chapter1

It was evening, and the clamor and the noise of the day gradually sank into the gathering twilight, while shadows seeped through the winding streets and alleys of the town. A red sun, glowering over the black shoulders of the mountains, seemed to be feasting on a moon-sized white star cradled upon its shoulder by a thin ring of fire. The blaring of horns from the town's several quarters echoed off of the walls and towers of the fortified headland, as the gates to the harbor and the outlying fields closed ponderously behind a few late stragglers. As watchfires were kindled and inn-lamps lit, the smaller sun slipped below the horizon, leaving ruddy clouds in its wake. Foot-polished flagstones gleamed like blood, then shaded into brown, gray, and finally black. A brooding hush settled over the sparsely-travelled roads. Even here, in the last outlying block of inns and taverns shadowed by the city's crumbling outer walls, the coarse laughter and raucous singing from open windows and doorways could not quite drown out the faint crickets that sighed in the fields and pastures beyond the gates.
A stocky, wind-scoured bear of a man strode purposefully along the uneven pavement, passing under the torches of a snaggledtoothed row of inns, stables, and storefronts. Other passersby, few and hurried, threaded the middle of the outer streets of the city, keeping carefully distant from the dark maws of alleys. He, however, was more intent upon the lingering sunset, pausing to squint dourly at the horizon from time to time. He barely noticed the small ragged figure hurtling out of a gap between two buildings before the breath was slammed from his chest.
Lucien's thumbs were pressing into his assailant's eyes before he had time to realize age, color, or even the gender of the girl snarling and spitting at him. All he knew was that his attacker was bony, small, dirty, and that the glaring eyes were not a natural shade of blue. There was a brief struggle, but she had no weapons beyond desperation and surprise. Nevertheless, it took him several moments of grappling with the girl to wrestle her loose and send her twisting into the grimy cobblestones at his feet. Before he could strike a blow with his heel to keep her there, he became aware of more figures pelting out of the alley, creaking and rattling with the telltale sounds of leather, metal, and boots.
"Hold her!" one of the guards snapped as they closed in.
She was already struggling to her feet. But at those words, she flung herself down again, making a grab for Lucien's knees and spitting out something nearly unintelligible: "Sanctuary!"
The town guards halted in consternation, the one who had first spoken now meeting Lucien's startled expression with a hostile frown. The second emitted an oath. They swayed from side to side like carrion crows waiting on a branch, clutching at their staves.
Lucien took advantage of the guards' hesitation to examine his panting assailant. She glared back up at him with the wild, haunted gaze of a caged animal. Her angular pale face was bruised, blistered, and bleeding, her disheveled blond hair coming out of intricate braids more suited to a lady's chamber than the alleys of this no-man's-land. What had mistaken for rags were the remnants of a fine linen gown, again fit for a lesser member of some noble's household. But her eyes were savage, and no more human-looking now than a moment ago.
Lucien burst out with an incongruous bark of laughter. The girl at his feet hissed and quivered, but did not bolt. He sobered again before her scathing gaze. "This is some mad jest. She nearly murdered me!" The second guard scowled and leaned against his spear, while the first snapped crisply, "Do you grant her Sanctuary?"
Lucien hesitated. The pleading in her eyes was clouded by defiance, but she still bent before him, with a pride in her battered face to which no fugitive had a right. Perhaps there was also a trace of shame in her scowl of loathing.
"No," Lucien said gruffly. "Blackblooded imp like her? Do I look like a madman?"
He jumped back and blocked her lunge with his hands and forearms, as she spat out a curse in her own language and sprang for his face with fingers curled into talons. The soldiers caught and dragged the writhing, biting wretch off of him, their leader halting her struggles with a blade laid alongside her collarbone. She stiffened instantly, glance still darting from face to face like claw-strikes.
Lucien shook his head grimly. "What's the crime, anyway? I didn't know town watch chased down runaways."
"Killed another slave," the second one said curtly.
"And put out Lord Tamnos' eye."
Lucien drew a sharp breath. "Gods. Where did he come by a thing like her? Which slave did she get?" He heard a few other questions muttered, and discovered several travellers had begun to gather around, ogling the strange captive who matched and mocked every scornful glance.
"She belonged to Tamnos' uncle." The first guard smiled greasily through his beard. "Formerly. Killed Acis. Come with us, help get her to the block. We'll split the silver with you."
Lucien shook his head hurriedly, wanting nothing more than to escape the strange girl's scrutiny; her baleful lapis-blue eyes unnerved him, powerless though she was.
