy swallow of mead. “Leaf Dancing is the man that raised Arrow, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He's our granduncle. She went to live with him on her naming day, when he asked for the right to name her and give her a home."

Thraxis frowned blearily. “Naming day?"

Kestrel nodded. “Among the Skald, a child is given a temporary name the day it is born. By custom, it is named for the first thing its father sees after beholding it for the first time. At age five, when the child's personality is better known, it is given a permanent name. Of course, most of the time the permanent name is the same as the temporary name, because everyone has gotten used to calling it that."

"But not in Arrow's case?"

Kestrel sobered. “No. Not in Arrow's case."

"What was her first name?” Viabold asked softly.

"Her Mother's Tears."

Viabold swore a mild oath. Thraxis frowned. “That's horrible,” he declared.

"Yes, well, Father was feeling rather bitter at the time himself. The priestesses had declared that his newest daughter would be the next Champion. Half of the clan was mocking him, and the other half was furious."

"He shouldn't have taken it out on Arrow!"

"No. He shouldn't have."

Thraxis stretched his arm out against the table and laid his head on it. Poor Arrow. She must have been so sad. If he had been there, he would have done—something. What, he wasn't sure, but something.

"That's so sad,” he said out loud. “Do you think she's sad?" Viabold rolled his eyes. “Why, are you going to console her?"

"That,” Thraxis said gravely, “is an excellent idea."

He stood up and made his way very carefully out of the building, despite the rather annoying attempts the floor made to slip out from under his feet. The goat corral tried to trip him up, but he outsmarted it and negotiated his way to the lower story of the barn, where he promptly passed out.

* * * *

The crowing of the rooster awoke Arrow shortly before dawn. She arose from her warm nest in the hay and made her way down the ladder to the ground floor. Thraxis was sprawled inexplicably just inside the door, snoring. Stepping around him, Arrow made her way to the house, where she found Viabold sitting by the fire pit. By the way he winced every time one of the children yelled, she guessed that he was nursing quite a hangover.

He gave her an inquiring look. “What?” she asked, unsure what he expected. He shrugged. “Apparently nothing. Where's Thraxis?"

"Asleep by the barn door."

"Passed out, you mean. Ah, well.” He shook his head philosophically. Mystified, Arrow went into the kitchen where she found Kestrel. “We'd better be leaving,” she said sadly. “I doubt either Viabold or Thraxis are going to be very interested in breakfast. Which I blame you for."

Kestrel grinned. “They were fun to talk to. And the young one likes you."

"I told you yesterday that we're friends. I would hope that means he likes me."

"I think you could get to be more than that if you're interested." Arrow almost laughed aloud. “Don't be silly."

"I'm not."

"No.” Arrow thought back to the beginning of their journey together, when Thraxis had refused the innkeeper's offer of a bedmate on the basis of an oath of chastity. “He's not interested in me like that. We're just friends."

Kestrel shrugged. “If you say so."

Kestrel and Ranulf packed them several panniers worth of food, accompanied by two jugs of mead and an extra blanket. Arrow thanked them both, hugged the children, and headed regretfully back out into the crisp air of the morning. Viabold had already brought out the horses and had even managed to get Thraxis bundled onto Stalker's back. The tall Athraskani slumped in the saddle, his face buried in Stalker's short-cropped mane as if he sought to block out the sunlight.

"I'm dying,” he moaned as she approached. “It must be some new phase of the curse. You'll be burying me by the side of the road before sunset."

"You're hung over,” Viabold said with annoying cheerfulness. “You put away four tankards of mead, my friend—not bad for a skinny mite like yourself who'd never been drunk before."

"And you left me on the barn floor?"

" I did not leave you there—you did."

"I don't remember. Oh, gods, I'll never break another Rule again. Ever." Viabold cast a grin in Arrow's direction. “You went to bed too early, Arrow. You should have at least stayed until Thraxis decided to expose himself to everyone."

She arched a brow. “I am sorry I missed that."

"Don't worry, I stopped him."

"You're just jealous,” Thraxis said from Stalker's mane.

"I am not!"

"Are too."

Kestrel and her family came out to say their final farewells. Arrow embraced her sister again, wondering suddenly if she would ever see her newest niece or nephew. Perhaps thinking the same grim thoughts, Kestrel kissed her cheek and whispered, “Be safe, Arrow."

Tears threatened to choke her. But a Champion never wept, so she swallowed them back harshly and walked quickly to her horse. Mounting, she sat straight in the saddle and rode away without looking back.

* * * *

It was shortly after the great battle that the king finally decided to act. A warrior from the Griffin clan rode arrogantly into the Red Feathers encampment towards the end of spring, his head held high and his mouth a sneer. Men, women, and children all gathered together, staring in awe at the first member of the royal clan that most of them had ever seen. His coat was covered in gold plaques, every finger bore enormous rings, and multiple torques decorated his throat. Even the harness of his gelding had been gilded. Reining up in front of Blood's yurt, he stared disdainfully down at the chieftain. “Jumping Reindeer, King of all the Skald, sends you a message,” he said without bothering to dismount. “Your actions have not been without note, but he wishes you to remember your place."

Blood smiled lazily. “I know my place."

The messenger frowned a little. “You will keep your warriors within the territory you have already won. You will not venture out of it, nor act in aggression towards any other clan from this day on."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then the matter will be settled with a Challenge."

Blood nodded. “Then I accept. My Champion will meet with the Griffin Champion one moon from this day. We will even come to Griffin territory for the Challenge so that the royal clan will not have to travel." A murmur rose up at his words, and for the first time in a long while it held fear. Arrow felt her own belly churn but hid her trepidation behind a mask of serene confidence.

Still, the reaction did not go unnoticed by Balthazar. That night, he came to the yurt she shared with Leaf Dancing and Vole. After they had shared a cup of koumiss, Balthazar looked at her squarely. “People are worried about this Challenge. You're worried about this Challenge. Why?" Arrow swallowed and stared at the dung fire. She started to say something flippant, but he caught her by the wrist and forced her eyes to meet his gaze. “You're my oath sister,” he reminded her gently. “I think I deserve to know."

Her body slumped. “This Champion—he's good, Balthazar. The Griffin Champions aren't necessarily born into the clan. Instead, all the greatest Champions and warriors compete for the honor, if they wish it. The one who is the best is chosen to defend the royal clan. This one has never been defeated, my brother. And I don't know if I can be the one to change that."

He looked at her quietly for a long time. “You're serious,” he said at last.

"Yes. I was scared before my first Challenge, but I think that in my heart I knew I could win. After that, I've never really been frightened. I've never faced anyone whose skill was anything like my own. I don't say that to boast—it's true. But this is different. I think that this man might be able to win. I think he might kill me."

Balthazar fingered the jewel at his throat absently. “I swore to help and protect you, just as you did the same for me. If I told you there was a way to ensure that you would defeat this man, would you take it?" She frowned, puzzled. “You could make me a better warrior?"

He smiled fondly. “I don't think anyone could do that, my sister. But I can make you faster and stronger than any other human alive. It would give you the edge you need." It was not what she had expected. Balthazar was offering her a chance to beat the Griffin Champion, but at what cost? By accepting his offer, she would, in essence, be cheating. The Challenge would not be decided by skill or strength but by foreign magic. It was dishonorable. It was wrong.

"I don't want to die,” she said in a small voice.

"And I don't want you to die either. You've been the best friend I've had in all my life. You're a truer sister to me than those who share my blood. Let me help you. Please." The next day, he took her away from the camp, after first telling Blood what he intended. They set up a yurt together far from the rest of the clan, even though it was not really appropriate for him to be alone with an unmarried woman. But such concerns were beyond her now, Arrow reflected as she stripped off her clothing to lie naked on the bed.

Balthazar began to chant softly. The yurt filled with the scent of burning herbs. And then he laid his fingers gently on her head.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt, and she finally understood why he had insisted on bringing her so far from anyone else. It was to keep them from hearing her screams.

The process took the entire day, as Balthazar worked his way slowly from the top of her head to the bottoms of her feet, changing her as he went. By the end, she felt worn and ragged, like a woman after a difficult labor. Once he was finished, he covered her gently with a blanket and told her to rest. Tomorrow, she would learn to walk again.

The words made sense when she next awoke. All of her perceptions were off, as if she had eaten the hallucinogenic mushrooms used by soothsayers. Her movements were uncoordinated, too fast, and too strong. She flung the blanket across the yurt when she only meant to flip it back, she shattered a horn cup when she tried to grip it, and she fell in a tangle of limbs when she tried to walk. As the days passed, she grew more used to her altered body, discovering how to fit it with her former skills. From walking she progressed to riding, and thence to swordplay. While she worked, Balthazar told her a little of what he had done to her. She was stronger and faster, as he had said, and she would also heal more quickly and easily than an unchanged human.

"I will call you a berserker,” he decided as he watched her practice at being normal. “It's a word from a tribe that lives far to the north and west of here. They use it to describe their greatest warriors. It means

‘bear shirt.’”

"That's odd,” she said.

"Perhaps—but you are not. You are something the world has never seen before. The spell that made you a berserker was the greatest spell any Athraskani has cast in centuries—perhaps ever. I had to change your bones, so that they would not break under the stress of your movements. I had to change your heart and lungs, so that they would not fail. Every change led to another, down to the tiny little things inside of you that no one has ever really seen. You are a masterpiece."

At last, a week before the date of the Challenge, they rode back to camp. Blood was waiting outside his yurt when Arrow reined in before him.

"I'm ready,” she said.

Chapter Nine—Kinslayer

A few days later, they made camp in a pine forest in the heart of Chok territory. The evening fire threw a soft yellow glow on the circle of straight trees surrounding their camp, and the air smelled strongly of resin and wood smoke. After dinner, Thraxis went a little aside, perching on top of a group of tumbled boulders. Wondering what he had found of interest, Arrow hesitantly left the fireside and went to him. He glanced down as she approached, a smile curving his lips. Taking the hand he offered, she scrambled onto the rocky perch beside him. “I'm not intruding, am I?"

"Not at all.” He tilted his head back and peered up through a break in the pines. “I was just looking at the stars. We have an observatory at the Sanctum, and I spent many happy hours there, memorizing the constellations."

It was a beautiful night for stargazing. No clouds marred the dome of the sky, and there was no breeze to bend the trees. They had been walking on the edge of spring all the way north, and the air was chill away from the fire. Wrapping her arms around herself, Arrow wished that she had brought her jacket with her.

"You're cold,” Thraxis said, noting the movement immediately. He put his arm around her shoulders, so that the heavy folds of his robe hung down over her bare skin. Grateful for the warmth, she moved against his side. When she leaned back to look up at the stars, her head lay against his shoulder. It felt good to be close to someone, she realized with a sharp pang. To feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his body. He smelled of smoke and herbs, underlain faintly with the scent of maleness. The natural hunger to be touched rose in her, and she had to remind herself that Thraxis had taken an oath of chastity.

"There is the Dragon,” Thraxis said. His breath stirred her hair. “Encircling the sky even as his brother encircles the earth."

"We call that one the river.” She pointed to another grouping. “And that is the Stag, who carries the souls of the dead on his back."

"Ah.” His fingers shifted, lightly stroking her shoulder over the tattoo. It felt good. “Does it take them to your Lady of Beasts?"

"Yes. Then she decides what form we return in."

"What form?"

"Bird or reindeer or horse or human.” Arrow gestured vaguely. “Or something else altogether."

"Depending on what you did with your life?"

"No. Just—depending on what is needed, I suppose."

"Then there isn't any reward? Any punishment?"

"Well, I suppose that if we are truly wicked, she might send us back as Athraskani." Arrow turned her head toward him, to see how her teasing had worked. To her pleasure, he was grinning. The firelight filtering through the trees caught in his yellow eyes, making them glow as if they were flames themselves. Arrow became aware that she could feel the beat of his heart against her body. Slowly, the grin faded to be replaced by seriousness. Thraxis glanced away briefly, and then back to her.

“Arrow,” he said hesitantly, “I—I want to ask you if—"

Stalker flung back his head and snorted loudly. Nightwing looked up as well, ears going back in alarm as he stared into the darkness. Arrow and Thraxis both stood quickly, making their way towards the camp. Nearer the fire, Viabold looked uneasily into the pine forest. “Show yourself!” he called. Two figures slid out of the shadows opposite. Firelight caught on their blonde hair, revealing long braids to the right and shorter hair to the left. Gold gleamed in their left ears, and bronze glittered in their hands as they raised their swords.

"As you wish, old man,” said one, and Arrow felt her heart start to race.

"Tracks on the Snow,” she said aloud, naming him. “Horse With a Broken Back." They looked at her—cousins she had known all her life, whom she had grown up with. And hope died inside her.

Viabold frowned. “Are you here to join us?"

Tracks barely spared him a glance; all his attention focused on Arrow. “No. We're here to kill you." And they moved.

They moved.

Fast, so fast, their bodies for an instant becoming blurs of motion, until Arrow's own body caught up with them. No need to ask who had sent them, not with that inhuman speed, and Arrow wondered vaguely why she had never realized that Balthazar would inevitably make other berserkers. And that he would send them to kill her for her betrayal.

Tracks went for Viabold, his sword a blur of bronze. With a wild cry, Arrow flung herself to intercept him, holding nothing back. Viabold raised his hands slowly, as if moving through honey, and she saw his mouth shape words that escaped her. Light bloomed in Tracks’ face, a blinding flash that made Arrow turn away as well. When her vision cleared, Viabold was gone.

Thraxis stood on the edge of the campsite where she had left him, his mouth open in surprise. Horse flung a net at him. Its weighted edges tangled Thraxis’ limbs, dragging him to the ground, and Horse ran in for the kill. Darkness humped beneath the net, a convulsive movement that didn't quite look like a man trying to fight his way free. A moment later, an enormous raven struggled out through holes too large to contain it, let out an indignant squawk, and took flight into the night. Too startled to ready his bow, Horse jumped back, letting the bird's slow-motion movements carry it out of reach. Relief flooded through Arrow. Both of the Athraskani were safe, at least for the nonce. She had only her own life to worry about. Dropping back so that she could keep both of her opponents in sight, Arrow met the eyes of each cousin briefly. Her heart ached, and she remembered that Horse had a young son. For a moment, she considered trying to talk with them, but knew that it was futile. As far as they were concerned, she had betrayed them, had broken her sacred oaths. And so, she supposed, she had. Horse drew his sword and came from the right, so fast that his speed seemed normal to Arrow's preternatural senses. She drew as well, her sword screaming through the air and meeting his. The shock jarred down her arm, but her inhuman strength held steady. The blades sprang apart, and then met again, seeking an opening.

Tracks was behind her somewhere. Leaf's ancient advice to fight every battle on her own terms came back to her, and she heeded it once again. Catching Horse's blade on her own, she thrust him back, then dropped and snatched a branch from the campfire. The stick snapped with speed as she brought it up, but there was enough left to fling ash and burning coals in his face. He shouted and stumbled back, giving her the chance to turn her attention to Tracks.

Almost too late. Tracks had unhooked two whips from his belt. They were far longer than the short nagaica, and each had only a single flail attached to the handle. But the ends of the flails were each tipped with a short, curved blade that glinted sharply in the firelight. He swung the whips, the air cracking like thunder. Arrow tensed, judging as one arced high and one low, the wicked blades racing to sever either legs or head. As the lower drew near, she jumped inhumanly high.

Everything slowed. She could see the lazy curl of the upper whip, its blade passing leisurely through the air just moments before her body traversed the same space. Then she was coming down, speed dictated only by gravity. A movement caught her eye, and she saw Horse raise his bow, the tip of the arrow following her trajectory. Helpless fury rushed through her, for there was nothing she could to alter her fall and get out of the way.

Black wings rowed the air, and the raven came out of the wood, slow as a leaf-fall but straight for Horse's face. Startled, Horse flinched as he let go of the bowstring. The arrow traced its lazy path through the air to meet its plunging target. Arrow felt its feathers gently brush her cheek as it passed harmlessly by her head.

Her feet met the ground, and she sprinted away from Tracks, heading for the edge of the clearing. Thinking that she fled, he raced after her, dropping the whips that would be useless in the wood and drawing his sword. Praying to the Lady of Beasts that her timing was good, Arrow hurled herself at one of the pines, twisting in the air so that her feet impacted against the bark. Her legs flexed, tendon, muscle, and bone crying out against shock and speed as she used the tree for a springboard, reversing her direction in a flip that carried her back over Tracks’ head. Her sword came down with all the speed of her fall, catching Tracks in the juncture between neck and shoulder. Flesh parted with ease, then bone jarred.

The sword, never forged to withstand such stresses, shattered in Arrow's hands. Tracks fell face-forward away from her, his head nearly severed from his body. Cursing silently, Arrow spun to see Horse on the other side of the fire, his bow drawn once again. Raven wings looped about the campsite, but Thraxis was too slow and the same trick would not work twice. Seeing the tip of the arrow shift from her form to that of the bird, Arrow snatched her knife from its sheath on her left thigh and threw it. The throw was bad, but it made Horse drop the bow and jump out of the way. Arrow flung herself across the camp without giving him the chance to recover, retrieving the knife in her left hand and unhooking the nagaica with her right. His sword raced for her, splitting the air with an eerie scream. She caught it on her knife, at the same time swinging the nagaica as hard as she could. The short flail connected with his face, and she heard the crack of bone as his skull split beneath it. His body sagged, then slowly collapsed to the earth in a spill of blood and brains. Arrow stood still, letting her racing heart calm, letting her perceptions slow back to normal. The small clearing stank of blood and released bowels. The relief at being alive fought with the hard punch of grief. She had killed many men, but they had not been of her own clan. She hadn't grown up with them, hadn't endured their mockery, hadn't listened to their praise, and hadn't seen the faces of their newborn children. But with these men, she had done all of those things and more.

Her throat worked convulsively as she swallowed, and for a moment she thought that she might be sick. Carefully not looking at Horse's ruined face, she bent over, wiped the nagaica against his clothes, and then took his sword. His scalp she left intact—he was a kinsman, and she would not disgrace him in death.

Viabold peeked uncertainly from behind a tree. His eyes were huge and filled with horror. The raven circled in from somewhere, landed, and became Thraxis once again. His face was white in the firelight, and his hands trembled violently.

"I think that you owe us an explanation,” he said quietly, and in his words Arrow heard their friendship die.

* * * *

Viabold and Arrow pulled the bodies into the woods, cleaned up the campsite, and found the horses that the two Skald warriors had concealed so that they would not sound a greeting and give away the assassins’ approach. Thraxis remained by the fire, his body trembling and a painful cough building in his lungs. Shape-changing was not small magic by any measure, and a spike of fear went through him when he realized that he had probably shortened his existence by a good month. But it saved Arrow's life, he thought, remembering.

Arrow.

When the camp was again in order, she sat quietly by the fire, across from the two men. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, and she wrapped her arms about her knees, as though winter had touched her. Misery gleamed in her eyes as she stared fixedly at the fire, not daring to meet their gazes.

"What are you?” Viabold asked quietly. Thraxis was still too stunned to speak. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again. “A woman,” she said quietly. “A Champion. But I—was altered."

Viabold's brows drew together. “How?"

"By Balthazar. He called me a berserker.” She bit her lip. “I had to hide it all this time. To keep you from discovering the truth."

"And why would he do such a thing to you?"

"To save my life.” She bowed her head, her hair hiding her face. “I've lied to you. Balthazar was my ally. My oath brother. My people weren't the victims of the war between the clans. They were the aggressors."

A horrible realization was dawning in Thraxis, as though he had discovered that all the world he had ever known was nothing more than illusion, and reality a cold nightmare from which there would be no awakening. “This has all been a trap."

Her head snapped up. “No! No, I swear that's not true. Just let me explain, please." Thraxis felt Viabold look at him, but he couldn't meet the other man's gaze. He could only stare at Arrow as if seeing her for the first time. And perhaps, in a terrible way, he was.

"We're listening,” Viabold said.

She told them everything, all of the hideous details. How her prowess as a Champion had given her chief an outlet for his ambition. How a series of Challenges eventually turned into an ugly war between the clans. How she had participated in that war, participated in the slaughter not only of warriors, but of women and children as well.

"It was hard,” she whispered, voice ragged with unshed tears. “I hated doing it. I hated what we had become. But it was my duty, both as a Champion and as a member of the clan. I just—I just didn't know what to do."

"How about refusing to murder innocents?” Thraxis asked.

She flinched, as though he had struck her. “It wouldn't have changed anything. Blood was bent on conquest. If I had refused, he would have humiliated me in front of everyone, would have called me a cowardly woman. Everything that I had accomplished, all the respect I had gained, would have been lost."

"And so you killed to preserve it."

Misery pooled in her eyes and made her lips tremble, but she did not deny his words. “Eventually, the king decided to put a stop to things. He sent a Challenge out that I could not refuse. The Champion of the royal clan—the Griffins—was a terrible man. He had never been beaten. I—I wasn't certain that I could win. But I was afraid of dying. So when Balthazar offered to—change me—I agreed.

"Once I had killed the Griffin Champion, we went to war against the king. In the end, with Balthazar's help, we destroyed the Griffins.” She bit her lip, as though trying to contain the next words. “When we rode back to our main camp with word of our victory, my granduncle, the man who had raised me, repudiated me for my actions. He turned his back on me, cast me out of his yurt, and left the camp." She stopped, then drew a deep breath. “There were others who felt as he did. And there were some who thought Blood had gone too far by making himself king. And there were a few like myself, who were sickened by the whole thing. One of the latter was Blood's own son, Bird Bones Broken." Arrow paused again, and Thraxis could tell that there were things she would not speak about even now.

“Bird Bones and I fled together. He wanted to gather everyone who was disaffected with Blood's ways and rebel against his father. If it had been only Blood we had to contend with, it might have worked. But Balthazar's power put the balance too much in their favor. So I volunteered to go south, to try to get help from the rest of the Athraskani.

"I couldn't tell you the truth—I couldn't risk that you would refuse to come with me! The future of my clan, of all the Skald, depends on defeating Balthazar. I only did what I felt I had to do." She looked at him, pleading for understanding. But there was none for him to give. A mixture of emotions boiled in him: rage, disgust, grief, and shame. He had thought Arrow to be his friend. But that woman, the woman he had liked—whom he might, perhaps, have fallen in love with—had never really existed. How she must have laughed, this heartless monster, to see him so easily duped. Humiliated, he stood up slowly, not certain where he was going but knowing only that he had to get away from her. She rose as well, reaching one hand towards him in supplication. “Thraxis, please don't turn away from me."

"No.” The sight of her evoked a tangle of emotions so strong that he felt physically ill. “Don't speak to me—you are an abomination, and there are no words for my revulsion." Her eyes closed, and she stood very, very still, as if a careless movement would shatter her. Turning away, Thraxis walked into the woods and let the night take him.

* * * *

Arrow sat quietly on a stump some distance from the campsite, her face pressed against her knees. Tears choked her throat, but a Champion never wept, so she concentrated on holding them back to the exclusion of all other thought. Even when the sound of footsteps came from behind her, muffled by fallen needles, she refused to move or to care.

"Arrow?” Viabold said hesitantly behind her. “Is there anything I can get you? Some stew? Wine?"

"You could drive a sword through my heart,” she answered bitterly. Needles rustled softly as he lowered himself to the ground beside her. “Don't worry. Thraxis will come around, once he's had time to think about things."

She sat up slowly, hands clenched so that her nails bit into her palms. It kept the tears at bay. “No, he won't. You don't know—."

"Then tell me."

"You don't understand. I spent my entire life training to be the Champion. My only goal was to show my clan that they could depend on me, that I wasn't just a morbid joke. And what did it get me? Half of my clan hates me because I was Blood's right hand, and the other half hates me because I finally betrayed him. The man who raised me turned his back on me. I've lost everything. My friends, my family, my womanhood, everything."

"I don't understand."

"What Balthazar did to me—it stopped my courses. I'm barren. Even if I survive, no man would take me to wife. My future is as bleak as my past ever was."

"I'm sorry."

"But I told myself that I could live with all of it, if only I could do something to make things right again. To undo some of the damage I helped cause. But Thraxis—he's ready to turn back and head for the Sanctum. And I can't blame him for it. He was my only friend, and I lied to him, betrayed him, and took advantage of him. Of a dying man!"

"He won't turn back,” Viabold said gently.

"Maybe not. But he hates me."

Viabold sighed. “He's feeling very betrayed right now. And, as you said yourself, he has good reason to feel that way. I'll try to speak with him, get him to see things in a different light. But I think that, right now, we just have to give him time."

The certainty of despair filled her. “It won't matter, Viabold. A thousand years will not change anything."

* * * *

Thraxis sat very still, staring off into the night. Tree frogs cheeped restlessly, undisturbed by human concerns. Perhaps he should become one of them, bleed off what remaining strength he had, and spend his last days free from all care.

Viabold's footsteps crunched loudly in the darkness, and the muffled sound of a curse marked where he tripped over a fallen tree. Thraxis scowled and briefly considered turning Viabold into a frog instead. “Go away."

"Ah, there you are,” Viabold said, pulling the edge of his robe free from a trailing briar.

"I don't want to talk to you."

Viabold sighed and leaned wearily against the rough bark of one of the pines. “I know that you feel betrayed."

"Are you ears full of wax? I told you I don't want to talk to you."

"Just let me speak, then I'll leave. Will that be acceptable?"

"I don't suppose it would help if I said no,” Thraxis muttered. He hunched his shoulders so that his hood slid farther forward. His hands he hid in his sleeves. “Say what you have to say and be done with it."

"I just want you to try to see this from Arrow's point of view. It isn't as if she suddenly decided one day that she was going to join a band of raiders and go around killing people. These were her friends, her family, people she had known her entire life, telling her that she was doing the right thing, that they were proud of her. I think that it is a testimony to her basic integrity that she was able to recognize the wrong they were doing and try to rectify it."

Thraxis pressed his lips together. “She killed innocent people. Standing against other trained Champions, defending her clan from attack—I could understand those things. I cannot understand this."

"So you refuse to even make the attempt?” Viabold sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “She gave up everything to come south and find us. Her home, her friends, her kin. Honor. Respect. More." Thraxis rose angrily to his feet. “And have I done any less?"

"I didn't say that you had. I just—"

"Just want me to sympathize with a liar and killer!” Thraxis’ hand clenched into a fist. “She lied to us, betrayed us, and tried to make us think that she was something other than what she is. She was a friend to Balthazar, for the gods’ sakes! The man who will be the death of me!"

"I know you're hurt—"

"You know nothing.” He closed his eyes. “The worst thing is that I fooled myself into thinking that I might care for her. But the woman I was friends with, that I maybe could have cared for, never really existed at all."

"That's not true."

"This was my last chance, Viabold. I'll be dead in a few months at most. I was a fool to think that I might find some happiness in my final days."

Silence descended between them. After a while, Viabold stirred. “Will we be going on?” he asked quietly.

Thraxis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don't know."

"Balthazar is still a threat. The fact that Arrow was once his ally doesn't change any of the reasons that made you come on this journey in the first place."

"No. I suppose it doesn't.” He resumed his seat on the forest floor. “And I can't go back, can I?"

"Arrow will be glad to hear that you're willing to continue."

"Don't.” Thraxis held up a hand to forestall any further words. “Don't speak that woman's name to me." Viabold lingered for a few moments, as if he would object. Then, for once knowing when to be silent, he turned and went back to the campsite. Alone, Thraxis sat and wished that he could turn time back and erase everything that had happened that day. For once, the price of knowledge was too high, and he would have given anything to recapture his ignorance.

* * * *

They arrived at the appointed place for the Challenge on the same day that it was to occur. The changes wrought by Balthazar had forced Arrow to spend precious time readjusting to her own body, and they had almost come too late.

Representatives of the Griffin clan waited on their side of the circle. Heavy gold jewelry flashed in the sun, so copious that it made them look as if they had been gilded. The king was not among them, having decided that these proceedings were beneath his notice. Or perhaps simply believing that he already knew the outcome.

Three men stood a little apart from everyone else, muttering among themselves. They were dressed as women, with rich fur robes and tall headdresses. When they spoke, it was in high lilting tones that mimicked feminine speech. “Who are they?” Balthazar asked in surprise. Arrow swallowed nervously. “Soothsayers. They tell the future by twisting the bark of the linden tree in their fingers."

"Ah."

The Red Feathers took up position opposite the Griffin clan. Breathing slowly, trying to keep her pulse down, Arrow went to the center of the circle. When the Griffin Champion came out, she watched his every movement, trying to get a sense of what he was like as a warrior. He was a tall man, but his muscles were long and lean, and the gracefulness of his stride promised quickness in battle. His blue eyes watched her as well, and she realized that he was not going to underestimate her as so many of her past opponents had done.

"I am Moon High, brother to the king,” said one of the Griffins. “I should warn you that the soothsayers have predicted our victory already."

A thrill of dread went through Arrow, as they had no doubt intended. But behind her, Balthazar laughed.

"I am the only man here with magic,” he proclaimed. “Your soothsayers have no power. They merely mouth the words that they think will win your favor."

Although the heresy shocked her a little, Balthazar's words also calmed Arrow. She knew that her oath brother's magic was stronger than that of any soothsayer.

The soothsayers, however, did not. One of them glared at Balthazar and made a rude gesture. “Beware, foreigner,” he said in his womanlike voice. “The punishment for false wizards is death." Balthazar smiled coldly. “I shall remember that."

"Enough talk,” Moon High said. “Let the Challenge begin."

This Challenge was simple and straightforward. Because he represented the king, the Griffin Champion had been allowed to choose the form even though his clan had issued the Challenge. They were to fight to the death, using only swords.

Arrow controlled her movements as she closed with her opponent, making certain that she did nothing to give away her preternatural abilities to the Griffins. Even so, her perceptions sped so that it seemed the other Champion moved through thick mud, giving her plenty of time to assess his strategy and formulate a response.

She kept the battle brief, knowing that the longer she was exposed to the Griffin representatives the more chance she had of being caught using magic. The Griffin Champion's head parted company with his body only a few minutes after their swords had first touched. Before the astonished gazes of the Griffins and the soothsayers, she picked up the head and carried it by its braids to Blood. Kneeling before her chief, she presented the trophy to him.

Blood smiled warmly when he took it, touching its slack-jawed face lightly with his fingers. “Tell the king that I will have the skull of his Champion made into a drinking cup,” he said to the Griffins. They were in shock, both from the defeat and from Blood's challenging words. Blood, Arrow, and Balthazar stood quietly watching while they retreated to the nearby camp. The soothsayers followed, muttering among themselves.

"We don't have much time,” Blood said. “Once they have taken news of this defeat back to the king, he will have no choice but to respond with war."

"Which is why our own army is only a day behind us,” Balthazar pointed out. This was news to Arrow. Her heart sped up with fear, and she had to fight to keep her perceptions normal. “We're going to war against the king?"

"He's left us no choice,” Blood said. But she knew from his tone that he was pleased.

"I have another concern,” Balthazar said softly. Arrow turned to him and was startled by the quiet hatred burning in his golden eyes. “These soothsayers—they cast doubt on my power. Threatened me. Said that the punishment for false wizards is death."

Blood nodded. “So they did. Shall I have them brought to you?"

"Yes."

Chapter Ten—The Oracle

The next three days were the most miserable that Arrow had ever known. Although he had agreed to continue their journey, Thraxis refused to speak or even to look at her. Not that he graced Viabold with any conversation beyond the barest necessity, either, which left all three of them wrapped in a cloud of silence.

They had taken the four horses belonging to Tracks and Horse, abandoning the cart and giving one mount to Viabold. He took to the riding quickly enough, although he would never be any good by Skald standards, but Arrow occasionally saw him cast longing looks at the mule that now trailed behind him on a lead.

She rode in the back of their little procession, locked away in her thoughts. Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of Thraxis’ long nose when he turned his head to look at something, or would inadvertently meet his eye when they made camp. Then the pain of a friendship destroyed would renew itself, like a fire given new kindling. She felt as though she was living again those dark days after she had first decided to betray Blood and Balthazar, when she had sat alone with her knife in her hand, wondering whether it wouldn't be easier to end it all with two quick slashes to her wrists. Bird Bones had saved her then, giving her a purpose, a chance to redress the wrongs her clan had done. And afterwards, she had imagined foolishly that she could be a normal person again, that she could have friends and moments of joy. That her crimes would not catch up with her in the end. They were deep into Chok territory now and familiar landmarks reminded her of unfinished promises. When they stopped for the night on the third day, Arrow approached Viabold hesitantly. Thraxis sat on the other side of the fire, studiously ignoring them both.

"I have a request to make,” she said. “The Chok have an oracle—you may have heard of her?" Viabold frowned and shook his head. “No."

"She is a woman of power who can see the future. We Skald have male soothsayers among us, but their predictions are unreliable at best. The paths foretold by the oracle never fail. Her temple is nearby, and I promised Bird Bones that I would ask her for a vision before I returned." Thraxis’ snort might have been some sort of comment, although on what she didn't know. Viabold sighed and scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Whether or not humans have any magic has always been a subject of some controversy among us,” he said delicately. “You say that this woman is purported to foretell the future?"

Arrow nodded emphatically. “She does."

Viabold glanced uncomfortably in Thraxis’ direction. “Some of us have investigated claims of humans able to see the future, or exorcise ghosts, or move objects with their minds. I have to say that the vast majority of those claims turned out to be false."

"And the rest?"

"Were inconclusive."

Arrow looked down at her hands. They were covered with nicks and scars from old battles, and her nails were bitten to the quick. “Balthazar did not believe, either,” she said quietly. “And perhaps it is all just a trick. But I made a promise, and I have to keep it."

Thraxis snorted again. Viabold gave him an annoyed glare that let on just how much the feud was starting to wear on him. “We'll go then,” he said, taking advantage of Thraxis’ enforced silence.

"Thank you."

