chapter2

Eusobeus picked his way over the old arch of the cobblestone bridge, keeping a firm grip on his friend's arm and trying not to shiver in the cool dawn air. Even here in on the lower slopes, where the suns' twin faces were just beginning to peek over the shoulders of the mountains, there was little sign of first summer's heat or the day's. "A fine pair we must look," he grumbled. "Couple of boys sneaking away from the sheepfolds to play at piping to the nymphs. If I fall in--"
Silenus patted his arm, stepping nimbly onto the weedy trough of a path cutting its way up the bank on the other side. "There, you see? Good for a few more years yet before we'll consign thee to a litter. Come."
Eusobeus followed with a grumble and a grimace, wondering if the blind man really needed his guidance at all. He tucked the hem of his heavy woolen tunic up into his belt, and scrambled up the path after the spry steps of the cloaked and hooded old one leaning on his staff, wishing he had one too.
The undergrowth of the past year showed no trace now of the long winter's bite. Wild roses and framine flowers and thorns tumbled over the trail. The trees, though hardwoods, had branches almost to the ground here, making leafy canopies at a thousand different levels that trembled and swayed in the light crisp breeze. Theirs was a palpable presence, defining the ground beneath with dense shadows and few open spaces. With an apology and a prayer, Eusobeus had to borrow Silenus' walking stick to nudge and bend some of the branches aside so they could shove their way through. The groundcover of thickly matted brown leaves decaying into loam was pricked and churned only in a few places; even the deer came here seldom nowadays. Eusobeus was puffing for breath and squinting at too many slaps of stray twigs by the time that they burst into a small grassy clearing where the suns' rays slanting down nearly blinded him.
Silenus released his grip on Eusobeus' elbow and stretched his arms out, dry toughened hands raised like a child's to feel the wind. Under the brown band of cloth he used to cover his eyes, his face was wrinkled into a broad smile. "There we are," he said in an almost affectionate tone, as if greeting a beloved grandchild. "There we are." He drew in a deep breath of rich mountain air, then addressed the other man gently. "My prop, good friend, and then I'll let thee rest."
Eusobeus wiped his own furrowed brow with the back of one hand before passing the staff back and tucking it under Silenus' outstretched fingers. "I think you find this place restful," he complained, "only from the relief of getting to rest after fighting your way to it. Why not build the temple in the village, or closer to the roads?"
Silenus was already picking his way towards the ruins across the broad glade, a miniature forest itself of tall grasses and clumps of a peculiar red-tinged fern that spilled like feathered fans across the ground. "The towns have their own gods," he reminded Eusobeus patiently, "for men. This is for the wild people." He halted at the beginning of the circular stone flags of gypsum, raising his empty hand to trace a free-standing obelisk of white marble carved into the likeness of a mountainside, its crags, waterfalls, trees, and animals still faintly visible under a veneer of moss and blue algae.
Eusobeus sighed and sank onto the roots of an old beech, not bothering to join Silenus today. This was not his temple, although he knew well the part it played in keeping safe the very mountain where he'd come to establish their retreat from a people turned against his own memories. "I don't think the wild people come here often anymore, I'm afraid," he said wearily, combing a hand through sparse gray hair. "Any from Jebithia who still left them offerings stopped caring enough to come out here during the cold last year. I don't think they could have spared a handful of grain, even if they could have made it out this far. It was hard enough getting supplies brought up the mountain to us, and keeping the road open."
Silenus had disappeared into the small structure, a circular building supported by columns carved into the fantastic forms of tree trunks, falling water, clouds, or twisted spirals Eusobeus knew through his friend's teachings symbolized the tongues of fire. All now was girt in earth, where vines clambered up and water dripped down and lichen or algae crept between. The roof, a sort of dome made of steps of concentric circles of square glass blocks, had mostly fallen now, making irregular chipped heaps upon the floor. And there, beneath dirt, broken branches, and fallen masonry, was a freeform tile mosaic of abstract spirals, waves, swirls, and cunningly-wrought letters that seemed to be part of the pattern. All were being reclaimed now by the forest's smaller children.
Eusobeus did not come inside today to give his friend a painstaking account of the small changes of decay wrought upon the shrine, but Silenus could feel or sense them with the echo of dripping water, with his hands across the cold stone, or the tap of a stick. After a meticulous survey of the lonely space, he stooped before the raised sill of the basin at the center, around the rim of which were several low troughs.
The blind man gave a sudden pleased exclamation. "Someone is still coming here, it seems," he called back quietly, his voice hushed and hoarse to match the swish of the wind. "The pool is clean and fresh, and I deem the offering-bowls were filled but lately, for there are seeds and chaff scattered about them upon the floor."
Eusobeus grunted in faint surprise. "Maybe one of your students?"
