 
**SanClare Black**

**Jenna Waterford**

Copyright Jenna Waterford 2014

Published at Smashwords

# SANCLARE BLACK

by Jenna Waterford

SanClare Black

Copyright © 2014 by Jenna Waterford

All rights reserved.

Cover design: CanaryNoir

Photo credit: NemesisINC/Shutterstock.com

No part of this book may be used, stored, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-131-187608-9

First edition

# TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

# PROLOGUE

Jarlyth Denara felt naked without his sword. Out of habit, he'd reached over his shoulder to check on it before he remembered. He pretended he'd meant only to brush something from the sleeve of his sturdy warder's uniform, and he noted the sleeve's lack of braid and embroidery as another loss, along with the absence of his sword's once-familiar weight against his back.

A small group of very young-looking lieutenants stomped noisily up the drive, almost running over him, but one of them realized their error. "Hold up," he said in a voice that sounded as if he'd been laughing. "His duty trumps ours."

Jarlyth gave a small nod and moved past them as quickly as he could without seeming to scurry. He was probably younger than they were, though his uniform cast its own dignity around him, protecting him from any first-glance discovery of his youth. Yet, he envied them their elegant, formal uniforms, covered in bright gold braid and proud rank insignia and the promise of glory. The black and gold of royal service was what he'd always wanted, not the practical, dignified gray and silver of Tanara Priory. In spite of all his efforts, however, that destiny was not to be.

Jarlyth didn't break stride or look around him as he neared the chaotically-busy main entrance to Karonsmoor Castle. His unyielding progress forced the long line of gleaming, luxurious carriages to wait, all crowded up nose-to-tail with each other, while he stepped between them. He almost looked back when he realized some of the carriages were horseless, but he controlled the impulse. He had to think of his warder's dignity and not gawk like a provincial farm-boy.

From each carriage stepped more men and women of every possible military stripe: infantry, wizard techs, officers, air-guards, and knights. Light slanted from the tall windows lining the front of the castle on either side of the main entrance, catching glints of snow as it made a half-hearted attempt to fall and highlighting gold braid and honors as well as the well-polished side-arms so many of the guests wore. Jarlyth fought another double-take when he spotted a rare ornamental pistol holstered at someone's side, in place of the more common heirloom sword or dress dagger. Any weapons worn to such an event would be bound with spell-locks, and the castle wizards would make sure they stayed that way.

_At least they're still armed. Why did there have to be so many of them, tonight of all nights?_ It felt as if Vail slapped him in the face, dangling the very dream she'd stolen from him right before his eyes. But he had to follow his own duty and trace his Call to its source, no matter what.

Ripples of whispers and thoughts rose up as he neared the entrance and more of the party-goers began to notice him. He caught the nearest young woman's appreciative thought that she'd like to run her fingers through his "brown-silk hair," and he cast her a quick, crooked grin as he moved past. She giggled, her breath visible in the winter air.

The main entrance cleared quickly as those who had seen him pulled their companions aside to make way. He strode on, deftly avoiding oblivious guests and various decorative obstacles.

The arrival of a warder was a rare event; the arrival of a warder at the castle was rarer still.

The time it took for him to climb the broad staircase up to the main entrance gave the royal guards fair warning. He passed unimpeded, stepping through the wide doorway into the cream-and-gold grand hall without so much as breaking stride.

Jarlyth blinked at the change from dark to light and wished again that he'd known about the gala so he could have slipped around to a side entrance and avoided the crush that met him. To follow the Call, he had to remain open and unshielded, and the sheer noise of the thoughts and sensation of dozens of conflicting emotions almost made him ill. He was still new to his power, still new to this life. _Too new. It's too soon for me to have to do this._

Courtiers lined the walls and stood in tittle-tattling clusters, all dressed to outshine their military guests. Likely the ball was meant to honor exemplary service, but these highborn ornaments of the Court rarely enjoyed honoring any who actually worked for their glory and position.

_I'm highborn,_ he reminded himself as his Call took him away at last from the crush and glamour of the overdressed, overwhelming crowds and aimed him toward the depths of the vast castle's west wing. He never felt highborn, though. His family had long ago lost the wealth that had once made the Denara name great, and now only acts of honor and bravery could maintain their dignity.

And I was supposed to do that. I was supposed to restore the family's position. I was supposed to be one of the great knights and earn glory and wealth.

Instead, here he was, walking through the high, bright, lushly-carpeted corridors of Karonsmoor Castle, heading toward a destiny he could never have imagined for himself and trying to pretend to a dignity and indifference he didn't feel.

There were still courtiers, though fewer of them, hurrying along toward the ball. Wisps of thought and emotion wafted past and over him, telling him they were late, worried about how they looked, and afraid the king would be angry—all the usual fears before a royal event.

"Jary!" A familiar voice rang out, echoing a bit off the marble walls, and running footsteps grew louder as the voice's owner overtook him from the direction of the ball.

He turned to see his former school-friend and sparring partner Prestlyn Carr nearly upon him, her dress-uniform's coattails flapping, her sword hilt thwacking against her back, and her arms thrown wide for a hug. Her realization of her error was so sharp, he heard her think— _Shize!_ —before she stumbled to a graceless stop, still grinning.

A pair of dowagers hurried by, looking scandalized and muttering to each other. Prestlyn let their scorn roll off of her as if she hadn't just about broken the law.

She held her hands up, palms-out, and gave him a guilty grin which leant her too-angular face its own prettiness. "Sorry! Forgot. Mustn't touch the Sensitive."

"Without permission," he corrected and grinned with her as they shared a quick embrace, thumping each other on the back a couple of times in an echo of their old one-upsmanship games.

"You have your Call already?" she asked as they parted, still grinning.

He nodded and took a couple of involuntary steps backward, the Call's power drawing him on toward whatever awaited him at its other end.

"Sorry again." She started to follow him, and he automatically sped up. "Go! I was just so excited to see you."

He'd been following in the Call's wake for days, stopping only to have something to eat or snatch a few hours' sleep. He felt desperate to talk to somebody. "Can you walk with me for a bit?"

"Of course. I can be late." She could do what she wanted, uniform or not. Everyone indulged her, for she was a powerful wizard, a talented warrior, and, most importantly, a foreign-born princess, betrothed since birth for the diplomatic interests of all to Crown Prince Durran.

Thinking the prince's name had its usual effect, and Jarlyth smiled slightly as Durran's prince-name whispered through his head. Another gift from Vail, though this one, at least, wasn't his.

"How is our Prince of Daggers?" he asked, trying to reverse the interrogation before Prestlyn started asking all the usual questions.

"Durran's fine. He's at the ball flirting with everyone already. His father's busy," she added, and she gave him an odd, arch look. "So he's stuck hosting."

"Shouldn't you be helping him, then?" Queen Vedalanna couldn't, after all. Everyone knew the king's second wife was very, very... _Pregnant._

Oh. Shize.

"Lyn...please tell me...is Veda—?"

"In labor?" Prestlyn supplied. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Yes, she is."

"Shize!" he exclaimed, unable to control himself. They'd just crossed another corridor where more late courtiers were scurrying.

"Can you believe it?" she almost squealed. "You're going to be warder to a _prince_."

This is all Vail's fault.

He broke into a run, allowing the Call to hurtle him through now seemingly-endless corridors toward the royal birthing room. Prestlyn ran after him, shouting for him to wait.

This isn't fair. Everything was going to plan!

To slow him down, she grabbed his arm, apparently taking permission once as permission for always— _I'll have to tell her that isn't how it works_ —but he was too dismayed to read any of her thoughts in spite of the contact.

"Calm down! Vail Over Us, what's the matter?"

He glared at her, breathing hard. He wanted to scream. _Everyone thinks the goddess is so great and blessed and wondrous. But they've never met her._

When he said nothing, her smile faded away completely. "I'm sorry, Jary. I thought you'd be happy."

_Happy? I was the best apprentice the Templars had ever seen, and now I'm going to be a glorified nursemaid for the next ten years of my life._ He wished he could say this out loud to someone—anyone—but even his parents had acted as if they were proud of him. Touched by the Hand of Vail, everyone said.

He took a deep breath and began walking again. "I know I should be happy. I know it's a gift and an honor. I _know_ that."

She must have glimpsed the unspoken in his eyes. "But you wanted to be a Templar."

"I know I'm being stupid, Lyn. I know this is a great thing."

"You aren't being stupid. It isn't easy to let go of a dream." She spoke as if she knew this from personal experience, and if he had been in a different mood, he would have asked for her story. But he couldn't stop focusing on himself.

_My family put every last hope they had in me, and I let them down._ He'd worked so hard to be the best. And he had been. His skill with the sword had rivaled even that of his greatest teachers. He'd blazed through his training almost a year ahead of his contemporaries. His destiny seemed sure.

My family would have been able to hold their heads up at Court again and not have to beg charity from my useless, stuck-up relatives just to participate in Society.

Prestlyn asked the question everyone asked. "What was it like, meeting Vail? Was she scary?"

He suppressed a snort with difficulty and wondered just how nikking deep into the castle he was going to have to walk to find this damned birthing room.

"No, she was..." _Indescribable. At least I could never tell anyone what she was really like. They'd think I was being blasphemous._

He wanted to be blasphemous, sometimes. _I was so close. But I just had to check one more time, even though my master told me I could move on to the next street._

The raiders had decimated the village, taking everything of value and burning the rest. The Templars had arrived too late to do anything except search for survivors to save or stragglers to kill.

It was my very first mission. If I'd had more experience, I wouldn't have been so soft. I wouldn't have gone back.

Even now, when he saw the little girl with her warder, he almost hated her for ruining his life. _If I'd never heard her crying—_

A too-familiar, exasperated voice filled his head almost to bursting. .: _She would have died, you idiot._ :.

Jarlyth sighed, and sent the goddess a quickly-thought apology. To Prestlyn, he said, "Vail is very overwhelming."

He could sense his friend wanted more, but he paused and smiled at her. "I need to go on alone, now. Thanks for walking with me, Lyn. It was great to see you."

Her smile faded around the edges, and it held a note of sympathy he hoped wasn't pity in disguise. "You'll be great, Jary. You always are. At everything." And with that, she whirled and ran back toward the ball.

.: _Don't make me Manifest and kick your whiny ass, Jarlyth Denara._ :.

.: _I'm sorry._ :.

.: _Good. Now straighten up. You're about to meet your nikking destiny._ :. And Vail was gone again.

He rolled his eyes. Oh, how the deacons would weep to know their goddess swore like a dock-worker. _I guess that's my destiny—to follow Calls with babies at the ends of them._

The crying baby's first warder—an older woman in full garb as he was this night—had been dead, but she'd shielded her charge from the fire's heat with her body. Everyone had missed the baby, half-buried by her warder's corpse and by rubble and debris. But when he'd reached to pick up the infant—

.: _Stupid child. Don't do that._ :.

The voice had filled his head, making his ears ring, and he'd whirled in the direction he'd thought it had come from. Standing there behind him, her hands on her hips, her expression disgusted, was an otherwise very ordinary-looking young woman. Her dark hair, shorter than the usual style, hung in careless curls, and her nose seemed too small for her face. Her mouth, on the other hand, seemed too big.

.: _Just what do you think you're doing?_ :. Her lips hadn't moved, but her voice thundered.

She's a wizard. A really powerful wizard.

.: _I am not a wizard, I assure you. And you are not a warder, so don't touch that child._ :.

He'd flinched at nearly every word she'd said, and her look of disgust had changed to exasperation. She'd rolled her snapping green eyes, cleared her throat, and finally spoke. "Sorry about that. Been awhile since I've done this."

"Who are you?" He remembered sounding hysterical. He thought his voice had cracked. "Are you a warder?"

She'd laughed, a full-bodied sound that had made him grin along with her in spite of himself, then she'd snorted. "No. I'm Vail. Don't you recognize my Holy Self?" She struck a ridiculous pose, one arm upraised, the other hand still braced on her hip.

He'd known she must truly be the Goddess Incarnate when it hadn't even occurred to him to doubt her. Instead, he'd flung himself onto the ground and hidden his face.

"Oh, stop that." She'd knelt down in front of him and tilted her head sideways, trying to catch his eye. "Get up. I need you."

He'd obeyed but had felt himself trembling as he stood before her. He'd felt exposed and stupid and terrified. "I'm only fourteen. I'm just an apprentice. My master is nearby. He can—"

"Nope!" She'd grinned, teeth bared and eyes almost wild. "I want you. You're just who I need for this." He'd thought, even then, dazzled and scared as he was, that this did not sound like a good thing.

And when his master had found him a short time later, he had been Changed. No one who saw him doubted he'd been in the Presence of Vail. With no more than a nod of her head, she'd transformed him from Templar apprentice to Sensitive and warder.

And I can never go back.

He slowed, seeing the door ahead of him at last. It seemed to be glowing, and the Call thundered inside him as if to say, "Here! He's in here!"

A few senior courtiers loitered in the large antechamber built just for such waiting, but Jarlyth was surprised to see King Teodor SanClare himself standing outside the birthing-chamber.

"Shize," the man growled. His glare took in Jarlyth's warder garb and his expression darkened even more. "Healers said it was a boy; they didn't say he was a Sensitive."

"Vail does not reveal that to anyone but the Chosen Warder," Jarlyth said as he strode up to the king with an authority he didn't feel. In this role, he didn't even have to bow, and he had to fight the impulse to do just that. _I was meant to be his knight. I was meant to fight his wars._

He flinched inwardly, waiting for Vail to Speak to him again and tell him to stop whining.

"What's Vail thinking, sending this one?" Lady Menlo peered down her pretty nose at Jarlyth. "Are you even sixteen yet, boy?"

"Allegra," her husband said, ever-patient. "He _is_ a warder. Don't tease him."

She had a point. Everyone knew it, too. Warders didn't just spring from nothing as he had. They were born Sensitives— _just like this prince_ —and trained for years in the use and control of their powers. The most powerful became healers of broken bodies and broken minds, valued by all as gifts from Vail Herself; the less-powerful— _like me_ —became caretakers and teachers for the next generations of their kind. _Nursemaids._

He'd thought Vail was only giving him the ability to take the baby safely to Tanara. He'd thought—for the entire journey—that he'd be able to go back to his life as a Templar. The other Sensitives had known the moment they'd seen him that this was not to be so.

_So I stayed there. Working harder than everyone else. Again._ He'd tried to cram years and years of training and experience into far-too-few moons. He'd hated being the newest, the worst, the weakest. He wanted to catch up to everyone else and be even better than their best.

But his Call came too soon, and he still felt new and weak and stupid. _I'm not ready. Everyone can see that. Why can't Vail?_

The king spoke again, interrupting his gibbering thoughts. "They aren't letting anyone in." His usual robust, room-filling personality seemed dimmed and almost sad. Jarlyth wished he could ask why. _Shouldn't he be happy about this?_

The king gestured at the door almost as if he wanted to throw something at it. "They'll have to open up for you."

Jarlyth lifted his chin in acknowledgement and turned to face the door. _My destiny. Shize but Vail has a nasty sense of humor._ He knocked and forced himself to be firm about it though his insides felt like water.

A woman's voice, sounding harassed, called out, "Who's there?"

"I'm from Tanara Priory." He shouted to make sure he was heard through the heavy wood of the door.

A clatter and muffled voices followed this, but after another moment, the door began to open. It seemed to be opening itself, and Jarlyth thought there must be a wizard inside until he saw the tiny hands struggling to pull the door wide enough for him to pass through.

He was not allowed to touch the door to a birthing room. Only appointed handmaidens were supposed to do that, so he waited, feeling cruel, while the small, blonde girl-child finished her task.

"Please enter, sirra," she said at last, and she gave him a very dignified curtsey. A woman's sobs could be heard in the background, but the girl's face hid any emotions she might be feeling about this.

"My lady," he replied and stepped across the threshold.

The first thing he saw, once he'd been sealed with the women inside the birthing room, was a cascade of red-tinted water pouring into a basin as the midwife wrung out a cloth.

_Blood_ , Jarlyth thought. And there seemed to him to be a lot of it. But was it too much for a birthing? He'd witnessed animal births before but never a human one. _Let alone a royal birth._

"Why won't he come?" the queen demanded. Though she sobbed, her voice rang with anger rather than misery nor did her sobs seem to be due to her labor pains.

_Though they do hurt. Vail!_ Realizing he no longer needed to leave himself open to follow the Call, he concentrated and found his silent center and almost laughed with relief when the queen's shared pain vanished from his body. _Poor women...poor Queen Veda._ He wondered why no Sensitive healer attended the queen to at least lessen her pain, but the queen soon gave him a clue.

"Where is he, Bairbre?" The sobs were gone as if they'd never been, and the queen's voice now sounded truly angry. He knew at once that she wasn't referring to the child she struggled to bring into the world when she spoke of this unnamed "he."

"Hush, Veda." The midwife dabbed gently at the queen's face with another cloth. "You mustn't worry about that right now."

"But I need him. I need him here with me. I _begged_ him..." She bit into the words as if she wanted to tear something to pieces. "He should see our child being born."

The midwife cast a quick glance at Jarlyth, though he hadn't moved away from the door and had determined to stay well out of the way until it was time. The woman's eyes were full of worry and exhaustion and not a little fear that this young, unknown man bore witness to the queen's ravings.

It isn't the king she's calling for. If it were, she'd only have to let him in.

The queen spoke freely—probably too freely—around the midwife. Jarlyth knew the story—that the women were the dearest of friends, inseparable even when Veda had traveled to Serathon to marry King Teodor the year before.

"I wish to Vail you could forget him," the midwife whispered.

Another spasm and the new royal child took one step closer to life.

"I love him, Bairbre. And I want him _so much_...I can't think of anything else." The queen said this in a feverish rush, whispering the words she dared not say aloud even in the birthing room with only her dearest friend present. And her unborn child's goddess-appointed warder.

"Yes, I know. You think of that man but not your husband nor your babe," the midwife snapped. "Who's ready to be born, now, whether you've a thought to spare him or not."

"Of course. You're right," the queen whispered. She sank back onto the pallet, looking exhausted. "I'm sorry."

The child came quickly after that, as if only the queen's inattention to his impending arrival had been holding him back.

The strength of the mystic bond that would tie Jarlyth to this boy for the next ten years expanded to fill the room the moment the prince was born.

"Give him to me!" Jarlyth stumbled across the room. "In Vail's Name, let me have him."

"In Vail's Name," the queen repeated, though she seemed unaware of the meaning of the words.

Expressing a sturdy post-natal misery, the baby wailed much more loudly than Jarlyth had thought possible for such a tiny thing. The midwife rushed through the preparations needed in order for him to face his new life outside his mother's womb, and she handed him over as quickly as she could. Her urgency reflected Jarlyth's emotions exactly.

The moment he accepted the blanket-wrapped baby from the midwife, the wails stopped. He stared down into the tiny face, which now regarded him fuzzily but calmly, and fell in love.

Somewhere in the background, he thought he could hear Vail laughing.

"It's so black." Jarlyth marveled at the infant's shock of thick, unruly hair.

"SanClare black, aye," the woman agreed.

He almost blurted out the obvious response to this but managed to stop himself. _But I thought the king wasn't his father—_

"Don't mind if it all falls out," the midwife said, brisk. "Babies born with hair don't often keep it."

"You'll take care of him, then?" the queen rasped, and she seemed to see Jarlyth clearly. "Please...promise me you'll take care of him."

Jarlyth nodded to emphasize his sincerity. "I promise you all that I've promised Vail Herself. She sent me to him, Your Majesty. I can make you no better promise than that."

"Yes." But she'd already begun to fade away again. "It is best this way. Tell him I love him. Tell him I tried."

"His name is Nylan," the midwife said softly, distractedly. "Nylan Voyavel SanClare."

The royal family name was said without any hesitation, giving Jarlyth a fresh clue as to who the boy's real father might be. A frightening clue, especially coupled with the child's night-black hair. He didn't pursue it but bowed in the queen's direction and then again toward the midwife.

"Thank you, Majesty, milady."

As he turned around to leave, he caught a glimpse of the girl's small, pale face staring at him from behind a curtain partitioning the room. He made another bow to the tiny girl. "It was an honor, my lady." The child stepped away from the curtain and curtsied back, her face still a study in solemnity.

As a farewell for a prince as highborn as the one he now cradled in his arms, Jarlyth found this ominous.

# # #

# CHAPTER ONE

Bairbre Llorka and her daughter Flannery sat awaiting them in the hotel's parlor, surrounded by a daunting pile of boxes.

"Presents!" Nylan squealed, and he ran ahead of Jarlyth. He stumbled to a stop a few lengths from the Llorkas, a grumpy look flitting across his lovely face. "Stop shouting," he grumbled.

Jarlyth rolled his eyes. "They aren't shouting. You're being rude."

Nylan's shoulders moved as if he were trying to shrug off his warder's words. "I can't help it."

"You can help it if you'd wait for me." Jarlyth caught up and rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Stop acting spoiled, or we'll go back to the priory."

Nylan whirled around to look up at him, distraught. "But it's my birthing-day. It isn't fair, Jary—"

"Your Highness," Bairbre Llorka said, laughter in her voice. "Shall we start over?"

The boy blew out his breath with overdramatic vigor, straightened, and turned a blinding smile on the Llorkas. "Hello," he all-but sang.

Flannery giggled, covering her mouth with her hand to try to hide this reaction, but Nylan grinned back at her. He grabbed Jarlyth's hand and pulled his warder along as he hurried to join them.

He stopped right in front of Flannery and held out a drawing he'd done for her of the cats who trailed him everywhere around the priory. The ensuing fuss she and Bairbre made over it was not unwarranted. Nylan could draw very well.

The Llorkas had moved to the town just outside Tanara Priory's gates shortly after Nylan's mother passed away. The queen had lingered for almost three years after his birth, growing ever more fragile and sickly until, it was whispered, she simply faded out of life altogether. She had never been well enough to make the journey to Tanara to see her only son. She had never even held him.

But the Llorkas were as good as family to Nylan. _Better than every single one of his real family, except Queen Tristella,_ Jarlyth thought.

Nylan's maternal grandmother seemed to be attempting to make up for the loss of his mother and the distance separating them by sheer volume of attention. She wrote to her grandson and heir a minimum of once every quarter-moon and sent practical, useful, and interesting gifts almost as often. Considering that each letter or package then had to cross the Breach-shattered ocean and travel hundreds of posts to reach Tanara Priory, this required a level of dedication Jarlyth found reassuring. _At least one family member cares about him._

After a decorous wait while the hotel staff served a very formal tea to them all, Nylan was let loose on the boxes. They were soon all opened, the presents inside unwrapped, and the detritus of torn paper and ribbons carried away by the efficient staff. To Jarlyth's disgust, most of the gifts were from courtiers seeking preemptive influence on the boy.

Though not the heir to the throne of Serathon, he was his mother's only child, which made him heir to his grandmother's throne in far away Voya. _And I suppose he is heir to his true father's throne as well. Vail protect us all._

Jarlyth cut himself off from thinking about this dangerous subject and returned his attention to the gifts. The sheer number of presents dismayed him. "We'll have to have most of this sent on to the priory, Nylan," he said. "Pick out what you want to keep with you."

Bairbre settled her cup back in its saucer, very precisely, and Jarlyth braced himself for the question he knew she was about to ask. "Have you your prince-name yet, Highness?" Neither she nor her daughter would just _know_ the name the way someone born in Serathon or even Edoran would, once Vail chose to reveal it. The magic didn't work that way.

Nylan's face fell a bit, but he pretended it hadn't and shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "But I'm sure it will be soon."

Jarlyth almost blew out his breath in relief. _Good for him. A reward's in order for that answer._

The lack of a prince-name at this late date deeply upset Nylan. He'd even cried himself to sleep only a few nights before, though that had been due to several recent upsets all piling up on him. The king had failed once more to keep his promised visit; Durran had shown up but had spent the entirety of his short visit talking to Jarlyth, all but ignoring Nylan; and Nylan's favorite fellow Sensitive, Simon Constantine, had reached his own tenth birthing-day and left the priory for good. His elusive prince-name had simply been the trigger for the boy's tears.

"I'll call you Prince of Charms anyway," Flannery teased, and Nylan beamed at her. It was the name he wanted most of all, though Jarlyth had warned him over and over that he wouldn't get to pick.

So obvious, the intention seemed all but visible in the air before him as Nylan changed the subject. "Can Flannery put this on for me?" He held up a gold hair-clasp sent by his Voyan grandmother. It was very likely enchanted to stay where it was put and was beautifully engraved.

Jarlyth smiled and reached over to rest a hand on Nylan's shoulder, bolstering the strength of his protection so that Flannery could touch the prince without her thoughts and feelings invading the boy's mind.

This was almost a ritual. Nylan loved to have Flannery pay attention to him, and she loved to play with his beautiful, black hair. Though he was just eight years old, his hair had already grown down his back. It took some time to braid it, which is what Jarlyth usually did for everyday. His own hair was almost always pulled back and wrapped in the Templar style which kept it out of the way of his sword.

He'd taken to carrying the sword once more almost on the moment of his first return to Tanara Priory with Nylan. If Vail had chosen him to be a prince's warder—if Vail had chosen a Templar apprentice for this duty—she must have done it for a reason. Throwing away his Templar training had suddenly seemed like a foolish, petulant thing to have done, and he'd taken it back up along with his sword.

As soon as he and Nylan were settled into a routine, he'd arranged for sparring partners. He met with at least one of them every morning outside the priory gates. He did not have much free time, but all the warders took turns minding each other's charges in order to give each other breaks. To pay them all back, he spent a lot of time minding their charges. Nylan claimed he was the most popular warder in the entire priory.

Flannery fussed with Nylan's hair, freeing it from the braid first and combing through it with her fingers.

Nylan wriggled with delight at the attention. "Feels good."

"I'll do a lot of braids and gather them back," Flannery suggested. They were only four years apart in age, and the girl, usually so dignified, seemed to love the opportunity to be truly childlike when she was with the prince.

Her mother gave her a quelling look. "Lord Denara's arm will get very tired, dear."

Flannery shot an apologetic glance at Jarlyth, and he shrugged. "How about a braid on each side," he suggested.

Too soon for Nylan, the ornate clock hanging over the fireplace in their private parlor chimed, signaling the time for their return to the priory. Flannery hurried to finish up the last braid before adding the clip as the final flourish.

All the way back to the priory, Nylan never stopped touching his hair, feeling the texture. For all that he'd been buried beneath gifts, he only carried back three books and a stuffed wildcat toy. The books were from Flannery; the toy was from his Voyan grandmother.

_He may act spoiled sometimes, but he isn't really. Thank Vail._ A spoiled prince could be the worst bully, and Jarlyth had no intention of allowing that to happen to his charge.

"I wish we could stay out longer," Nylan said when they reached the priory gates. Wistfully, he looked back to watch the trolley clang by.

"I know. It won't be this way forever."

"Two years is a long time, isn't it?"

_Not long enough._ For their first ten years, Tanara Priory's boundaries encompassed a Sensitive child's entire world and their families were known through letters and visits only. Their warders, chosen by Holy Vail Herself, arrived miraculously at their births and became their mother, father, and siblings for those next ten years.

_And bodyguard, in my case._ Jarlyth automatically reached a hand over his shoulder to check on the sword he wore slung across his back almost all the time. Nylan, used to the gesture, ignored it.

"It is a long time," Jarlyth agreed. _I only have two years left._ On Nylan's tenth birthing day, he'd be sent back to Karonsmoor Castle. To a family he didn't know and which had never shown much interest in him. To a place he'd never been. To a world he wouldn't understand, no matter how much Jarlyth tried to teach him in order to prepare him for Court.

_But those are worries for another, far-off day. Today, there is cake._ And Nylan loved cake.

The other children were gathered and waiting in the dining hall. A much more reasonable pile of presents awaited Nylan there, too, and a modestly-decorated though very large cake. Jarlyth took the boy's books and stuffed toy from him, and Nylan had taken only a step or two away to go join his friends when the revelation hit.

Nylan's prince-name filled Jarlyth's head as if Vail Herself shouted it at him—never had Durran's prince-name insisted itself at him with such force—and Jarlyth was nearly sick. The other warders and Sensitives looked startled and off-balance as well, but the most alarming reaction came from the children.

"You're the Prince of Sorrows!" shrieked the girl whose life Jarlyth had saved almost ten years before. Her shock ricocheted around the room, infecting the other children.

"Center, damn it," her warder ordered and ran across the room to her.

Too late. Oh, shize, it's too late.

Nylan recoiled, his dismay strong enough to bring tears to Jarlyth's eyes. His mouth moved, shaping the word, "No."

The children broke into complete chaos then, and warders spread out into the room to each claim his or her own charge and try to restore order. Some of the children were too young to understand the problem and sang the name excitedly, delighted by this taste of holy magic, but the rest cast wary, worried, or even pitying looks at Nylan and clung to their warders.

Which is what Nylan did. He stumbled back and whirled, flinging himself into Jarlyth's arms. His small body heaved with breaths swallowed to keep tears from falling.

Jarlyth slowly dropped to his knees and caught Nylan in an enveloping hug. He stroked raven hair and whispered soothing nonsense. The priory cats gathered around, a few of them miaowing, and the worried-faced one who was Nylan's favorite tried to climb into the middle of their hug, purring loudly.

Nylan coughed a laugh at this and pulled back, still breathing hard but more in control. He looked up into Jarlyth's eyes, his own golden-hazel gaze blurred by unshed tears. "Karon was Princess of Sorrows, wasn't she?"

"Yes," Jarlyth agreed. The one good example of the breed, she'd also been the first many times over. First to have a princess-name, first SanClare, founder and first ruler of the One Kingdom, first to beat back the waerloks. So many firsts, in fact, histories often referred to her as The First. _And so far, she's the only Sorrows whose story has a happy ending._

"All right." Nylan nodded and turned back to face the room. The children, seeing his solemn face, subsided and seemed to remember why they'd gathered in the first place.

One of the younger ones snatched up a nearby package and darted across the room to meet Nylan. She handed it to him, smiling. "Happy birthing-day!"

His smile bloomed, genuine this time, and an unvoiced, collective sigh eased the tension from the room. The warders all exchanged quick glances, relieved and worried and scared and hiding it all from their charges.

Jarlyth slipped from the room to pull himself together. He fell back against the wall just beyond the door. His entire body shook with fear and anger and nauseated dread. It might almost have been better if Nylan had turned out to have no prince-name at all. That would have proven him to be a bastard and no true SanClare—an impossible outcome, for no one in generations had looked as SanClare as Nylan did—but the alternative... Jarlyth could no longer entertain even a pretense of a doubt over the identity of Nylan's true father.

_Savoni SanClare...the Blood Emperor. Prince of Sorrows. Waerlok. Warrior. Destroyer of Worlds._ This last name had been settled on the man by hysterical broadsides after the fall of the One Kingdom almost three centuries before. Savoni SanClare had started the war that ended the One Kingdom, but he had hardly destroyed any worlds.

_No, his great-uncle did that a century before when the Breach tore Seladyn to pieces._ Seladyn had been a beautiful, prosperous land, or so all the tales said. Now it was so barren and desolate, it was called Worldsend. That great-uncle had also been a Prince of Sorrows.

_And now so is Nylan. Shize._ But he was strong—his reaction to the news proved that—and Jarlyth's eyes stung with his own unshed tears. _I'm so proud of him. He'll be a wonderful prince. A wonderful king._

A few days later, after the excitement died down, Jarlyth arranged a morning for just the two of them. Tension defined every line of the boy's small body, and he needed a break badly. He needed to get as far away from everyone as it was possible to go.

Winters ran mild along Serathon's southern coast, and in the sheltered cove where the priory had been built, it could be almost summery. To Jarlyth's relief, the day he'd chosen turned out to be especially beautiful. The wind blew softly across the beach as the sun cleared the eastern horizon. The sky was pure blue and speckled with flights of birds rather than clouds, and the distant glints of light from the Breach sparkled over the water to the west.

At this distance, no one would have guessed the Breach was such a nightmarish thing. A spidery crack in the surface of reality, it had ripped apart a kingdom and damaged the Ashlian Ocean and the Gulf of Souls to the point where no ship could sail those waters without a wizard navigator. Within a year of its creation, the Breach had divided the world, separating the One Kingdom from its western colonies hundreds of posts away. But this morning, it glittered prettily, and the sight of its sparkling made Jarlyth smile.

The horses they'd ridden to reach this remote spot had wandered a little way away to graze idly on the scrub grass. Jarlyth, doubting he could have chosen a more beautiful morning for this excursion, brushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled at his young charge.

Nylan, for his part, was oblivious to the beautiful day. Instead, his attention was completely absorbed by the piles of sand his warder had been attempting to shape into some semblance of Karonsmoor Castle, though they looked little like that magnificent place. He ran gentle fingers along the top of one of the sand pile wings. "Where's my room?"

"Rooms, actually. That's why they call them your 'royal apartments' and not your 'royal room,' Nylan." Jarlyth grinned as the prince shot him a disapproving look, his eloquent black eyebrows dipping down and almost meeting over his nose before he gave in and echoed Jarlyth's grin.

"Right here." Jarlyth poked a finger into the sand at the far eastern corner of the east wing. He scooped up one of the cats who had accompanied them that morning and who seemed about to step on the west tower, and set her down again well away from the sand castle. Jarlyth could picture the rooms in his mind for they had once been Nylan's Great-Aunt Primrose's, and she had been Jarlyth's mother's second cousin. His mother had often taken advantage of this royal connection when Jarlyth was a small boy.

Nylan tugged on Jarlyth's sleeve. "Let me see, Jary. Please?"

Jarlyth reached over his shoulder to check on his sword and Nylan copied him, laughing. They both knew it was a "give-me-a-moment" gesture he made when thinking or stalling. He grinned at Nylan's teasing. "All right. This time." Jarlyth pulled his memories of his great aunt's apartments together and tried to organize them. Nylan, unlike most other Sensitives, didn't even bother to close his eyes. His powers were very strong and even the Prior had been heard to say he thought Nylan the most powerful Sensitive he'd ever known.

"He can smell the flowers others are sniffing," the man had said, and most of the warders had laughed, thinking this an exaggeration. Jarlyth knew better.

"I don't want everything all pink." Nylan made a valiant effort not to sound disappointed.

Jarlyth laughed at his wincing expression. "You look like you've eaten something sour." he teased. "But don't worry. You can have them decorated any way you wish. I'm remembering them from when your Great Aunt Primrose lived in them. She was very fond of pink and ruffles and flowers everywhere."

"It isn't so bad." Nylan's attention shifted away from Jarlyth's remembered images and back to the sandcastle. "But I like purple! And green and red and gold and—"

"Sounds very imposing," Jarlyth teased.

"No, it won't be!" Nylan exclaimed, so caught up in his new plans, he missed Jarlyth's joking tone. "I'll show you when we get back. I'll draw it for you, and you'll see. It'll be really nice and warm and comfortable."

Jarlyth grinned. "Warm, huh? That will be nice." Nylan always seemed to be cold and in need of an extra blanket or a pullover or coat. His describing something as warm was akin to describing it as a paradise. "I hope I'll get to see it after you finish redecorating. It'll be something, I'm sure."

Nylan looked up into his warder's face, his bright golden-hazel eyes wide with worry. "You're going to be there, aren't you? I'll need you to help me."

Jarlyth silently cursed his carelessness. Keeping a secret from Nylan was difficult and took discipline. He wished again that he hadn't learned who Nylan's father really was, but the boy was far too young to know. Time enough for that disillusionment later. _Someday I'll have to tell him the truth. If I don't, and he finds out some other way, he'll hate me forever._

"I want to be there, Nylan. But we'll have to wait and see. The king may not want me around. He'll want to be the one who helps you. That's what parents do." _Liar,_ he told himself. _The king doesn't care, and he won't care about him any more just because he's in the castle._ But his warning to Nylan was still true. Just because he might not want to honor his vow to his late wife to take care of her child, that didn't mean the king would want Jarlyth to continue in his role as caretaker instead.

Nylan seemed mollified by Jarlyth's answer. "He'll want you around," the boy said firmly. "I'll tell him he has to let you stay." He ran his finger along the sandcastle wall again. "And your rooms can be right here next to mine." He looked up, making what Jarlyth had come to think of as his Prince Face—one eyebrow raised and a small, indomitable half-smile—and added, "You can have them decorated any way you wish."

He continued on in that same vein for some time, describing what he imagined his life would be like in Karonsmoor. "Healer Bairbre and Flannery can live here." He pointed at the tower. Jarlyth was fairly certain the Wizard Royal's traditional quarters were located in that particular tower, but he didn't mention this. It would be good to have established allies nearby—the boy was right about that.

The sun was reaching up into the sky, beginning to outshine the glints of Breach-light spangling the distant southwestern horizon by the time Nylan had assigned various bits of the castle's sand-pile wings to every person he knew. Emphasizing the hour, the faint toll of the priory bells reached them.

Nylan leapt to his feet and spun toward the sound. "I'll be late for class!" He seemed about to dash in three directions at once as he looked around for his horse.

"Calm down," Jarlyth laughed. "That's just morning meal, and we've had that. We'll be back in time for your—" His laughter died as Nylan whirled again, toward the beach. The boy's face went white, and he thought, oddly detached, _So that isn't just a figure of speech._

Jarlyth turned to see whatever it was that had so terrified his charge, reaching for his sword without thinking, and so he met the first attack prepared for it.

#

Their thoughts roiled up as suddenly as a squall, flipping Nylan's attention away from the bell. The surprise had spun him toward the noise. Shock at what he then saw froze him in mid-turn.

.: _Where did they come from?_ :. Nylan thought the question at his embattled warder.

.: _Run. NOW!_ :. Jarlyth shot back.

And Nylan understood that this was bad. Worse than bad. This was— _Oh, Vail._ He tried to run, but it was no use. There were so many men—pirates, Nylan guessed. Six or seven of them, maybe more, and all shouting, all running at them with upraised swords gleaming in the morning sunlight, looking—with the lightning-like glimmering flaring out behind them on the horizon—as if they'd run right out of the Breach itself. _We don't have a chance._

The pain stabbed into him hard, and he gasped, falling headlong onto the sand where he rolled onto his back, clutching at his arm.

.: _Jary?_ :.

"Don't look, Nylan. Just _don't look_!"

Nylan obeyed his warder's command as he had done all his life. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought against every impulse to open them. More pain slashed at him, seeming to come from everywhere, and he screamed. .: _There's too much, Jary. I can't block it out!_ :. A hand grabbed his arm, pulling an even more desperate shriek from him.

"Shut up," a stranger's voice snapped. "Nobody's hurtin' you, boy."

.: _Nylan? Are you all right?_ :.

.: _No! He's touching me! Jary, HELP ME!_ :. But Jarlyth didn't answer. _Vail, let him be all right, please let him be all right, PLEASE!_

"Don't touch me." Nylan tried to pull away, but the man's mind had already tumbled into his, and everything hurt now. The noise and the feelings and thoughts and sensations—it was all unbelievable. Unimaginable! He'd had no idea _this_ was what Tanara existed to protect him from. The man must know who he was or, failing that, what he was. "You're not supposed to touch—"

The man ignored him, pulling him up from the sand.

"Stop it!" Nylan opened his eyes to glare up at the man and tried to sound severe and princely.

But the man only lifted him as if he weighed nothing, and Nylan found himself slung over the stranger's shoulder like a feed sack. This even more inescapable contact made everything much, much worse. _I'm going to be sick,_ Nylan thought, and he was. A tic later, his so recently-eaten picnic morning meal decorated the man's back. This was not at all how he'd imagined his first battle. _I didn't even hit him._

He reached out for the comfort of Jarlyth's beloved presence. It had always sounded clearly through Nylan's senses, but the stranger's mind screamed over everything else, amplified by the man's physical contact, and only the faintest hint of Jarlyth's sounded through the maelstrom.

"Let go of me," the boy managed, and he tried to kick free of the man's hold.

The brief, spiraling vertigo he'd long been taught preceded a death caused him to falter, and he sobbed out a cry of agony.

He's killing me he's killing me he's killing—!

A new terror distracted him, and he redoubled his efforts to block out the minds around him. .: _Jary?_ :. His warder's mind soothed him for a fraction of a moment, and Nylan breathed again. _I'll be all right as long as he's all right._

Another death caught him unprepared, and he went boneless, slipping from his captor's grasp. The man stopped and eased him down to the sand where he collapsed completely, retching up bile. The third and fourth deaths came almost at the same moment, hitting him like huge, relentless fists, and nearly caused a fifth death with Nylan's own.

He reeled back and tried to stand—tried to run—but he fell onto the sand again without having moved very much. He clutched at his head, distantly amazed at just how much pain he was suffering, and ignored the tears pouring down his cheeks. His captor caught him up and slung his slender, unresisting form over his shoulder once more.

Nylan's mind reached out, stretching out as far as he could manage and then a bit farther still. .: _Please, Jary! Don't leave me!_ :. He felt the receding edge of his warder's presence and tried to follow it, tried to reach it with flailing mental fingers, but it slipped away from him.