Later, when she lay wrapped in her blankets, she heard them fighting in whispers and knew that Thraxis was furious with Viabold's decision. For his part, Viabold sounded equally angry. She pulled the blanket over her head and closed her eyes, but the whispers followed her down into sleep, to join all the other condemning voices that inhabited her dreams.

* * * *

Steady rain poured down, turning the rutted track into a muddy swamp. A mix of mud and manure splashed up onto the edge of Thraxis’ robe with Stalker's every step. The Athraskani withdrew deeper into his hood, fighting to stifle the nagging cough that had developed shortly after the battle with the berserkers. When he breathed deeply, he could sometimes hear a whistling in his chest that boded no good.

He felt tired, worn down spiritually as well as physically. There were times when he just wanted nothing more than to put aside his anger with Arrow and mend the rift between them. But then he would remember how she had lied to him, betrayed him, and generally made a fool of him. He would not fall into that trap a second time.

A large complex of buildings greeted them at the end of the muddy track. They looked primitive to his eyes, their walls half of rough stone and half of wattle-and-daub. Animal pens surrounded the place on all sides, although their occupants at least were wise enough to get out of the rain. Unlike us. He glared at Viabold again, annoyed that the other man had agreed to visit some barbarian charlatan. By all that was true, what could he have been thinking?

A red curtain decorated with green and yellow appliqué hung over the entrance into what appeared to be the main building. As they drew up, a young woman pushed the curtain aside and came out into the rain. She wore a long robe belted snugly at her waist. Boots, similar to those that Arrow wore, peeked out from beneath the muddy hem. Her green eyes watched them dispassionately, as though she saw stranger sights every day.

Arrow dismounted and went to stand before the young woman. “We have come to see the oracle,” she said, dropping to her knees on the rain-soaked earth and placing her hands over her eyes. Thraxis ground his teeth together, certain that this charlatan wasn't worthy of Arrow's abasement. Then he remembered that he was angry with Arrow and decided not to care.

The woman seemed unmoved by Arrow's request. “And have you brought a gift for the oracle?"

"Two fine Skald horses,” Arrow replied, gesturing to some of the mounts they had taken from the slain warriors.

"And the mule,” Viabold put in unexpectedly. “He can't travel as fast as the horses, and it might be kinder to leave him here."

We could have sold the mule at least, Thraxis thought. Instead of giving it to some hoodoo who has made a nice business for herself by awing simpletons with vague predictions. The woman nodded. “Corral the horses, then come inside. I am the Handmaiden of the oracle. I will tell her that you are here."

They found themselves in a long chamber with a door in each wall. To Thraxis’ surprise, the floor of the room was paved with flagstones instead of mud. Shelves held a collection of other gifts to the oracle: burnished clay pots, jeweled swords, musical instruments, and five dust-covered books. The air smelled thickly of incense and wood smoke. The slap of Athraskani sandals on stone sent up echoes to the shadowy roof.

The Handmaiden emerged from behind a second curtain filling the doorway directly opposite them. “The oracle has accepted your gift,” she intoned. “She will scry your future tonight. For now, one of our acolytes will take you to the guest quarters, where you can make yourselves comfortable."

"We have to wait all night for this?” Thraxis exclaimed indignantly. The woman sniffed and lifted her chin haughtily. “You may leave anytime you wish."

"We'll stay,” Viabold assured her hastily.

One of the acolytes, a girl of about ten, led them out another door and back into the rain. They were taken to one of the low, wattle-and-daub outbuildings, where they were instructed to take off their muddy shoes before going inside. A fire pit glowed warmly in the center of the single room, its smoke winding gradually out a hole in the thatch ceiling. The floor consisted of hard-packed earth liberally covered with brilliant carpets of felt and wool. Hangings similar to the carpets covered the walls, and Arrow touched one lightly, her expression suddenly wistful. “These are of Skald make." There were no chairs, but a generous number of pillows were scattered about. The lumpy-looking objects lying against the walls were probably meant to be beds. Glad to be out of the rain, Thraxis flung his gear down by one and sat on it. Only then did it occur to him that he would have to endure being stuck inside for the rest of the afternoon with Viabold and Arrow.

Viabold, however, had no intention of staying. Shedding his own gear, he pointed to the door. “I'm going to see if they have any food suitable for us,” he announced. “And any beer."

"One glass only,” Thraxis reminded him sharply. Viabold rolled his eyes and left, undoubtedly without the slightest intention of doing as he was told.

Arrow looked as though she considered following Viabold, then sighed and sat down on a pile of carpets near the fire. Almost against his will, he watched as she drew out her arrows, inspecting each for damage from the rain and sighting along the shafts. They were painted in swirls and lines, and he wondered if she had decorated them herself and what the patterns might mean. The firelight glowed gently on her red hair and silhouetted her figure. The sleeveless vest and trousers clung tightly to her, outlining her curves, and he found that he had to force himself to look away. Closing his eyes for good measure, he tried to forget his troubles and relax. After a while, the warmth of the fire and the gentle pattering of the rain outside lulled him into a doze.

The tingle of magic awakened him.

Startled, he opened his eyes and realized that he heard voices talking. Arrow stood near the door, the curtain pushed back. The young girl who had led them to their quarters was before her, holding out a small, elaborately carved box.

"This is a gift,” she was saying. With a slight frown on her face, Arrow took the box from her and started to open it.

Alarm shocked through Thraxis as he realized that the magic he had sensed came from the box. “No, don't!” he shouted, lunging to his feet and throwing himself at her. His hands struck the box just as she opened it, sending it sliding towards the floor.

Light and heat exploded out, hurling Arrow across the room. There was a sickening crack as her head struck the edge of the fire pit. The smell of burned leather and flesh filled the small house. Thraxis started to run towards her, then stopped, horrified.

Blood streaked Arrow's face, and she lay unmoving on the carpets. She was dead, he realized in a moment of profound shock. Arrow was dead, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened since the beginning of the world. With an inarticulate cry, he sprang over the edge of the fire pit and dropped to his knees by her. Cupping her bloody face gently in his hands, he moaned softly in denial. Her brows twitched together slightly, and she groaned.

"Arrow?” he gasped, relieved beyond any other speech. Her eyelids fluttered half-open, but he thought that she didn't really see him.

"What's happening here?” Viabold asked from the doorway. Thraxis turned and saw that several of the oracle's acolytes, including the Handmaiden, stood behind him. The girl who had brought the box huddled in a corner, her hands over her eyes. “I thought I felt magic!"

"The oracle has tried to kill Arrow!” Thraxis shouted, gathering her protectively to him and glaring a challenge at the acolytes.

"Don't be ridiculous,” snapped the Handmaiden.

"Then how do you explain that?” Thraxis demanded, gesturing towards the box with his chin. “The girl brought it, said it was a gift. She was trying to kill Arrow!"

"Nooo,” the girl moaned helplessly from her corner. The Handmaiden turned her sharp eyes on her. Crossing the room in two strides, she snatched the girl's wrists and hauled her to her feet.

"What is the meaning of this?” she asked coldly. Thraxis was suddenly glad that he wasn't the object of her displeasure.

The girl sniffled and wiped her nose. “The men who stayed with us last week—they left it with me. Told me that they thought one of their cousins might be coming to us—a woman Skald, armed like a man and with a Champion's tattoo on her face. They said she might have some men in robes with her. They said it was a present."

"And I say that you are a fool,” snapped the Handmaiden. Dragging the girl mercilessly behind her, she started out, and then paused in the doorway. “The oracle will not be pleased. Let us know if there is anything you require—she will want to compensate you."

The bevy of women left, marching off in a knot towards the main building that housed their oracle. Viabold immediately came over and knelt by Arrow. “How is she?"

Sudden fear touched Thraxis—what if Arrow was dying? There was a terrible amount of blood streaming down her face, and he remembered his own close brush with death. “I don't know,” he said helplessly.

Viabold sighed. “Help me put her on one of the beds closest to the fire, and we'll have a look." Arrow moaned and blinked as they lifted her. Her eyes focused sluggishly on Viabold's face. “Viabold?"

"Ah, you know me. That's good."

She frowned a little. “I hurt. What happened?"

"She doesn't remember!” Thraxis cried.

"Don't be a fool,” Viabold said with infuriating calm. “That's normal with blows to the head. You were attacked,” he added to Arrow. “A magical trap. But you're safe now. Just relax while we look at you." Viabold carefully examined the wound on her head. After an alarming amount of blood was washed away, a small cut on her temple was revealed. A knot had formed underneath, but it didn't look nearly as serious as Thraxis had feared.

Once he had satisfied himself about the head injury, Viabold turned to her more minor wounds. Both of Arrow's hands were burned, although not badly. Her stomach was also burned, the leather vest charred away in that area. Viabold removed the vest—Thraxis turned his back for her modesty—and gently draped a blanket over her breasts for covering.

Thraxis wordlessly assisted Viabold in putting salve on the wounds and bandaging them, feeling helpless. The remains of a tattoo of some kind stretched across her belly, marred now by the burns, and disappeared below the edge of her trousers. When she winced at his touch, Viabold quickly turned his attention to her ribs and proclaimed that several appeared to be broken.

"I think you'll be fine,” Viabold said to her at last. “In fact, you're in better shape than you have a right to be. The magic I felt should have killed you."

Thraxis bit his lip. “I sensed something wrong when the girl brought in the box. I tried to knock it out of Arrow's hands, but I was too slow."

Viabold gave him an odd look. “Don't feel bad, my boy. You kept the full blast of the magic from hitting her, which I feel certain saved her life."

Arrow averted her gaze to the fire. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Thraxis looked away, unable to think of any response. “Who would have left such a thing for us?” he asked instead.

"From what the girl says, it sounds as if those two berserkers who attacked us a few days ago left it,”

Viabold said. “Balthazar must have given it to them, in case they failed and additional measures were needed."

"But how could he have known we'd come here?"

"It wouldn't be a difficult guess,” Arrow said quietly. “Most Skald would come to the oracle, especially ones on a mission like mine."

"Ah.” Viabold briefly checked the bandages on her head. “This is the only injury that worries me. Head wounds can be tricky things. I'm afraid that we're going to have to keep you awake all night, to make certain that you stay lucid. If you're still aware of things tomorrow morning, then you should be all right." Arrow laughed weakly. “And how many of your patients are lucid after a night without sleep?" He smiled and gave her hand a pat. “I'll be back shortly, all right? Try to stay awake until then." The two Athraskani left the building. Outside, the rain had stopped, although the sunset was lost in the thick veil of clouds. “We'll find other quarters for you tonight,” Viabold offered. “That way, you won't be kept awake by Arrow and me."

"You get some sleep,” Thraxis said. “I'll sit with Arrow."

Viabold's brows shot up in surprise. “I thought you weren't speaking to her." Thraxis remembered the moment when he had thought that Arrow was dead. The things he had felt then had been too sudden and complicated to fully analyze. Panic had certainly been among them. Horror. And loss so profound that he didn't ever want to feel that way again.

He also remembered the misery of the last few days, the wash of anger and grief that had made him sick to his stomach. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, he had let pride determine his actions more than he should have. He felt she had shamed him, so his pride had not allowed him to even consider forgiveness. It had blinded him to the fact that he knew the woman, had seen the way she thought and acted. What she had done was terrible. But, as Viabold had pointed out, there were mitigating circumstances. And she was trying very hard to atone, even though that penance was extracting a heavy price from her. Perhaps he should have been more willing to take those things into account and attempt to work through the tangle of feelings her tale had left him with, rather than wall himself away with anger.

"I once said to you that the woman I thought was my friend never existed,” he said at last. “But I don't think that is the truth. I think that she does exists—as does the berserker who killed innocents and consorted with Balthazar.” He shook his head and looked away. “I don't know if I can reconcile myself to that contradiction. But denying the existence of either certainly won't help things."

"That's the first smart thing I've ever heard you say."

Thraxis glared. “Go!” he snapped. Viabold laughed and went.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Thraxis went to the gift room outside of the oracle's chamber. Locating the small stack of books, he perused their titles, glad to find that he recognized them all. Selecting three of them, he returned to the guesthouse.

Arrow was understandably surprised to see him come in, but she made no comment. “I thought that these might help,” he said, waving the books vaguely in the air as he settled to the floor by her. “Viabold might be able to entertain you all night long with witty commentary, but I fear I would be doing neither of us a favor if I attempted that feat. So I thought I would read to you." Her eyes widened. “You can do that? I mean, say the words aloud?"

"Yes.” He studied the titles briefly. “The selection is rather thin, I'm afraid. We have a book of verse by a noted woman poet. Then we have an epic about a famous battle filled with endless stanzas extolling the prowess of its main characters. And finally an account of the Wandering Monk's travels in the distant east. Personally, I would recommend the poetry, although some of it is a bit scandalous." Arrow smiled faintly. “At least it will keep me awake, then."

* * * *

The next day, before the Griffins could decamp, Blood's army attacked. It was more massacre than battle, as the Griffins were vastly outnumbered. Most of them were captured and sacrificed, their deaths replenishing the glow in Balthazar's jewel.

The soothsayers and their male relatives were taken alive at Blood's orders. Once the sacrifices had been completed, they were brought to stand before the chief and his wizard. Balthazar stared at them with eyes like molten gold, and Arrow thought that he did not really see them, but instead beheld some specter from his past.

"You threatened me yesterday,” he said in a deadly voice. “You claimed that your magic was greater than mine, and then warned me that false wizards are put to death. But it is you who are false, not me." A cart was brought up. The prisoners were bound and gagged, then loaded into the bed of the cart. Oxen were hitched to the wagon, and then dry brush was piled into the cart around the terrified men. Balthazar walked up to the cart and lifted his hand. Fire bloomed on his fingertips. Without a word, he touched the brush and watched it ignite.

The smell of roasting flesh filled the air. The eyes of the burning men started from their sockets, and Arrow could see the cords stand out in their necks as they strained to scream against the gags. Then the terrified oxen plunged forward, trying to flee the flames that they dragged inexorably behind them. The whole raced out onto the plain, a pillar of greasy smoke marking its passage. Several of the younger warriors followed on horseback, whooping and laughing. Eventually, the flames would burn through the hitch, freeing the oxen, which would be brought back. The charred hulk of the cart and its unfortunate occupants would remain behind, a warning to anyone else who might challenge Balthazar's power.

Arrow went to the small yurt that she had pitched in the midst of the Skald camp, her belly roiling with nausea. The agony in the men's eyes as they burned haunted her. She had seen men killed before, but only in battle. This deliberate torture felt incomprehensibly wrong.

She sat alone, unable to eat or to take part in the revelry around her. Several times men came looking for her, but she excused herself by claiming a headache. Eventually, Blood himself came to her yurt.

"Should I call your oath brother?” he asked. “I'm sure he knows a cure for everything." Arrow forced herself to smile wanly. “I'm sure he does. But it is nothing—a trifle from standing too long in the sun. I'll be well in the morning."

He nodded approval. “Good. Because tomorrow we ride as we have never ridden before. Today's battle kept news of the Champion's defeat from spreading too quickly. If we move fast enough, Jumping Reindeer will never know what happened until we are upon him."

Afterwards, Arrow lay in her blankets, unable to sleep. Blood meant to kill the king. Although the position was in many ways ceremonial because the individual clans mostly ruled themselves, the king was still the ultimate authority in any dispute. It was his name by which oaths were sworn. It was he whom every Skald acknowledged above even his own chieftain.

By killing him, the Red Feathers would be breaking every oath of loyalty. But the repercussions would go far beyond her clan. The Skald would fragment, splitting along lines of loyalty and greed. The world she had known would be no more.

Closing her eyes, she fought back tears.

Chapter Eleven—Paths of the Future

It was afternoon by the time they again assembled before the oracle's chamber. Despite the few hours of sleep he'd had after dawn, Thraxis felt tired and muzzy-headed. The cough had redoubled after a night of reading his throat dry and was now bad enough to prompt worried looks from his companions. After checking Arrow's wounds, Viabold had promised to concoct a tisane with the help of one of the acolytes versed in herb lore. Something in his expression when he spoke of the woman made Thraxis suspect that Viabold had not spent the previous night alone. It annoyed him—Arrow had almost died, and Viabold treated the event so lightly as to spend the rest of the night rutting with some stranger?

Arrow was well enough to get up and move about on her own. The mild burns on her belly were healing at a phenomenal rate, so that now the skin showed nothing more than an angry red stain no worse than a bad sunburn. This Thraxis could see clearly, because Arrow had simply cut off the damaged portion of her form-fitting shirt, so that it now ended just below her breasts. The style seemed to accentuate the curves of her body even more, and he was glad that no one expected him to sit on a horse this morning. Although the burns were healing fast, her broken ribs obviously still pained her. Thraxis wished that she had simply stayed in bed for the rest of the day, but when one of the acolytes had announced that the oracle was ready to see them, there had been nothing for it.

The oracle knows she's hurt—at least the charlatan could have waited until tomorrow, Thraxis thought angrily. But no, this was a power game, just like those the Athraskani played. They would jump when the oracle called, not the other way around.

The Handmaiden waited in the gift room before the oracle's chamber. Her severe eyes focused on Arrow's stiffness, and she bowed her head slightly in a gesture of regret. “The oracle apologizes again for your injury,” she said. “Be assured that the girl has been turned out." Viabold frowned. “It wasn't her fault—she didn't know."

The Handmaiden shrugged eloquently. “Those who serve the oracle must have clear enough sight to pierce such a simple deception. The girl was a fool, moreover, and acolytes can never be fools. She proved herself unworthy to serve."

"She was only a child—"

"It is not your concern,” the Handmaiden said in a tone that forbade any further discussion. “The oracle has looked into the future and is prepared to speak to you now. However, only one of you may go into her presence to receive her prophecy."

Thraxis sighed—separating the gullible from more knowledgeable companions was an obvious-enough trick. “We'll wait for you here,” he said to Arrow, who nodded and started forward. But the woman held up her hand. “No. The oracle has requested you.” And she pointed at Thraxis.

"Me?” Thraxis exclaimed. “What on earth for? I only came because of Arrow—if anyone is going to speak to this so-called oracle, it should be her."

The woman was unmoved. “You are the only one with whom the oracle will speak."

"I don't even believe in this nonsense!"

Arrow turned back to him, the look in her eyes desperate. “Please, Thraxis. I know I don't have the right to ask you to do this for me, but—."

Thraxis grumbled under his breath and pulled his hood up to shadow his face. “Oh, all right. Let's get this charade over with."

Arrow caught his hand briefly and gave it a quick squeeze of gratitude. With a sigh, he returned the gesture, then shoved the curtain aside and entered the presence of the oracle. The room behind the curtain was small and shadowy. A bronze brazier stood in the center, casting a soft aura of light and heat in its immediate vicinity. On the other side crouched a high-backed chair, elaborately carved with motifs of stags, griffins, horses, and other animals. In the chair sat a woman dressed in a long, close-fitting robe with tight sleeves and bodice. Intricate appliqués covered every inch of the garment, and fur decorated the hem. Heavy gold torques hung about her throat, and gold gleamed on her fingers and ears. On her head she wore a tall headdress of leather and felt, decorated with gold plaques, bright tassels, and more appliqué.

The woman's youth surprised him. Somehow, he had pictured her as elderly, but she could scarcely have been older than Arrow. Although most of her hair was hidden under her headdress, he could see enough to note that it was black, more like the people of the Empire or the Athraskani than the fair barbarians he had seen. Her face was a delicate oval—beautiful really. Somewhat belatedly, he realized that the breaking of the chastity spell had left him receptive to all women, not just Arrow.

"Before you say anything,” he said gruffly, “I want to let you know that I don't believe you can see the future. You would be better off sending me out and calling in Arrow. She's the one who wanted to speak with you."

The oracle smiled faintly. “It does not matter that you do not believe,” she said in a low, husky voice. “If you do not believe in the sun, will it cease to rise in the morning? If you do not believe in horses, will they suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke? The future is what it is and does not require your belief in order to exist."

"But surely it would be easier to talk to someone who does believe,” he pointed out. “Someone who wants to hear what you have to say."

Sorrow showed in the oracle's gray eyes. “I cannot tell the Arrow that Flies the Farthest what she wishes to hear. The future is not a single path. Sometimes, I see only a few possibilities. But in this case, they are multitude, with no single one more likely than the rest. I cannot tell her what the outcome of this war among the Skald will be."

"Then why ask me to come to you?"

"Because there is one thing I have seen with certainty. Of all the futures I beheld, there is not a single path that does not end with Arrow's death."

Cold went through him for a moment, and then he shook it off. He did not, after all, believe that this woman had any power beyond a beautiful face and voice. “Don't you mean my death?” he asked dryly.

“That seems more likely."

"Do with my words what you wish,” she said. “But I say to you that the woman will die. By her own hand or by that of another, this conflict will end with her blood spilled."

"Arrow would never kill herself!"

"Her past weighs heavily on her, and the thought has been in her mind before. Of all the deaths that I saw, that one seems mostly likely averted. But doing so will only buy time. One way or another, she will die before spring turns fully into summer."

Angry, Thraxis turned his back on the oracle. “Nonsense,” he muttered, stalking away. “Utter nonsense." But his hand shook on the curtain as he pushed it aside.

* * * *

They spent another night at the oracle's compound to give Arrow more time to recover from her injuries. Although her palms still hurt when she tried to flex her hands, the burns were already starting to fade. The purple bruise and deep cut on her forehead mended at a pace that clearly shocked both of her companions. The broken ribs would take the longest, but even they would be knit back together in a matter of days. The only permanent reminder of her brush with death came from the burns on her belly, which had obliterated a portion of the reindeer tattoo that she had been given upon reaching womanhood.

Despite her accelerated healing, which should have brought her sordid past more fully into everyone's mind, Thraxis lapsed back into his old ways with her. He spoke to her kindly and took an interest in her health, although he refused to tell her what prophecy the oracle had made for him. She couldn't imagine what thoughts were going on in his head, or what had suddenly made him drop his angry demeanor. It would be foolhardy to ask him, though, and risk upsetting the fragile peace, so she pretended not to notice the abrupt change.

A few days after they had left the oracle—traveling slowly in consideration of Arrow's healing—she felt that most of the stiffness was gone from her torso. As she watched the two men prepare to do their morning kai'ten, she remembered her former desire to learn. Then, she had been afraid that the movements would give her away. But now that they knew her secret, there was no reason not to join them if they would let her.

Feeling awkward, she went to stand before Thraxis as he flowed through the motions of the exercise. Practice had improved his form greatly, until now he could match Viabold's smooth movements without awkwardness.

"Teach me the kai'ten,” she blurted.

Surprise showed clearly on his face. “All right,” he said uncertainly, and then looked at Viabold. The older Athraskani made an encouraging gesture. “Er, of course,” Thraxis continued. “Stand like this—." He showed her the correct form himself, then asked her to repeat it. When her posture was not quite right, he stepped up behind her, placing his hands on her wrists, elbows, shoulders, and hips to adjust her stance. Although she was trying to concentrate on the lesson, the nearness of his body intruded on her awareness. The feeling was oddly intimate, despite Viabold's presence mere feet away. When he showed her the forms and how to move between them, the fluid grace of his touch on her body was sensual. And when he murmured “Yes, exactly,” in a low, husky voice, it sent a bolt of pure desire into her groin.

Stupid, she thought later, mounted on Nightwing as they made their way amongst the Chok farmsteads. Except for the night with Bird Bones, she had lived her life well enough without a man in her bed, dealing with the absence by concentrating on her continuous training as Champion. Why should things change now, of all times?

The lure of the unattainable? she wondered. Thraxis had told her quite plainly that he had taken an oath of chastity, and Viabold had later suggested that he wouldn't have taken sex lightly even had things been different.

And even had that not been the case, she and Thraxis were just back on speaking terms with one another—the idea of luring him into her bed was simply ludicrous.

"Is something wrong?” Thraxis asked politely, and she realized that she had been staring at him.

"No,” she said hastily. “I was just thinking about ... the kai'ten. Are there many different ones?"

"Hundreds,” he replied dryly. “I only know five. Although I'm sure Viabold could show you all of them, considering how dedicated he is to moving without thinking."

Viabold blithely ignored this shot, pretending to be so interested in the landscape that he was oblivious to them.

"I was worried that I wouldn't be able to keep the movements normal,” Arrow said. “But actually, I think the opposite is true. The kai'ten would have helped me control my abilities, I think, if Balthazar would have taught me."

Thraxis’ yellow eyes went remote. Arrow cursed herself silently for her insensitivity. “I'm sorry. I'm certain that Balthazar is the last person you want to hear about. I wasn't thinking." He didn't say anything for a long time, only looked at Stalker's mane. “Did you know about me?" Shame touched her, and she found herself unable to meet his gaze. “No. Balthazar never mentioned you. Not in so many words, at least. But I think there were times, when he spoke of all that he hated about his people, that he referred to you. And I'm sure that, if he had told me, he would have made it sound as though you deserved what had happened."

Thraxis sighed. “He had good reason to hate me, I suppose."

"What you said about his wife hurt him."

Thraxis’ head snapped up. “How did you know about that?"

Arrow suddenly found a knot in Nightwing's mane that required immediate attention. “I ... wasn't exactly asleep that night at Viabold's house,” she confessed. “I don't know what happened, but I could hear you speaking. And I saw—things. Visions."

"What did you see?"

"I saw that dreadful woman.” Anger tried to race her heart. “She had no right to speak to you like that!" Thraxis’ mouth twitched into a rueful smile. “To be fair, it can't have been easy for Melilandra. I don't think it would be easy for any woman—or man, for that matter. But perhaps it was worse for her, to be a great beauty paired with—well.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but she saw pain move suddenly in his wine-yellow eyes.

"The fault was in her,” Arrow insisted doggedly. “And afterwards, I saw that you were upset. I saw you lash out at Balthazar. But I also saw that you were sorry for what you had done."

"I never told him, though.” Thraxis sighed again and shook his head. “Balthazar's rage was not unjustified. Indeed, because he selected me as his victim, I think there were members of the Black Council who blamed me for his defection."

"I don't think that's fair."

"It was easier for them than blaming themselves. And I refused to accept any guilt at first—I suppose I wanted to think that I was an innocent victim maliciously attacked by someone I had never wronged."

"Whatever you did or said to Balthazar, it didn't justify trying to kill you,” Arrow insisted. Thraxis’ mouth quirked. “Not ‘trying’ to kill me,” he reminded her softly. “His spell succeeded. It's only taking a while longer than he might have expected."

Grief slid into her like a spear through her heart. She had known since that night in the Forest of Wer that he was dying, but somehow the truth of it had never quite sunk in before. “Is there no hope?” she asked timidly.

"None.” His voice was unexpectedly gentle, as if to comfort her. “Balthazar left us the autumn before last, taking the doyan'si with him. He had laid a trap on one of the books that I consulted from time to time in my research, knowing that sooner or later I would open it. A year ago, I did so. At first, when I didn't die immediately, I thought that I'd had the strength to overcome the spell. It took two months to realize the truth. After that, I abandoned my studies and spent the next ten months frantically searching for a way to counteract the spell."

"And you didn't find anything?"

He sighed heavily. “It could be done, theoretically, but it would take a tremendous amount of magic. I lacked the power to defeat it in the beginning, when I was at my full strength. I certainly don't have it now."

"Oh."

"Don't be sad. I—it took me a long time to come to terms with it.” A wistful smile touched his lips. “In some ways, I still haven't."

Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, Arrow looked for a way to turn the conversation to something that wouldn't leave her struggling against tears. “What were you researching before—before Balthazar attacked you?"

A weary look passed over his austere face. “I was looking for a way to make people like Balthazar more powerful."

She remembered his conversation with Viabold. “That was why you made the doyan'si."

"Yes.” He hesitated. “The Black Council always wanted more powerful Athraskani. The different levels of power among us are denoted by colors: brown, white, green, blue, red, and black. Brown is the lowest rank, and black the highest. But—it isn't just a small increase of power between the ranks, nor even a doubling. An Athraskani who wears the black is ten times more powerful than one who wears the red, a hundred times more powerful than the blue, a thousand more than the green." The idea took her breath away. How powerful had Thraxis been? “And you wear the black." An odd look passed over his face. “I once overheard—eavesdropped upon—a conversation between Vilhardouin and another member of the Black Council. She said that the only reason they gave me the black was because they had nothing higher.” He turned to her, yellow eyes haunted. “I don't know how powerful I might have been, Arrow. No one does. And now, I never will."

* * * *

The Red Feathers and their allies rode fast across the steppe for the next two days, killing any that saw them. The flashing legs of their red horses outstripped the speed of news, so that when they burst upon the Griffins’ main encampment, their sudden appearance was a shock to all. The night before the battle, Blood on the Wind called his warriors to him. “Before now, booty has been divided among all,” he said to the assembled men, “without regard to whether or not a man has actually killed an enemy. But I would not reward cowards nor slight heroes. The Griffins are the richest clan on the steppe, and by tomorrow's sunset their possessions will be ours. Any man who wishes to share in that wealth need only bring to me the head of a Griffin he has killed." It was, Arrow thought later, a brilliant move. Despite Blood's charisma, many of the warriors were uncertain about regicide. Not only did using the heads of enemies for vouchers provide an extra incentive to kill, but it would also clearly identify anyone who might not approve of Blood's tactics. The next day, the army descended upon the unsuspecting Griffins. Women and children fled for nonexistent safety while the warriors flung up a valiant defense. The battle in many ways was the most difficult the army had faced, despite Balthazar's magical aid. The warriors fought for their homes, their children, their kinfolk, and so held their ground long after they might have flung down their weapons and fled in other circumstances.

Carnage followed wherever Arrow rode. She made no effort to disguise what Balthazar had done to her, only killed enemies that seemed to her as slow as snails. Nightwing was too sluggish, so she dismounted and waded into the battle on foot, slicing off hands and heads and arms until her body was soaked in blood. Rage rose in her, born of despair, and she heard herself screaming like a madwoman. After the battle was finished, Blood set up camp in the ruins of the Griffins’ homes. A lavishly appointed cart was brought up, its bed covered by a yurt that could be lifted off to stand free on the ground. Blood seated himself beneath the canopy in an elaborately carved folding chair, a golden flail held in one hand. Heads were brought to him one by one and heaped in a pile while he praised his warriors. Those who had no heads sat to one side, looking ashamed. One of them, Arrow noted, was Blood's own son, Bird Bones Broken.

When all the other warriors had come before Blood, Arrow finally approached, holding her own trophy by its bloody hair. Her chieftain—now, perhaps, her king—took a sip from the cup he had made from the skull of the Griffin Champion.

"And what have you brought me, my Champion?” he asked. “It would take several carts to hold the heads of all you killed today."

She said nothing, only held out Jumping Reindeer's head for his inspection. There were murmurs and cheers, and several warriors pounded her on the back in congratulations as she set the dead king's head on the pinnacle of the tall heap. They believed that she had killed Jumping Reindeer because he stood in the way of Blood's ambitions, that she had done it to raise her chief to royal status. But in her heart, she knew that it was a lie. She had broken her oaths of fealty and killed her king because it was better to see him die cleanly on her blade than watch him taken prisoner and sacrificed to feed Balthazar's jewel. It had been the only thing she could do for him. Chapter Twelve—The Kurgan

Home.

Arrow stood balanced on Nightwing's saddle, head back, breathing in the air. Home.

At last, after seven grueling moons of travel, she was home once again. That her clan was fragmented didn't matter. That they still had to cross hostile territory to find Bird Bones’ band of rebels didn't matter. Nothing mattered that moment except for the smell of the air, the vastness of the sky, the breadth of the treeless steppe stretching out before her.

Home.

"It's beautiful,” Thraxis said. “Although I think I'll miss the trees." She glanced back to where he waited with Viabold, on the very edge where the last forest gave way to the steppe. “The forest is close, confining,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Here, you can be free." He smiled wryly. “I don't think I know how to do that."

"Then I'll show you."

They rode through a glorious spring that had burst full and beautiful upon the land. The grassy steppe was a carpet of wildflowers that stretched as far as the eye could see. Vetch, melilot, milkweed, sage, lavender, tulips, mignonette, caraway, and curled mint grew in a colorful riot. Mullein spread its wide arms to receive the sunlight, its flowers like stars come to rest on the earth. Hemp and spurge grew in thick stands. Larks sang joyfully to one another amidst the chirping of insects. The air smelled of sweet flowers underlain with the bitter tang of wormwood.

I've come home, Arrow thought again as Nightwing made his way through the swishing vegetation, snatching up mouthfuls of it as he passed. And for a while, she felt as though she had slipped back through time to a childhood spring, when the world felt new and filled with possibilities. When they stopped at midday, she grabbed Thraxis’ hand and they ran together through the grass, laughing like children before they collapsed together by the bank of a small stream, to lie in the drowsy sunlight and listen to the drone of bees. He wove a garland of flowers for her to wear in her hair. She tried to return the favor, then laughed when she saw how ridiculous the result looked on his bald head. He laughed with her and refused to take it off, even when Viabold told him it was the most silly and undignified thing he'd ever seen.

Arrow's good mood was doomed not to last, however. As the sun began to sink towards the western edge of the world, what appeared to be a tall hill rose up on the horizon. It stood out starkly on the otherwise flat steppe, its eastern side casting a sharp-edge shadow, its western flank dyed red by the sunset. Dark shapes moved at its base.

"What is that?” Thraxis asked uncertainly.

Arrow shivered. “It's a kurgan. A burial mound."

"It's huge."

"It belongs to the last Griffin king. The one who was killed so that Blood could take his place." Viabold frowned and stroked his chin. “In that case, I wouldn't have thought that the man would have had any sort of burial at all. Certainly not something so elaborate as this." Arrow swallowed hard. “He wasn't meant to. After he and the other Griffin warriors were killed, he was left to rot with his followers. But his wife stole his body away."