"No, I'm sure she's not worth that much. Goodnight, and enjoy the bounty." He ducked through a troupe of flute-playing revellers and slipped away, heading towards the door of his inn without a glance back.

The glow of oil lamps, stench of humanity and bracing cacauphony of the eating room's patrons were almost a relief as they smote his senses upon entry. Heading for a small door in the rear corner of the room, he carefully dodged the owner's attention and several inebriated guests. In the well-stocked wine pantry, two men and a boy were sitting on various chests and stools around a small table. They were playing some sort of game with thin wooden tiles, and each had accumulated many stacks of silver coins.
"Fair evening, gentlemen," he said with forced cheer. "How goes the game?"
"Oh, hello, Lucien," said one. "It's going very well for us, I think, but not too well for the lad."
The boy examined his tiles with an injured expression, although this was mostly hidden in the dim lamplight by the folds of his gray mantle pulled up to form a sort of hood. His childishly delicate chin and mouth looked almost comical as he frowned sternly.
The dark-haired man on his left smiled sympathetically. "I'd advise you to give up while you still have anything left to give," he suggested.
"Rhun's right, you know," whispered Lucien, standing at his shoulder.
As Rhun's hand darted towards the face-down tiles, Mercius held up a small finger. "Wait. I'll take the trade option." He laid out his tiles and waited expectantly with a seriousness that never failed to amuse and alarm Lucien. The others cast their eyes over his hand, searching for any useful card. The man named Rhun stared and let out a low whistle.
"You've got a Dragon Card in that mess, and you're trading? You could have lost the lamb and kept the ox." Nevertheless, the man moved the tile to one side and waited for Mercius to draw a new card.
The boy drew a Master of Sky, etched with a roughly-drawn wing scratched into its face. He was allowed one more, but he knew that out of a stack of forty there was little chance of picking the one piece that would save him for this round. His hand hovered indecisively for a moment, then grasped a tile. After a glance, he held it up.
"White Unicorn, Master takes all," he stated calmly.
Rhun threw down his chips in emphatic disgust, giving the boy's knee a subtle kick. Mercius collected all their tiles and a coin for each piece. His opponents stood up and bowed, not without a few grumbles, and filed back into the main room. The boy neatly and efficiently decanted his winnings into a purse while the older man pushed chests and casks back into place.
Lucien shook his head in disbelief. "You're a marvel. You must see right through those tiles. You could be an oracle."
"I don't think I come from the right family," Mercius murmured with a solemn smile. "Unless the priesthood's opened the doors to dark-blood half-breeds."
"You're no a half-breed," Lucien reminded him. "Which is a pity; thinner blood's easier to miss. It's a shame your skill's wasted."
"Not wasted," the boy protested, holding up the jingling pouch. "This should cover us at least a week after we get to Aero. Is everything ready? You were late returning."
"Oh, all's well. The boots were finished and Lepos assures me he can tuck us somewhere in the hold. I've put our gear and food aboard. A scuffle with a runaway slave slowed me down on the way back."
Mercius cocked his head uncertainly. "Are we so desperate for coin that we've got to scrape the scabs off fugitives? The ones that run have reasons."
"So says the only free dark-blood this side of Lethe," Lucien grumbled. "I don't know about reasons. She'd murdered a fellow slave. She almost took me down trying to escape."
The boy's thin brows furrowed at this, more than a little troubled. But all he asked, after a pause, was, "She?"
"Yes. Must have been crazy. Only thing that makes people strike like that."
Mercius sagged in his chair. "I won't be sorry to leave this town for a while." Quiet for a moment, his gaze drifted towards the window-ledge etched by the last traces of vermillion. "Redstar looking bigger, don't you think?"
"Yes, I noticed. Start of the Fire Time. It should get a lot worse before it's over. But don't worry, the drought never lasts. Unless your crazy ancestors were right and the sun's going to eat the world."
Mercius grinned mischievously, the somber mood of a moment past already banished from his childish face. "You never can be too sure, big brother. Maybe we'd better swing by the Mountain on the way to wake up Master Daidalos." Then he ducked back into the passageway towards the guestrooms, jingling his catch of the day.

The wind was blowing through the needles of the dark trees like water over pebbles, shivering moonlight-edged shadows across the faces of flaking white walls. Here the ancient conifers carpeting the mountains' upper slopes gave way to a grassy open bay, a yard hemmed on all sides by the long flanks of plastered stone buildings huddled under the eaves of the forest like a flock of sheep. Besides the gentle swaying of the trees, nothing moved except a small furred creature cautiously sniffing the ground near the bent figure of a man in warm robes seated on a stone bench. Abruptly he stirred and stretched stiffly, frightening off the little beast. The old man picked up a staff leaning against the seat, rose, and tapped his way into one of the long barrel-roofed houses.