The ensuing shock came almost as a blessing, insulating him from the inescapable horror of the truth. For the first time in his brief life, he was completely alone, unprotected from the minds which now surrounded him and which only meant him harm.

Jarlyth was dead.

# # #

# CHAPTER TWO

Nylan had a confused impression of being carried onto a small boat and rowed out to sea, but the press of bodies and minds around him was too overwhelming. The man who had carried him away from Tanara never released him, and the rough handling and constant, forced contact with the man's violent mind became more and more physically painful as time passed.

The pain became too great to bear, and a long time passed before it subsided enough for Nylan to begin taking notice of his surroundings again. He found he'd been left alone at last, and the constant movement of the tiny room around him and the sharp, briny scent in the air told him that the pirates had taken him back to their ship. He saw how torn and stained his clothing had become and shuddered. The once-fine garments hung in such tatters he could barely be said to be dressed anymore. It had all happened so fast. Too fast.

He decided not to try to stand up just yet. There were no windows, though regular slits in the door let in enough light for him to clearly see his surroundings. The ceiling slanted low over him even though he was sitting down and very small, besides. His cell seemed no bigger than a closet.

The pirates' noise rumbled dully in his head, and Nylan made a vague attempt to block them out. His shock had not entirely worn off yet, and he was able to look at all that had happened as if he had not been the one it had happened to. But it still didn't make any sense.

_I can't believe this. I thought we were supposed to be safe._ He'd never heard of anyone invading Tanara Priory before, and he'd always been led to believe he and all the rest of the priory's inhabitants were too far away from the wars and raids that plagued the rest of Serathon, his father's kingdom, to ever have to worry about them.

It's my fault. If I hadn't been messing around with that sandcastle, we would have gone back sooner. Jary wouldn't be dead, if...

He bit hard into his lip and tasted blood, but he kept his tears from falling. He was a SanClare prince. He would be strong and make Jary proud of him, no matter what the pirates did.

His cell door opened outward, startling him. A brief frown creased his forehead as he wondered why he hadn't sensed the pirate's approach, but that thought quickly vanished, chased away by his terror. The man who had carried him off now stood over Nylan, a cruel smile twisting his dirty face which was also marred by a very recent wound slashing across his cheek down to the tip of his chin. _Jary did that._

"Well," the man said, an unnerving look glittering in his eyes. "All hail the Prince of Sorrows, indeed."

Nylan suppressed a flinch at the sound of his royal sobriquet. He hated his prince-name. No Sorrows had ever had a good or happy life, and most of them ended up destroying something before they died. But he supposed this likely explained what was happening to him now.

"They never mentioned just how beautiful you are," the man continued, taking a swaggering step farther into the tiny cell and squatting down in front of him so his face was only inches away from Nylan's. "It's all I can do to keep my men away from you. They ain't seen a woman in moons."

Nylan had the odd feeling the man expected him to say "thank you," but instead, the boy lifted his chin and stared back, playing at a defiance he didn't feel.

Though he wished for it desperately, he had no reason to expect rescue. No one at Tanara would even begin to look for him or Jary for hours, and once they did find Jary's body, what could they do? There were no wizards at Tanara to cast finding spells. And even if one could be found nearby to help, why would they look for him rather than assuming he was dead? His father had never so much as visited him, and his grandmother was too far away to know he needed help. Still, he knew he must trust in Vail. A miracle could happen. He was a prince, after all...that had to mean something.

"Too good to speak to a lowborn merc?" the man demanded, grabbing his upraised chin in bruising fingers to force his attention. "I'm the captain of this ship, if that means anything to a pampered landling prince like you." The physical contact opened the man's mind wide to Nylan's knowing again, but he understood little of what he saw and felt. The emotions were harsh and mostly unfamiliar; the images violent and bloody. He closed his eyes and wished closing his mind's eyes were as easy.

The captain heaved himself up, catching Nylan by the arm and yanking him out of the cell and to his feet. His fingers sank into the boy's arm, pressing more bruises into the soft skin.

"No one's coming after you, little prince, so if you want to survive this, you'd better do as I say. I'm the only one who can save you."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Nylan looked up to meet the man's frightening eyes. "I'm not even the heir."

"Don't underestimate yourself, princeling. You're the Voyan heir—we mustn't forget that. Not that I care much either way. I'm just doing the job I was paid to do." The pirate captain eased his grip and reached out with his free hand to catch a stray lock of Nylan's raven-black hair which he fingered thoughtfully.

Nylan bit his lip again, fighting back the urge to shout at the man. Never before this day had anyone dared touch him without his permission. He was a prince of the blood of SanClare—not to mention of Voyavel, the most ancient and highest-born family in all the world. It was against the law to touch him. Against _two_ laws, for he was SanClare and a Sensitive. His father would hang these men from the highest scaffolds ever built for what they had done to him. _If he knew...if he cared._

The captain let go of Nylan's arm and reached around to undo the clasp holding the boy's hair back. Freed, his long hair fell around his face in limp strands, and he unconsciously tucked it behind his ears where it only half-stayed. The captain studied the clasp, seeming pleased with it.

"Give it back." Nylan tried not to cry. "Please."

The captain raised an eyebrow, the cruel smile flashing once again. "His Highness said 'please' to me. We are making progress."

"It's mine. Give it back!"

Anger struck him first, followed quickly by the back of the pirate's hand. Nylan staggered and fell to his knees, his hands holding his throbbing face, but he didn't make a sound. His eyes had closed reflexively, and he kept them shut, trying to find his silent center and block out the captain and his mind and everyone else on the ship. Blood filled his mouth and dribbled in a tickling trickle down his chin. The pain distracted his efforts. He wanted to scream—had screamed, in fact, but he'd trapped it in his throat, stopping it before it could escape and betray him.

"Everything on this ship is mine, Highness, including you and everything you think you own. You'd do well to remember that." The anger had vanished already, replaced by a jarring satisfaction.

The huge, rough hand imprisoned Nylan's arm again and a noise escaped him, something between a sob and "no." The captain dragged him across the tiny hallway, shoving him into the cabin opposite his cell. Nylan stumbled a few steps then caught himself and stopped.

"Clean yourself up," the captain ordered. "There's water in that tub, enough for you to take a bath. And there are some clothes for you to change into once you've washed." He gestured around the cabin, pointing to the appropriate things. "I'll guard the door, but don't dawdle. I'll be back in when I think you've had enough time."

The moment the door closed behind the man, Nylan staggered to the tub, grabbing hold of a chair back and the table's edge to steady himself against the ship's constant rolling. Leaning against the tub's edge, he yanked off the ragged remains of his clothes, and then climbed in.

The cabin was small but much larger than his tiny cell. He felt rushed and frightened of not being finished when the captain returned, and the clock hanging on the wall, loudly counting off every passing tic only made him feel more rushed.

As a consequence, he took in very little of his surroundings, but he thought it must be the captain's sitting room or office or whatever they called such a thing on a ship because a large table piled with papers and valuable-looking trinkets and baubles dominated the dark, wood-paneled room.

The tub was small and round but big enough for him. The water was lukewarm and chilled him immediately, but after he'd rinsed his aching mouth several times, he washed his face, then scrubbed at his skin, using the harsh soap and rough cloth provided. He ducked his head under and rubbed the cake of soap on his head then did his best to wash his hair. He hadn't realized he was so dirty, but the cleaner he became, the darker the water grew.

He climbed out, dripping, onto the cabin floor, and dried off as quickly as he could with the equally rough towel while steadying himself against the tub's edge. The water had awakened the scrapes and cuts he'd suffered, and they stung and hurt, pulsing in time with his heartbeat as his nerves took up their duties again. Blood welled up in a few places, staining the skin around the wounds and staining the towel. He could see the bruises on his arms clearly now, and he almost cried then, the fear suddenly choking him.

How can this be happening? How can Jarlyth be dead? What are they going to do to me?

Still damp and with drops of water running down his back from the ends of his hair, he pulled on the clothes he'd been left. They were much too big for him, but he made do, tying the drawstring trousers around his slender waist and rolling up the cuffs. The blouse hung down past his knees like a night shirt, and he had to roll the sleeves several times to uncover his hands.

The door opened, and Nylan whirled around to stare wide-eyed at the captain. A younger man stood behind him, craning his neck.

_To get a good look at the royal prisoner_ , Nylan thought. He could feel the younger man's anger from across the room.

"What right's he have to such luxury?" the young man demanded.

"Go on. Get back to work," the captain growled. He turned back to Nylan and said, "I had them sweep out your cell and put a chamber pot in there. You'll have a blanket, too."

"Thank you," Nylan breathed. He could feel himself beginning to shake, though he told himself it was from cold rather than fear.

The pirate captain grinned. "Only one little lesson and already His Highness has learned such pretty manners." He crossed the room, placed an oddly gentle hand on Nylan's shoulder, and guided him back to his cell. Nylan didn't resist. What could he do, after all? Even if he could escape the pirate captain, the boat was filled with men who might be even worse, and beyond them lay only the treacherous waters of the Gulf of Souls.

From then on, Nylan kept track of the days by counting his meals. The captain visited him twice every day, bringing him water and some sort of strange, hard bread and carelessly calling that a meal. The man allowed him one brief respite from his tiny cell each day, too, during which he could run a comb through his hair and make use of a bowl of cold water and a cloth to wash up. That was when the room was swept out and the chamber pot emptied, for the captain didn't allow any of his men to enter Nylan's cell when he was there.

The blanket proved to be thin and completely inadequate to the task of keeping him warm. His hunger only made him colder, and it seemed to Nylan that he was given smaller and smaller bits of bread at every meal. By the third day, he was hungry all the time.

He could smell the wonderful odors of the hot, rich foods the captain ate in his cabin just across the corridor, and that made his hunger worse. He didn't understand why he wasn't given more food—not even more bread. He didn't understand any of it, but he knew better than to ask.

In spite of the hours he spent trying to find it, his silent center was proving elusive, too. _I'm too young for this. I'm too young to be away from Tanara. Don't they know that?_

But he was not too young to understand how bad his situation was. He'd been raised as a prince, and princes had to grow up quickly, or so Jary had always said. He'd sounded sad when he'd said this, but he'd never wavered. He'd been determined, he'd said, to prepare Nylan for whatever he might face once he left Tanara for good.

Thanks to this, Nylan understood complexities and dangers far beyond those a normal child his age would. And he knew that, away from the safety and protection not only of his own warder but of Tanara Priory itself, his chances of survival were very poor. He shouldn't even have been exposed to the painful din of non-Sensitive minds until he'd learned to access his silent center—something that only rare Sensitives had ever done before their tenth year.

Aside from Healer Bairbre and Flannery, he'd had no contact with anyone outside of Tanara. _Well, I've met Durran a few times, but..._ His brother's visits had been short and formal. Even with the Llorkas, Jarlyth had always been there with him, blocking out the noise of their minds for him, making it possible for him to spend time with them.

Nylan couldn't find his silent center; he couldn't block out the pirates' minds; but that also meant he couldn't shut his mind to anyone seeking him.

_If the wizards are looking for me, they shouldn't have any trouble_ , but he'd felt not even the lightest glimmer of a magical touch from across the waters.

Oh, Vail, I'm too young for this. I'm too young to be alone. Please let them find me. Please let them!

But days passed and nothing changed except the portion-size of his two daily hunks of bread.

On the ninth day of his ordeal, a storm overtook the ship, tossing him around his tiny cell unceremoniously. Thunder cracked as if it were right on top of the ship; lightning flashed so often, the world seemed to move in odd, flickering jerks; and water dripped down on him through the creaking boards that made up his cell's ceiling.

When at last the storm began to die down, Nylan curled up in his damp, threadbare blanket and tried to sleep and forget where he was. For once, he didn't want any more food, and he felt cold and ill and sore, exhausted and defeated.

The rattling of the door woke him from his hard-earned slumber, and he sat up, startled, as the door swept open to reveal not the captain but the young pirate from the first day.

"What are you doing here?" Nylan flinched back into the corner of his cell, trying to escape the burning hatred radiating from the man.

He growled out a taunting reply. "The captain's a bit busy, what with the storm and all, and I thought ye might need some comforting."

He leaned in and grabbed the boy's arms, lifting him to his feet as if he were a cloth doll. Then, with no more warning, he threw him back against the cell wall.

Nylan's head hit with a loud crack, and he felt the world drop out from under him as hundreds of stars burst into life around the edges of his vision. When he was able to focus again, he found himself pinned against the wall with the man's unshaven face rubbing against his like coarse sand scratching away. The pirate's hands moved down, undoing buttons and stroking the boy's chest; and his tongue pushed at Nylan's lips, forcing its way into his mouth.

Face flaming, Nylan's shock held him motionless against the assault. His stomach hurt as if he'd been struck again, and he wanted to throw up. The man loosened his hold for a moment as he stood back, and his eyes raked over the boy's body. He licked his lips and sneered as he moved in again.

"No!" Nylan shrieked. He tried to dart around the man, but he was starving and weak while the pirate was well-fed, strong, and used to the ship's movement. He caught Nylan easily and shoved him back against the wall again.

"Such pretty spoils," the pirate growled. The world hadn't righted itself, and Nylan's head throbbed like a pounding hammer where he'd hit the wall. Something warm and sticky trickled down his neck, frightening him even more. "And rules say I'm owed."

"Why?" Nylan managed.

"I lost a brother to yer protector." He said this as if his assault were only a logical reaction to such a loss. But the man's mind replayed his memories of that moment, and Nylan saw that he'd stabbed Jarlyth in the back just as Jarlyth had delivered the death blow to his own opponent.

"But you killed Jary—my protector," Nylan argued. He struggled against the man's bruising hands, trying to use the moves Jarlyth had taught him, but the man just laughed and tightened his grip.

"Don't matter," the pirate replied. "My brother's worth more'n your protector, and I'm owed. He died to save ye, so I figger if I nik ye bloody, he'll've died for naught an' we'll be square."

Though he wasn't sure what the man's words meant, his thoughts were far too clear for Nylan not to understand what the pirate intended to do to him.

He sank his fingernails, grown long and broken in captivity, into the man's cheek and scratched him as hard as he could, feeling the cuts burn across his own face as he inflicted them.

The man lurched back, clutching at his bleeding face. His fury lashed out like a hand and slapped Nylan back into the corner. He crouched there, holding his head in his hands and sobbing.

.: _Jarlyth! Jary, where are you? He's hurting me, and I don't know what to do. Help me! Please!_ :.

Nylan flailed and kicked and struggled when the man came at him again, but it was no use. His own screams rang in his ears, and he lost all sense of why he was fighting. He only knew that he must fight.

But the man was too strong, and he pinned Nylan to the floor and hovered over him, breathing in heavy gasps. Sweat poured down his face, tinged red by the bloody scratches Nylan had inflicted.

He wiped at his face, his anger pulsing, filling the tiny room, and he growled, "That's just more you owe me, ye little bastard!" as his hands reached for the drawstring of Nylan's trousers.

Nylan stared into the man's eyes, horrified by everything he saw there, everything he felt boiling in the man's mind and heart. Never before had he faced such relentless cruelty, and he lay helpless, too terrified even to cry.

Something rushed past Nylan, right in front of his eyes, and he suddenly couldn't draw breath. The man's eyes widened then froze as his head fell from his body. As a searing pain sliced all the way through his neck, Nylan opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The weight of the man's body collapsed onto Nylan's chest and blood poured over everything.

His eyes met those of the pirate captain who stood over him with a bloodied sword, and the look of disgust on the man's scarred face shifted to blank shock.

Can't breathe oh Vail blood everywhere help me Vail please he's dead Vail help me breathe please BREATHE!

But there was no way out that he could find. He'd been looking right into the man's eyes.

I'm going to die.

Trapped in the dizzying downward spiral the man had disappeared into so abruptly, he convulsed from the effort of trying to breathe, trying to scream. The captain shouted orders, looking as panicked as Nylan felt, and the body was lifted off of him.

It didn't help. All he wanted was to breathe again, but it had been too long since his last breath, and the darkness closed in, finally swallowing him whole.

The next thing he knew, he struggled up from unconsciousness, rolled over the side of the bed, and vomited before nearly blacking out again. His head hurt more than he ever would have thought possible. The usual, constant mutter of voices now sounded like shouts, and his throat ached horribly.

He didn't notice the softness of the bed he lay on nor the improvement in his surroundings, taking it all for granted in the few moments after waking and before he remembered where he was and what had happened to him.

.: _Jary, I feel so sick. And I had such a horrible dream._ :.

"I thought you wouldn't wake," the pirate captain said softly. His hands were gentle as he eased the boy back onto the pillows and wiped his face with a cool cloth. Nylan wanted to fight him off or scream at him, but he found he just didn't have the strength to do more than glare at the man.

"That's why he told you not to look. Isn't it?"

Nylan closed his eyes and let himself wilt into the bed's soft pillows. He didn't answer for several moments as his memories reasserted themselves. The feel of the sword slicing through him, the feel of the man's last, panicked tic of life, suffocating, the head falling, the blood...

Everywhere...Vail, it was everywhere.

He wanted to scream and not stop until he went mad or until they gave up and let him go.

_Maybe they'd take me back home._ But he knew this thought was silly and impossible even as it ran through his head. Besides that, he couldn't dissolve into hysterics. A SanClare prince wouldn't do that.

At last, he whispered an answer. "If a Sensitive looks into the eyes of someone who is dying, he can become trapped and die, too."

"Why didn't you die, then?" The man frowned.

"I don't know."

"You must be very strong."

Tears stung Nylan's eyes. "No," he breathed. "I'm very unlucky."

"You were unconscious for days. I thought you were dying."

Maybe I should have. Holy Vail, what's happening?

"What are you going to do to me?"

The captain hesitated. "We've reached our destination," he said at last. "I'm sorry."

Nylan opened his eyes, releasing a single tear, and met the captain's pitying gaze. "Why should you be sorry? You've just done your job."

"I no longer believe you deserve your fate."

Nylan sensed the change in the pirate captain's feelings, but he didn't understand it. And how could he, an eight-year-old, priory-bred child, have done anything to have deserved any of this? Nylan looked away.

"Where are we?" he asked. "What happens to me now?"

"Worldsend."

The word sent a chill through Nylan's veins.

Once called Seladyn when it had been a beautiful, lush land and the home of several prosperous settlements, Worldsend had been devastated by a cataclysmic magical battle that ended the Second Blood War four centuries before, and it had never recovered. Now it was home to pirates, outcasts, rogue warlords, and very little else.

The tale of Seladyn's demise was much told in Serathon, but Sensitives and apprentice wizards learned it very young, the better to impress upon them the responsibility their powers carried.

"And what happens now is that we take you there and collect the rest of our payment."

Nylan swallowed, noting distantly that his throat felt better already. "Who's paying you?"

"I don't know. Nor do they know who I am. We dealt with each other through an intermediary."

I wish he'd stop. I wish he were cruel again. It would be easier.

"Why did you kill that man?" He decided he'd found out enough about his future.

The revulsion he'd seen in the captain's eyes was back, thick in his voice. "Chelna was always an animal. I had forbidden anyone to touch you. He disobeyed."

"But, I'm just a prisoner," Nylan pressed. As vile as he'd been, it still seemed wrong that the man was dead. Nylan couldn't forget what it had felt like, what that split-tic horrified realization had felt like when the man knew he'd been killed and that it was too late.

He closed his eyes and swallowed against the urge to throw up again. _Vail, have mercy on me...have mercy on him, too._

"He was one of your men. He said he was owed—"

"I know!" the man barked, and Nylan flinched, eyes open and staring in fear. But to his surprise, the big, violent, blood-soaked pirate seemed embarrassed.

"He was owed, but he'd no right to decide his own payment." He looked away from Nylan's eyes. "'Sides. It's disgusting. Raping children. I've never allowed it when I could stop it happening. And you're suffering enough."

Nylan waited in silence for a long time, watching the pirate who'd begun to move around the cabin, shifting things in a distracted pretense of tidying.

_Vail, he's scared. He's embarrassed, too._ He could feel the waves of emotion rolling off the man, and it baffled him. He'd been so callous and decisive before. What had changed?

"Are you in trouble, now? Because of what happened?" Nylan couldn't imagine the man was afraid of him. There had to be some other reason for this sudden fear.

The pirate's shoulders stiffened, and he turned back to face his captive. His mouth opened, and Nylan could almost hear the words, "How did you know?" but the man didn't say them. His mouth snapped shut, and he shook his head, instead, chagrined.

"Triple-damn me for a fool," he swore softly. "If I'd had any idea who they wanted me to snatch, I'd have told them to go to the Fires."

Nylan didn't quite believe this professed ignorance. He guessed it was more that the man had not realized just what he had undertaken by agreeing to kidnap the Prince of Sorrows and was now regretting it.

"You could take me back," he suggested, very softly. "I'm sure my father will pay you for your trouble."

The man snorted and sat down on a stool. He gave Nylan a thoughtful look. "Are you sure, child? Are you truly sure Teodor SanClare would pay to have the likes of you back when he's never wanted you before?"

Tears filled Nylan's eyes, and this time he couldn't stop them. "How dare you," he managed.

"Don't try to game me," the man warned, the cruel smile back, twisting his lips. "I'm not happy with this deal I've cut, but it's still the deal, and I'll not go back on my word."

"You're a pirate," Nylan accused. "What good is your word?"

The man shrugged, and Nylan sensed again his fear and unease. "Not a pirate, child. I'm a mercenary, and a contract is my word. I make a deal, I stick to it, no matter what. And this deal says I can never go back to Serathon—with or without you."

Hope made Nylan desperate. "Then take me to Voya! My grandmother will pay you—whatever you want. Double your deal or more. I know she will."

"Aye," the man agreed. "I'm sure you're right. And it is a temptation. Selling you to the highest bidder—who I'd guess would be neither Serathon nor Voya but Edoran. For the likes of you, the Blood Emperor would likely ransom his throne."

"Bastard." Nylan looked away from the man's mocking smile. He pretended anger but cold fear gripped him at this threat. No matter how bad things were now, falling into the Blood Emperor's hands would be worse than anything, including death. "You bastard."

"Goodness!" The man feigned shock. "Where did a pampered princeling learn such language?"

Nylan shot a sidelong glare at the man and wished he felt strong enough to stand so he could hit his captor.

"I warned you not to try and game me." The man shook his head. "You can't win, and this time, neither can I." He sighed and seemed to come to a decision. "Truth is, I'd take you to Voya if I could, but I can't. This is a Blood Contract, child. If I break it, I die. And if the choice is you or me, it's going to be you. I intend to survive."

So, my fate's sealed, no matter what. But what else should a Prince of Sorrows expect?

The mention of Voya, however, reminded him of the stories Bairbre Llorka liked to tell him. He'd never been sure he should believe her, but at the moment, they offered him his only weapon. _And I want to hurt him back._

"What did they offer you to balance out the curse?" he asked after thinking through what he'd say very carefully.

The man went still as if Nylan had guessed something he'd been hoping to keep hidden.

Ah. He's heard of it. Good.

"Curse?" Like his earlier shock, the man's ignorance was also feigned.

"As you said, I'm Voyavel. Holy Vail gifted my mother's family with the curse a long time ago. You knew that, didn't you?" He tried to sound careless, as if it didn't matter to him at all.

The Voyavel royal family had in fact survived for generations in spite of the constant warring amongst the many little lands and principalities and kingdoms that made up the fabled, long-destroyed One Kingdom. No other royal line could claim such a thing.

"What are you talking about?" the man demanded.

Nylan tasted his fear and smiled, satisfied that he'd been able to strike at least this blow against his enemy. "I've told you. The Voyavel Curse. All I have to do is ask her, and Vail will avenge me." Nylan said this carefully, summoning all the defiant confidence he could manage under the circumstances. He cast a malicious, sidelong glance at his captor and added, "Deal or not, Captain, you are doomed."

Whatever fear-born kindness the man had felt toward Nylan seemed to vanish in that moment, and he stalked over to the bed and yanked the boy out and to his feet. Nylan wobbled precariously, trying to find the strength to stand up, but the man gave him no time to recover.

The captain dragged him, stumbling, from the warm cabin and down a narrow corridor, his fury so strong, it drowned out any words or thoughts Nylan might have overheard due to the man's inescapable touch.

When they reached the ladder leading up to the deck, the captain shoved Nylan ahead of him and growled, "Climb."

It seemed as if the entire crew must be on deck and staring at him as he reached the top. One of the men reached down and pulled him up the last couple of steps and kept holding onto him when he realized Nylan was about to collapse.

"Let's get this over with," the captain shouted once he, too, stood on the deck. The crew began to move at that as if it meant something.

Nylan was half-dragged and half-shoved to the ship's railing. The sea pitched crazily, and he gritted his teeth against the urge to throw up. Strange, sharp shards of light glinted past the ship like lightning striking sideways and the sky looked oddly dark in comparison.

"The Breach," Nylan breathed, shocked to find himself so close to the deadly thing.

"Aye," the captain agreed, flat-voiced. Then with no more warning or explanation, he grabbed Nylan under the arms and swung him over the railing.

Nylan screamed, choking on a second, even more terrified scream when more hands caught him. A small boat containing two more pirates hung half-way to the water, ready to catch him as he dropped from the captain's hands.

"Please!" Nylan shrieked. "Don't do this!"

"Sorry, child," the captain called to him as the small boat dropped into the water and his two new captors began to row for shore. "It seems you were right. You're just very unlucky."

# # #

# CHAPTER THREE

The two pirates had rowed Nylan almost to shore though not close enough. Instead, they stranded him on a wave-washed bit of sand they termed a tiny island, though that had been giving it false glory. One of them—a leather-faced old man whose eyes squinted almost shut in the weird glare of the afternoon—had slipped a bottle of water and half-gnawed piece of very stale bread to him with a muttered, "sorry, Highness," before turning away to hide his disobedience.

And then, at last, he'd finally been left alone after the longest, most horrific half-moon of his life. He managed to keep from eating or drinking right away, saving this generous gift for a more desperate time. Nylan felt sure there would be a more desperate time.

Instead, he tried to take advantage of his solitude and worked on finding his silent center. It continued to evade him, and, biting his lip against frustrated, frightened tears, he gave up and stared off into the waning light.

The shards broken into the fabric of the world by the Breach still glinted, knife-like and dangerous, all around him, but he must've been set down in a relatively safe gap for none of them were close enough to pose a real threat. He wasn't sure how they worked or what they'd do to him if he did stumble into one, but he was certain it would be bad and probably painful.

The shore beckoned, seeming so close, so reachable, and Nylan was tempted to try for it, but he'd lived beside the Gulf of Souls all his life and knew better than to trifle with it, no matter that he was a strong swimmer. As close as the shore seemed and as gentle as the waves were, they could and often did hide vicious currents which could pull him under in an instant. And this close to the Breach, there was likely to be danger from its shards even under water.

Nylan sat in about an inch of water which lapped around him constantly. His oversized clothing, heavy with salt water, weighed him down while the early spring wind blew fiercely, chilling him to the bone. His teeth clicked together even though he tried to lock his jaw against this.

The pirates' ship had disappeared what seemed like hours before, and as the tide began to recede at last, Nylan wondered if the faint, shouted reassurance from the captain had been a lie.

"'Someone will be along soon,'" Nylan whispered the promise aloud. _But who?_

The bloody, murdering pirates no longer seemed so bad when the alternative was that he was alone on Worldsend, Vail-only-knew how many posts away from anyone or anywhere. He'd realized over the hours of waiting that he wouldn't survive long if no one came for him.

As low tide approached, the slender spit on the far end of which he'd been abandoned emerged from beneath the waters. Nylan struggled to his feet, his entire body wracked by tremors.

He now knew the difference between his habitual coldness and freezing and between being hungry due to a late or missed meal and starving.

_How stupid I was to even use the word before! And I'm so thirsty._ But he cut himself off from that thought, determined to save his rations for as long as possible.

Nylan stumbled his way down the narrow spit and onto the ravaged shore of Worldsend. His stomach felt cold, too, and his throat tickled so that he kept having to clear it. Anything might start him retching. He didn't think that would be a good thing.

Maybe I'd just die then.

He smiled at the idea then drew back from it, repulsed by the way his thoughts were winding. Had a mere moon reduced him to such a state? He was supposed to be one of the great SanClare princes—a breed so wondrous, Vail Herself blessed them with heroic, extraordinary names like "Prince of Swords" and "Prince of Fire." _Or "Prince of Sorrows."_

Nylan remembered the moment his own prince-name had been revealed, the sick, scared wave of feelings rising up again as he did. His friends and their warders had all known in an instant, the moment they saw him. That was how it worked, Jarlyth had explained. _And if they never see me, they'll never know my name. No, it's if they never_ think _of me._ He made a sound of surprising bitterness for someone so young, shaking his head at the thought. "I bet my father doesn't even know my prince-name."

_Very unlucky._ The SanClares—even the Sorrows—were said to be strong in the face of all adversities, but he had already fallen apart. _Jarlyth would be so disappointed in me._

The worst things he could ever have imagined had already happened to him. Whatever unknown he now faced, he doubted it could be any worse. He had to be brave and trust in Vail.

I'm just so tired.

"But why didn't he come?" Nylan asked aloud, his voice a bare whisper. Why didn't his father care about him? Why was any hope he might have had for rescue so ridiculous the pirate captain had laughed at him for suggesting it?

Why doesn't he love me?

He'd been stupid, he knew, to even pretend rescue was possible. But if he'd taken great comfort in imagining the captain and his men dangling over Karona's Great Square, who could blame him? They'd murdered Jarlyth and beaten and starved and _touched_ him and said and thought such disgusting, cruel things.

But the king had not rescued him. No ship flying the bright scarlet royal stag had overtaken the pirates. No questing minds had reached out across the waters to find him.

The shore of Worldsend offered Nylan little. He could see for posts in all directions, and he saw nothing that might be food or drinkable water or shelter. If no one came, he would die and very soon.

_If no one comes._ Fear clutched at his throat but he set his jaw, determined not to cry.

He opened the bottle then and took a careful, shallow sip of water before resealing it immediately. He held the water in his mouth, swishing it around before swallowing. He followed that with a small bit of the stale bread which he chewed slowly.

As the sun began to vanish beyond the western edge of the world, half-obscured by Breach-shards, Nylan finally sensed something other than himself on the barren shore. Ignoring a shudder of cold, which could have been fear or relief—he had no idea—he struggled to his feet and dusted the sand off of his pirate hand-me-downs as if they were court robes. He tucked his rations into a convenient pocket and began to walk away from the shore. He wasn't going to wait for the next horrible thing to just happen to him.

Nylan had made it half-way up a steep bluff when a hand belonging to the mind he'd already sensed reached down, caught his wrist, and hauled him up.

A woman straightened to tower over him, her face impassive. "Your Highness." She nodded in lieu of a bow.

He lifted his chin, keeping his face as expressionless as he could.

She tilted her head to one side, studying him. Her looks were entirely unremarkable, and Nylan thought this might be on purpose—she did not want to be remembered by her victims.

"What do we do now?" He pretended again to be unafraid.

She raised an eyebrow and gave a small nod of—

_Approval?_ Nylan wasn't certain. Her mind had the fuzzy, impenetrable feel he'd only encountered before from older Sensitives and wizards. He could sense her but could not read her. It felt odd, as if his ears were stopped up.

"We rest. It is too dark to go on, and the way is difficult. But first," and she held out her hand, "Give me the bread and water."

Nylan's shoulders drooped in defeat as he obeyed, then followed without resisting as she led him back to a small fire she'd already started. There, she fed him, after a fashion, with the rest of his own stale bread and water before she ordered him to sleep. Because he could barely keep his eyes open, he again obeyed her.

He awoke to see Tresta, the largest of the two moons, hanging low in the sky, seeming to float on the water while Tamarath shone bright and nearly full high overhead.

He heard voices and turned to see that two men had joined the woman at the fireside. One of them noticed that he'd awoken and spoke more loudly, obviously meaning for him to hear every word.

"Hazard duty, eh? This little piece is dangerous enough for hazard duty?"

The woman shrugged. "We'll be careful not to harm him, but you know the stories. He's a Voyavel. Vail's Own Royalty, they are."

The second man took a swig of something alcoholic, though Nylan could tell from the smell that it was not whatever the men on the ship had drunk. The second man wiped his mouth with the back of the hand clutching the bottle and said, "You can't believe all that drivel. The tale-sayers will tell you whatever they like in order to take your coin. I think it's all rot. His father didn't even come looking for him. How valuable could he be?"

Nylan bit his lip and dropped his gaze to the fire. He would not cry in front of these coarse, rude men. _I will not._

"Valuable enough for me." The woman's lips curved into a sly smile.

"Me, as well, miss," the first man said. "Hazard pay's more than I've ever seen all at once."

Though they sat across the fire from him and discussed him, they never quite treated Nylan as if he were anything more than an animal they tolerated. They brought out food from their packs and began to eat ravenously, but not one of them offered him so much as a taste.

"Please." He looked around at them all. "Please, may I have some water?"

They ignored him, the two men telling stories Nylan quickly recognized as being either very nasty or very cruel. The men found them all very funny, though, and roared with laughter, and the woman seemed amused, too, her smile mocking.

The men drank a great deal of ale and fell asleep a short while later, but Nylan watched the woman and could see she watched him, too. There would be no chance to go through their packs to see if he could steal some food. In spite of the bits of bread he'd had, he was so hungry now, the smell of the food and ale made him sick.

He finally managed to fall asleep for a few more hours, but it seemed only moments before the woman was shaking him awake. The sun had just gathered herself up from the horizon and had begun to float upwards behind them when they began what would turn out to be a very long walk.

After the woman gave him barely more than a sip of water, they headed off, each man taking hold of one of Nylan's arms. They set a fast pace for Nylan's short legs, but if he didn't keep up, they dragged him along, not slowing. He was far too exhausted and ill to feel or hear anything from them, but that was the only mercy.

The woman halted the march for a moment after Nylan had stumbled for the third time. "You have to walk. That is one of the conditions of the contract."

"Please," Nylan rasped, crumpled in the sand where the men had dropped him. "Water, please."

"No, you've had all the water the conditions of the—"

"Nik your contract!" Nylan shoved himself up from the ground to glare at the woman. "I'm the Prince of Sorrows, and I deserve better than this, contract or not."

The woman's façade cracked, and she looked a bit nervous, perhaps, Nylan thought, at having someone as young as he was swear at her so crudely.

Nylan struggled to his feet and took a step toward her. The men seemed at a loss as to whether they should intervene. "I'll call the curse down on you if you don't give me some water. Now."

"Goddess!" the woman exclaimed after a moment. "You _are_ dangerous, aren't you?" She didn't seem to be mocking him when she said so. Nylan's glare deepened. "I wondered why they were being so very cautious. It explains much."

She handed him a nearly-empty water bottle and waited for him to drain it. It contained just enough water to make him realize how horribly thirsty he was, and he nearly screamed in despair.

A nod from the woman and the men caught his arms again. They yanked Nylan roughly, and he moved, knowing there was nothing else he could do.

The sun was almost down when they crested the last hill. Nylan froze and then dropped to his knees, too exhausted and horrified to stand. From the pattern of the devastation, and the ever-brighter glints shimmering around them, he knew they had almost reached the terrible place where the Breach had been formed. It lay before them, a great rent in the very soul of the world, and Nylan could feel its wrongness tearing at him.

They'd reached the edge and were looking down into the petrified, blackened crater where the Breach had first torn reality apart. Nothing had survived its formation, and if Nylan had believed Worldsend to be the least hospitable place he'd ever seen, this part of it was a thousand times worse than the rest.

"Why?" he breathed. His body shook with weariness. His hunger had become so much a part of him he—almost—was beyond feeling it. This place thrummed in his ears, in his brain, invading all his senses until he felt nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing but the Breach.

"You know why, child," the woman said, her voice almost gentle. "You're a threat. Sorrows are always threats, and..." She didn't finish whatever it was she'd been going to say, and Nylan turned to look at her, frowning in confusion.

She reached out and caught his face between her hands, and, with no more warning, she was inside his mind. He tried to resist her but lacked the strength to do more than be afraid. Her presence burned white hot and left him sobbing when she finally released him.

"What did you do?" He dropped back to the sand, clutching his head in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose, and he coughed out choking sobs, trying not to vomit.

"A simple spell, child," she said, dismissive. "You aren't to come back, but you aren't to be killed. This makes things complicated."

"What _did_ you do, senna?" one of the men asked. They both looked frightened. "I thought you said we wouldn't hurt him."

"If he knew, he would consider this a kindness," she said. "Memory can be a terrible burden, especially a memory such as his, filled with death and betrayal and pain. He won't have those nightmares to fear anymore."

"My memory?" Nylan gasped. The pain was slowly subsiding, but he felt so very strange. It was as if someone were slowly wrapping cotton gauze around the edges of his life. He tried to remember the color of his favorite shirt and couldn't. He tried to remember what Flannery Llorka looked like. And couldn't.

"Don't do this to me." He stared up at the woman, helpless. "Please."

"It's for the best, believe me," she assured him. "I wish someone had done the same for me at your age."

She lifted him from the ground once more and turned him to face the Breach. "Now, go, before the sun disappears. Walk into the Breach, and don't look back."

Nylan stiffened, but he felt no shock at the woman's words. For some time, he had expected this ax to fall. He lifted his chin in a final defiance.

I don't care. It doesn't matter. I remember this much, at least. I am a prince of the blood of SanClare and Voyavel. I am a Sensitive, gifted by Vail. I have survived so far in spite of them. I will survive this.

"I will." This only made sense after everything else. Someone wanted him out of the way. Maybe he even knew who this person was, but his memories were fragmenting, and he couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

But the Breach he remembered. Jary— _don't let me forget him, dear Vail, don't let me forget_ —had told him stories about it and about how it had been used as a punishment for important criminals, highborn traitors, and rebels. _A long time ago._

Jarlyth had said that no one knew for sure what happened to people sent through, but maybe they didn't die. Nylan supposed that somewhere his murderer was consoling himself with that possibility.

"Don't turn back." The woman's flat voice interrupted his confused, dazed reverie. "Or we'll have to kill you."

_Of course._ Nylan nodded again, once, collected himself, and started off. He climbed down the steep slope to the crater's bottom, even more covered in dirt and grime by the time he reached it. He paused for a moment and dusted himself off, then turned to face the Breach once again. Its thrumming had grown much louder, screaming in his head now, and he clenched his teeth against its noise.

Tears stung his eyes, but the bitter, frightening glee he'd felt so briefly at the prospect of his own death was gone. Death walked beside him. His life was almost over. It seemed to be unavoidable now.

He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. At least he would go out like a prince. And at least when it was over, he'd be with Jarlyth again.

He expected it to hurt and had almost asked the woman if she thought it would. He'd thought better of that just before the words escaped his mouth, but he was still afraid.

The glints of light were sharp-edged, it was said. He didn't know if this was tale or truth. The pirates had navigated around them in their little boats and seemed to fear making contact. Would stepping into the Breach cut him to pieces?

"Maybe it'll be quick." Nylan needed to hear a voice, even if it was just his own, thin, frightened one.

The roar in his head blotted out everything, and he barely heard himself. The Breach loomed before him, just a couple of lengths away. A few more steps, and he'd be in it. Stabbed to death on its shards or punctured as by a thousand arrows.

He inhaled deeply and took a long, last look at the world. More and more of his memories faded with each passing moment, too, and he wanted to fight the spell, but he was too tired.

"Let's get this over with," he breathed, and he stepped from shattered land to shattered air.

Nylan had been caught in a current once, long ago. He and a few other Sensitive children had been playing in a seemingly gentle stream that ran through Tanara Priory and poured out into the Gulf of Souls, and he'd taken only a few steps past the safe boundary in order to catch a straying, floating toy. He'd been sucked under so fast, he hadn't had time to scream or inhale. As always, Jarlyth had saved him.

The Breach had a current, too, and it pulled him in with a vicious determination, moving Nylan through its magic as if through all places and times at once. He saw light-bleached, broken bits of the world beyond the Breach in shards of reality all around him and understood he was looking out through the glints.

At first, only the light hurt him and then the current ran him into the rim of one of the shards, bruising his arm and leg. He tried to pull himself out of the current, reaching out to catch the next of the quickly-passing scenes, and sliced open the palm of his hand on the edge of its reality.

The current slowed and turned in a great, sick-making whirl, and Nylan saw two figures almost invisible in the blinding brightness. It took him a moment to realize they were inside the Breach with him and not in a shard somewhere out in the world.

Their outlines blurred into light as if Nylan stared at an eclipse to see them. If they were male or female, old or young, or even people and not trees, he couldn't tell.

Until one of them spoke.

"Poor, pretty thing." A hand reached out, pointing at him. "He's one of yours, isn't he?" The voice was as indeterminate as the figure.

"Help me!" Nylan's voice squeaked out as a rasping breath. "Please, help!"

They can't have heard me.

"I'm sorry, my dear child," the second figure said. "You must be brave until—"

But the current's whiplash sent Nylan speeding past too quickly for him to hear the rest of whatever the figure was trying to tell him. Or was reality moving past him at this insane speed? He couldn't tell, but each time the current threw him into some immovable piece of reality, it hurt worse.