"His wife wasn't killed, then?” Thraxis asked carefully.

Memories crowded Arrow's mind: screams of agony, bloodied faces, rough hands, grunts of release. The horror of the battlefield was inevitably followed by the horror of the encampment, where men she had known all her life brutalized the women and children made prisoner. “Blood raped her,” she said flatly. “I think he was going to keep her as his own wife, to help legitimize his claim. But she and some of the other women who survived their ordeal managed to escape and take the king's remains with them."

"And did anyone assist with their escape?"

Damn him for seeing too much. “Perhaps."

Thraxis’ lips thinned into a grim line, but he kept whatever he was thinking to himself. “And they raised this kurgan by themselves?"

"Of course not. There were still many then who were loyal to the Griffin bloodline. They built the kurgan as a monument and rallied behind the king's only surviving son. He was only a boy.” Fighting back the memories, she balled her hands into fists, until her nails pierced the skin. “Of course Blood hunted them down. He took fifty of the warriors who had fought against him the hardest and told them that, if they wanted to protect a Griffin king, they were welcome to do so. And he sent them here." Thraxis peered at the kurgan in puzzlement. “Those dark shapes?"

She nodded. “You'll understand soon enough."

As they drew closer, the kurgan loomed up until it seemed to overshadow the sky. The earth atop it was still raw, a single hot summer and freezing winter not long enough to blanket it with grass. The shapes at the base slowly resolved themselves into men mounted atop horses. Although they moved restlessly, they maintained rank, giving no sign that they saw the three riders coming towards them.

"I don't think this is wise,” Thraxis said in alarm. “Surely they aren't going to be very happy to see you." Arrow only shook her head. “We have nothing to fear from them. You'll see." From the distance, the figures looked like mounted warriors waiting for battle. But slowly details began to emerge: crow-eaten faces, weather-torn clothing, corroded weapons. The horses stared with eyeless sockets, and bone showed through their bay hides.

"By all that's true,” whispered Viabold in horror. “Mother of Heaven and Earth, have mercy upon us."

"They're dead,” Thraxis said flatly.

The corpses “rode” in single file, forming a circle around the gigantic kurgan. A single stout spear pierced both horse and rider, joining them in death. Wagon wheels had been lashed to horse and spear to hold the grisly assemblage upright. When the wind blew, it rocked loose limbs and clothing, giving the riders a ghastly semblance of life.

Thraxis rode over to the nearest warrior and studied flesh mummified by the elements. Strands of blond hair still clung to his skull, streaming gently over the gaping holes where eyes had once been. He still wore a golden torque about his neck, and his arms were decorated with bracelets. No one as of yet had found the courage to disturb the dead, not even for the promise of gold.

"Why?” Thraxis asked finally.

"A warning,” Arrow said bitterly. “Dare to follow a dead king, and you'll end up like him."

"And was it effective?"

"Oh, yes. All but the most fanatical suddenly found a new loyalty to Blood. Except for the rebels led by Bird Bones Broken and a few isolated clans whose hatred of the Red Feathers is greater than their fear, Blood on the Wind rules the western steppe all the way to the Black Mountains."

"I was shocked when we were attacked by bandits,” Thraxis said. “I had never experienced violence of any kind before. And of course it was even more shocking when your kinfolk showed up to kill us. But that violence—was born in the heat of anger or desperation.” He gestured to the dead warriors encircling the kurgan. “This—this was cold. And so even more appalling."

Arrow bit her lip until she tasted blood. “Yes."

Thraxis turned away from the dead warrior. “We should be on our way. I don't think I want to be here after sundown."

As he rode towards her, Arrow saw the dead warrior behind him move. For a moment, she thought that it was only the wind again. But then the bony hand with its rags of flesh closed around the hilt of the corroding sword and pulled it from its sheath.

"Thraxis!” she shouted, digging her heels into Nightwing's flanks even as she drew her own blade. There came the sound of rending wood and snapping ropes. The warrior shuddered as his horse jerked itself free of the wagon wheels, pulling the stake that spitted it from the ground. Movement rippled all up and down the line as the dead awoke, horses and men alike stirring to life, struggling to be free of their restraints.

Nightwing screamed in terror and reared. Belatedly, Arrow tried to clamp her knees about his sides, but the move didn't work, and she found herself sliding back over his rump. The ground slammed into her, robbing her momentarily of breath. A bronze sword green with corrosion slashed at her head, and she forced herself to move, rolling away from stamping hooves. The stench of decay washed over her in a flood, bringing bile to her mouth.

Springing to her feet, she brought her sword around in a deadly arc. The dead warriors were no faster than living ones, giving her the advantage of speed. She lopped off hands, cut the legs from beneath a horse, buried her sword in the gut of man so that it grated off the spear that still staked him. None of it made any difference whatsoever.

The man whose hand she cut off didn't flinch, only switched his sword to the one remaining. The horse, dragging its spear obscenely in the dirt, struggled towards her on stumps. The warrior she gutted ignored the mass of decaying entrails that spilled out in slimy loops, oblivious to pain. They were all around her. Encircled, she let out a despairing battle cry, certain that she would feel a sword slide through her back at any second.

The familiar clang of bronze off wood came from behind her. Startled, she risked casting a quick glance over her shoulder. Thraxis stood at her back, feet firmly planted, his staff whipping through the air to first block one blow, then another.

"Run!” she shouted at him furiously.

"Don't be silly.” He ducked as one of the riders took a swipe at him, caught the blade on the magically hard wood of his staff, and disarmed the dead warrior with a quick twist. “I'm not leaving you. Besides, the horses have all run off."

Unable to waste her concentration in an argument, Arrow turned her attention to the dead warriors once again. Thraxis was a solid presence at her back, a wall through which nothing would pass, and for the first time she understood what it was to have a true comrade whom she could trust with her life, without fear that he would fail her.

In the end, though, it only prolonged the inevitable. The enemies they faced knew neither fear, nor weariness, nor pain. Before long, Arrow felt exhaustion dragging at her limbs and knew that Thraxis must be at the very limit of his endurance. Step by step, they were forced back, until they reached the base of the kurgan. Viabold was already there, his face white with fear, his body protected by an invisible veil that turned aside the relentless rain of blows aimed at him.

"They're driving us,” Thraxis managed to gasp out. Exhaustion bleached the color from his pale skin and left bruises under his eyes. Blood poured from a deep cut across his scalp, and there was an ugly welt on one cheek. His hands shook badly as he lifted his staff.

"But why?"

And then the ground gave way beneath them.

She fell into darkness, hit something hard with her shoulder, and felt herself carried along by sliding dirt and gravity. Something fell on top of her, and for a moment she started to panic until she realized that it was cloth and not earth across her face.

The slide stopped. Whoever was on top of her grunted and tried to push himself up, then snatched his hand away as if it were on fire. “Sorry,” Thraxis gasped, and Arrow almost laughed at him. Fifty dead warriors had just attacked them, and he was worried about accidentally grabbing the wrong portions of her anatomy?

"Where are we?” she asked, sitting up. A faint thread of light drifted down from the cave-in, but it was almost dark outside and did nothing to illuminate their surroundings.

"A moment,” Viabold called. His voice came out of the darkness, whispering words in a tongue she did not understand. As he spoke, a faint reddish light bloomed, driving back the shadows. When she saw what it illuminated, Arrow screamed.

They had tumbled into the burial chamber beneath the kurgan. The walls were of hard-packed soil that was so pale it was almost white. The ceiling was formed from timbers that had been laid over the chamber after the dead had been interred. Bright hangings covered the walls, and rich carpets hid the earthen floor. A dismantled cart was set to one side, a dead ox between the traces. Household goods of every type packed the small space, from cookware to mirrors to combs.

The dead themselves lay scattered about. One shape rested in the bed of the cart, while another reclined in the driver's seat. At least three other bodies stretched out on the floor, arms folded over their chests. The air in the sunless chamber was freezing cold and stank of rotting meat.

"Oh, Lady,” Arrow moaned. “Oh, Lady, no, please."

"Arrow?” Thraxis asked worriedly. She felt him touch her arm, then draw her against his body. “It's going to be all right."

"No, you don't understand—” she began, and then stopped.

These dead were restless as well.

Jumping Reindeer sat up first, rising slowly above the bed of the cart in which he had been interred. His withered flesh had sunk to the bone, and only holes remained where the crows had eaten his eyes. Someone had given him a wig of false hair to replace the scalp that Arrow had taken. His head had been stitched back on, but the ends of the bones did not meet cleanly, making his neck appear grotesquely short.

His wife, whose name Arrow had never known, was the next to reanimate. She was beautifully robed and wore a high headdress over her thick hair. Arrow wondered dully how she had died, whether some wound or sickness had claimed her life, or whether she had voluntarily followed her husband into darkness. The only wounds that she could see were those from the normal embalming process, where the muscles and viscera were removed.

The next corpse was a man, the driver of the wagon. He looked like a warrior, probably killed to protect his king in the afterlife. Then there was a young girl, a slave perhaps, also slain to serve the royal family in death.

But it was the final body, that of a young boy, which broke Arrow's tenuous control.

"No!” she screamed, scrambling back from the hollow stare of his sunken eyes. Thraxis’ hands closed hard on her shoulders. “Arrow!"

"This is my punishment!” she wailed, unable to look away from the boy. His clothing covered the awful wounds that she knew his body bore. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please forgive me!"

"Arrow, listen to me!” Thraxis shouted, insistent.

"This is my punishment!"

"No, it isn't!” He spun her around to face him, stared intently into her eyes. “This is Athraskani magic, Arrow! I know you can't sense it, but believe me when I tell you that I can. It's all around us, I swear to you. Balthazar is doing this, not the dead themselves, not the gods." She whimpered, pressing her face into his shoulder and trying not to look at the dead.

"We have to get her out of here,” Viabold said.

"If you recall, there are fifty angry warriors waiting for us out there,” Thraxis snapped back.

"We have to do something!"

"And we will.” Thraxis gently loosened Arrow's grip on him and looked down into her eyes. “I need you to be strong, dear heart. Viabold and I are going to get us out of here, I promise, but we need you to watch our backs until we figure out exactly what needs to be done. Can you do that for me?" Somehow, she found the strength to nod. Letting go of her hold on him, she turned back to face the burial chamber. The dead had moved closer, shuffling slowly towards her. The boy was in the fore, his slack face accusing her silently. Struggling not to think, she gripped her sword and dropped into a crouch, putting herself between the dead and her friends.

"We might be able to destroy them,” Viabold said uneasily, his voice echoing eerily in the small chamber.

“I don't think that would break the Vow to do no harm, considering that they're already dead."

"I don't think the question is whether they're dead,” Thraxis replied, “but whether or not they have any consciousness. If they are aware on any level, then destroying them would be doing harm." The warrior on the wagon lunged at Arrow. She severed his arm at the elbow with a clean stroke. The arm plopped wetly onto the ground—then began slowly dragging itself towards her by its fingers. “I don't think this is the time for a debate on ethics!” she shouted, fighting hysteria.

"On the contrary,” Thraxis said in a startlingly calm voice. “It is easy to keep to one's ethical standards when one is safe and well-fed. It is our conduct in times of danger and desperation that reveal our true natures."

"Your true nature is going to be dead if you don't hurry up!” she snapped, knocking aside a blow from the warrior's sword just in time to find herself confronting Jumping Reindeer. With a snarl of despair and fury, she struck his swollen neck, severing his head a second time. This time, however, it did nothing to slow him down.

"It takes power to animate the inanimate,” Viabold said slowly. “Balthazar, wherever he is, must be maintaining some sort of connection to the dead of this kurgan in order for them to behave like this."

"Which means he probably knows that we're here,” Thraxis said grimly.

"Probably not us in particular. But he knows that the spell has been triggered. Whether he set it for the presence of Athraskani or for Arrow, I don't know. But that's unimportant right now. If we work together, I think that we can probably block the power he's sending to the dead. That would break the spell on them and let them return to their natural state. And breaking a spell set on them would not be classified as doing them harm."

The two men began muttering to one another. Concentrating on her battle with the dead, Arrow ignored them for a while. When her attackers had drawn back, she risked a glance over her shoulder. They had drawn a large circle in chalk and inscribed it with strange symbols. Thraxis stood in the center, one arm raised towards the timber ceiling, the other pointing at the floor. Viabold lay at his feet, arms stretched out to either side.

The shuffling scrape of footsteps caught her attention back to the fore. The young boy stood before her, sunken eyes seeming to search for her own. He was coming for her, she realized in horror. To stop him, she would have to be responsible for destroying him—again.

"No,” she whispered, sinking to her knees in despair. His brown hair hung matted around his shriveled face; he was too young for it to have ever been twisted into a warrior's braids. So young.

She remembered the terror in his eyes, the way his lower lip had trembled with fear as she stood over him, paralyzed by horror at the thought of killing a child. Remembered the sunlight skittering off the blade in her shaking hand.

"I'm sorry,” she gasped, letting her sword fall to her side. “I'm sorry." There was no mercy in the decaying face. There had been no mercy in Blood's eyes when her chief called upon her to give Jumping Reindeer's heir over to a horrible death. There had been no mercy when Hunts Mice had flayed his skin from his bones.

She would have given anything to take back that day, to have put herself in some other part of the battlefield. To have done something to stop the slaughter long before it ever began. She should have rammed her sword in Blood's heart the day he suggested taking the Falcon's territory from them. She should have rammed it in her own.

The child drew closer, and all the strength drained from her arms. The smell of mold and rot wafted out from him. The frigid cold had kept at bay all the tiny things that might have feasted on his flesh, so that his features still held some semblance of life. He moved slowly, so slowly, his small feet stumbling over the uneven carpets. One hand lifted and reached towards her face, as if in a caress. Only at the last moment did she notice the bronze knife held in his fingers. Unable to move, she stared at him bleakly, feeling the kiss of the cold metal against her throat in the instant before he drove it in. Cold blue light flashed suddenly from behind her, flinging the room into stark relief. The ground trembled, and somewhere far off something wailed in despair. Then the boy collapsed as though he had been hamstrung. Behind him, the other dead fell as well, dropping into twisted heaps where they lay unmoving. The light dimmed and went out, leaving behind only the faint ruddy glow of Viabold's magical illumination. Still frozen in place, Arrow began to shake hard, her entire body shuddering from reaction. Hands closed weakly on her shoulders. “Arrow,” Thraxis whispered, his voice only a ghost of its normal baritone. Feeling the warmth of his fingers against her frigid skin, she turned a little, caught a glimpse of his face. His pale skin looked as though it was stretched over his bare skull, his mouth a hard line of exhaustion and pain. “It's over. Come on."

Somehow, she managed to stand. Thraxis moved as if to support her, then stumbled. Viabold caught him, hauling one arm over his shoulders. “Come on, lad,” the older man said gruffly. “You can make it." They climbed slowly out of the burial chamber. The dead warriors lay in heaps outside with their horses, animate no more. As soon as they reached the free air, Thraxis collapsed, coughing violently. When he took his hand away from his mouth, Arrow saw that his fingers were covered in blood.

"No.” She dropped down by him as he ineffectively tried to wipe the blood away on his robe. “What have you done?"

"I had to work magic,” he said patiently. A spasm went through him, and his jaw tightened for a moment in pain. “This is the price."

"Don't die."

He smothered another cough. “I won't die tonight,” he assured her weakly.

"Let's get away from this place,” Viabold suggested. “Then we'll make camp and I'll brew you a tea that should help with the coughing. Or I would, if most of my herbs weren't in my saddlebags."

"The horses won't have gone far,” Arrow said tiredly. “I'll round them up." It took the last bit of energy she possessed to find the horses and coax them close enough to the kurgan for Thraxis to mount. Although they all would have liked to put miles between themselves and the accursed site, they only went far enough not to be able to smell the dead before making camp. Viabold made his tea and forced Thraxis, who looked on the point of total collapse, to drink it. Arrow sat off by herself, feeling lonely and scared. Seeing her so isolated, Thraxis beckoned to her. When she joined him, he put his arms around her in a fierce hug. Burying her face in his shoulder, she fought hard not to cry.

"How old are you, child?” Viabold asked gently when she had recovered somewhat.

"Nineteen,” she said, frowning at the strange question.

"And how old were you when you fought your first Challenge?"

"Almost sixteen,” she replied defensively. Beside her, Thraxis paled sharply. “Why? What does it matter?"

"It doesn't,” Viabold said quietly. “Except that it's all right to be young and scared."

"I'm not young. Not after the things that I've seen. Not after the things that I've done." Viabold looked suddenly old in the firelight, the gray in his hair and the silver in his eyes more pronounced. “I know, child. I know."

* * * *

It was late at night, but Arrow found herself unable to sleep. Rather than lie in bed, listening to the heavy thud of her heart, she rose and went out into the night. All of the fires had been banked, and only the stars shed light over the slumbering camp. The song of crickets filled the air, bright and lively as pipers at a festival. The wind smelled of horses, blood, and decaying flesh. Arrow set out into the camp, angling towards the herds on the other side. The presence of the horses might lend her some comfort, or at least the solid weight of familiarity. Although a watch had been set up around the war camp, the guards were all far out from the main body, and she expected to encounter no one else on her walk.

So it was with surprise that she caught a glimpse of stealthy movement near the center of the camp. For a moment, she thought it was some warrior going to relieve himself, but the furtiveness of the movements seemed odd, so she paused to watch.

The shadows resolved themselves into women. They cast frightened glances behind them, particularly in the direction of Blood's nearby yurt. The high pile of heads that had been made earlier in the day appeared to be their destination, and Arrow watched as they hovered around the grisly spoils. Uncertain what to do, she moved towards them. One of them looked up, and Arrow saw that her features were swollen and battered. She looked familiar, but it wasn't until Arrow noticed the head that she clutched in her hands that she matched an identity to the face. This was Jumping Reindeer's widow, erstwhile queen of the Skald—and now Blood's slave.

The queen's eyes went wide, and she let out a low hiss of hate. Her hands cradled her dead husband's head like a child. The enormity of pain and humiliation in her eyes was staggering, and Arrow had to look away.

None of the women said anything, fear silencing any imprecations they might have hurled at her. I should raise the alarm, Arrow thought dully. If she did, they would most likely be killed for their attempted escape. Although, she thought, that might be far more merciful a fate than returning them to their masters. She remembered the queen's screams as Blood raped her after first having her sons killed in front of her. Arrow couldn't begin to imagine how it would have felt to have been in her place, except that she knew her ultimate response would have been the same: to escape with whatever was left to her, even if it was only a dead husband's remains. Even if it meant her own death.

"Come,” Arrow whispered, motioning for them to follow her. They stared at her with distrustful eyes, but after a moment of hesitation, the queen obeyed. Two others were struggling to carry Jumping Reindeer's corpse between them; Arrow took it from them and slung it over her shoulders. The outriders were spread out, leaving occasional gaps in the line of the watch. Arrow led her charges to one such gap and gave the king's body back to them. “Go straight ahead until you are past the riders,”

she said gruffly. “You'll have to make it on foot—there is nothing more that I can do for you." No one thanked her—it would have been ridiculous for them to do so, when she was the one who had put them in this position to begin with. Arrow stood still for a long time, watching the line of determined women vanish into the night. She wondered if she had been foolish to let them go. But to have done otherwise, to have returned them to further torment at the hands of her kinsmen—that would have been worse than any punishment she might face.

As she turned back towards camp, she caught a glimpse of a figure standing at the edge of the yurts behind her, and her heart almost stopped. The starlight revealed a handsome face that she recognized all too well: Bird Bones Broken, Blood on the Wind's only son and heir.

For a moment, they stared at one another, and she knew that he had seen what she had done. Then he gravely nodded to her, acknowledging her act. Turning away, he disappeared back into the night. Arrow remained where she was for a long time, unable to believe that he had not raised the alarm. Then she recalled that he had not been among those presenting trophy heads to Blood that day, and she wondered suddenly if there were others as sick of the carnage as she. Chapter Thirteen—Bird Bones Broken

As if the violence at the kurgan had broken a spell, the land they traveled through thereafter bore the constant scars of war. Although they never saw any other living people, their path was littered with dead bodies. Lone corpses lay rotting in the grass, mostly men who had been chased down and put to the sword by their enemies. The burned remains of camps, composed of shredded yurts, smashed carts, and mutilated bodies, dotted the fertile river valleys. Once, they came upon a young girl lying naked with her legs spread. Her eyes had been gouged out, her hands and feet cut off. An occasional stray ox or goat eyed them warily as it cropped grass, and once they saw one such animal taken down by what appeared to be a pack of dogs gone feral.

They moved carefully through this torn landscape, always on the lookout for any sign of other riders. Once, when they came upon a line of trampled grass, Arrow insisted that they conceal themselves for several hours, giving any enemies a chance to draw farther away. But for the most part, there was only themselves and the wind.

The steppe had a wild, bleak beauty that made Thraxis understand why Arrow had missed it. The landscape consisted of little other than grass and a riot of wildflowers that stretched unbroken to every horizon. Eagles, vultures, falcons, and hawks soared above the flat land, occasionally stooping towards the earth in search of prey. Infrequently, a tall stone broke up the monotony of the flat plain, the bones of the earth showing through the rich soil. These stones had inevitably been shaped, with crude images of riders and beasts carved into their surfaces.

The second day dawned bright and clear as the rest, and Thraxis thought that they were destined to have good weather throughout. But as afternoon turned towards evening, the eastern horizon began to darken. Before long, the distant shapes of thunderclouds could be discerned, accompanied by the faint, far-off flash of lightning. The wind picked up, tossing Arrow's hair and the tails of the horses, and wrapping the loose folds of the traveling robe tightly around his body.

Arrow reined in, nostrils flaring, and stared intently at the approaching storm. “We need shelter. Now." Viabold glanced eastwards. “Surely it won't reach us before nightfall."

"You don't understand. These storms come up fast in the spring. They pass quickly as well, but they're ferocious while they're overhead.” Climbing up to stand in the saddle, she scanned the horizon, looking for shelter. The steppe was flat as a tabletop and utterly devoid of anything to break either wind or rain.

"Damn it,” Arrow swore, dropping back into the saddle in a move that made Thraxis wince. “I have a small tent, but it isn't very big. I don't know if we can all fit." Viabold smiled at her, gold eyes gleaming. “You forget, girl, you're traveling with wizards now. I can put up a veil to keep us all dry, including the horses, so long as we don't move around much." Despite Viabold's words, Thraxis had his misgivings. The other Athraskani was only a blue robe, after all, and the horses were large animals. “How long can you hold it?” he asked pointedly. Viabold gave him a sharp look. “Long enough."

Arrow glanced uncertainly between them. “Would it help if I put up my tent? So you would have one less body to worry about?"

Viabold hesitated. “It would help,” he admitted reluctantly.

After that, they wasted no time. Arrow pulled a small bundle of poles and felt from one of the packs on Nightwing's saddle, while Thraxis attempted to get all the horses to lie down in a tight grouping around Viabold. As he did so, he listened to the other man chant and watched as he drew symbols on the forehead of each horse with ash. A sudden, sharp pang of jealousy went through him— he should the one doing that. He could have veiled them all with ease—they wouldn't have even had to stop riding. His fingers curled into fists, and he swallowed back the anger trying to work its way out of his throat. There was no sense in getting mad at Viabold, who had no hand in the events that had brought about the curse. Feeling painfully useless and ineffectual, Thraxis forced himself to straighten and look at the sky. To his surprise, he saw that the storm was almost directly overhead. The wind picked up, and he smelled rain for a few seconds before the first drops struck him. Then the sky opened up in a sudden fusillade of stinging hail.

Thraxis cursed in shock as the icy missiles struck his bare skin. He tried to jerk his hood up to protect himself, but the wind snatched it out of his fingers and sent it flapping back. A frantic glance showed him that Arrow had gotten her tent up, and he made a quick dash for the opening. Arrow looked surprised at his sudden appearance but made no comment on it. Instead, she asked, “Did Viabold get the cousins under cover?"

"They're all fine. So is he. I'm the only one who got caught without anything over my head. Which, given this trip so far, doesn't come as a total shock."

He caught her faint smile despite the dimness of the tent's interior. As she had said, the enclosure was tiny, just large enough to get a single person through a night of bad weather. His head brushed the felt ceiling even when sitting, and Arrow's thigh was jammed tightly against his. The tent sides rippled wildly in the wind as the drum of hail turned into a roar of pouring rain. Lightning flashed brightly, followed by a crack of thunder that made Thraxis jump. He wondered how often people were killed in these storms. The storm continued with no sign of abating, despite Arrow's earlier prediction. They shared a cold supper, then lapsed into silence while the world outside grew darker and darker. Her thigh was warm against his, making his body ache to feel more. She smelled of leather, smoke, and horses, a scent that at one time he had thought repellent but now found compelling because it was hers. It occurred to him that they were alone for the first time in a long while, and Viabold was not likely to be disturbing them anytime soon. Should he try to kiss her, he wondered nervously. He wanted to—gods!—but what if she didn't?

Then hopefully she'll let me know without breaking too many bones in the process, he thought wryly. The risks of getting physically close to someone possessed of inhuman speed and strength had certainly occurred to him before. Arrow could probably kill him with a single blow. He trusted that she wouldn't.

Feeling uncertain, he shifted a little so that he could see her face, hoping to catch some clue as to what he should do next. To his disappointment, her expression was grim. She was watching the rain fall outside through the half-open doorway, her mouth set in a taut line and her eyes dark with memory.

"What are you thinking about?” he asked hesitantly. It was a question that he had always hated as rude and obtrusive, but right now he could think of nothing else to say.

"I was thinking about the last time I was caught in the rain with someone,” she replied.

"It doesn't look like a happy memory."

"I don't know—it's difficult—complicated. Sometimes I think about the things I've done, and it seems almost as if they were the actions of some other person. As if I was a spectator instead of a participant.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'd prefer not to talk about it right now."

"Oh. That's quite all right. I didn't mean to pry."

To his surprise, she reached over and took his hand in her own. “We're friends, aren't we?"

"Of course,” he said, not certain whether he should feel miffed for being dismissed as a simple friend, or happy because she genuinely liked him.

They didn't speak again. Arrow watched the rain fall for a long time, until afternoon turned to dusk, holding his hand the entire time. Eventually, she snuggled down for sleep, although the cramped quarters meant that they had to lie pressed together, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Thraxis lay awake for a long time, his heart pounding and his body wildly alive and aware of her nearness. But the shadows in her eyes haunted his thoughts, inescapable. He knew few details about her past experiences, he realized, except that many of them had been very bad indeed. The sketchy outline she had given them the night she was revealed as a berserker had filled him with horror, but how much worse must it have been to live through it?

She whimpered softly in her sleep, and he pulled her a little closer to his side. After a moment, she sighed and subsided into stillness once again. As he studied features rendered vulnerable with sleep, he felt a sudden desire to protect her from all the dark things in the world.

My barbarian, he thought drowsily. My amria.

And he knew in his heart that it was true.

* * * *

It was still raining the next morning, a steady downpour that allowed riding but nevertheless made them all miserable. Thraxis’ nose began to drip, and a deep cough nagged him despite the fact that Viabold had forced enough tea down his throat to drown in. Pain had settled into his lungs, a counterpoint to the continual ache in his joints, and he began to wonder just how much time he had left to him. Their camp that night was cold and wet, and they arose the next morning to a dirty gray sky that passed for dawn.

"Bird Bones and I agreed on a meeting place before I left last fall,” Arrow said as they saddled the disgruntled horses. “We should reach it today. He said that he would come there every half moon beginning with midwinter. He was to wait four days, then leave."

"He'll be waiting for us, then,” Viabold said.

Arrow looked away. “If he still lives."

Thraxis watched her in silence as they rode. She was worried, he decided, and afraid that this man would not be waiting for them when they got there. For her sake, he hoped that Bird Bones had survived the winter of his rebellion.

The episode at the kurgan hurt her somewhere inside, he thought. All her good spirits had deserted her, and she had withdrawn into herself. Or perhaps it simply reopened a wound that had only begun to scab over.

Gods of truth, but she was young. He had not realized how young until Viabold had asked. Experience had aged her prematurely, and he guessed that she would deny that she had only been a child when she went to her first Challenge. Fifteen. She was fifteen when she killed a man. No wonder she couldn't find a path off the road she had started to walk. No wonder she let herself be swept along with Blood's plans.

Arrow was strong as her name in some ways. But in other ways she struck him as curiously vulnerable, even fragile. The dead child in the kurgan had gone straight to the heart of that fragility, for reasons that she refused to share with him. And now that she was again in the land where so much horror had taken place, what other painful memories would strike at her?

The meeting place that Arrow had set up with Bird Bones consisted of a small dell in the lee of three enormous boulders that looked as if they had been scattered there by the hand of a giant. They approached the place slowly as the last gray light waned behind rain clouds. Stalker's ears swiveled forward and he raised his head, cropped mane standing up sharply. Even as Thraxis wondered whether or not he should try to soothe the animal, the gelding trumpeted loudly. A moment later, another horse answered from within the dell.

Arrow tensed, her eyes going wide with a mixture of hope and fear. She held Nightwing back, as if afraid to see who or what awaited them. Thraxis opened his mouth to offer to ride ahead, but just as he did so, a figure appeared from behind the stones.

He was a tall, broad man with the well-muscled build of a fighter. He wore his blond hair shorn close to the scalp on the left side of his head, but long and braided on the right. Like Arrow, he was dressed in close-fitting trousers, boots, and coat. Gold gleamed in his left ear, encircled his throat, and weighed down his fingers. His face was youthful and handsome, and joy lit his blue eyes like a fire from within.

"Arrow!” he called, running towards them.

Arrow sprang from Nightwing's back to meet the man half way. He crushed her to him in a fierce embrace—then locked his mouth on hers in a passionate kiss.

Thraxis felt all the blood drain from his face. Slack fingers let go of the reins. He's her lover. For a moment, a sense of betrayal threatened to swamp even the rising tide of jealousy.

"Oh dear,” Viabold murmured as he dismounted. “He certainly is a strapping fellow, isn't he?" Thraxis forced his legs to work and scrambled gracelessly from Stalker's back. “Yes. He is."

"Yes. I bet he could snap your scrawny neck like a chicken's." Thraxis flushed. “Shut up."

"Yes, just like a chicken."

"Shut up!"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck."

"If you don't shut up, I'll turn you into a chicken!” Thraxis shouted, rounding furiously on Viabold. Then, realizing the volume he had spoken at, he glanced over at Arrow and her lover. They were both staring blankly at him, as if he had taken leave of whatever sense remained to him.

"These are the Athraskani who agreed to come with me,” Arrow said hesitantly, gesturing toward them.

“Viabold and Thraxis."

Thraxis gave her lover his most charming smile. “A pleasure to meet you, Bird Brains." The young man looked flustered. “That's Bird Bones."

"I'm so sorry—I just learned your language."

"Maybe we should make camp,” Arrow suggested.

Bird Bones Broken had of course already made a small encampment. A round, brightly-colored and decorated tent stood before a fire fueled by what appeared to be dried animal dung. A bronze pot bubbled over it, giving off the smell of boiling meat. “I've already started a venison stew,” he said.

“You're welcome to all of it that you want."

"I'm sorry,” Viabold said gently, “but our kind do not eat meat." Bird Bones flushed. “I'm sorry—I didn't realize. Balthazar always ate our food, so I had assumed that you would also."

"Did you?” Thraxis asked pleasantly, in a tone that suggested only a complete idiot would ever think such a thing.

The young Skald gave him an odd look. “There are some excellent roots and greens to be found this time of year."

Viabold gave him a winning smile. “Wonderful! Why don't you and I go look for them while Arrow and Thraxis set up camp?"

Bird Bones glanced at Arrow, as though he wanted to object. Arrow, however, didn't meet his gaze, instead suddenly becoming preoccupied with unsaddling Nightwing. After a moment, he shrugged and led Viabold away into the growing night.

"You don't like him,” Arrow said as they groomed the horses together. Thraxis shrugged. “I hardly think that my opinion of him matters." She hesitated, then stopped brushing Nightwing altogether. “I was surprised at the—the way he greeted me."

Thraxis concentrated on the bay hide in front of him. “Were you?"

"Yes. Thraxis, Bird Bones saved my life."

"I'm glad for that."

"But not in the way you think."

He stopped brushing as well. “How, then?"

Misery showed in her brown eyes. “There was a time—There was a time when I was seriously considering taking my own life. After we killed the Griffin king, and Leaf Dancing repudiated me, and we hunted down and exterminated the remaining Griffin heirs—I became lost in despair. I had gained everything that I had ever worked towards, and it had all turned to horror. The things that I had seen and done haunted me all of the time, waking and sleeping. The whole world had turned into ash, and I wasn't certain that I deserved to live any longer.

"Then Blood came to me and told me to kill Bird Bones. His own son. Bird Bones was always against Blood's campaigns, and he had grown more and more troublesome, refusing to kill the Griffins and speaking out against what we had become.

"That was the moment when I felt I had reached the very bottom of the well that I had fallen into. Despite all that I had done, I had never raised a hand against a member of my own clan. I went to Bird Bones and knew that I couldn't do it, couldn't kill him, even though it would mean that I would lose all the prestige I had gained in the eyes of Blood and others like him.

"We fled together. It was the only choice we had. And as we rode away, I knew that I had finally lost everything. Leaf Dancing hated me for what I had done. I hated myself for what I had done. And now Blood and the rest of the clan would hate me for showing mercy. I honestly felt like my life was over. And Bird Bones—his own father had ordered his execution. I know that he felt very much alone as well.

"So when he kissed me when we made camp that night—I didn't pull away. I just—I was a drowning woman, dying inside. He offered me something to cling to, and I took it. I knew that it wasn't right for an unmarried woman to do something like that, but I didn't care anymore. And since I can't conceive, it didn't seem to matter."

Thraxis stared at her, feeling an odd grief. “You can't?"