"Maybe," Silenus replied doubtfully, working at the clasp of the large wallet bound in the folds of his robes to free it and add his own libation of meal and grain to the troughs. "If thou hast some store of dried fruit from the south-lands in the cellars, and not told me."
"If so," Eusobeus replied gamely, "Geain has not seen fit to serve it at my table."
"Well, then, I would say not all of the valley-folk have quite forgotten the old ways." Silenus stepped back, composing himself for a moment's meditation and reflection. "I wish my Pana could have seen this place," he murmured in a low voice. "And the children."
Eusobeus did not rise from his perch outside, but his lined face acquired a few more upon overhearing the woman's name. "Merra loves it well," he reminded Silenus gently, raising his voice a little.
"Aye," Silenus sighed. "But not like my little golden child would have, nor the Merra of long ago. This one, she fears too much. The temple is another thing to remind her of things gone. She will not come here, when I am gone too."
"Speak no inauspicious words," Eusobeus said firmly.
"What, my friend?" Silenus chuckled softly. "Death is hardly inauspicious, nor inappropriate to name, in the Mother's temple. The wild folk know it in its proper place. But if you mean `be silent', as our ancestors would bid, I will." Again, he went quiet, clasping both hands around his staff and leaning his shoulder against its end worn to a round taper. Finally he bestowed a respectful bow towards the piled offerings. "Take," he murmured gently after a pause. "Eat the gifts of those who must eat of thee. This is thy kingdom, four-footed and two-winged; we are but the guests here. I beg thee, remember the hunters today, and look upon them with forgiveness: we are thy Lady's creatures too." Then he backed away, turned, and edged his way with care over the broken tiles and rock to the clearing.
Eusobeus rose to his feet with a chuckle. "And now time for our own meal," he remarked gently. "I may rise with the birds, now, old friend, but I'm not yet grown so old that I eat less than fish. Come. Geain's hearth and table await."

Far to the south, a different sort of dawn was pouring its hearty orange glow across Minoquo like tongues of fire, a fitting start for the first harvest of the long summer. The air was yet mild, carried on the wings of the sea breeze as a last reprieve before the grueling steamy months to come.
Apheratos had planned to stay home for a restful holiday. Instead, wearing his best tunic and mantle and even the hard leather breastplate he used for sword practice, he found himself reluctantly making his way up to the theater near the inland walls of the city. The rectangular doorways set around the outside of the sunken building looked like nothing so much as teeth. With a stream of jostling men and boys, he passed through the open maw of one entrance and within, picking his way down a steeply-angled stair cut into the hill itself. The king's banners, draped in wreaths of fresh flowers, shivered like sails on high wooden standards spaced evenly around the sunken square court. Its broad paved floor, so often the bare stage for pagents and myths brought to life in honor of the gods, was now strewn with sand in preparation for a grimmer rite.
The drums coughed to life and began a low restless beat just as Apheratos arrived. Shouldering a few onlookers aside with a growl and a sharp glance, he found a place to stand on the wall encircling the arena itself, right above the altar. As he scanned the square searching for his son's team, Apheratos spotted the touselled brown locks and fish-gaunt figure of his good friend Jelvas, a young merchant who had made a fair living by managing the harbor and a colorful name by speaking out against local aristocrats. There had been some rumblings about treason or impiety which might have landed the inconvenient young man in the ring below, where the parry and thrust of words would have availed him little. So it was with relief that Apheratos gave a curt wave to his friend across the packed theater. Jelvas raised his hand with a distant flash of teeth, his trademark smile. Then the rolling drums abruptly cut off, their fading echo drawing the crowd into silence.
The Presidian of the city, wearing a long mantle edged in crimson that wrapped around his waist and fell from an oversized gold clasp at his shoulder, stepped up onto the raised section of wall on the far side of the quadrangle and launched into a polished speech that might almost have put Jelvas to shame.
"Fathers and children, we are assembled today for a spectacle of truth. We shall witness the judgement of the Mother upon those arrogant mortals who have struck blows against their parents, their children, their masters, or their native town. In ancient times, our forefathers would have been judged in the darkbloods' secret chambers by men only, not the gods. All too many were the imperfect pronouncements of men's misjudgement or malice.
"In these latter days, our king Ilus has provided a more equitable way to punish criminals for their guilt. If one has been accused unjustly, the gods will smile upon him, and he will prevail. Woe befalls all those who have committed crimes against the wishes of the Mother. This is our way, and it is a good way. We owe this to our shrewd sovereign, Ilus. Remember him today, as we witness once more the proof of his wisdom. Let the ceremonies begin, and may the gods' will preside."