He struggled toward another shard and was thrown back, deeper into the light, his other hand torn and arms scratched badly.

The pressure had grown, roaring more and more painfully as time passed. The light burned into him, hurting his eyes, his head, everything.

Maybe I'll burn up. Maybe this is how you die in the Breach.

He closed his eyes against the inescapable brightness and realized what was happening to his memory within mirrored the chaos he tumbled through.

Perfect and whole until the witch-woman's spell, his memory had melted and shattered. Too late, he knew, Nylan clutched at the remaining pieces, trying to hold onto them and keep them from being drawn from his mind.

The spell gained speed with each passing moment—or perhaps it was trying to match the current's speed—and memories were vanishing into nothing far too quickly. Chunks of memory like tiles from a storm-ravaged rooftop tore free of his grasp and blew away. He held onto small pieces and odd fragments which, along with the parts of his memory the witch woman had seen fit to leave him, made for nothing but confusion.

The pressure in his head grew unbearable, and he moaned and curled up into a helpless, flung-about ball. He bumped more often into the shards of reality, the current narrowing as he went, and with each unavoidable collision, a new cut or scrape or bruise.

The roar grew even louder, the current's speed terrifying, the light truly blinding, and then, as if a door had closed, shutting it all out, everything stopped.

Nylan felt himself falling through the sudden dark silence, but he couldn't see anything with his Breach-blinded eyes. He felt cut to pieces and boneless and broken, and he couldn't force his body to move though he knew he might be hurtling to his death.

His shoulder made a terrible sound as it struck the ground with the rest of him right behind it. Nylan rolled automatically, glad of his training, and came to rest against something hard and wet and cold.

A very long time passed while he simply lay still where he was, trying to regain his breath and figure out if he could even move. His body continued to ignore his brain, and he thought he may have been unconscious for awhile.

Eventually, Nylan struggled to sit up, hampered by countless cries of pain from his nerves and by his left arm—numb and useless—weighing him down. He managed to pull himself up at last and rubbed the back of his good hand across his face to try and clear his eyes. He did this quickly, wobbling precariously, but managed to brace himself once more with his good arm before he'd collapsed back onto the ground.

It hadn't helped. His eyes still saw only echoes of the blinding, burning light the Breach had branded into them, and every time he blinked, the light seemed to flare up brighter again.

The world smelled wrong, somehow, though he recognized the sharp scent of the ocean underlying the worse smells of rotting fish and manure. He recognized only one other of the myriad scents surrounding him: blood. He felt it on his hand, too, warm and sticky.

"Holy Vail, help me," he whispered. But she had not helped him so far...

_Helped me do what?_ He knew that she'd abandoned him, but to what, he didn't know. And he knew he had been taken, but away from what?

The Breach, he remembered, but aside from a few, seemingly useless fragments and glimpses, he had no idea of anything else. A wave of panic rose up then quickly died away.

_It doesn't matter_ , he thought, suddenly calm.

Some part of him knew this wasn't true, but he couldn't push his way past this magnificent unconcern.

_Like a spell._ And then another thought occurred to him: _Spells are bad. Don't talk about spells. Don't think of them._

"All right." And his curiosity about himself dwindled away to nothing.

His eyes stung but after a few minutes, he began to be able to make out his surroundings through the fading light patterns. It was nighttime wherever he was, but the darkness was incomplete.

The pools of light flickered and changed. He frowned up at the nearest pole and saw the flame burning inside a small glass box. This use of fire seemed strange and almost reckless to Nylan. Magic would be safer.

Stop! Stop thinking about it.

The wind blew stronger, and he finally felt it. It was cold here in this strange place, but he'd been cold for so long he almost hadn't noticed.

He could just about see again, but nothing looked familiar. He seemed to be in the middle of some sort of open area—a village square or something. As he looked around, he made out something larger than anything around it. A great stone arch rose out of a massive, stone platform which occupied the center of the square.

_It's a Crossing,_ he thought, but the minute he did, the meaning of that word slipped away from him, leaving in its wake a sense of fear and repulsion at the sight of the strange, out-of-place thing towering over him. He turned away from it and found the sights much less overwhelming.

It did seem to be some sort of village or neighborhood, but the buildings were strange, all made out of rough brick or wooden shingles—which made the flame lights seem even more foolish. Strange compared to what, he didn't know.

A road ran away from the unnerving square, dividing two rows of ugly buildings, and it was ugly, too—rutted dirt and broken brick and crushed stone with a strong smell of manure permeating everything.

After a few moments, Nylan realized his eyesight had returned to normal. Everything was still fuzzy because a heavy fog hung damply over it all. At the same time, his thirst reasserted itself, overwhelming everything else. He cast around frantically, looking for anything that might be water, and caught sight of a horse trough less than a length away. He crawled over to it, and caught up handful after handful to his mouth, leaning against the trough with his hurt arm pressing against its side. The water tasted scummy and old and more wonderful than any water he'd ever had before. He drank until he was dripping and exhausted by the effort.

_I have to move. If I stay here, I might freeze._ Nylan struggled to stand up, leaning heavily on the edge of the trough. He turned back toward the brick building behind him and nearly threw up by the time he'd managed to get to his feet.

"I'm sick," he breathed. In spite of the cold and damp, sweat ran down his face. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and each throb hurt. Even if he wasn't sick, he was badly injured. Everything, even the slightest movement, sent spikes of pain throughout his body, but he didn't think it was a good idea to just stay where he was. He needed help, but his head ached so badly, he wanted to cry.

He growled at himself, "Don't cry, stupid baby. Stop crying!" He stumbled back to the wall and then inched along it.

The wall turned to glass after he'd gone only an agonizing few steps, and he paused and frowned at it. The glass was not very clear, and, instead of being one large piece, the window was made up of many tiny panes, but it was enough for Nylan to see himself reflected in it.

He looked terrible. The blood on his hand and face had come from his nose and a smear of it ran across his cheek which was also darkened by an enormous bruise. His long, black hair was a tangled, filthy mess. His hand-me-down clothes were ripped and tattered, filthy and bloodstained. He frowned and turned his head sideways then looked away entirely for a moment before he could look back. More blood. It stained both his ears and had run down his neck on both sides.

He remembered unbelievable pain and brightness and knew his injuries came from somewhere in that fading memory of magic. But this place felt empty to him. The lights, the glass, the buildings, the road. It was all so...

"They don't have magic," he breathed, then bit into his sore lip to stifle the words he'd already said.

_Stop. Just stop. They'll kill you._ How he knew this when he knew so very little, Nylan didn't know. But he knew magic equaled danger in this strange land. But he also knew that he himself practically bled magic. _I have to stop thinking about it._

Because there was nothing else to be done, Nylan walked on, not noticing the smears of blood his steadying hand left on the windows. He wondered where all the people were but decided they must all be asleep. _It must be very late._ How would he find a safe place to stay? Or food? It could be hours before morning for all he knew.

He turned the corner as the building did and stopped again. Far ahead of him down this new street, lights came from the buildings. He started walking again, faster this time, and as he drew closer to the brighter lights, he could make out the sounds of a crowd of voices and music, as strange as everything he'd seen in this land so far, and he could smell food. He walked even faster.

A man turned toward him as Nylan finally came near to the crowd, and the boy sucked in his breath, all at once overwhelmed by the psychic noise the crowd was making. The man called the attention of several of the strangers to Nylan, and they moved toward him, all talking and thinking so loudly he could barely stand it. He couldn't understand anything they said and their thoughts and emotions made no sense to him, either.

_I won't cry. I won't!_ But the people were coming closer, their minds growing louder as they did.

"This was a mistake," he whispered, dizziness roaring in his head. All the faces and minds were a babble to him, noisy and terrifying and too much to take. As the strangers reached him, Nylan, drowning in the chaos of the minds surrounding him, lost his fragile hold on his new reality and blacked out.

# # #

# CHAPTER FOUR

Nylan blinked as a hand came too close to his face.

"So, you are awake," a man's voice commented, his accent harsh. Whatever he was speaking, it was not quite the same language Nylan knew, but the man stood close enough that he was able to make out the man's meaning if not his exact words.

He'd been awake for some time, but he'd been trying to figure out what was going on before revealing this fact to his...

Captors? Rescuers? Where am I now? And how did I get here?

Biting his lip, Nylan tried to sit up and found his left arm weighing him down, heavily bandaged and in a sling. His movement awoke all of his injuries at once, and his arm throbbed from shoulder to fingertips.

Opaque, white curtains tented him in with two strangers. They wore long, white coats which seemed to blend in with the curtains. One of the men wore round, wire-rimmed spectacles and the other had a fastidiously-trimmed handlebar mustache a few shades redder than his slicked-back hair.

Nylan's shattered memory balked at both of these things, his first reaction being that they looked old-fashioned. Even their clothes were entirely unfamiliar, plainer and stiffer than the rich fabrics, colors, and needlework to which he was accustomed.

"You shouldn't move, child," Spectacles was saying, a hand exerting gentle pressure on his right shoulder to keep him from continuing his struggle to sit up. "You've been through the wars, by the look of you."

"Yes." Mustache's frown deepened, making his mustache stick out even more prominently. "Be a good boy, and stay in bed."

They stood on either side of him, twin towers surrounding his narrow cot. He'd been dressed in a plain white shift and tucked beneath crisp sheets and a thin blanket, also white. All unfamiliar.

"Do you have a name, child?" Mustache asked.

"What a question, Morley! Of course he has a name!"

So, Mustache is named Morley. I wonder what Spectacles' name is.

Morley leaned in closer, his frowning face quite close to Nylan's. "Your _name_ ," he said loudly, as if he thought the boy might be deaf.

_My name_ , Nylan thought. _Of course. They want to know my name._ But at that moment, he realized this was one of the many things he'd forgotten. Biting down even harder on his lip, he shook his head.

"Hmm. This is a pretty mystery," Morley muttered.

"He'll have to be reported in the _Sentinel_ ," Spectacles said. "And JhaPel will have to be contacted if no one claims him."

"He's absolutely lovely," Morley said to himself. "And he has a look about him...I don't know. Doesn't seem the sort to be abandoned. Surely, someone will come for him."

Spectacles shot a sidelong glance at the boy and ushered his associate outside the curtain. Nylan could no longer make out even the occasional words he thought he understood, and he gave up as the men walked away, still talking.

Nylan lay motionless on his bed, his good hand hugging the least-painful part of his hurt arm as if he had to physically hold himself together or lose his grip on the last thread of sanity.

He had no idea what his name was, though he knew he did have a name. He had no idea how he'd arrived here in this place, though he remembered falling through the night and landing on the hard, wet ground somewhere beyond these white curtains. He had no idea what this place was. He had no idea who he was. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he bit his lip harder to try to keep them at bay, tasting blood. For some reason he also couldn't remember, crying was not a good reaction to the situation. He needed to be strong and brave.

A slim, angular woman wearing a long white dress and a dark blue apron swept in through the curtains and smiled at him. Her light brown hair was pinned back but a few soft curls escaped to frame her pleasant, pretty face.

"The healers said you were awake." She sat down on the edge of his cot and gently pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "Awake and alert, that is. At last," she added, still smiling. "I was beginning to worry your fever would last the year."

The moment she touched him, her thoughts and emotions became as clear to him as his own, and he flinched away from her as if she'd burned him.

"I'm sorry." She drew back at once. She smiled at him, and he relaxed. Nothing she'd been thinking or feeling had been anything to fear.

_They don't know what I am._ The thought ran through his brain quickly, and he flinched again. He didn't want to remember that of all things. He couldn't ask her about it, either, because what if it were true? _What if they kill people like me here? ...Why do I know that?_ He'd just have to be very careful and try to figure out the truth without revealing his secret.

The woman's smile grew worried around the edges, and he pulled himself out of the spiral of fear and returned hers with a tentative smile of his own. _Should I know her?_ he wondered. But that couldn't be. If she knew him, she'd know his name, and the healers wouldn't have had to ask him for it.

"Who are you?" Nylan rasped. The sound of his own voice startled him. It sounded odd to him, the accent unlike the other voices he'd heard.

The woman frowned, seeming to be concentrating. After a moment she smiled and made a small gesture indicating her failure to understand him. "You must be thirsty. I'll be right back."

She swept out of sight and returned a few moments later carrying a glass of water. She set the glass down and gently slipped an arm under Nylan's shoulders, helping him to sit up at last. She rearranged his pillows so he was more propped up than sitting, but once she was satisfied he wouldn't tip over, she handed him the glass. Nylan reached out for it reflexively, and she smiled at him again.

"Here you are, sir. The finest in the house."

He drank down half the glass and tried to speak again. "Who are you?"

The concentrating look returned, and this time she seemed to guess what he wanted even if he wasn't sure she'd really understood him. "My name is Nanna Whiltierna. Most call me Nanna Tierna." She stopped, realizing, he guessed, that she was saying too much in light of their language difficulties. She pointed at herself and said, "Nanna Tierna," enunciating carefully. Then she pointed to him.

Nylan pointed at her, repeating her name. She nodded, smiling a beautiful smile and pointed at him again. He shook his head. "I don't know."

"I've been calling you Michael practically this entire moon. Do you like that?" She stopped, shaking her head and giving a small laugh. "Michael," she repeated, adding a broad gesture that seemed to say, "What do you think of that?"

He brushed a long, black lock of hair out of his eyes, unconsciously echoing her earlier frown of concentration. He pointed at himself and said, "Michael?"

"It would just be until you remembered," she agreed, nodding. All of her movements broadened as she tried to make him understand her. "Michael's a good name."

He echoed her nod, accepting this new identity. He had to have a name—even though he couldn't remember much of anything, he at least knew that—and he liked the way "Michael" sounded when she said it.

That question settled, she began to talk to him as if he could understand her. He had the impression she'd been talking to him this way the entire time he'd been in her care. As she talked, she managed to remake his bed with him still in it, give him a general inspection, and change some of his bandages.

He took stock of his injuries while she worked, noting that the sling cradling his arm was sturdy and clean. This was a good place, he guessed, and he felt lucky to have been brought here.

He couldn't tell if his arm was broken and made a hesitant attempt to wiggle his fingers. He gave that up quickly when hot pain shot up his arm, but he couldn't stifle a small gasp.

"Oh, dear, Michael. Are you all right?" He nodded, clenching his teeth together behind closed lips to keep the pain hidden.

"I'm afraid it's broken and very badly, too." Her hand brushed his shoulder inadvertently, allowing him to know exactly what she meant. "But you're healing fast! Everyone's amazed. You're so strong for such a little thing."

She went back to her bustling, still talking. From all that she said, he thought he understood that he'd been found badly injured, had been very ill for quite some time, and no one had come to claim him.

Injured and ill. This seemed to still be true, but he couldn't remember how it might have happened. He remembered vague snatches of things which might as easily have been dreams or nightmares rather than what happened to bring him here.

He seemed to have no trouble remembering how the world worked and even finding things to be unlike what he expected them to be, but he remembered nothing about how he fit into the world, nothing about his own life except for random absolutes including that he hated red soup and didn't like honey because it was sticky.

While he knew this was very odd, he found he was not much interested in discovering his lost memories. Something made him think it might be better to not remember, to start over from here, to not look too closely at what might have brought him to this place and this state.

He realized later that he had simply chosen not to try to remember. As the days passed and no one came to claim him or explain what had happened, the newly-named Michael decided he didn't want to know how he'd ended up so out of place and so badly hurt. Nanna Tierna was kind and patient, and she made an effort to remain a consistent presence in his life for the next several days. He allowed that to be enough.

He remembered drawing, and after a day of having nothing to do but watch nannas and healers come and go, he acted out drawing for Nanna Tierna, hoping she might be able to find him some paper.

She seemed surprised by this development, but the next time she visited on her rounds, she brought him a small stack of odds and ends of blank-on-one-side paper and a few, well-sharpened pencils. At once, their ability to communicate opened up considerably.

When next he visited his patient, Spectacles couldn't stop exclaiming over his small patient's artwork. He held one of Michael's drawings out as if examining a chart.

"This is amazing! Are you certain our little lad, here, drew it himself?"

"Of course he did, Healer," Tierna declared. She gave Michael a wink.

"I'd be interested to know just what else the boy can do." He handed the picture back and disappeared beyond the curtains once more.

Tierna stared after him for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face, then she, too, vanished.

This time, when she returned, she had a stack of books with her. Michael, delighted, reached out for them eagerly.

"You can read?" She almost dropped the books in surprise.

"Yes, Nanna," Michael said. "I remember reading."

It took him a bit of work to adjust to the dialect—the one he spoke when he was found and the one everyone else spoke were both close enough to each other and different enough from each other to thoroughly confuse him. Spectacles—whose name, Michael finally learned, was Tineson—took a special interest in helping him sort through these difficulties, however, and with the healer's help and Nanna Tierna's, Michael was soon reading easily, his ability to speak the language growing with every story he finished.

By the time Michael was well enough to leave the hospital and be sent on to somewhere more permanent, he and Nanna Tierna were fast friends. She saw to it that he was accepted at the JhaPel Orphanage which was run by her Order. She often stayed at JhaPel herself when on leave from the hospital and attended Holy Prayers at the temple there, so they would still be able to see each other.

Though it frightened him to be leaving the only place and people he could remember, Tierna's friendship and encouragement made him determined not to disappoint her by showing his fear.

Michael dressed carefully in his second-hand clothes on the morning he was to go to JhaPel, put his papers and pencils into the sturdy pack Tierna had given him, and followed her out of the hospital and into a world he didn't know.

# # #

# CHAPTER FIVE

Michael stood alone in the center of a small, wood-paneled room, biting his lip and clutching his pack. Nanna Tierna had left the room with Abbess Ethene, an older lady whose room this apparently was.

He was too nervous to sit down in one of the two prettily needlepoint-cushioned chairs which sat on his side of the older lady's desk, but he was also too nervous to do anything but stand where he'd been left. He nearly jumped out of his skin when something brushed against his ankles, but when he looked down, he discovered only a very small, long-haired gray cat. It purred at him and rubbed again, and he knelt to pet it.

_Her_ , he thought, knowing, as he always knew such things, that this was indeed a she-cat. She blinked wisely at him and then miaowed, ordering him to continue petting her.

In one of the books he'd read at the hospital, there had been a cat named Cyra. "Should I call you Cyra? Would you like that?" Her purr grew louder, and he laughed, scratching at her ears with enthusiasm.

Nanna Tierna was right—this place won't be bad. I've already made a friend.

Cyra had just wandered away, and Michael had climbed back to his feet when the women returned.

Abbess Ethene seemed very surprised to find him still standing. "You may sit, my dear." Her voice was soft and clear, but her accent was quite different from Nanna Tierna's.

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement of her statement and perched on the edge of the nearest chair. The abbess smiled. Michael realized with a small start of surprise that he'd misjudged her age. She couldn't have been that much older than Nanna Tierna, but she carried herself differently, her manners more formal, her face less prone to smiling. Though smaller than Tierna, she exuded calm and self-possession, her presence taking up more space than her body. A bun bound her hair back too tightly in a style unflattering to her narrow face. It also made her sharp nose seem more prominent. Michael's fingers itched to draw her.

"He's an endearing child, Whiltierna. But that hair—"

Nanna Tierna fluttered. "Healer Tineson thinks he might be Reinra. They may have left him behind after their last trading voyage. Or perhaps something happened, and they didn't know he'd survived it. His memory, you know. Who knows how long he was wandering before he was found."

The abbess frowned at this. "But it'll be moons and moons before they come back. If he is Reinra, what are we to do with him? They're the strangest folk I've ever seen."

"And they don't cut their hair," Tierna agreed. "So Healer Tineson thought it best to leave the boy's hair alone. Just in case we can reunite him."

"If the Healer thinks it best. Still, we shall have to do something to downplay it. Tie it back or something. The other boys will tease."

Michael followed this exchange idly, having heard the healer's theory before. It didn't spark any twinges of memory, and he mostly dismissed it as something which would be irrelevant until the mysterious Reinra could be consulted which, as Abbess Ethene had just said, would be moons and moons.

He stifled a sigh and wondered how much longer the two women were going to talk about him. After so much time at the hospital, he was more than used to being discussed rather than addressed. The first few times it had happened, he'd felt a dim sense of outrage, but this had subsided quickly. They'd all dismissed him as a foreigner who couldn't speak their language, but that hadn't been true for long. His ability to read had sped up his understanding considerably, though his speech continued to be a bit stilted.

Ethene sighed, resigned. "Well, he's polite and very patient. I will say that for him."

"Yes, and he's very observant. He's learning more and more words every day—he reads! And he has a goddess-given gift for art. I was hoping a tutor could be arranged."

"We shall have to see about that," the abbess replied. "Perhaps some of the other children could also benefit from lessons."

She noticed Tierna's disappointment—which was so strong Michael felt it from across the room—and shook her head. "Whiltierna, I did not say no. We are not exactly in a position to train up artists and authors, you know. Training and experience which will ready them for apprenticeships is the most practical. Even with the best training in the world, there's no guarantee anyone could ever make a living as an artist."

"He is so talented, Abbess Ethene," Tierna said fiercely. "Please, let me ask my family if they could help. If someone of their acquaintance might donate an hour or two every quarter-moon, he could learn so much! And it needn't interfere with his chores and other lessons."

After a long moment, Ethene nodded. "You may ask. But if any other children show similar promise, this philanthropist must be willing to share his or her time with them also."

"Of course, Abbess. Thank you!" Tierna exclaimed.

"And now it is past time we should introduce this young man to his new home." Ethene stood up and walked around the desk, and Michael stood up quickly and made a small bow. "Quite the gentleman, isn't he?" she commented.

Ethene introduced herself to him, returning the bow, and explained that he'd now be under her care at JhaPel Orphanage.

"There are many other children here, and I'm sure you'll make friends with them. It's just before midday meal now, so we'll go to the dining hall, and I'll introduce you to the other boys with whom you'll be sharing a dormitory."

Whiltierna knelt down to his eye-level. "Michael, I have to go back to Landsend Charity now. I'll see you at Holy Prayers every quarter-moon, and I promise I'll visit you. Bring you new pencils and paper, all right?"

"Thank you." He blinked as his vision blurred with unshed tears. He wouldn't cry and embarrass her in front of Abbess Ethene. "For everything."

"I just wanted to say—about your name. It was my cousin's name. He died about a year ago, and you remind me a little of him. So that makes us almost family. All right?"

Michael nodded, feeling very honored by this.

"It's a good name." Tierna caught him in a crushing hug. "And he was done with it. It's bad luck to name people after the living, but it's good luck to keep a good name alive."

And she was gone. Abbess Ethene smiled at him and placed a guiding hand on his shoulder. He caught only the faintest impression of sympathy at her touch. She was not as easily read as most people were, but he liked that. It made it easier to pretend his dangerous abilities away.

"Come this way, dear."

The dining hall was a short walk down a wide corridor, half-open to a neatly-groomed courtyard, and Michael could hear the growing roar of a large number of young voices.

He froze for a moment in the door, staring at the sea of children and nannas. Most of the children were standing in a queue holding thin wooden trays though a few of them had made it through and were seated in growing clusters at the long trestle tables which filled up the enormous, high-ceilinged space. Ethene escorted Michael up to the head of the line where she stepped in front of a boy almost as tall as she was, picked a tray from the large stack standing just in front of the row of nannas waiting to serve the children their meals, and explained to Michael how the food queue worked.

"Now, you must never do what we just did," she said as they passed down the line collecting soup, bread, a medium-sized, reddish-pink fruit Michael didn't recognize, and a mug of water. "When you reach the dining hall, you must stand at the end of the line no matter how long it may be. Only a nanna is allowed to squeeze in ahead of everyone who's patiently waited."

The other children's minds were much noisier than Nanna Tierna's had ever been. The hospital had been a bit noisy, but he'd been far enough away from the other patients to avoid feeling and hearing more than a sort of background mutter. Here the other children surrounded him, bumped into him, brushed past him, and were all but unavoidable.

Ethene didn't seem to notice the chaos but it overwhelmed Michael, and he felt no appetite for the contents of the tray he now carried as he followed Ethene through the maze of tables.

They reached the particular table she sought, and Ethene turned to take the tray from him again. "This is Michael," she announced to the three boys as she set the tray down beside one of them and motioned for Michael to sit. "He's going to be your new roommate, and I want you all to help him adjust to things here. He isn't from Camarat, so he won't necessarily understand you straight away. I expect you to be patient with him. He's had a very difficult time recently, and I'm counting on you boys to make him feel at home."

The boys muttered their acceptance of this charge and all of them smiled tentatively in Michael's direction. Another boy came up to the table at that moment and everyone called out his name as if he'd just returned from the wars.

"Pol!" They all began to talk at once, each one eager to tell their apparent ringleader about the new boy.

Ethene didn't seem troubled by this, and she leaned down to say a final word to Michael before abandoning him to his fate. "If you have any trouble at all, tell any one of the nannas I've said they're to bring you straight to see me, all right?"

Michael nodded and said, "Yes, Abbess Ethene. Thank you."

Everyone stopped talking for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed now that there was a new, mysterious boy to consider. Michael looked around at his new roommates with wide, dark golden eyes. Their thoughts were as easy to read as if they spoke aloud.

_His eyes are beautiful, too,_ the newcomer thought. But aloud, all he said was, "Hi. I'm Pol." Michael wondered how he would draw the soft brown color of this boy's skin or capture the friendly, dark eyes. His hair curled messily around his face, framing an infectious grin.

"My name is Michael," Michael replied with a small nod and a smaller, answering smile. The thoughts all piled up together, with someone thinking his accent was lovely and someone else thinking how sad it was that he looked so unwell and a third someone thinking that someone named Telyr would need to be watched-out for. Michael couldn't sort out what thoughts matched which boy. Except for Pol.

"What's in your bag?" one of the boys asked, leaning over Michael's shoulder to try and get a look. He turned to see a shock of bright orange hair over a face so covered in freckles, the pale skin between them seemed to glow white.

"His name's Ned, by the way." Pol gave the redhead a reproving look, but the boy's only reply was an indifferent shrug.

"These are my drawings," Michael pushed his tray to one side and pulled the booklet Nanna Tierna had given him out of the pack he'd been holding on his lap. It was far too fine for an orphan like him, but Tierna had not seemed to notice this, and Michael loved it, considering it a piece of art all by itself. It consisted of two wafer-thin but sturdy pieces of highly polished wood with maybe a hundred sheets of heavy paper sandwiched between them, and the whole thing was bound together on one end by two thin leather straps. Michael flipped the booklet open.

"It's Nanna Tierna!" Ned's eyes widened in surprise.

"You know her?" Michael asked, pleased.

Pol reached across the table to turn the booklet a little so he could have a better look. Michael sensed the sharp edge of his surprise at how perfect a likeness it was.

"Yes." Pol belatedly answered Michael's question when Ned failed to. "If we ever have to go to hospital, Nanna Tierna looks after us. She lives here, you know, but she spends most of her time at Landsend. She does always come with the healers for inspections when they want to make sure we're not secretly diseased."

Michael's new roommates crowded around him then, all trying to see the picture. They pressed against him, the contact making their thoughts even clearer than they'd been before. Michael bit his lip, fighting back nausea. The thoughts were too loud, too many, but this was his new life. He'd have to find some way to cope with it.

When Pol moved to turn the page, a new voice called, "Wait!" and Michael sensed the other boy just then realized that their table had become the center of what seemed to be the entire dining hall's attention. Boys and girls of all different ages crowded close around the table, all trying to see Michael's drawing.

_I can't take this,_ Michael thought, and he untied the straps binding the booklet together and took the picture out so it could be handed around. This led to something of a melee, and the noise level in the hall—already quite high—rose noticeably, but the epicenter of the crowd shifted away.

Hands attacked the booklet, snatching several pictures in quick succession. Michael watched, wistful but resigned, as one of his earlier attempts—this one of the view from one of his hospital ward's windows, framed by realistically draping curtains—disappeared. Once the crowd had moved off, trading around the pictures and shouting, half the drawings in Michael's notebook had vanished and were making their ways around the dining hall to much acclaim.

"Aren't you upset?" Pol asked as Michael calmly retied the straps on his now much skinnier booklet. "You'll probably never see those again."

Michael shrugged. "I can always draw more. He smiled across the table at Pol and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "Those are not my favorites. I still have those."

Pol seemed almost surprised to find himself grinning back _._ "Come on," he said as he stood. "I'll show you our room."

They were interrupted at the dining hall door by a group of boys and girls, all older than they were, all talking at once. Michael made out the words, "Draw me!" repeated several times in several voices, all very insistent. He took a step back, retreating from the noise both outside and inside his head but hands reached out and caught him.

He wanted to scream at them all to _stop touching him_ , but his throat had gone dry and his head whirled. And then someone's back blocked his view, and the hands released him.

"Leave him alone!" Pol shouted, annoyance rolling off of him in oddly-comforting waves. "Can't you see he isn't well? He's just left the hospital."

A flurry of words, again, but Michael heard, "Sorry," among them.

"Yeah, well," Pol said as he turned around to check on Michael who saw the group dispersing. "You all right?"

Michael still couldn't get any words out, but he managed a nod.

"Vail Above Us, but you look awful," the other boy commented, but his smile had returned. "Don't mind them. They're nice enough, and they like your pictures. You can trade them for stuff you want!"

Michael had no idea what that meant, but when Pol said, "Let's go," Michael followed along willingly, re-shouldering his pack which contained his sketch book, his saved, special pictures, and some odds and ends of charity clothing. Everything he had, Nanna Tierna had given him, but now he was one of these children. One of JhaPel's orphans.

Kiska. They call us kiska.

He caught Pol's attention as they climbed a steep staircase. He'd regained his composure but now needed a moment to catch his breath. "Excuse me, but what is a 'kiska?'"

Pol snorted derisively. "Nasty word, but it's what we are, I guess. Well, most of us."

"What does it mean?" Michael persisted.

Pol stopped on the step and turned to look down on Michael. "'No one's.' It means we don't belong to anyone, but it isn't a nice word. I mean, the law says that's what we are, but kids in the street are really kiska. Nasty, useless, bullying, thieving—that's kiska. They have no one, nowhere to go, and they can't be trusted."

"I do not like this word." A frown creased his forehead as they proceeded on up the stairs and into another wide corridor.

"Yeah," Pol agreed. "So, here's our room!" He shoved open a large door a few lengths down the corridor from the stairs and waved at the dim interior. Michael stepped through cautiously, squinting. "We just had a guy get apprenticed, so we had a spare bed. That's probably why Abbess Ethene put you with us."

The empty bed was at the far end of the room by the window. There were four other beds. Michael liked that his had a view, though he thought it must not be a preferred choice since none of the other boys had moved to take it.

"It's drafty," Pol explained, apologetic.

"I like to see outside." Michael dropped his pack onto the bed.

_But I'm going to be cold._ He'd figure something out for that. Maybe he could wear extra clothes to bed. _Or now._ He hunched his shoulders. The room was already chilly even though the sun was out. It would be freezing at night, he imagined.

Pol tapped on a wooden box standing at the foot of the bed. "This is yours, too. Put your stuff in here and no one will bother it. Well, mostly. There are a few guys in here you have to watch out for."

Michael frowned again. "In our room?"

"Oh, no! I didn't mean us," Pol exclaimed. "I mean in the whole place. The boys' side. Watch out for Telyr. He's just mean. He likes to hurt you."

"Why would he want to hurt me?" Michael asked, confused. "I don't know him."

Pol let out an exasperated breath. "Sorry. I need to say stuff better. I know you don't really understand yet. He doesn't want to hurt _you_ ; he wants to hurt kids because he's mean. He likes to hurt people."

Michael nodded but bit his lip, worried. He picked his pack back up and emptied its contents into the chest Pol had indicated was his.

"You need more stuff." Pol shook his head at Michael's belongings in disapproval. "We'll go see Nanna Mabbina. She takes care of supplies."

Michael followed Pol through the maze of JhaPel once more, taking in everything. JhaPel was completely different from the charity hospital. It felt far older and in spite of the stone walls and stained glass windows, it felt shabby and neglected.

They found Nanna Mabbina sooner than Pol seemed to expect, nearly colliding with her as they rounded a corner.

Pol straightened his shoulders as if shrugging off embarrassment and muttered, "'Scuse me, Nanna."

"What is the meaning of this, Master Rayvin?" The woman arched a disapproving eyebrow. She looked plump and comfortable, but her mouth pinched downwards, lengthening her pointed chin, and the lines on her face showed she narrowed her eyes a lot.

"We were looking for you," Pol shot back. "Michael needs stuff. He hasn't got anything but what he's wearing."

"'He doesn't have,'" Mabbina corrected. She looked Michael over, eyes narrowing. "So this is Tierna's discovery."

Pol glanced over at Michael but said nothing in answer to this, so Michael stayed quiet as well. He made a bow of his own, though, just to be safe.

"Very pretty," the woman added. The tone of her voice made this seem like a failing on Michael's part. "And all that hair."

"The healers think he's Reinra," Pol offered.

"Yes," Mabbina agreed. "I was informed. Come with me."

By the time she'd led them the rest of the way through the maze of corridors that made up JhaPel, loaded Michael up with changes of clothing and under-things, soap and towels, a brush, comb, small supply of ties for his hair, and an extra blanket when Pol explained his bed was by the window and the previous boy had taken his extra with him, Michael was glad he didn't have to find his way back to his new dorm room alone. Pol helped carry his new things and, unburdened by Mabbina's severe presence, pointed out landmarks to make Michael's future navigation of the orphanage easier.

After evening meal, all the boys returned to the dorm together. Pol, acting his role as group leader, introduced Michael more formally to everyone. Along with Ned, Jiin and Lee rounded out the group, and they seemed nice enough. While they settled in to various games and conversations, Michael reviewed all of his things and tried to adjust to his new reality.

_Maybe it's easier that I don't know what I did before. I can't compare this to anything but the hospital._ The hospital hadn't been so different. The rooms, cordoned off by white canvas curtains as they were, each still contained several people.

His head ached from the noise of all the minds around him. He didn't hear words unless someone's thoughts were particularly focused or unless he was focusing his attention on understanding them, but he heard them all, nonetheless.

_If you don't want to see, you just close your eyes. What do you do if you don't want to hear?_ Sticking his fingers in his ears did nothing to silence the noise in his head.

At the hospital, he remembered, reading had helped. He went to his chest and dug around until he found the little, leather-bound book Healer Tineson had given him upon learning he could read. It was a book of tales about the Kingdom of Camarat.

When he moved back to sit on his bed, a couple of the other boys looked up. Ned, seeing what he was doing, blurted, "You can read?"

Michael's eyes widened in surprise at the tone of Ned's question. "Yes," he said. "Can't you?"

The question came out almost too sharply, but Michael's impression that everyone could read came from somewhere—all the healers and nannas had been able to read—and his surprise at Ned's reaction startled him into bluntness.

Ned snorted. "No! No one here can read. That's for highborns. What do we need with that?"

"Maybe he is highborn." Pol smiled as he looked up from the piece of wood he was whittling. "No one knows, so he could be."

Another snort came from Ned, who said, "Sure. He's the long-awaited SanClare come to judge us unawares." They all laughed at this, even Pol.

"Is that a tale?" Michael asked. He'd not heard or read that one.

Pol nodded. "Yeah, the highborns love that one, too, because they think the SanClare will come someday and tell them they're doing a great job and this is the true heart of the One Kingdom, and they'll get some great reward when it's restored. My mother always said they had it wrong and that the SanClare would be really angry at what the highborns had done to..." Pol trailed off and didn't finish his thought, but he and the other boys all exchanged nervous looks.

Michael had too many questions he wanted to ask about that, but he could feel the other boys' nerves and irritation from across the room and instead tried to move the subject away from these SanClares.

"The stories in this book are tales," Michael ventured. "I could read them to you sometime. They are very good."

"We know all the tales." Jiin flicked one of the dice out across the floor a bit too violently, and his wildly curly hair bounced in apparent irritation. Ned grumbled at the interruption.

"Oh. All right." Michael sensed he'd made a misstep. He pulled his legs up onto his bed and turned more toward the window, trying to maximize the waning light.

But Pol spoke, his voice low. "You can read them to me. I'd like to hear them."

Michael gave a small nod, acknowledging his new friend's words, and opened the book. He read quietly so that Pol could hear him but he wouldn't be interrupting the game. It wasn't long before the other boys had fallen silent and a short time later, they'd all turned away from the game and were watching and listening, intent on the story.

The misstep was corrected, thanks to Pol. Michael would try to be more careful. He wanted to belong. After all, this was his home now.

# # #

# CHAPTER SIX

Jarlyth knew there were many good reasons why he shouldn't wake up, but the one reason which kept dragging him toward agonizing consciousness seemed to outweigh all the rest. He just didn't know what that reason was, and he wasn't sure it would seem good enough once he did know.

He heard voices, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. They came from a great distance—or they seemed to. From a great distance away and from under water.

But why would that be?

"Jarlyth?"

The voice was so familiar. He knew he should know who it belonged to.

"Jarlyth? Sweetheart? Please wake up."

And why was he asleep? Shouldn't he be doing something important aside from sleeping? Hadn't he been sleeping for a long time? Much longer than he could justify, no matter how tired he might be.

"Lord Denara," a new voice called to him. A young person's voice. A girl's. "You have to wake up," she insisted. "He needs you."

_He._ The word echoed in Jarlyth's befuddled brain. _He needs you._ But who was he?

Time was meaningless. Had it been only moments or days or years since the last time he'd heard a voice?

"You have to wake up, Lord Denara," the girl's voice pleaded.

"Yes, dear. You must," the first voice added this, very firmly. He wanted to obey this voice. It felt natural to obey.

Mother?

"No one can find him, Jarlyth. Nylan needs you."

_Nylan._ He had to save Nylan.

Jarlyth Denara woke up.

#

Michael sat high up in the branches of one of the oldest trees in JhaPel's large, somewhat overgrown West Courtyard, and worked on his latest art assignment while Cyra the cat lay sleeping on a nearby branch. Though it often seemed to rain constantly in Queen's City, the past two days had been fine, and for once he didn't have to worry about drops of water falling from leaves onto his sketchpad.

Nanna Tierna's efforts had paid off and, after showing a few of Michael's sketches around to various artistic acquaintances, her family had engaged the interest of Robyn Vaznel, an up-and-coming artist whose own patron was none other than the royal Duke of Reyahl. Magister Vaznel came to JhaPel once every quarter-moon for Michael's lessons, making him the only child at the orphanage to have a private tutor of any sort.

Since Michael could also read and write, he'd been assigned to the small group of other orphans with similar skills for his lessons and had the hope of someday being apprenticed as a clerk instead of as some sort of manual laborer. Michael rather hoped he would be apprenticed to an artist, but knowing Abbess Ethene's mistrust of such a profession as steady, he didn't let himself hope too much.

He'd now been at JhaPel for more than two years, and his murky, confusing memories of his life before the orphanage mattered little to him anymore. He fit here in this place better than he could have imagined he would that first day, and he felt safe and happy, and, most importantly, he felt that, in spite of his special privileges and talents, his friends accepted him.

The one thing JhaPel held in short supply, however, was solitude, and Michael stole any he could find whenever an opportunity arose. As bad weather ruled Queen's City much of the time, any day he was able to sit up in the tree enjoying a bit of this solitude was very precious indeed.

So it did not please him at all when the sounds of his fellow orphans playing far below in the courtyard swelled and resolved into something less pleasant. He'd only checked on things a short time before and all had been well, so he tried to ignore the noise. Cyra's curiosity was roused, however, and she climbed down a branch or two to peer through the leaves at whatever was going on below.

She began making chit-chit sounds as if she were after a bird, her tail lashing. Her excitement spiked, sending a quick flash of what she saw into Michael's mind, and he gave a small, irritated snort. Closing his sketchbook, he put it and his pencils safely into his pack, which hung beside him from yet another branch, leaving it behind to fetch later. He didn't want to have it torn or stepped on if there was some sort of fight.

Climbing down a couple of lengths brought Michael to a place where he could see through the leaves and tell what was going on. Telyr, true to form, stood over the smallest and weakest of the younger boys who'd been using the tree as point base in one of their less rule-bound games of trimble. Michael had bowed out of his friends' more cut-throat match on the excuse that he'd keep an eye on the little kids. The others stood around looking angry and scared as Telyr's latest sidekick glared them all into helplessness. He was a big boy, too, and Michael could understand why they all were too frightened to try to help the victim.

"Why doesn't he stay in his own courtyard?" Michael muttered to Cyra who'd followed him. JhaPel had five large, separate courtyards—two for the girls and three for the boys, all divided up amongst the different ages. The older boys below shouldn't have been in this courtyard at all just as the boys and girls weren't supposed to visit each other's courtyards. These rules weren't always followed, however, and Michael grinned at the memory of the last time he, Pol, and Jiin had broken the rule themselves.

Visiting the girls' courtyard, however, was much more fun than picking on little kids, and Michael could only despise Telyr and his companion for choosing cruelty over flirtation...which made one more good reason to loathe Telyr.

Michael climbed down another length, gauging his position above Telyr who had his back to the tree. No one else had seen Michael yet, though he hadn't expected them to. He'd noticed that no one ever seemed to look up and had perfected climbing to take advantage of this.