"Didn't I tell you that? No. My courses stopped when Balthazar made me a berserker.” She paused a moment, picking her way through her narrative. “At any rate, later, when it was over—I started to think again. Started to see past the despair. That was when I decided to go south, to seek out Balthazar's people and ask them for help. It gave me a purpose, a way of righting some of the wrongs I had done." Thraxis nodded quietly. “I understand."

"I thought that the night with Bird Bones was only a one-time thing. Two friends seeking comfort in each other when they had nothing else. But I'm starting to think that he saw things differently.” She paused, biting her lip. “I'm sorry, Thraxis."

"There's no reason for you to apologize to me."

What might have been hurt flashed through her eyes, then was gone again. “No. No, I suppose not." Viabold and Bird Bones returned shortly thereafter. As they set about making dinner, Thraxis wandered away from the campsite. He passed by the tall boulders and went out onto the plain, until the fire was not even a gleam in the darkness. From deep within his hood, he looked up at the stars. They stared back, indifferent to his troubles.

The swish of a heavy robe through grass came to his ears. After a few moments, Viabold stopped near him. The older Athraskani was nothing but a shadow in the star-kissed darkness, his expression lost to the night. “So, it seems you're going to have to fight for her, eh?” he asked sympathetically. Thraxis continued to watch the stars. “No."

Viabold chuckled. “That's my lad—confident as ever."

"That wasn't what I meant. I'm not going to fight for her, Viabold. Bird Bones has nothing to fear from me."

"I thought you said that she was your amria. The one meant for you. You aren't still angry with her over her past, are you?"

"No,” he said truthfully.

"Then why?"

"Because I love her."

When Viabold said nothing, Thraxis sighed impatiently and cast him a sharp look. “I'm dying, Viabold. How much time is left before I face Balthazar? A few weeks, perhaps? Do you think that I would court her, let her come to love me, ruin her chances with Bird Bones—only to die and leave her with that?"

"No. No, I don't suppose you would. But don't you think that the choice is hers to make, not yours?

Maybe she would rather have a few happy memories of you despite the pain, instead of nothing at all."

"It wouldn't be fair,” Thraxis insisted. “And this Bird Bones seems to feel affection for her. Better that she have a lifetime with him than a few weeks with me."

"You seem awfully certain that he's going to survive the coming battle." Thraxis remembered the oracle's words and shivered. “At least there is a hope of life for him,” he said firmly, thrusting away the warning of Arrow's death. “There is none for me." There was nothing Viabold could say to that. Bowing his head, he turned away and left Thraxis alone with his thoughts.

* * * *

As soon as she rode into the Red Feathers’ encampment, Arrow knew that something was wrong. She had been looking forward to a joyful homecoming, with the clan turning out to hail Blood, the new king of the Skald. They were the royal clan now, and future kings would come from their ranks. It was a day for celebration.

But rather than jubilation, the returning army was met with pensive quiet and an air of expectation. Puzzled, Arrow saw that the entire clan had gathered in a loose circle on the outskirts of the camp. The center of the circle was empty except for the figure of a lone man. Leaf Dancing stood there, his grizzled hair gleaming in the sunlight. He held his head high, but the lines in his weathered face looked etched deeper than ever. As their eyes met, Arrow realized that he was waiting for her, and sudden fear soured her stomach.

Slowly, in a silence that revealed the rustle of every blade of grass, she dismounted and walked towards him. When she was within the circle, he held up one hand, commanding her to stop.

"The Arrow that Flies the Farthest,” he said, his old voice cracking with grief, “I am your granduncle. I raised you to be the Champion of your clan. I raised you in the way of the warrior, in the way of honor.”

He stopped, and tears glittered in his eyes. “You have turned your back on those ways."

"Leaf,” she began, reaching out to him. But he shook his head, cutting off her words.

"You have broken your oaths and killed your king. You have cheated to win in the Challenge. You have slaughtered warriors and innocents alike. You have abandoned your honor, and you shame me, who taught you to fight. I wish that I had never taken you into my house." Arrow held herself very still, feeling as though she might break apart. “Don't say that,” she whispered, keeping back her tears because he had taught her that a Champion never cried. “Everything I did, I did for you. For my clan. I only tried to make you proud of me."

"What you did, you did for yourself and for Blood. I want no part of it.” Leaf took a deep breath, as if bracing himself against what came next. “I hereby cast you out of my house and repudiate you. You are no longer my kinswoman."

He started to turn away, then stopped and looked back at her with hollow eyes. “You think that these people care about you. You think that they respect you. That they love you. But they don't. A man does not love his arrows, only the glory that they bring him from their use." Moving slowly, as if his old bones pained him, he turned away from her. She saw that he had a covered wagon and realized that he meant to leave the camp for good. Vole Under the Snow waited for him, holding the oxen's leads. For a moment their eyes met, and she saw pity and love in Vole's gaze. And then they were gone.

Standing alone, unable to move, Arrow listened while the rest of the clan surged to meet Blood. The world had ended, but somehow everyone failed to notice it save for her. As she stood there, feeling empty beyond words, Balthazar joined her. His golden eyes were hard.

"I know what it's like,” he said, “to be rejected by your own family. Leaf Dancing is an old fool. No one cares what he thinks. His actions have no impact on your standing with the rest of the clan."

"I care,” Arrow whispered in despair as she watched him walk away. “They have an impact on me.” But only the wind heard.

Chapter Fourteen—Rebels

They started for the rebel encampment, which was another three days away, early the next morning. The rebels had been forced to move again and again, Bird Bones said as they rode. Every time they thought that they had found a safe haven, Balthazar discovered their whereabouts and sent magic against them. In the winter, this had taken the form of terrible storms, which shattered yurts beneath the weight of accumulated ice and froze horses in their corrals. Terrible creatures stalked the night, corporeal enough to kill but insubstantial as mist when the rebels tried to fight back. Many had died, and some had returned to beg Blood's forgiveness, unable to stand the hardships. Those who remained lived in constant terror of Balthazar's power.

Arrow watched Bird Bones’ face as he spoke of these hardships, and her heart sank within her. He had dropped weight over the winter, and stress had aged his handsome face. But when he looked at her, a smile erased some of the lines forming around his mouth and lightened the darkness in his haunted blue eyes.

"But now that you've come back with help, I know that everything will be all right,” he said, and she knew that he would have reached out to touch her if there hadn't been others nearby.

"I'll set up a veil around the camp that will keep Balthazar's prying eyes away,” Viabold offered. Bird Bones nodded solemnly, the beads in his war braids clicking together softly. “Thank you. I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming so far to help us.” He hesitated, and then asked what he had to have been thinking for months now. “Do you truly think that you can defeat Balthazar?" Viabold glanced uneasily at Thraxis. The younger Athraskani had been riding quietly at the end of the column, his hood drawn up to shadow his face. Sensing their attention, he looked up, and Arrow caught the flash of a yellow eye.

"Balthazar's power comes from the doyan'si,” he said, so softly that they had to strain to hear him over the wind. “Either Viabold or I can destroy it. We only have to get close enough."

"How close?” Bird Bones asked.

"Physical contact."

"That won't be easy."

"No. I don't suppose that it will be."

Bird Bones frowned thoughtfully at nothing. “Balthazar has raised some sort of—of structure on what used to be Griffin pasture. It's very tall and made from stone and wood."

"A tower?” asked Viabold.

"I think so. He lives there all the time now, and it has become the center of Red Feather territory. Rumor has it that Father lives there as well. If anyone needed more proof that he has abandoned the ways of the Skald, surely that would be it."

Arrow winced at the bitterness in his voice. None of this had been easy for him. Nor were things likely to improve, not for some time to come. “Is there any hope of us breaching the fortress?"

"With what remains of the Red Feathers—no. But I have been making overtures to some of the other clans who still refuse to acknowledge my father."

"I imagine they're suspicious,” Viabold observed.

"They are. Or they were. But enough time has passed for them to see that we're suffering as well. I think that the Falcons might agree to join us in battle. Their forces added to ours might be enough—but only if we could count on not having to face Balthazar's magic along with regular warriors." Viabold stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Then a frontal assault won't do any good unless we're already inside with Balthazar."

"No."

Despair touched Arrow—surely she hadn't traveled so far and endured so much only to discover in the end that her quest was fruitless. “Then what can we do?"

"We'll find a way,” Thraxis said from the depths of his hood. “Don't lose hope." Bird Bones turned in the saddle and gave the Athraskani an odd look, as if not entirely sure what to make of him. But the hood hid Thraxis’ expression, and no one knew what he thought.

* * * *

Their journey across the steppe was swift, for which Arrow was grateful. Although Viabold was his normal cheerful self, her other two companions seemed to have been replaced by gloomy doppelgangers. Bird Bones rode near her during the day and sat by her at night. Even though he didn't try to repeat the kiss he had greeted her with, he touched her as often as he could. That he wished for some privacy was obvious, and she dreaded what he might say or do once they reached the main encampment and could be alone for a while.

Thraxis simply withdrew into himself. This was not the angry isolation that he had inflicted on her after the battle with her berserker kinsmen. Instead, he simply detached himself from the group, always riding at the rear or sitting off to the side, always quiet. It was as if he had become a ghost, present but unable to interact with the living. At first, Arrow tried to draw him out. He answered any questions politely but made no effort at real conversation, until at last she gave up in frustration. The one thing she was able to get him to do was perform the kai'ten with Viabold and her each morning. They had gotten into the habit of facing one another so that she could learn by performing a mirror image of his movements. At those times, energy seemed to crackle and flow between them like chained lightning, and his yellow eyes burned with intensity. The feeling was so intimate that it was hard to believe that several feet of physical space separated them and that no part of their bodies ever touched. When the exercises ended and she turned reluctantly away, she would inevitably find Bird Bones staring at her, dour as a jealous suitor.

Her chief's spirits lifted as they drew nearer the rebel encampment, however. Arrow had thought that hers would as well. But when the time came, all she felt was nervousness and fear at the prospect of seeing her kinsmen again.

The camp was small by the standards of the Skald. A herd of perhaps two hundred horses grazed to the north, near a second herd of sheep and hornless cattle. In between the herds stood a loose collection of yurts, their yellow, red, and blue felt making them look like gigantic flowers. A few dogs barked, and the sound of a woman singing lifted to the sky. Smoke from cook fires hung on the breeze, underlain by the scents of roasting meat, dung, and leather.

Several outriders had already spotted them and came galloping in, yelling a greeting. Although none of them would quite meet Arrow's eye, they were overjoyed to see their chief and the two Athraskani. Word spread as fast as a horse could run, and soon the entire camp had turned out to greet them. Many of those living in the rebel camp were warriors who disagreed with Blood's dishonorable tactics. But by far the majority consisted of women, children, and old men. As they rode slowly through the jubilant crowd, Arrow felt her heart sink. There aren't enough of them to give Blood a real fight, she thought in despair. We need more warriors. We need the Falcons, maybe more clans. As Arrow dismounted, Bird Bones cleared his throat delicately. “I'll make arrangements for your friends to be hosted,” he said uncertainly. “And we have several extra yurts from those who died, if you don't mind using one. But first I think that there is someone with whom you need to talk." His grim look disturbed her, and she tried to think of who could possibly want to speak to her. “I don't understand."

He only pointed to one of the yurts. “Go there and you will."

Reluctantly, she turned and walked towards it. It occurred to her that, for the first time since meeting Thraxis, she was going to be separated from her Athraskani friends. Here in the camp, there was no need for them to socialize with her. Others would help them with horses, others would offer their cook fires, and others would listen to their stories. Sorrow pierced her, and she looked back over her shoulder with longing.

Thraxis was still mounted, but his great height would have made him stand out in any crowd even on foot. He was looking her way, she realized, and she wondered suddenly if he'd had the same thoughts. The yurt Bird Bones had directed her to was made of yellow and green felt. Every inch of it was covered with red and blue appliqué in the shapes of deer, horses, birds, and panthers. Her throat constricted as she stared at the familiar designs, and she remembered Vole's patient work as he cut and sewed each one with care.

No. Lady of Beasts, don't let it be him.

But of course it was.

Leaf Dancing sat in the shaded interior, obviously waiting for her. He wore what had once been his best tunic and coat, although now they were mended and stained. A wooden jug of koumiss and two horn cups sat on the carpets before him. As she knelt across from him, Arrow studied his face anxiously. The white hair and blue eyes were the same, but his face was even more heavily lined than it had been, and his mouth looked as though it had forgotten how to smile.

"I am glad to see you well,” she said at last, when he didn't speak. To her surprise, tears welled up in his eyes. “And I, you,” he said in that hoarse voice that had spoken all the lessons of her childhood. He blinked rapidly and gestured at the cups. “Would you care for some koumiss?"

She should have savored her first taste in seven moons, but nervousness soured the fermented milk in her belly. “I didn't know you were here."

"I was here even before Bird Bones came."

Something about the way he spoke the words alarmed her. “Where is Vole? Is he all right?" Grief seared his seamed face. “Vole Under the Snow left me."

"But—you were married for fifty years! Why would he leave?"

Leaf Dancing looked down at hands that bore the scars of a harsh lifetime. “Vole and I argued soon after we left Blood's encampment. He said that we had betrayed you."

"I don't see how."

"Don't you? Vole certainly did. He pointed out that we had trained you to be not just a Champion but the best Champion possible. We spent ten years teaching you to win. But we also spent those years telling you that you weren't going to win for yourself but for your clan. That your first duty above all others was to submit to the will of your chief and your people."

Leaf took a sip of koumiss with hands that shook. “And when you did everything that we had taught you, we turned our backs on you."

Arrow shook her head. “It wasn't like that. I had dishonored myself—"

"The dishonor was Blood's, not yours. You fought for your clan. You obeyed your chief. You did all the things that a good Champion should. But instead of cursing Blood for twisting your purpose, we cursed you. I cursed you.” Leaf put one hand over his eyes, hiding tears. “The wound was too raw then. I couldn't admit that Vole was right, that I had made a terrible mistake. So he left me. He said that he was going back to his own people beyond the Black Mountains."

If they're even still there after fifty years, Arrow thought in dismay. “Do you think he made it?"

"No. He left on the edge of winter, the old fool."

Arrow closed her eyes, fighting back her own tears. No, a seventy-year-old man wouldn't survive a winter alone on the steppe. Vole, who had been like a father to her, was dead. And, once again, the fault was hers. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, but the words were so inadequate that she might as well have kept silent.

Leaf put one arthritic hand to her wrist. “No. I'm the one who is sorry. I'm the one who drove away the two people who meant most in the world to me.” He smiled wanly at her. “I don't want that to happen again, so I want to say something now, before any more time passes. You went alone on a perilous journey into an unknown land, looking for help that you might not find. And now you've come back, with not one but two wizards. I'm so proud of you, Arrow."

She closed her eyes, biting her lip hard. Lady of Beasts, if only he had reason to be. “I am sorry, Leaf. I never meant for things to turn out the way they did."

She stood up, intending to go back out and find her friends. Leaf caught her wrist gently. “You'll stay here with me?” he asked.

"I can't,” she said sadly and saw the crushing disappointment in his eyes. “I don't have that right anymore. You cast me out. You know that a family member, once repudiated, can never be reinstated." Pulling gently away, she went back out into the sunlight. The wind felt cold on her face, and grief snagged her lungs when she tried to breathe. It seemed impossible that Vole could be dead, and a part of her wanted to cling to the belief that he had somehow survived the winter on his own, unlikely as she knew it to be.

Thraxis and Viabold were gone, undoubtedly invited into the homes of others to rest and refresh themselves. Feeling utterly adrift, Arrow went to find an empty yurt where she could be alone with her sorrow.

* * * *

That evening, a celebration was held to welcome the two Athraskani. People sang and danced to the accompaniment of flutes, lyres, and drums. Young men showed off their riding skills: standing on the backs of galloping horses, leaping over animals, charging each other head-on, and lassoing difficult targets. Old men gathered around gaming carpets, dicing with the anklebones of sheep. Smoke from sizzling fires wafted into the sky, carrying messages to the gods.

Arrow found herself sitting across a fire from Thraxis and Viabold, part of a loose circle of about ten people who had gathered to eat together. Viabold had made an acquaintance with koumiss and was now putting away quantities that would shame a Skald. Thraxis accepted a pastry from a shyly smiling girl, juggling the hot dessert from hand to hand until it cooled.

"Your people are very friendly,” he said around a mouthful of fried bread.

"Hospitality is important to us."

Thraxis looked as if he would make some response, then stopped, his eyes going past her. Turning to follow his gaze, Arrow found Bird Bones Broken standing over her. He smiled a little and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Arrow, could we ... talk? Somewhere private?"

Her thin shell of good spirits shattered. She had expected this moment to come ever since his enthusiastic greeting but had hoped to put it off for as long as possible. But time had run out before she felt even remotely ready for such a confrontation. With a short nod, she set aside the remains of her dinner and climbed to her feet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thraxis rise as well. Curious, she turned to face him. He stood with one hand stretched out, as if he had thought to restrain her. There was pain in his intense, wine-yellow eyes, as if everything in him gathered itself to plead with her: Don't leave me. I would never leave you, she thought, surprised. I love you. The world changed, as if the angle of the sun had suddenly shifted, showing her things she had never before seen. For the first time in her life, everything made sense.

I love you. Of course she did. It felt inevitable, natural, and she realized that she had known it all along, even if she hadn't articulated it to herself.

She reached for his outstretched hand. But her arm fell short, and their fingers hung separated by a few inches of air that might as well have been a gulf of lifetimes. For a long moment, Thraxis looked down at fingers that could not quite touch, perhaps thinking similar thoughts. Then he dropped his arm and walked away.

Troubled, Arrow turned away as well. Bird Bones had gone ahead, and she hastened to catch up with him. He led her away from the cluster of yurts, out across the grassy plain. The faint sound of singing and laughter faded away as the other celebrants prepared to retire for sleep, and the lights of cook fires went out one by one. The smell of spring on the wind was so familiar that it made her heart ache for all the years gone past.

Bird Bones stopped. When she remained several feet away from him, he stepped towards her and tried to catch her up in his arms. She took a quick step back and watched puzzlement fill his blue eyes.

"I'm sorry we haven't had time to talk before this,” he said uncertainly, as if he suspected that lay behind her rejection. “I wanted to, badly, but it seemed impossible with your friends there all the time."

"It's all right."

"No, it isn't.” He hesitated, scuffing one foot in the dirt. “Arrow—I've thought about you constantly since you left. I've thought about what happened between us that night. I knew that I had to let you go south to look for help, because otherwise we had no hope. But I cursed that decision in my heart every morning that I woke without you."

Oh, Lady of Beasts—.

"What I'm trying to say,” he continued, “is that I love you, and I hope you'll agree to be my wife." Arrow held herself very still, considering the offer. Right now, she was utterly alone in the world. Vole was dead, and her relationship with Leaf Dancing could never return to what it had been. As for the rest of her clan—although she had not been turned away from the rebel encampment, neither had anyone had hurried to greet her with open arms, remembering too well whose instrument she had been. Viabold was a friend, but he would eventually return to his own home far to the south. And Thraxis—. Thraxis would be dead.

She didn't love Bird Bones. But she considered him a friend and knew that he would be a good husband. Marriage within the clan was encouraged, so long as the bride and groom were not too closely related, and it would regain her much lost respect in the eyes of her people.

And she wouldn't have to feel so alone anymore.

"I'm barren,” she reminded him softly.

"I don't care. I love you."

She shook her head. “You don't love me. You love some image of me that you created in your mind while I was gone. I was a symbol of hope for you, something to hold on to when despair threatened to destroy your resolve. That symbol, that image, is what you fell in love with, not me, not as I truly am."

"That isn't true!” He stepped forward, drawing her to him. “I love you. Please, Arrow, say you'll be my wife."

"I can't!” she cried, twisting away sharply to break his hold.

"Why not?"

"I—” She stopped, listening to the strident sounds coming from camp. “What's that?" Bird Bones frowned. “It sounds like your friend Thraxis. Is he shouting your name? I can't imagine why—I thought he was staying with White Flower and Hungry Dog Hunts." The implication of his words hit her. “Oh hell—I forgot to tell him!” Then she was running back to the camp as fast as her feet would carry her.

* * * *

The Skald might be barbarians, Thraxis thought, but they certainly knew how to decorate. After he had walked away from Arrow, he had been accosted by two of her innumerable kinfolk. The woman introduced herself as White Flower and her husband as Hungry Dog Hunts. They had, they said, been given the privilege of hosting him in their yurt.

A part of him wanted to linger outside and wait for Arrow's return. To do so would only be self-torture, however, so he accepted the young couple's invitation to settle in for the night. As they walked through the camp, he saw that the celebration was over. Fires were doused, drunken revelers were dragged off to shelter, and straying children were collected.

His hosts talked freely, and he tried to pay attention to their conversation instead of worry about what Bird Bones and Arrow might be doing. White Flower reminded him strongly of Kestrel, both for her blond hair and for her personality. Hungry Dog Hunts had soft brown hair—rare on the western steppe—and a faint duskiness to his skin that suggested an ancestor from another part of the world. At least, Thraxis thought as he ducked to enter their yurt, his hosts would be pleasant company. The interior of the yurt astonished him. The floor was covered with thick, brilliantly colored carpets to cushion weary feet. Elaborate felt hangings hid the exterior walls, teasing the eye with depictions of fighting beasts and charging riders. Curtains sectioned the interior off into smaller rooms. Furnishings were few, but all were highly ornamented, from the copper cauldron to a small bronze mirror. This was no rude herdsman's tent, such as he had expected, but instead a comfortable home. White Flower instructed him to leave his sandals outside the yurt beside their boots, then led him to one of the smaller “chambers.” Inside was a grass-stuffed mattress with pillows for legs and head. Piles of warm blankets flowed invitingly over the simple bed, and he felt sudden weariness clutch at his limbs. As soon as his hostess left him, he sank down gratefully on the soft mattress and slid immediately towards the edge of sleep.

Something touched his face lightly. Surprised, he opened his eyes, wondering if he was dreaming. Breath whispered in his ear and lips found the line of his jaw. Certain that he was awake now, he sat up and found himself staring into the eyes of a very naked White Flower.

She smiled and trailed a finger along his cheekbone. “You're handsome, in an odd sort of way. Pretty eyes."

Before he could gather his wits enough to reply, Thraxis caught a glimpse of another figure pushing aside the curtain. His certainty that he was about to be killed by a jealous husband disappeared when a smiling, naked Hungry Dog Hunts knelt down by him as well. A masculine hand slipped around the back of his neck a moment before male lips pressed softly against his own.

A few seconds later, Thraxis burst out of the yurt into the night air, clutching wildly at his robes and bellowing for Arrow. Not knowing where else to look for her, he bolted in the direction she and Bird Bones had disappeared in, praying that he wasn't about to interrupt a lover's tryst. The camp stirred awake around him, half-dressed warriors popping out of tents in response to his shouts, and he found himself dodging cursing men and tripping over weapons.

A tall, rangy shadow appeared on the edge of the encampment. Relieved, he veered towards it and stumbled to a halt. Arrow grabbed his arms, a look of dismay in her brown eyes. “Arrow,” he gasped.

“Naked people! In my bed!"

"I know.” She winced, looking over his shoulder at the roused camp. “I'm sorry, Thraxis. I forgot you don't know our customs."

"Customs! A man kissed me!"

She turned him around and shoved him back towards the camp. “Over there on the north edge—there's a yurt set a little apart from the rest. It has a blue griffin decorating the side near the entrance. Go in there and stay put."

"Where are you going?"

She sighed and pushed some of her tangled red hair back from her face. “I'm going to apologize to White Flower and Hungry Dog Hunts."

"Apologize!"

"Just go!” she snapped.

Pulling away from her, he stalked away towards the north edge of the camp. His sandals had been left behind, and he had to step carefully to keep from planting a bare foot in any stray patches of animal dung. The yurt was thankfully empty, and he sat down well away from the beds, fuming in silence. The noise of the camp died back to nothing. After what seemed like a long time, Arrow ducked inside the yurt, his sandals in one hand. “I explained your reaction to everyone,” she said tiredly. “I don't think anyone is permanently offended."

"Well, I wish you would explain things to me."

She sat down cross-legged on the soft carpets. “I'm sorry. I forgot that you didn't know our customs,”

she said. “I've had a lot of things to think about today."

"What are these customs you keep talking about?"

"It's part of our hospitality. Male travelers generally stay with a married couple when visiting another clan. Guests are offered food, a comfortable bed, and companionship."

"Meaning sex."

"Yes."

"That's insane! Marriage is a—a sacred undertaking. Even the Black Council respects marital vows. But you're telling me that here married people just sleep with perfect strangers whenever they feel like it?" Arrow's mouth curved suspiciously, as if she was trying to stifle a laugh. “Life on the steppe can be a little monotonous, Thraxis. Believe me, people look forward to visitors, if only for some variation." Thraxis shook his head. “Among the Athraskani, married couples only do that sort of thing with each other."

"But, from what Viabold has told me, your people are promiscuous before marriage,” Arrow countered.

“We aren't. Which makes more sense—if an unmarried woman gets pregnant, who will help with the baby? But if White Flower had borne your child, Hungry Dog Hunts would have been there to take care of it."

"Athraskani women don't get pregnant unless they want to.” He scowled at memory. “And I'm sorry if White Flower and her husband are bored, but I won't be put to stud for their pleasure or anyone else's." Arrow winced. “I'm sorry. I know how you feel about these things, how the Black Council has made you feel. You can stay here with me so you don't have to worry about anyone forcing themselves on you."

"This is your yurt?"

"Yes."

"Oh.” He looked around uneasily. “What—that is, I would think that Bird Bones wouldn't exactly approve of me staying here."

"Probably not.” She turned away brusquely, fussing with the covers on a bed. “I'm tired, so if you're through alarming the camp for one night, could we get some sleep?" Feeling surprisingly better about things, Thraxis lay down on another bed shoved in a corner. As he stared at the ceiling, a sudden thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute—Kestrel said something about not being able to show us ‘proper hospitality’ because she was pregnant. She didn't mean—." Arrow lay on her side facing away from him, so her voice was slightly muffled when she answered.

“Yes."

Thraxis sat up and stared at her back. “So, if things had been different, you would have had no objection to me sleeping with your sister?"

The silence stretched on so long that he thought she might have fallen asleep. Then she sighed. “I told you about our customs,” she said. “I never told you that jealousy was unknown among the Skald." Her reply shocked him. Lying slowly back, the only thing he could think to say was “Oh."

"Go to sleep."

"I will."

But despite his words, he lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness and listening to her soft breathing.

* * * *

The war was not over, of course.

For a few weeks, Arrow deceived herself into believing that it was. Blood on the Wind was now King of the Skald, and as such had everything he had ever desired. There would be no more fighting with the other clans. No more massacres, no more sacrifices, no more rapes. The terrible darkness that had engulfed her life would finally give way to a new dawn. A foolish hope, she admitted to herself later. Because the Skald were a proud people who would cling to dreams of revenge even when they had been deprived of everything else. As the grass began to dry and the steppe faded into a sere wasteland of brown and dusty green, word came that a new kurgan had been raised on the southernmost edge of the steppe. Rumor whispered that the monument marked Jumping Reindeer's resting place, and that his only surviving son, Cracked Antler, had raised it. Fifty loyal men had managed to hide Antler and spirit him away from the massacre that had claimed the lives of the rest of the clan. Now, they proclaimed him king in defiance of Blood. Don't do this, Arrow pleaded with them mentally as she lay alone in her yurt at night. It can only end in your deaths. Don't do this.

And so they rode to battle once again. If there had been time for more clans to hear the rumor and bind themselves to Antler, things might have gone differently. But raising the kurgan and proclaiming a rival to Blood's rule so soon had been an act of madness. Perhaps they had hoped to hide themselves on the steppe, gathering support in secret throughout the winter, letting the monument become a rallying point for those who had not broken their oaths to the Griffin king. If so, they had not taken Balthazar into consideration.

The Athraskani spent hours each night staring into a simple bowl filled with water. Through it, he could see things far off—including the camp of the Pretender, as Blood had dubbed Antler. Having located the camp, Balthazar then cast spells to hide their own forces from the eyes of any far-riding scouts. And so it was that the last remnant of the Griffin clan was again taken by surprise. The fighting was vicious. Once the defense around the camp was broken, Arrow wandered through the weatherworn collection of yurts. Unlike most of the attackers, she was not searching for survivors hiding inside. Instead, she simply walked blindly, striving to blot out the shrieks and cries around her. As she passed by one of the simple yurts, some tiny movement caught her eye. Without thinking, she leaned down and peered inside.

A small figure lunged at her, bronze knife gleaming in its hand. Instinctively, she swept the knife aside with her sword and put the point of the blade to her attacker's heart.

And found herself staring down into the terrified eyes of a child.

He was not old enough to fight in battle, not even old enough to wear war braids. Privation had thinned his face so that his pale eyes looked huge. His lower lip trembled with fear, but he strove to hold himself defiantly so that he would not bring shame upon his kin.

As Arrow stared at him, she felt horror sweep over her. He was only a child—war was for grown men, not boys. If she let him go, perhaps he would find his way out of the battle without harm. Perhaps he would find some way to survive alone on the steppe.

"Arrow! I'm pleased!” Blood exclaimed. Startled, Arrow looked up and found him standing next to her. A satisfied grin spread across his face as he eyed her captive. “First you bring me the head of the father, and now you bring me that of the son."

For a moment, her mind tried to deny his words. “This—this is Cracked Antler?"

"Indeed."

"But—he's just a child."

Blood's eyes narrowed dangerously. “He is a child now, Arrow. Would you let him become a man? A man who will someday threaten the security of your own clan? Who will kill your sons and rape your daughters? Would you betray your kinfolk by refusing to protect them now?" Antler began to whimper. Arrow's hand shook, and a trickle of blood started down his chest from where the point of her sword rested. This is insane, she thought, staring into his terrified eyes. Lady of Beasts, deliver me from this madness.

But there was no deliverance, not for her or for Antler. “You have done well, my Champion,” Blood said as he beckoned Hunts Mice over to them.

Hunts Mice had become renowned for his cruelty. He wore a cloak made of scalps, and his yurt was decorated with human skin. It was a point of boasting for him that both scalps and skin had been taken while their owners still lived.

Hunts Mice strode over, a hungry grin on his face, and seized Antler's wrist, dragging the boy away behind him. Arrow stood motionless, knowing that she should run after them, should argue that no child deserved the death Antler would get now, should do ... something.

There's nothing I can do, she told herself bitterly. They would only call me a coward, and a weak woman, and not listen anyway. There's nothing I can do to save Antler. It took the boy a long, long time to die. And as Arrow sat alone in her yurt, listening to Antler's screams, she knew that she would never again think of herself as anything but a monster. Chapter Fifteen—The Beasts In The Fog

The rebel encampment rose with the dawn. Dogs barked; children ran through the dew-soaked grass, and stallions whinnied at one another. The smell of cooking food filled the air, and women raised their voices to greet one another and the new day. Lying in her bed with her eyes closed, Arrow pretended that she was waking to some morning from her childhood. In a few moments, Leaf or Vole would come roust her out of bed for breakfast. Kestrel might join them for a little while, before Arrow had to turn her attention to her lessons. Her life as a Champion was still years away. Everything was still possible and none of her choices had yet been made.

She sighed and opened her eyes, knowing the futility of such a fantasy. Thraxis sat near the entrance to the yurt, just finishing tying on his sandals. His yellow eyes were on her, as if he had been watching her sleep, and a faint smile lit up his face. When he realized that she was awake, he looked away quickly. She sat up groggily, knowing that Bird Bones was going to have a great deal to say about Thraxis staying with her unchaperoned. It was worth it, though, not to have any more incidents like the one last night. Don't lie, Arrow. It's worth it just to be near him again.

"I'll roust Viabold for the morning meditation,” Thraxis offered. Arrow rubbed her eyes. “All right. I'll catch up with you in a few minutes." Once he was gone, she hunted up a bronze hand mirror, combed out her hair, and braided a few random locks. At one time, she'd had the bones of her enemies to plait into her hair, but those decorations had been burned along with the scalps she had taken. She had taken possession of a few cosmetics along with the yurt, and she touched the small clay pots wistfully. She had been so envious of Kestrel when they were children and she'd watched her sister learning to be a woman. There had been no one to teach Arrow such things. Perhaps someday, once this was all over, she would wear women's clothes and decorate her eyes and lips with paint.

Perhaps not.

She left the yurt and went out into the camp. Finding Thraxis was easy enough, given that he towered over everyone else. He was standing in an open space between the scattered yurts, talking with a sleepy-looking Viabold.

"I didn't see you last night."

Viabold shrugged. “I heard you shouting—who could help but hear it? Hoof and Wheel wanted to see what was wrong, but I told them it was nothing and to pay no attention to you. Then I put an aural veil around us to make sure we couldn't hear you yammering."

Thraxis gaped at him. “You—you slept with them, didn't you!"

Viabold rolled his eyes. “Do you think I'm a fool like you?"

" Both of them?"

"Not everyone has the same ideas as the Athraskani, Thraxis. Even you should have figured that out by now."

"You—I forbid it!” At Viabold's burst of laughter, Thraxis’ face flushed angrily. “Stop laughing at me! I wear the black—I have the authority."

"Enforce it, then,” Viabold challenged with a grin. “Honestly, you're such a prude, Thraxis. I wonder if it has something to do with still being a virgin at your age?"

Of course, he announced the latter at top volume, so that everyone in the vicinity immediately stopped and stared at the two Athraskani.

"Shut up, you old fool,” Thraxis hissed.

"Thraxis is a virgin! Thraxis is a virgin!"

"Shut up! It's not something to be ashamed of!"

"Then why are you telling me to shut up? Look at it this way—I'm doing you a favor, considering where you spent the night. Cluck, cluck."