The first prisoner was let out through one of the low doors cut into the raised wall upon which stood the Presidian. With considerable distaste, Apheratos recognized him as the meaty rogue who had shared the girl's cell the night before. The fellow tipped back a grin and raised his bare scarred arms towards the Presidian, bearing a wide two-handled cup aloft. His mocking salute brought on hoots and cheers from a crowd which, apparently, knew this man as well. Then he strode across the ring to the altar, a crude bronze figure of a woman bearing two serpents and standing before a wide shallow bowl flanked by bulls and lions. Slowly, dramatically, he poured the bowl to the brim with blood, raised the cup again to show it was empty, and lazily traced a thick finger to catch the last drops clinging to the bottom. He smeared a line of red on both cheeks flauntingly, then licked his finger clean, smacked his lips, and tossed the cup over his shoulder with diffident flair. The applause changed to appreciative hoots and whistles.
Double and triple arose the clamor when his opponent issued from the adjacent archway: no lion, but the closest thing any of these people would see to that legendary monster from the old tales. The lean wildcat, fully two arm-lengths exclusive of its thick black tail, was a legend itself among the thickets of the mountains, its name a spitting epithet left over from the days when other masters ruled there: the ytrix.
It stalked slowly and hungrily across the square court, brushing right past the man with a slow wary sniff and a low growl. It knelt before the altar, lapping up the blood with a few quick licks, then turned, snarling, sniffing the air with tail lashing from side to side. The man opened his arms with a smile, jabbing a thumb towards his mouth and miming a kiss. A ripple of appreciative laughter was quickly hushed, as the theater became silent enough to hear the people straining in their seats, breaths quickening, the cat's sniffing, and its ominous low rumble of a growl. The tableau held for a delicious moment: man, animal, altar, smell of blood, suns' ruddy morning light beating down on the golden sand.
A shout rose up as the predator leapt, its first spring slamming forepaws squarely against the man's chest and right flank. Even expecting it, he only had time to drop to the ground under the lightning-fast onslaught, lifting a stout leg under its belly to catch its ribcage with his foot and lever it off of him. It leapt again as he rolled to his feet, taking a deep gash out of his shoulder as one claw connected. The man threw an arm around its neck and swung onto its back with a deft roll. As the ytrix struggled to burst out from under his weight, he grasped both sides of its head with a peculiar jerk that drew a wild scream from the thrashing feline. The keening sound abruptly choked off, and the animal went still. The crowds' cheers thundered louder briefly, but tattered into ragged mutters before dying away. It had been too fast, and they wanted a bloodier duel.
To be sure, there were many. One by one the accused were brought forth. Most fought long and bravely. Much taunted by the impatient crowd, some of the combatants took their time performing the libation before the altar, either to prolong their own lives, or else out of genuine hopes for the gods to smile on their desperation. Most were killed.
At last it was time for the combat Apheratos had come to see. Lyra was brought out by four guards, nearly hidden by them as they stood at attention around her. The girl looked small and drab in the sunlight, slouching before the altar with head down, barely focussed upon the blood-filled cup held loosely in her hands, dribbling a few drops onto the sand unnoticed.
The Presidian felt called upon to add a few choice words. During the speech, Apheratos, as well as the other onlookers, chafed impatiently, though for vastly different reasons. Perfectly aware that all eyes were on the girl directly below him and therefore also on him, he leaned casually on his elbows out over the wall, leering down at her with a grim smile as the Presidian declaimed from the opposite side of the court.
"Citizens, today you have a rare privilege. Today you may see living proof of the Great War, of the evil race our fathers fought against, of how low the darkbloods can fall when stripped of power and weapons. For this girl, this monster, claims to be spawn of the accursed Kasarchos, as if this were her chief merit! Shall I remind you of that darkblood's promises of equality, of justice, of cooperation and goodwill? Here is their cooperation. Not content with the crimes of her ancestors, this girl has boiled an old man to death, a hapless fellow slave whose years of service proudly declared him worthy of the great house he served. Now their master Tamnos walks under the suns today with the loss of an eye for his efforts to halt her foul slaughter. Have you anything to say, wretch?"
Even now the girl covered her fear with rigid anger and scorn. "I am only glad that I can finally leave the world made miserable by your ungodly injustice to a defeated people. I can join my noble father, whose true name you fools do not even know; I will see my poor mother, whom my father saw cut down with her newborn in her arms. And I will just remind you that Lyra daughter of Kasarchos is also daughter's daughter to Daidalos the Master."
Apheratos growled something down at her with a grimace of distaste, as stunned uproar drowned out her final words in a cacauphony that made his reflection in the cup ripple and the stone seats vibrate. The Presidian's outrage was somehow thundering above the throng. "Blasphemer! Many more years will lie upon his grave before we forget who buried Daidalos there: Kasarchos the betrayer. May thy death be slow! Guards, release the ytrix!"