Passing by several doors and unlit alcoves strung along a dark narrow hallway, the old man silently pushed into a snug cell of a room about halfway down. He ducked under the dried herbs and strings of vegetables hung from the ceiling, stepped around a low table, and knelt beside a wooden pallet set into the back of the room under a thick-shuttered window. A young woman lay sleeping there under many layers of thick furs and blankets. The face outlined by a halo of long black hair was strangely pale, with wide-set eyes and almost luminous skin. She was talking scatteredly in her sleep, shivering and whispering strange words. When the old man gently touched her shoulder, she gave a plaintive cry.
"Oh, Mother! They've hurt him!"
He put a hand on her cheek. "Awake, child. Come back."
She jumped violently into consciousness and pressed herself against him, quivering like a stunned bird.
He held her loosely, letting her lean into him rather than constraining her with his arms. "Shhh. That was a long time ago. They cannot find us here."
She was still shaking. "They've stopped hammering the door, but there are torches--"
"Gently," He stroked her hair slowly, taking care not to touch her forehead or cover her eyes. "It was a dream, no more. All's dark and quiet past thy window, not a flame nor a fist in sight."
Tears welled up again. "I can't remember! I dreamed it all again, and now I can't remember!"
She did not see the worry that filled his features in the darkness; she was too intent on the unseen vision in her mind. He could not see her either, but sensed the fear that passed like a cloud over her cool, dark eyes. "Do not try. It only makes it the worse for thee."
"But it was my parents, my real parents," she whispered hungrily. "Why can't I see them when I'm awake?" She twisted fitfully and reached up to squeeze a clenched fist against her temple. "I was talking again, wasn't I? The words... I should know them."
The old man spoke with the patient certainty of the seasons, voice rising and falling with deliberate soothing rhythm. "The voices of ghosts, the echoes of empty dreams, mere powerless phantoms. The moon is bright outside, and the wind is in the trees. Thou art home."
She still would not look at him, face pressed against his shoulder. "Oh, but it is not home. They burned it down. Did you see the flames, how they danced?"
He groaned softly. She had not been troubled by these fits for so long that he had dared to hope they were gone. The old man fumbled for something hanging on the wall in the alcove. He took down a tarnished chain with a stone pendant and held it up and to the side where it glinted in the moonlight.
"Look up, Merra. Look at the stone."
Hesitantly, she lifted her head, opened eyes wide, and gazed at the swinging black surface, etched with odd spidery lines far too regular and geometrical for any natural object.
"Forget the fire, child. Forget the voices and the hands that hurt. They are only the flash of lightning, the growling of thunder, and the bite of hail on a stormy night, recollected in dreams. They are not real. They are only dim echoes. They have no truth. They have no power. The storm is long gone, and the night is peaceful, silent, and safe. You rest in the cradle of the mountains, whither no harm comes." He listened intently to her labored breathing as he spoke, matching each phrase and swing to a tempo slightly slower than hers, coaxing her to follow his lead. "There now. When I touch thy face, awaken. So."
He snatched the pendant away and kissed her forehead. As she blinked and sat back, disentangling herself from his neck, he slipped the chain over her head so that the cold stone rested in the folds of her gown over her heart.
"Oh, but it's not morning, is it?" she asked drowsily. "Thou shouldst rest, Father."
"I was just checking on thee before I retired. I am sorry I woke thee." He laid a gentle hand on her cheek and wondered worriedly how beautiful she must be now.
She touched her cold cheeks wet with tears. "What in the world?"
"I think thou wert touched by the trace of a nightmare," he remarked casually. "But thou'rt safe in thy own room. Do not be afraid of the night."
Her face cleared as she turned half away to glance at the window. "The moon is lovely tonight, Father. `Tis about to hide behind the mountain and lights up the pine with silver."
"Yes, my dear. I remember how lovely the moon in the mountains can be. And, if, as I guess, it has almost set, we should be sleeping also. Good night, M'ra."
She kissed him, and he arranged the covers securely again. She was asleep even as he turned to go.

Lucien waited by the open window with the salt-tinged air blowing on his face until the moon had set over the far-off lands across the water. His touseled black curls looked silver in the moonlight, and the bemused grin with which he usually greeted the world was absent. With his leathery skin, brooding stare, thoughtful frown, and threadbare patched tunic and mantle, he could easily be mistaken for an older man.