Thraxis flushed a most interesting shade of scarlet, from his neck to the crown of his bald head. Unable to restrain herself anymore, Arrow burst out laughing.

Thraxis whipped around and saw her. The expression on his face shifted from affronted to hurt. Without another word, he jerked his hood up to cover his head and stalked away. Arrow sighed and started after him. “You're a troublemaker,” she said to Viabold as she passed. Viabold grinned unrepentantly. “What can I say? Thraxis practically begs for it. He's getting better, but he can still be such an ass sometimes."

Silently agreeing, she trailed Thraxis until they were beyond the camp. When he realized that he was being followed, he stopped and glared at her until she drew abreast. “Have you come to mock me as well?” he asked coldly.

She smiled at him. “I wasn't laughing at you."

"Then why were you laughing?"

"Because you just look so cute when you blush."

He stared at her for a moment, open-mouthed. Then he drew himself up to his full height and looked down his long nose. “I am Thraxis, a black-robed mage of the Athraskani,” he intoned solemnly. “I am many things: powerful, learned, and formidable. But I am most certainly not ‘cute.’”

She pretended to carefully inspect him from head to toe. “No. No, I'm sorry, but I have to stand by my original assessment. Cute."

He laughed and put his hands over his face. Arrow leaned her head against his shoulder and laughed as well, pretending, as he did, that she didn't hear the hysteria in their voices.

* * * *

Viabold spent the morning reinforcing the veil he had set up to hide the camp from Balthazar's prying eyes. The herds were more problematic, as they tended not to stay put within the boundaries of the veil, and so the older Athraskani used the afternoon to individually veil each and every animal. Arrow had gone off with some of the other warriors, including Bird Bones, who had been giving Thraxis odd looks all morning.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't just Bird Bones. Thanks to Viabold, everyone was giving him odd looks. Alone for the first time in a long while, Thraxis sat comfortably in the shade outside the yurt, glad just to relax. The constant pain in his joints eased a little from the inactivity, and for once he felt as though he could breathe freely. Midday came and went, but he didn't bother to attempt to find sustenance. Food had become less and less appetizing as he had more and more trouble keeping it down. At least today he didn't have Arrow and Viabold nagging at him about not eating.

As he leaned dozing against some cushions piled up against his back, he became aware of a shadow between himself and the sun. Opening his eyes, he saw an old man standing over him. The man's hair had gone completely white, and his face was deeply seamed from a lifetime of exposure to wind and sun. Piercing blue eyes took Thraxis’ measure.

"Is there something I can do for you, grandfather?” Thraxis asked, hoping that he was using a polite form of address.

"So you're the one sharing my grandniece's yurt,” the old man said, ignoring the question. This must be Leaf Dancing. Remembering that this man had repudiated Arrow threatened to spark Thraxis’ anger. He kept it back with an effort, reminding himself of his own reaction when he had first learned the truth about her past. “I take it that, for the sake of this conversation, we're going to pretend that she couldn't snap me in half?” he asked dryly.

Leaf laughed at that. “I suppose she could. Unless you used your powerful magic to cast a spell on her. They say that you are going to save us from Balthazar."

"That is why I came here.” He began to wonder if there was a point to this conversation.

"I don't see how you're going to do that. There's not much to you—you're skinny as a rope. I suppose you're not much of a fighter, either."

Trying very hard not to be affronted, Thraxis replied, “No. I've taken a vow to do no harm." Leaf Dancing shook his head sadly. “Why am I not surprised?"

"I will defeat Balthazar,” Thraxis snapped. “You should be the last person to judge my abilities based on looks. Wasn't it you who taught Arrow to be the Champion, when everyone else just laughed at her?" Leaf waved away the argument. “Oh, I'm sure you'll take care of Balthazar. I don't understand magic, but I'm sure you do. I was just thinking about Arrow. I give the girl good advice, but does she ever listen?

‘Marry a man who can carry his own horse,’ I told her. ‘That way you'll always be sure to have food in the pot and a good arm beside you in battle.’ So what does she bring back with her? Some skinny grass-eater."

"I think you misunderstand our relationship."

Leaf looked at him mournfully. “Do I?"

"Yes."

"If you say so. Still, we'll make the best of it, eh? Do your vows let you gamble?"

* * * *

Arrow returned to camp at sunset in the company of Bird Bones and his retinue. They had spent the day hunting, scouting for any signs of the enemy, and planning. It had felt good to be back among her people, doing familiar things, except for the moments of subtle tension that never quite let her forget the circumstances of her return.

Giving away the hares she'd killed, she turned Nightwing loose in the herd and returned to the yurt she shared with Thraxis. To her surprise, Thraxis and Leaf Dancing were sitting in the open air outside, hunched over a gaming carpet.

"I sincerely hope that he didn't talk you into gambling,” she said as she approached.

"I'm not that naïve,” Thraxis replied dryly.

"Hmph.” Leaf took a generous swig of koumiss from the jug beside him. “A good thing, too. He's cheating."

"I am not."

"Couldn't get him to drink, either. Said Kestrel had shown him the wisdom in moderation. That girl always could drink everyone else onto the carpets."

To be able to talk and joke with Leaf again was bittersweet, and Arrow half-wished that Thraxis had picked anyone else in the camp to bond with. Of course, it was more likely that Leaf had come here, which meant that he cared enough about her to want to know her foreign friends. Which also came too close to the wounds they had made between them.

"You can stay for dinner,” Arrow offered half-heartedly.

But Leaf Dancing shook his head and climbed slowly to his feet. “None of that roots and grass for me. A man my age needs meat to keep him alive from one day to the next."

"He doesn't seem too bad,” Thraxis offered once Leaf was gone.

Arrow shrugged, not wanting to think about it. “I never said he was."

"He acted out of foolishness and anger."

"I know. Do you think that made it hurt any less?"

"No. If he comes again, I'll tell him to leave. If you wish it."

"You can be friends with whomever you want. It isn't for me to say." His wine-colored eyes were steady. “It is if it causes you pain." She hesitated, and then shook her head. “No. I don't know. Maybe it would help if you talk to him. Give him an excuse to come by now and again."

"All right."

They sat together and ate their dinner, listening to the sounds of the camp. As the sun went down, the temperature dropped sharply, and a cold fog began to rise up from the grass. Soon, everything was wrapped in a gauzy shroud of white. From outside the camp, a horse whinnied shrilly, the sound one of fear and warning.

Arrow sat up sharply, her dinner forgotten. “Something's wrong."

Her words were confirmed by sudden shouts of alarm. Springing to her feet, Arrow ran in the direction of the cries. Most of the inhabitants of the camp had gathered together in a large knot on the western edge. The women and children huddled together, while the men surrounded them, swords drawn. Bird Bones stood tensely, staring out into the fog, as if his eyes could pierce it through strength of will alone.

"Are we under attack?” Arrow asked.

"Balthazar has found us again,” Bird Bones replied grimly.

"He must have located the camp before I erected the veil yesterday afternoon,” Viabold put in. The lines around his golden eyes had deepened from strain, and Arrow remembered that he had just spent the entire day working his magic.

"There are beasts in the fog,” one of the warriors warned. “Creatures that melt away like the mist when you try to strike them. But when they strike you—then they're solid enough. We call them mist hounds."

"They've attacked before?"

"Yes. They kill without mercy, savaging the herds as well as us." Arrow hissed in frustration, gripping her sword. “What can we do, Viabold?" He ran a hand wearily through his silver-streaked hair. “I can set a protective veil over us—we're in a small enough group. But I'm only a blue-robe—I can't hold it forever, and I'm told that these attacks sometimes last all night. And I can't protect the herds. I'm sorry." Bird Bones set his jaw firmly. “We can't leave the herds to die. They're too valuable."

"Then we'll have to give our attackers a more interesting target,” Thraxis said mildly as he came up behind Arrow.

Shapes flickered in the fog now: a flank, massive paws, glowing white eyes, and terrible teeth. The creatures might have been wolves, except that they were more twisted and fell than anything given birth by nature. At the first glimpse of them, men tensed up, and a child let out a wail of terror. Farther off, lost in the fog, Arrow heard the screams of horses.

Viabold had already been busy drawing lines upon the earth with ash. Now he raised his arms tiredly, and a shimmering dome sprang up, enclosing everyone. The mist hounds swirled briefly around its edges but avoided touching it.

Thraxis’ watched the hounds for a moment, and then glanced at the fear-filled faces trapped within the veil. Lifting his staff, he strode to the edge of the veil and made a dramatic gesture to catch the clan's attention.

"Do you see?” he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by all. “Balthazar believes that we are children, to be frightened by pathetic illusions! But he is the one filled with fear, to send shadows to attack your herds.” He made a dismissive gesture towards the mist hounds, as if anyone who would resort to such trickery was beyond contempt.

"Proof of his cowardice!” Bird Bones agreed loudly. People nodded reluctantly in agreement, and a little of the fear in their eyes was replaced by scorn.

Thraxis turned to Viabold. His yellow eyes glowed like embers from the depths of his hood. “These illusions have no life in them,” he said quietly. “We should be able to disperse them without fear of breaking our Vows. Can you hold the veil for a little while longer?" Viabold's face was gray with strain, but he nodded. “If you pass outside, you won't be protected any longer."

"I know.” His burning gaze shifted to Arrow, caught and held her. “Will you come with me?"

"Of course."

A smile flashed and was gone. “Touch the tip of your sword to my staff." As he tilted the staff towards her, she saw a blue flame spring up around it. The flame spread to her sword, so that even when she withdrew the blade, it seemed to burn with an ethereal fire. Trusting that Thraxis knew what he was doing, she followed him to the edge of the veil and stepped through. Pain sparked briefly over her skin, as if lightning had touched her. Then they were outside, standing together at the edge of safety. Thraxis’ yellow eyes gleamed brightly from the shadow of his hood, and his robe billowed out behind him like dark wings. He held the staff lightly but confidently, like a warrior facing battle. Her love for him felt like a physical thing lodged in her chest, and she smiled fiercely with pride.

Then the mist hounds came, and Arrow gave herself up to the surge of berserker speed that burned her limbs and turned her movements into blurs. A shimmer of fangs and eyes came out of the fog, and she swung at it, her sword striking its muzzle. The blue flame around the blade flared briefly, and the hound faded, its body dispersing back into the fog that had given it birth.

She and Thraxis stood back to back, as they had at the kurgan. The creatures came at them one after another, drawn from their harassment of the herds, but none broke through the shield of sword and staff. It was as if Arrow and Thraxis danced some incredibly complex kai'ten, the movements of each perfectly complimenting the other, their bodies perceiving some harmony between them that went so deep it required nothing of thought or comprehension.

Still the mist hounds came. Arrow slapped one hard with the flat of her blade, dispelling it, and then caught another in the throat. The end of Thraxis’ staff snapped out, catching a third that tried to outflank her, then reversed itself and struck another, as if the heavy wood weighed no more than a bow. Elation filled Arrow, making her want to laugh out loud.

A tremor went through the earth, vibrating in the soles of Arrow's feet. A moment later, she heard its cause even over the howls of the remaining hounds. Hooves drummed on the ground, interspersed with the cries of panicked horses. Even as she tried to fend off the hounds long enough to sort out the direction of the sound, she caught a glimpse of bay hide through the fog and saw the flying mane of a charging stallion.

"The herd is stampeding!” she managed to shout before diving wildly to one side. Her body impacted hard with Viabold's veil, as if with stone, and she rebounded off into the grass. Then the herd was on her, hooves pounding grass into pulp, churning up dust. One caught her shoulder painfully, knocking her to the side. Teeth sank into her wrist as a hound saw its opportunity. Swearing furiously, she stabbed it with her sword, and then staggered to her feet.

A sea of bay hides and white eyes surrounded her, flowing in eerie slow-motion due to her berserker senses. Thraxis had been swept away, and the thought of him lying crushed under the pitiless hooves struck terror into her heart. Seeing a gelding she recognized, she jumped, her inhuman strength carrying her high above the herd. She landed on its back and sank her hand into its cropped mane for balance. From her new vantage, she caught a glimpse of a dark shape on the edge of the stampede. Mist hounds lunged at it, dancing back from a staff that trailed a line of blue fire. Impatient, Thraxis struck at them, exposing his flank as he did so. One of the hounds took the advantage, tearing into him and knocking him off his feet.

No. If the hound hadn't managed to kill him already, the herd would do so in a matter of minutes. Viabold's veil, while protecting the clan from the blind panic of the horses, had also turned the herd so that Thraxis would be in the path of the right flank within moments. Not bothering to think, Arrow launched herself from the horse she balanced on to another. Terrified by the sudden weight, the cousin forgot its training and bucked, throwing her to the ground. A fast roll brought her up, and she snatched the mane of the nearest animal, hauling herself to its back. The gelding snorted in surprise but didn't buck. Still clutching its mane, she dragged its head around hard, forcing it towards the edge of the herd. Dust choked her throat and threatened to blind her eyes. Swearing furiously, she hoped that her guess as to Thraxis’ position was accurate. Clenching her legs tight around the gelding, she leaned as far over as she could. The grass whipped past in a blur, slapping her lower shoulder, and her hair dragged on the ground.

Almost as soon as she caught a glimpse of the huddled figure, she was on it. Both arms locked around him, hauling him half-off the ground. She had meant to swing them both back up onto the gelding, but her balance was bad, and even her strength wasn't up to the task from the position she was in. If she held on, she would only succeed in dragging Thraxis to death.

Offering a quick prayer to the Lady of Beasts, she shoved herself off the horse as hard as she could. Momentum rolled them across the ground in a tangle of black robes. A hoof came down dangerously close to Arrow's head. Then the herd had swept past them, disappearing into the night. The mist hounds vanished as well.

Arrow fought her way clear of the loose folds of Thraxis’ robe. Her head rang from the thunder of the stampede and her body ached from repeated blows. Thraxis struggled to sit up, then gasped and put one hand to his side. It came away soaked in blood.

"Are you all right?” Arrow demanded frantically.

"Actually,” Thraxis said, looking at the blood on his fingers, “I rather feel as though I've been run over by a great many heavy animals.” Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

* * * *

It was a time of celebration among the Skald. The dry summer had come to an end at last, and rains restored the steppe to a brief second spring. Soon, they would move to winter pastures in the river valleys. But for now, the clans gathered together: to feast, to renew old friendships, and to settle old scores.

This year, however, things were very different in the encampment of the Red Feather clan. Blood on the Wind had declared that a day would be set aside to recognize the feats of the warriors who had followed him into battle. He sat upon an elaborate folding chair, holding his skull cup on one hand. Beside him there was a great cauldron filled to the brim with wine. As the warriors gathered before him, he called out the names of those that had killed their enemies and invited them to partake of the wine.

Arrow came first. Like everyone else, she was dressed in her finest clothing. Thin gold plaques covered her close-fitting tunic, making her seem to shimmer when she moved. Jewelry dripped from her ears, fingers, and wrists. Even Nightwing had been specially outfitted for this day. Leather sheathes covered his cropped mane and tail, each heavily decorated with gold. A molded-leather headdress fit over his face, its stiff foundation covered with fine leather dyed all in blue, yellow, and green. Dyed fur decorations depicted a winged panther attacking a man on one side and a griffin attacking a stag on the other. Above all rose two antlers, gilded so that they flashed in the sun. They made Arrow feel as if she rode upon the spectral stag that carried the dead to the next world.

Riding up to Blood, she dismounted and accepted his gilded cup, which she filled with wine from the cauldron. Trying not to think of the man from whose skull she drank, she drained the cup, returned it to Blood, and moved to the place of honor behind his throne.

One after another, all the warriors who had been successful in battle followed suit. Balthazar came after Arrow, then Hunts Mice, then the warriors of the Red Feather clan, then the warriors of their allied clans. When Blood had called the last name, silence descended on the gathering, for not all had partaken in the ceremony. A handful of men stood uncalled. Some of them bowed their heads in shame and looked away. But others stared defiantly at those who had drunk, as if the shame belonged to them instead. One of these men was Bird Bones Broken.

That night, Blood called Arrow to his yurt. The sounds of revelry still filled the camp, and bonfires burned bright against the darkened sky. A few of Blood's many slaves still worked silently to please their master, but he dismissed them with a wave. Arrow tried not to look at them as they passed, tried not to see their beaten eyes and bruised faces. One of them, a young girl of no more than fourteen, had a belly that was starting to swell with pregnancy. As the child of a slave, the baby would have no more future than its mother, even with royal paternity.

When the slaves were gone, Blood sighed and poured a cup of koumiss for each of them. “This is a great day for our clan,” he said.

"Yes,” Arrow agreed automatically.

"You saw that I called you first among all the warriors, my Champion. Do you know why?" Arrow hesitated, wondering what he was getting at. “I assumed that you valued my skill in battle."

"I do. I've heard it said that you no longer take scalps because you have no more room to hang them on your harnesses.” Blood smiled faintly. “I think that this means I have been remiss, not to gift you with more horses.” Then he sat back, and his face grew grim. “But I also called you first because of your loyalty, Arrow. You have done all that I have asked of you. You have kept your oaths to me and you have brought honor to our clan. I often wish that every warrior would be as faithful. Especially my son." Arrow stayed silent, not certain what to say. Bird Bones Broken had never struck her as a coward. But he was not a cruel man, either, and his heart had not been in his father's war.

"Bird Bones disgraced me today,” Blood went on, and anger flashed in his eyes. “My own son, my heir, looked like a coward! Even now, people mutter amongst themselves and wonder whether or not their next king will be a weakling who can't fight. His shortcomings endanger the entire clan." Fear trembled in Arrow's heart. It wasn't possible. She had to have misunderstood where Blood was leading with this. “Then—what can be done?” she asked helplessly, praying that he would not give her the answer she expected.

"You are my most trusted warrior, Arrow. To no one else would I give this task. Not even to Balthazar. Bird Bones weakens my rule and thus weakens our clan. Naming another man my heir would help, but so long as he is among us, Bird Bones will continue to sow discontent by his mere presence. In a few days, once the celebration is over, I want you to take him out onto the steppe to hunt. While you are out there, you will be ‘attacked’ by traitors. Although you will escape with your life, sadly, Bird Bones will be struck down."

Arrow raised her gaze slowly and met her chief's eyes. “You want me to kill your son."

"Yes."

Chapter Sixteen—Restitution

"How are you feeling?” Arrow asked from the entrance to the yurt. Thraxis raised his head to look at her. He was propped up on many soft pillows and had spent most of the morning drifting in and out of sleep. Arrow had left the yurt at dawn to attend to some business with the other warriors, even though he was fairly certain that she hadn't slept at all last night. Every memory of waking had her sitting quietly nearby, staring blindly into the depths of the small fire that kept them warm.

"Surprisingly good,” he answered. “I don't know what Viabold gave me for the pain, but it seems to be working."

"Ah.” She crouched on the carpets, arms folded across her knees. Her right wrist was bandaged and there was a fading bruise on her left shoulder. “I'm sorry I've been away all day."

"I haven't been alone. Several people have visited me."

A proud smile touched her mouth. “You impressed them last night."

"Only because they didn't see me cowering in terror, expecting to get stepped on by one of those behemoths you ride around on. I've had seven gifts of food, five gifts of jewelry, and twelve amphorae of wine. Oh, and one proposal of marriage."

Her brows arched. “Really? Who?"

"That young girl who gave me the pastry the first night here. Dust, I think she said her name was? I've been assured that her relatives all give their consent."

Arrow grinned. “I see. And did you accept?"

"Of course. I hope you won't mind sharing the yurt with us." She threw a pillow at him. “You're a lousy liar."

Viabold stuck his head inside. “No beating the patient, please. I've already patched enough of his hide together for one day.” He eyed the assortment of gifts strewn about the yurt. “You're going to look like a fool if you wear all that jewelry at once."

Arrow moved aside to allow Viabold entrance. The older Athraskani crouched down by Thraxis and carefully peeled the covers back. The traveling robe was off in a corner by itself, cleaning and mending. The black undershirt that Thraxis normally wore under it had been taken away by one of his earlier visitors with the promise to remove the bloodstains and sew up the large hole in the side by more mundane means. Only the soft, thin underskirt was left for modesty, although Thraxis was sure that Viabold would have deprived him of that as well if he could have thought of an excuse to do so. All of Thraxis’ ribs stood out clearly beneath the skin. Ugly bruises decorated his torso liberally, courtesy of the flying hooves of the herd. The worst wound was to his side, where the mist hound had torn loose a large flap of skin and muscle. Viabold had used magic to clean the wound thoroughly, and then stitched it closed. His magic would also speed the healing, although it would still be some days before Thraxis could move freely without fear of tearing it open again. It would undoubtedly scar rather badly as well.

"I was stupid,” Thraxis said ruefully, staring fixedly at the ceiling while Viabold carefully peeled back the bandaging. “I should have concentrated on defending myself. Instead, I grew angry and struck out."

"A moral tale indeed,” Viabold muttered sarcastically.

"I thought so."

"You would.” Viabold twisted to look over his shoulder. “Arrow, could you get me some water to make a poultice?

"You did well,” Viabold added once she had left. “That was a brave thing."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, I didn't go alone."

"I know. Even the Skald were impressed by your teamwork. I heard one of them say that you moved like a warrior and a horse."

Thraxis frowned in puzzlement. “What?"

"I asked the same thing. In battle, a good warrior and a well-trained horse become like a single creature, moving together in perfect understanding. They don't even have a word that describes such a thing between humans."

"Ah.” Thraxis sighed and blinked at the ceiling. “It felt—right."

"I could see it in the kai'ten, you know. You're attuned to each other. I can't believe you're going to pass up the opportunity to find out what you'd be like in bed."

The thought was incredibly arousing, and his body responded enthusiastically. Mortified, Thraxis cast about wildly for a blanket or pillow—anything more substantial than the thin underskirt he was wearing.

“By all that's true, why did you say something like that? She'll be back at any moment!" Viabold rolled his eyes. “I doubt it's anything she hasn't seen before.” His fingers probed the wound, sending a bolt of pain through Thraxis, who jumped and cursed him roundly. “Well, that took care of things."

"I hate you."

"Only a fool curses his doctor. After all, I'm the one with the painkillers." Thraxis tried to assume a stoic face while Viabold poked and prodded. “I've been meaning to ask you about that. What did you give me? The wound barely hurt at all once I took it. Even my lungs and joints stopped bothering me. Why didn't you give it to me before instead of those teas?" Viabold's face took on an unusually sober expression. “For the same reason I won't give it to you again after today. It's addictive."

Thraxis caught his friend's eye. “It isn't as if I have to worry about the long term,” he pointed out gently. Viabold looked away. “No. No, I don't suppose so. Still, I don't want to give it to you unless you truly need it. I know the teas aren't as effective as they used to be, but—is it really that bad?"

"Sometimes,” he said quietly, remembering the nights when he sat up alone, coughing his lungs out into a handkerchief to stifle the noise. He hid the handkerchiefs to keep anyone else from seeing that they were drenched with blood. And there were many mornings when saddling Stalker seemed like a trial of heroic proportions, because his fingers felt as though someone had run a heated copper wire through the bones.

"Tell me when you need it,” Viabold said after a long moment of silence. The curtain over the entrance was tossed aside, letting in the late afternoon sunlight. Arrow ducked through, carrying a cauldron of water. “Will this do?"

"Yes, thank you. Heat it over the fire."

She did so, and then sat down, looking troubled. Viabold and Thraxis exchanged worried glances. “Is something wrong? Other than the obvious, that is?” Thraxis asked when she remained silent.

"I don't know.” She sighed and tiredly shoved hair back out of her face. “We managed to round up most of the herd this morning, so that's something. But Bird Bones says that we have to move. Even if Viabold's veil is working, Balthazar and Blood know that we were here. Certainly they'll be suspicious if Balthazar can suddenly find no trace of us. It isn't safe to stay." Thraxis winced as Viabold applied the poultice to his wound. “When do we have to go?"

"Tomorrow."

"I have to get on a horse tomorrow?” he asked faintly. Maybe he would need Viabold's painkiller after all.

Arrow smiled and shook her head. “Of course not. You'll ride in one of the wagons. I'm sure Dust's family would love to have you."

"I'm sure,” he muttered. “But you still haven't said what's troubling you." Her shoulders slumped. “We're already on the very edge of the territory we claimed from the Falcon clan. So far, they've left us alone. Bird Bones thinks that either they see us as potential allies, or else believe that Blood will be concerned enough with destroying us that he'll leave them alone for a while. We can't move farther into Red Feathers territory for obvious reasons. But the Falcons—we don't know how they'll respond to having us suddenly grazing on their land. It could lead to trouble."

"Is there no hope for an alliance?"

"I don't know. The Falcons don't bear us any fondness. Not after what we did to them."

"Yet they're still strong enough to be a threat?"

"Not to Blood. But to us? I'm afraid so."

* * * *

The rebels decamped early the next morning. Thraxis was rather surprised that so many people could gather their things and start moving so quickly. But, as Arrow dryly pointed out, they had plenty of practice during their normal seasonal movements. Somewhat to his relief, he found himself packed into a wagon that belonged to Leaf Dancing. Leaf's yurt was now off the ground and attached firmly to the cart, which offered Thraxis a comfortable place to doze while the miles creaked by beneath the wheels. The pace of the oxen was slow, so it took them several days to reach the river valley they were making for. Thraxis spent most of the time by himself in the shelter of the wagon, thinking or sleeping, but he occasionally joined Leaf at the reins. Arrow often passed by them on her way to some other part of the column, frequently stopping for a quick word with him. At night, when they finally pitched camp, she joined them for a dinner that usually passed in uncomfortable silence between her and Leaf. Viabold's boisterous presence might have helped, but he was firmly attached to the couple hosting him and only appeared when it was time to check Thraxis’ wound.

On the third day, outriders reported that they had been seen. Tension hung over the camp that night as everyone wondered whether or not an attack would come. But for now, it seemed that the Falcon clan was content to simply watch. Bird Bones took it as a hopeful sign.

At length, they reached the river valley, although Thraxis could not imagine what landmarks they used to find it amidst the featureless steppe. As they set up a more permanent camp, he realized that an unusual silence hung over everything. Although children ran and shouted, the adults were all grim-faced, going about their tasks without speaking.

"What's wrong?” he asked Arrow.

"The grazing here isn't as good as what we left,” she said quietly. “And this stream is known to dry up in summer, so things will be hard if we have to stay here after the rains cease. If the Falcons let us stay at all."

"What can we do?"

"Nothing. Only watch and wait. Hopefully the Falcons will let us know their intentions soon."

* * * *

The next day, Arrow left the camp to hunt with a young cousin named Cricket. The youth had not taken part in any battles yet but was eager to prove himself to his clan. Not entirely trusting him to avoid folly if left on his own, Cricket's mother had diplomatically asked Arrow to accompany him. It was good to get away from the camp, Arrow thought. No more trying to act normally around Leaf Dancing, no more avoiding Bird Bones—just the horses, and the wind, and the open sky. Vultures circled lazily on the warm air, larks sang from the tall grasses, and butterflies floated from flower to flower. Cricket's hunting dog flushed a hare, and she let the youth take it down even though she could have drawn and shot before his mind even registered the movement. He cast her a sideways glance, wanting approval, and she smiled and spoke a word of praise. After that, he rode straighter in the saddle, and she realized that he was a little in awe of her. The thought was disturbing, for she knew that she had done nothing worthy of anyone's hero worship.

They halted at noon to eat strips of dried venison and drink koumiss. The dell was a natural way station, with sweet water for the horses and shade for weary riders. Which was probably why the Falcons chose it for their ambush.

Arrow was unaware of their presence until far too late. Suddenly, men rose up from the grass on the rim of the dell, drawn bows in their hands. Horsemen swept in from the other side, blocking any hope of retreat. Cricket cried out and reached for his sword, and for a moment Arrow had the mad idea of fighting as well. But not even she could win against so many.

"Hold!” she ordered. Cricket froze, and then slowly let his sword slide back into its sheath. Arrow studied their attackers through narrowed eyes but saw no face she recognized. “We are of the Red Feather clan, but are enemies to Blood on the Wind,” she declared firmly. “We mean no harm to anyone here."

One of the horsemen spat on the ground. “We know who you are, the Arrow that Flies the Farthest,” he said, and his voice was filled with scorn. “I was there when you killed our Champion and laid claim to lands not your own. And my son was there when your clan rode down on our women and children and slaughtered them without mercy. I knew his body only through an extra toe on his left foot." Arrow tried to catch his gaze and force him to acknowledge her, but he would not. “We are not your enemies,” she repeated.

"Bird Bones is not our enemy, even though he is the son of Blood,” the man agreed reluctantly. “That's why we intend to spare the life of the boy unfortunate enough to ride with you. Boy! Tell your chieftain this: your people may remain for a while in our territory. We will consider an alliance with him once we are convinced of his peaceful intentions. But we claim the life of his Champion as restitution for our losses."

"No!” shouted Cricket.

Arrow tossed her head proudly, refusing to think of Thraxis waiting for her back in camp. “If that is your price for an alliance, then kill me and be done with it."

The man shook his head. “I didn't say this was the price of an alliance. We haven't yet decided to ally ourselves with anyone. Your death is the very least owed to us."

"What—what are you going to do?” Cricket asked fearfully.

"We're not going to kill her in front of your eyes, if that's what you're asking. We're taking her to face the judgment of the priestesses."

Arrow's heart went cold. It would be kinder to kill her immediately, she knew. At least then it would be a clean death. She scanned the line of men again, desperate to find any weakness that she could exploit. Perhaps, if she ran fast enough, she could avoid their arrows.

Cricket couldn't. Arrow might take the chance if only her own life was at stake. But to let Cricket die for the possibility that she might live—no. Not even in her darkest hour would she ever have made such a choice.

"Go,” she said to him.

He hesitated, eyes desperate. “But—"

" Go. Take their message to Bird Bones. Tell him that an alliance is worth my life.” She hesitated. “And tell Thraxis—” What? That she loved him? What kind of last message was that to leave for a friend?

"Tell him that I'm sorry,” she said finally.

The Falcon leader urged his horse nearer. “Enough,” he snapped. “Leave, boy, if you want your life. Otherwise, we'll kill you, too."

Cricket went to his horse. But as he reached for the gelding's bridle, an arrow hissed through the air, passing within a hair's breadth of his fingers. “The horses are ours,” the Falcon leader said menacingly.

“Spoils of war and the first payment of the debt owed to us."

Arrow didn't watch as Cricket walked away. When the Falcons came and bound her arms and legs securely, she made no protest, only submitted to their rough handling. They tied her to Nightwing and set off at a gallop across the steppe, and the wind stung her eyes so that she had to close them against tears. I'm sorry, Thraxis. Please, don't be angry that I abandoned you. Don't hate me for leaving you among strangers, for not seeing things through to the end. Just— forgive me. But in her heart she feared that she was beyond anyone's forgiveness.

* * * *

The Falcons rode hard, as if outrunning any possibility of pursuit. Not that there was any danger of it at the moment—even if Bird Bones lost his senses and sent his warriors after them, Cricket could not make it back to camp on foot before sunset. No one would set out in the dark for fear of missing some sign, and as it seemed that the Falcons intended to ride into the night, the trail would be cold by dawn. Arrow rode silently, alone among her enemies. It was impossible to ignore their crude remarks and hateful words, but she pretended that they affected her not at all. As a Champion, she had long practice in such deception, and eventually the sport grew tiresome for them. After that, no one spoke to her at all. They halted deep into the night, when the horses could go no farther. She was dragged from Nightwing's back and flung down roughly on the hard ground. The men crowded around the campfire and muttered to each other while they ate. No one offered her anything to eat or drink. While their attention was diverted, she tested her bonds. The man who had bound her was no fool, she quickly realized. Apparently familiar with both her increased strength and her talent at working her way out of fetters, he had pulled her arms behind her and wrapped them with a heavy rope from wrist to elbow. There would be no easy way of getting free.

"See her squirm?” one of the men asked his companions. His eyes were dark with hate. “Do you think she'll cry out? Do you think she'll beg for her life like Yellow Mare did?" Arrow didn't know who Yellow Mare had been and hoped not to find out. She went still, watching them silently and praying that they would turn back to the fire and leave her alone. Instead, the man stood up and came over to her. His face was flushed, and she didn't like the way he scanned her body.

"I saw her corpse,” he said thickly. “I saw what your men did to her. Did you watch, bitch? Did you like it?"

"There's no answer I could give that you would believe,” she said.

"Shut up!” he kicked her hard in the side, then dropped down by her. One hand buried itself in her hair, yanking her head back painfully. The other groped clumsily at her breasts. Is he really going to be this stupid?

One of his companions echoed the thought. “I don't think you should get close to her, Horn. She's dangerous."

The words only seemed to inflame Horn further. “You don't have to do her if you're too scared. But the rest of us are going to get some payment for what was done to our wives and daughters." He jerked Arrow to him and kissed her violently. Closing her eyes, she passively opened her lips, felt his tongue slide deep into her mouth. Her teeth met cleanly with a little click, and warmth flooded down her throat.

Horn tore away with a raw scream of agony. His hands scrabbled helplessly at his mouth, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Turning her head to one side, Arrow calmly spat his tongue out onto the grass. Some of the men ran to help their companion, while one or two others dashed at her, swords drawn.

“She's for the priestesses,” their leader reminded them sharply. “No one goes near her without good reason. There's no telling what she might do."

Arrow leaned back and gave them all a bloody smile. No one bothered her for the rest of the night.

* * * *

When Arrow failed to return to their yurt by sundown, Thraxis began to worry. He told himself that there were numerous reasons that she might not be back on time. Perhaps she had stopped to talk to a friend, or decided to eat dinner with the cousin she had ridden out with. Or perhaps the hunt had taken them longer than expected, given that they were in unfamiliar territory. Arrow could certainly take care of herself. There was no sense in becoming concerned.