"Lady forgive me," Lyra muttered, the words lost in the storm, and flung the cup straight at Apheratos. It struck his forehead with a thrumming clang, blood scattering over his tunic, face, and arms. He stared down at her in real shock, although his sharp mutter of a moment past had been none other than an order for her to throw the blood away. Quickly mastering his composure, and scowling furiously at her faint, very faint smile, he raised his hand for silence. It took a long time for the noise to die down enough, but at last he could speak.
"So much for your respect to the gods," Apheratos said in cool, measured tones that forced the crowd to quiet further. "So much for your respect to the gods. I was only a young solder then, child, but I remember. Oh yes, I remember your people's ways. I fought them." There were a few incredulous murmurings scattered here and there about the theater, quickly hushed by fellows. "Yes," Apheratos continued grimly. "So, Presidian, grant an old man's request, I beg of you. If she cannot be forced to show the honor to the Mother in her last hour, then let me pour the offering. And I shall pray to all the gods on high that she receives exactly what she deserves." His voice had dropped to an implacable whisper. Now he brought his hand down with a snapping motion, mimicking the death-blow delivered by the first combatant to the ytrix whose blood might have been used to fill this very cup.
There was a lengthy silence, during which Apheratos did not face any of the spectators, nor the man he had addressed. He gazed levelly at the bruised and battered young woman below him, meeting the chilling blue eyes with his own stern gray ones. The worry and sad understanding that tightened his brows was probably lost on the one person who could see them. He thought she blinked, once, just before he was forced to drop his own gaze to wipe away the blood trickling from his arms onto his clenched hands.
"So be it, Commander," the Presidian replied at last, over the mutterings that had begun to spread across the theater once more.
Apheratos nodded and set his right hand on the bracket of one of the wooden standards to lower himself a man's height to the arena floor. He landed on his feet beside her. As the crowd began to chant his name in a way he had not heard in a long time, he gave her a quick shove, muttering, "Keep your distance as long as you can. The drug takes time to work." She staggered back from the push, though it wasn't all that hard, and snapped something at his back as he crossed the courtyard to meet the waiting attendants, who held a new cup at the ready. His right hand closed around it, but as he turned to march back to the altar, he kept his left clenched at his side as as it had been since the Presidian's speech.
His back ached with tension as he knelt before the basin, blood of humans as well as animals staining the churned-up ground around it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her pacing behind him, feigning scorn and indifference to the rite, nervousness betrayed only by her set jaw and pale complexion under the grime and half-healed wounds. Where was his son? Watching somewhere from the stone heights behind him. Phidias had better not be smiling now.
Apheratos poured the blood quickly, having no desire to prolong this any more than he must. Then he thrust his clenched hand into the shallow basin, raising his head and voice as he opened his fist to scoop out a handful. He saw those on the lowermost tier were standing, and raised the grim blood-token high as he called out proudly, "I call the Mother, the Mountain, and the Master to witness: let the matter of his daughter and Kasarchos be avenged here, once and for all."
The slight shake in his voice was lost as the chanting took up the cry, "Avenged!" Shuddering inwardly, he rose, turned on her, and caught Lyra in mid-stalk, grabbing her shoulder roughly. Before she could pull away, he slapped his left hand across her face, splattering her almost as liberally as she had him, mostly covering the bruises and dirt already there. "Mother keep you," he whispered, as she twisted herself out of his grip to jeers and screams.
"You can rot too," she spat back blusteringly, rubbing her face with a hand curled like a child's wiping away tears.
He did not meet her gaze again as he swung himself back up onto the wall, helped by reaching hands who clapped him on the back as he resumed his placed unchallenged. He was just in time to see the ytrix released--they had wasted no time--and stalking across the sand towards the bloody altar. It lapped suspiciously at the bowl, once, twice, while Lyra backpedalled rapidly to the far side of the arena. Its head came up, sniffing, and Apheratos tensed, willing it to finish. It gave one more perfunctory lick, sniffed at the sand, then whirled and began to stalk its retreating prey.
Apheratos groaned at the half-full basin beneath him, as the cat padded across the court, gaining speed and certainty as it went. At least it was small, smaller than most of the hungry animals that had been let loose today, but the little ones were all the more ferocious. Would Lydia's sleeping herbs be enough to slow it?
Lyra was following his advice, at least, jogging around the court and keeping as far from the predator as possible. Unfortunately, her flight gave it all the sign it needed that this was prey; moreover, the crowd began to jeer and hiss, chanting more loudly still at her apparent fear and cowardice. Three times around, and the gap between hunter and hunted had closed enough for it to spring. Lyra planted her feet and sidestepped at the last second, letting its leap carry it past her. The beast snarled, whirled, and sprang again; this time, with a respite of a few heartbeats to get her balance, she vaulted over it in the old style of bull-baiting, shoving off its shoulders with her hands.