Taking a breath, Michael jumped. At the same time, he whistled the signal he and his friends had concocted. His hands smacked against the branch he'd been aiming for, and he grabbed it, scraping a bit of skin but swinging his legs forward full-force. He grinned at the perfection of his aim as both feet struck Telyr's back, solid and hard enough to knock him forward and over. As the older boy toppled, Michael used the momentum of his swing to flip himself back up onto the branch.

Telyr's sidekick looked startled and then angry in quick succession. He reached down to help Telyr stand while turning his murderous glare up into the tree at Michael.

Staring back with a cool hauteur, Michael flicked a glance at the little group of younger boys and ordered, "Go get a nanna," before returning his attention to the bullies.

"Wait!" Telyr's sidekick yelled, but the little boys had scattered.

"Nik you!" Telyr stepped forward, closer to the tree. A gap from a permanently-missing front tooth made his breath whistle a little. "We were just messing around! Why did you—?"

"Oh, come on Telyr," Michael said, still cool. Michael had read Telyr's own, pre-JhaPel history from the bully's mind on his very first night at the orphanage—a night they both remembered with vivid, almost stinging clarity—and he did feel sorry for Telyr. No one should have to endure beatings and misery, especially when there was no way to fight back.

_Thank Vail I have better control now._ Though not perfect. Accidentally learning about everyone else's hard times had helped him feel less alone with his mysterious, painful past, but it had been rough going while he'd struggled to figure out how _not_ to overhear and feel with every touch.

He narrowed his eyes at Telyr in a very Mabbina-like expression of disapproval. "Making everyone else in the world feel terrible isn't going to make you any happier."

"It's our turn for clean-up," the other boy said, a sneer etched across his face as if drawn there. Michael's fingers twitched, and he wanted to climb back up the tree and get his sketchbook.

"They're going to make me do their chores, Michael!" their little victim exclaimed, outraged and dismayed at the same time.

"You should be embarrassed, Telyr." Michael shook his head pityingly. "Isn't it more trouble this way than if you just got along?" He leaned forward with reckless grace and perfect balance to drive home his point more inescapably. "You must be so tired."

"Shut up!" Telyr growled. His tongue darted involuntarily to the place where the missing tooth should be, and Michael smiled nastily.

The other bully caught Telyr's arm. "Come on, Tel. A nanna'll be here any tic."

"I'll make you be quiet!" Telyr shrugged free of his friend's grip and started up the tree trunk.

Pol ran up, followed immediately by Jiin, Ned, and Toma, who played on their trimble team, and grabbed with both hands onto the back of Telyr's shirt. He yanked the older—but not much bigger—boy away from the tree, sending him stumbling back and into his companion.

"Get out of here, kiska trash!" Pol shouted.

The little boys returned at that moment, too, leading a very annoyed-looking Nanna Mabbina.

She stopped below the tree and glared around at all the boys collected there, her glare at last settling on Michael, still standing on a branch about three lengths above the ground.

Without a word, she caught Telyr by the ear, pinching hard enough to make him yell, and marched off. His sidekick scrambled along after, needing no orders to know he was meant to do so.

Pol sighed and gave the tree trunk a perfunctory kick. He peered up at Michael. "Are you going to come down, now?"

Ned herded the little boys back toward the safer, open area of the courtyard where the other older boys could help keep an eye on them. Michael sighed. "Let me get my stuff first." He climbed nimbly up to grab his pack from its branch before returning to the lower branches. He leapt for the ground from a height that made the other boys gasp, but he landed without a stumble.

"Idiot," Pol said and gave the back of Michael's head a light slap, but there was no heat behind the word.

"Do you want him to go after you or something?" Jiin shook his head.

"He's twice your size, Michael," Toma agreed. "You wouldn't win."

Michael shrugged. "I might. After all, he's just big. He isn't a good fighter."

"How do you know that?" Toma demanded.

Pol actually laughed, though usually, any thought of Telyr just made him rage. "Michael's the one who knocked his tooth out."

None of them expanded on this revelation. It was a part of their dorm's secret history that Michael, on his very first night at JhaPel while he'd still been weak from his long illness, had beaten back Telyr's first, and so far only, attempt at bullying him.

Only Pol knew a deeper part of the secret history which was that Telyr hadn't been bullying Michael at all. He'd been hassling another, even younger boy. That boy's fear had reached out and grabbed Michael, compelling him to throw himself into the middle of things just as Pol walked in to see why Michael hadn't come back yet.

Telyr had landed a punch, but it had been a pallid thing, just enough to make Michael realize he was in a real fight. He still didn't know where his body had learned what it did next, but he'd spun, his palm jutting out hard, catching Telyr's chin and snapping his jaw shut so hard the sound echoed against the bathing-room's walls. Without a pause, Michael had pivoted, throwing a fist into Telyr's gut which dropped him to the floor, groaning and crying, blood pouring from his mouth.

Pol had grabbed Michael by the arm then and tried to yank him from the room, but Michael had pulled away and hurried to free the younger boy from his flusher-stall prison.

"Do not go alone next time," Michael had told the younger boy once they were safe in the corridor, and that boy had nodded and fled and only Pol knew why he then tried to give Michael his dessert for the next several days.

Pol had dragged Michael back to their dorm room, growling, "Take your own nikking advice."

Jiin, Ned, and Lee had taken one look at Michael and Pol's expressions and had flown to the bathing-room to see what had happened, arriving in time to see Telyr, bloodied and still dazed, rinsing his mouth out in the basin.

Michael hadn't wanted to make a fuss on his very first night at JhaPel, so they'd all agreed to let the matter drop. Pol had followed-up with the bully, however, letting him know their silence would last only as long as Telyr left them alone.

Michael grinned at Toma who looked as if he didn't believe Pol's assertion. "I can't stand to see him pick on the little kids."

"Well, don't think Nanna Mabbina's going to let you off for fighting," Toma warned him.

Jiin rolled his eyes but Michael just smiled. "I'll tell Abbess Ethene what happened. She'll say I did the right thing."

When Pol, Jiin and Michael were called into Abbess Ethene's office an hour later, Michael was proven right. He recounted his side of the story and was enthusiastically backed-up by the two younger boys summoned to tell their part, both of whom kept shooting worshipful glances at Michael in spite of Nanna Mabbina's disapproving glare.

Telyr sat slumped in the chair next to Michael, looking murderous.

Abbess Ethene sighed and leaned back, peering at the older boy over steepled fingers. "Why must you always cause trouble, my boy?" she asked. "We have given you so many chances."

Nanna Mabbina gave a soft grunt of agreement. Telyr didn't answer but stared at the toes of his boots.

"Well? What have you to say for yourself?" Mabbina demanded, and she gave his shoulder a hard shove.

"You can all go nik yourselves," Telyr mumbled. The little boys' eyes widened in shock at such language, and Michael only just kept himself from reacting the same way.

Mabbina clouted him across the back of the head, hard, but Abbess Ethene held up a staying hand. "Mabbina," and she glanced at the gathered witnesses.

"You're all excused, now," Mabbina barked, but her hand rested on Telyr's shoulder. He was not included in the blanket dismissal.

As soon as they were too far to be overheard, Pol whirled, his face alight, and said, "He's going to be tossed out! They're going to throw him in the streets!"

Michael's happiness faded a bit at this. "But he'll be kiska," he said, and Jiin and Pol both frowned at him, annoyed that he'd suddenly sympathize with their enemy.

The little boys were too busy being thrilled they hadn't gotten into trouble to pay attention to any of this, and they squeezed between Jiin and Pol and ran off down the corridor, yelling, "Thanks, Michael!" over their shoulders as they went.

"Always the nikking hero, aren't you?" Pol said, exasperated.

Michael shrugged, trying to hide his smile and failing.

"The girls will be _so_ impressed," Jiin added. "Oh, Michael!" He affected a high-pitched, sing-song voice. "Tell us how you defeated the evil Telyr!"

"Yes, yes!" Pol tried to match Jiin's pretend-girl voice. "Tell us _all_ about how you pummeled him to bits!"

Michael regarded his friends with put-upon patience and was about to respond when the Sixth Prayer bell sounded. He sighed instead. "Fine. Now, I'm late, and now I will be yelled at."

As he turned on his heel to head toward the main building where his art lessons took place, Pol called after him. "We'll tell the girls for you, all right?"

#

His lesson went well, as all of his lessons so far had. Though Robyn Vaznel was a celebrated artist—already titled "Magister" at only twenty-four years old—he donated his time to give these lessons, and he seemed to think Michael could be great one day.

Michael had to guess he meant it, though, since Magister Vaznel was one of the few people he'd met whose mind didn't all but shout at him. Most of the other people who had what he thought of as shadowed minds were adults, too, and he wondered if most grown-ups did know how to keep their thoughts to themselves.

It would be nice.

But Vaznel even mentioned introducing Michael to his own mentor someday, so he had to truly believe Michael had talent. Michael didn't really want to meet anyone as grand as the royal duke, but the man was very influential.

Even Nanna Mabbina couldn't turn up her nose at my becoming an artist if he said I had the talent.

Feeling light and happy, he hurried back across the massive compound to his dorm room to drop off his pack before evening meal. Everyone he passed smiled at him, and he smiled back, unthinking. It wasn't until Toma stopped him, a huge grin on his face, that he realized everyone knew.

"I can't believe it!" Toma exclaimed. "I can't believe you got rid of him!"

"He did it to himself." Michael tried to deflect the credit. Or blame, depending on how you looked at someone getting tossed into the streets. "He swore at Abbess Ethene and Nanna Mabbina when they were trying to help him. I didn't have anything to do with that."

"Yeah," Toma agreed, obviously not meaning it. "But you stood up to him and that's why he was in trouble in the first place."

This seemed to be the consensus, and a great roar of talking and clapping and shouts rose up when Michael entered the dining hall a bit later. This was the one place where everyone was allowed to be together, and several of the girls were crowded around the table when Michael arrived, tray in hand.

He smiled, easing his way past the visitors to his usual place beside Pol. The noise of emotions and thoughts and actual sound was so loud, his poor defenses were useless against the onslaught, so he mostly nodded and smiled at whatever was said and hoped he wasn't agreeing to or approving of anything horrid.

Nella, a very pretty girl with bright gold hair whom all his friends admired, pitched her voice to be heard as if she were making a speech. "With Telyr gone, everything's going to be so much better for all of us, and it's all thanks to Michael!" And with that, she turned, threw her arms around his shoulders, pulled him around to face her, and kissed him right on the lips.

Which turned out to be a very nice way to end the day.

It was not, however, the end of the entire incident.

"I don't understand why we all have to go," Lee complained, running a comb very carefully through his hair to be sure the part was perfect. "I wasn't even there!"

All five of the dorm-mates were lined up in front of the bathing-room mirrors, preparing for Nanna Mabbina's inspection prior to this suddenly-required outing.

Pol said, "Oh, you know Mabbina. She isn't happy unless she's making all the rest of us miserable."

Michael was excited. He'd not been away from JhaPel since his arrival. Holy Prayers didn't count since the temple was only across the square. The point of the outing had been kept secret, but everyone in their age group—boys and girls—had to go. A nanna was assigned to each dorm, and there was a rumor going around that they'd all get some sort of treat afterwards, too.

The other boys were each doing their best to be the most cynical of the group about this outing, but Michael could feel their excitement and knew they were all pretending. He decided not to play that game and didn't hide his own enthusiasm.

The weather was typical, but the rain had dwindled down to sprinkles when they trooped out through JhaPel's front gate at last. Mabbina escorted their group, a circumstance which Michael tried not to let dampen his excitement.

"At least no one got Tierna," Pol muttered to him.

"You may speak," Nanna Mabbina said with incongruous patience. "This is a holiday, after all. I shan't box your ears for enjoying yourselves. Just don't run wild."

Michael grinned at Pol who turned around to walk backwards and face him as he spoke. His arms waved more wildly, and all the boys grouped together, breaking their disciplined single-file to better hear Pol.

"I got a letter from my uncle who's off in the fighting," Pol continued a bit more loudly. Other groups nearby began to drift closer to listen. "He said there's a bad fever in the fleet, so things aren't going very well—"

"This is true," Mabbina agreed. "We must all say our prayers diligently that Vail protect our valiant fighting men who do so much to protect us."

Michael knew almost nothing of the war, but he nodded and mumbled agreement along with all the other children. He wanted to ask what the war was about and why they had to fight and who they were fighting and a dozen other questions, but he did not want to have Mabbina's attention focused on him, so he didn't say anything.

"Yeah," Pol continued. "And a lot of 'em are coming back and at Landsend. With Nanna Tierna."

"I hope she doesn't get sick!" Jiin looked horrified at the prospect.

"They are very careful at the hospital," Mabbina said. "Do not worry."

_But she's worried,_ Michael thought. _Maybe that's why she's being so nice._

"Are we going to get sick, Nanna?" Ned asked, voicing the very question Michael wanted answered.

She hesitated and turned, giving them the least-convincing smile Michael had ever seen. "We are in no danger from the fever, children. The queen and the Duke of Reyahl are doing everything necessary to protect us."

This seemed meant to shut them up on the matter, and everyone took the cue and started talking about other things amongst themselves. They walked on through the twisting streets, and Michael looked all around, trying to figure out the pattern. He couldn't really see one.

"It's all twisty," he said to Pol.

"You can get lost in tics, Uncle Harly always says," Pol agreed and was about to say something else when Mabbina stopped and called for everyone's attention.

She gave a short, snappish speech about being respectful and quiet and paying attention and not shaming JhaPel. Then her voice filled with an excitement Michael hadn't thought she was capable of feeling.

"You are about to witness a most holy event, children. This is Vail's justice for all those who stray from her path!"

Mabbina led them forward once more, and, as they trooped around the final bend in the street, they arrived above a large, open area filled to capacity with people. In the center of this area stood a great stone arch, intricately carved and looking like a gateway to nowhere. Beyond this lay the harbor, filled with boats arriving and leaving, people moving to and from busily along the docks, and all behaving as if whatever was going on around this arch meant nothing to them.

"It's a pyre!" someone from another group shouted, enthusiastic.

Michael frowned, turning to look toward the voice, but he turned back when he felt Pol's hand grab his arm. His fingers squeezed hard, almost hurting, and Michael could feel his friend's terror.

"Pol, are you all right?" Michael gasped. Pol afraid did not fit into his world. Pol was never afraid of anything.

"This is a burning, Michael," Pol choked. "This is an execution."

Michael followed Pol's terrorized stare and saw at last the mountain of cut brush piled in front of the arch. A stone pillar stuck out of the center of the pile with chains hanging off of it, awaiting a victim.

The rest of the event unfolded like a nightmare as they began moving forward again. Mabbina herded them all much closer to the pyre to an area apparently reserved for them. Most of the children seemed excited by the prospect of seeing an actual execution, but Pol was nearly sick with fear and horror, his feelings echoing through Michael's body.

Michael was afraid, too, but the idea of seeing anyone suffer anything always upset him. Pol hadn't let go of his arm, and Michael at last gave into temptation and reached out to see if he could discover why Pol was so afraid.

Flashes from Pol's memory ran through his mind, oddly mingling terror and happiness. A lovely, smiling face with the same soft brown skin and curly hair as Pol's. _His mother._ The memory of another pyre followed, this time already in flames, the heat roiling off it and burning small, helpless hands reaching toward that lovely face—

Michael shuddered hard and swallowed a gasp of utter horror. _His mother was burned! Mabbina should never have made him come._ But it was like her to do it, to rub Pol's face in his mother's heretical death. He didn't like to hate anyone—even Telyr—but it was hard not to hate Mabbina right at that moment.

The crowd roared suddenly, and all of them turned to see what had caused the sound. People in rich, formal dress were walking out across the platform upon which the arch stood, putting them above the crowd and the pyre.

"The queen!" Ned clapped his hands excitedly. The whole group of orphans joined him, and the crowd's cheers swelled as well, but Pol stayed still. Michael, uncertain, followed Pol. He didn't want to pull his arm away to clap, anyway. Pol seemed to need the physical contact to keep from falling apart.

Mabbina's baleful eye fell upon them, and Michael swallowed hard. "Pol isn't feeling well, Nanna," he said. "I think the crowd is making it worse." It certainly was for him. "May I take him—?"

"No," she snapped, but she seemed more irritated than anything else. "Just mind him. It's too chaotic to leave now, and you'll only get lost in any case." She looked directly at Michael, her frown deepening, and added, "Besides, _you_ need to see this most of all."

This caught Pol's attention at last, and he turned a savage glare on the woman who took an involuntary step back.

"Behave," she said after a hesitation, then she turned away and stared determinedly toward the platform.

A man stepped forward, away from the rest of the highborns, and began to speak. His voice carried over the crowd as if he were used to addressing throngs.

"That's the Duke of Reyahl," Jiin breathed, deeply impressed, and Michael could see why. The queen's nephew commanded the entire military and, most said, all but ran the country himself. Most people were more afraid of his power than the queen's, and, if the tales were true, with good reason. No one ever defeated the duke.

As the duke spoke, an older man was led out, chains binding his arms and legs. The guards shoved and dragged him to the post, but he didn't seem to have the strength to help or hinder them. He leaned against the post almost as if he were happy to have it there to support him. He'd been cleaned up, but Michael was close enough to see he'd been beaten, probably more than once.

He couldn't take his eyes off the man who was so soon to die so horribly. He thought he would have been much more afraid—crying or fighting the chains or something—but this man seemed resigned. _Or maybe he's too bad off to realize what's happening._

The jailors retreated, closing the gap in the brush which had allowed them to reach the pillar, and the executioner stepped forward, holding aloft a torch. Michael hadn't heard a word the duke had said up to now, too focused on the victim, but he heard the last words as sentence was pronounced.

"...mercy of Vail, this man shall be executed by fire. May the fire purify his soul of all evil so that Vail Herself will welcome him into Her Country."

And with that, the executioner lowered the torch and lit the brush. Slowly, he walked the circumference of the pyre, lighting the brush at regular intervals, until the convicted man was hidden behind a wall of fire. The sweet smell of burning brush jarred against Michael's understanding of what was to follow.

The fire started well away from the victim, and this seemed to Michael impossibly cruel— _as if killing someone this way isn't cruel enough already_!

_How can Vail be loving or kind if She wants people to die like this?_ He knew this thought probably was very heretical, but he didn't care. _He's going to burn anyway—why does he have to watch and wait for the fire to reach him?_ Why couldn't they set fire to his clothes and get it over with as quickly as possible?

That would be some sort of mercy...compared to this.

Pol stood beside him, still clutching his arm. His friend shook with fear and rage combined so thoroughly they made a single, indelible emotion.

Michael could barely breathe. He and Pol were locked into their own experience of the execution while everyone around them seemed to be enjoying it—cheering and throwing things into the fire to watch them burn up.

I can't be sick, can't be weak, have to be strong for Pol.

But when the fire reached its victim at last, Michael couldn't block out the agony radiating from the man, hotter than the fire itself. He bit down hard, locking his jaw to keep from screaming, and tasted blood. Pol's fingers squeezed bruises into his arm as the man's screams sounded over the roar of the crowd and noise of the fire. The thick, choking odor of burning flesh filled his nose and mouth and throat, and he wanted to vomit.

Through it all, Michael saw Mabbina watching him, and a fleeting prayer ran through his mind just before the man's death hit him. Somehow, he managed not to faint or scream or do anything to give himself away. He still wanted to be sick, but Pol beat him to that, and he thanked Vail for the distraction tending his friend gave him. This distracted Mabbina, too, who seemed to fear not some telltale sign of heresy in her charge but that he may have, after all, contracted some illness.

They were all hurried back to the orphanage, thoughts of the promised treat forgotten, and Michael hoped the distraction would make her also forget his own behavior.

Staring out his window much later that night, Cyra cuddled comfortingly in his lap, he admitted to himself that he was probably not going to be that lucky. _She already suspected before we even left JhaPel. She already thinks I'm bad._

Memories of the pyre ran through his mind, and he shuddered again, sick with fear, and knew he would do anything to avoid meeting such a fate.

# # #

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Jarlyth Denara stood in the corridor outside the royal courtroom, unable to endure witnessing what was going on inside its walls.

It had taken almost two years, but he and the small band of soldiers he had gathered to his cause as a sort of "prince's guard" had finally run to ground the remnant of the mercenary gang responsible for the abduction of Prince Nylan and his own near-murder that horrible morning.

They claimed to have been ripped apart and tortured by the Voyavel Curse—a further, silent witness to their guilt—and though a mere handful survived to tell the tale, they seemed almost relieved to have been captured at last.

They'd told Jarlyth blood-chilling tales of mischance, mayhem, and disaster steadily winnowing their numbers, and all seemed sure the curse was to blame. The highest-ranking survivor swore as much to any who would listen.

"The captain said the prince'd called down the curse. Chlena's fault—if he'd not touched the boy, like we could'a dropped him an' run afore he thought to damn us."

Seeing as how they'd dared do anything at all to the boy he'd raised since birth, Jarlyth had no pity to spare them. He'd heard all their vile tales and excuses before anyone else had learned about the monstrous things they'd done to the prince. He couldn't stand to hear them admit those atrocities again.

Beside him, dressed in her Templar apprentice's garb, stood the ever-faithful Flannery Llorka. Fifteen years old but as steady and brave as any of his veterans—and she'd never wavered in her support. _But she was there when he was born, too. Maybe that makes a difference—to have seen that moment._

In spite of the fact that, as the prince's warder, Jarlyth had a mystical, goddess-blessed connection to Nylan which enabled him to know as surely as he knew anything that the boy was still alive, nearly everyone believed Nylan was dead. They believed Jarlyth's surety came from guilt over his failure to save the boy. Even those who had helped Jarlyth on his "mad" quest didn't really believe the prince was alive; they simply believed such a crime could not go unpunished.

_Even Mother and Father look at me with pity._ But Flannery believed, and she stood beside him, keeping him company now. He was glad to have her there. It was tiring being constantly surrounded by those who looked on him as a foolish, broken man, lost in denial.

"Milord?" Flannery said, her voice hesitant and worried. "Jary?"

"Yes?" His voice was toneless, but he looked up to meet her eyes.

"They're calling for you, Jary." She pointed down the corridor toward the massive door that now stood half-open. Evander Mercatia—one of the "prince's guard"—was peering around the door at him, waiting while Flannery redirected his attention. He nodded his thanks to her and went to Evander.

"The king requests you return to the courtroom, milord," the man said. "I'm sorry." The last he said in a low voice, and Jarlyth almost smiled. Evander knew.

It had taken Jarlyth far too many precious moons to recover from his long death-sleep. He'd had to rebuild atrophied muscles and learn to walk all over again. Then more time had been wasted as he'd had to retrain his body in the martial skills he'd once thought were written into his bones. All the days and moons lost that he could not afford to lose. So much time passing while Nylan awaited a rescue that failed to come.

Evander had served Jarlyth as loyally as any of them, chasing down every fruitless lead until, at last...

And now here they were.

"Have they finished?" Jarlyth asked, though it didn't matter if they had. He couldn't disobey a royal request.

"Yes, milord. They're finished." Jarlyth guessed Evander hadn't used that last word without intending its double meaning.

_So, it will be a hanging after all._ Or perhaps something much more gruesome? Jarlyth had wanted this end from the moment he'd known Nylan was gone, but now he didn't see what the point of such a thing could be.

"Milord?" Evander prompted. Jarlyth inhaled and straightened up to a more soldierly posture then blew out his breath and nodded for Evander to lead on.

#

Michael had read about the world changing overnight, and sometimes adults would say something similar about some great event—usually in regard to the war in general or referring to some bloody battle just written-up in the _Sentinel_ —but he'd never really thought about what such a phrase meant.

It was not, after all, overnight that his world changed, though it was very fast, indeed. It snuck up on him, bit by bit, until the last few changes that completely altered his life seemed to occur all at once. Overnight.

He didn't know how to accept so much change, but he tried not to show how much it upset him, and he made certain to hide his anger and resentment. None of that would do him any good. The world had changed, after all. His world had changed. There didn't seem to be any way to go back to what it had been before.

Michael sensed Pol's approach but didn't turn his attention toward his friend's arrival. Since the pyre, he'd become even more careful not to do anything out of the ordinary.

When Pol drew near enough for a normal person to have noticed, Michael smiled at him. He straightened up from where he'd been scrubbing the entrance hall's enormous tiled floor and dropped his brush into the bucket for a moment.

"I've almost finished," he said, a little out-of-breath. "Is it time for evening meal already?"

Pol had come to a stop a little distance from him and shifted from foot to foot, nervous about something. "Not yet. I have something to tell you, and it couldn't wait."

It took Michael a moment to stand up, so cramped were his legs from kneeling on the wet, cold floor for hours. His shoulders ached, and his hand felt stuck in its scrubbing shape. But he shook the loose strands of his long, black hair out of his face, his smile fading a bit as he looked up at his friend. Even when he stood up, the top of his head just reached Pol's chin.

"What's happened? You're all...I don't know. Funny."

"And you have a smudge on your nose," Pol retorted.

Michael's hand flew up to cover then rub at the alleged smudge. "It itched!"

"I'm not all funny!"

"Tell me!" Michael insisted. "I have to finish, or I'll be late for evening meal, and then I'll get in more trouble, and then I'll never be done scrubbing floors! And you know Nanna Mabbina won't save anything for me."

Pol's annoyance flared, and his hatred for Abbess Ethene's first assistant seemed so strong to Michael that he wondered how anyone could be ignorant of it. But Pol controlled himself, his excitement overpowering his anger.

"My uncle's come back, and he's staying this time. He's part-owner of the Red Boar Inn, and he's arranged for me to go live there and be apprenticed to his stable master!"

Michael's eyes widened in dismay but he forced the smile to stay on his face and breathed, "That's wonderful news, Pol. You'll have a family again." It was what Pol had always wanted—all of it.

Overnight...

"He's promised before every one of his last three voyages that it would be his last, but then he's changed his mind. But this time he means it! He says between the fever and the fighting, Vail doesn't have to hit him over the head a third time."

Michael cast a wincing glance around the hall, wondering if Pol's words could be counted as blasphemy, but nothing happened.

"Mabbina's got you so jumpy, Michael. I didn't say anything wrong."

" _Nanna_ Mabbina," Michael corrected. "You know how she is about that."

"Michael, would you relax?"

Michael gave Pol a quick hug. "I'm so happy for you. But you'd better go—"

"Hold on!" Pol protested. He pushed Michael away playfully, laughing. "I'm not done yet."

"What?" Michael wanted him to leave so he could start feeling properly sorry for himself, but he didn't want to steal the smile from Pol's face just because _he_ wasn't happy about the news for himself.

Pol grinned. "I asked him about you."

"About me?" Michael's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Yes! I want you to come live with us, too."

The words rang in Michael's ears, too beautiful to be believed.

Pol's gaze shifted away, though, as he continued. "But he said not right away."

Michael tried not to let his face fall and held his breath to keep himself from demanding to know why Pol had even told him if it was all pointless.

Pol rushed on. "He said there's so much going on, and he doesn't have things settled yet, but as soon as we do, he's going to file the papers. He said you could be his clerk or something. He'd figure it out, he said. And we'll be together!"

Michael stood frozen for a long moment before launching himself at Pol again, hugging him. "That would be great, Pol. I would love that."

"Get you out of here, away from that old bag Mabbina—"

"Shh!" Michael hissed.

But Pol continued, his grin turning impudent as they stepped away from each other once more. "Room of your own, right? Just like you've always wanted."

Michael grinned back this time. "That would be really great," he said. "But go on, now, or I really will be late."

"All right. I'll save your seat," Pol called as he disappeared around the corner. Michael listened as his footsteps faded down the corridor leading back to the main part of the building. _Away from here._

Yesterday he'd scrubbed the corridor's floor. Today he scrubbed the entrance hall floor. Tomorrow he'd be doing something equally unpleasant and exhausting and isolated. Even if he didn't do anything to deserve it, Mabbina would figure out some way to justify it. _As if she even has to._

Michael hoped Pol's uncle hadn't been putting him off, lying to him to keep him from asking. _I won't hope too much. I won't expect it._ He'd be apprenticed soon enough, anyway. Even if it didn't work out to go live with Pol, he should be getting out of JhaPel in a few moons.

He knelt back down to finish the last part of the floor that still needed scrubbing, almost laughing when he remembered how jealously he'd guarded his free time before and how often he'd turned down his friends' pleas to join them just so he could be alone for a little while. He rarely had the luxury of turning anything down _or_ joining in anything anymore. _I was mean about it, too, acting like I was special._ Pol would look hurt while trying to hide it, and Michael had pretended he didn't notice sometimes. _Selfish...but he's still trying to protect me._

Mabbina had been in charge ever since Abbess Ethene caught fever from helping out at Landsend during the epidemic. Ethene hadn't been the same since, and she only seemed to get worse as time passed. Where he was used to talking to her every day before, it had been over a moon since Michael had last even seen her. When the nannas talked about her now, it was always in hushed, worried tones.

He hadn't spent very much time before Ethene's illness doing the heavy chores. Mostly, he'd been assigned to garden or scullery duty. He'd have given up morning meals for an entire moon if he could've gone back to working in the gardens. He'd even have welcomed mucking out the stables or washing the endless piles of dishes that stacked up in the scullery, but instead, Mabbina found fault with him and assigned him solitary scrubbings, sweepings, dustings, and polishings in the echoing halls, corridors, and little-used great rooms of the orphanage's web of interconnected buildings.

In spite of his obvious talent for gardening—something that, unlike his arts skills, even Mabbina couldn't deny was of practical value in the real world—once Mabbina had taken over in Ethene's stead, keeping Michael apart from the other children as much as possible seemed to be more of a priority for her.

Michael sighed again and looked around the hall once more as he stood up, having finished scrubbing the floor. He still had to haul in clean water to give it a final rinsing. Leaving the scrub brush on the floor, he picked up the bucket and walked toward the enormous front door. Mabbina had left the key in the lock so that he could use the pump just outside the orphanage's front gate instead of having to go to the other end of the compound for water.

_That's one kindness at least_ , Michael thought. He struggled with the key for a moment before it would turn and then struggled again with the door, which towered over him at four times his height and half as wide as it was tall, before he managed to get it open enough to go through.

The late afternoon sun shone down across the square and Michael walked out to the pump slowly in order to enjoy the outdoors as long as possible. He pumped fresh water into the bucket until it overflowed clean and pure. Catching a double handful of water, he drank deeply, ignoring the soaking he was giving himself. But he knew he was wasting time he didn't have to spare. Heaving the bucket up off the ground he half-carried, half-dragged it back to the front steps.

Just as he was struggling up the stairs with his burden, a small figure shot by him, brushing against his leg.

"Cyra!" he gasped. "You startled me."

He turned around to see what the cat was running from and saw a small mob of older boys coming through the gate. They carried sticks and rocks and were shouting and laughing. It was then that Michael noticed fresh drops of blood on the steps.

"Get out of here!" he shouted at the boys, startling them for a moment so that they stopped and stared at him. The biggest boy stepped out from his group, swaggering up to the foot of the stairs.

"My, if it ain't Michael, the prettiest little orphan-boy in all of JhaPel," Telyr said. "Want to come out and play with us?"

"You shouldn't be here." He tried to sound severe, but he felt himself blushing. "The nannas'll chase you off. Again."

"I'll be betting they don't chase you off, do they?" Telyr, the group's apparent leader, stared at Michael with an insolent grin on his face. "I bet no one ever chases _you_ off. If you come with us, I can promise you'd earn a lot of clink, too, for not being chased off." The other boys laughed.

Michael's grip tightened on the bucket's handle, and he thought his face must now be bright red. Exhausted and cornered by the mob, he was not in any position to fight back or even make a decent showing if he were fool enough to try. _I'll just have to hope I'm fast enough._

Heaving with all his strength, he threw the contents of the bucket at Telyr, drenching him, and shouted, "Kiska! Worthless kiska trash!" He scrambled up the top three steps and put the last of his energy into shutting the enormous door which swung closed much more easily than it had opened. His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock, but he felt the bolt shoot home just as the boys reached the door and started pounding on it.

Their shouts and taunts were muffled by the thick, sturdy door, but he could still understand what they were saying. He backed away into the center of the hall, his fists clenched and his breath coming in painful gasps.

"Kiska trash," he whispered.

"Michael!" a far-too familiar voice snapped as the outside noise finally subsided. "What are you doing?"

He turned and faced the sharp, disapproving glare of Nanna Mabbina. _I have to find Cyra. She's hurt._

"I'm sorry, Nanna. I went to get water to rinse the floor—"

"Well, where is it, then?" She moved closer with near-stomping strides. Michael backed away a step before he was able to make himself hold his ground.

"There were some boys outside. They were—"

He was interrupted again, this time by a loud thunk as something hit the door.

Mabbina was across the hall and yanking open the huge door before another tic had passed. She glared out at Telyr and his mob who froze at the sight of her, forming a tableau of shock and fear.

Michael watched the little mob scatter. _She doesn't even have to say anything._

"Go on, then," she growled gesturing toward the pump.

Michael hesitated for a long tic—wanting to protest, wanting to beg permission to go find Cyra—but he knew Mabbina wouldn't let him. She wouldn't care about a cat nor see any value in his wasting time on such a mission of mercy.

"Yes, senna." He hurried past her and down the steps, retrieving the dropped bucket as he went.

She waited at the door, watching for Telyr's mob to return, Michael supposed, and only left once he was safely back inside the walls of JhaPel—and safely back at work scrubbing the floor, this time under orders to also clean up the bloodstains.

Though he worked as fast as he could, he soon realized there was no way he was going to finish in time for evening meal. The light began to fail, and he was having a hard time seeing to clean. One of the younger nannas went by with the lamplighter, but this didn't help much.

He tried to find Cyra while cleaning, but Nanna Mabbina started hovering, walking by at regular intervals to make sure he was doing his job.

"You aren't paying attention to your work, Michael," she snapped after catching him at the arched doorway leading out into the South Courtyard. He was trying to follow the blood-splotch trail Cyra had left behind her.

He turned, and looked up at Mabbina, desperate. "Please, Nanna. Cyra's hurt. May I please go look for her? I'll—"

"I told you to clean up this mess," Mabbina said icily.

"I know, but she's—" The woman's expression darkened, and Michael froze, having to fight the impulse to back away again.

Mabbina shook her head as if disappointed. "Tomorrow. The west retreat cabin. It was just vacated and needs a thorough cleaning before it's next use at quarter's end."

Michael couldn't help it. He closed his eyes. A flicker of frustration showed on his face. He barely stopped himself from stamping a foot in useless protest. "But my lesson's tomorrow," he managed not to wail as he looked back up at her imploringly.

Mabbina's impatience snapped like static in the air around him. "Yes. I meant to tell you. I've sent word to Magister Vaznel that we'll no longer be taking up his time."

Michael's mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. No demands for explanation. No cries of protest. It was pointless, and he knew it. Saying or doing anything would only result in more solitary chores. He dropped his eyes to hide his hurt and anger, closed his mouth, and nodded. "Yes, senna."

She finally went away, and he finished cleaning up the bloodstains in the dim lamplight. The trail of bloodstains ended in the South Courtyard, so, once he put away the bucket and scrub brush, he would return to start his search there.

Pol and Ned were waiting for him outside the dining hall when he hurried by on his way back to find Cyra at last.

"Where're you going?" Ned frowned at him.

"There's just enough time, if you hurry," Pol added. "We were just about to come find you."

"I have to go—"

"No, you don't," Ned insisted and caught his arm. "You need to eat, you scrawny thing." He pulled Michael back into the dining hall and into line.

The first nanna in the line smiled at him, not seeming to mind that he was Mabbina's least-favorite, but the others were all wary and cast frowning, appraising looks at Michael as he moved down the line. Pol glared back at them and demanded another spoonful of potatoes when he thought one of the nannas had shorted him the full helping. Michael almost protested—Pol had already seen to it that more food than he could possibly eat had been scooped onto his tray—but Pol's outrage kept him silent. When they reached the end of the line, Pol grabbed the tray and carried it while Ned kept him in tow. Together, they propelled him across the dining hall and to their traditional table.

"Now, eat," Pol ordered and almost banged the tray down in front of him. Michael obeyed, but he couldn't help noticing more changes he didn't like. He noted absences like wounds. Nella had been sent off into service at some highborn household three moons before; Jiin had left a moon before that for his own apprenticeship. Michael never heard what it was he was apprenticing to be, though. He hoped Jiin liked it. There were always new faces and always fewer familiar ones.

He stood out now as he always had, but it was no longer just because of his lovely face and long hair. Now it was because everyone was trying to figure out what it was that Mabbina saw in him that made her loathe him. It didn't help that most of the nannas liked Mabbina's authoritative, no-nonsense ways better than Ethene's more indulgent, affectionate approach to the children. Many had agreed with Mabbina that Ethene gave Michael too many special privileges.

He ate with his eyes on his plate, relieved to be able to hide amongst his remaining friends. _It's so loud now that I'm not with everyone all the time. I get used to the quiet whether I want to or not. I just want everything to go back to the way it used to be._ He tried not to think about Pol's promise, though the thought whispered through his mind that it would be even better to finally get away from JhaPel altogether.

Michael hadn't realized how hungry he'd been. The food tasted so good, it almost hurt, but he felt guilty for sitting there eating while Cyra was out there somewhere, wounded and scared.

The other children's conversation roiled around him, and he made a few noises and nods, pretending to be listening, but all he wanted was to go find Cyra. He wasn't sure if even Pol would understand—no one else quite looked at the cats at JhaPel as anything more than mousers.

He ate quickly, which was not his way, and Pol frowned at him. "What's the matter?"

Michael shot him a look, almost wary. "I have to go do something. I'm late." He mopped up the last bit of stew with the last bit of bread and popped it into his mouth. "I have to go," he said around the mouthful.

Pol seemed about to argue with him or ask a question, but he subsided. "Fine. You go on, then. I'll get your tray."

"Thanks." Michael flashed a quick smile as he stood up, and then he broke into a run. He reached the dining hall doors and was down the corridor before anything else could delay him.

He made it to the South Courtyard and slipped outside into the garden without being stopped again. Once there, he dropped his imperfect mental protections in an attempt to sense Cyra. He searched for a long time, sensing only the vaguest flicker which, he thought, was faint enough to be his imagination.

It grew late, and Last Prayer would sound soon. If he didn't want even more trouble, he needed to get to his dorm and be under covers before rounds.

"Oh, Cyra." He felt helpless and miserable. "Where are you?" He took a few steps toward the dormitory building when something moved in the greenery nearby, catching his attention.

"Who's there?" he asked. No one answered, but something moved again, and then he heard it. A faint, mewling cry came from somewhere in amongst the bean plants. He caught a brief sense of fear and pain and focused on it.

Cyra! Oh, please, Vail, let it be Cyra. Please.

Michael bit his lip and followed the cry to its source. "Shize." He knelt down in the waist-deep greenery to pick up the small gray cat.

She'd obviously been beaten up pretty badly, and, remembering how she'd run past him earlier that day, Michael was shocked she'd been able to move so quickly. She trembled in his arms, managing a weak, kitten's mew every few moments.

"It isn't fair." Michael ran a gentle hand down her back, feeling for any more injuries. "You're so much smaller than they are. You're even smaller than the other cats."

She flinched when his fingers brushed her side, and he brought his hand away bloody. His first impulse was to take her to one of the nannas, but he couldn't go to Ethene, and Tierna hadn't come back to stay at JhaPel for some time.

_Ever since Mabbina took over._ Most likely, he'd meet up with Mabbina who would be furious with him for even looking for Cyra. She wouldn't be sympathetic to a wounded cat even if it was right in front of her.

He slid sideways to sit on the ground where he'd been kneeling. Cyra huddled against him with her nose tucked in the crook of his arm, and he could feel her increasing weakness and pain.

Tears gathered in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Everything had become so awful so quickly. It wasn't so long ago that he'd been happy at JhaPel. Now, it was all falling apart, and Cyra lay dying in his arms. Her tiny heart beat so fast, and her breath came in little, helpless gasps.

Michael closed his eyes and began stroking her again, concentrating on calming her. He'd begun to feel too odd to stand up, and he had the strangest feeling that every living thing in the garden was whispering to him, telling him their stories.

I ate too fast, or I worked too hard. Didn't drink enough water...

He seemed to be sensing Cyra's pain even more than he usually sensed such things, too. His body hurt and glinted with sharp, knife-like pains in his stomach and chest and his leg felt as if it wouldn't take his weight. He felt out of breath and weaker by the moment.

_I'll rest here with her,_ he told himself. _And she won't be alone when she dies._

"It just isn't fair." He remembered his introduction to the orphanage and how Cyra had been one of the first living things he'd met within its walls. They'd shared a bond from that first meeting, and he'd often awoken to find she'd burrowed in amongst his covers during the night and was sleeping, purring happily, cuddled against his ankles.

They sat together in the deepening darkness until Michael felt the strange, shared pain fade away to nothing.