Even so, Thraxis went in search of her as soon as full dark had descended. No one had seen either her or Cricket since that morning. Normally, no one would have been concerned about it, either—hunters coming back late from a trip were nothing uncommon. But given the tense mood of the camp, within an hour his search had been joined by several other people.

When no trace was found, a few men rode out and circled about near the camp. But it was dark, and they had little hope of finding the trail that Arrow and Cricket had made when leaving that morning. “I should have said something earlier, not waited until sundown,” Thraxis said mournfully to Viabold.

"I'm sure she's fine,” Viabold reassured him. “I'm not very good at scrying spells, or else I'd offer to look for her myself, just to be certain."

"Perhaps I should try one."

"I don't think it's come to that yet."

Thraxis was unconvinced. Still, there might be a way of at least identifying the direction she had taken without actually resorting to a scrying spell. Taking a deep breath, Thraxis mentally spoke a mantra to center himself. An image of Arrow appeared before his mind's eye, composed not only of the small physical details that identified her, but also of her personality and the memories he had of her. Once the image was firmly in his mind, he invoked a tiny amount of magic.

Slowly, something tugged him to the left. Letting himself move with the feeling, he followed it, until it was directly before him. By the stars, he was facing west.

"She's in the west somewhere,” he said aloud.

Viabold frowned. “But she and Cricket were supposed to go south. One of the search parties said so. They were trying to avoid going too deep into Falcon territory, which is mostly to the west of us." Thraxis felt his heart still. The oracle's words whispered again in his ear. “— There is not a single path that does not end with Arrow's death."

At that moment, a cry went up at the edge of the camp. Exchanging quick glances, Thraxis and Viabold hitched up their robes and ran towards the source of the disturbance. A large crowd had already gathered, and Thraxis was forced to use his height to clear a path through it. A distraught youth stood in the center, babbling out his tale to Bird Bones Broken.

"I don't know what happened after that!” he was saying. “They stole the horses as well and made me walk back."

"What's happened?” Thraxis called, projecting his voice.

"Arrow is taken by the Falcons,” Leaf Dancing said.

"We have to go after them!” shouted another man.

"The Falcons will have to learn that they can't just take one of our own!"

"We've stood against Blood—we'll stand against them as well!"

"To the horses!"

"NO!” thundered Bird Bones. All the frenetic activity around him ceased. The young chief raised his eyes and scanned the faces of his people. “No,” he said again, more quietly this time, and Thraxis heard the grief in his voice.

"What do you mean, no?” Leaf asked incredulously.

"What I said. We can't rescue Arrow."

"Are you afraid to face the Falcons?"

"No! But I can't put the safety of one woman before the safety of the entire clan.” Bird Bones shook his head sorrowfully. “We need the Falcons as allies if we are to have any hope of defeating my father. You heard what they told Cricket—they are demanding Arrow's life as payment."

"That's what she said to tell you,” Cricket agreed unhappily. “She said that the alliance was worth her life. She had a message for that skinny wizard, too."

Thraxis’ heart pounded hard in his chest. “What?"

"She said that she was sorry. That's all."

Sorry? For what? he wondered.

No matter. She can damn well tell me herself.

"Viabold, get Stalker for me, please,” he said calmly.

Silence fell at his words. Bird Bones turned slowly to him. “What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to get her back."

The Skald chieftain probably would have laughed at him if the situation had not been so bitter. “You?

You're going to ride through the dark and follow her trail? You, who know nothing of the steppe? Who can barely stay on a horse? How are you going to find her when even one of us would have trouble doing so?"

Thraxis swallowed anger and faced Bird Bones squarely. “I will always be able to find Arrow. I will never abandon her, not even if it means returning from the dead myself." Bird Bones’ face darkened suddenly. “This is all your fault! You did something to Arrow—ensorcelled her somehow! Why else would she have preferred a dried-up bag of sticks like you!"

"Better me than some muscle-bound moron who would leave her to die!" Bird Bones hit him, hard. Thraxis felt his head snap back as pain bloomed in his face. Then he was lying on the ground, the barbarian chieftain towering over him. Blood trickled from his nose and ran over his lip, and for a moment he wondered whether or not he was about to get a sword in his gut. When Bird Bones made no further move, Thraxis climbed slowly to his feet. They faced one another, silent hostility radiating from them both.

"Stand aside,” Thraxis said quietly.

What Bird Bones saw in his eyes, he didn't know. But after a long moment, the chieftain stepped aside. Striding past him, Thraxis went to where Viabold had already saddled and bridled Stalker. The horse knelt before he could even issue the command, and he swung quickly into the saddle. Viabold caught the reins again as soon as Stalker was back up.

"Here,” he said, pressing two packets into Thraxis’ hands. “The mixture wrapped in white felt is the painkiller you asked for. The one in green is a stimulant. There are three doses of each. Just brew them up in tea. You can take the two together if you have to, but don't take more than one dose of each at a time."

"Thank you."

"Just bring her back."

"I will.” And the oracle be damned, he added mentally, trying to quiet his internal doubts. Gripping Stalker's sides with his legs, he sent the horse galloping into the night. Passing swiftly beyond the camp, they moved across the endless plain of grass like a wind, heading ever west.

* * * *

Arrow sat alone in her yurt, her heart heavier than all the stones in the world. She wished desperately that Leaf or Vole was there to advise her. But they had left moons ago, unwilling to face the shame that she had brought upon them.

Then again, that rejection was advice of a kind, wasn't it? Don't dishonor us further, it said. And: Your choices have all been wrong until now. You have become a monster. And the only thing to do with monsters is to destroy them.

Her knife hung heavy in her hand, its edge pressing gently against her left wrist. She deserved to die, she thought bleakly. Every night, her dreams rang with the screams and sobs of her victims. Over and over again, she relived the sight of Cracked Antler's mutilated body. She watched the Griffin Champion die because she lacked the honor to face him honestly. She saw the men of her clan dragging girls and women from their yurts to rape them in the dust. The priestesses had declared that she would become Champion, but they had failed to see that she would become a monster as well. It would have been better for everyone if they had ordered her mother to strangle her in the cradle.

She had thought, foolishly, that she could bear anything, do anything, so long as in the end it benefited her clan in some way. But now even that pretext was gone, and Blood wanted her to add kin slaying to her long list of crimes.

She pictured Bird Bones’ handsome face, his wide smile, and his easy laugh. Although they were near one another in age, he had never joined the other children in their torment of her, had never mocked her for being forced to live more like a man than a woman. They had never been close, either, but she bore him no malice.

He didn't deserve to die for having the courage to stand up for his beliefs. Despite Blood's pretty words, it was she who was a coward for allowing herself to be swept along in events, never daring to speak out against things that she knew were wrong. And so, rather than kill Bird Bones, she would let her own blood flow. It was the last honorable act left to her. But Blood on the Wind will simply get someone else to kill him, she realized. What then? Was there no hope for anyone? Would Blood and Balthazar get everything they wanted forever?

I could warn him. I could tell him to flee. There are others who were disaffected with Blood's wars, who left the clan to live elsewhere. Bird Bones could go to them.

But I couldn't.

No, the Champion who had brought all of this about by being too skillful would not be welcome among them. If she chose to betray Blood and let Bird Bones live, there would be no place left for her.

But at least she could see Bird Bones safe. She could die without his death on her conscience, even if it meant staining her soul by breaking her oaths to Balthazar and Blood. Putting away her knife, Arrow began to plan.

Chapter Seventeen—This Darkness

Arrow and her captors reached the main Falcon encampment at sundown the next day. The sky in the west blazed with golden light, while the grass reflected back the gory red sun. In the east, twilight pulled a cool robe of purple over the earth, and the first stars gleamed brightly. It was beautiful, and unless a miracle occurred, it would be the last sunset she would ever see.

If the entire Falcon clan had not come to see her execution, then the bedraggled gathering that awaited her must surely represent most of their remaining strength. There were not as many women and children as there should have been, for the Falcons had borne the main brunt of the assaults by the Red Feathers and their allies. Some of those that remained were horribly maimed, either in body or spirit. Arrow caught a glimpse of a young woman with her eyes put out and her hands cut off. Nearby was an old man who had somehow survived scalping. A boy sat before his family's yurt, rocking relentlessly back and forth, his glassy eyes seeing only the horrors of his mind.

Arrow's captors dragged her from Nightwing, pressing spears against her sides and back to keep her from attempting to escape. As they led her toward the assembled yurts, a crowd gathered all around them. Insults and imprecations filled the air and a few hands waved rocks that could not be thrown for fear of hitting the men restraining her.

The campsite had been chosen with care, Arrow saw. Behind the yurts, a large standing stone loomed against the brilliant sunset, like a black finger warning her of doom. The stone marked one of the few physical locations that the Skald acknowledged as sacred. Here, it was said, the first Skald and the first horse had been born of the Great Mare. Foal and baby alike had climbed to stand on shaky legs within an hour, upright as the stone that the man had later caused to be set there. Behind the stone was a hole leading into the earth, into the cavern where they had actually been birthed. The last time Arrow had seen this place, captives had been tied to the standing stone and slaughtered, their souls going to feed Balthazar's jewel. Once he had seen his children killed and his women raped, the Falcon chief had been bound to the stone and whipped to death. The cavern she had never beheld, for it was the domain of magic and priestesses, and even the hardiest warriors had not dared to enter. Balthazar had laughed at them and called them superstitious, but he had not gone inside either. Arrow was led past the standing stone to the cave. It was said that the entrance had once been no more than a ragged hole in the ground, but the priestesses had widened it and installed wooden steps within. Even so, it gaped like a dark maw waiting to swallow her life, and fear touched her when she felt the steady wind of cold air pouring from it.

The Falcon leader turned his back on her and strode a few feet away to face his people. “This is our enemy, the Arrow that Flies the Farthest!” he shouted. “All of us she has wronged. Because of the enormity of her crimes, her fate has been given to the priestesses." A young woman approached, holding out a horn cup. The leader took it and turned towards Arrow. Hard hands clamped down on her face and jaw. At first, she refused to open her mouth, so they pinched her nostrils shut until lack of breath forced her to take a gasp. As soon as her lips parted, the contents of the cup flooded down her throat, choking her. The brew tasted foul, like dirt and rot, but her stomach stubbornly refused to vomit it back up.

They prodded her down the steps into the cavern. It was not a large space, but it was high enough to stand up in. Stone teeth hung from the ceiling, but the floor had been worn smooth by countless generations of feet. Arrow tripped on an uneven place and found herself unable to regain her balance. The world swam around her, and the strength leaked out of her limbs. Someone cut the ropes from her arms and pressed a knife into her hand, but by the time she realized what had happened, they were gone. At first, there was only silence and her breath steaming in the cold air. Then, gradually, she realized that she was not alone. Torches flamed to life, illuminating the small, round space that formed the main room of the shallow cave. Three wooden thrones sat side-by-side in the chamber's center. On the thrones were three women of varying ages dressed in high headdresses and heavily-appliquéd robes. Gold flashed from every finger, throat, and ear.

"The Arrow that Flies the Farthest,” one—or perhaps all—of the priestesses said, “you have been brought to us for judgment. But it is not for us to judge."

"The Lady of Beasts will look into your heart,” said another—or perhaps it was the same. The third smiled. “And she has no mercy."

Arrow staggered but managed not to fall. The flames had shrunk to nothing and the room was spinning. The priestesses were still seated, and yet they were all around her, their voices coming from behind and to the side. “You mean to kill me in the Lady's name,” Arrow managed.

"Oh, no,” said the oldest. “If the Lady finds you worthy of death, it is your own hand she will use." Arrow stared down at the knife her captors had given her. “No,” she said and tried to drop it. But her fingers refused to uncurl, and for a moment she was back in her yurt last autumn, contemplating slitting her own wrists rather than live any longer with her shame. With an effort, she shook her head and focused on the present. “I won't."

The cavern disappeared. Arrow looked around and found herself alone on the steppe. She had escaped, she realized, and run to this place. Hadn't she? Escaped—from what? She had been in Blood's camp, she remembered suddenly, and had simply come out here to be by herself for a while. The temperature plunged suddenly. Startled, she looked around and saw the white wall of a v'juga bearing down on her. Turning to run, she was brought up short by the small boy who stood in her way.

"You murdered me,” Cracked Antler said accusingly. “I was only a child—I had barely begun to live. And you killed me."

"No.” Arrow took a terrified step back. “Hunts Mice did it! There was nothing I could do!"

"You let him butcher an innocent boy."

"Just as you killed me,” Jumping Reindeer added. He cradled his head in his hands. “Slaughtered your rightful king to gain favor with your chief."

Arrow staggered back, then cast a frightened glance over her shoulder. The v'juga was getting closer. It would kill her in moments if she were caught in it. But before her, blocking any escape—

"My death is your fault as well,” said Vole Under the Snow. “If you hadn't turned out to be such a monster, Leaf and I would never have argued. I wouldn't have been alone on the steppe in the winter. I wish you had been strangled in the cradle."

One hand clenched into a fist as she fought back tears. “No, Vole, you don't mean that." His flat black eyes stared at her without mercy or love. “You might as well have run me through with your sword. It would have been kinder. Better if your mother had left you for the wild animals to devour—then Leaf would never have had the chance to take you in. You're nothing but an abomination, taking succor from us only until you could turn against us."

"You have no honor,” the Griffin Champion added. “If you had, I would have killed you as you deserved."

"You watched your kinsmen rape me!” wailed a child's voice. “And then did nothing when they hacked me to pieces! It should have been you instead!"

"Murderer!"

"Abomination!"

"Monster!"

"You deserve to die ... die ... die ... die!"

With a scream of anguish, Arrow turned from them and ran into the v'juga.

* * * *

Thraxis almost wept with relief when he caught sight of the lights of the Falcon encampment. His ride had long ago gone from exhausting to agonizing, and finally to hellish. He had ridden throughout the night and day in an attempt to catch up with Arrow's captors, slowing only when Stalker could no longer sustain the pace. In the end, it had taken magic to keep the horse on its feet. As for himself, he had already consumed two doses of both painkiller and stimulant. At the moment, no physical aches troubled him, and his senses felt unnaturally heightened. It was a state that couldn't last and would demand heavy payback when it finally failed.

The sentries saw him, of course. They came thundering out of the night, shouting an alarm and sending arrows whizzing past. Not pausing in his ride, Thraxis pulled his staff free and held it above his head. Light bloomed along its length, running down to clothe both him and Stalker in ethereal fire. It was a simple illusion with little power behind it, but the frightened cries of the horsemen confirmed his guess that it would be enough to impress them.

People scrambled frantically out of his way, but there had not been enough warning to disband the camp, and there were many still around him when he drew to a halt in the middle of the yurts. “I have come for Arrow!” he shouted, using magic to make his voice boom ominously around the campsite. Catching sight of a cowering warrior, he lowered the staff and pointed it at him. “Where is she?"

"You can't have her!” shouted another man.

Wary of anyone not cowed by his display, Thraxis turned his full attention on the newcomer. The man stared back at him proudly, defiantly. “You can't have her, spawn of Balthazar!" Thraxis’ lip curled in contempt. “I am Balthazar's sworn enemy."

The man faltered a little. “You can't have her, no matter who you are. She has been given to the priestesses so that the Lady of Beasts may judge her. She will not be seen again among the living." Thraxis dismounted and walked up to the man, who flinched and stepped back. “Where is she?” he asked, voice dangerously soft. “Don't make me ask you again, little man. It is within my power to obliterate this camp and everything in it so thoroughly that no one would know you had ever even existed."

He wouldn't, of course. But the man didn't know that. “There,” he said reluctantly, pointing towards a tall standing stone. “She is in the cave beyond the stone. But if you go in there, you won't be coming back. The priestesses have great magic."

More charlatans, just like that oracle, Thraxis thought, trying to believe it. “We shall see,” he said. Turning, he strode towards the cave, and men fled from his path.

* * * *

Arrow lay still as the snow slowly covered her. Ice encased her skin already, making it hard to move. Soon, she would disappear entirely, lost beneath enshrouding white.

She was cold, so very, very cold. The chill entered into her heart, destroying any memories of warmth or joy, until there was nothing but icy desolation left. Die, it whispered to her. You deserve to die. Part of her agreed. But some fragment clung to life, refusing to use the knife that the cold had welded to her flesh. She had tried to fling it from her earlier, but skin and muscle and tendon had pulled loose as well, so she clung to the bronze haft unwillingly still.

I can't do this, she thought dimly. I have to get back to Thraxis. I can't leave him alone. As if summoned by the thought, the hem of a black robe brushed the snow in front of her. It hurt to move, but somehow she forced her frozen muscles to contract so that she could look up into his face. But his pale yellow eyes were colder than the v'juga and smote the last warmth from her heart.

"Don't speak to me,” he said. “You are an abomination. There are no words for my revulsion." It was too much. Unable to fight any longer, bereft of any island of sanity to cling to, she lifted the knife and pressed it against her chest.

* * * *

Thraxis strode into the freezing cave, the light from his staff going before him. To his relief, there was not much to the cavern, just a short passage into the earth and a tiny pocket behind. Three women, dressed in a manner that reminded him strongly of the oracle, sat on ostentatious thrones in the small chamber. On the ground before them lay Arrow.

She was curled up on herself in a position so eloquent of defeat and despair that it broke his heart. Her entire body shook from the cold, so hard that it seemed she might fly apart. A faint dusting of snow lay in a circle around her, although he couldn't guess where it might have come from. The three priestesses were all leaning forward, fixed so intently on Arrow that they had not noticed his approach. To his shock, his Athraskani senses felt a faint current of magic emanating from them. Not much, perhaps, but it was there.

A faint apparition formed above Arrow. He recognized the black robes of an Athraskani, but it was a long moment before he realized that the sharp, austere features were his own. “Don't speak to me,” his ethereal twin said in a voice that didn't sound much like his to him. “You are an abomination. There are no words for my revulsion."

This was vile! Surely Arrow wouldn't listen to such nonsense. Indeed, she was raising a knife against the apparition. That would show those priestesses she couldn't be fooled. Except that she had turned the knife so that the blade was towards her. The tip pressed against her chest, slipping in between the leather lacings that held her shirt together.

For an instant, horror and fear froze him. Then anger flared up, melting away all doubt. He stepped the rest of the way into the chamber, raising his staff so that it lit the cave like a sun. “Really, you don't expect anyone to confuse such an obvious fabrication for the real thing,” he said derisively. “For one thing, it isn't even half as handsome."

The priestesses instantly focused their attention on him. Arrow turned her head sluggishly, obviously confused. Her pupils were hugely dilated, her irises only a thin brown rim around a black pit that looked into nightmare. Thraxis might not have been an herbalist like Viabold, but even he could tell that she had been drugged.

"Who are you?” demanded one of the priestesses imperiously. “Leave this place at once!" He kept a wary eye on them, even though the power he had felt coming from them was slight, probably nothing more than was needed to feed visions to Arrow's drug-hazed mind. “I've come for Arrow,” he said calmly as he started towards her. To his relief, his twin had disappeared as soon as the priestesses’

concentration had broken.

"You cannot have her. She must suffer the judgment of the Lady of Beasts."

"I fear that I'm going to have to dispute that with the Lady."

"Blasphemer!"

"I prefer to think of myself as stubborn."

"You will pay for your trespass,” the oldest priestess said ominously. She and her sisters began a chant. Whether it was simply a bit of gibberish meant to frighten the gullible, or the beginnings of a true spell, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. With a snarl of frustration, he drew a circle in the air with his finger, at the same time invoking fire by its secret name. An instant later, a low wall of flames sprang up around the three thrones. The chanting stopped, and the youngest priestess let out a shriek of fear. Satisfied that the priestesses were contained without being in immediate danger, Thraxis went down on his knees by Arrow and touched her shoulder gently. Her skin was like ice. “Arrow? Can you hear me?" She stared blankly, seeing some vision beyond him. “Thraxis?"

"Yes, it's me. Why don't you put down the knife?"

Pain distorted her features sharply. “You hate me."

"What? Don't be silly. I don't hate you."

"Yes, you do! You said so!"

"That wasn't me, Arrow. It was an illusion."

"They were your words!"

"No, they—oh, gods.” Now he remembered. He had indeed spoken them the night he had found out that she was a berserker. “I was in quite a bit of shock when I said that, Arrow. And I apologized later and told you I didn't mean them."

She shook her head violently. A trickle of blood emerged from below her shirt and made its way down her belly. “You didn't."

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. She was right. Cursing himself furiously, he laid his staff down and slid his arms around her, drawing her against him despite the fact that she still held a knife that might kill either of them at any moment. “I'm sorry, Arrow. I'm sorry. I don't hate you. I love you. I love you more than life itself."

"No one loves me,” she whispered, and a sob caught in her throat. “I thought they did, but I was just a tool. Blood, Balthazar, they didn't care about me! They only cared about what I could do for them."

"I know.” He held her gently, rocking back and forth. “I know, dearest. But I do. And I'm not going to let you hurt yourself."

"But I deserve it. I deserve to die for what I've done."

"No. You did some terrible things, Arrow, but you're doing all that you can to correct your mistakes. Just because Blood and Balthazar won't shoulder their portion of the guilt doesn't mean that you have to take it all on yourself."

Her voice was nothing but a whisper. “That isn't what the voices say."

"Well, there you have it, then. To whom are you going to listen? Me, or voices that clearly don't know what they're talking about?"

She laughed shakily. Encouraged, he slipped a hand between them and took the knife from her. “You're not going to hurt yourself, are you? No, because you're my brave lady.” He kissed her hair gently. “My brave, pretty barbarian."

"I don't—oh, gods, Thraxis, you don't know what it was like,” she said, obviously struggling against sobs. Her face was buried tightly against his shoulder so that he couldn't see her expression. The words spilled out, tumbling over one another, telling of all the death she had seen, all the horror. “I wish none of it had happened. Oh, Lady of Beasts, why did it have to happen? Why?"

"I don't know, darling,” he said gently. He cradled her against him with one arm so that he would have the other free to grasp the staff if needed. His eyes he kept fixed on the priestesses, who were glaring at him with outrage from the other side of the flames but had not yet found any way to breach the fiery circle. “I don't know."

She was quiet for what seemed like a long time after that. Eventually, her shaking stopped. “The v'juga is going away,” she said into his shoulder.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

At length, she raised her head and looked around blearily. “Where are we?"

"We're in a cave."

"Oh.” She frowned at the stone walls. “Yes. I remember."

Hopefully, the alterations Balthazar had made to her body would help her fight through the drug faster.

“Good. I'm very proud. Can you stand up if I give you my arm to lean on?" She was very unsteady on her feet, but somehow they managed to get her upright. As he began to lead her out, he let the circle of fire die away, freeing the priestess. They glared at him with venomous hatred.

“You haven't won,” said the eldest. “The shadow of death is still upon her." Thraxis glared at them. “Not while I live."

She gave him a ghastly smile. “And how long will that be?"

Bitch. Turning his back on them, he helped Arrow make her slow way across the floor. The stairs were a challenge, but at last they stood again in the free air. By the positions of the stars, dawn could not be far off.

The Falcon clan stood in a loose ring around the cave and monolith. Thraxis stopped by the stone; Arrow swayed against him a moment, then managed to stand without support. Glaring at the men and women around them, Thraxis raised his staff again. “I am taking Arrow away from here,” he said calmly.

“She has emerged alive from the judgment. I suggest you satisfy yourselves with that."

"No!” one of the warriors shouted hotly. He took a step forward and pointed at another man behind him.

“She may be absolved of her previous crimes, but I claim vengeance against the dishonor she did my brother when she bit off his tongue!"

Thraxis had thought that he had felt anger before in his life. He had been wrong. With a snarl of blind fury, he lashed out with his staff, striking the stone beside him. A deafening crack rang out, and the enormous monolith split in two, so that the moon showed between the sundered halves. Several people screamed, and he thought he heard an unholy wailing coming from the cavern behind them. He didn't care.

Slowly, he turned on the man with the missing tongue. Pure hatred sizzled through him, coalescing into power that would obliterate half the Falcon camp in a moment. His staff began to glow, chained lightning racing up and down its length.

"And what,” he asked with a deadly calm, “were you doing that she was in the position to give you such an injury?"

The man cowered back, whimpering. His kinsmen stumbled away from him like frightened sheep that see the wolf coming down on them. Fools—there was no escape for any of them. Enraged by their fear, Thraxis hissed softly and raised his staff again.

"No.” Arrow's hand closed around his arm. Startled, he turned to look at her. “No,” she said again.

“Don't do this. I wasn't hurt.” She smiled shakily. “Believe me, he got the worst of the encounter." He searched her eyes. There was no trace of either shame or anguish in them, only concern for him. Relaxing a little, he glanced over at the frightened crowd. “Bring our horses, now,” he said in a voice that carried over the gathering. “And I want one of those wagons with a yurt on top. With all the furnishings and oxen to go with it."

The things he had requested appeared with a speed that would have been comic if the situation had not been so grim. He helped Arrow climb onto the driver's seat of the wagon, and then got up beside her. Gathering the reins in his hands, he glared down at the Falcon clan.

"You are alive only because of her sufferance,” he said bluntly. “If you are wise, you will remember that next time you think about seeking vengeance on someone who opposes Blood. You don't have so many friends that you can afford to make them into enemies.” He smiled grimly. “And I am the only man who can break Balthazar's power."

The Falcons paled sharply and murmured among themselves. “We didn't know about you!” someone shouted. “We didn't know she was your woman,” another protested.

Arrow said nothing. Giving them all a scathing glare, Thraxis flicked the reins and drove away into the breaking dawn.

Chapter Eighteen—Swept Away

As soon as they were beyond the Falcon encampment, Arrow crawled into the back of the wagon and fell asleep on the carpets and pillows covering its rough bed. She slept deeply, dreamlessly, while her body shook off the effects of the drugged elixir the Falcons had given her. Eventually, she awoke to the slow swaying of the wagon. The light gaping in through the loose entrance flap was bright, and she judged that it was near midday. Thraxis was singing in a language she didn't know, his deep voice floating across the day like a banner of dark silk. Feeling much better for her rest, Arrow rolled out the back of the wagon.

It would have been an understatement to say that Thraxis looked worse for the wear. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his hands shook with exhaustion. Still, he managed a faint smile for her. “Feeling better?"

"Much. You need sleep. I'll drive for a while."

For once, he didn't argue. As soon as he was settled in the back, Arrow flicked the reins and started the wagon rolling again. The broad shoulders of the oxen gleamed in the bright sun, and flies buzzed monotonously in the air. At first, Arrow remained alert for any sign of the Falcon clan, but after a while she realized that, if they had dared to try their luck against Thraxis again, they could have caught up with the slow-moving cart hours ago. So instead she relaxed, let the oxen amble forward, and pondered the events of the last day.

Much of what had happened in the sacred cavern was a blur. She wasn't entirely certain which of her memories were real and which were drug-induced hallucinations. One thing was absolutely clear to her, however. If not for Thraxis’ timely appearance, she would definitely be dead. That he had been the only one to come to her rescue was equally obvious. To arrive at the Falcon's camp so shortly after her, he must have ridden like a madman without rest or sleep for almost an entire day. Stalker didn't look like a horse that had been put through that kind of hell, though, which could only mean that Thraxis had resorted to magic to keep the animal on its feet and unharmed. It was an enormously brave thing for anyone to do, let alone Thraxis, whose life had left him woefully unprepared for such heroics. But, Lady of Beasts, it was so damned like him. Thraxis had never lacked the courage to make difficult choices. It was one of the things she loved about him. Maybe it was one of the things he loved about her, too.

Arrow halted the wagon a little before sunset, in a low dell created by a stream. A few ancient kurgans, weathered into shapeless mounds, made a half-ring around the place. After turning the horses and oxen loose to graze, she and Thraxis pulled the cover off the wagon and pitched it as a yurt in the lee of one of the hills. Dinner was brief and quiet. Once it was over, Arrow offered to clean up while Thraxis did his nightly meditation. Having just swallowed his last dose of painkiller and still waiting for it to take affect, he agreed.

Thraxis took himself to the top of one of the kurgans, and she wondered if he realized that it was not a natural formation. Once she was finished cleaning up, Arrow stood and watched him for a time. He was nothing more than a black silhouette seated against the golden rays of the setting sun, as motionless as the hills themselves. When she judged that he was finished meditating, she walked up the kurgan and sat in the soft grass at his side.

He had drawn up his hood, but the sun's slanting rays slipped underneath and illuminated his long nose and sharp cheekbones. His wine-yellow eyes in their frame of dark lashes were unreadable to her. But he looked peaceful, at least, as though he had come to terms with something during his silent meditation. She wondered what it was.

"Can I ask you something?” she ventured.

"Of course."

"Would you have killed him?"

He looked away, staring out over the steppe, so that he was in profile to her searching gaze. “I don't know."

She nodded, accepting the answer. “I don't ever want you to break your vows because of me,” she said sincerely. “I know that it isn't always easy for you to keep them, and I would never want to make things harder for you."

His mouth quirked wryly. “No. It isn't always easy."

"But don't you see? If your personality were such that it was easy, it wouldn't mean anything. You aren't by nature a calm, quiet person. You get angry and frustrated, and sometimes it would be simpler if you just forgot your vows and did whatever you wanted. But you truly believe that the vows are good and right, and so you don't break them, even when it is hard. That's one of the things I most admire about you."

He looked at her in surprise, as though it had never occurred to him that she might respect him. Then his expression softened. For a moment, he looked as though he was going to speak, but the words died into the soft sigh of the wind.

She wasn't certain which of them moved first. His lips were gentle as they explored hers, and his mouth tasted like the tisane he had drunk earlier. He smelled of smoke, of horses, and of the elusive scent that was nothing but his own skin. When their mouths parted, she longed to put her arms around him and meld her body into his. Instead, she drew back and laughed shakily.

"I'm sorry,” she said. “Here I am talking about respecting your vows and at the same time plotting to make you break your oath of chastity."

He looked at her blankly. “My what?"

"You know,” she said, puzzled. “You told me about it the night we tried to stay at the inn. The innkeeper wanted to give you a woman to make up for the meal. We had the translator stones on then, so I know I didn't misunderstand what you said."

"Oh!” Thraxis eyes widened suddenly. “I do remember. I had completely forgotten I said that."

"Don't tell me you just made it up. I shall be very angry."

"Well, I didn't exactly lie. It wasn't really an oath, though, so much as ... a spell."

"A spell?"

"To keep me from sleeping with the wrong person.” He looked at her ruefully. “It really is a long story."

"Oh.” She considered his words briefly. “I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

"Then let me clarify."

He kissed her again: passionately, hungrily. One arm slid around her waist, drawing her to him, while his other hand threaded itself through her long hair. She responded by slipping her arms around his shoulders, pushing back his hood so that she could trail her fingers along the smooth curve of his skull. The sun slipped below the horizon, the last light fading into darkness. Taking Thraxis by the hand, Arrow led him back to the yurt. The Falcon clan had provided plenty of pillows as well as a mattress, and she would have simply stripped and pulled him down with her onto their bed. But he caught her hands as she reached for the laces on her clothes, bringing her fingers to his mouth and sensuously kissing her palms.

"There's no rush,” he whispered huskily. “We have all night." He made love to her as if it was the only chance he would ever get, as if he had to memorize every inch of her skin with his mouth and hands. As he explored her body slowly, he whispered to her softly, telling her that she was beautiful, that he loved her, and that he felt honored to touch her. She responded eagerly, exploring, learning, until at last their bodies moved together in perfect unison, and her cries of pleasure echoed in the night.

* * * *

The steady drum of hoof beats woke Arrow from sleep. Startled, she rolled free of the entanglement of blankets and limbs, trying frantically to remember what had happened to her sword. Finding the hilt by touch in the darkness, she tore aside the curtain over the entrance and dashed out into the cold night air. The thunder of hooves grew louder. Riders swept over the eastern horizon, and Arrow's blood froze at their numbers. Knowing that it was too late to run, she lifted her blade, preparing to take as many of them with her as possible. As time slowed to a crawl, she realized that she could see the lead riders clearly because of an odd, bluish glow that surrounded them and lit their path. The leader wore blonde war braids, and at his side rode a man in a blue robe—

Nightwing lifted his head and trumpeted a greeting even as the lead riders found themselves swerving to avoid the wagon. For a moment, everything dissolved into shouting and confusion. Then Viabold made a sign, and the glow intensified, revealing the oxen, the horses, the yurt—and Arrow. Silence descended as she and the men of the clan stared at one another in mutual surprise.

Arrow was the first to recover. Acting as dignified as was possible, considering that she was completely naked except for her sword, she asked, “What are you doing here?" Viabold gave her a sheepish smile. “We've ... come to rescue you."

"You're a little late."

Bird Bones looked like a man who had just swallowed a large frog. “But you—what happened—how did you—"

He fell silent, and his gaze went beyond her. The curtain swished softly as it fell closed, and a moment later Thraxis draped his traveling robe about her shoulders. It was a gallant gesture; it also said ‘mine’ as clearly as a shout. Bird Bones’ eyes narrowed, and she guessed that he and Thraxis were busy glaring daggers at one another.

"It's late,” she said, before things got any farther out of hand. “I imagine that you've been riding for most of the night. I'll tell you what happened with the Falcons tomorrow. I think right now we should all get some sleep."

"Yes,” Bird Bones said reluctantly. “Set up camp."

There came a bustle of activity. Shaking her head, Arrow turned away and went back into the yurt. Thraxis had preceded her, pausing only to light a lantern to illuminate the interior. Now he sat cross-legged on the bed, a wide smile on his face.

"You're going to have to tell me what happened in camp the night you decided to come after me,” she said to him.

"Ask Bird Bones."

"Hmmph. Is that why you're grinning so hard?"

"No. I was just thinking how beautiful you looked, standing out there with nothing on."

"Ah.” She cast a significant glance at his lap. “Is that what that's all about?"