Finally, while he fretted and drummed his fingers against the sill, the silvery facets and flecks of moonlight on the courtyard below faded to utter darkness, and he moved away from the window hurriedly. Down a hall, a turn, and a flight of stairs, he crept along a corridor lit only by one guttering oil lamp, peering at the shadows. Seeing a door open on his left, he quickly ducked into the room. A young woman with disheveled blond hair and worried, dark brown eyes was waiting anxiously.
"I can't spare more than a moment," she stated, "but we must do with it as can. The room's empty. What's wrong, love?"
"I wish I could have reached you earlier, Laeca," Lucien said heavily. "It's about the race in Aero. Jimnos will be there, and he's the best master my boy's had. If we place, he'll share half the prize. I think it's a chance we can't throw away."
"What of thy smith-work?" the woman asked with a faint note of pleading. "What about Oidos? I thought he'd offered time at his forge?"
Lucien shook his head. "It's not enough. Besides, people are starting to recognize Mercius. We're going to have to move again soon."
Laeca cast her eyes down. "I know. Father said he might not throw thee out to the street, if you'd gave him the boy at a fair price."
Lucien growled softly. "Unlike him, I wouldn't sell my own relations for a pittance." He eyed her undyed linen dress, pleasant enough to see draped over her sturdy fallow-complexioned shoulders, but full of far more folds and billows than necessary for a working woman, and sides unstitched and open like a slavegirl's. "Well, at least we can spare him the trouble of bribing town watch into dragging us off. We'll be gone a long time, perhaps even a season or two. Aero is a long way from here."
Laeca scuffed her sandals on the floor. "And I suppose there's more honest work to be had in the fields there. But look to thy caution! For the raiders are getting bolder, it's said, and the king's mines are always wanting of fresh backs."
"Ah, I've been dodging the king's collectors all my life, and the Tygellians would have to have grown bold indeed, to venture within the Barrier Islands. Nor fret for my little brother; he is old enough to take care of himself, and tougher than he looks."
"I know that," Laeca whispered. "So old and so young. You've never told me who he really is."
"Only my little brother," Lucien insisted with a firm smile. "Honestly, Laeca, I don't know why you make such a fuss over him. He's just a boy. An ordinary boy."
"And a pickpocket, and a thief, and a coy young imp who clears out my father's guests at the game table every few nights."
"That too." Lucien flashed a brief grin that quickly faded. "But what about you? I can't stand the thought of leaving you under his roof. For that matter, I don't trust Tamnos; what's a rich man's nephew to do with those roughs he meets at the back table? Are you sure you'll be all right?"
Laeca looked indignant. "I can cope with those two. Who d'you take me for, to be afraid of the likes of them?"
"A woman of sense, or else one braver than I."
A muffled bellow rocked the floorboards.
"Father," she whispered, her flinch giving the lie to some of her brave words. But her voice was good-humored and broad, as always. "Sorry. Best be saying fare-thee-well. You'll be leaving on the fiveday, true? With market coming, I may be away."
Lucien had started to rue his decision already. "Laeca, you could come with us. I don't want to leave you in this miserable place."
"And then you'd have two bodies to be minding, the boy and me, lest one of us get picked up for a likely slave. Unless you've struck some plan at last to settle and raise a household!" Her light tone was more than a little forced, coming dangerously close to his own somber tenor. "I'll manage here. He, though, is in danger and friendless but for thee! Don't worry, love. Look to thyself, and I'll look to my own part." She embraced him and flitted away. Lucien stared at the empty doorway, wondering once more if they were making the right choice.

Merra was bent diligently over a wax tablet, following her other master's movements as he wrote. A long lock of her hair had fallen down across her forehead, hiding the pale bluish-white scar on her temple. She was sucking on the end of the stray wisp with such childlike earnestness that Master Eusobeus had to remind himself that, in spite of her innocence and strangely unlined hands, she was probably older than he. And he, though still a hale and hearty figure of a man, was not young. But fickle time seemed tragically to have overlooked this child in a young woman's shell, while engraving history deeply into the stooped and gnarled figure of Silenus sitting close at hand, laboriously deciphering a clay tablet with his fingers.
Eusobeus finished the word and passed the tablet to his pupil. She tried in vain to duplicate his actions. Her hand slipped and she threw down the stylus angrily.
"Gently, M'ra," Silenus chided patiently, hands pausing over his work. "It shall come in time."