_She's dead_ , he thought miserably. But then he gasped, and his eyes flew open. Cyra sat in his lap, looking whole and contented. Her purring rumbled through her small body, and she was carefully licking Michael's hand where it rested against her.

He nearly shoved her away from him but instead stared in amazement as she leapt nimbly from his lap and walked away, tail held high, and disappeared into the garden's depths.

"What happened?" he gasped. "Did I dream this?" Looking down at his hands, he saw that his fingers were still blood-stained. Cyra had been dying. He'd felt her pain. And now she seemed as well as she'd ever been.

He climbed to his feet and hurried over to the garden's water pump where he frantically scrubbed at the blood, trying to wash away every trace of it. The stains on his clothes wouldn't come out no matter how he tried. The best he could hope for was that they would be mistaken for more dirt stains.

Michael stood still for a long time, ignoring the water dripping from his hands, as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Had it been a miracle from Vail? _But who ever heard of a miraculous cat healing?_

His mind barely could call up the word he feared might be the answer, and there was no way he could bring himself to say it out loud. It was what Mabbina and her followers believed. _Magic? Did I do magic? Please, Vail, don't let it be true!_

But what if it wasn't magic? What if it was a sign from Vail Herself? What if it had been a miracle? _If I could make Ethene well, then everything would be all right again._ He felt immediately foolish for even thinking such a thing, but that didn't prevent him from continuing to think about it. He sank down onto the ground again, staring at his hands.

"I must have dreamed it," he whispered. "It isn't possible. She must not have been as bad off as I thought."

But what if she was? What if...?

# # #

# CHAPTER EIGHT

Pol's uncle came for him the next day, cutting short any plans or ideas the two friends might have had about how to say good-bye to each other. Pol and Michael ate morning meal together as usual, but when Michael arrived for midday meal, Pol was already gone.

The rest of the quarter-moon passed like a bad dream where every word said is loud as a shout and very little makes any sense at all. Michael moved through his days in a state of shock, feeling as if Pol had died rather than just left.

Pol had been as close as a brother to him since his arrival at JhaPel. He'd always been there for Michael, even more than Abbess Ethene or Nanna Tierna had been. _I hope he's right. I hope his uncle means it._

The other boys tried to make Michael feel better, but Ned was about to leave for his own apprenticeship. Of the old gang, only Michael and Lee would remain, and they'd never been that close. Plus, Lee had already made friends with the boy who'd taken Jiin's place in their dorm. Soon, there would be two more new faces and minds and sets of emotions. Michael didn't know how he would manage even one more change.

As another moon passed, Michael tried to get used to the difficult, solitary work he was now assigned. Once in awhile, Mabbina relented and let him do more usual chores with everyone else, but this was rare.

He and Pol saw each other at Prayers on holy days, which was just slightly less often than he saw Nanna Tierna. Pol always said the same thing—that his uncle had promised that he was just about to file the papers—but even he looked less certain each time. Abbess Ethene did not improve.

By spring, Ethene's condition took a turn for the worst. Mabbina, at Ethene's behest, began summoning her especial charges one by one to make their farewells.

Michael's turn came on an appropriately rainy afternoon. He'd actually been assigned to garden work that day, since the planting required as many hands as possible. Mabbina found him soaked to the skin and muddy, working on the potatoes. For once, she had no sharp words for him but sent him to clean up and change clothes while she waited to escort him into the nannas' wing where Ethene lay dying.

At all other times, the children were forbidden to enter that part of the JhaPel compound. It stood a little apart from the rest of the buildings and even looked different, built in a more ancient, awe-inspiring style. The nannas disappeared into their wing and swept out of it in their long, plain, dark-blue dresses, leaving the children to imagine what mysteries must live on the other side of the wrought-iron gates and enormous double doors.

Michael followed Nanna Mabbina through the gates and doors, hardly daring to breathe for fear his very presence might be a blasphemy. Abbess Ethene's room was near the main doors and with barely enough time to adjust to being inside the nannas' wing, Michael was ushered into the shadowed, silent room and left alone.

Ethene's pain and weariness filled the room, making it difficult for Michael to concentrate on anything else. _How long has she been like this?_

"Is that you, Michael, my dear?" Ethene sat propped up in her bed, and she looked limp, as if she hadn't the strength even to lift a finger. Her voice shook and sounded cracked and faded. He barely recognized it.

"Yes, senna," he whispered. "You sent for me?"

"I wanted to say good-bye to all my dear children. You know I'm dying."

"Nanna Mabbina said so."

"And she's right." Ethene smiled at him. "Come closer, dear. Take my hand."

Michael obeyed, though he didn't want to touch her and experience her illness even more strongly. He couldn't refuse to, and he wouldn't refuse. She would think he feared her disease or was repulsed by her, and he knew he'd rather suffer with her than hurt her more.

Her skin felt like brittle paper but her grip was surprisingly strong. She held his hand tightly and smiled into his eyes.

"I've missed you. How have you been?"

Michael hesitated before he made a reply. He didn't want to lie to her, but it was too late for her to help him with Mabbina, and it was far too much to put such a burden on her now.

"Great." He forced a smile. "But I've missed you, too. Everyone's getting apprenticed, so I expect it's my turn soon."

"Yes. A nice clerkship. I've told Mabbina to find you a good master—someone who will really teach you and not just let you do all the busy work."

It sounded good to him, and he smiled. It warmed him in this dark, cold-spirited place to know she'd still been thinking about him and trying to look after him even while she'd been so unwell.

"Thank you. That sounds wonderful."

"You're a special child, Michael." She returned his smile. "You have so many talents. I think you could be an artist, but I'm afraid it will have to be your own efforts that make it happen."

"I understand. But, I don't want you to go—"

"Hush, dear," she breathed. "No point in arguing with Vail Herself, is there? If it is to be my time, then I will accept it."

"Why does it have to be your time? Why can't Vail do a miracle?" Michael asked, and she squeezed his hand.

"If Vail granted every miracle begged of her, no one would ever die. The world needs change to keep going. We cannot live forever or avoid suffering and pain else nothing would ever happen."

_Not every miracle. But maybe one?_ Michael thought of Cyra.

"Vail will show you your own path." Ethene's voice grew weaker as she reached out to touch his face. "You'll have so many to choose from, I'm sure. The hard part will be making the choice."

Maybe she already has shown me my path. Maybe that's why I'm here now. What if it is?

Michael stopped trying to resist Ethene's pain. He reached out and touched his free hand to her cheek, echoing her own gesture as he closed his eyes. Her pain filled him immediately, spreading into every corner of his being and blotting out everything else. He gasped and returned her grip, clinging to her hand as if it were a lifeline. He knew that she was speaking, but he didn't hear her words.

When he thought he could stand the pain no longer, it began to recede, slowly ebbing away until, after an eternity of suffering, it was simply gone.

Michael sank to his knees, so exhausted by what he'd just done that he had to lean against the bed or else fall over.

"Michael..." Ethene began. "What—?"

"What have you done?"

Michael turned to stare at Mabbina, overwhelmed by her horror and revulsion. He hadn't expected such a reaction, in spite of his own first fear that he'd done magic to heal Cyra. He'd since convinced himself that healing must be a gift from Vail. A miracle.

"She's well," he said, his eyes wide with fear. "Vail healed her."

Mabbina came at him, and he shrank back against the bedstead but couldn't escape her. The blow she delivered knocked his head sideways and split his lip.

"Blasphemy!" Jerking him up from the floor by his collar, Mabbina shook him hard, choking him, then threw him toward the door. Michael fell sprawling on the floor, half-in and half-out of Ethene's cell, and didn't move but tried to catch his breath. By this time, a few of the other nannas had come running to see what was happening.

"Dear Vail!" Ethene climbed out of bed and moved to stand protectively in front of Michael. "Mabbina, leave the boy alone! Can't you see he's—?"

"You're _standing_!" Mabbina shrieked. She turned her wild gaze on Michael who flinched. "You _did_ something to her. She's standing!"

"Mabbina!" Ethene sounded more irritated than alarmed. "Just stop it—"

"He's a witch! Whiltierna brought a vile little witch into this sacred place, and now he's damned us all!"

"This is madness." Ethene turned to include the growing crowd of nannas, none of whom seemed to know what to do or say.

Mabbina whirled on Ethene and caught her by the shoulders. "You were dying! Vail meant for you to die!" Her eyes were wild. "Vail chose this death for you, Ethene! That accursed child performed magic to thwart the will of Vail!"

Everyone drew back from Michael, their shock slapping against him. He crawled away from Mabbina and Ethene, pulling himself up against the corridor wall where he huddled, gasping and trying to swallow.

"What if he's right?" Ethene snapped. "What if it is a miracle? It certainly felt like one."

"Abbess Ethene," one of the younger nannas ventured. "Magic is evil—all magic. Isn't that what we're taught?"

Ethene glared at her and demanded, "Can you tell the difference between magic and a miracle? Who can judge that?"

Mabbina shook Ethene, her fury burning so hot, Michael feared the room would catch fire. "That's enough! You're raving! He has committed the gravest heresy and brought his own curse down on your soul, Ethene! You cannot live a life born of magic!"

At Mabbina's final shake, she released Ethene who dropped back onto the bed where she sat, slumped on the edge, her face filled with confusion. Her eyes flickered over to Michael who looked at her, his expression pleading.

"He is so beautiful," she breathed. "And so sweet. I cannot believe he—"

"Evil has many faces," one of the other nannas opined, prim and disapproving. "It can seem very beautiful, indeed."

Feeling Ethene waver, Michael struggled to his feet and moved toward them, mouthing, "no," and shaking his head against what he knew Mabbina was going to do.

Mabbina looked over her shoulder and saw him. His eyes met hers, and her hatred burned into him. "Leave us," she ordered. "For the good of the order, this must be done." Two of the older, hard-faced nannas pushed through the crowd and joined Mabbina. "Hold her." Several of the nannas seemed to think Mabbina was right but a few seemed uncertain, confused, frightened.

"NO!" Michael screamed.

Mabbina spun, took two long steps across the small room, and backhanded Michael. Drops of blood spattered across the wall behind them as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his face.

"Stop that!" Ethene struggled against her former subordinates, shouting and furious and still unaware of what Mabbina intended. "Do not do as she says!" she commanded. "This is foolish! We must have an inquiry—"

Mabbina's hand flew out and struck Ethene this time, and the abbess staggered back against the restraining hands of her captors.

"She raves," Mabbina said to the room. She'd become very suddenly calm. She looked at the nanna who'd said all magic was evil. "Take him away. I'll deal with him later."

Nannas scattered, some into the room, some away to whatever purpose they thought best at this time. Some were crying—sobbing. Michael heard screams and shouts as the women started to fight amongst each other.

The nanna assigned to deal with him, however, stayed calm and waved another woman over to help her. Each caught an arm and propelled Michael, confused and hurt and stumbling, half-blind with tears and horror, through the corridors of JhaPel.

"This way," said the first nanna when the other began heading in the direction of the main entrance.

"We need to throw him out," the other argued. "Mabbina isn't thinking clearly. She wants to have an inquisition, I'm sure, but we can't let that happen. They'll find out about Ethene."

The first stammered the beginnings of an argument but subsided after only a moment. "All right," she agreed.

They'd gone only a few more lengths when Ethene's death overtook Michael, and he went slack in the nannas' arms, dropping to the ground and gasping. He tried not to scream.

They were merciless, however, and yanked him back to his feet, dragging him out through the front gate and across the square to the public pump.

"I'd run as far from here as I could if I were you, child," the second nanna whispered, and then they left him there. As he watched them go, every instinct wanted to chase after them, to scream and beg for another chance. But his chances had all died with Ethene. _And Mabbina killed her._

# # #

# CHAPTER NINE

Jarlyth couldn't believe his ears. He felt the flush burn up his neck and to his face as he stood in the middle of what seemed to be the entire Court.

He'd imagined it all going a different way. When he'd walked into the throne room to make his official petition, Jarlyth had been confident of the king's continued support.

Flannery, Evander, and a few of the other "prince's guard" had come with him in a show of solidarity. _They may have to drag me out._

After all the moons spent chasing around after pirates had ended with cathartic punishment but no actual progress toward finding Nylan, Jarlyth decided to go back to King Teodor to request more people for his search team.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?" Jarlyth managed. Maybe he had misheard.

"I have indulged you long enough, Lord Denara." Teodor's eyes flicked past him, dismissing Jarlyth as if he'd been offering the king some unwanted refreshment and not pleading with him to do even more to find his lost son. "He's dead. His murderers have finally been punished. Let this go."

"He is not dead, Majesty!" He shouted it, his voice cracking. Jarlyth's eyes flicked over to where Durran stood but the prince studiously avoided meeting his gaze. Whispers and titters and comments loud enough to be heard but low enough to be overlooked began to rise up all around.

"I am his warder, Your Majesty!" Jarlyth insisted. "Warders feel their charges' lives as certainly as we feel our own. Vail Herself—!"

"Yes, Lord Denara. Yes." Teodor waved his hand as if brushing away an annoying fly. "We all know the tale."

The laughter grew louder. _They all think he's dead, and I'm mad—A mad fool._

Jarlyth tried again. _I have to keep trying._

"If I could have just a few more men and women to help—"

"Enough!" Teodor's shout held no note of patience.

"You made a vow to Queen Vedalanna, Sire..." A hiss came from the gathered courtiers, as if everyone of them had sucked in their breath at the same moment.

Teodor shot up from his throne and flew down the dais steps, stopping when his nose was all but pressed against Jarlyth's. "Do not say her name, Lord Denara." The words were bitten-off.

"I loved her more than my own life. More than my throne. And she is dead. I have had to accept that; you must accept your own loss, and move on."

_He knows. Of course, he knows. I should have seen that the day Nylan was born._ He'd been young, though, and still not at ease with his powers. He'd mistaken the king's bitterness for impatience and worry. He'd naïvely believed the king's love for his dead queen might transfer to concern for her son.

Stupid.

"Are you forbidding me from continuing on my own?" Jarlyth heard a small gasp from behind him he identified as Flannery.

The king's eyes glittered with anger, but he did not lose control again. After a long, stomach-churning pause, he spoke.

"You were his warder. I would not presume to dictate your duty to you, Lord Denara. But you are on your own in this insane waste of time."

The king turned sharply on his heel and stomped from the throne room, Durran and a flutter of courtiers following in his wake.

The room cleared very quickly after that, but Jarlyth stood frozen, shocked. He sensed someone approach, and at last he managed to move. He turned with a pitiful excuse for a smile struggling across his lips.

Flannery's eyes gave away her fury though her expression retained its usual solemn composure. Evander looked sick and angry and mortified, reflecting Jarlyth's feelings exactly. The rest of the guard had gone.

Ah, well. They did what they'd set out to do. Everyone else wanted vengeance. Everyone else thinks I'm mad.

"I don't think you're mad," Flannery said. He focused on her, surprised.

"Even I could guess that's what you were thinking, Jary," Evander said. "Come on. Let's go get a drink."

He allowed himself to be herded out of the throne room. He couldn't stand to wait for a cab, so they walked together down the front lawn to the main gates and slipped through the guards' entrance onto the street. A trolley was just about to clang by, and they chased it, caught the pole at the back in turns, and swung on.

Everyone made way for them—three importantly-uniformed people coming from the castle—but they stood together in silence. They jumped back off only a post and a half later, just outside their favorite pub.

"It's over," Jary said once they'd been seated and served. "I can't believe it."

"It isn't over just because he won't help," Flannery said.

She's mad at me now.

"Flan, I know you think—" Evander began, but she turned her cool gaze on the man, and he subsided.

"Nylan has more than one parent with power." Her glass seemed in danger of shattering, her knuckles white as she gripped its handle, but that was the only sign she gave of her fury. She looked at Jarlyth, unblinking, as if trying to send a thought into his brain.

_Which she could if I let her._ He didn't feel up to it. He wanted to get drunk. _And maybe grab a nik._ He turned slowly, trying not to be obvious, and caught the barmaid's eye. She grinned back at him. _She remembers. Good._ It wasn't very difficult for a Sensitive to find willing bed-partners. Their reputation preceded them.

He flicked a glance at Evander and narrowed his eyes, trying to get him to leave, _and take Flan with you!_

But Flannery was the one who excelled at reading him. She stood up, the sound of her chair shoving away from the table startling him back into looking across the table to where she had been sitting. The look she gave him made him feel suddenly embarrassed and exposed, but when he opened his mouth, he found nothing to say.

Also wordless, Flannery turned on her heel and strode out of the pub. _Leaving me with the tab. That's fair._

Evander stood up more easily, but his grin was real this time. "Shize, Jary. Next time, just say you want to be alone to relax." He took out an herbal smoke and lit it, blowing out a mouthful of smoke as he gazed toward the door. "She'll kill us both, one of these days."

"We'll probably deserve it," Jary agreed.

The other man snorted. "I'll go calm her down. We'll meet up tomorrow and discuss next steps."

Left alone, Jarlyth nursed his drink and thought. _Next steps..._ Flannery was right.

Up until now, he hadn't wanted to waste time running so far away to Voya to seek help he'd thought available to him in Serathon. But now it seemed the only thing to do.

I can't stand it. How many more moons will it take just to be able to continue the search? Where in all the hells is he?

They'd searched Worldsend more thoroughly than anyone likely ever had. Nylan had been nowhere to be found, though rumors sprang up like weeds, all of them turning down dead-ends eventually. Even the mercenaries hadn't been able to tell him anything of value.

The barmaid wandered over to his table, her smile more alluring, her eyes warm with anticipation. "Good to see you, Lord Denara." She sat a bottle of very fine wine down on the table, followed by two glasses. "May I join you?"

He echoed her smile and waved a hand, inviting her.

Tomorrow would not be soon enough, but it was too late to leave for SouthPort today, and he had arrangements to make before he could even do that. Too late today to do any of it. _Might as well relax, then._

But he knew that someday he'd regret these stolen moments. _When I find him...I'll hate myself for every tic's delay._

Nylan was lost somewhere, alone, probably scared and unhappy and wondering what had happened to him.

But Jarlyth couldn't stop breathing, living, finding a moment's peace once in awhile just because he knew his beloved charge was still lost.

I also can't stop feeling guilty.

But that seemed only a fair price to pay.

#

The rain had not stopped, though Michael didn't notice it at first. He didn't notice anything outside of himself for a very long time as he sat against the public pump, shivering and reliving everything that had led up to this disaster.

The stone edge of the pump's platform dug into his back and had probably left a bruise when he'd been dropped there by the nannas. He began to feel the discomfort; began to feel the cold of the rain and his wet clothes as the rain kept falling; began to feel the deep, gut-twisting terror.

The central building of the orphanage's several loomed over him, seeming to glare down through its stories-high stained glass window eyes. The gates stood closed and locked for the night. Enormous chains wrapped the wrought-iron bars several times. Their weight underscored the impossibility of the gates being opened against the nannas' will.

The scant, waning daylight making its way through the storm clouds suggested that wherever the sun was hiding, it had yet to set.

Everything happened so fast. Why does it always have to happen so nikking fast?

His mouth throbbed and a finger touched to his lips came away bloody.

Ethene's dead...I should have let her die the way Vail meant. I didn't mean for it to be like this.

He was having trouble accepting what had happened to him. He'd been thrown out—he realized that—but all that this action meant, all that Ethene's death meant, all that Mabbina had done and had meant to do to him—it was more than he could comprehend all at once.

"I'm kiska now," he whispered, frightened. _But where do the kiska go when JhaPel won't take them?_ He bit his lip as he thought of Telyr and the boys who'd attacked Cyra. _And me...but that won't be me. That won't happen to me._

"Pol. Pol will help me," he said. He used the platform's edge to pull himself to his feet and just managed to avoid stepping in one of the troughs.

He splashed his face and hoped his lip had stopped bleeding. His face and throat hurt, and he had no idea what condition they were in, but he knew he couldn't afford to worry about that. He had to find Pol as quickly as he could.

But where is the Red Boar Inn?

He hadn't seen anyone since the nannas—not surprising, thanks to the rain which, even for Queen's City, was falling especially hard—but if he intended to find Pol, he'd have to find someone who could tell him where the Red Boar was. All he knew was that it was somewhere in Fensgate. JhaPel stood beside Fensgate Temple and together the two made up the southwestern border of the parish. He had to go the other way if he wanted to stay in Fensgate.

_Not that I want to. This is the worst place for a kiska to be!_ But he was afraid it might be the only place, too.

He knew so little about anything beyond the walls of JhaPel, and for the first time, he comprehended how dangerous this was. He had only three years' worth of memories and knowledge, and virtually all of it related to the orphanage in some way.

He could count the number of times he'd really been away from JhaPel on one hand—going to Holy Prayers certainly didn't count—and he'd learned nothing of use to him now during those few outings.

The rain seemed to be easing off but already it was much darker. Michael picked a street at random from the seven fanning out from the square, heading away from JhaPel and began to walk.

The buildings crowded together along either side of all the streets, towering up precariously and seeming to lean toward each other over the cobblestones below. Nothing in Fensgate was tall enough to distinguish itself above the buildings and twisting streets except the temple's bell tower, and even it sometimes disappeared amongst the tangle of streets and alleys and upper stories.

Michael remembered what Pol had said and feared he was walking into a maze he might never escape.

The rain did prevent him from being overwhelmed by every shock Fensgate had in store for him. It had fallen for so long that day, it had washed away—for a short time—the stench and filth that normally clogged the parish's streets.

Grasping the lifeline Pol represented to him, Michael walked along in a fog of shock and denial.

He decided against asking the first few people he saw where he could find the Red Boar Inn. They looked strange and scary. And they looked at him as if he were strange, too. It unnerved him.

An old woman stood under a tattered awning, looking not much better than it did, but when she gave Michael a toothless grin, he decided she'd be safe enough to ask.

"Excuse me, senna. Would you know where I could find the Red Boar Inn?"

Her eyes widened, and then she made a coughing noise he thought might be a laugh. " _Yer_ lookin' for the Red Boar, are ye? What's a lowly kiska like yer want with a flash place like the Red Boar?"

Michael frowned at that. "I just want to know where it is. If you know, please?"

"Oh, I know it, I do," she assured him, as if she didn't look ten times more lowly than he did.

"I have a friend who works there." Michael hoped she wasn't crazy. "I need to find him."

She coughed again but nodded and began a long series of directions that soon baffled the boy. He repeated them to her, and though he knew he'd confused much of what she'd told him, she agreed with his recital. He tried to see in her mind what she was describing to him, but that only made things murkier.

His shoulders sagged, but he started walking again, hoping that at least the first few turn-heres and go-theres were correct.

Though the state of their clothing varied a good deal, the next three people he begged directions from were equally as perplexing as the old woman had been, both in the way they reacted to his question and in the complicated directions they supplied.

After walking for hours, he heard the temple bell ring far off in the distance for Second Prayer. Almost at that same moment, it had started to rain again in earnest, and—exhausted, terrified, and very hungry—he began to believe he'd never arrive anywhere.

Though he'd seen a carriage or two pass him by, it had been a long time since he'd seen anyone to give him directions—however useless they'd all turned out to be. _And what if I've passed it without knowing? What am I going to do if I can't find Pol? What am I going to do?_

Tears stung his eyes, and he inhaled deeply and held his breath to try to keep them from falling. He failed.

I didn't mean it! I didn't know! I didn't mean it to happen!

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The words heaved up from deep inside him and came out on the crest of a great sob. More sobs wracked his body, and he sank to the ground, too exhausted to stand for another moment.

He heard the carriage coming but didn't try to look for it. His shock had grown more powerful and more debilitating as the night had worn on, and his brain could no longer put the sound of the carriage together with his own collapse in the street and warn him of his danger.

The driver's senses and reactions were apparently more acute. The horse stopped with a length to spare, and a man climbed out of the carriage and approached him.

"Michael? Is that you?" a man's voice asked him.

"Magister Vaznel?" Michael whispered. "What are you doing here?"

The man said nothing more but knelt down and picked Michael up, ignoring his dirty and sopping-wet clothing. He carried the boy back to the carriage and settled him onto the seat beside him. So deep was his shock, however, Michael felt nothing from him at all.

"Drive on," the man called as he shrugged out of his coat. Turning to Michael, he said, "Here, put this on. You're chilled to the bone."

The obviously fine and elegant coat enveloped him in warmth and Michael felt a little better. "Thank you," he breathed.

"Of course," the man replied. It _was_ Magister Vaznel, though he had to look into the man's face to confirm it. His wavy, dark hair framed a painfully-sympathetic expression made even more kind by the man's shy, childlike smile and large, perpetually worried eyes. Michael had not thought to see the man again after Mabbina told him his lessons were cancelled. The man's blankness of mind had always been a little unsettling but at that moment, it was very welcome. Michael didn't think he could take one more thought or feeling from anyone.

Michael couldn't imagine what series of events had brought the man to find him wandering Fensgate that particular night, but he was very, very glad to see a familiar face.

Magister Vaznel regarded Michael thoughtfully. Finally, as if to answer the boy's unspoken wonderings, he said. "Nanna Whiltierna sent word about Abbess Ethene and everything. She asked me to find you. I'm so sorry."

Michael's eyes stung with fresh tears. "You shouldn't be helping me. Nanna Mabbina was right to throw me out."

The man reached out and with gentle fingers traced the outline of the bruise marring the boy's cheek. Michael flinched, but he felt nothing from the man, still. _I forgot. He's muted. But he's even more blank than before._

He wondered why, but Vaznel interrupted his thoughts. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

_He's so odd. Is that why Nanna Mabbina doesn't like artists?_ Michael shook his head, and the man returned to what he'd said before.

"'Right to throw you out?'" He repeated Michael's words, plainly surprised. "It seems you were on the worse end of the situation. And I can't imagine you meaning to do anything wicked. You're the sweetest child I've ever met."

"Nanna Mabbina doesn't think so." He bit his lip, not wanting to cry in front of his tutor. "She's probably right. Everything just happened so fast."

"But that doesn't explain how you ended up where I found you. We're posts away from JhaPel. What were you doing?"

Michael almost wailed his answer. "I was looking for the Red Boar Inn! I have a friend there, and I thought he might be able to help me. Do you know where it is?"

Vaznel nodded, but Michael recognized the odd expression on his face. Everyone seemed to react to the Red Boar's name the same way. _But Pol is there, and he'll help me!_ "Could you please take me there? I looked for it for hours, but I couldn't find it."

The man smiled at Michael and shook his head. "Not right now. It's too late even for the Red Boar. Come home with me tonight, and we'll see about finding your friend tomorrow."

"I don't want to be any trouble, Magister—"

"Call me Robyn. All my friends do."

Michael blushed again but managed a grateful smile. "Thank you, sirra."

"Robyn. I must insist upon that."

"Thank you, Robyn."

# # #

# CHAPTER TEN

Michael didn't remember falling asleep. The carriage ride had been a long one, though, and the coat had been so soft and warm that he knew he must have nodded off before they'd reached Robyn's home.

He lay still for a long time after he woke up, keeping his eyes closed in the childish hope that if he didn't open them, everything would be all right.

Ultimately, it was hunger that led him to open his eyes and break the fragile bubble of hope he'd created. The bed he was in was not his own and the room he was in was definitely not his dorm room at JhaPel. Which could only mean that the fragmented, frantic memories he had of the night before really had happened. Abbess Ethene was dead. He had been banished from the only home he'd ever known. And he must now be in Robyn's house.

He wilted back into the pillows, exhausted and devastated all over again. He was very thirsty, and his throat ached. His entire body throbbed from the intensity of his headache. His face hurt even at the pillow's slight pressure. He remembered Nanna Mabbina hitting him and closed his eyes again.

The bed chamber door whispered open, and Michael peeked through swollen eyelids to see Robyn's sympathy-filled face. The man carried a tray filled with delicious-smelling food. Michael's stomach rumbled noisily.

"And well you should be hungry, dear boy." Robyn set the tray down on the foot of the bed. "You fell asleep before I could feed you. It must be more than a day since you've had anything to eat."

"What time is it?" Michael was afraid he knew the answer.

"It's well past Seventh Prayer."

Dismayed, Michael blurted, "I slept all day! I'm sorry."

"Not at all. After what you've been through, it is only to be expected. We shall find your friend tomorrow."

Michael's shoulders sagged. He'd hoped Robyn would take him to the Red Boar right away. _Doesn't he want to be rid of me?_ But he'd been brought up by the nannas not to argue, so he said nothing.

"Eat as much of what's on that tray as you can. The bathing room is through that door over there." Robyn pointed to the wall behind and to the right of Michael's bed where, yes, there was a door. "And I will be down in my study where you may join me in a little while if you wish to. This room is just at the top of the stairs, so you should have no trouble finding me from here, all right?"

Again, Michael nodded. Robyn had left the room and closed the door behind him before Michael could bring himself to speak. He shook his head once, brusquely, silently scolding himself for nearly bursting into tears again, and reached for the tray.

He ate quite a bit of the food on the tray and then made use of the bathing room, noticing the rather too-large but very fine night shirt he was wearing for the first time when he saw it in the bathing room's mirror. He found his own clothes, cleaned and pressed and hanging over the arm of a chair near the window, waiting for him. He squirmed a little, embarrassed by the obvious implication of that fact: He'd been undressed by someone the night before, probably by Robyn. He shook off his discomfort, dressed quickly, and went to join his host.

Michael had never been in a real house before, and he was surprised to find it so thoroughly deserted. He neither met nor sensed anyone as he made his way down the front staircase, through the foyer, and along the right-hand corridor to Robyn's study. A second surprise was the electric lights spaced evenly along his way. He'd never seen even one before, but here was an abundance of them, and all were lit in apparent disregard for the cost.

He came to the study door and hesitated, suddenly shy in spite of his erstwhile tutor's kindnesses. But Robyn must have been looking for him.

"Ah, there you are, my dear boy," he called, and though Michael couldn't see his face, the smile was evident in his voice. "Come in, and sit down. I know you've just eaten, but I had some excellent pastry saved from this afternoon's tea. Would you like some?"

Michael was surprised to find that he would. "Yes, please," he whispered after he'd crossed the room to the fireside. He perched nervously on the edge of a very expensive-looking, cushioned chair as he took in the warm comfortableness of the room and smiled at it. Candles glowed around the room in careless profusion, warming the air and the atmosphere far more than harsh gas or even the new electric lights ever could.

"You look better already," Robyn announced. He was busily transferring an enormous pastry from a well-laden platter to a smaller plate. "You'll want a fork, yes?"

Michael nodded, his eyes round with surprise. Robyn handed the plate to Michael then poured out two enormous goblets full of some deep red liquid.

"Oh, wait!" Michael exclaimed, dismayed at how rich and expensive it looked. "Couldn't I have water or tea instead?"

"I think you should drink this." Robyn handed one of the goblets to Michael who then balanced his plate on one knee and was at a loss over how to handle both the wine and the pastry. "It will help you sleep."

"But I already slept all day!"

Robyn raised an eyebrow and looked at Michael, a slight frown drawing a line between his pale eyebrows. After a few tics of this, Michael blushed and looked away.

"Drink, please," the man said. "I don't want you up all night worrying."

Michael took a sip and made a face at the unfamiliar, bitter taste, but he obediently drank down some more until he thought Robyn looked satisfied.

And then Robyn began to talk. He talked a great deal, telling Michael all sorts of things, most of which the boy didn't really understand. Michael laughed when he thought he was supposed to laugh and frowned when he thought he was supposed to frown. In the midst of his stories, Robyn paused several times, urging Michael to finish his pastry and drink his wine.

Having been raised not to waste anything, Michael complied with Robyn's urgings. By the time both the pastry and wine were finally gone, the boy wanted nothing but to sleep again and was very embarrassed by that.

"I've slept all day," he protested while Robyn led him back to his room. "I shouldn't have done it. I need to find Pol so I won't be bothering you anymore."

"Nonsense! You're no bother at all." They reached Michael's guest room, and to Michael's surprise, Robyn came in with him. Michael turned to say goodnight, but Robyn dropped to one knee and began unbuttoning Michael's shirt.

"I can do that," Michael protested. A blush warmed his cheeks, and he wished he hadn't drunk so much wine. He felt sluggish and so sleepy, and his mind felt even more dulled and stupid than his body did. He knew he didn't want Robyn to undress him, but he found he was having trouble getting the words out.

"Of course you can, but I want to help you, my dear boy. You've been through so much. You deserve to be pampered." He reached up and wound a thick strand of Michael's hair around his finger, looking at it with thoughtful eyes. "They call this color SanClare Black, did you know?"

Michael stared at the man then shifted his blurry gaze to his hair. He shook his head when it seemed Robyn was waiting for his reply.

"After the old SanClare kings. It's a black so deep the highlights are blue. Difficult to match that when I'm mixing my paints."

Michael closed his eyes, unable to keep them open a moment longer, and Robyn gave a small laugh. "You'd be very difficult to capture in paint as well, darling."

He felt the soft caress of his shirt slipping from his shoulders, and he moved his limbs as he was directed, allowing Robyn to finish undressing him. The man's hands lingered on his arms, telling him nothing at all through the blur of wine and exhaustion, and when Michael swayed and slumped over, Robyn chuckled, his hands shifting Michael's body so that his head was snuggled on the pillow. He pulled the covers up over the boy and kissed his cheek. A few moments later, Michael slipped into a deep sleep and knew nothing more.

Michael dreamed that night in a chaotic profusion of images and voices. Something or someone seemed to be pulling at him, urging him to run away from someone or something else.

"Leave me alone." He wanted nothing but to sleep undisturbed. Far away, someone shushed him, and he whimpered, frustrated by the dream's persistence.

.: _Wake up!_ :. the dream-voice insisted. .: _You have to leave right now!_ :.

"Go away!" He tried to push the dream-voice back. "I don't want to. I just want to sleep."

Another voice, soothing and calm, pushed away the uncomfortable one until it went silent, and Michael drifted back into deep, undisturbed sleep.

When he next awoke, Michael heard the bells ringing one of the Great Prayers. He got up and hurried to the window, but the sky outside told him nothing about which Prayer it might be. As was the case almost every day in Queen's City, it was overcast and raining. But Michael guessed from what little evidence he could gather in this strange part of the city, it must be one of the middle hours. Midday if he was lucky; Seventh Prayer if he was not.

He went over to the bedroom door and looked out into the hallway. It was still almost eerily silent in the house, and he retreated to the bathing room. He'd bathe and dress and be ready the moment he could find Robyn. He'd ask to go to Pol right away.

Maybe the man would let him help in the scullery in exchange for a ride back to Fensgate? He had no idea how much such a thing cost. Perhaps he'd need to promise to come back and do some more work for Robyn.

But as he tied his shoelaces, he wondered if this might be taken an insult to his host. _He's treated me like a guest. Maybe he'd be upset if I tried to barter his help._ But what was the proper thing to do? He'd been treated so well, but he knew he shouldn't presume on the man's hospitality.

Once he finished dressing, Michael went back down to the first floor, all the while looking for someone to help him find Robyn.

A quarter of an hour later, he finally crossed paths with an annoyed-looking housekeeper. The woman frowned her disapproval at him.

"There you are," she snapped. "The Magister said you'd be up eventually, but I had no idea you'd sleep the day away again. I thought JhaPel raised children to be better behaved."

"I'm sorry," Michael said softly. "I don't know why I was so tired. Is the Magister here? I'd like to speak to him if I may."

The woman grunted, only a little mollified by his manners, and shook her head. "No, you mayn't speak to him. He's out, and I don't know when he'll be back. He's a busy man, you know."

Michael nodded but felt despair well up inside of him. He'd never find Pol at this rate. But the woman hadn't finished saying her piece.

"He said he'd talk to you when he got back and that you was to wait for him in the study. If you want to draw, he said, there's some good paper and pencils laid out on the desk for you. I'm to bring you tea and more if you're still hungry after."

"Thank you." Michael's eyes widened in surprise at this speech, and he felt deeply unworthy of such courtesy. "He's a very kind man."

The woman grunted again and gestured down the hallway. "You know where the study is?" she asked. Michael nodded. "Then go there and I'll be up with your tea in a bit." Which answered the bells question. If it was already time for tea, then he must have heard the Sixth Prayer bells.

Michael did as he was told and as quickly as possible. The woman reminded him of Nanna Mabbina and the sooner he was out of her sight, the better he would feel.

He spent the rest of the afternoon drawing various things in the study while still keeping an eye on the sky darkening outside the study's windows. Michael tried to be patient and concentrate on his technique, but when Seventh Prayer bells rang, he couldn't help feeling almost angry at having to wait. He was impatient to find Pol. He _needed_ to find Pol, but as the time slowly passed him by, his hopes for being reunited with his friend that evening faded into disappointment.

The house echoed with its unfamiliar sounds, and the fire the housekeeper had started for him hours earlier had burned down to mere embers on the grate. He didn't dare add any more fuel to it just for himself, sure that it must be expensive. He'd found a throw draped over a chair and wrapped himself in it instead.

He tried to read one of the many books filling the shelves, but though the one he'd selected looked very interesting, he succeeded only in memorizing one particular line in the middle of the page which he read over and over and over again, his eyes returning there every time he looked up at a noise and then back again at the book.

The hours passed, with Last Prayer bells ringing jarringly against his nerves, and still Robyn did not return. Michael ran out of distractions, though he kept trying to find new ones, and, at last, there seemed nothing left to do but think about his last night at JhaPel.

He wished he'd done it all differently. If he hadn't acted as he had, Abbess Ethene would've died quietly and without the horrible taint of magic and heresy he'd forced on her.

_I should leave before I hurt Robyn, too_ , he thought, stomach churning with misery at the memories. _That's probably why he's staying away, to keep away from my magic. That's probably why I was abandoned in the first place._

By midnight, he'd worked himself into a forlorn mess, sitting on the floor and crying his heart out until he finally cried himself to sleep.

The fire had burned down to cinders when the sound of Robyn stumbling in the front door and slamming it shut behind him woke Michael.

A loud crash—the sound of something shattering across the floor—followed, startling the boy, and he stayed by the fire, too frightened to go find out what had happened.

"Michael!" Robyn called, his voice odd and barely familiar. "Where's my little baby boy?"

Michael fought down panic. His mouth went dry at the sound of the man's voice, and his brain immediately tried to plan an escape. But there was no way out of the study except through the foyer.

"I'm being stupid," he whispered to himself. "It's just Robyn." He climbed to his feet, straightened his clothes, and made his way hesitantly toward the study doors.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!" The man fell into a fit of giggles.

"Robyn?" Michael pushed the door open a crack and peeked out at a bizarre scene. Broken glass, mixed with some sort of strong-smelling liquor, littered the elaborately-tiled floor near the door, and Robyn's coat lay in a crumpled heap a length or so farther on. His scarf trailed a little bit farther, yet, and Robyn himself sat on his knees just beyond that, convulsed with hysterical laughter. Rain had soaked his hair and drops of water still fell from the ends.

"There you are." Robyn turned an alarming face toward the boy and giggled. "Waiting up, eh? I knew you would." He straightened and shook his head, throwing drops of water everywhere.

"I'm sorry," Michael whispered. Emotions radiated from Robyn like heat from a fire, and Michael felt overwhelmed by them. He'd never felt anything from Robyn, and now there were too many feelings coming at him all at once. He couldn't sort them out, but he knew they frightened him. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.

"Don't be, don't be." Robyn shook his head again. "Come here."

Michael looked around the foyer at the mess then looked back at Robyn, a helpless expression on his face.

"Oh! You're right, 'course. Isn't safe, is it? I dropped my bottle." Robyn shuffled across the foyer on his knees until he was a length away from where Michael stood frozen.

Maybe this is a dream...oh Vail, I hope this is a dream!

"Come here," Robyn said again. He held out his arms as if for a hug.

"Please, Robyn," Michael said, but he opened the door a little more and took a few, small steps through it into the foyer.

"Come on." The man crooked his fingers a few times in encouragement.

"I—I don't like to be touched." Michael recoiled from his own words which he feared wouldn't be well received.

"Of course," Robyn said, a faint smile on his lips. "Well, come and have a drink with me, then." He struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily toward the study. Michael moved out of his way, letting the man go ahead of him.

The Voice he'd heard in his dreams spoke again, only this time it was screaming.

.: _Run! Now!_ :.

_Robyn wouldn't hurt me,_ Michael thought, desperate for this to be true. _He's been nothing but kind to me._

By the time Michael made his reluctant way back through the study door, he found that Robyn had lit several candles and was pouring out two glassfuls of some kind of strong liquor. It was different from both the wine he'd given Michael the night before and whatever it was that Robyn had spilled all over the foyer.

"What is it?" Michael asked when the man handed one of the glasses to him. It even smelled strong and Michael was afraid to drink it.

"Brandy. Very old. Very expensive. Only the best for you, my darling." Robyn held his own glass out in an off-balance salute. "Now, join me in toasting the end of innocence."

Michael took a sip of the brandy and winced at the strong taste and burning feeling it left in its wake. "May I please have some water instead?" His voice broke, and he swallowed.

An annoyed frown ran across Robyn's face and disappeared. "No, my dear. I want you to share this toast with me. Water wouldn't do for a toast."

"Please, Robyn. I just want to go find Pol. I've been waiting for hours. Couldn't we go tonight? Now?"