"Come here and find out."

With a soft laugh, she let the traveling robe fall and did as he suggested.

* * * *

The sun had barely cleared the eastern horizon when Arrow ducked back outside the yurt. Fog shrouded the sleeping camp, rising up from the dew-speckled grass. After the long night's ride, only a few were stirring at this early hour, although soon enough the entire camp would be up to make breakfast and tend the horses. But for right now, everything was quiet and peaceful.

Bird Bones Broken stood alone atop the same kurgan that Thraxis had chosen the evening before. Arrow joined him silently while he watched the final stars fade slowly in the west. As the last of the night disappeared, Bird Bones sighed and started wandering aimlessly down the slope, away from the camp. She went with him, waiting patiently.

"I made the only choice I could,” he said at last.

"I know. It was the choice I would have advised you to make."

"I had to put the good of the clan ahead of my personal feelings."

"I know.” She glanced at him curiously. “You don't think that had anything to do with me sharing more than a roof with Thraxis last night, do you?"

His jaw clenched briefly, then relaxed. “I accused him of casting a spell on you." She laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “Did you?"

"Yes. Even I didn't believe it, though. I was angry and frustrated. I had just made the second hardest decision of my life, and this—this skinny foreigner was defying me. As though it had cost me nothing."

"Thraxis isn't chief of the Skald. He doesn't have to be responsible for anyone but himself." His mouth compressed into a thin, bitter line. “I know. That's why he won you."

"That isn't true."

"Perhaps. But if I hadn't had to stay here and organize our people, if I could have gone south with you—things would have been different."

She stopped and put a hand gently on his arm. “They wouldn't have been. Bird Bones, I love him."

"And you don't love me."

"Not the way you want me to.” Her voice was soft with regret.

Blue eyes caught and held her own. “Tell me honestly. If you had never met Thraxis, would you have agreed to become my wife?"

"I don't know. Perhaps. But if I had agreed, it would have been because I felt affection and respect for you. And because of what we had shared. Not because of passion or romantic love." He shook his head and started walking again. “I keep wondering why the Athraskani couldn't have sent some decrepit old man with you instead. Then I think of what they did send and wonder if it would have made any difference."

"Don't be bitter, please.” She paused. “May I ask you something? Viabold said that you had come to rescue me. Why did you change your mind?"

Bird Bones sighed and ran his hand across the side of his head where the hair was cut close to the scalp.

“Because no one could stand it anymore. It's a hard thing, to have our own kin out to kill us. To lose another member of the clan, one who had stood by us, and to do nothing to help her—it would have torn us apart, Arrow. Everyone hated my decision. Everyone was angry and upset. Everyone felt like a coward. I saw the way things were going, I saw that I would lose my following if I didn't do something, and so I finally gave in and agreed to go after the Falcons. I don't know what we would have done if we had gotten to their camp and found you dead."

"You shouldn't have let them sway you, Bird Bones. If you're going to be their chief, then you have to make unpopular decisions and stand by them."

He gave her a wry glance. “You would tell me this? Don't you recall how we got into this situation to start with?"

"You're right."

"But of course, in the end it turned out that I needn't have worried about you after all. The mighty Thraxis was there ahead of me."

The glare she gave him halted him in his tracks. “Never disparage anyone's bravery just because you don't like him,” she said harshly. “It's petty and childish."

Bird Bones had the grace to look ashamed. “You're right. I'm sorry.” They started strolling again, heading back in the direction of the camp. “Arrow—I want to tell you something. I know you believe that I don't really love you. But I still want to marry you. If you and I both survive the fight against Balthazar and Blood, then I intend to ask you again.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Not for a year. I know that you love Thraxis and that you'll need time to mourn him. I just wanted you to know that I understand that, and I'm willing to wait."

She remained standing alone as he walked away. Bird Bones wasn't happy about her love for Thraxis, but he knew that he had an asset his rival lacked. He had time.

It wasn't possible, she thought. Although she had known that Thraxis was dying for some time, the reality of it had never quite come home to her. The thought of losing him was unbearable. She was young and in love—she should be looking forward to waking up at his side for the rest of her life. To watching his eyes fade to silver along with her hair.

But they would never have that. And Thraxis had never forgotten that fact. It was why he had hesitated to tell her how he felt.

No, she thought angrily, futilely. No, no, no. It can't happen. I won't let it happen. In her heart, she knew that denial could only be temporary. But for the moment, it was all she had.

* * * *

By the time Arrow calmed herself enough to go back to the camp, everyone else was up and about as well. People tended horses, cooked breakfast, or took down the yurts. A few people shouted ribald comments at her, which she waved off good-naturedly. Bird Bones was busy consulting with the other warriors. The two Athraskani had built a fire and were sharing breakfast over it—alone, as no one else would choose to eat a meal that consisted of nothing but vegetables.

"You could have at least put up an aural veil,” Viabold was complaining as she approached. “I had to construct one myself before I could get any sleep, what with all the screaming and yelling."

" I wasn't doing any screaming and yelling,” Thraxis said, clearly unperturbed.

"No, but it was your fault."

Thraxis smiled.

Viabold rolled his eyes. “Oh, wonderful—I thought this would improve your attitude, and instead you're more insufferable than ever. I hope you've at least given up on that silly Kahvenite nonsense."

"On the contrary, I consider myself completely vindicated."

"Oh, come now. Having been with a woman, can you honestly say that you're glad you deprived yourself of the experience until now?"

"I would say, ‘waited until I found the right person.’ Yes." Viabold shook his head. “I think the curse has infected your brain." Thraxis glanced up, noticed Arrow, and leaned back for a kiss. “At least Arrow appreciates me,” he said contentedly.

Viabold snorted. “Arrow appreciates part of you, anyway."

"Viabold is consumed with jealousy,” Thraxis confided to her in a stage whisper.

"I am not!"

"It's very pathetic, really."

Arrow nodded gravely. “You're both insane,” she told them. “Not to mention completely in love with the sound of your own voices. Which is all that you'll have for breakfast if you don't hurry up and eat. We're getting ready to break camp."

Thraxis made a face. Viabold's eyes sharpened, and he looked at his friend critically. “Do you have any of that painkiller left?"

Thraxis shrugged, as if it didn't matter. “I took the third dose last night at dinner."

"I don't want to give you any more if I don't have to."

"I know. I'll make do.” He glanced down at his breakfast, which he had barely touched, then set it aside.

“I think I'll go see about striking the tent."

Viabold watched him walk away, and Arrow could see the worry in the older Athraskani's golden eyes. Transferring her gaze to Thraxis, she noted how loosely his robe hung on him and remembered how clearly his ribs had showed through a thin layer of flesh. She wanted to deny it, to pretend that it meant nothing. But she couldn't.

Time was running out.

Chapter Nineteen—Grains Of Sand

The next several days passed in relative quiet. The rescue party returned to the main encampment, where Arrow was greeted with a delight that contrasted sharply with the mood of her previous return. Rumor spread like wildfire, and Leaf was waiting for her and Thraxis at their yurt. “Misunderstood your relationship, did I?” he asked dryly.

"I don't want to hear it, Leaf,” Arrow warned as she carried her saddle into the yurt. Leaf spread his hands apart. “Did I say anything?"

"You were about to."

"Maybe I was going to say that there must be more to your skinny grass-eater than anyone would think. Did they tell you how he stood up to Bird Bones Broken? Of course, Bird Bones punched him in the nose."

Arrow's head popped back out the door flap. “He did what?"

"It was nothing,” Thraxis said hurriedly, hoping to forestall anything that would cause further strife between Arrow and her chieftain.

"Knocked him on his ass. What there is of it,” Leaf added critically. Arrow glared at Thraxis. “Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I didn't even think about it."

"Well, what did you do?"

"I'll tell you,” Leaf interjected helpfully. “He stood up and looked Bird Bones in the eye and said, ‘Get out of my way.’ And Bird Bones slunk away like a beaten dog. What did I tell you about intimidating your opponent, girl? Your man knows a thing or two about how to win a fight."

"I suppose,” Thraxis said later, lying in Arrow's arms, “that means he likes me." For the most part, it was a blissful time for Thraxis. He made love with Arrow in the night and woke beside her in the morning. After the kai'ten, he would spend the morning gaming with Leaf, or talking with some of the other Skald, or helping Arrow with small tasks that didn't require much skill. Over time, he came to realize that the Skald led a hard life even in good times. The threat of drought hung over them in the summer, coupled with the threat of severe cold in the winter. Famine was a constant specter, for everything depended on being able to adequately feed and water their herds. But, despite the precarious nature of their nomadic existence—or perhaps because of it—they celebrated the pleasures in life with a fervor that was unknown among the Athraskani. In understanding her people, he gained a new understanding of Arrow and loved her the more for it.

But gradually, a shadow began to fall across his life. He had spent himself recklessly in rescuing Arrow, and the curse didn't care how desperate was his need. Despite taking Viabold's medicines, he awoke several times in the night, racked by fits of coughing. With Arrow in the same bed, he couldn't hide the severity of his condition from her, and he saw the concern in her eyes every time she looked at him. By the third day, the coughing fits attacked him even while awake and sitting upright, interrupting his games with Leaf. And on the morning of the fourth day, when he arose and went outside, he realized that he could no longer see the horizon.

Oh, it was there all right, but it consisted of nothing but a green blur that smeared into a blue blur. Even the yurts at the edge of the camp looked fuzzy. Things up close were still sharp and clear—but for how long?

Grief gripped him, so hard that he simply stood still and closed his eyes. After a moment, he felt Arrow's hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked worriedly.

With an effort, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Fine. Do you know where I might find Bird Bones?"

She frowned. “Why?"

"I need to talk to him."

"I'm not sure. If he didn't go hunting, he might be riding the bounds of the camp. Do you want me to find him for you?"

"No. I'll do it. I've been sitting still for too long as it is.” He touched her face gently, and then kissed her.

“I'll be back soon. I love you."

"I love you, too,” she replied, obviously troubled. “I'll be here if you need me, fixing that strap on Nightwing's harness."

He walked through the camp, asking everyone he passed for Bird Bones’ location. Eventually, he found the young chief busy making shafts for arrows. Bird Bones glanced up when Thraxis’ shadow fell over him, and a frown creased his handsome face. “What?” he asked, clearly wishing that Thraxis would simply leave—preferably for good.

"We need to talk."

His grim tone warned Bird Bones that this concerned more than their rivalry over Arrow. Nodding, the chief stood up and motioned for him to follow. They walked out of the camp, past women tanning skins into leather and children grinding seeds into flour. The wind streamed unfettered over the steppe, tossing the wildflowers so that the earth itself seemed to flow like brightly colored silk. High above, a falcon dove suddenly, knocking another bird from the air. A moment later, it wheeled away, its prey clutched in one foot.

"What did you want to talk about?” Bird Bones asked at last.

Thraxis turned and looked at the younger man. Tall, muscular, handsome—no wonder the rest of the Skald were so bemused at Arrow's choice of a man. Why take a skinny, bald, weakling like Thraxis when she could have had this young godling?

"When are you planning to attack Blood and Balthazar?” he asked bluntly. Bird Bones frowned a little. “We aren't ready yet. We need allies. There aren't enough to us to triumph."

"Even if Blood's forces were in disarray? Thrown into confusion by Balthazar's sudden loss of power?"

"Possibly. I don't know. I would certainly feel better if we had more warriors with us."

"You might not have that option.” Thraxis took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I'm running out of time, Bird Bones. I have to confront Balthazar soon, or I won't be of any use to you at all."

"How soon?"

"Soon."

Bird Bones looked away, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I know that we don't have enough men to battle through Blood's forces to get you close to Balthazar. The wizard is well protected. We couldn't hope to breach his tower even without his magic to defend it."

Thraxis sighed. “I know. But I have a plan that might get me inside."

"Tell me."

"Balthazar hates me, because he sees me as a symbol of everything he most despised about the Athraskani who treated him so poorly. It was why he selected me to be the victim of his curse. This entire campaign with your father hasn't been fought because Balthazar cares about the Skald. It's his way of defying the Athraskani, of forcing us to acknowledge his power. So if he had the opportunity to see me dragged before him in chains, begging for mercy, I don't think he would pass it up. It would be the affirmation of his power, of his importance.

"If you were to take me as your prisoner to the edge of Blood's territory and hand me over as a gift for Balthazar, do you think they would believe it? Do you think that your kinfolk might accept that you were tired of this war and wanted to make peace?"

Bird Bones was silent for a long time. Then he said, “They might. But you would be a prisoner—at their mercy. And they would certainly slay you as soon as you destroyed Balthazar's jewel."

"I only need to live long enough to get close to Balthazar. Anything else is secondary." Bird Bones looked at him silently for a moment. Then he reached out and clasped Thraxis’ shoulder in one strong hand. “I'm sorry,” he said sincerely. “I've been angry at you because of Arrow, and so I tried to think of you as less than a man. But you are brave as any warrior I've ever known." Thraxis shook his head. “Just desperate.” He paused, and then looked squarely at Bird Bones. “I didn't come here intending to steal her away from you."

"You didn't have to intend to, it would seem."

"Will you take care of her?"

"Do you want me to?” Bird Bones asked in surprise.

"What I want is to live and to grow old with her. But that isn't going to happen. So, in the absence of that, what I want is for her to be happy. If she agrees to marry you after I'm gone—I would not be displeased."

"If I live, I will take care of her,” Bird Bones promised. “I won't leave her alone with her grief."

"Thank you.” Thraxis folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe and turned away. “When can we go?"

"Tomorrow, if you're ready."

"I don't think my being ready has anything to do with it. Tomorrow, then." Now all that remained was to tell Arrow.

* * * *

Arrow sat silently while Thraxis explained his plan to her. The lamp flickered and sputtered, flinging shadows into the corners of the yurt and obscuring his expression. When he had finished, she continued to sit quiet and apart from him, her arms wrapped about her knees and her heart in tatters. It was too soon. It wasn't fair, damn it all. It wasn't right to have him taken away so soon after she had found him. A lifetime together would not have been enough, let alone a few months. Don't go, she wanted to say. Stay here with me so that we can have each other for as long as we may. Don't hasten the end.

But of course she could not say those things. She had brought him from the south to defeat Balthazar, and to ask him to turn away from that task for the sake of a few more weeks together would be to betray everyone: her people, herself, him. Tears that she was not allowed to shed gathered behind her eyes, and she bowed her head in despair. “I hate this,” she said softly.

"I know,” he said, voice gentle. “So do I. I would give anything to change this fate. But I can't."

"Does it have to be tomorrow?"

"I don't know how much time I have left, love. I have to go before I become too disabled to do anything useful. I wish—I wish that I could give this burden to someone else. But only Viabold and I can do this thing, and whoever attempts it is most likely going to end up dead one way or another. I'm the one who is doomed already. And I'm the one who made the doyan'si in the first place. It has to be me."

"A Champion isn't allowed to cry,” she said in a small voice.

He came to her, enfolding her in his arms and pulling her into his lap. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “I'm so sorry. I had resolved not to tie you to me, and I failed."

"If you mean that you think I wasn't bound to you before we slept together, then you don't understand me,” she said. She slipped her arms around him and held him, careful not to hurt him with her greater strength. “I'm glad we had this time together. I wouldn't change that for the world." After that, there was nothing left to say.

* * * *

The next morning came far too soon. Arrow didn't think that either of them had slept at all that night. They had loved to exhaustion, then lain together and talked until the early light of dawn leaked in. As the camp began to stir, she held him tightly in her arms, desperate to memorize the feel and weight of his body. Willing time to stop did no good, though, and eventually they had to rise. Outside, Arrow knew, Bird Bones and a few handpicked men were already saddling the horses in preparation for the long ride to the edge of Blood's territory.

"I could go with you,” she suggested uncertainly.

Thraxis shook his head. “A part of me wants to say yes. But could you sit there and watch as Blood's men led me away?"

"No. No, I don't suppose I could."

He came to her and leaned his forehead against her own. “You're needed to lead the warriors here,” he reminded her. “You'll be riding hard on our heels, so that you can strike as soon as my task is complete, during the time when Blood's forces are in disarray."

"I know. But it doesn't make it easier."

He kissed her tenderly, then leaned back and took her hands in his own. His wine-yellow eyes stared deeply into hers. “I love you. I will always love you. And I believe that we will see one another again, even if it isn't until the sundering of the world.” His grip tightened gently on her fingers. “When all of this is over, return to the Sanctum. I think that the Athraskani there might be able to take away your berserker nature and make you a normal woman again, if that is your wish. And someday, when you are very old, and all your beautiful hair has gone to gray, and you are sitting before the fire with your grandchildren at your feet, I hope that you will think kindly of me."

He let go of her hands and pulled his hood up to shadow his face. Turning, he left the yurt and walked steadily across the grass to where the horses waited. Viabold was there as well, holding Stalker's reins. Thraxis reached out to clasp Viabold's hand, but the older man pulled him into a sudden embrace. They kissed one another on the cheek, and Viabold said something that made Thraxis smile. Then he mounted and, surrounded by the warriors who would hand him over to his enemy, he rode away.

* * * *

Arrow and Bird Bones fled across the steppe like hunted animals. A storm had been rolling in from the northeast all day, huge anvil clouds towering up to blot out the daylight, until it finally fell upon them in a fury of rain and hail. Lighting lashed the clouds and thunder roared so loud that it shook the bones of the earth. The horses put their ears back, the whites of their eyes showing even as they ran. Within moments, the pitiless rain had soaked through Arrow's clothing, chilling her skin.

"We have to get to shelter!” Bird Bones shouted. His braids hung heavy with water, and his eyes were red with weeping. Taking the lead, he brought them to the lee of a kurgan that would keep back most of the wind. Then, with Arrow's help, he pitched the small, light tent that hunters used in foul weather. Once inside, he changed hastily into dry clothes and lit a fire. Arrow sat listless in her soaked clothes, unable to summon the energy to care whether or not she froze. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and dripped down her face, a substitute for tears. She had severed her last ties to the only people who cared about her. She had broken the oath of brotherhood that she had sworn with Balthazar and the oath of loyalty that she had given Blood. There was nothing left for her. Looking at Bird Bones’ pinched face, she realized that he must feel the same way. His own father had sent her to kill him. At first, he had not wanted to believe her, but he knew Blood too well to fool himself for long.

Blood would not be expecting Arrow to return for several days yet, and Bird Bones had decided to use the time to get as far from his father as possible. Lacking any other direction or purpose, Arrow had followed him. The future was shadowed, and she could not imagine any further course of action beyond this very moment.

"You need to get into dry clothes, Arrow,” Bird Bones said, breaking her out of her reverie. Her entire body shook with shivers. “No,” she whispered. “It doesn't matter. Nothing matters."

"That's not true. You don't believe that, or you wouldn't have warned me." She only shook her head. “Nothing matters."

Picking up a blanket, he moved to her side and wrapped it around her shoulders, drying her off as best he could. Surprised, she looked up and met his eyes. In them, she saw desperation, loneliness, fear—and something else.

When he kissed her, she thought about pushing him away. But it seemed too much of an effort, and besides, the feel of another warm body with hers didn't seem like such a bad thing. They tore at one another's clothing frantically, driven by the desperate need to prove to themselves and one another that they were still alive and not utterly alone. It hurt when he entered her, worse than most wounds she had taken as Champion, but she bit her lip and endured. It didn't last long, and when it was over he slumped into a fitful sleep at her side.

Arrow lay awake all night, looking at the patterns of light the fire made on the sides of the tent. She had been afraid that her berserker nature would take over when her heart began to race with passion, that she would never be able to relate to a man who moved at normal speed. That fear, at least, had been laid to rest. She hadn't bled at all when he took her maidenhead, and the ache in her body was already fading thanks to her accelerated healing, but she still felt different. Changed. Long after the fire had died, when the first light of dawn showed outside, Arrow rose quietly and left him sleeping. A stream ran nearby, and she bathed in its cold waters before dressing. Once she had finished, she built a fire and stripped all the scalps from her horses’ harnesses. They went up in a shower of sparks and the acrid stink of burning hair.

By the time Bird Bones came to find her, she had made her decision. “We need help,” she told him, as they stood together in the early light, upwind from the pyre she had made. “There are those of our own clan who are set against Blood and his ways. And there are other clans that would be happy to stand against him as well. But with Balthazar's magic at his side, no army of mortal warriors will ever have a chance against him."

Bird Bones’ brows drew together. “What are you suggesting?"

"You need to find those of our clan who have rebelled against Blood. They're out there, somewhere, and they need a leader. And as for me—.” She turned to him and took his hands in her own. “I'm going to go south to the Empire and find Balthazar's people. They're the only ones who can help us defeat him." He thought about her words for what seemed like a long time. “I don't want you to go,” he said at last, sadly. “But you're right. Someone has to go if we're to have any hope at all, and you have the best chance of surviving such a journey. But—don't you want to wait? If you leave now, winter will catch you before you're halfway there."

"We can't afford to wait. It might be too late already."

"Then go."

They finalized their plans while they broke camp and readied the horses. They set up a meeting place where he would wait for her return, and she agreed to stop on her way back and ask the Chok oracle for an omen of their victory. No mention was made of what had happened between them the night before. But, as she was getting ready to mount, Bird Bones embraced her and kissed her lips.

"Come back to me,” he whispered.

"I will. And when I come, I'll have the key to victory with me." As she rode away, she looked back several times. Bird Bones stood alone on the steppe, staring after her. She knew that he watched her until she was lost in the distance, and that he continued to stare at the southern horizon for a long time after.

Chapter Twenty—One Man Army

It was a ride of three days to reach the edge of the territory firmly claimed by Blood on the Wind. Thraxis endured it in silence, but agony was his constant companion, eating away at his bones and his lungs until he could no longer sleep at night. Congestion made it hard to breathe, and his sight continued to fail, color and life leaking gradually out of the world around him. Dizzy spells took him unexpectedly, until he finally abandoned pride and asked to be tied to his horse to avoid getting killed in a fall. It was a cold, rainy day when they came upon Blood's outriders. Thraxis sat shivering and miserable in his saddle, for he had given his traveling robe over to Bird Bones, who would pass it on to Viabold. No sense in letting Balthazar have it, after all. The rain stuck Thraxis’ thin undershirt to his shoulders and chest, and the unrelenting cough threatened to choke him.

When the outriders were spotted, one of Bird Bones’ men displayed a banner that indicated they had come to deliver a message, not to fight. Slowly, warily, the two forces drew together. Before the other men were anything more than blurs to Thraxis’ failing sight, one of them called out in recognition.

"Walking Turtle!” shouted Bird Bones in response. “We have come to treat with my father!"

"He's north, in Balthazar's citadel,” the man replied, using the Empire word, as the Skald had no tradition of such permanent structures. “I wouldn't come any farther if I were you, though. He's declared you a rebel."

"Are you going to fight us, then? Your own kinsmen, come under a banner of truce?" Walking Turtle hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. I'll take a message, if you want. Do you really want to make peace with Blood?"

He sounded hopeful, and Thraxis realized that the strife within the clan had not been hard only on the rebels. Everyone had a parent or uncle or cousin on the other side.

"We're tired,” Bird Bones replied wearily. “We're hungry. The winter was hard, and we don't have the herds to get us through the summer. Not after Balthazar's attacks."

"Balthazar attacked you?"

"Didn't you know?"

The riders exchanged uneasy looks. “No,” Walking Turtle said at last. “We didn't."

"Many have died. This quarrel has gone on long enough. Tell my father that I want peace. As proof of my intentions, I've brought a gift.” At a gesture from Bird Bones, Hungry Dog Hunts dismounted and pulled Thraxis roughly from Stalker's back. The Athraskani landed badly, sending a bolt of pain up one leg.

"What is this?” Walking Turtle demanded suspiciously.

"One of Balthazar's people—a man he had a quarrel with. I'll admit to you, I tried to get help from the Athraskani. And this is what they sent—a pathetic weakling too sick even to do magic anymore.” Bird Bones snorted derisively. “I was a fool to have thought that they would care. But at least some good can come of it. Balthazar would like revenge on this one, so I'm giving Thraxis to him in hopes that he won't take revenge against me."

"Ah.” Walking Turtle nodded. “All right then, we'll take him and your message. Come back here twelve days from now and I'll let you know Blood's answer."

Hungry Dog Hunts shoved Thraxis hard, sending him sprawling into the grass. Without looking at him, the rebels remounted and rode away, disappearing rapidly behind a curtain of gray rain. Blood's men dismounted and came over. Looking up at their cold faces, Thraxis struggled very hard not to be afraid.

* * * *

Arrow rode hard at the head of the column of warriors. Behind her came all the force that the rebels were able to muster—a pathetically small number when compared to the hordes at Blood's command. Viabold also rode with them, which might balance things out a bit. But Balthazar's magic was stronger, and Viabold wouldn't consent to do anything more than defend their force from sorcerous attack. Even if Thraxis succeeded in removing Balthazar, the outcome looked bleak.

She tried not to think about Thraxis or his mission. Every morning when she woke alone, she told herself that he was still alive somewhere, that he couldn't possibly have been taken before Balthazar yet. It was the last comfort left to her, so she clung to it irrationally, refusing to consider that there would come a morning when she would wake to uncertainty.

They overtook Bird Bones Broken and his companions the day after they handed Thraxis over to Walking Turtle. Listening to his account, she tried not to hate Bird Bones for his part in things, knowing that Thraxis had asked it of him. But still, after he had finished, she gave him a hard look.

"And did it give you no pleasure to get rid of him?” she asked, her heart like stone in her breast. A mixture of pain and anger flashed across his handsome features. “Of course it didn't. I'm not my father, Arrow. Thraxis was a brave man, and I'm sorry that he had to come to such an end."

"He's not dead yet."

Bird Bones made no reply, knowing better than to point out that Thraxis might as well be. They followed about a day behind Walking Turtle's band. As she rode past the ashes of their campsites, Arrow couldn't keep herself from looking at them and wondering what had befallen Thraxis there. Were the men treating him well? Or were they tormenting him, as they had tormented so many of their enemies?

There was no way to know.

The land they rode through was curiously empty. The steppe was huge, and no one could hope to keep watch over it all. Men had other things to do than ride constantly at Blood's command: tend the herds, hunt for game, and provide for their families. Even so, Arrow had expected to see at least one or two riders moving across the plain on some errand or other. But there was nothing, and the deserted nature of the landscape made the hair on her neck stand up and sent warnings racing along her nerves. Something was amiss.

Still, there was nothing for it but to ride and hope. This was their best, perhaps their only, chance at breaking Blood's power, and they could not afford to waste it.

On the fifth day after giving Thraxis over to Blood's men, they caught a glimpse of Balthazar's citadel on the horizon. Taller than any kurgan, it loomed over the landscape for leagues around. It consisted of a single, round tower built all of stone and wood, surrounded by a high wall. Many of the warriors cried out in dismay at the sight of it.

"How can we defeat a power that could make such a thing?” someone said in despair. Glancing at the worried faces around her, Arrow made a casual gesture. “I saw many such buildings in the south,” she said airily. It wasn't quite true, of course—she had in fact seen only one or two structures that were even close to its size. “They were raised by the hands of ordinary men, not wizards. The soldiers of the Empire use such towers to keep a lookout for their enemies. We have nothing to fear from a pile of stones."

"Exactly,” Viabold chimed in, taking his cue. “In the south, there would be nothing special about such a structure."

Some of the tension eased from the air, but Arrow could tell that the warriors were still unhappy about it. Well, so was she.

"Fire arrows,” Bird Bones decided, studying their goal. “Even from here, we can see the wooden timbers. If we can fire the gate and the tower, we stand a good chance." They retreated a little and spent the night making ready for the battle to come. Arrows were prepared that could be set alight, and the darkness was filled with murmured prayers to the Fire Goddess. Bows were carefully checked, swords polished and sharpened, and nagaica oiled. Tense and restless, Arrow stood on the edge of the camp and stared out across the landscape, able to discern the bulk of the tower only by the stars that it blotted out. Thraxis was inside there by now, she thought, delivered into the hands of the man who had put the death curse on him. For all she knew, he was already dead. Will I feel it? she wondered in despair. Will I know it when he dies?

Lady of Beasts, how can I do this? I need you, Thraxis. I can't do this alone. When the first light of dawn stained the east red, she left her lookout and went to saddle Nightwing. Stalker would remain behind with the other spare horses, but he too would be saddled and bridled in case they needed mounts for a hasty retreat. In grim silence, the rebels mounted and checked their weapons one last time. Then, in a thunderous wave of galloping horses, they charged across the plain towards the tower.

Nothing happened. As the tower grew closer and closer, Arrow felt her misgivings blossom into outright fear. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

The earth exploded in front of the lead horses, knocking them back. Arrow was flung from Nightwing's saddle in a shower of dirt and stones. Rolling to one side, she sprang up to see a huge, stone hand close around a man and crush him into pulp. Other gigantic hands rose up around them, flailing blindly for victims, while behind them an encircling army appeared as if from nowhere. Either Thraxis had failed or their attack had come too soon. Either way, Balthazar had lost none of his power. Viabold leapt from his mount with a shout, waving his arms. The hands shuddered, then crumbled into loose dirt. Panicked men and horses spun to flee and found themselves heading straight into Blood's army.

Time slowed. Arrow rode upon a plodding horse among men mired in mud. Witchlight flashed across their features, revealing them even as she slew them. Some were strangers, but others were cousins, even uncles, and she screamed in rage and pain as her sword ran red with their blood. All around her, bodies crumpled only to be trampled into the ground by frenzied hooves. Arrows darkened the sky, and more men fell, their hands lifted towards the clouds and their mouths opened in silent pleas. Power ripped the air again and again. She caught a glimpse of Viabold, his face white with fatigue and terror. A moment later, he fell, his defenses broken. Lightning sheered down from the sky, killing rebel warriors and their mounts in a wide swath.

Arrow abandoned any thoughts of escape. Some might make it through the battle with their lives, but she would not strive to be one of them. Instead, she went among her enemies like a wind, killing anyone who came near her, ignoring the threat of both sorcery and arrows. Seeing her onslaught, men began to flee her, but many were trapped by the press of bodies and died screaming beneath her blade or Nightwing's hooves.

Then, across the tumultuous battlefield, she caught a glimpse of Blood. His dark blond braids flew gracefully about his head, and his handsome face was contorted into a savage grimace. A heavy gold pectoral glittered on his chest, and his bronze sword almost seemed to flame in the early light. So profound was the shock of seeing the chief whom she had betrayed, that it took Arrow a moment to realize that he was moving at normal speed.

No. Normal speed only to her. To all other eyes, he was the deadly blur of a berserker. Unreasoning rage exploded in her brain. “Blood on the Wind!” she shouted, raising her sword in challenge. Although it was impossible for him to have heard her over the din of battle, he looked up and met her eyes.

With an inarticulate scream of fury, she dug her heels into Nightwing's flanks, seeking to drive through the tangle of warriors that separated them. Blood remained still, waiting for her, and she saw a cruel smile on his gore-spattered face.

Nightwing broke free from the press and lunged forward, and the earth opened beneath him. On reflex, Arrow leapt from his back, striking the ground on the edge of the sorcerous pit. She caught a brief glimpse of Nightwing at the bottom, thrashing in agony, the white of shattered bone showing from his legs. Then she flung herself away, aiming her sword at Blood's heart.

The smile never left Blood's face. Almost casually, he reached into a pouch at his belt and drew out a small, glowing stone. Then, with a move that was a blur even to her speeding senses, he flung it straight at her.

She wasn't fast enough to move aside. The stone struck her directly above her heart, and the glow around it flashed brilliantly, blinding her. Then she went down, her legs refusing to respond to her mind's commands. Unable to break her fall, she hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from her lungs. Blood stood over her. Trapped in her own body, she struggled to move, but it was useless. She couldn't so much as twitch her smallest finger.

"I should kill you,” Blood said. His smile vanished, and dark anger twisted his face. “But that would be too quick a death."

He moved away, out of her sight. A few moments later, two warriors appeared on the edge of her vision. They grabbed her unresponsive arms and dragged her after them until they reached a group of horses. Flinging her belly-down across one, they mounted the other two and set off. From her ignominious position, Arrow could see just enough of the horizon to know that they were taking her to the citadel.

* * * *

Balthazar's tower was a cold, dank place. The enormous, rough-hewn stones that made up the walls held in the chill of night even in the midday sun. The air smelled of wet stone and mildew, underlain with the fainter scents of incense and food. The two warriors dragged Arrow up endless stairs, until at last they stopped in a single, enormous room midway up the tower. A profusion of lamps lit the cavernous space and cast dark shadows all around. The stone floor had been inscribed with a single, enormous circle such as she had seen Viabold and Thraxis use in spells. Arcane symbols ringed it round, but for now lay quiescent, nothing more than marks etched in the stone. At the opposite end of the room was a low dais with an ornate throne. A filthy brown blanket lay near one wall, concealing something beneath it. The two warriors bound Arrow securely with ropes, and then held her upright. One of them gripped her chin and lifted her head, and she saw Balthazar emerge from the shadows near the throne. He had changed little since she had last seen him, except that now he wore his hair in the style of the Skald. The doyan'si glittered around his neck, its red depths seething with captured souls. His golden eyes searched her face for a moment, and then looked away in disgust. Lifting one hand, he snapped his fingers, and feeling returned to her limbs. With a furious snarl, she tried to shake loose from her captors, but the ropes held her tightly.

"So, the traitor has returned.” His deep voice resonated in the chamber. Her betrayal had hurt him, she realized. “I did what I had to,” she said simply.

"It hardly matters. You are for Blood to deal with.” He paused in the center of the chamber, looking at her steadily. “Bird Bones’ forces are in disarray. No doubt the few survivors will be hunted down and killed soon enough. And as for his so-called ‘gift,’ by which he no doubt meant to distract me—" Balthazar glanced at the blanket in one corner, and then waved his hand idly. The blanket lifted of its own volition, revealing that which lay beneath.