It was no bull, and she was no bull-dancer; the cat's body gave way beneath her, and she found herself tumbling backwards. She willed herself not to cry out as her back struck the hard ground, and the thin layer of sand over stone scoured the raw wounds of her shoulders. She was struggling to her feet as it twisted to the attack, paws slipping on the loose sand so that its first swipe went wild and its second only glanced across her face. Her field of vision halved abruptly in a trickle of red as she flung herself away from its claws, giving her the sudden desperate inspiration to kick sand in its face before bolting, expecting its claws to smash her to earth as she fled.
A moment later, Lyra found herself backed against the wall, right beside the altar. The spectators were screaming themselves hoarse in the their frenzy of hatred, and some people were throwing not only insults but also refuse. This actually gave Lyra a reprieve; for the ytrix was distracted by the noise and projectiles as it slowly stalked her footsteps, head lowered, tail lashing very slowly now. The laughter and shouting died down as the onlookers waited eagerly for the final blow.
Lyra suddenly muttered something in her own tongue, flashed a radiant smile over her shoulder at Apheratos, and kicked the bronze bowl in the wildcat's face. It roared and jumped. She held out her arms to ward off the animal, pushing her hands into its face. There was a crunch as its jaws closed over her wrists. The teeth were not strong enough, though, to go through the heavy metal manacles. She let the momentum of its spring whip her around, and added as much force to the swing as she could. Lyra heard the sickening screech of teeth sliding across metal, and felt the pain as they ripped out of skin and cartilage. Then the animal was sailing headfirst in a graceful arc. Dazed, she wasted a few precious seconds to look at her hands-- yes, she still had all her fingers-- and she heard the dull thud of the beast hitting stone.
Praying for her mother's strength, she made one last desperate leap, shoving off the shoulders of the bronze figure to carry her spring to the rim of the wall. For a heartbeat she was on a level with the knees of nearest onlookers, but there was no time to strike at them; she was using the last of her momentum to shear off one of the wooden standards set in the rim above the altar. Then she dropped to meet the cat's spring. With the full force of her weight channeled into the flagpole and her left foot, the animal crashed to the ground, skull crunching under her heel as it died.
Lyra kicked it once, as if unwilling to believe she had killed it, then turned away, looking pale and sick. The king's sigil fell with a scattering of petals and a dull thud behind her into the blood-soaked sand.
As Lyra swayed, a dizzying wave of movement above her signalled the surge of hundreds jumping to their feet. The Presidian's reedy voice was shouting something about a demon's power blaspheming the gods in their own temple. Loud and mocking laughter cut through his tirade. It was Apheratos' friend Jelvas.
"Rings and wreaths of fire, do you really fear her so much, Presidian? A little girl is going to destroy the whole country? Are the gods too weak to stand against so small a mortal? Surely you jest; surely you don't mean such an impiety." The gangly young man drew himself up impressively and flung his cloak over his shoulder, imitating the Presidian's favorite mannerism. There was a collective hiss among some of the elder men near the Presidian, mostly drowned out by appreciative hoots from the gallery. Jelvas plunged on full sails to the wind, before someone could stifle him. "Or if you are so worried, just wait a few minutes; she'll bleed to death and save you the embarassment of killing her."
"She must be destroyed!" the Presidian thundered.
"Are you afraid, Presidian?" somebody jeered. "Don't think the city guards can stand up to her, eh?"
Jelvas flung a few words to the crowd which aroused rather than dissipated the growing unruly clamor. The chief subject of his ridicule glared across the courtyard with fury at this rash upstart, the Presidian's bane of a moment past now largely forgotten, crumpled as she was against the stone wall with her hands pressed against her face. The Presidian, with venom of hatred bristling from every hair of beard and brows, opened his mouth to speak.
Apheratos saw it was time to act, before both of his young friends were killed. "I will take her," he bellowed, surprising even himself with his vehemence. "Give her to me."
The Presidian started, and paused. "What did you say?"
Apheratos scowled. "I will take her. The gods will not be mocked. I will see to it personally."
"Commander," the Presidian stammered. "Commander! With all due respect, we must see the rite carried through!"
Lyra leaned weakly against the statue, glaring across the ring at the city leader with her one good eye, searing blue contrasting unnervingly with the dark red, almost purple blood that covered the left side of her face. "The rite is finished. To win we must kill, by any means the gods provide!" she shouted back at him, adding with a sneer, "Mock gods. Mock your laws. Go ahead, break them. Ignore the proof before your eyes, proof even by your fool's rules that I won!"
Apheratos jabbed a finger towards her threateningly. "Silence, before I come down there and rip your tongue out." Indeed, he could already see a few people clambering over the wall on the far side of the theater. Leaning over the side, he grasped her shoulders. "Up. Now."