"At this time of night?" The man looked appalled at the idea. He gestured for Michael to sit down and then dropped heavily into the chair across from where Michael still stood. "Don't think about it. Fensgate is a dangerous enough place in the daytime, never mind wandering around there at this hour."

Michael couldn't shake off the feelings of uneasiness and urgency his dreams—and now Robyn's strange and elusive manner—had left him with.

"But you were out much later than this when you found me."

Robyn's good humor vanished, and the very air seemed to turn cold when his voice hit it. "Don't contradict me, darling. We will go tomorrow. Now, drink your brandy."

Michael glared at the glass in his hand, frustrated tears stinging his eyes. He couldn't understand why Robyn wouldn't take him to the Red Boar or at least send him there. He'd promised to do it! _And I need to see Pol. I need to talk to him!_

"Thank you, but I'd rather not." Michael set the glass down on the table which stood between his chair and Robyn's. It still held the remnants of Michael's long-ago tea as well as several books and his drawings.

Robyn said nothing for a long moment, but Michael could tell he was angry. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and clipped.

"After all I've done for you, I think you're being very ungrateful."

"I'm sorry, but I don't like brandy."

"I wish you'd said so before I poured it for you. You may have some water later, but I won't have good brandy wasted."

Michael looked into Robyn's face, and all his disappointment and fear caught in his throat. He needed to find Pol! Pol would make sense of everything for him.

"Didn't you hear what I said, Michael? I told you to _drink the brandy_."

"But I don't _want_ it!" Michael exclaimed.

Robyn reared up from the chair, his hands slamming down onto the table and shoving its contents off in a motion which looked to Michael as if he were trying to strangle something. The dishes broke into pieces as they hit the floor and papers flew all over the room. Michael leapt away from the table and from Robyn, and gave a little shriek of startled fear.

"Kiska trash!" Robyn lunged at him. Michael flinched and tried to run away from the man's fury but Robyn caught his arm and held him in a bruising grip. The full force of Robyn's thoughts and feelings flashed into Michael's mind as if they were fireworks exploding one after another, nearly knocking the boy unconscious. "It didn't have to be like this. I was willing to go slowly with you—you seemed so different! So innocent! It could've been so special—!"

"What are you talking about?" Michael gasped, so shocked by the man's sudden violence that the pain from his arm took a moment to register. "I just want to find Pol! You promised you'd help me!"

The man's free hand flew out and struck Michael across the face. It sounded as loud in his head as a slamming door, and his ears rang painfully. He found himself half-sprawled on the floor when he'd gathered his wits once more, and all he could taste was the sharp, metallic flavor of blood.

Impatiently, Robyn yanked him to his feet again, wrenching his already bruised arm. He was still talking but Michael could barely make sense of what the man was saying.

"If you'd just drunk the brandy! Now you've spoiled everything! I would've done anything for you. _Anything_! But you're so beautiful, I should've realized you couldn't possibly be as innocent as you seemed. I should've known JhaPel wouldn't have thrown you into the streets without good reason."

"Let me go." Michael's head throbbed from the blow, and his balance was destroyed by it. "Please, just let me go!"

"Not yet, _darling child_ ," Robyn sneered. "You owe me for all I've done for you. You're an ungrateful little whore, and I'm going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

A senseless shriek ran through Michael's brain while his lips moved soundlessly, trying to form words and failing. He swallowed and nearly choked on a mouthful of blood. A whimper escaped his throat.

The man leaned in close to him. His free hand reached up and tangled itself in Michael's long, black hair, holding the boy's head so that he couldn't escape.

Shock shut down Michael's imperfect mental defenses, and the full force of Robyn's thoughts and feelings overwhelmed him the moment the man's lips touched his. The boy recognized Robyn's strongest emotion, and though he had felt it directed at himself before, he had never sensed it from Robyn until that moment—nor had it ever been so overpowering. It was a grasping, suffocating _thing_ which wanted to smother him in its own desires.

Images and feelings and ideas that seemed weirdly familiar forced themselves into his awareness. He didn't want to know what they meant, didn't want to understand what was happening, but it was too late for escape. He knew Robyn meant to hurt him.

Robyn's mouth scrubbed against his face, his tongue filling Michael's mouth. The man made sickening noises and ripples of pleasure rolled off of him. Finally, he pulled back as if to study the boy's battered face.

"Are you afraid of me, dear?"

Michael felt numb and stupid. He could feel the blood running from his nose and taste it on his lips. "Yes."

Robyn smiled like a hungry dog, and, still holding tightly to Michael's arm, turned and strode through the foyer toward the staircase.

"Don't do this!" Michael tried to break free of the man's painful grip while still keeping his feet under him, but Robyn seemed to fully intend to drag him up the stairs if he didn't walk. "Let me go! Let me _go_!"

They reached Robyn's bed chamber, and the man pushed the boy through the doorway. Michael tripped, fell to his knees, and burst into tears. "Leave me alone!" he sobbed. "Go AWAY!"

"We're not done yet, sweetheart. There are some things it's about time you learned. Get up."

"No!" Michael's anger pushed away his tears for the moment.

"Have it your own way, then," Robyn muttered. He yanked the boy to his feet again, hurting his arm so badly with this new violence that Michael screamed. The man dragged him to the bed where he shoved him down.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands as if this could hide him from whatever Robyn meant to do. "Holy Vail, protect your child in this hour of need—"

The man pulled Michael's arms away and caught his face in his hands. He kissed him again, full and hard on the mouth, and Michael knew at once it was supposed to hurt, which it very much did, but he couldn't understand why.

When Robyn finally drew back, Michael could see that the man was almost laughing. "It's too late for a protection prayer, my darling innocent," he whispered. "You should have prayed that prayer the day we met. Perhaps then it might have done you some good."

"Robyn, please!" Michael pushed on the man's chest, desperate to push him away. The taste of liquor was now strong in the boy's mouth, the smell of it thick in his nostrils. His stomach lurched, and he swallowed, trying to keep from being sick.

Robyn ignored his struggling and unbuttoned Michael's shirt before pushing it down over his shoulders.

Michael swallowed carefully and put his words together with painful slowness. "Please. What are you doing?"

Robyn smiled a strange, frightening smile. "I'm undressing you. I've done it before, remember? We're going to play a game tonight, Michael, and you won't need any clothes for it." He bent down, kissing Michael again while his hands worked on undoing the boy's trousers.

"Stop it!" Michael squirmed backwards to escape. Robyn climbed up onto the bed, following Michael until he'd pushed himself up against the headboard and could go no farther. Laughing, Robyn rested his hands against the wall behind the bed, penning Michael between his arms.

"Please, Robyn," he hiccupped. "I don't like this game. I don't want to play!"

Robyn laughed. "This is just one of those games, darling. You have to play whether you want to or not. Unfair, I know, but you'd better get used to it."

"Why are you doing this?" Michael couldn't understand what had happened. He couldn't comprehend what Robyn wanted. His only thought was that he must have done something horribly wrong and this was his punishment. "What did I do?"

"You took everything I gave you, my dear, and gave me nothing in return. Now I'm afraid your debt is rather large. I've taken very good care of you and my housekeeper waited on you, hand and foot. Such service does not come cheap."

Frantic for a way out of whatever was happening, Michael seized on Robyn's explanation. "I'll pay you back if you'll please just let me go! I'll work—I'll scrub floors! I'll—I'll do _anything_!" Emotions pounded into him like fists, and Robyn's desire focused on him so strongly, he felt he was drowning in it. "Please!"

"Yes, beg me, Michael." The man leaned in closer to nuzzle his cheek and lick his neck, his unshaven face hurtfully rough against the boy's soft skin. "It won't matter in the end, but I like to hear it."

"NO! Let me GO!" Michael scrambled frantically, spurred by fear into trying to escape under his captor's arm.

Robyn caught him too easily, too tightly, his fingers sinking more bruises into the boy's upper arms. He shoved Michael back against the headboard, pinning him again, and the two stared for a long moment into each other's eyes.

Finally, Michael managed a fragile whisper. "This is wrong. And Vail will punish—"

This slap exploded across his face and threw him down onto the bed. The pain of it branded itself into his memory forever. It hurt worse than the other blows, bringing on fresh bruises and reminding his body of the wounds he'd already suffered that night. His desperate tears turned to broken sobs, and the only defense he knew was to cover his face again.

"Shut up, or I'll hit you again." Robyn yanked Michael back up to a sitting position and pulled his hands away from his face. "You listen to me and listen well. You're a little kiska streeter now. No one cares about you. _No one_ is going to care what I do to you. If you want to survive, you'll accept that. Do you understand?"

Michael nodded, tears spilling silently down his cheeks. He felt sick and dizzy and faint, and he hurt all over. He wanted to fight, but he could barely move in the man's brutal grip.

Robyn's expression softened. He smoothed the damp, ebony hair away from Michael's face with ironic care, whispering, "SanClare Black, indeed." He tilted the boy's chin upwards, surveying him proprietarily.

"You are _so_ beautiful." And he kissed him again.

#

Michael stayed huddled on the floor next to the bed for a long time after Robyn had finally finished with him, rolled over, and gone to sleep.

He felt worse than he ever had, and his thoughts refused to flow in any way that made sense. Robyn's words whirled around in his head mixing with the sound of his own screams.

" _If you want to survive..."_ This phrase was the only thing he could make out, echoing in Michael's mind, relentless and inescapable. He didn't know yet what his answer to the implicit question would be.

At some point Michael had stopped crying, but he couldn't remember when. Time seemed both stretched and collapsed, stumbling along erratically around him.

" _If you want to survive..."_

After an eternity had passed, someone or something answered the question.

.: _You do. You must. It isn't your time._ :. The Voice from his dreams. The Voice that had tried to warn him. The Voice that had tried to get him to run away.

Why didn't I listen before?

.: _Listen to me now,_ :. the Voice urged. .: _He won't let you go._ :.

Michael bit down on a sob and pulled himself into a smaller huddle. He'd never before been in such pain nor would he have believed it possible. The attack had been so torturously painful, he'd feared Robyn meant to kill him. And the blood...

_Robyn laughed!_ Laughed at Michael's ragged, horrified screams. Laughed at his revulsion and useless struggling. Called him names that only now, afterwards, he understood. Robyn had made certain he understood.

Michael choked on a sob and took a rattling breath to control it, but he couldn't control his memories. The images haunted his mind, visible even when he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them with his fists. He felt numb and sick by turns, fear and disgust tearing through his mind in a never-ending scream.

He'd been in a stupor at first, hating everything Robyn forced him to do, everything he did to him. The man's words and thoughts and touches humiliated Michael, but it had been bearable. Horrible, but—

Why? Why didn't I know what he wanted to do to me? Why didn't I know?

.: _It isn't your fault_ :. the Voice insisted. .: _His mind was shadowed._ :.

I still should have known.

.: _He drugged you. He must have._ :.

It made sense, or as much sense as anything was making to Michael at that moment. _He always wanted me to drink wine...and that brandy...I should have suspected something. He was always so strange._ But Michael had never suspected he might be a monster.

He knew he would remember it forever: Robyn's voice whispering behind him, his hot breath tickling Michael's ear as his hands caressed their way down his body and forced his legs apart, bruising him again. Robyn's hands stroked his bottom, his hairy, muscular body crushing, _burning_ against Michael's.

His voice had sounded so odd, his mind so full of violent, red-stained emotions, that Michael had known whatever Robyn had been about to do would be worse than anything he could ever have expected.

The man's big, sweaty hand had clamped roughly over his mouth, the thumb pressing a bruise into his jaw, a fingernail scratching into his cheek.

"Now, I'm afraid _this_ might hurt a little, my darling."

Even as it happened, Michael had tried to get away. The hand smothered his screams, torn free by such unimaginable agony he still couldn't believe Robyn had done such a thing to him.

_But he didn't want to keep me from screaming._ The realization made his stomach twist and a gag push at his throat. _He wanted to feel my pain...he wanted to know how badly he was hurting me._

.: _You have to listen! You have to get away now! It may be your only chance._ :.

Michael sniffed back more tears and rubbed ineffectually at his runny nose. "Leave me alone. Please. I just want to die."

.: _He isn't going to kill you. He'll keep you alive so he can hurt you whenever it pleases him._ :.

Michael whimpered and nearly blacked out from fear, but he began the slow, painful process of standing up.

His clothes lay strewn across the bed chamber floor, and he picked them up and put them on, biting his tongue to stifle outcries of pain. He wasted precious moments untangling his bootlaces again but was thankful he'd have them. He wouldn't have a coat, and it was always chilly at night.

He's a monster. I trusted a monster. I'm never going to be able to do this. I'll never make it away from JhaPel!

.: _You will survive. You have to survive._ :.

The bed chamber door seemed lengths away, and Michael moved slowly, trying not to wake Robyn and trying not to cause himself too much pain. The door creaked when he opened it, but Robyn didn't stir.

The corridor beyond was pitch-dark and Michael had no idea how to turn on the expensive electrical lights even if he dared to, but once through the door, the Voice guided him, and he moved through the night-dark house, certain of his way. The stairs loomed, and he hurried down and to the door.

He suffered a brief, panicked moment over the lock until he spotted the key sitting on a small table nearby. He slipped through the front door at last and out into the chilly night.

A feverish wave washed over him, leaving a film of clammy sweat coating his skin and leaving Michael feeling violently ill. He leaned over the railing and vomited onto Robyn's rosebushes before he slid down into a pain-wracked huddle on the top step. The cold of the stones seeped easily through his thin clothes.

I can't do this. I can't.

.: _Get up!_ :. The Voice sounded loud as a shout. .: _Run! He won't be any more kind if he knows you've tried to escape._ :.

Michael wanted to scream, but he wrapped his hands around the cold iron rails and pulled himself to his feet once more.

Rosy streaks were beginning to lighten the sky, and silhouetted against them, far away, Michael could see the Fensgate Temple's bell tower. He limped down Robyn's front steps, ignoring the beautiful buildings and well-kept street surrounding him, and broke into a run.

# # #

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Michael burrowed deeper into the vines covering JhaPel's garden wall and tried again to sleep. He'd run for blocks on a strong wave of panic and hadn't slowed down until he'd reached the bridge to Fensgate Parish and crossed it to find himself at last back in the familiar square outside JhaPel.

By that time, his side ached from running, and he'd started to bleed again. He guessed he looked horrible and was glad he hadn't passed close enough to anyone to be seen for what he was.

A whore.

That's what Telyr had meant when he'd mocked Michael on the steps of JhaPel. It had just been a taunt, but now Michael couldn't help but wonder if Telyr had expected it to come true.

_I still need to find Pol._ But he couldn't bring himself to leave the relative safety of the garden wall. He couldn't bring himself to do much of anything but sleep.

Hours drifted by, flowing around him with the lethargic indolence of a slow river on a hot summer day, and he drifted with them, in and out of sleep and in and out of awareness. He heard the sounds of his former companions rising over the garden wall, and he wished he could go back in time to many moons ago before Ethene became ill and everything had changed.

He had no idea how long he'd been there when Whiltierna found him. In the grip of a bad fever, Michael almost didn't recognize her when she knelt beside him. He struggled feebly against her as she picked him up, trying to be gentle and soothing, but his glazed eyes blinked slowly, staring into her face, and a small spark of recognition kindled.

"Your little cat's here, too, dear." Whiltierna held him close as if trying to share some of her own warmth with him.

"She's been here," Michael rasped, closing his eyes again as he swallowed, trying to moisten his painfully dry throat. "Long time. Woke up an' she's sitting on me."

Three days passed before Michael's fever broke and he woke to find himself once more in the care of Landsend Charity where he learned that the healers already knew what had happened to him and had confided the facts written plainly on his body to Whiltierna.

She made promises, and he chose to believe her. She promised she would speak to Sirra Avram, the Royal Magistrate of Fensgate, and plead Michael's case. Then, maybe, Michael would be allowed another chance in JhaPel or at least be sent to Ptolorye, a work farm on the southern border of Camarat meant to reform delinquent boys. That would be unpleasant but better and safer than the streets.

"Don't blame yourself for what he did to you," Whiltierna said. Michael knew she blamed herself for it. She'd trusted Magister Vaznel; she'd asked him to find Michael. But Michael couldn't bring himself to blame her. She'd meant to help. It wasn't her fault that Robyn was a monster. He hadn't realized it until it was too late. Why should she have been any wiser?

Another quarter-moon passed before Whiltierna managed to arrange an audience with the magistrate. The healers insisted on keeping Michael at Landsend until then, calming Michael's fears for a few days. The healers' kindness and Whiltierna's loving concern gave him hope, and he dared to enter the magistrate's chambers with some expectation of justice.

The magistrate's secretary had shown Michael and Whiltierna into his master's chambers and left them alone to wait. A fire, well-fed and tended, burned vigorously—another sign of the sort of wealth Robyn had used so carelessly and then made Michael pay for.

Michael perched on the very edge of his chair, too nervous and overawed to make himself comfortable in such a place. Whiltierna seemed not to notice it at all, but then, he'd heard her family was quite highborn. Perhaps she, too, had once been this wealthy.

Another door, this one just off to the left of the magistrate's beautiful desk, opened and admitted a surprising string of people. The magistrate entered first, obvious in his official robes and with his enormous signet ring glittering on his finger. Another man dressed similarly to the secretary followed him. After them, Nanna Mabbina came in, casting a disdainful glare over both Michael and Whiltierna.

Michael heard Whiltierna draw a sharp breath, and his fear welled up again. But it was the man who followed Mabbina whose appearance drained the blood from Michael's face and made him start up from his chair.

"Robyn," he gasped.

"I told you he—" Robyn began, but the magistrate silenced him with a gesture.

The man glanced around the room, taking inventory and control. "Sit down, please. Everyone.

"It seems we have a slight controversy on our hands concerning the behavior and treatment of one Michael, kiska."

He used the term in its legal sense, but Michael found it no less diminishing and blushed at the word's being applied to him. Officially, all of JhaPel's inmates were kiska, but most people did not consider them so in fact since they had a place to sleep and people to look after them. But Sirra Avram, Michael understood, would only care about legalities.

The newcomers all found places to sit, pulling chairs Michael hadn't noticed away from their niches along the wall. Michael sat back down on the edge of his chair, trying to keep an eye on Robyn while also fixing his full attention on the magistrate.

"We will first hear the charges against the child," Sirra Avram began. "And then he and his defenders may speak on his behalf."

" _Against_ him?" Whiltierna bolted up from her chair with a look of shock on her face.

"As I said," Sirra Avram agreed. "A slight controversy."

Whiltierna shook her head as if dazed and sat back down as Avram inclined his head in a silent command for her to do so. He then nodded to Mabbina who stood up and began to tell her version of Abbess Ethene's death. It ran very similarly to the version Michael would have told, but to every action and every look of Michael's she ascribed an evil intent.

"He knew I guessed his true nature, so he wished to have Ethene—who trusted him blindly—back and whole so that he could continue his evil ways unpunished."

Whiltierna sat rigidly in her chair, glaring at Mabbina with an utter loathing Michael had not believed her—nor any JhaPelan nanna except Mabbina—capable of feeling.

"And so he healed her," Sirra Avram prompted.

"Yes he did, sirra. Using magic. I have several witnesses, all nannas. When he entered the room, Abbess Ethene was nearing her last breath. When I returned after leaving them alone together briefly just as Ethene had requested, she was plainly altered. She stood up! She hadn't been able to feed herself in well over a moon, and she _stood_ , sirra!

"After I made her realize the peril in which he'd placed her soul by using his accursed magic, she did the only thing she could. The manner of her death is proof of his heresy."

"But you—!" Michael half-rose from his chair, distressed that Mabbina would dare suggest Abbess Ethene had killed herself.

Sirra Avram would have none of this, though, and he held up a silencing hand. "You will have your turn to speak, boy," he said, evenly. "Please do not interrupt."

Michael's mouth closed slowly, and he subsided back onto his chair. He caught Robyn looking at him—an unguarded, passionate look in the man's eyes—and he blushed crimson.

The magistrate turned back to Mabbina. "Thank you, Abbess. You may sit."

Michael was shocked. _She's abbess now? How can she take Ethene's place? She's a murderer!_

The magistrate next turned expectant eyes toward Robyn who almost flinched at the sudden attention. "Magister Vaznel?"

The man cleared his throat and stood, casting a practiced, flinching glance at Michael. He cleared his throat again, fixed his eyes on a spot just slightly above Sirra Avram's head, and began to tell the most blatant string of lies Michael had ever heard.

"I was trying to be of help to Nanna Whiltierna, an old family friend. I was acquainted with the boy from when I did some charity work with him—he shows a little promise as an artist—but it was Whiltierna's request that led me to him.

"When I found him, he was obviously cold and hungry, and I hurried to his side to see what help I could be. I felt I must. More than just duty, you understand, sirra, I felt _impelled_ to help him, as if something outside of me were coercing me into it."

Michael bit into his lip to keep from screaming. His mind flashed back to that night and all the fear and pain and misery he'd been put through afterwards.

"He fell asleep in my carriage on the way to my house, so I had little choice but to give him a bed for the night. But he slept through until the next night, and it was far too late to find another place for him. He'd seemed so exhausted, and I feared he might be ill, but he came down to the evening meal with no apparent difficulty, and he ate a great deal. He seemed very eager to hear all about me, though I couldn't imagine my dull life being interesting to such a child.

"After we finished eating, he made a great show of being tired again, and due to the lateness of the hour, I suggested he stay another night. He agreed at once and asked me where his room was. Naturally I escorted him back, but then he asked me to help him undress. I was uncomfortable with this request, as you can understand, but I felt compelled, again, to do as he said."

"I see." Avram arched an eyebrow as his eyes swept over Michael. He looked back at Robyn. "Continue."

"Yes, sirra." Robyn cleared his throat yet again. "By this time I had become very concerned both by his behavior and my own. When I was not with him, I found myself wondering why I had behaved in the ways I had when I was with him. I was frightened—"

"Of such a child as this?" Sirra Avram inquired, both eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"The evil power of magic is strong regardless of its shape," Mabbina intoned.

"He isn't evil!" Whiltierna turned on her titular superior, her expression savage.

"Abbess Mabbina, Nanna Whiltierna. Please." Avram never raised his voice. "It is Magister Vaznel's testimony."

Both fell silent at once but glared at each other. Michael shrank back into his chair, terrified by Robyn's smooth, twisted retelling.

"I stayed away the next day, trying to figure out what to do about him and fearing returning home and losing my own wits again in his presence. When I returned home, he was waiting for me, though it was very late, and I decided to resolve the situation. I suggested we go to find the friend he had mentioned once, but he pretended to be afraid of going out so late into Fensgate even though, as I told him, I had been out that late there before without mishap. He became hysterical and begged me not to make him go. I tried to give him some brandy to soothe him, but he refused it and clung to me instead."

Michael went chalk white and had to struggle for each breath. He felt Whiltierna's eyes on him and felt her fear for him.

"He kissed me, sirra, and—Vail have mercy on me!—I felt an answering desire I couldn't resist. I kissed him back! He pulled at my clothes and kept kissing me. I was terrified but could barely think! I tried to fight the coercion—I even struck him, tried to push him away—but it was no good. He had enchanted me!

"We ended up in my bed, sirra, and did evil things! Accursed things. I am ashamed of my weakness." He stopped and took several breaths. Michael realized he was trying—or pretending to try—not to cry. "When I awoke the next morning, he was gone. I thanked Vail for delivering me from his evil influence, but then your secretary came to my house yesterday, and I understood what that child had done to me. Entrapped me. Ruined me."

Silence followed for several beats, as if everyone was waiting for Robyn to add something. When it became apparent he had finished, Avram thanked him and instructed him to sit, just as he had done with Mabbina. Finally, he turned his attention fully on Michael.

"It is your turn to speak, child."

Shaking, Michael rose to his feet. He clenched his hands together and stared wide-eyed into Sirra Avram's cool, expressionless face.

"It—it wasn't like that, sirra," Michael began. "He twisted it all. Changed it. Some of those things happened but not like he said."

"Then tell me what happened as you remember it."

Michael told his story haltingly, blushing at several points, and speaking so softly that Avram often interrupted him to ask him to repeat something. By the time he came to the end of his miserable narrative, his eyes were fixed on the floor, and he wanted desperately to cry.

"And Abbess Ethene's healing?"

Michael bit his lip again, feeling wrung out and sick and empty. "I don't know," he admitted.

"You don't know," Sirra Avram echoed.

"No, sirra. I thought it was a miracle from Vail. I didn't think it was wrong to help someone get well, but I didn't think it could be anything but a miracle. How could I do anything like that by myself?"

"Indeed," Sirra Avram said, an eyebrow raised. "And you never thought it might be magic?"

Michael hesitated. "The first time, with Cyra, I thought it might be. But then I thought that magic was evil and helping someone couldn't be evil. I thought it must be the will of Vail."

"The first time?" Avram prompted.

"Cyra's a cat," Michael said. "She'd been hurt by some kiska—by some boys. I thought she was dying. She was bleeding pretty badly. But then I felt kind of funny, and the next thing I knew, she was well. It scared me."

"So you guessed it wasn't magic," Avram said.

"Yes, sirra. I didn't think it could be anything bad."

"But at first even you thought it might be magic."

Michael's mouth went dry. "Yes, sirra," he rasped. "At first."

"And you did it anyway."

"It seemed to be what Vail wanted me to do."

"You _guessed_ it was a miracle. It _seemed_ to be the will of Vail. You _thought_ it couldn't be evil! Did you never think to ask your betters? Did it never occur to you that something so dangerous should not be decided by such a one as you: an amnesiac, kiska child?"

The sudden harshness of the magistrate's voice made Michael stare at the man. He felt as if he'd been slapped again, and the comprehension that his foolish, trusting honesty had sealed his fate ran through his body like ice water. Judgment had been passed, and only a true miracle could save him now.

Whiltierna interrupted the silence that had awaited Michael's answer. "Sirra, I would speak for this child."

"You have nothing to say, Nanna Whiltierna." Sirra Avram waved a dismissive hand toward the woman. "You were not present for any of the events under consideration here."

"But I saw him after he left Magister Vaznel. I took him to Landsend Charity myself. The healers said—"

"And how soon after he left Magister Vaznel did you see him? Hours? Days? Anything might have happened in the meantime. He might have done himself injury in order to ruin Magister Vaznel's defense. No, Nanna. I cannot allow you to plead your feelings as facts."

Avram turned away from Whiltierna, shifting his attention back to Robyn and dismissing her as completely as if he'd said the words.

"Robyn Vaznel, for your part in this child's corruption, I fine you one thousand crowns to be paid to the Order of JhaPel. You are also forbidden to set foot in Fensgate for the next twenty moons. I shall have you escorted to Fensgate Bridge as soon as arrangements are made to Abbess Mabbina's satisfaction for the fine's payment."

"Yes, sirra." Robyn bowed his head.

"In light of the fact that your actions may not have been entirely of your own volition, I mitigate your sentence by forbidding any within this chamber from ever speaking of this incident. Your name shall bear no taint of this event. Once the fine is paid and so long as you avoid Fensgate for the next twenty moons, it shall be as if it never happened. If you fail to comply with either of these punishments, I shall see to it that your ignominy is published throughout Camarat and shall personally see to it that the queen is aware of your actions."

"Thank you, sirra," Robyn whispered. "I shall not fail to do as you command."

"Please, sirra!" Whiltierna rose from her chair. "I've known this child since he first came to us. He is not evil! I would swear it before Vail Herself! Please, don't do this to him!"

The magistrate gave a curt nod to his secretary who rose and crossed to Michael's side. The boy still stood, staring at Avram, shocked by the utter waste of effort his speaking the truth had been. The man took hold of his arms, gently enough but too securely for there to be any chance that Michael might escape him. He had only vague impressions of feelings—no thoughts—and realized he was too stunned to sense much of anything.

This isn't happening please this isn't happening please they wouldn't really do this please Vail please—!

The secretary guided the boy over to the fireside, and Whiltierna screamed. Michael craned his neck to find her and saw Mabbina and Sirra Avram's other secretary, who'd materialized from somewhere, holding Whiltierna back though she struggled against them.

"No, sirra! Don't do this!" Her scream went ragged at the end, and she dissolved into wracking sobs.

A hand caught Michael's chin and pulled his attention back to the fire. Sirra Avram stood before him, his hand dropping away from Michael's face. He was as expressionless as he'd been during most of the testimony, but his eyes were filled with an odd light.

"Michael, kiska. I find you guilty of the charges against you. Do you understand what that means?"

Michael stared into the magistrate's frightening eyes for a long, silent moment, before managing to make his response.

"Yes, sirra." He'd seen what happened to witches. Mabbina had made certain he knew the punishment for this ultimate sin.

I was so stupid.

"Have you anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence?"

.: _You did nothing wrong! Healing is a miracle. A gift from Vail!_ :.

A thousand pleas crowded in Michael's throat, but he wanted to believe the Voice. As he stood frozen, trying to organize some sort of reply, an unfamiliar, angry pride welled up from somewhere deep inside of him and stiffened his backbone. All the pleas faded away. He lifted his chin and raised a defiant eyebrow, never looking away from the magistrate's eyes.

Sirra Avram blinked then looked away, abruptly and obviously flustered.

"By the laws of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Grania of Camarat, I find you guilty of heresy in the second magnitude." He turned toward the fire, pulling on a heavy cloth glove, and selected one of the long pieces of metal that had been heating there since before Michael and Whiltierna's arrival.

"By the Queen's Mercy, your life is spared this last time. Any new offense against the laws of the queen or of Vail, and your punishment shall be death by fire. So that all may know the evil you have committed and the mercy by which you continue to live, the queen has ordered that those guilty of your crime be branded with the symbol of the witch. You are required never to hide this symbol lest you be found guilty of your final offense."

The secretary held Michael's left arm out from his side, his strong fingers encircling the boy's slender wrist and holding his arm and hand still. Sirra Avram pressed the glowing, red-hot brand against the back of Michael's left hand at the base of the thumb.

Michael tried not to scream, rasping in air as if breathing his last breath. That breath turned into an odd, animalistic moan as he went limp in the secretary's arms. He felt something run down his leg and realized he'd wet himself.

Let me die please let me die now please let me die please—

.: _Hold on! You have to hold on!_ :.

"Leave me alone!" Michael struggled free of the secretary's hands. He'd thought the brand was still being held against his hand, but he saw that it was back in the fire. His hand still burned as if the magistrate had set it in the fire, too, and if he'd thought it would end his agony, Michael would have cut it off.

Though the room still whirled around him, and he thought he might throw up at any moment, he refocused and found himself sitting sprawled on the floor of the magistrate's office. He searched dazedly for the magistrate, determined to look one last time into the eyes of the man who had committed this injustice.

A faint glint of revenge winked in his brain when he saw the man's disquieted face.

"I told the truth, Sirra Avram." Michael choked out the words. "May Vail judge you the way you've judged me."

"Blasphemy," Mabbina gasped.

"Take him outside and leave him in the street," Avram ordered, but he did not look as certain as he had at first. Michael guessed it was all the justice he was likely ever to have.

"Don't believe them!" Whiltierna shouted as the Magistrate's secretaries carried out their master's orders. "You are not evil! Never believe that, Michael! Never!"

# # #

# CHAPTER TWELVE

"I wish they could get the trains running everywhere," Flannery said, her eyes still bright with excitement from the experience.

The train from Karona City to SouthPort only took two days. Jarlyth almost wished he'd never boarded the damned thing in the first place. _It will make the rest of the trip seem interminable._

The southwestern part of Serathon, however, had offered the only stretch of land both untouched by the Raids and flat enough not to need wizardly assistance during the building. Even so, it had taken years to complete.

They gathered up their packs from the baggage car and caught a series of three trolleys to reach the docks. There, the next leg of Jarlyth's "mad quest," as everyone called it, would begin.

_My "insane waste of time."_ With King Teodor's complete and very public abandonment of Nylan's cause, help had been hard to muster. Everything had taken longer than it should have, and each delay only made Jarlyth feel more useless. He'd been silent and morose during the entire train ride and now felt foolish for allowing himself to behave in a way he considered so childish.

Flannery, who'd learned to recognize his tumbles into bitter self-recrimination, tapped him with her pack to catch his attention. "We're here," she said.

They leapt for the street, packs banging against them as they ran to a stuttering stop. Once they figured out which way to go, they rushed on, crossing the cobbled street ahead of oncoming traffic. Shouts and brassy squawks from cart-horns called abuse after them. Flannery turned and gave a small, apologetic bow.

"I haven't been back home since I was seven." She changed the subject almost as if she knew his thoughts.

She might as well think so. They're always the same thoughts.

"I've never been at all. I've always wanted to meet Queen Tristella."

Flannery lips curved up slightly into a tiny smile. "She is a force of nature. I think you will like her."

Tristella had done her best to care for Nylan from a distance. Politics and the instability of the shipping lanes, thanks to the Raids, had prevented her from ever risking travel to Serathon herself—even for her daughter's funeral. But it would not keep Jarlyth from taking ship to see her.

Flannery had surprised him by wanting to go along. She'd only just achieved her journeyman status as a Templar and, without telling Jarlyth, had begged leave of her superiors to go with Jarlyth to Voya. She said it proved that not everyone stood against him when her request was granted so speedily.

They booked passage on the next ship bound for Voya and clambered aboard just before it made sail. Had the ship possessed a steam engine such as the one powering the train, the travel time from shore to shore would have been cut at least in half, but the Breach played havoc with any and all advanced technology—even that powered by magic—so with sails they must be satisfied.

Jarlyth did not travel well by water, and he stayed in his cabin below-decks as much as he could to hide from well-intentioned advice and teasing. All the while Flannery had the run of the ship. She kept up with her advanced studies, learned how to climb the masts in order to stay in fighting shape, ran through all her sword-work every day as if the ship's deck were solid ground, and failed to realize several of the younger officers had fallen in love with her. Jarlyth almost hated her but was too busy throwing up or trying not to.

By the time they reached the famously-bustling port of Toharana Vail, the Voyan capital city, Jarlyth had lost more than a stone, and his clothes hung off of him as if he'd been starved.

_Nylan was starved._ It killed him to think it, and he looked out at the city as a distraction. He couldn't allow himself to collapse under the weight of his continued failure.

Voya was renowned throughout the world for the peace that prevailed there. Jarlyth imagined this had something to do with the fact that Voyan kings and queens ruled for centuries, blessed with exceptional long life—another gift from Vail Herself. Tristella had been on the throne of Voya for over two centuries and had been alive for quite a bit longer.

_She lived through the fall of the One Kingdom._ He couldn't remember if it was said she'd seen the world before the Breach tore through it. _That would be something to have seen._

They found a hotel and sent word to the palace. Bairbre and Flannery had gone to the Voyan Embassy in Karona City in order to get the proper letters of introduction, though Bairbre had doubted this step would be necessary.

"As if she'd turn you away, Jary, for not having the correct paperwork."

"It'll ease things, in case her staff protects her as well as Teodor's sometimes does," he'd replied. Bairbre hadn't argued with that.

Far from standing on ceremony, the queen herself arrived at their hotel the very next morning. Flannery stood at the window of their connecting parlor, watching the royal carriage as she called for Jarlyth to come and see.

Queen Tristella, dressed in what appeared to be a riding habit, jumped down from the carriage, giving her footman's hand a pat as she did so. They could overhear faintly the hellos and comments called out to the queen by passersby and the easy answers she gave them.

"She certainly doesn't stand apart from the public like Teodor does," Jarlyth said. Flannery just smiled and shook her head.

Nylan would love it here.

A harried-looking servant arrived and announced the queen, barely beating the woman herself to their parlor door.

She swept in and hurried across the room to Flannery whom she caught in an enthusiastic embrace. "Mouse! Oh, my little Mouse! How you have grown!"

Flannery's smile reached her eyes, and she blushed prettily. "No one's called me that but Mum in years, Majesty." She gave a very formal bow better-suited to her Templar uniform than a Court curtsy would have been.

"None of that, now." The queen stepped back to take a good look at her expatriate subject. "Oh, but you do take after both your parents. I see your father in your eyes."

"Thank you, Majesty." The girl bowed again.

The queen turned and fixed her beautiful, direct gaze on Jarlyth at last. He could see where Nylan's loveliness came from.

All the pictures he'd seen of Vedalanna had portrayed a considerable beauty, though his one in-person meeting with her had not shown her at her best—but Tristella's looks—all long, bronze-colored hair and golden-hazel eyes—outshone even her daughter's. _But I think Nylan might one day outshine his grandmother._

In the way of the Voyavels, she didn't show even a tenth of her true age. She looked maybe twenty; just old enough to be Flannery's elder sister. _This is Nylan's destiny._

_Vail, I'm so tired._ He was glad she didn't seem to expect any sort of ceremony or even normal ritual from him. He wasn't sure he could manage even the proper "Your Majestys" at this point.

Tristella spoke, focusing his attention once more. "Lord Jarlyth Denara, Knight Templar and Warder to Crown Prince Nylan Voyavel SanClare of Voya." She said this as if she were introducing him at a ball. "I have been waiting a very long time to meet you. Where have you been?"

He bowed to her, careful not to tumble over from the leftover affects of his sea-sickness. "I had hoped His Majesty King Teodor would continue his support of the search, but—"

Tristella narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, looking like a child imitating a disapproving dowager. "Teodor is so determined to be hurt and angry over Veda's inconstancy—which, I will assure you, she never was. He knew from the start she loved another, but he wanted her to love him and so married her anyway."

She looked around the room, her eyes narrowing even more, then she turned back with a too-bright smile. "Sit down. Both of you. Jarlyth, you look so tired."

"He's barely slept." Flannery obeyed the queen's request, sitting down in one of the overstuffed chairs with great dignity and seeming surprised and quietly delighted by its bounce. "He gets sea-sick."

"I don't know of many Sensitives who don't. Something to do with the way magic moves through the water. Troubling to your senses, I'm told."

She fussed around Jarlyth like the grandmother she was rather than like the girl she seemed and called for weak tea and crackers to settle him while she and Flannery ordered themselves a more robust morning meal.

They sat and talked of nothing for awhile. The queen watched him over the rim of her cup. _Weighing my worth._

"SouthPort has a train now?" She seemed impressed by this, though her own country was crisscrossed by them. "Last time I was in Serathon, SouthPort was barely a port."

Flannery eyes widened in surprise at this, too, though Jary only noticed because he was so attuned to her subtle expressions. But Jary didn't mind asking the question. "When were you in Serathon, Majesty?"

"Tris will do, Jary. If I may call you that?"

Jarlyth balked. "You may call me what you wish, Majesty, but—"

"Is Tris too informal?" She turned to Flannery, her eyes wide.

"You shouldn't tease him, Your Majesty," the girl said, disapproving. "He's so tired."

Tristella laughed. "I am admonished, dear Mouse. Senna, then," she offered, turning back to Jarlyth. "A nice, normal honorific for an ordinary woman."

Though she teased and enthused and bustled, at her center, she was utterly calm and unruffled and steady. Jarlyth had never met anyone like her.

"And I was in Serathon back when the only people who called it that lived there. It was all just the One Kingdom or whatever county you happened to be in—Lyra or Karona or Rataque or what-have-you. Serathon was its old name, dating back before the One Kingdom. They brought it back into use only after Savoni split the realm."

"Then you were there during the war?" Flannery pressed.

Tristella opened her mouth to reply, then narrowed her eyes again. Jarlyth thought it must be a habitual expression of concentration or thought.

She held up a finger to stay their questions and slipped a chain from around her neck and held out the stone dangling from it.

"Silence," she intoned. Then she relaxed back into her chair and pulled her feet up under her skirts, looking as calm and centered without as she had seemed to be within, and much more relaxed than she had since her arrival.

Surprised, Jarlyth said, "I didn't know you were a wizard, Senna."

She gave him an indulgent smile. "Not at all. This is a charm made for me by my wizards. It ensures privacy within a comfortable radius. We may speak openly now."

Flannery raised an eyebrow. "Weren't we before?"

"There's open and then there's open," Tristella replied. "But we were speaking about the war. The Third Blood War, to be precise. And, yes. I was in Serathon then, but not during the war exactly."

Jarlyth and Flannery exchanged glances, and she caught them and smiled again. "I was there right before it broke out. I was rather stuck in Karona City for its first few moons, until finally King Galen's spymaster managed to smuggle me past the blockade. What an adventure!"

She knew King Galen—She must've known Valorian, then. The Prince of Charms. Nylan wanted that to be his prince-name. And it should have been.

"You were awfully young to have traveled so far from Voya," Flannery said.

"Says the child who left her homeland at age three!" But the queen sighed, her hand opening as if to release something. "You are correct, though. It's true. I was born very late in my father's reign. He didn't know how much longer I'd have before inheriting. He feared I'd be too young, and that Voya would be destroyed by invaders or dissension within due to my youth and inexperience.

"So I was sent to the One Kingdom to marry."

Jarlyth gaped at her and saw that both of Flannery's eyebrows were now raised—a sign of strong surprise, indeed. Neither had ever heard this story before.

"Marry?" Jarlyth exclaimed at the very moment Flannery blurted out, "Which one?"