Eusobeus spoke hurriedly as she turned her troubled gaze towards her foster-parent, drawing her attention back to the lesson. "Here, I shall move thy hand thus."
He picked up the stylus and guided her reluctant fingers across the tablet. She traced the symbol-marks with her left hand in confusion when she had finished.
"What does that spell, Merra?"
She read out each of the signs of her own name haltingly, voice flat with incomprehension.
Eusobeus tried to stifle his frustration, knowing from experience that she could sense his very emotions more clearly than her own thoughts. How could she not see it? "That's right," he said slowly. "Meh-rah." He pointed to the first sign, then the second. "Meh-rah," he said, more quickly. "Merra."
Her brow furrowed as he echoed her voice, then relaxed as he spoke her name at a normal speed. "Yes?"
"Your name," he explained, pointing to it.
Her eyes travelled from his hand to the tablet and back to his face, hers now turning quizzical. "I know my name," she replied seriously. "Wert thou asking me a question?"
Silenus, meanwhile, had given up any pretense of studying his own reading, and had his head cocked to listen.
"Try to write it again, child," the blind teacher suggested. "Thou knowest the way now."
Merra looked confused and fidgeted nervously with the stone on the chain around her neck. She picked up the pen gingerly and painstakingly reproduced the first letter. Suddenly her hand moved swiftly across the wax, leaving a neat script quite different from her usual nervous blotches. "Merra sends love and hopes Father will be home soon." She stopped abruptly and cupped her head in her hands, as Eusobeus stared in amazement.
"I almost remembered," she said painfully. "It's not fair! Every time something reminds me, it's like a door closing."
"But this is wonderful, child. Silenus, I cannot believe it! See!"
Silenus ran his gnarled hands over the tablet, once, in surprise, a second time, almost feverishly, while the girl twitched and fretted in her chair. "Gods," the blind man breathed. He set tablets aside to rise and move behind the girl, setting his hands flat behind her shoulders. "Already thou hast proved a better teacher than I," Silenus told the other man, then bent forward to whisper in the girl's ear. "Merra, my dear, I promise that, like all things, this will come to thee in time. There is no such thing as a permanent wall."
"The walls were burning." Merra whispered, passing the back of a hand across her eyes. Silenus took it quickly but gently and breathed upon it.
"I think that's enough for today. Many thanks, Eusobeus."

Townsfolk hurriedly gave way to the grim-looking man in military short tunic, red cloak, and heavy rigid sandals marching through the dusty marketplace. The soldier glanced at the wares of the merchants halfheartedly, for today he was searching for neither iron blades nor worked leather nor fine spices nor imported fruits. He stopped finally at the edge of the square, scanning a few tired-looking girls leaning against the last booth who did not look up as he approached. Fetters discreetly fastened to their ankles bluntly provided the explanation for their appearance and subdued manner. Apheratos brushed past them and entered the small enclosed courtyard behind, hemmed all round with wooden doors.
Rising from a shaded high-backed chair with a mockery of a salute and a pleased smile, the self-made lord of this tiny court greeted Apheratos with hearty cheer. "Hail, Apheratos. What can I do for you today? A brawny fighter, perhaps, for your boy soldiers to practice with? A tender virgin for your pleasure? Or perhaps the other way around?"
"Put those chains to a better use and leash your tongue," Apheratos snapped irritably. "I need a girl for the house. Heclia's left us; she's moved in with one of my lads--a man, I should say, now; he's earned his iron."
The man chuckled. "With all due respect, sir, you're a fine commander, but a poor master. It's fool's barter to buy such a handy girl and then let her go! Still, it's such as you that help me live well." The merchant laughed cheerfully and stepped out to the gate, flinging an arm towards the women on display before it. "Rosco brings you the pick of the land: good cooks, maids, and anything else you could want. My previous offer, of course, goes for them especially!"
Apheratos ignored him and went outside to appraise the merchandise, trying to keep his scrutiny professional and courteous, for all the good it would do. Dear gods, they were young. He studied their hands and shook his head.
"Leech," he muttered to himself, raising his brooding gaze again to deal with the hovering merchant. "Oh, I wouldn't presume to use such well-bred girls for such menial tasks. It might soil their pretty brown fingers. Or do you mean to tell me that hands like that have ever done a day's work? Kidnapped Tygellians, or have you ruffians started taking the daughters of the best families in the capital?" Before the sputtering man could find words to reply, Apheratos jerked his chin towards the opposite side of the entry-way, and snapped, " How about that other girl?"