Weakly, she obeyed, though he had to bear most of her weight as he yanked her up and onto the wall. He was all too aware of the crowd pressed close around him, of glaring eyes, jostling bodies, snarls. He caught her wrists in a firm grip, holding them by the metal manacles, and drew her against his chest.
"I will take her. And I promise you, Presidian, she will live, as the gods have decreed this day; for death is too easy, too swift, for the likes of her! She shall serve the king, like the dog she is, in his kennels, in the charnel-pits, in the mines: I shall see to it personally. For I am the king's man, and he will grant me this favor. Justice will be served."
The Presidian's lips thinned and tightened. Then he bowed. "So be it. May the Mother keep you, Commander; you will need all the gods' aid to protect you against this demon."
Apheratos kept his chin high and his grip secure as he steered her up the stairs; onlookers parted before him, some respectfully, some doubtfully. His hands tightened with every jeer and shove as they passed through. He led the girl away quickly, directly through the nearest open archway. He noticed she stopped struggling and tugging against his hands as soon as his body was shielding her from the glares behind them. He released his grip and set his hands more gently on her thin shoulders to steer her.
The cacauphony of the theater was mercifully cut off as Apheratos ducked into an unlit side passage tunnelling under the bleachers, avoiding the elaborate main entrance opening onto the street. Lyra obeyed Apheratos' mute directions passively, head bowed. They emerged from the narrow tunnel into a small unpaved corner of the city hemmed in by the theater and the outer city walls on three sides, a small side-street edged by dilapidated stables and out-buildings for the arena on the fourth.
Jelvas emerged from the building on their heels. Straightening his magnificently embroidered cloak, he burst into a hearty laugh. "Excellent performance, sir," Jelvas declared. "Your brother would have been proud. I almost wish we'd stayed to watch the Presidian trying to disperse the crowd; after your show, there's not much he can say."
The older man shook his head slowly and wearily, pushing the girl over to the base of a supporting column and coaxing her to sit as he spoke. "Don't mention my brother, as you love me," he muttered softly, stooping to look over his charge. "And do me a favor. Bring Marcia. I don't have much time before the crowd finds us here."
Jelvas nodded and headed quickly down the cobbled alleyway.
Apheratos scowled as the girl uncharacteristically yielded to his nudges and sank down onto the marble plinth, bare legs dangling and body hunched under her shapeless garment. It was probably once a green chiton belted at the waist, now reduced to dirt-stained tatters and growing bloodstains from her hands and face. Apheratos glanced warily around the shadowy cul-de-sac after Jelvas departed, but for the moment, at least, no one else seemed to have followed them. "Lyra, let me see those hands. You can't get home this way."
"Does't make any difference, does it?" she intoned flatly, sagging against the stone fluting at her back. "Wait half a candle; I'll be dead, and you can tell them whatever lie suits your fancy."
Apheratos sighed heavily. "Hush. I didn't lie about one thing, at least. You're not going to die, not unless you take the coward's way out. That will certainly satisfy those vultures, but it won't bring honor to your people."
She glared at him and said nothing, again unresisting as he lifted her small hands into his own and turned them over gently. Grimly he drew out a roll of linen from the folds of his cloak and ripped off several clean strips to dress her wounds. At first, she stared mutely into the distance while he worked, but after Apheratos had carefully bound every finger tightly, she sourly complained that he was trying to fetter her. To her irritation, he only smiled; her protests were a better sign than anything else of her health.
At last, as he was finishing, a wagon drawn by a pair of horses clattered up the narrow street and came to a halt, turning carefully in the small open square. "I heard you needed a ride, Commander?" called the driver, a brusque dark woman with red hair and otherwise plain features surmounted by a truly aggressive nose.
"Marcia? Goodness, it's been a while. Many thanks."
"Well, then, get in, and mind you don't track blood all over my car."
Relieved, Apheratos hoisted the girl up and climbed in after her. It was not so much a wagon as a covered chariot, almost a carriage, and Apheratos was pleased to find a wall between himself and prying eyes. Jelvas moved outside to the front bench with his wife to make room, speaking over his shoulder into the curtained compartment.
"The Presidian wants to see you tonight, Apheratos. He's gotten the guards out to herd the crowds away. Everyone wanted to know what exactly you're going to do to her. So how does our little celebrity feel?"
Lyra uttered her favorite curse.
Jelvas raised his voice as the cart lurched into motion. "I think I can guess what that means. How is she, Apheratos?"
"Not good, no thanks to Tamnos either," the Commander admitted, "But I she still has all her fingers, at least. I can't tell about the eye."
"I can't feel or see anything on that side," she said belligerently, as if it were all their fault.
Apheratos frowned. "I don't like that at all. Still, it may be just a scratch."