It was Thraxis.

They had beaten him terribly. Blood masked a face distorted by swelling. He was naked, and his torso and genitals were purple from bruising. For a moment, Arrow believed that he was dead, that his failing body couldn't possibly have taken that much punishment and endured.

Then the few unbroken fingers of one hand twitched. Eyelids fluttered, revealing a sliver of yellow iris. Horrified and sickened, Arrow closed her eyes, then forced them open again. Thraxis lived, and she would not look away no matter how much it hurt her.

Fondling the doyan'si with one hand, Balthazar paced slowly over to where Thraxis lay, stopping about ten feet away. “Well, well,” he said mockingly. “If it isn't Thraxis, greatest of the Athraskani, pet of the Black Council. It's a good thing Bird Bones gave out your name, or else I wouldn't have recognized you. What happened to the fat buffoon, gorged on his own self-importance?" Thraxis’ fingers twitched again and his bloody lips parted. “Please,” he whispered. Balthazar arched a brow. “Surely I didn't hear aright. Thraxis, begging? Never.” His face hardened. “Tell me why you're here. What did you possibly hope to accomplish?"

Very slowly, Thraxis lifted his head from the floor and raised his eyes to Balthazar's face. “I came—to ask—you to remove the curse,” he managed.

It was plausible. If you didn't know Thraxis, not truly—oh, yes, it was plausible. Interest lit Balthazar's eyes. “Oh, really? And what did Bird Bones and his little band have to say about that?"

"Ignorant savages,” Thraxis gasped. He paused a moment while coughing racked his body, then spat out a gob of blood. “I had to see you. I had—to come—I couldn't reverse the curse. You're the only one who can help me. The doyan'si gives you the power to break the spell. Please—." Realizing that she should react to this statement, Arrow flung herself against her bonds. “Traitor!” she screamed. “Lying bastard!"

Balthazar glanced at her, and a slow smile spread across his face. “So the traitor is herself betrayed,” he mused. Then he returned his attention to Thraxis. “So you admit that I am greater than you?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"You are the greatest of Athraskani."

"Crawl. Crawl to me and kiss my foot."

It was agonizing to watch. Hard enough to witness Thraxis humiliated, but even harder to see how much physical pain the movements caused him. But Arrow forced herself to watch, even forced herself to spit at him when he crawled slowly past her. Halfway to his goal, he had to stop for the coughing that racked him. Then, suddenly, a spasm rolled through his body, and he vomited blood on the floor. He was dying.

His lips left a bloody print on Balthazar's shoe. Triumphant, Balthazar let out a throaty laugh. “Now beg,”

he said gleefully.

Thraxis’ mouth moved, but no sound came forth. Balthazar frowned. “Again! So I can hear!" Obviously struggling against the blood filling his lungs, Thraxis spoke again. This time there was a faint murmur, but nothing more. Frowning impatiently, Balthazar bent down to catch the words, the doyan'si dangling from its chain about his neck.

Thraxis’ hand shot out, faster than Arrow would have thought possible, and his functional fingers wrapped around the red jewel. A faint, brief smile touched his mouth as he met Balthazar's gaze.

"'For the reign of the tyrant shall last but a moon,'” he said. “Shatter. " The doyan'si exploded in a burst of light and heat that blinded Arrow. Balthazar let out a roar of anger, and one of the warriors screamed. For several seconds, blue afterimage blotted out everything else, and Arrow had to blink rapidly to clear her sight.

Thraxis lay sprawled on his back, the doyan'si clutched in one hand. The jewel was cracked, and the unholy radiance in its heart was gone, leaving it dull and gray. The gold setting had melted into slag, charring the fingers still clenched around it. All of the color had gone out of Thraxis’ skin, which stretched tight across the bones of a body reduced to little more than a skeleton. His half-open eyes revealed only whites, like stones set into his head. No breath stirred his thin chest.

"Thraxis!” she screamed, flinging herself towards his body. “Thraxis! " The hands of her guards closed around her, wrestling her to her knees. Bowing her head, she sobbed helplessly, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Thraxis,” she whispered. The blast had flung Balthazar several feet. Now he picked himself up, his face scarlet with rage. Cursing furiously, he stormed over to Thraxis’ corpse and kicked it viciously several times. “Damn you! You tricked me!” he shouted. “May your soul rot in hell!” Then, closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. “No matter. It hardly makes any difference."

Reaching out his hand, he made an odd motion. A moment later, a tall, black staff appeared in his grip. It looked much like the one that had belonged to Thraxis, with the exception of a single addition. At the top, nestled between bronze talons, was a single red jewel that shone with an evil light.

"Lady of Beasts, no,” Arrow whispered.

"Thraxis always believed that no one else was as smart as he,” Balthazar said, looking down at the frail husk that had once been the mightiest of all the Athraskani. “But I'm no fool. Why settle for the power of one doyan'si, when I could have two? If you have enough magic and know the right formulae, they aren't that difficult to make. But of course, it never would have occurred to him that anyone else could divine the secrets he unlocked."

Stepping over Thraxis’ body, he looked down at Arrow. “It was all for nothing, oath sister. Despite your charade, you haven't diminished my power one whit. You've lost.” Staff in hand, he turned to the guards.

“Take the body and throw it on the midden. Let the dogs and the crows fight over the scraps. As for Arrow, take her to the room at the top of the tower and lock her in." He swept away, leaving them alone. As the guards tried to take Arrow away, she fought them, desperate to keep Thraxis’ lonely corpse in her sight for as long as she could. But at last they dragged her up the stairs and thrust her into a small room at the very top of the tower. Before they left, one of them paused and caught her eye.

"The Arrow that Flies the Farthest,” he said softly, “you were well named." Then they closed the door behind them. Bowing her head in despair, Arrow wept.

* * * *

The journey south to the Empire was far more difficult than Arrow anticipated. Winter came early and hard. Game animals hid in deep burrows, and snow covered over edible plants. The edges of the inland sea that the Skald called the Singing Water had frozen over, and she rode across the featureless ice to cut miles from her journey. No other travelers stirred on the road, and even bandits stayed indoors, so that weeks would pass at a stretch without the sight of another human face. When she did meet someone, they seldom spoke any language that she could understand, though she had nothing to barter with even if she could have communicated her need. Times were lean for both her and the horses. She bled them twice to stay alive herself, making careful slits in the veins of their throats and drinking the hot blood with her lips pressed against the wounds. Blizzards hemmed them in at times, forcing them to take any shelter they could find and trapping them for days. The moons rolled past, and Arrow began to wonder if she would ever reach her destination, or whether she should simply turn back, find Bird Bones, and admit failure. But the thought of abandoning the quest without redressing some of her crimes stung, and she pressed on. In time, the snows lessened and the climate grew gentler. The land and the people changed around her, the hardy northern tribes with their tough, beautiful land giving way to the toga-clad people of the Empire and their sub-tropical world. It was an alien realm, and she wondered what would happen if the Athraskani she had come so far to see refused to give her any aid against Balthazar. If they do, they do, she thought stoically. There's nothing I can do but press on until I find them. But every night, she offered up a prayer to the Lady of Beasts that her expedition would not be in vain.

Chapter Twenty-One—The Stag

Arrow didn't know how many hours passed before the door opened once again to admit Balthazar. She had spent the time in a numb fog, her mind struggling with the concept that Thraxis was dead and that his sacrifice that been in vain. All their efforts and pain—all for nothing. Night was falling outside of the high, narrow window of her prison when Balthazar finally came. He was dressed in fine silk robes and clutched his staff in one hand. Shutting the door behind him, he stood and looked down at her with an odd mix of anger and pity.

"Why do you waste a Champion's tears on one such as he?” he asked. She shook her head sadly. “He was my amrian."

Balthazar snorted scornfully. “If you heard the word from his mouth, then you were truly duped. He was the worst of all my people: arrogant, spiteful, utterly without love or compassion. You're not a stupid woman, Arrow. How could you believe that such a creature could care for you? Why would you want him to care for you?"

"He wasn't like that,” she said quietly. “Balthazar—he was sorry for what he said about your wife." Balthazar stiffened, his face going white. “Anything he told you about the incident was undoubtedly twisted to make him seem in the right."

There was no point in explaining that she had seen it in a vision. “No. He was genuinely sorry as soon as he said it. But he never told you. That was his failing. He was sorry for that, too."

"He was only sorry because his callousness brought the curse down on him, not because he gave a damn about anyone's feelings but his own."

"You won't listen to me, and I know Thraxis too well to believe you,” she said tiredly. “Why don't you just tell me what you intend to do with me?"

He leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest, the staff cradled protectively close.

“Blood intends to make an example of you. He's summoning all the chiefs of the Skald to the tower so that they can see what happens to traitors. In seven days, you will be taken to the throne room, bound between two posts, and publicly flogged to death."

Her mind and heart were both too bruised to truly comprehend the meaning of her sentence. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes and wondered if there was any way to cheat Blood of his triumph.

"It is not the death I would have chosen,” Balthazar said unexpectedly. “I would have preferred something quicker, in honor of the bond we once shared. But Blood would not be moved." She looked up at him curiously. “You've always jumped to Blood's orders, haven't you? But I thought the whole reason you came here was to prove that you were better than the other Athraskani who scorned you. And yet you're nothing but a tool, a servant, just as I was." Balthazar flushed. “You're wrong. I have sown death and destruction from one end of the steppe to the other. I've proven my worth to everyone who matters."

"No, you haven't. The Athraskani ignored you, refused to show you the slightest sign of respect because you lacked the ability to do anything but children's magic. So you decided that, if they would not love and respect you, they would at least acknowledge you. You stole the doyan'si and came here to force them to respond to you, to recognize you as a powerful and dangerous adversary. But you failed."

"You're wrong. Thraxis—"

"Thraxis was a dying man who had become a liability and an embarrassment! They let him come here because it was easier than dealing with him in the Sanctum. They don't care what you've done, Balthazar. They'll be just as happy to forget that you ever existed.” She laughed bitterly. “You've lost. All that you've done, all the people you've killed, all the power you've accumulated—and you've still lost. Because your people don't give a damn about what you've done. And they never will." All the color drained from Balthazar's face. Then, with a furious oath, he spun on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Arrow lay on her side for a long time, staring at the heavy wooden panel and wondering how their individual sorrows had driven them all to such madness. Eventually, worn out by grief, she slept.

* * * *

The next seven days were the most difficult of Arrow's life. Grief for Thraxis moved through her like a live thing, sometimes lying still in the pit of her belly, other times surging up so strong that she could barely breathe. Every morning, when she first rose, she performed a kai'ten for his memory, even though she collapsed weeping to her pallet as soon as she was done.

At times, it was difficult to believe that he was truly gone, that she would never see him again, never hear his beautiful voice, never feel the weight of his body on hers. Lying on her pallet, watching the sunlight creep slowly across the floor as the empty days passed, she wondered if the Lady of Beasts would grant her prayer to be reunited with him in the next life. The goddess was just, but she had little in her of mercy, and it seemed unlikely that she would grant the request of an oath-breaker. Thraxis had believed, though, and Arrow tried to find some comfort in that.

Within her small room, she was allowed complete freedom. But Balthazar had put spells on the door and windows that she could not pass, dashing hopes for either escape or for a leap from the tower that would at least rob Blood of his exhibition. To her relief, she was left alone most of the time, except when guards brought her food and water twice a day. They were all from her clan, and they treated her with respect. A few even seemed to feel sympathy for her plight, although not so much that they would dare to defy Blood.

Staring out from the south-facing window one day, she wondered what had become of Bird Bones. That the rebels had lost their gamble was clear enough, but she could not be certain how badly they had been beaten. Had everyone died at the hands of their kinsmen and Balthazar's magic? Or had a few escaped to nurture a flame of hope, no matter how weak it might be?

No one had spoken to her of Bird Bones’ death, so it seemed possible that he at least had escaped. Nor had Balthazar mentioned Viabold, suggesting that the other wizard had either lived through the battle or that his body had been so badly destroyed that he had not been identified as Athraskani. She chose to believe that they were both still out there in the world somewhere and that they would someday yet prevail, even though she would never see it.

But for the most part, she slept through the long days, worn out by grief and despair. Sorrow followed her into dreams, showing her visions of Thraxis’ body devoured by crows and dogs along with the rest of the trash in the midden. Once, she saw him very clearly, standing in front of a yurt and tending Nightwing. A vision from the land of the dead, she thought when she woke, horse and man renewing their acquaintance briefly before they traveled on to the next life.

At last the day of her execution dawned. She rose as usual and performed the most complicated kai'ten that she knew, reveling in the movement of muscle and bone. Halfway through, she was aware of two warriors opening the door, but she continued on doggedly until the dance's end. Then she turned to face them, chin held high. One touched the heel of his hand to his forehead in a gesture of respect, and she smiled grimly.

"Shall we go, then?"

"We have to bind you,” the warrior said apologetically. He held in his hands a length of ensorcelled rope that would keep her strength under control.

She ignored them while they pulled her hands behind her and tied her wrists securely. One tried to set the point of his sword at the small of her back, but the other rebuked him sharply for the dishonor, and the sword was taken away. Holding herself proudly, she left the room between them, determined to die as she had lived.

I'm coming, my love, she thought when she put her foot on the first step. Wait for me a little longer, if you can.

They led her back down to the throne room where Thraxis had died. Today the room was packed with people. Most of them appeared to be chieftains, their raiment glittering with gold. More than one of them seemed uneasy, which pleased her. Blood on the Wind sat upon the ornate throne, the gilded nagaica that was the sign of his office in one hand. An enormous gold pectoral hung about his throat, masterfully cast with tiny figures of humans, cattle, horses, sheep, and flowers. Balthazar stood beside the throne, the staff with the doyan'si held firmly in one hand.

Off to one side of the room, near where Thraxis had died, two tall wooden posts had been set in a footing that held them upright. Ropes ran from the top of each—doubtlessly ensorcelled—and she saw that she was to be bound between them. Hunts Mice stood near the posts, a whip in his hand and his cloak of scalps on his back. She should have guessed that he would be her executioner, she thought bleakly. His taste for cruelty would make him the natural choice.

They took her to the posts and tied her to them, so that her arms were pulled painfully in their sockets. Through it all, she kept her face calm, revealing nothing of her thoughts, even when one of the guards carefully cut the shirt from her body. One or two of the assembled chiefs ogled her breasts, but the majority looked frightened, as if imagining themselves in her place. Which Blood had no doubt intended. When all was ready, Blood stood and slowly walked to the middle of the room. His blue eyes briefly touched Arrow, then dismissed her as of no consequence and focused instead on those he had ordered to witness her death. “The Arrow that Flies the Farthest was once Champion of my clan,” he said, his voice reaching every corner of the vast room. “She sat upon my right hand at feasts and was given the highest honor of any warrior. And yet, despite my generosity, she chose to break her oaths and betray me."

"What of the oaths that you betrayed when you went to war against the rightful king?” Arrow asked levelly.

Blood glanced at her briefly. “If she speaks again, cut out her tongue. Arrow betrayed me, corrupting my son to do her foul work,” he went on. “Today, she will die a traitor's death. Remember what you see here. Betrayal will be harshly rewarded, even in those I once loved. Tell your people. I don't want to do this a second time."

Retreating to his throne, he signaled Hunts Mice. Staring defiantly at the gathered chieftains, Arrow braced herself. The whip cracked across her back, leaving a bright streak of agony behind. I won't cry out, she promised herself, even though she knew it was going to get unimaginably worse before the end, and only death would alleviate the pain.

The whip came down a second time, leaving another line of raw flesh behind. Then a third. A fourth. As Hunts Mice raised the whip for the fifth time, the torches set around the perimeter of the room suddenly flared up, flames streaming towards the ceiling. Several people shouted wildly in shock. Then, just as suddenly, the torches all went out at once, like candles snuffed by some unseen breath. Arrow felt the ropes around her wrists loosen, then fall away. Hunts Mice saw them and took a step towards her, reaching for his sword. The nearest rope rose in the air like a snake, striking at his face so that he danced back. It and its companion both reared up warningly, and she heard a faint hiss come from them. Viabold? she wondered incredulously.

"What's going on here?” Blood demanded. Balthazar hurriedly motioned with his staff, and a cold glow infused the room. Snarling, Blood came to his feet, marching in Arrow's direction—then fell back as a sudden rush of feathers feinted towards his face. Arrow caught a glimpse of what might have been a large raven, but it vanished into the shadows at the perimeter of the room before she could be certain. Silence descended. Balthazar went to stand in the center of the room, peering angrily at the shadows. The assembled chieftains huddled in a knot, clutching their swords and muttering about ghosts and sorcery. “I am the greatest wizard on the steppe,” Balthazar reminded them sharply. He raised his staff as if to increase the light, but nothing happened. “Show yourself, intruder!" For a moment, there was no answer. Then the slow, measured tread of sandals on stone sounded through the room, echoing so that there was no way to be certain from what direction it came. Several of the chieftains yelped, and Blood's face paled sharply.

A dark figure stepped into the circle of magical light. It was very tall and dressed in heavy, black robes that swirled around its ankles. A hood hid its face, except for the very tip of a long nose. Even so, Arrow felt her heart almost stop.

"You have made a very serious mistake, Balthazar,” the figure said in the deep, baritone voice that Arrow knew she could never forget, not even if a thousand years had passed since she last had heard it. With a single, swift motion, he threw back his hood, revealing the long nose, the sharp cheekbones, and the wine-yellow eyes. But something had changed about him, and it took Arrow a moment to realize what it was. The smooth line of his scalp was covered with the soft, fine down of growing hair.

"No,” hissed Balthazar, taking a step back and flinging up his hands defensively. “You're dead!"

"Compounding your mistake with stupidity won't help you,” Thraxis said, and a cold fury lit his eyes from within.

"No! This is impossible!"

"Clearly it isn't. Tell me, Balthazar—when the doyan'si broke and its power was released, did you even bother to ask yourself where that power went?"

Hatred twisted Balthazar's face. “You took it. You damned hypocrite. You pretended to condemn my power, but then took it for yourself!"

"I did not take it,” Thraxis said with deceptive mildness. “It came into me, but I never asked for it. At the moment the stone shattered, I heard all those souls crying for vengeance against you and felt them give their power to me to accomplish that vengeance. Coupled with what little power I had left it was enough—barely—to break the curse. Even so, breaking the curse left me weak, devastated—you could have killed me with a word. Instead, you had me tossed outside and conveniently forgotten."

"You weren't breathing."

"A simple illusion, and all I had the strength left for. You didn't bother to check, though, did you? And because of your mistake, I lived to crawl back to Bird Bones’ army, which is even now breaking down your front gate."

Blood's face drained of color, but Balthazar only laughed. “Army? He had no army even before we obliterated most of his warriors seven days ago."

Thraxis gave him a chill smile. “Then he didn't. But that was before the Falcon clan rode to join him. And the Burning Grass clan, and the Spotted Leopard clan, and several others whose names I can't remember.” The smile disappeared, replaced by the look of cold rage. “It's over, Balthazar. Surrender the doyan'si to me and I may consider mercy."

Balthazar's face flushed with fury. “No! I'll kill you, you son of a whore, and this time I'll drink your blood and grind your bones into meal with my own hands!"

The staff arced around, releasing an explosion of light and heat. Thraxis lifted his hand and the attack dissipated before it touched him. He did something that Arrow did not understand, only to be countered by his opponent. The smell of lightning filled the air, and her hair tried to stand on end. Panicked, the chieftains stampeded for the stairway. Blood flashed past them all, his gold pectoral leaving a trail of light behind him. Swearing furiously, she spun around and seized Hunts Mice by the throat, yanking him off his feet and crushing his windpipe. His sword fell from jerking fingers, and she caught it before it touched the ground. Grabbing his knife for good measure, she dropped him and raced after Blood.

The other chieftains were in the way. She shoved them aside, sending bodies down the stair or into the wall without regard. Even so, she didn't catch up with Blood until he had reached the outer courtyard. Thraxis had spoken the truth; the citadel was under assault. The main gates were breached, warriors pouring in to close with those struggling to defend the tower and their king. Shocked, Blood stumbled to a halt and stood aghast, seeing all his plans coming to ruin before him.

"Blood on the Wind!” she shouted, raising her sword in challenge. His head snapped around, war braids flying, and the look of hatred on his face was terrifying to behold.

"Die, traitor!” he cried, and closed with her.

He was fast. Lady of Beasts, but he was fast. Balthazar had apparently refined his technique for making berserkers, giving Blood a speed and strength beyond even Arrow's reach. His bronze sword turned into a blur before her eyes, screaming as it split the wind, and it was all she could do to defend herself. Even so, Blood had never been trained to be a Champion, and that was enough to balance the scale and keep him from killing her outright.

Barely.

This was no battle of tricks and agility such as she had fought against Horse with a Broken Back and Tracks on the Snow. This was sheer swordplay, her skill against his. Their blades split the air, sending up an eerie howl punctuated by loud clashes as they came together. The world narrowed down to stab and parry and riposte, to watching Blood's eyes and body for clues to his next move. Nothing else existed: not the battle before them, not the wizards’ war tearing the tower apart behind them. Slowly, step by step, Arrow was driven back. All of her skill and strength poured into the battle, but it wasn't enough. If they continued on like this for much longer, Blood would wear her down until she stumbled or made an error.

And then, she saw an opening, though it left her dangerously exposed; her sword slid through his guard even as he stabbed at her, slipping between ribs and entering his heart. At the same moment, she felt something cold punch through her skin and tear through her lungs. Her heart convulsed, splitting itself against the edge buried in her breast. With a wild, instinctive movement she jerked frantically back, agony exploding in her chest as the sword was yanked back out the path it had made. Vaguely, she was aware of falling. Her body struck the stones, and she caught a glimpse of Blood lying beside her, glassy eyes staring at the sky. Someone screamed her name, and she thought she saw black robes flapping as a figure ran towards her. Then darkness swallowed the sky. A white reindeer stag stood beside her. Its fur was soft under her hand, and she could smell its musky scent. Warm breath stirred her hair as it turned to look at her with one dark eye. Glancing down, she saw her body lying abandoned in some far-off place, a bloody wound splitting open half her chest. The sight made her a little sad, because she remembered that Thraxis had come back as if from the dead, and she wished that she'd had the opportunity to speak to him again. Then, with a shake of her head, she mounted the stag and let it take her where it would.

Epilogue

Thraxis built the kurgan himself, allowing no other to help him. Magic caused the earth to gape open in a chamber, where the sleeper was laid to rest in a cart lined with felt. Timbers from the fallen tower made a roof for the smooth-sided hole, and stones from the same source covered it over in a high mound. Finally, he laid the earth from the chamber over the stones and caused grass to grow from it, so that the kurgan became a beautiful green hill spangled with wildflowers. When he was done at last, he went and lay facedown on the tomb for a while, as if communicating silently with the sleeper below. The clans that had gathered in awe at his work gradually dispersed, going back to their camps, muttering and shaking their heads. Their world was in upheaval, and most of them probably hoped that this was the last display of magic they ever saw. They were kingless now, and many of the clans held deep grudges against one another, depending on whose side they had taken at the last. It would be a very long time before they trusted one another again.

Eventually, Thraxis rose up from the ground and walked down the hill. The wind blew back his traveling robe, spreading it behind him like raven wings. His demeanor was solemn, but his yellow eyes were at peace.

"Do you think that will hold him?” Arrow asked doubtfully when he drew abreast of her. He slipped one arm around her shoulders and kissed her. “It should. Almost all of Balthazar's power came from the doyan'si. With both stones destroyed, he wouldn't be able to overcome the protections around the kurgan even if he was conscious. So for now he will sleep, until the light of the sun once again touches his face. As I've put all sorts of defenses around the chamber to keep grave-robbers and the like out, that shouldn't happen until after the kurgan itself has worn away with time."

"By the time he wakes, all the world might have changed,” Arrow pointed out. “I think I would rather die than be left alone in a time when everyone I ever knew has been dead for centuries." Thraxis sighed and gently tightened his grip around her shoulders. “I know. But it was the only thing I could think to do. I couldn't kill him, and I didn't feel comfortable leaving him free to do mischief. Although his native power was small for an Athraskani, it would be more than enough to awe most humans, and I didn't want to show mercy only to discover five years later that he had made himself a petty dictator somewhere. Leaving him to slumber in the kurgan, untouched by time or the elements, seemed the best solution."

"I'm not objecting.” She glanced up at him. “Everyone was very impressed by your display of magic." His mouth twisted wryly. “Then they are easily impressed."

But they aren't, she thought. Studying his ascetic features, she felt touched again by wonder. During all the time she had known him, he had been denied access to his magic, and she had grown used to thinking of him as someone much like her in many ways—more power than most people, but nothing compared to that wielded by Balthazar or even Viabold. But now—now she understood what they meant when they called him the greatest of the Athraskani.

When she had mounted the spectral stag, her body had been dead, heart and lung pierced by Blood's sword. Her spirit had left it behind, and the stag had started off on the long journey to the afterlife, where she would have been brought before the Lady of Beasts at last.

But then, suddenly, there had been someone before them. She had caught a brief glimpse of a blazing figure robed in light, with eyes like twin suns. He had held up his hand in command, and the stag had stopped, snorting and tossing its head.

Then there had been hands on her, dragging her from the stag's back. She had fallen, nerveless, and felt herself lifted up and carried rapidly away, back towards the world of the living that she had left behind. For a moment, there had been blinding pain, and she thought that she had screamed. After that, she remembered nothing before waking to find herself lying naked in a bed, covered by warm blankets, another body wrapped securely around her own. Surprised beyond words, she had sat up and found herself in the yurt she had shared with Thraxis. From the hue of the light leaking in through the smoke hole, she guessed that the sun had just left the sky.

A hand closed on her shoulder, and she found herself staring into Thraxis’ familiar face. His eyes locked with hers, and there was desperation in their depths. With a cry, she flung her arms around him, felt him crush her hard against his own body.

"Arrow, oh Arrow,” he whispered, saying her name over and over again. Sobbing, she clung to him. “You're alive. You're alive, oh Lady, I thought you were dead!"

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to trick you, but all my strength was gone. My body was in terrible shape, and it was all I could do to keep myself from dying on the spot, even with the curse removed. After I had recovered a little, I managed to get back to Bird Bones’ camp, but I had to rest and heal before I could even dream of facing Balthazar. The whole time, I was so desperately afraid of what they might be doing to you. I came as quickly as I could."

"I know, I know.” She wiped tears away from her eyes. “All that matters is that I'm alive and you're alive."

He hesitated a moment, looking at her uncertainly. “I'm not just alive,” he said finally. “Arrow, I'm going to live."

She stared at him, absorbing the words. Reaching up, she ran one hand lightly across the stubble of growing hair that now covered his scalp. It was black as the raven's wings. Because words failed her, she put her arms around him again and drew his body urgently against hers. He had given her the closeness she needed, and that perhaps he needed as well. Later, after they had both calmed a little, he made love to her again, this time not as a human man but as an Athraskani at the height of his power.

It still amazed her that he wanted that intimacy from her. He was a man who could bring a woman back from the dead, a man who thought that building a kurgan with nothing but magic was no feat at all. A man who, finding the dying Nightwing on the ruins of the battlefield, had healed the horse so that no one would ever know its legs had been broken in a score of places. It seemed impossible that he could want someone like her.

Now she slipped her arm around his waist. She could still feel his ribs clearly through the cloth, but already he had lost some of the skeletal gauntness that had marked him before. “What will you do now that you have your life back?” she asked hesitantly.

His yellow eyes traveled to the distant horizon. “I—have something I would like to do. Somewhere I would like to go."

"Not back to the Sanctum, surely?"

A wry smile touched his lips. “Heaven forbid. Viabold has sent them a message, saying only that the doyan'si were destroyed and Balthazar rendered harmless. He ‘forgot’ to mention that the curse was broken and that I'm still alive. It may be some time yet before anyone realizes that I haven't conveniently expired."

"Then where?"

"A place far to the south, farther even than the Sanctum Majoris. I—I would like your company on the journey, if you want to go. But if you don't wish to travel anymore, you don't have to. I'll return to you once I've completed my task."

She considered his offer for a moment. The Skald were fragmented and would probably remain that way for some seasons to come. The fractures within her own clan ran deep, although Bird Bones Broken was now the acknowledged chief of both factions. If she remained, she would always feel like an outsider, truly accepted by neither side. Perhaps, if she left, time would have a chance to heal over the wounds, so that some day she could return and be a full member of her clan once more, although never again would she be its Champion.

And besides, she thought, looking into her lover's eyes, there would be other compensations to traveling.

"I'll go,” she agreed.

"Oh, good.” He gave her a quick squeeze, and then continued away from the kurgan. “So how does one go about getting married around here?"

"Well, first you have to face all of my male relatives in single combat. And most of our men are circumcised at age fifteen, when they officially become adults, but a special ritual can be held for you since you missed out on that."

Thraxis paled sharply. “Perhaps we should wait until we reach the Empire,” he said faintly. Arrow laughed at his discomfiture. “I'm just teasing. It mostly just involves a lot of feasting, during which we stand up and declare that we've decided to get married."

"You're an evil woman."

"Would you want me any other way?"

"Not at all, my love. Not at all."

* * * *

The early sun streamed across the wide river near the Sanctum Minoris in Gypta, burnishing the water to gold. Ibises and herons stalked among the reeds, and crocodiles lazed in the shallows, waiting for the unwary. To either side stretched the rich, black earth that the Athraskani used for their fields. The crops were ready for harvest, waving slightly in the dry wind that came off the desert, which hemmed in the fertile land like an unending wall.

It was an alien land, but a beautiful one, Arrow thought. She rode on Nightwing, beside Viabold and a few paces behind Thraxis. It was also a harsh place, which perhaps explained why so many came here from the Empire to forget their troubles. In the rigors of day-to-day life, one would have little time to dwell on a painful past.

Thraxis, however, appeared to be oblivious to the landscape. He rode on Stalker as always, his body tense and leaning slightly forward, scanning the workers in the fields. In the three months since they had left the steppe, he had filled out somewhat, putting lean muscle on over bone. Even so, his physique still reminded her sharply of the herons that hunted the riverbanks, all long limbs and beaky nose. A gold ring encircled one of the fingers on his left hand, a marriage custom of his own people that she had consented to as well. Their rings were nearly twins, except that hers was set with an onyx stone that proclaimed the rank of her husband. As she had no rank among the Athraskani, his ring was set with a single, clear gem. He started to reach for his hood, then changed his mind and ran his hand uncertainly over the stubble on his head. Arrow had awakened one morning to find him sitting in front of a mirror, contentedly shaving off the hair that had started to grow back once the curse was broken. “What on earth are you doing?” she had asked in surprise.

"It's a reminder,” he said, frowning slightly as he tried to get the back without cutting himself. “What happened to me wasn't a pleasant experience, Arrow. But it changed me profoundly and for the better. I don't want to ever forget the lessons I learned on our journey. I could use magic to keep it from growing back, but I thought the physical act would serve better, to remind me each morning of what it is that I've learned."

She yawned and shook her head. “And what have you learned?"

"To be a better person, I hope. What do you think?"

"I think you're insane to shave your head. But if it makes you happy, I'll agree to it." Now, back among the Athraskani, where one's rank was denoted by an elaborate arrangement of braids, he was probably wondering what sort of impression his radical choice would make on the people they had come to see. But it was too late to change his mind now.

A man and a woman stood on the edge of one of the fields, talking together about some aspect of the harvest to come. They were both dressed in the simple, white robes that most of the Athraskani here wore, with red sashes around their waists to indicate their level of power. The man was very tall, his thick, black hair streaked with silver. The desert wind had deepened the lines around his eyes and prominent nose, but Arrow thought that they looked more like the sort of lines brought on by laughter than by sorrow. The woman at his side was very pale, her silver eyes so light that they were almost white. When she was young, they must have been yellow as clear wine.

Hearing the approach of the horses, they stopped their conversation and stared at the newcomers. Thraxis dismounted, started towards them, then stopped. “Mother? Father?” he said uncertainly. “It's me. Thraxis."

Arrow and Viabold hung back while Jumica and Cyaraxes embraced the son they hadn't seen in twenty years. After the initial hugs and tears, Jumica reached up to touch the stubble on Thraxis’ head. Although Arrow couldn't catch what was said, she did hear the tone of surprise.

"Just wait until he tells them they have a barbarian for a daughter-in-law,” Viabold said. Arrow grinned and leaned back in the saddle, watching the sun finish its climb out of the river and into the sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

* * * *

Arrow sat on Nightwing in the road outside the Athraskani Sanctum. The cliff dwelling, with its intricately carved statues and tumbling green vines, was like nothing she had ever imagined before. What sort of people would she find inside such a place? According to Balthazar, they would be uniformly cruel and callous. But seeing the artwork with which they decorated their home, she couldn't help but wonder if perhaps one or two of them might be different. Straightening her shoulders, she rode up to the gate and faced the robed sentries they had posted there. “I am the Arrow that Flies the Farthest,” she said, “and I have come to ask your help." About The Author

When Elaine Corvidae was eight years old, she came home from school one day and declared that she was going to be a writer. Elaine is not certain what prompted that declaration, but unlike so many other decisions in life, it stuck from that day on.

Elaine has worked as an office assistant, archaeologist, and raptor rehabilitator. She is currently earning her Masters degree in Biology at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte. She lives near Charlotte, NC, with her husband and their three cats, who are just like children, except they never ask to borrow the car.

Elaine is a vegan (strict vegetarian) and interested in animal rights. She enjoys backpacking, wasting time on the computer, good beer, and loud music.

Her first published novel, Winter's Orphans, was the recipient of the 2001 Dream Realm Award and the 2002 Eppie Award.

To learn more about Elaine Corvidae visit her official website at www.onecrow.net. Visit www.mundania.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.