Lucky she's laughing.

"Savoni. My Prince of Sorrows." She waited for their fresh shock to subside before she continued.

"He and I became fast friends. I thought, 'I can marry him. He's fun. We'll have a good time together.' And he was so smart, so ambitious. He only had one problem, but it ruined everything."

"His father loved his brother more," Jarlyth whispered. Everyone knew this story.

"Yes. So much more that he wanted the second-born to inherit the throne. Set everything in motion to make it happen. Even tried to convince everyone that Valorian was the first-born twin. That's why Galen had agreed to the marriage contract between us. He thought Savoni might be bought off from fighting it if he had another kingdom to rule."

Tristella sighed and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. "Such a disaster! We're all still reeling from it centuries afterward."

Vail had declared—so long ago no one was certain of the date—that inheritance of position should always be from first born to first born. Male or female, bastard or true-born, foolish or wise—it mattered not. Anyone who dared trifle with this holy rule reaped the consequences. In the case of the SanClares, the consequences were felt by kingdoms and not just families or individuals.

After a thoughtful pause, Tristella continued. "Everyone went along with it, though—that's where the disaster really began. Valorian was charming, handsome, strong. Everything a warrior-king should be. And Savoni was...different. He could be impatient with stupidity or foolishness. He lacked his brother's diplomatic flair. He wanted people to be better and didn't like it when they wouldn't even try."

"Did you love him?" Flannery asked. Jarlyth almost stared at her, unused to such stunning bluntness from the usually almost-silent, solemn girl.

The queen seemed unsurprised by the question. "In a way, I did. I was very young. He is a beautiful man and, at the time, very kind, very gentle. He didn't want me to do anything I'd been bullied into."

"Why do you think he did it?" Jarlyth dared this time. But he'd always wondered, and here was his chance to find out.

Her hand trembled a bit as she set down the cup again, an out-of-place tremor of age from the youthful queen.

"I sometimes think it was my fault. I was outraged on his behalf. I would rail at Galen behind closed doors. Shout how unjustly he was treating Savoni. Press him to petition Vail for a sign to be delivered to his father.

"He'd laugh it off. Tease me out of my black fury. But our formal engagement was set to last some many moons, and as time passed...he changed. He grew quiet. His patience thinned even more. His smile faded."

Hers had faded, too. Jarlyth was sorry they'd made her recall such a sad time. _I don't know why we even need to know. Cruel, idle curiosity._ He felt ashamed, but if she continued, he knew he wouldn't stop her.

He'd heard the story told and retold from historical records. There were books and books based on just the incidents surrounding the fall of the One Kingdom. _But she was there._

"We were all at evening meal. It was off-Season and relaxed, and I remember we'd been laughing over some silly joke one of the younger ones had made.

"Savoni hadn't been there, and I'd noticed, but he'd been missing things more and more often, so it didn't occur to me to worry."

She paused again, her memories almost visible in the room with them. "I still don't know how he found her. They were already very rare—you never see them now—and she was young."

"Who?" Flannery asked. Jarlyth knew and swallowed back his sick feeling at what was coming.

"A Danae, dear," she said. "One of the ancient folk—the magical people. The first waerloks got their power by stealing it from the Danae. Now they steal from their half-blood descendants, the wizards, and from the occasional Sensitive."

"Aren't there any Danae left?" Flannery sounded hopeful.

Tristella moved her shoulders in a gentle shrug. "There may be. I've never seen one since. I think they went away from us after all the bloodshed. And who can blame them? We were not kind.

"I didn't know it, but Savoni had been trying to convince his father not to disinherit him for moons. Before I even arrived. He was respectful and argued in private. He went to Valorian for help, trying to make his brother see how disastrous this would be for everyone. But Valorian, for all his bravery, was full of his father's spoiled love and proud and greedy and selfish and thoroughly SanClare in all the worst ways."

Flannery barked a laugh and shot Jarlyth a guilty glance.

"You know what I mean, don't you?" Tristella asked, startled from her memories into realizing what she'd said and to whom.

Jarlyth smiled. "No one knows better. Pride and obstinance are hallmarks of the breed. Even Nylan."

Tristella echoed his smile, but hers seemed to hold a memory too dear to share, and it faded again. "He finally realized they meant to do it, no matter what. I think what he really finally realized was that neither of them loved him. It broke the Savoni I knew and changed him forever.

"He dragged that poor little thing into the dining hall and gutted her in front of everyone. So fast. It was so fast. You could almost see the power explode from the gash, and he took it all and turned and struck down his father with a look."

"Valorian was across the hall with his sword drawn before the rest of us could even think, but he couldn't get near Savoni. I realized then that this wasn't the first time he'd killed. He'd been a waerlok...for a long time already."

She took a deep breath and blew it out, shaking her hair back. "The rest you know. He'd gathered many allies, and many of them waerloks, and the war tore that beautiful kingdom and its beautiful peace to shreds."

Jarlyth felt exhausted just hearing the tale, but Flannery was busy putting the new pieces together with what she knew. "How could you let her, Senna? How could you let Veda—"

"Let?" the queen interrupted with a hard laugh. "Let. Child, do you not remember my daughter?"

Flannery blushed and muttered a dignified apology, but the queen waved a hand at her, dismissing it all.

"They met by chance, or so Veda thought. I've never been sure. He'd wanted me to go with him. Of course, I couldn't—not after what he'd done. Not after what he'd become. But I think he may have held on to the idea of the SanClare and the Voyavel coming together. He was fascinated by power, a side-effect of his blood addiction, and we Voyavels are special. Even more so than the SanClares.

"He'd learned to be charming in the years since, and he charmed her. She was not young—about seventy when they met—but young enough for a beautiful, youthful, carefree girl who did as she pleased most of the time. She'd never been in love. We try to wait for that and not force our children to live out long, purposeless lives before they gain their thrones."

The queen had lost many consorts over the years, but she'd never taken another—at least not publicly—after the death of Vedalanna's father. _This is also Nylan's destiny._

"They were careful, and he had more than enough magic to hide his identity when they were seen. They were together for over fifteen years. I made dozens of excuses for her absences, lied and lied and lied to protect Voya. To protect her. But most of the time, she was in Edoran with him."

She took both of them in with a penetrating look. "You know who Nylan's real father is, don't you?"

Flannery nodded and looked down at her hands. Jarlyth blew out his breath. "Emperor Savoni."

"Good. Otherwise, this entire story might have seemed like the ramblings of an old woman to no good purpose, but I assure you, there is a purpose."

She focused on Jarlyth then, and he felt caught in her bright golden gaze. "You've come here for my help."

"Yes."

"I would have sent you any if I had it to give, child," she whispered. "I am sorry. I can only advise you."

"I just need more people to help search—" he began, desperate not to be shunted off again and shocked that Tristella seemed to be doing just that.

"That isn't going to make any difference. You'll never find him by searching the world a length at a time."

"But—"

She shook her head, silencing him. "If anyone is going to have answers, it will be Savoni. If he doesn't have answers, he is in the best position to help you find them."

Jarlyth shot up from his chair and backed away from the woman, aghast. "Go to the Blood Emperor? Are you insane?"

"Jary—" she began.

"No! He's a waerlok! You know better than anyone that he's a murderer. And a tyrant. He sends waves and waves of raiders to tear my country apart. That village where I met Vail? His men had destroyed it. He's responsible for what happened to me!"

"And my daughter loved him very much." Tristella said this quietly, but the regret filled her voice, overflowing into the room so strongly, even Jarlyth's weak Sensitivity could feel it.

Flannery looked from the queen to Jarlyth and back again. "How could she love him? Did he enchant her?"

The regret grew, and Jarlyth felt tears stinging his eyes at the strength of it. He focused and centered and rubbed at his nose. And hoped the queen would answer.

She did, at last. "It is a mistake to think that people who do evil must be hateful. Often, they are quite the opposite: beautiful, charming, lovely. He had changed too much for me, and I could never overlook what he'd become, but he is still an amazing man. Like nothing Veda had ever before encountered. I thought I'd lost her forever.

"And then, very abruptly, she left him. She came home. Almost at once, she left again for Serathon. She'd already made the arrangements. She promised me she'd redeem herself in my eyes and form a great alliance of the two houses at last. SanClare and Voyavel together."

"She was already pregnant." Jarlyth put the pieces together as the queen wanted him to. "But...a year?"

Tristella smiled. "It is one of our little secrets, dear boy. We Voyavels take more than a year to bring our heirs into the world. All that extra life takes a bit longer to build into a child, I suppose."

"She wanted him to be SanClare." Flannery's expression had grown more closed and unreadable than ever.

"She wanted him to be _seen_ to be a SanClare but without the dangers attendant on being _the_ SanClare," Tristella said.

_The SanClare._ Jarlyth had known, but he hadn't truly thought about what it meant.

"First Born of the First Born," he breathed.

"True heir to the throne of the One Kingdom," Tristella said. "Which makes Nylan—"

"A threat to Teodor's throne," Flannery finished.

Jarlyth turned sharply and stared at the young woman. "You think he was behind Nylan's abduction?"

"He has motive, and he certainly would have known how to get around the priory's protections."

Tristella looked doubtful. "I don't know...but it's somewhere there. At that Court. I hope you've been careful."

"We have," Jarlyth promised, but he felt stupid. He'd been so focused on finding Nylan, he realized he'd all but overlooked this more dangerous question. _Who did have Nylan taken? And why?_

Tristella saw it in his eyes and gave him a very sad smile. "I wish I knew the answer to that, but if I did, I would have destroyed them myself already. No. This mystery is still all tangled. I can only help point you toward a better chance of solving it, child. I wish to Vail I could do more."

"But Savoni?" Jarlyth felt wrung out and sick and exhausted. _And scared._

"Veda was already pregnant when she learned that he didn't want an heir. He wants to go on ruling as long as his power allows. Even a long-lived heir is a threat, especially when one has enemies who might prefer a younger, less established, more-easily-led ruler over, as you say, a tyrant."

Jarlyth crossed the room and dropped back into his chair. He stared off at nothing, the carpet blurring before his eyes. _This was a mistake. She's insane._ "Why would he help me if that's true?"

"Because I believe he really loved Veda. He made her promises, and _he_ never broke any of them. He allowed her to leave him and marry another and have their child because he knew it was what she wanted, and he wanted her to be happy."

Jarlyth flailed for an argument. "What if I'm wrong? What if Nylan is dead, and I'm mad, just like they all say?"

"You aren't mad—" Flannery said, ever-patient.

At the same time, Tristella said, "Of course you aren't wrong. You are his warder, blessed by Vail. If you say he lives, then he lives. It is your gift to know this."

Silence enveloped them, and they all sat with their thoughts for a long time.

Finally, Jarlyth rasped, "It's treason. I can't do it."

"Of course you can," the queen said, and she stood up as if the matter were decided. She held out her charm, breathed, "finished," and strung the chain back around her neck.

"But—" Jarlyth stumbled to his feet in her wake, horrified.

"You can do whatever you have to do to save him," Tristella said, firm. "It's what you were born for. It is what Vail _made_ you for."

She smiled her beautiful smile at him one last time. "You love him, and that gives you greater power than any the Blood Emperor or anyone else possesses. Don't be afraid. Vail walks with you."

# # #

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Michael quickly lost track of how many days had passed since he'd been branded and outcast. The constant struggle for the most basic survival consumed everything. He was always hungry now, always cold, always exhausted. Everyone seemed to immediately notice the brand, and after that, any help he might otherwise have been able to beg from them was withdrawn.

Sometimes he was even chased off by people who seemed angry that he existed. They'd run after him, hurling cruel words and hurtful objects to make him go away.

_They could just have told me to leave. I wouldn't have stayed if they'd said to go._ But no one would help him. Even the other kiska children who roamed the streets in small packs avoided him.

After a few days, Cyra found him. She looked as if she'd had her own difficult adventures, and Michael could easily imagine the vengeful Mabbina harming the small cat because he had healed her. He didn't bother to wonder how she'd found him in the maze of Fensgate; he was only glad that she had.

Most people wouldn't even meet his eyes. Michael felt as if he'd turned invisible the moment the brand had touched his hand. But he wasn't invisible enough. While most people ignored him, some took his heretic status as a license to do as they wished to him.

_Just like Robyn said. No one cares._ He'd known this was true, but living it was worse than he could have imagined.

He'd believed he would be safe in the daytime, especially if he stayed near people, but everyone had diligently ignored what was happening. They'd pretended not to notice as that first man had dragged him—screaming and struggling—down an alley.

After that first time, Michael was forced to accept that he was truly alone. The man had called him the worst names he'd ever heard, though he only understood them due to his witch powers. The man seemed to be blaming Michael for what happened, blaming Michael for his beauty, blaming him for being unprotected. Blaming him.

" _If you want to survive..."_ He heard Robyn's words in his head several times every day as if they asked a question whose answer might change at any moment.

So far, the answer had always been, "Yes, I want to survive."

Michael tried to teach himself to be alert and wary, to notice everything and everyone all the time, to always know where the dangers might be hiding, to always have more than one escape route picked out. He could hide well and had always been a fast runner, but his greatest skill from before turned out to be climbing.

He remembered that people tended not to look up and had rarely ever known he was sitting in a tree right above them unless he'd called himself to their attention. He turned that fact to his advantage.

He climbed the ragged sides of the rundown Fensgate buildings and came to know some of them so well he could climb them very quickly.

He next mastered the trick of sleeping on the narrow ledges under the eaves of those same buildings, though the learning process had involved a few very scary moments of almost-falling. He still wondered at his own determination not to fall, but he tried not to think about it too much. He knew if he began asking himself such questions, he would never be able to stop until he'd worked himself into despair.

But he learned all of his new skills far more slowly than he wanted to, and he learned everything the hard way, since there was no one to help him and no one to even ask. As the moons passed, he escaped the predators more and more often, and Cyra always found him, no matter how far he'd had to run from their last hiding place.

He learned to find food by foraging in refuse bins behind inns and pubs. After only a very few days, his hunger did away with any revulsion. Food was food, though he never seemed to find enough to feel truly satisfied.

He did find some places that seemed to always throw out good things—almost as if they knew scavengers would be hoping to find something—and he frequented those bins as often as he could. He thought of those places as friends and imagined names and faces of the kind people who left the food. He wished he had paper and pencil to draw them so he could see their faces somewhere besides his mind.

But he learned that there was no way to escape from danger entirely. Though it happened much less often as he became more streetwise, there were still times he couldn't get away from the predators. Sometimes the same ones would track him down again. More than once, there had been too many of them, working together to trap him. Sometimes they only wanted to scare him, shoving him around and taunting him for being a heretic. Usually, however, they wanted to look at his face while they used his body.

Some of them even seemed to think they were doing him a favor, and they would give him coppers or food as if that made it all right. What he hated most was that he couldn't bring himself to refuse these horrifying gestures. He spent the money and ate the food and hated himself for it and hated them all the more.

He hated almost as much the excited feeling that would come over him when one of these people actually spoke to him as if he existed, as if they saw him.

Because worse than anything that was happening to him was the utter loneliness of his situation. And it was this loneliness which led him to risk the Festival of Kings.

The festival was something Michael had only ever heard of before—JhaPel had never allowed its children to attend anything so frivolous—but he knew it had something to do with the old SanClare kings and the One Kingdom, and it was the one time every year when people felt really free to talk about that part of their history. Pol had said that the royal family still pretended they paid allegiance to the SanClares, but it was all for show.

At least the festival survived—a day when roles were reversed and servants and lowborns played and ate like highborns and the highborns fetched their own slippers and brewed their own tea. That it was also the final night of autumn allowed those who feared to even mention the One Kingdom to enjoy the day as a celebration of the harvest.

According to Pol, who had gone to the festival back when his mother was still alive, there would be plenty of dancing and plenty of food and drink, and it would be free to any and all.

Michael couldn't resist such a promise, living so close to starvation as he did. He was always hungry and always cold—except on the worst days of summer when the bricks and tiles and stones all burned and roof tar melted.

He felt sick and weak most of the time, now, and sometimes he would become so dizzy while climbing, he'd have to cling to the building wall until the feeling passed. He was lucky never to have fallen. _Or unlucky._

He'd stolen a few times but feared being caught and burned for the crime. The rare hunk of bread here, a piece of fruit there, a somewhat less tattered shirt another time. He only did this late at night when no one was around to catch him and the opportunity too easy to pass up.

_Maybe I'll find Pol at the festival._ Practically everyone in Fensgate would be there—that's what everyone at JhaPel had always said.

He hadn't tried to look for Pol or any of his friends since he'd been branded. He knew he was nothing but bad luck and danger now. If Pol were the friend Michael knew him to be, he would risk his own safety to help, and Michael couldn't let him do that.

But if we happen to meet up at the festival...

Michael climbed down from his hiding place a little before sundown and used the rain barrel behind the baker's shop to wash up in. He knew he was a mess. The weather had been miserable and rainy, though it had miraculously cleared up that day as if in anticipation of the night's celebration, and he felt damp and muddy and thoroughly disgusting.

He'd been caught only once that quarter-moon, but his knees still hurt from when the man had shoved him to the ground. He had been abrupt but single-minded. At least he hadn't been the sort who liked hurting more than anything. It had been straightforward, revolting, but mercifully quick.

Michael had been able to sleep more this quarter-moon, too. Compared to his usual state, he felt almost well. Anticipating the food he'd be eating this night made him feel even better.

He washed himself as clean as he could get without a change of clothes. His hair had grown longer than ever over the endless days and nights since his banishment, but all he could do was comb it out of his face with his fingers. He didn't have anything to tie it back with, and so it was always in his way. He wished he could just cut it all off, but he had nothing to do that with, either.

He tried not to think ahead to the coming days and the already-encroaching cold weather which would only grow colder. He always tried not to think ahead. Nothing good could come of that, and he wanted to enjoy this night at least.

No one seemed to be around when he emerged from the alley after carefully looking in all directions to see if any dangers awaited him. The sun was setting, and the streets were empty. The festival must be getting started.

Michael slipped out from the shadowed alley, staying close to the buildings as he hurried toward the promised feast. He could hear the music and voices grow louder as he approached, and he had a moment of almost-remembering—of having been in such a place before, experiencing such things—that was so strong he was nearly sick.

He'd never had such a moment before, and it frightened him. _Now wouldn't be a good time to remember_ , he thought miserably. _What good would it do to remember now that I'm damned?_

He did his best to shake off the feeling and started toward the festival lights once more, but his initial excitement was dampened until he rounded the corner and found the festival stretched out before him.

It was far more than he'd dreamed. He'd never seen such a beautiful sight, as if all of Fensgate had been set ablaze with color and light and happiness. A large stage was set up at the far end of an enormous open space he hadn't even known existed in Fensgate, and at least twenty musicians were playing music so cheerful, Michael couldn't help but smile.

Some people had already started dancing, but most were gathered around what seemed countless tables, filling plates with tastes of all the foods arrayed there. Michael hoped if he slipped carefully amongst the crowds, few would notice his brand. He hoped they'd assume him to be someone's son. There were plenty of boys and girls around his age and younger.

He started looking for Pol as he moved toward the food tables, but as he drew nearer, the delicious smells wiped all thoughts of his friend from Michael's mind.

Carefully not-hiding his branded hand, he nevertheless tried not to show it too obviously as he began to select food stuffs from the nearest table. No one seemed to take any notice of him except to bestow distracted, even welcoming, smiles. Michael knew this would not last, but while it did, he was determined to appreciate it as completely as was possible.

For the next hour, Michael ate his fill for the first time since his stay at Robyn's house. He hadn't eaten so well even at the charity hospital, and after the first rush of starved bolting, he slowed and began to savor each new taste.

He ate until he felt he couldn't manage another bite, and a grin spread across his face in delight at this practically-unknown sensation.

Full but still dazzled by all the food, he wandered away from the tables to look at the little kiosks set up, all offering cheap, pretty things as part of the celebration. If he had a copper, Michael knew he would have spent it just to have a memento of this sparkling night.

The dancing caught his attention next, and he wished he could join in. The music was so joyous and free, he wanted to fall into the whirl and be swept away in it. Everyone looked so happy, and their emotions flowed all around him. He almost cried at the beauty of it. _I wish..._

So in tune was he with the mood of the crowd, he noticed at once when it altered. Outsiders had come. Highborns. Dressed as if for a Masque, they had slipped in around the edges of the festival and were now beginning to make their presence known, profaning this single night's promise of plenty and equality for all with their expectations of being entertained.

Michael felt the joy and goodwill begin to drain away, and he knew he should leave. He knew he should go now and find a good hiding place not only from the encroaching highborns but also from the soon-to-be drunken Fensgate inhabitants who would eventually turn their high spirits toward less generous games.

But he was starving for more than food, and he'd been deprived of human company for even longer than he'd gone without bread.

.: _It isn't safe. You need to go. Now!_ :.

Startled into practicality by the Voice's insistence, Michael made a quick grab at the nearest table. He plucked rolls for later and stuffed them into his pockets and tried to slip away from the crowd unnoticed.

But he had not been unnoticed for some time, and as he neared the edge of the festival crowds, he saw his path blocked by a masked man. A wave of panic washed over the boy as he realized that the man was blocking his way on purpose. This man was after him. He'd waited too long, enjoying the festival without the proper caution, and now he was in trouble.

Michael quickly shifted course, wending his way through the crowds and hoping the man would lose him in the crush. He was too short to be seen, and he tried not to leave a noticeable wake of the annoyed as he darted hurriedly past. He cut across the crowd, changing course several times in hopes of confusing pursuit, before he dared approach the perimeter again. But standing in his way was another masked man, and this one was staring at him openly, grinning.

"No." Michael abandoned strategy and simply ran, shoving at bodies blocking his way and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He didn't ask for help. Though his panic must've been obvious, no one asked if he needed help nor offered him any. He knew no one would help him, but it was all he could do to keep from begging. The masked man's eyes had been terrifying.

The first masked man was suddenly standing in his way a few feet ahead in the crowd. He, too, was smiling at the boy.

Michael darted away, splitting the difference and running blindly. Again and again, one or the other of the two men blocked his chosen path, and it was some time before Michael comprehended what they were doing. He was being herded away from his own, familiar Fensgate to the unknown sectors, but he couldn't understand how they were doing it. How did they know where he'd be? How could they always be right where he'd run when even he didn't know where he was going?

He kept running, too frightened of finding out what they wanted to stop and give up. He was soon too exhausted to notice the crowd thinning, too lost to blind panic to realize he was no longer on the festival grounds. He only saw an opening and ran for it.

The empty streets of Fensgate were eerie, and the realization that he was now running away from the crowds horrified him. He spun around to look behind him, to try to go back, and saw a man's shadow looming out from a just-passed corner, and when he turned around again to keep running, he saw the first man standing ahead of him, still smiling. Laughing.

_Robyn!_ The name cut through his mind, suddenly obvious. _It's Robyn. He lied to Sirra Avram. He's here to punish me._

Michael whirled and darted down the nearest alley, but he could hear the footsteps of his pursuers now, the sound so terrifying he nearly screamed. The alley jogged to the left and then split. He started toward the right branch and again saw someone's shadow looming. He stumbled back a few steps and turned to go the other way, only to find there was no where left to run.

He launched himself desperately at the smooth, wood-slat wall, trying to find a hand hold, but he fell back to the ground, catching himself with his hands. He struggled to his feet again and stood stunned and panting, more exhausted than he could ever remember having been before. The brand on his hand throbbed almost as if it were newly-burned and his palms stung, scraped by the broken bits of gravel and debris strewn across the alley. A stitch knifed through his side with every breath, and he knew he was going to be sick. He had no strength left to turn around and face the men, though he could hear their footsteps as they came up behind him. He tried to take a step, to stay out of their reach for even one more moment, but his legs buckled, and he fell against the wall, leaning on it as if it were his last hope.

"It's a pity, really," a stranger's voice said.

_Not Robyn_ , Michael's mind offered, but it seemed worse that the stranger spoke first.

"What is?" the other man's voice. Robyn's voice. He'd been right, but the familiarity of this attacker did not make him feel any less terrified.

"That he's about to lose the only proper meal he's had in moons," the strange man said. His voice was idle, almost disinterested. But he was right. And Michael threw up a moment later.

The stranger came up behind him and held his hair, his hands cool on Michael's feverish skin, his touch shockingly gentle. Michael was too sick and frightened to sense anything from the man at first, and he was distantly grateful for this one, small mercy.

"It _is_ SanClare Black," the stranger said. "But you said he would beg."

Michael could hear the shrug in Robyn's voice. "He's broken." He dismissed the question. "He'll have been had by every lowborn in Fensgate by now."

_Would it help to beg?_ Michael didn't think so. He didn't think the stranger would be pleased if he offered up begging now as some sort of bargaining chip. What was there to bargain for, anyway? They would do whatever they wanted to do to him whether he cooperated or not.

"Is that true, child?" The stranger stepped back and allowed Michael to pull himself together. He even handed the boy a flask of water to rinse his mouth and a handkerchief. " _Every_ lowborn?"

Michael didn't answer. He didn't look up to meet the man's gaze which he knew would only mock him. He wanted to tell them to go to the Fires. He wanted to tell them to just get it over with. But mostly he wanted to die.

"You want to be silent," the stranger said. He took the flask back and waved the handkerchief away. Michael let it fall to the ground.

The man stepped closer to stand in front of Michael and stare down into his face. "I'll let you be silent, then." His hands settled on Michael's shoulders then slid caressingly down to stop right above his elbows. The grip tightened until Michael understood he was being held still.

The man stood so close, Michael could feel the heat of his body. Robyn moved behind them, and soon he was so close behind Michael that all the boy could think of was the first time Robyn had hurt him. Their closeness was slowly overwhelming his shock; their feelings and thoughts and desires bled through his numbness until they were all he knew.

"Look into my eyes," the stranger commanded, though his voice remained unchanged. Michael obeyed, looking up what seemed a very long way into the man's frightening eyes, visible through the slits in his mask. They were such a dark blue they seemed black, and there was no mercy reflected in their depths. "And no matter what happens, don't look away. Don't close your eyes. And don't make a sound."

# # #

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cyra was there when Michael began to notice the world once more. Tamarath and Tresta stood across the sky from one another, their light making the wretched cul-de-sac shimmer. It had begun to rain again, and the air was heavy with mist soaking through everything, turning the cobblestones slick. The air around Michael glimmered as the moons-light shone through the misting rain. It was beautiful.

Tears welled in Michael's eyes. He hadn't let himself cry in a long time, knowing that if he gave in to his misery, there would be nothing left.

But there was nothing left. Robyn and the stranger had destroyed him.

He lay on his side, curled up around Cyra's warmth, and stared into the future—another thing he hadn't let himself do—and saw nothing but pain and hunger and loneliness and misery.

He was a heretic, damned and discarded. No one would help him. No miracle was going to happen. Strangers would keep hunting him down and hurting him until he was dead. Perhaps one of them would even kill him.

"For fun." He thought about Robyn and the obscene, delighted monologue he'd recited as he'd hurt him.

All the while, the other man had stared into his eyes. He'd smiled at the agony he saw written there.

That had been all the stranger had done. But somehow it seemed worse to Michael than Robyn's brutal, physical assault. Those eyes had burned into him, taking in everything he was experiencing as if it were all a joy to behold.

" _If you want to survive..."_ His answer to that implied question had finally changed.

The moment his eyes met the stranger's, Michael had known he didn't want to live in this world anymore. He felt foolish for not having understood the reality of his circumstances any sooner. What had he imagined would happen to make things better? What had he hoped for? Even allowing himself to think the question hurt more than he could bear. And the question had only one answer: There was no hope.

The moons-light glittered all around him, shining off the rain-wet stones...but it sparkled even more brightly off of something else. Something he'd seen before but had not noticed.

Broken glass littered a small strip of the cul-de-sac his unseeing eyes had been staring at for who knew how long. _Glass_.

Michael pushed himself up on one arm and stared at the glass. He was freezing cold, as wet as if he'd been in the harbor, and mostly naked. Robyn had torn his already tattered trousers. They weren't fit to wear, and they didn't contribute any protection to him now against the cold and wet.

A long, thin shard of glass glinted invitingly. It was almost within his reach. Cyra stood up as he inched his way toward it, but she stayed near him and settled back down when he stopped.

He stared at the piece of glass for what felt like an eternity. But very little time had really passed. In the deep silence surrounding him, he could still hear the faintest notes from the musicians playing at the festival. Since he'd run from the men, no more than an hour had passed. The moons above had not moved far enough across the sky for it to have been more than that.

It amazed him just how little time it took to destroy someone. He'd been repeatedly destroyed, always in short, sharp bursts, and he'd bounced back each time as if he had a cat's lives. He wanted it all to stop.

Michael picked up the shard of glass, staring at its razor edges. He squeezed it and felt it cut into his palm and was pleased at the pain, pleased at the ease with which it cut him.

.: _Don't do this! We'll figure out some way—!_ :.

"Shut up." Michael hated the Voice at that moment more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. "You don't have to live like this. You don't know what it's like. I just want it to be over."

He'd heard stories. He'd seen things at the charity hospital and in the minds of the men who would not stop _touching_ him. He knew what to do.

He pushed his left sleeve up to his elbow and studied his slender wrist and the fine, violet-blue veins showing through his translucent skin, bruised again and again by brutal fingers which had wanted him to hold still.

The cuts on his palm stung, and the blood ran between his fingers, making his hand sticky. This would hurt. It would have to hurt. But then it would all be over.

#

The sharp odor of mingling herbs and antiseptics told Michael his location long before he had the strength to open his eyes.

He didn't want to be alive, but for some reason he still was, and he couldn't understand why someone had finally decided to help him just when he'd decided he no longer wanted to be helped. It was an unbearable, filthy joke to still be alive.

He remembered the whiteness, too, from before. He felt ridiculously clean for someone who would be thrown back on the streets as soon as he was well enough once more. But it surprised him more that they'd taken him in at all.

He did not remember how he'd come to be there this time, either, but he was heartily tired of waking up surrounded by white canvas curtains and astringent smells and dull, inescapable pain.

Michael looked down at the bed, trying to make out the state of his body. His wrists were tightly bound in pristine white bandages. His right palm was wrapped up, too, but on his left hand, the brand was still properly visible.

At least they won't burn me for breaking that rule.

Over the next day, he watched the comings and goings of the nannas and healers as they moved past his tiny, curtained cell. He never saw Whiltierna, though he never stopped looking for her in the faces of all the nannas who took care of him. No one stayed very long nor did anyone meet his eyes. They spoke to him only if it was absolutely necessary. No one came into his area alone, either. They communicated to him through what they said to each other. It was an odd feeling, like being a ghost or an animal. He could count the number of words spoken directly to him on one hand.

Early the following day, Michael had a visitor of his own. At first, he didn't recognize the man and was certain there had been some mistake which the man would soon realize before making a hasty exit, but after a moment, Michael began to see familiar things. The soft brown skin and curly hair reminded him of...

"Pol found you," the man said without preamble. He made an effort not to stare at Michael—a reaction which had become so rare the boy was briefly shocked by it. "I told him not to look for you. I tried to stop him, but he heard what happened. That they chased you. He ran off. I couldn't stop him."

Slowly, Michael understood that this was an apology. This man was apologizing to him for Pol's having saved his life.

"You're his uncle," Michael said.

The man nodded, looking awkward, embarrassed to be there. "I'm all the family he has, and I haven't done much for him," the man said softly. "He cares about you like family."

Michael looked away, releasing the man from the awkwardness of trying not to stare, but the painful thought ran through his mind. _If you'd kept your promise to Pol..._ Aloud, he only said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"I'm not blaming you," the man said. "From what I've heard...well, it sounds very complicated. But your being a heretic makes it difficult to help. And I do want to help."

The word came out like an exhaled breath. "Don't."

The man shook his head and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from Vail Herself. "I understand, child. I understand you just want it be over. But if you die—if you die like this—Pol will blame himself. He already blames himself for what happened to you. He thinks if he'd pushed me harder to file papers, or if he'd stayed there, at the orphanage, he could have protected you. He's tearing himself up, and I can't stand to see it."

Tears stung Michael's eyes. It wasn't fair that Pol needed him. It wasn't fair at all. He swallowed, taking control of his fragile emotions, and asked, "So what can you do about it?"

Pol's uncle— _Harly_ , Michael remembered. _Pol calls him Uncle Harly_ —hesitated again. "You are not going to like it, but it is the best I can do with you in this situation."

Michael caught the edge of the Harly's plan before the man spoke again, and he did not like it. Nor did it become any more appealing as Harly explained.

"As you know, I run an establishment of no small repute. It is a point of honor for me that no one dares touch any of my people without their permission. No one dares. I protect my own. The Red Boar is known for this."

"A whore." Michael knew that's what he already was. Hatred of that truth was what had driven him to try and take his own life.

"A streeter," Harly corrected. "Don't call yourself a whore unless you wish to be treated like one."

Michael mentally dismissed this ridiculous statement. As if what he was _called_ was what mattered.

"But you can say yes or no as you please, and the Red Boar will back you up. You need only do what you can stand to do. No more. As long as you pay the protection—"

"How much is that?" He asked the question in a dull voice, having no intention of ever needing to remember the amount in the future.

"I'm afraid it's a rather complicated system. You pay us twenty-five crowns a quarter-moon for the protection plus ten percent of what you charge your personal clients. However, you also earn a percentage of the night's take in exchange for working the central salon, entertaining the guests, flattering them, socializing."

The man might as well have been speaking backwards. Michael stared at him, horrified by the thought of the twenty-five crowns. It was a huge sum of money! One crown alone would have fed him for moons and moons. The memory of the few coppers he'd been given rose up. _How many men...?_

"Looking as you do, and considering the Red Boar's reputation, you will be able to charge a great deal for your time. There is a certain clientele we have long been unable to accommodate, but once you make your debut, I expect word to spread quickly."

_He means first-borns,_ Michael thought, remembering something the older boys used to talk about at JhaPel. Highborns who were also first-born sons lived in fear of siring their own, Vail-sanctioned first-born heirs before they were safely married to proper highborn ladies. Michael remembered the sniggering stories he hadn't really understood at the time, detailing what these men did instead to satisfy their desires safely, and bit his lip hard, realizing he'd already been fulfilling that role for some of the men who'd raped him in the streets.

Harly pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded as if ending an internal debate. "In all honesty, I expect the members to vie for your attention. Money need not concern you."

Michael's shattered expression seemed to make Harly talk faster, as if the man were trying to hit on some piece of information which would make it a good offer rather than simply the only way out of a bad situation.

"The twenty-five-crown fee buys you the Red Boar's protection as well as food and the use of a suite for entertaining guests. For a bit more, the suite will be yours during the day, as well, so you may live there if you wish."

Michael shook his head, his breathing rapid and panicked. Annoyance flickered across Harly's face, and his voice lost any note of kindness.

"We both know you have no choice!" he snapped, but the shift in Michael's expression from fear to resentment seemed to bring him up short.

"Look." He held out his hands, palms-up, placating though still impatient. "You'll be fed and warm and looked after. You will have to do things you don't want to do, but you will be in control of what those things are. You may say yes or no, and the men will listen. And the money is _good_." He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Probably good enough to buy you a way out."

This caught Michael's attention, and he stared at Harly. The man shook his head, quelling any more discussion of this treasonous concept, but the idea of it was enough, and Michael read in the man's louder thoughts a few details which told him such a hope wasn't impossible.

"All right," Michael said finally. "I'll try... Thank you."

Harly nodded once, sealing their agreement, then changed the subject, standing to leave as he did so. "The healers say you will be well enough to leave here at moon's end. I'll send someone to escort you to the Red Boar. She'll bring you some clothes, too—Pol's grown out of some things which I'm sure he'll be most happy to share, so it won't cost you anything."

And with that Harly was gone, but Michael could only think about the impossible— _a way out!_ —and he began to hope again. He clung to that hope during the rest of his hospital stay, determinedly not thinking about its source.

On the appointed day, a woman named Risa arrived to fetch Michael back to the Red Boar from the charity hospital. She was tall and elegant and beautiful in a way he'd never seen before. She smiled at him with a genuine friendliness no adult had shown him since he'd last seen Nanna Whiltierna.

"I brought all kinds of things for you." She dropped an armload of clothes onto the bed. "Up you go! Out of bed and start trying things on. Goddess, you're amazing-looking! I thought Harly was just talking you up to make us all feel dull and ugly, but he sure wasn't."

Michael blushed and climbed out from under the white covers to stand in his hospital gown before this lovely woman. She handed him a pair of trousers, and he pulled them on before discarding the gown to try shirts.

"This is temporary, just to get you started. Oh, we're going to make you famous!"

She'd brought a somewhat shabby but clean coat with her, too, which she helped him shrug into once he was dressed to her satisfaction. When she'd turned him back around for a final inspection, however, her face fell.

"Oh, that's right. You're marked." She half-whispered the words, and that's when he noticed the gloves she was holding. She quickly hid them behind her back, breathing out an embarrassed, "I'm sorry."

Biting his lip to distract himself from the desire to cry—a reaction that came too easily lately—he shook his head. After a moment, he managed to speak. "It's fine. I don't want them anyway."

Both of them knew he was lying. Michael longed for gloves. His hands hurt with cold so much of the time that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be truly warm. Even the hospital wasn't really warm enough. But gloves were out of the question. Gloves were impossible.

Risa put the gloves back into the sack and stuffed the leftover clothes in after them, hiding the evidence of her mistake. Turning, she gave him another stunning smile, then waved for him to follow her as she strode off.

Risa led him out through the maze of white canvas dividers and more solidly-built corridors and out into the street, her long, dark bronze hair flowing like a cape behind her. Eyes turned and gazes followed them, but for once Michael knew most of them were looking at her rather than at him. He liked being hidden in someone else's shadow.

He thought they might be walking all the way to the inn, but Risa stopped abruptly beside a small carriage Michael hadn't realized was awaiting them, tossed the sack of clothing onto the seat, and climbed in. She reached down to help Michael up, and then gave their direction to the driver.

As the hackney moved through the crowded streets, Risa began to explain the Red Boar to Michael. She made it seem like something wonderful, though Michael knew he would never be able to experience it the same way, thanks to his heightened senses—but just the idea that some people didn't mind so much made him question his own reactions. Maybe he was being too particular. Maybe it wasn't such a big deal.

"I'm to be your mentor, Harly said." Risa slipped her arm through his and patted his hand. "And I'm honored, now I've seen you, that Harly trusts me to look out for you."

Kind-seeming or not, Michael knew Risa was not going to look out for him out of the goodness of her heart. Though her thoughts didn't tell him any details, he could sense her excitement at the prospect of the money she'd make off of his good looks. Rueful, Michael supposed whatever training he was in for could be counted as some sort of an apprenticeship, and yet he had no confidence in his ability to meet his end of this bargain he'd struck.

"I've never done anything unless I was forced to," Michael whispered. "I hate it. It hurts. It hurts so much."

Risa bit her lip, frowning in sympathy. Her feelings matched her expressions so exactly, it was almost shocking. "It's bad, I know. We'll do what we can to make it easier."

She sat up straighter while managing to pull him even closer to her as if she were giving him a hug. "You can get past being scared and angry. It'll be hard for you at first, I know, but you're in charge. Anyone tries anything you don't want them to, just say so, and if they still try, Daren will throw them out, and they'll never come back. They look out for us better at the Red Boar than anywhere."

"Why is it so different?" Michael caught glimpses of really awful things in Risa's memory, and he also got the sense that memories like hers—and his—weren't that unusual. If the Red Boar were so unlike the rest, there had to be some reason.

Risa flounced her shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "Harly didn't always have money. His sister was a streeter—just like us—and she died while he was away at sea, before he got rich."

"Pol's mother?" Michael asked, surprised.

Risa nodded. "Yes. I'm not sure Pol knew, though. He was very young—I was just a child myself when that all happened. She had a bad runner who didn't watch out for her. She did a bit of healing on the side, too. Learned the old ways from her ma. Herbs and such—nothing... _special_." Risa sighed and shook her head. "She was so nice. Helped my ma out, too, when I was born. But some highborn got mad at her."

Michael had long wondered why the woman in Pol's memory had died the way she had. This revelation was not comforting.

"He said she was a witch and had her taken up in front of the magistrate. The healing made things worse, but she probably would have been convicted in any case. They burned her the next day and took Pol off to JhaPel."

"Shize," Michael breathed, horrified by the speed with which Pol's life had been destroyed. _It's always so fast..._

Risa nodded agreement with this. "By the time Harly got back, moons had passed, but it was such a shock! This was back when they first started burning witches, so he had no way to even expect it, you know?"

Michael found this piece of information especially stunning. "Really?" He wished he'd landed in Camarat back before all this had changed.

"Sure! They'd exile them or send them to the sweats or what-have-you, my ma said. Poor Effie Rayvin, though. Just bad luck, I guess, to get in trouble right at the start of it all. Harly never got over it. He does try to make up for it by looking out for us, thank the goddess." They both fell silent then and rode the rest of the way to the Red Boar without another word.