Marcia's no-nonsense tones cut through any further conversation as the cart slowed again, signalling a traffic jam as they passed from one quarter of the city into the next. "Jelvas, darling, either stop chattering and preening with that ridiculous cloak, or get back inside. You're going to fall out if you keep twisting around like that."
Lyra and sagged back against the wall, and they got little more out of her for the rest of the journey, except when Apheratos started to wrap his mantle over her. That brought a string of curses and a protest that she was not his slave, pet, or whatever else he had in mind. Pet or not, he had to carry her, when they were at last safely within the walls of his own courtyard. Lydia was waiting for them anxiously in the fading light; his son and the other trainees, thankfully, had not yet made it back to the barracks housed on the premises. He thanked Marcia and Jelvas with understandable brevity, and he and his wife quickly hustled their limp charge indoors.

Mercius had awakened well before Lucien in the cold gray hours of dawn, but already the inn was a bustle and a rumor of footsteps, as people prepared to head for the theater in hopes of finding good seats. Perhaps it would have been better to keep to his rooms today. But he felt restless, and with his ubiquitous gray cloak wrapped about him, he was reasonably assured of anonymity. He slipped outside without breaking his fast, pushing against the flow of foot traffic, keeping his head low even when a fleet of ragged boys pounded past him laughing. He returned the wave of one of the stragglers with an inward smile, knowing full well that their cheer would turn to jeers or worse if they knew what he really was.
At last, he had come to the west gates and the sparser than usual throng of packbeasts, wagons, and travellers jostling their way into the city. Threading between them, it was not too difficult to escape notice as he passed between the battlements, taking care not to glance up at the guards on either side of the street. Then he was beyond the walls, warm sunlight was beating on his back, and the green world stretched out before him, ribboned only sparsely by the brown beaten dirt tracks that were the roads of men.
His spirits rose as he escaped the bustle of the town, the thought of the boys he'd passed a little while ago urging him into into a lightfooted jog at the grassy edge of the highway. The light green slopes of the cane fields tumbled away from the road on the left, falling down to meet the triangles of gold grain and pale fields of flax in the river deltas that spread their many-fingered fans far out into the inland sea. Its jade expanse dominated the horizon to the south, so smooth and clear that he felt that if he turned and hopped sideways off the road, he could skim down the waving tassles of sugar-fields and dive off the white cliffs into the warm green waters. To the right of the road, terraces of lush grassy pasture rose up to meet the darker tangles of rainforest that blanketed the ridge of mountains upon whose toes Minoquo was perched. Ahead, dwindling into the distance to the west, the road snaked its way over the foothills, starting to curve off to the left and south along the narrow shelf between the seacoast and the highlands. His steps quickened, drawn by the distant and mysterious dark shapes of the western mountains beyond the sea, of which Minoquo's rugged chain were only a tiny outlying spur.
Somewhere, in the first ranks of those somber gray peaks marching like waves to the horizon, there lay the ruins of the little farm whch had belonged to Lucien's family, before the plague had killed or scattered them. Lucien, of course, didn't remember it; his grandmother had taken him and Mercius away when he was still an infant. But Mercius did. It was as much of a home as he had a right to claim. And was it not said that his own kind had lived there too, long ago, in that mountain stronghold still alluded to with mixed reverence and scorn by those who put stock in the old stories? He would go back someday, ghosts or no ghosts.
The distant sounds of drums from the city at his back finally put an end to his musings, and he halted and tensed instinctively, like a rabbit shying at the silhouette of a bird of prey. Luckily, the road here was surprisingly deserted for this early hour of the day. Market was closed, and almost everyone who could spare the time was at the theater, watching the spectacle. That was what had driven him out here to the fresh air, on a packed earth road where the dew still held the dust in check, and the only living things were the herds of oxen and horses in the high pastures to the north. Mercius kept walking. He had a more natural spectacle in mind.
At last he crested a low hill from which the road dropped steeply. The wall of tall sugarcane made a forest of its own to the left, blocking out view of the sea. He snapped off a stalk and tucked it into his belt-band, then crossed to the other side of the street. To the right, a fence of piled stones rather than the usual low natural barriers of cultivated hedges made for an impressive barrier. Set back against the forest's edge a league distant were the sprawling black tiled roofs and outbuildings of a house of some worth, surrounded entirely by these walled pastures. A well-travelled wagon path of packed dirt came out to meet the highway here, where the estates' stone fences ended in low wooden gates kept in better repair than the city's. Ah good! The watch was on holiday today. Picking his footholds with care, he scrambled up onto the top of the stone wall, and began to run along its length, bypassing the gate as he parallelled the track leading into the heart of Tulli's lands.