The merchant snorted loudly. "Oh, that wench? She just killed a servant and put out her owner's eye. I have to keep her at block until the arena cell's ready. "
The girl sat hunched behind the gate's open door like a spider in a tangle of knotted ropes. She twisted away from Apheratos' sharp gaze as he stepped around to get a better look at her. Rosco's sharp yank on one of the ropes at her throat forced her to face them.
"Dirty little flea, isn't she?" the slave-trader commented acidly. "Only dark-blooded imp I've ever laid eyes on, not that she's got more than a pitcher's worth left in her. I suppose I should feel privileged to have her here."
"What's your name, young lady?" Apheratos said gently, ignoring the man. She continued to glare in angry silence.
"She won't talk, Commander, except to curse you in that mad tongue of hers."
"Quiet, man," Apheratos snapped. "I'm curious about this one."
Rosco shrugged. "Suit yourself, sir. But I'm not allowed to sell her." He left to go speak to a more promising customer.
Apheratos knelt to be on eye level with the girl, holding out both hands without touching her. "Look here, being recalcitrant will get you nowhere."
She deliberately let her gaze wander to watch a pair of squabbling gulls on the far side of the courtyard with an air of utter indifference. The effect was slightly impaired by the visible strain in her gaunt features as she moved her head; it was obvious that the black bruises around her eyes and the blisters down the side of her face were not her only injuries.
Waiting until Rosco had led his new customer over to the doors of the cells and was engrossed in an arm-waving description of their occupants, Apheratos changed his tone. Dropping out of the earshot of others, he shifted his speech to a strange lilting dialect, speaking briskly. "I don't have much time, and neither do you. Your name."
The girl flinched as though struck. "I-- I am Lyra," she replied faintly. Then she changed to her own liquid language, but in her voice the words sounded harsh. "Who are you? What do you care?"
"Apheratos. Your people have suffered somewhat at the hands of mine," he answered frankly, bitterness taking any mockery out of the understatement.
She looked at him with suspicion, as if trying to recall something. "Apheratos. A soldier, wearing the king's red. Didn't your father--"
"Fought against the Mountain, yes," he said quickly, jaw tightening. "But that was a long time ago, and his war is emphatically not mine. I train the men to defend the town from raiders."
She snorted. "And to hunt down unarmed slaves with sticks and spears."
He sighed. "That too, I fear." He glanced over his shoulder briefly, but Rosco was now busy haggling with a tightlipped customer and promised to be occupied for some while. "At present, you seem to need some help."
"I take care of myself," she retorted. "I don't need the help of my mother's enemies yet."
"No, but a friend among foes might be able to find you at the least a more civilized cage." He touched one of the ropes with a fingertip. "What would you say to Sanctuary?"
She blanched and spat at his hand. "Bastard. Go away."
Apheratos frowned at this insult to hallowed custom. "Perhaps I will. Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you really killed that man after all."
She struggled to sit up straighter with a hiss of pain. "What could you know? Acis was my friend. He's the only one under that roof who didn't deserve to be strangled!"
"Then how did he die?"
Her chin lifted in defiance, but her reply was numb, whispered almost tonelessly. "I was sick of Tamnos' sweaty hands and told him as much. Acis must've tried to stop him beating me. Next thing I knew, I was facedown on the hearthstone with the meat-spit under me, and Acis was screaming, and Tamnos had the cauldron in his hands, and there was steam and soot and scalding water everywhere. Acis fell. I don't know if he hit his head, or his heart just stopped. Suddenly he just wasn't there..."
She trailed off into silence, but gave her head a savage shake as Apheratos started to speak. "I knew he was dead. That's when I ran. Tamnos tried to stop me. I would've escaped, too, if a thief hadn't offered me Sanctuary then betrayed me to the town watch." She glared pointedly at Apheratos.
He met her gaze steadily. "I am no thief. My word is my honor. Will you not dare to trust me? You have little to lose."
Hope flared briefly behind her desperate eyes, but was quickly quashed by the ugly disdain of a moment before. "Trust? Father trusted you. Mother trusted him. And the Mountain followed her. Where are they now? Do you dare tell me?"
For the first time he wilted under her baleful gaze, his own faltering. "West," he muttered curtly.
She snorted. "The gentle west, ah. Then tomorrow I shall go west, gently torn apart by dogs in the court you laughingly call justice. This trust of yours is not going to save me from their teeth."
He exhaled wearily. "Trust me or not, girl. Gods willing, you'll have my help."
She smiled thinly. "It seems I have no choice but to be subjected to your so-called help."
He rose to his feet stiffly, brushing dust from his knees. "Hold fast to that stubborn spirit, girl, and try to have a little faith in an old soldier."
Not really expecting a reply, Apheratos left the slave-block as quickly as possible. A few coins to the slave-merchant, hopefully, would keep the man quiet. No new cook, he thought grimly, but sometimes more important matters had to take precedence. He turned his steps towards the theater district. But it wasn't long before, on a crowded thoroughfare, he jostled against the very man he was looking for shoving a path in the opposite direction.
Patros saluted casually, worming his way along the edge of the open wagon-road, nimbly dodging carts as they rumbled past. "Afternoon, Commander. Where are you going in such a hurry? Come to relieve me of my watch, perhaps?"
"Sorry, no. Actually, I'm here to give you trouble again. Were you going to collect a prisoner from Rosco just now?"
"Aye, that's right. I guess you must have met her then. I saw her when she was still under Tulli's roof, you know, and I warned him she looked like a bad one. Guess that's why he gave her to that dog-boweled nephew of his. Serves Tamnos right!"
Apheratos held up a hand. "Swinging your sword for the love of listening to it swish, as usual, Patros. You don't really have any idea what happened." He kept his body language casual, but let his voice sink down below the hubbub of the throng starting to spill into the wagon lane following their example. "I just had a quiet chat with the girl. It seems that Tulli's nephew was rough-handling the scullery girls again, and she bit back. That was enough to set him off. You know how he is."
Patros shrugged. "Just a dark-blood anyway. And why would she kill Acis? You can't believe Tamnos would do it, even if he could. He knows how much his uncle relies on that old man's accounting skills."
Apheratos shook his head. "I'm not so sure. It sounds like Acis tried to get between Tamnos and his prey when he was in full frenzy."
Patros frowned. "You've only got the girl's word for it, I suppose? You call that proof? You, of all people, should know we can't trust her kind."
"Yes, of course, Patros," Apheratos said in a bitter voice. "Tamnos is infinitely more trustworthy."
"Oh, admit it, you rogue," Patros laughed, missing the sarcasm. "You've taken a fancy to her! But you'll not be getting me in trouble for it. Ask my captain; maybe he'll be more helpful."
Apheratos chuckled. "Oh, surely. Methinks the man doth jest. Do I have to give you a direct order, or can you manage to overlook this quietly, so that I can overlook a few old debts in return?"
Patros shook his head. "Now you jest, old man. You know I can't let off a monster like that, for orders nor gold. The rumor of this one's already spread; there'd be questions if she didn't show. Come to the arena tomorrow, if you want to see her again. Who knows, maybe she'll win. You know what they say about those dark-bloods, bred by demons and nursed by wild beasts--"
"Spare me the hearth-tales," Apheratos muttered angrily, abruptly turning and stomping away. Patros gave a mocking salute and walked off, whistling.
Apheratos stalked home to his training school and vented his frustrations on the new recruits with an extra grueling session before sunset. To make matters worse, the boys were excited, restless, and sword-happy, in anticipation for tomorrow's holiday. Everyone seemed to be looking forward to the spectacle. Apheratos called this to his wife's attention with unusual surliness after supper.
"Ksianes nearly took off my head with his boar-sticker; thought maybe he was training for the arena himself and I was supposed to be the bear. What is the world coming to, that we can't get by without watching a few poor wretches be shredded by wild animals, or murdering each other to atone for lesser crimes?"
His young son, Phidias, smirked and stabbed at his meat with relish. "But, Father, I thought that's what you train us for, to murder men in time of war and hunt animals in time of peace, until such time as we're promoted out of the field and into one of the king's dungeons."
Apheratos opened and closed his mouth in stunned disapproval and started to rally a rebuke, but Phidias was already pushing back from the table with an air of self-importance. "Well, I'm going out to help the team set up the standards while the moon's out, anyway. See you tomorrow."
The youngster left, and Apheratos sighed in disgust. "Will you listen to him? Not so much as a by-your-leave-sir. The team, indeed! Nothing but a gang of children playing with wooden swords, but he acts like he's already earned his iron. Maybe I'm getting too old to deal with children."
"Nonsense," the middle-aged woman at the far end of the long table laughed self-consciously, smoothing back a strand of silver behind her ear that had fallen out of her knot of black hair. "You'll still be pushing them through to manhood when they're your great-grandchildren."
She let the silence stew for a while, then ventured unpressingly, "But what worries you, my husband? I have not known you to be in such high spirits for a long time."