Finally he reached his goal, the second pasture in from the gate. Lying down on the uneven rocks on his belly, sandalled feet kicking up behind him, he began the serious business of coaxing the enclosure's sole occupant over to him. She was just a tiny thing, pale gray almost to white. A smile flashed across his face as the mare lifted her slim head and whickered and trotted across to meet him. It was almost a pity how swiftly she crossed the field and drew up alongside his perch; there was an untamed grace in the way she moved on slim foal legs that made her seem to dance with every stride. He never tired of watching her.
"Hey, girl," he called cheerfully, clicking his tongue and letting dangle his arm and the treat of cane-sugar. "How's my pretty prisoner? Haven't you learned to jump the walls yet?"
The mare stamped and stepped to one side, dodging his hand with a ruffled long snort. He waited patiently for her to take the offering. The sound of hooves thudding against the hard road in the distance made her shy to one side, and he bent his whole will into soft, soothing coaxing, whispering to her and holding quite still. At last she lipped at his fingers, taking the stalk in her teeth and backing away with a roll of the eyes.
Eyes. Blue-green, like his own. He smiled and reached out to scratch behind thin tapered ears that flicked nervously and tickled his wrists. "Well, give me some of Tulli's best feed, and you can have the inn for a few weeks with the drunks and the bellowing people and the landlord asking too many questions. Go on, Lia, I don't mind."
The deer-skittish mare rolled her eyes again, still chewing slowly on the stalk of cane. Mercius drew a long face right back at her, the expression resting comically on his earnestly young features. "I'm going away soon," he told her softly. "I'm going away, and I won't get to see you if your master races you next harvest. I wish--oh, I wish I could've gotten to ride you. Just once. We'd show them the wind, wouldn't we, girl?"
"That can be arranged," said a gruff voice from below and behind. Mercius pressed down against the rocks cutting into his chest with a start, as the mare reared her head and turned to bolt. He watched her for a split second, but the crazy thought of leaping on her back was long instants too slow; she was already halfway across the pasture before he could raise himself from his perch. Instead, propping himself up on one elbow, he turned his head to glance down at the path.
No, not down. A tall grizzled older man with a mane of black and gray curls and a thick beard, broad features, and a mocking curl of a smile was almost on eye level with him, seated comfortably on an equally massive stallion which stood motionless beneath. Loose reins were held but absently between the smallest fingers of the man's raised right hand.
"Master Tulli!" Mercius gasped with as thick a stammer as he could muster, not all feigned. He turned his head quickly; it wouldn't do to meet the man's eyes, no, not at all. "I'm sorry, s-sir, I din't mean no harm. You got the best'st animals around, you really do! I'm sorry!" He thrust himself from the wall, landing messily in a sprawl under his cloak at the feet of the rather heavy charger on which the master of these estates was perched.
"Get up," the man said flatly, in the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed. "Up here." He patted the horse's broad back behind him.
Mercius harbored another brief thought of fleeing like the mare, but didn't really like the thought of violet-tinged blood drying to black as it seeped into the dirt; no one would question the lord twice for trampling him when they saw that. He put his hand on the reins tentatively, as if he thought maybe he was supposed to use them to pull himself up. "Too high," he said desperately, swaying on his feet. "I c-can't get up there, sir. I don't know how. I'm sorry. I'll go! Please let me go."
Tulli snorted and reached down with his free hand to grasp the top of his hood. Mercius went quite still. "Don't give me trouble, boy. That stallion you ran for Jimnos last week was no pony. You can't lie any better than I can see through bricks or tiles. Now get up here, slave, and tell me whether you really belong to him, or someone else, and whether I need to report you to the block. I hear they've already got a few runaways for sport to day, but there's always room for another." He let go of the hood's peak and scowled down at the top of Mercius' head expectantly.
The boy shrugged with what he fancied to be bravado and silently set a heel against the stone wall to hoist himself up behind the older man. "Mercius," he replied offhandedly, after letting the man wait as long as he dared. "Not a slave. My older brother is here looking for smith-work, and I do this and that." He eyed the pouch at Tulli's hip speculatively, but decided now was not the best time to try a bit of pilfering. "Jimnos lost one of his riders right before the race in an accident. We'd been hiring out at his stables, so he let me have a chance at part of the prize."
"Brother, eh," Tulli snorted. "You little imps seem to be springing out of the grass these days; I guess the king's scourings were no more thorough than anything else. Well, my nephew Tamnos still has one eye left. But I think I'll hold onto you myself. It just so happens that I need another rider too, or I'm never going to get that damned mare ready for the races in Hippo next month." He turned his mount's head with a yank of the reins, away from the highway, and kicked the stallion into a brisk trot.
Mercius was already sifting through everything he'd heard about the wealthiest man on the north shore, calculating exactly how much of a share of the race money he dared wheedle out of him. It was a sort of game to pass the time, of course. It was much more entertaining than wondering whether Tulli was any gentler a master to his slaves than his ill-mannered nephew. Glancing down at the man's fine black