He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then slumped back against the stout arms of his chair. "Lydia. Gods, I'm sorry." He let out a deep breath. "I stumbled across one a darkblooded girl today in the slave market," he confessed. "I don't know what to do. She's in terrible trouble."
Her mouth settled into a worried frown. "Be careful, first and foremost," she replied evenly. "I hope it's not the girl who roasted that old man alive under Tulli's roof?"
Apheratos lifted a craggy eyebrow. "Oh, is that what you heard? From Marcia, no doubt, spreading rumors again to disguise her own dubious origins."
"I'm afraid so. So what's the truth?"
"Tamnos killed him and blamed it on the girl; who would believe her? But I think her anger over the old man's death, if not the burns on her face, is ample proof of her story."
Her brows drew together with pained indignation. "Master and Horn's Bright. How badly is she hurt?"
"I couldn't tell; she was hiding behind a mop of tangles, and they hadn't bothered to clean her." He drummed his fingers on the table's edge uneasily. "Tamnos beat her with the stake she used to put out his eye."
Lydia stood abruptly from the table, gown's folds rustling to the floor like the hiss of a disturbed snake. "I don't care to hear another word; it's too close to blasphemy. What's to happen to her? The arena?"
Apheratos nodded heavily. "If I can't bribe the guards tonight."
Lydia bowed her head. "May Hermes will it so. And... Apheratos?"
He noted the catch in her voice. "I know, my dear. I'll be careful."

The moon shone indifferently on the floor of the cell, as the girl glared at it balefully through the narrow slot high up in the wall. She envied the shining disk that it was not of this world of men, mocking her with its cold and distant freedom. A sound behind her revealed that her cellmate had regained consciousness and was moving again. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, trying to ignore him as much as was possible.
The viselike fingers which suddenly closed on one shoulder roused her from reverie. She flinched but made herself wait until the second hand took hold, then carefully planted her feet, brought her hips up under him and flipped her assailant into the wall. Unfortunately, she had not been able to set her feet properly with his weight bearing down on her raw and aching back, and he was up in a moment with a gutteral snarl. Luckily, the sound of approaching footsteps sent him to the corner in sullen retreat with a scornful glance that promised more to come later. She crossed to the far corner of the cell and turned warily to face the door.
"That's quite enough, you two; this isn't a place for recreation." The guard flashed his irritating smile at her, as she contemplated digging out his teeth one by one with cook's spit. "You've got a visitor, young lady. Looks like this must be your lucky night."
She resumed her stance beneath the slit of a window, not deigning to look his way. "You again. Thought you might turn up. I already said I didn't need your help."
Apheratos eyed the ugly red marks on the back of her neck and shoulders, faintly discernable in the bright moonbeams. She looked even more alien now than when he had last seen her. In the watery illumination, her eyes glowed like an animal's. The cool light melted the shadows on her face, erasing the ugly blisters and grime across the cheek. Her profile was sharp and angular, but could have almost been pretty if the eyes had not been so tilted or the brows and lips not drawn tightly in a perpetual snarl.
"On the contrary, my dear, you most certainly do."
"Hurry it up," said the guard. "I haven't got all night, you know."
"You most certainly do," Apheratos snapped, whirling on the man. "Did I make myself clear earlier, or do you need me to give you a refresher course in axe-dodging?"
The guard pulled himself up stiffly. "Quite clear, sir. And with all due respect, if the prisoner's not here when I return, I'm afraid I'll have to report where that bag of silver came from." Moving to herd the giant into another cage at spear-point, he gave Lyra a sickening leer as he passed. The girl made a halfhearted attempt towards the door, but Apheratos caught her easily by the arm just below the scarred metal bracelet on her wrist.
"I wouldn't do that. They'd just organize a manhunt and cut you down; I'd probably be one of the men ordered to do it. You seem to have caused quite an uproar, I'm afraid; the thieves you call the town watch are usually easier to bribe or bully when necessary." He sighed, then reached gently for the tattered wide collar of her gown to try and get a better look at her shoulderblades, where the cloth was stained stiff and black. "Let me have a look, all right? I've seen my share of battle-wounds. I've a salve or two that may help with the healing."
She ripped her hand from his grasp and went back to the window, making it plain that she despised both his trust and his ministrations. The guard started to say something about needing to lock the Commander in with her until he was finished, with such an insinuating sneer that Apheratos wanted nothing more than to lock the guard in with the girl instead, to let her vent her frustrations. Since it was obvious she'd probably hurt herself rather than let anyone tend her, Apheratos set the jugs of water and Lydia's salve down a