Michael struggled with what Risa had said for the rest of the long ride through the twisting streets of Fensgate. _She acts like it's normal to...do things with people for money._ He didn't think he would be able to think that way. Ever. He wanted to get through whatever he had to do so he could make enough money to escape to... _Somewhere else. Somewhere far away from Robyn and JhaPel and burnings and Fensgate and everything._

He wondered if such a place existed.

# # #

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Flannery Llorka watched Jarlyth as he packed, her face impassive. She'd already packed and sent her bags ahead to her ship. For Tristella, she'd once more dressed in her Templar journeyman's uniform—a level he himself had never reached.

_Almost..._ A wave of shame and guilt washed over him at the memory of how hard he'd resisted his destiny, how much he'd resented its usurpation of his own dreams.

Vail had not Spoken to him since the night of Nylan's birth. Maybe she believed she no longer needed to prod him after he'd lost his heart to the infant prince. _Maybe she's too horrified by my failure._

"Promise me you'll come back," Flannery said. They were not going together this time. She was sailing for home. He wasn't.

He flipped his case closed with a loud thump then turned, a false smile pasted on his lips. He wanted to feign good cheer. He wanted to find some way to calm his friend's fears. But she knew him too well, and she probably suspected what he was doing. _At least she isn't trying to stop me._

"Let me go with you, Jary." She'd asked before, but when he'd said no, she'd stopped. Now, she couldn't prevent herself from trying one last time. "You shouldn't go alone."

"You can't. Your vow—it's worse than treason to break a Templar vow. "

"Please, Jary." Flannery reached her hand out, not quite touching his arm.

He almost wished she would touch him. He would have liked to have known what she was thinking. His Sensitivity had never been very strong nor had it needed to be. A touch made things clear.

Nylan would just know. Dear Vail, protect him. He must be suffering so much, and I just keep failing him.

"I can't let you, Flan." He turned to look into her expressive eyes. "I can't. I have to do this alone." She nodded stiffly and took a small step backwards, away from him.

_She's in love with me, I think._ A touch would have told him if it were true, but that would also have been unfair.

Though she'd recently turned sixteen, he still remembered the small girl she'd been on that long-ago night of Nylan's birth. It was hard to forget that and see her as a grown woman, no matter how strong and smart and practical she'd become.

"I wish you'd let me help you," she whispered.

"You have helped. Far more than you know." He smiled at her, touched by her devotion, and in that moment, the dangers he faced all rose up before him.

_What if I never make it back? What if I fail? What if this is all the time we have?_ He didn't think of her as anything but a friend, an ally, a pretty young woman who would one day be amazing beyond anything he could ever hope to deserve.

But she loved him, and he was frightened.

The distance between them vanished, and as their lips met, all of her emotions flowed into him with a clarity and sweetness he hadn't expected. He knew then that he should never have touched her. The truth of her emotions cut him like knives, but her kiss was as warm and sweet as anything he'd ever known.

He ended the kiss too abruptly and turned away from her to pick up his case. "I have to go," he said, gruff-voiced, and hurried from the room, feeling like the biggest coward the world had ever seen.

#

The man wanted Michael to kiss him good-bye at the door. After he left, Michael leaned with his forehead pressed to the dark, polished wood, his hand gripping the latch, his heart hammering in his chest. He breathed carefully, concentrating on each inhalation, each exhalation, but nothing ever helped.

He turned away from the door abruptly and ran across the luxuriant carpet, pushing through the smaller door into the bathing room where he threw up in the flusher. Cyra padded across the small room from the corner where Michael had made her a bed. She rubbed comfortingly against his leg, purring.

Tears ran down his face, and he wiped at them with the back of a hand as he eased himself down to sit on the floor beside Cyra. "I should never have said I'd do this. I can't get used to it. I can't do it right. I don't know how anybody does this."

A soft tapping on the outer door resolved into a pattern, and Michael knew it was Risa. He didn't call out for her to come in. She would anyway, whether he told her to or told her to go away, which was his more usual response. He stayed where he was, knowing she'd find him. He was too tired to care anymore.

She called out his name, her footsteps soundless, lost in the ridiculously plush carpet.

Even the nikking floor is like a bed around here.

She pushed open the bathing room door and peered around, finding him at last. He didn't look up. He already knew what he'd see if he met her gaze. Worry, fear, disgust, anger. She'd said it all before. He'd heard it all.

I'm so tired.

"Goddess wept." She knelt in front of him and brushed the hair away from his face to get a good look at his latest acquisition. "What in the Fires is wrong with you?"

"Leave me alone," he breathed, though he didn't try to escape her touch or her scrutiny.

"No!" She caught his chin and yanked his head sideways to take a better look at the abrasion marring his pale skin. The man kissed him hard and painfully, his beard stubble scrubbing against the boy's face. More marks trailed down from his ear to his collar bone, bruises mapping the progress of the man's lips. "You let him do this."

Michael swallowed, tasting bile. His throat was so sore. He threw up afterwards almost every time. "He likes it rough." Michael gave a disinterested half-shrug. "He pays for it."

"But there's no reason to say yes to the likes of him! You have plenty of men interested in you who'd pay ten clinks for the privilege of kissing your feet!" Her voice caught, and Michael sensed her real fear for him and her anguish. "Please, Michael," she breathed. "Stop this. Do you want to die?"

He didn't reply. They both knew the answer.

Everyone had been patient and had given him time to get used to the idea, time to discuss this new life with all the girls at the Red Boar and a few hand-picked young men who had once plied the same trade at other Houses in Fensgate. Harly had arranged more intimate training with another of these young men, one who was gentle and patient with Michael's fears. Michael had thought he could do it. He'd thought he could shut off his feelings and endure in exchange for his hope of eventual escape.

"I have to go back downstairs." Michael pushed himself to his feet with difficulty. Risa belatedly caught his arm to help him up, but she gasped when she saw the bruises marring the rest of his body.

He looked up into her eyes. "Why does it matter, Risa?" he asked. "It isn't like my life's worth saving."

"You pick the ones who'll punish you." Her shock vanished beneath a wave of disgust. "You _want_ to be hurt." She turned away from him in a whirl of lace and long, shimmering-bronze hair and stomped silently back out of his suite.

He limped over to the gaudy, gold-framed mirror hanging above an equally gaudy, marble-topped basin. The entire bathing room was a parody of luxury, made as much for seduction as it was for actual use.

_As if seduction were necessary._ He stared at himself in the mirror and knew Risa was right. It had been unthinking on his part, but that did not make it any less true. He had tried to do things the right way, accept offers from gentle, undemanding men. But he'd been unable to bear kindness. Worse, he could not stand to feel any pleasure. If he was sickened now by what he did, he had been nearly unable to function afterwards when he'd enjoyed what was done to him in any way.

.: _She cares about you,_ :. The Voice said. It sounded weary and defeated, as if it, too, were close to giving up on trying to save or even help him. .: _You should listen to her._ :.

Michael knew this was true, too. He knew he shouldn't accept offers from cruel men. He knew he should be more careful. He knew he should forgive himself. _Ethene would have died anyway._

He took his time washing and dressing. He had an outfit he wore as a sort of uniform, but there were other clothes at his disposal, too. Costumes and robes and things that were practically scraps of cloth—all to entertain patrons. All to make their fantasies come true.

Cyra blinked at him as he knelt to scratch her ears. "Who'll take care of you if I die, huh?" he asked her. He didn't think anyone would. He supposed that would have to be enough of a reason to keep going. _And try to do better._

Michael trailed through the next several days, making some effort to be more careful and choose more wisely, but he hated being touched so much, he automatically stayed out of reach of his patrons until the last possible moment.

Lorel Burk didn't even try to touch him, making his offer quietly, respectfully. _As if he were a suitor, and I, some honorable young lady._ It was so absurd a conceit, Michael almost laughed at the thought.

Michael took a breath and looked up into the man's eyes through his lashes—a pose he knew to be quite striking. He bit his lip thoughtfully, as if he might say no, and the man almost whimpered. _I can ask for a lot._ He named a sum rather more outrageous than he usually asked for the services Burk wanted, and the man agreed without hesitation.

The pretence would involve Burk arriving at his door, again as some sort of suitor, so Michael preceded him up the wide, sweeping staircase to his suite where he changed into a simple black silk robe, took his hair out of its confining braid, and made a few other, less cosmetic preparations so that nothing would impede the man's desires when the time came. He'd barely finished when the man gave his signal knock.

"So beautiful," the man breathed when Michael opened the door to him. He swept in, almost slamming the door behind himself, and began shedding his clothes with intimidating speed. He never took his eyes off of Michael's face, and Michael stared back, growing more and more nervous as the unblinking eyes bored into his.

The man's hands were hot, and they peeled away the silken robe immediately. Michael caught snatches of thought, but everything in Burk's mind was confused and confusing, and he didn't really want to understand. Burk's lips and hands and body all burned as if the man were fevered, and he never stopped talking, a babble of semi-coherent worship, singing obscene praises to Michael's body.

"You should be protected, cherished." His kisses covered Michael's shoulders as he rolled the boy over, face-down amongst the pillows.

Burk's fingers traced the outline of Michael's Red Boar tattoo—a bright blood-red against the pale skin of his right shoulder—and a low growl hummed in the man's throat. He kissed the tattoo gently, carefully, as if by doing so he could erase it and all it meant. His fingers massaged at the leftover bruises from prior patrons, too, his muttering words unintelligible but clearly disapproving.

His mind roiled as his hands moved to more intimate places, and Michael suppressed a sigh of near-boredom. Worship was tedious, and the men who wanted to believe he had floated down from Vail's Country were often the most perverted. _Vail, I wish he'd finish up and go away._

"Don't be afraid, child." Burk thrust into him with a long, relieved exhalation. He'd done it abruptly and had not been careful. Tears of pain stung Michael's eyes, and he gasped out a cry. Burk, lost in a reverie, didn't hear him.

The man's words took on a chanting rhythm that matched the movements of his body. "Never fear. I'll keep you safe. You should be saved from the filth of this world..."

_Like you, you clumsy bastard,_ Michael thought, angry at the pain and his own reaction to it.

Oblivious, Burk's hands smoothed the hair away from Michael's neck, rubbing in a way that seemed meant to be soothing.

"Safe forever." Burk's words were a hiss in Michael's ear as his hands encircled the boy's neck, his fingers tightening over Michael's throat.

Michael stiffened, his head jerking up. He felt a crunch and heard a gasp as pain blossomed across the back of his head. The echoing of Burk's pain through his nose and cheeks brought fresh tears to his eyes. _At least I hurt him back._

The man's body and hands forced him back down and held him, unyielding. Burk's voice, sounding suddenly stuffy and odd, nevertheless soothed.

"Don't fight it, darling. It's for the best. You'll be safe at last." There was no sense of cruelty from the man nor any pleasure derived from inflicting pain, but Michael knew he was in trouble.

Let him.

The thought whispered through his brain as the hands tightened inexorably around his throat. The rhythm of Burk's body sped up, nearing climax.

" _If you want to survive..."_

Michael struggled, trying to throw the man off of him.

I do! I want to—

Burk was unshakeable.

Oh, Vail! He's killing me—he's really killing me!

Michael scrabbled at the man's hands with his own, trying to pry even a finger loose from its grip on his throat. Fear drowned out every other sensation except the pain of those hands squeezing the breath and life out of him. He dug his nails into the man's hands, feeling them tear skin, but Burk's grip only tightened.

_No! Please, no! Not like this!_ He couldn't escape, though fear screamed in every nerve. A black wave washed over him, and he went under into darkness.

Until, into the darkness, the Voice roared, .: _NO!_ :. And Michael roused, the Voice's fury filling his entire being—he was furious at Burk, furious at Sirra Avram and Mabbina and all the nannas at JhaPel. He was furious at the Red Boar and Risa and Harly and at Pol for saving his life.

Most of all, he was furious with himself.

He drew breath to scream at Burk to leave him alone and realized he could draw breath. Burk was gone.

Confused and gasping, Michael rolled over and sat up to look around the room for some explanation. Burk lay sprawled unconscious against the far wall with blood trickling from his ears.

And then Michael did scream, but the sound he produced was a pale rasp followed by a painful coughing fit. He stumbled from the bed, collapsing onto the floor half-tangled in a sheet and still coughing. He tasted blood on the back of his tongue and stars sparkled all around him, the edges of his vision turning black. He caught his breath at last and sat gasping, horrified beyond his ability to even think clearly.

But he remembered his training. He pounded on the wall in the pattern he'd been taught to use to call for help, and to his amazement, help arrived before he'd even finished the pattern.

Daren, the Red Boar's head strong-arm, burst through the door and saw him. He swore and took a quick survey of the room, spotting Burk at once.

Risa shoved in behind him, darting to Michael's side. She was barely dressed herself, wrapped in a thin, red silk robe, her hair tumbling around her. On her heels came Irini, another of the senior streeters who looked after and kept the newer ones in line.

"What happened?" Risa pulled him into her arms and rocked him as if he were a baby.

Michael glared across the room at where Burk lay, stunned, head lolling, and rasped out an ugly-sounding, "Bastard."

Irini smoothed back his hair from his fading-purple face. "Hush, now. Save yer voice."

The fingerprints, livid on his throat, told the tale, and the two women began making guesses as to what happened.

"Did he attack you?" Risa demanded.

"O' course he attacked 'im!" Irini shook her head in furious disapproval, her copper tresses flowing like flame to match her anger. "Look at 'is throat!"

Daren knelt beside Burk, examining him for damage. He shot a strange look in Michael's direction but said nothing and directed his two subordinates, waiting by the door for orders, to drag the man from the room. He sent another of the streeters—also standing at the door and craning her head to see what was going on—to go fetch Harly.

"Yer too tough for 'im, though." Irini still petted Michael's hair. "Boxed 'is ears, did ye?"

Michael didn't respond. He watched with vicious satisfaction as the men dragged Burk away and almost laughed when the man's head banged into the doorframe.

"Bastard," he repeated, the word scraping against his throat. "Nikking bastard." It was all he could manage to say, though Risa and Irini kept elaborating on what they thought had happened.

"I think you're right, Irini," Risa said. "He knocked him flat, and good for you, Michael."

"Did ye see the blood? Ye must'a hit 'im that 'ard!" Irini sounded impressed.

"Go see that someone fetches a healer, Irini," Daren ordered, and the woman flicked an irritated glance at the strong-arm but hurried away to obey. But Daren just stood where he was, staring at nothing. He ran a hand over his shaved head, his muscles tensed as if he wanted to fight something.

He seemed to come to some decision and turned and squatted down beside Risa, though even then he towered over Michael, still huddled in her arms. His dark eyes bored into the boy's as if trying to read the truth there. "Is that what happened, Michael?" Daren asked, his voice even. "Did you fight him off?"

Michael swallowed and nearly started choking again. His throat was swollen and painful, and he wanted a drink of water and sleep and for everyone to leave him alone.

The truth would never do, and Burk had already ruined himself by the Red Boar's rules. His word would be useless, at least it would be inside the Red Boar's walls. Michael nodded, meeting Daren's speculative gaze.

"He boxed his ears," Risa agreed. She sniffed back angry tears and gave Michael another squeeze.

The healer eventually showed up and clucked over Michael's injuries, cleaning him up and bandaging his fingers which were bruised and the nails torn by the intensity of his struggle. The healer finished by giving Michael a soothing concoction to drink and ordering rest, which Risa had anticipated. She'd directed the maids to remove all signs of Burk and ready the bed for him.

Once he was tucked in beneath clean sheets, she even carried Cyra out from the bathing room and plopped the small cat in Michael's lap.

Everyone left him alone after much fussing, and he made out Daren's voice muttering softly in the corridor, ordering one of his men to stand guard.

_Maybe Burk isn't gone yet. Or maybe he has friends who will finish the job for him._ Michael was too exhausted to let this thought take up too much of his attention. He was far too focused on another, more disturbing truth.

It had been magic. Strong, frightening magic. Michael knew it, and Burk probably knew it, too, and maybe Daren even suspected.

And if Burk wants to finish what he started, all he'll need to do is point a finger at me and say, "witch."

But this didn't happen, and when he ventured an oblique question about the possible danger to Risa, she seemed genuinely surprised.

"I told you, didn't I? Harly looks out for us. As if someone like Lorel Burk would dare cross the Red Boar! He'd have to be the Duke of Reyahl himself to stand down Harly and Daren."

Which was how Michael learned that all he'd been told by Risa and the rest of the Red Boar's girls was truth and not wishful imaginings. The Red Boar was a force to be reckoned with not just unto itself and the peculiar inner workings of Fensgate but throughout all of the Kingdom of Camarat.

Harly may have started out his life as the orphaned son of a costermonger, but he'd parlayed a chance encounter with a press gang into a career as the indispensable right-hand man to the most successful privateer in the queen's fleet.

After his first triumphant return was met with the news of his little sister's ignominious death, he'd determined to come back wealthier and more powerful each time.

The Red Boar had happened the same way, with Harly using his initial, small share, bought during that first, sad homecoming, as a lever to turn the business into his own empire.

Somehow, Harly had made the Red Boar important enough that it had an indelible impact on all of its members' social and political associations to the point where being banished from the Red Boar could ruin a man for life, cutting him off from the connections merchants and most highborns needed to succeed.

Patrons took the establishment's rules seriously and reinforced even slight disciplinary measures within their own social circles. A man who could not stay within the good graces of the Red Boar would receive no invitations, contract no respectable business, and make no advantageous connections for his family.

Harly's suggestion of escape wasn't something he'd offered to Michael lightly, the boy saw. Harly himself understood what it was like to fight back from less than nothing.

_I've been lucky. All this time, I thought I'd landed in the Fires, and I've been so lucky._ He felt fifteen kinds of a fool for not having taken even the simplest of precautions before accepting Burk's offer. He'd been playing with death, toying with the romantic idea of ending it all, but when faced with the reality of that desire...

It's strange what you learn about yourself when a madman has his hands wrapped around your throat.

He wouldn't have thought he'd react with such determination.

" _If you want to survive..."_

"How can the answer still be 'yes,' after everything?" he breathed.

I want to survive...I want to survive this and escape it and leave it all behind and win. Like Harly.

# # #

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The SanClares, unlike the Voyan royals, had never been especially long-lived. _On the contrary_ , Jarlyth thought. _They've always seemed particularly talented at getting themselves killed_.

The Blood Emperor Savoni SanClare could count his age in centuries.

Jarlyth had imagined someone who looked more like Teodor—not old, exactly, but older. It came as a shock to see such a young-looking man seated— _Draped_ —upon the massive imperial throne. It seemed wrong that blood magic could prolong a life so attractively.

Oh, dear Vail...he looks like Nylan.

The throne room was vast and stark, without so much as a decorative carving etched into any of its smooth, pure-white granite pillars—the absolute reverse of the same room at Karonsmoor Castle.

Light poured down in glimmering shafts from the windows lining the walls and radiating out from the center of the distant ceiling. No other seating cluttered the room aside from Savoni's throne which sat, theatrically, right in the middle of a haloing beam.

Nor do any other people clutter the room.

"Lord Denara." The man nodded an oddly casual greeting considering their surroundings. "I've been wanting to meet you. How does it feel to be hailed the most faithful man in all the world?"

Though he'd had moons to think about this moment, Jarlyth didn't know what to say. It was treason to be standing there talking to Serathon's greatest enemy, but if the man could be of any help in finding and rescuing Nylan...

"May I speak plainly, Your Majesty?" Jarlyth asked.

"Please do." The man sat up straighter and turned his full attention on the warder. "I get so little of that here, it'll make a nice change."

"Do you know where Nylan is?"

"Why should I know that?" the man demanded. "I assure you, I don't have him."

"Majesty, I'm begging you. If you know anything—"

Savoni moved from his throne with the grace of a cat. He closed the distance between them, coming to stand mere inches from Jarlyth. The emperor stood a hand-span taller than the warder though he was much slimmer, his muscles not made by swordplay. Glints of silver shone in his black hair, hinting at the age his face didn't show.

He lifted a hand and trailed his fingers down Jarlyth's cheek. "You're a Sensitive, Lord Denara?"

"Barely." Jarlyth refused to show any fear, though the glimpses the emperor's touch gave him of the man's mind were enough to make him want to run from the room. "Vail gave me a small taste of that gift. Enough to allow me to be a warder."

"He is strong, isn't he?" Savoni let his hand fall away. His eyes glittered with something Jarlyth couldn't put a name to. Was it desire? Hope? ...Love? "Stronger than any of them?"

Jarlyth's chin jutted out in a half-nod. "The Prior declared him the most powerful Sensitive he'd ever seen."

Savoni sighed. "He would be, wouldn't he? The greatest. The strongest. The most beautiful. Vail mocks me."

Jarlyth feared that his next words were the most important he'd ever say and that he would fail to ask the right thing. "Will you help me, Majesty? Help me find your son?"

Savoni's face showed nothing of his thoughts. "Help you find my destruction? That's what you're asking me to do, you realize?"

Jarlyth shook his head. "No, Majesty. I'm asking you to help me find your son. That's all. Just a child, all alone and in danger. A child who looks like you and Queen Vedalanna. A child who is in danger only because he is your son."

Savoni turned away. "Ah, Veda. I think I did love her, you know? She loved me. It's hard to know what's real after all this time."

"She'd want you to help me."

Savoni whirled back around, smiling. "She would!" he exclaimed. "You're right! I suppose I owe her that much. She died of me, after all."

Jarlyth did not ask the question that now hung in the air between them. He thought Savoni wanted him to ask it, though. He waited for the answer to be spoken regardless.

Savoni nodded in approval of Jarlyth's refusal to play this game. "Blood magic is an incurable addiction, and, in the right circumstances, it can be contagious. She died because she loved me—all she had to do to live was give in to the longing in her blood...but she was far stronger than I, and she would not do it." A long silence followed this revelation, then the emperor added, "Have you looked on the other side, Lord Denara?"

"Other side?" Jarlyth's forehead furrowed in confusion.

"Of the Breach, dear boy."

Jarlyth froze but his thoughts sped away from him. He'd been a fool not to think of it, but the mercenaries had gone to Worldsend. It had taken years to search all the places Nylan could have been hidden there, and a fruitless search meant nothing but that he might have been moved right before their arrival and moved again after their departure. Worldsend was vast...it had seemed the most likely place. The Breach began there, but to think of anyone passing through it at that most violent point surviving to see the other side.

"That isn't possible! If they took him to Worldsend—"

"Don't be a fool," Savoni snapped. "No one knows what happens when someone goes through the Breach. Only the Reinra know how to cross it safely, and it takes them great pains to do it. But that doesn't mean anyone else who crosses..." and he paused, gesturing vaguely with his right hand. "...less carefully is necessarily dead. Use your head, young man. Where else could he be that would be hidden from you so completely?"

"But that's another whole world! How will I find him there?"

Savoni's face suddenly looked old, and he shook his head, almost helplessly. "That cannot be my problem. I can give you information. I can give you money. But I cannot help you beyond that. I cannot if I want to protect my son from me."

"Majesty—"

"I have stayed out of it, Lord Denara, because I do not want to hurt him. And I cannot say I'd be able to resist the temptation power such as he possesses would pose. I am a waerlok. Even your poor power calls to me. Your blood..." He let the words trail away and watched as their import reached Jarlyth.

He took an involuntary step back, the fear he'd been fighting the entire time suddenly rising to the surface. He was dancing with danger, and now he knew it. Savoni did not look dangerous, but he was the most powerful waerlok the world had ever known.

_Vail walks with me,_ he thought, remembering Queen Tristella's words and trying to be reassured by them.

"I have to go back to Serathon. I have to prepare—"

"You waste time," Savoni snapped. "You can leave from here, go to Reinra, work your way through the Breach however they require you to. And then follow your instincts. The other side of the Breach has many kingdoms. Many languages. Many wars. They are very different from us and fear magic, but they are not so different that you cannot find your way to him. It will take time, and you have wasted a great deal of it already."

"Why didn't you send word?" Jarlyth demanded. "Why didn't you try to help sooner?"

Savoni smiled, the expression not at all comforting. "You are far more naïve than I would have expected, Lord Denara. I have no stake in helping you. My son presents a great threat to my throne. He is SanClare and Voyavel and a Sensitive, all together. Higher-born than any of us, more blessed by Vail...why should I have helped to look for him? Why should I help you now?"

"Please, Majesty. He's just a little boy."

"Yes, yes." Savoni waved his hand dismissively. "I've said I would, and I'm not taking that back. I am merely explaining my position. You must understand, Lord Denara, that a waerlok's help is a dangerous thing. And you must ask yourself just how much you want to save him. Your own life may be in the balance."

"I'd do anything to save him," Jarlyth whispered.

The smile twisted into something even more disturbing, and Savoni moved closer again, lifted Jarlyth's unresisting hand to his mouth, and bestowed a firm kiss on the knuckles.

"With my blessings then, Lord Denara. Be on your way." Savoni dropped Jarlyth's hand and stepped back, bowing slightly before turning entirely and walking from the room.

#

Michael knew he shouldn't be happy about the news, but he rarely tasted the satisfaction of revenge nor any sort of justice, so he indulged in private delight as Lord Jack spun the tale he'd heard from the harbor master the hour before.

Sirra Avram, the Royal Magistrate, had died.

"A tragic error, it seems." Jack shook his head in dramatic sympathy. "Lord Scarsdell mistook Avram for some young scamp lordling who'd been nikking Scarsdell's even younger little wife!"

Michael leaned over Jack's shoulder and eyed his cards. _Another bad hand. He's having no luck tonight._ The man grinned up at him as if he held nothing but winners. _Idiot._ But he couldn't help but smile back.

He was always happy to see Jack.

Michael met Jack on his first day back after taking several days to recover from Lorel Burk's attack. During that break, he'd also found a tiny room to rent away from the Red Boar and moved his pitiful, few belongings there to spend his last two rest days enjoying the sensation of being all alone.

He'd been determined, too, to be different from then on—to not just exist and survive but _live_. To do that, he needed a few reasons to be happy. The room was his second reason. Cyra, naturally, was his first. Jack had given him his third.

Rested and relaxed from his inadvertent holiday, he'd been in a good mood the night Lord Jack had swaggered into the Red Boar. The man had been hailed by at least half the room as he'd ostentatiously turned over his impressive collection of weapons over to the door-guards for safekeeping. It seemed all the girls and door-guards and gamblers knew him well.

Curious, Michael had watched him as he'd worked his way across the central salon to the bar then had flirted and joked his way, full-to-the-brim pint held aloft, to the large round table where all the highest bidders sat, gambling anything and everything and more than Michael could ever imagine.

Michael spent a great deal of his time at this table and had been there that night. When he wasn't otherwise engaged, he often played lucky charm for various hopeful gamblers, though their hope that he'd tumble them afterwards didn't always work out to their satisfaction. Sometimes an argument over who should win his bed would ensue, and, if he'd deign to be their wager, the game would be played for stakes that mattered to him.

Jack had been honestly shocked to see Michael there. He'd called Harly over and shouted at him.

"What's the matter with you, man? Can't you see he's but a child? I thought this place more decent than that sewer." He gestured with a finger toward the One-Eyed Sailor.

Michael didn't want Harly to get in trouble for helping him. He'd moved around the table to stand beside Jack's chair, a better vantage for looking up at him through his lashes.

The man made a noise of disgust but patted his arm. "Stop it. I'd never want an infant like you." He glared around at everyone else in the room as he subsided into his seat, and more than a few men looked away, embarrassed.

"But you like boys," Michael said softly. "I can tell."

The man growled something unintelligible, and Michael sensed how truly angry he was over Michael's presence there.

"I like men, little boy." Jack gave him an exasperated look. "Full-grown, hard-muscled, hairy _men_."

Michael bit his lip to hide a smile. "Then why aren't you two rows over at The Hanged-Man?"

There seemed no plan nor reason for where the brothels catering to various tastes were situated around Fensgate, though all the best were within an easy walking distance of each other and not very far from the docks.

As the Hanged-Man's double-meaninged name implied, that brothel catered to men who preferred men. The Black Cat, yet another brothel a few doors away from the Hanged-Man, catered to those who liked girls younger than those at the Red Boar or its rival and across-street neighbor, the Midnight Star.

"That's a shame," was Jack's elusive reply. "Such a lovely little thing, but you're knowing and sharp."

Michael's smile faded, and he felt oddly hurt by the man's words. "Don't be mad at Harly. It isn't his fault. This was the best he could do."

"You leave 'im alone, Jack." Irini swept up and trailed her arm around the man's shoulders. "Ain't no reason to pester the boy. He's doin' 'is best."

Jack smiled up at the woman as if they were old friends. "In Mirthia, it would never be allowed. Someone would hang for what you're all doing to this poor child."

Michael didn't believe it and almost sneered at the man's words. To his surprise, however, Irini only shook her head, tsking.

"Don't I know it, Jack. But 'e's stuck 'ere, idn't he? Poor thing." She leaned in to whisper. "They went and branded 'im."

Jack straightened, his shock crackling across Michael's senses, and he turned with narrowed eyes. "I do apologize to you, lad. I'd no idea."

Irini gave Michael a wink and moved on to a more likely target. Michael, too, turned to walk away, but Jack caught his arm.

"Wait. I am sorry. Truly."

Michael shrugged. "You didn't know."

Slapping his hands onto his thighs with a decisive thwack, Jack gave a nod. "Sit with me for a bit. Help me play a few hands. I'll give you a clink for your trouble, and we can talk."

Retreating a step, Michael gave the man a wary, sidelong look. "Why? You don't like boys."

"I suppose no one ever just talks to you," the man muttered half to himself.

Lifting his chin, Michael hesitated for a moment as he weighed the situation. "All right. I've just had a bit of trouble, after all. I could use a break."

Jack told him all about Mirthia that night, and one hour stretched into many. The man won several hands, took a few measured losses, and ended up richer than the rest by morning. So did Michael who Jack insisted should earn a percentage of each hand for being a help.

He wanted to refuse—all he'd done was sit at Jack's side and observe the game—but he'd long ago lost the pride that allowed him to make such gestures. _What a silly waste of his money,_ Michael thought. But it had been very kind.

The next time Jack came back to the Red Boar, he'd brought Michael a small, leather-bound book entitled _Mirthia: A Traveler's Guide_ by H. L. Pinhearn.

"I'm not allowed to travel, Jack." Michael pushed the book back toward the man, wanting to be rid of something that held such an impossible hope in its very title.

"You're allowed to dream, aren't you?"

Now, with the news of Sirra Avram, Jack had given him yet another gift. _I can't figure taxes for this one,_ he thought. _It's beyond pricing._ He felt a little guilty, still. _But I'll get over it._

He left early that night, not wanting to spoil his mood, and awoke almost early—well before midday—to see the sun sparkling over the city.

His fourth reason to be happy should correctly have been counted as his first or second, but he'd forgotten it for too long during his endless, miserable sojourn through the streets of Fensgate. His pencils and notebook from Whiltierna were long-gone, left behind when he'd been tossed from JhaPel, but then he'd discovered chalk and pavement and rare sunny days in the park.

Smiling at the gift of a bright, clear day just after the gift of seeing Jack and learning of Avram's demise, he threw on his grubby, off-duty clothes, picked up his pack, and, with Cyra following him, left for Carillon Park.

Hours later, he'd gone through all the chalk he'd brought with him, having thoroughly enjoyed every moment of transforming paving stones into artworks until the next rains washed them clean.

Michael had been finished with his last chalk drawing for several minutes, but Jon, one of the many young artists who frequented the park, too, on fine days—"to paint from life," they all claimed—begged him again to hold his pose for just a few more tics.

"Jon, I have to go!" Michael exclaimed after the fourth such stay was requested. He'd been half-lying on his side, an elbow propping him up over the sidewalk where he'd been working. Apparently, this pose had struck Jon as "most naturalistic." His friend was no help, adding his nagging to Jon's.

"You cannot move, Michael," Dann said, bossy as usual. "You owe it to Art Herself to assist Jon in his quest. He wants to create something fine enough for the Royal Review next moon."

"Come pose for me tomorrow." Jon's charcoal-stained hands moved quickly as he sketched as fast as he could.

Michael smiled. "You couldn't possibly afford me."

A coin pinged into the upturned hat Michael was using for donations, and he called his thanks after the retreating girl who turned back and gave him a shy wave.

Jon snorted and was about to say something teasing, Michael guessed, when a third man approached, someone who could afford Michael. He'd overheard their conversation and exclaimed, "Goddess, Jon. Don't you know who he is?"

In spite of his Red Boar armband, it was unlikely they did recognize him, chalk-stained and lowly-dressed as he usually was for his park outings. Sighing at the loss of his anonymity, Michael waited for the newcomer to have his fun.

"Well, he's Michael." Jon seemed confused. "He's here at least once a quarter-moon, isn't he?"

But Dann saw it, and Michael could tell just when the connection was made.

"No!" He turned toward the newcomer, shock blooming on his face. "That's him? Wil, tell me you're having us on! _He's_ your 'Prince of Sorrows?'"

Wil—who was now a firmly-established artist, thanks to the painting in question—threw back his head and laughed. "I can't believe you didn't see it! It isn't as if his face is common."

Highborn and wealthy and determined to be famous, Wil—better known as Lord Wilem Severn—had hired Michael after seeing him at the Red Boar. Instead of sex, the young man had wanted Michael to pose for him. And he'd been willing to pay a very respectable per-hour rate for the honor.

At first, Michael had demurred, but Harly had encouraged him to accept, explaining that this was employment he was legally allowed to accept since it took advantage of the same loophole which made prostitution virtually the only other thing it was legal for him to do: If it could be assumed that an artist wanted him for his individual looks, then it could also be assumed that he was not taking away employment from a righteous, law-abiding citizen, and, therefore, it was allowed.

Though he was already well-known in some circles, Wil's painting had made Michael famous throughout Camarat and had brought him to the attention of some of the most powerful people in the kingdom – the target group of firstborns, in fact, which Harly had been hoping to attract. He'd even been the favorite of Prince Leovar himself for several quarter-moons. _Though that ended badly,_ Michael thought, rueful.

If he could have made a living from modeling alone, he would gladly have done so. In spite of the very bad first impression of the breed he'd had from Robyn Vaznel, he liked this set of young artists. They were all so earnest about their work and most of them completely oblivious to Michael's own profession. Aside from Wil, most couldn't afford the Red Boar, and, while female streeters modeled for their paintings and sometimes warmed their beds, the idea that Michael was one of that number never seemed to occur to them.

But his artistic acquaintances were mostly impoverished themselves, though in a genteel fashion, and too few to keep him properly employed even if he did start accepting their offers.

"It's been an honor to sketch you." Jon stood up quickly as if embarrassed to have imposed.

Michael began to climb to his feet, only to find Dann's hand under his elbow, helping him. The man's mind was full of ideas and dreams and random wisps of things, but he, too, was only interested in Michael's skills as a model. _Refreshing._

"Thanks." Michael eased himself free of the touch as soon as he could without seeming rude, covering any awkwardness by concentrating on arranging the strap of his pack just so. "I hope the sketch helps," he added to Jon. "I'd pose for you for less if I could, but..." He shrugged. "I have to earn clink."

"You look different with your hair back," Jon said, a bit randomly, until Michael understood what he meant.

Wil smiled at the boy. "Indeed. He wouldn't be SanClare Black without all that beautiful hair."

Michael rolled his eyes at this use of the nickname the man had settled on him during the modeling sessions, and he hoped fervently that Jon and Dann would not pick up the habit.

But aloud he agreed, "Oh, yes," and gave Wil a quick wink as he yanked the tie from the end of his braid and ran his other hand through his hair, loosening it in one, well-practiced move. The affect worked as well in the middle of the park as it did in more private circumstances. Both Jon and Dann looked thunderstruck.

"Shize," Jon breathed. "I see it now."

Michael smiled, gave a small, ironic bow, and walked away.

Cyra met him a few lengths down the path. She liked to come out hunting in the park on the days Michael went there to draw. Both of them enjoyed the escape from their everyday lives.

It was still early enough in the day that Michael didn't need to be to the Red Boar for a few hours. The bridge back to Fensgate was up, letting a steamer ship go through, and he passed the waiting time by buying a cup of coffee and trading a few coppers for some odd bits of fish from a young woman who had pulled close to shore to get out of the steamer's way.

He sat down under a tree and sipped his coffee and fed the fish to Cyra who devoured all of it greedily. He scratched her ears, listening to the simple, picture-thoughts of his little friend.

He never would have believed his life could be so close to good after all that had happened. Though still a heretic and a whore, in the moons since Lorel Burk's attack had brought him clarity, he had managed to create a bit of a life for himself between those two absolutes, all the while working to escape them forever.

The steamer was disappearing around a far bend in the river by the time the bridge was passable once more. Wiping his hands on the grass to be rid of any fishiness, Michael stood up again and continued across it.

Traffic was dire, carriages and carts and trams all backed-up due to the bridge's delay, and he kept rerouting himself to get around impassable snarls. By the time he cleared the mess, he'd ended up on the sidewalk opposite the docks. And opposite the enormous archway where the witch-burning pyre stood. It looked freshly-blackened and litter left behind by the vanished crowd still blew around the open area. _Probably what half the traffic was from...someone died here today._

He'd been by the pyre since that first time and since he'd been branded himself, but it always surprised him when he encountered it, the feelings he'd first experienced welling up each time, full-strength.

Someone knocked into him, sending him staggering a step, almost into the street. He caught himself and turned to glare at the clumsy person, only to see a pack of laundresses heading home from a shift all staring at his brand with expressions of fear and disgust.

He resisted the urge to clap his right hand over the left to hide the brand but instead deliberately brushed at his jacket where one of the women bumped him, making a show of being the wounded party. The nearest woman's eyes flicked up, saw his face and then took in his Red Boar armband. At that, her expression went blank, and she turned and shooed her friends on their way.

"That was a close one," Michael commented to Cyra. He pretended a calm he didn't feel. The women had seemed ready to start something with him. _More bullies looking for someone to kick around, and it might as well be the little heretic. Thank Vail for the Red Boar._

Cyra brushed up far more gently against his boot and wandered off as if trying to lead him home. Michael, feeling shaky and almost hysterical with relief that nothing had happened to turn that awkward encounter into something worse, followed.

By the time he reached the Red Boar, Michael managed to put the incident out of his mind. His rented room lay only a short distance from the inn, and his spirits lifted at the prospect of home.

Friendly, loud, and blunt, his landlady, Senna MaGlen, had declared she'd rent to him but only if he'd agree to live in the attic above the servants quarters where he'd be out of everyone's way with his "all-hours comings and goings." As this was the quietest place in the entire household, especially during the day when Michael would be sleeping, he'd been more than happy to agree to this restriction.

The boardinghouse was close enough to the Red Boar for Michael to slip out through the inn's back door and down three connecting alleys to reach it. He went the long way, this time, not wanting to set foot inside the Red Boar until he had to later that night, but he still reached the boardinghouse quickly and ran down the area steps and through the scullery door.

Senna MaGlen seemed to gather the ambitious wretched to her, employing disgraced servant girls and former streeters to help her run her surprisingly respectable establishment. Only the servants knew about Michael, though. Senna MaGlen had thought it just as well the others not know she'd rented to a heretic.

Though his tiny, slant-roofed dormer was probably considered too small even for the tweeny maid, the room was considered by Michael to be a paradise. It was the one place where he could go and be completely alone, and, aside from the room he'd stayed in at Robyn's house, Michael had never before had any place all to himself.

When he dashed into the scullery, he was greeted by the housekeeper, Ma Fitz, who seemed the very template for all motherly housekeepers he'd encountered in novels. She offered him a cookie which he paused to accept. The scullery maid sat on a low stool peeling potatoes, and she stared at him, mouth half-open and her cheeks stained red. When he winked at her, the blush blazed brighter, and he grinned before turning away and heading up the several-flights of steps to his room, Cyra skimming by and ahead of him in order to meet him at their door.

He undressed, used a rag and some cold water poured into a chipped basin to wash the chalk off of his arms and face, and ran waxed thread between his teeth before polishing them with mint paste using a little brush, just as Risa had taught him. He then dressed again, this time in his Red Boar "uniform" of white shirt, black side-buttoning knickers, and tall, black leather boots. On colder evenings—and this promised to be one of those—it was all pulled together by a fancily-tailored men's frock coat, also black and with the Red Boar's symbol stitched onto the sleeve as warning to any who might otherwise bother him. On warmer nights and for everyday, he had a red-embroidered-on-black armband to wear instead. And when he was completely undressed, there was the tattoo.

Completing the look, he wore a thin, black scarf knotted loosely around his shirt collar. The boots were exceptionally well-made, extraordinarily expensive, and so tall they came up over his knees, reaching to mid-thigh. And they were warm, a fact that made him like them even if everyone else liked them for very different reasons. That he could still wear them, even though moons and moons had passed since Prince Leovar had gifted them to him, attested to how little he'd grown. He was small, and it seemed he would remain small. Though it saved him money to not have to constantly replace his clothing, and his small frame made him seem younger than his years, he didn't much care for being so little.

He didn't much care for his "uniform," either. But the knickers were an accommodation, allowing his patrons to undress him without having to remove the much-admired boots. Another aspect to his look which he didn't much care for—but which was, without a doubt, its most striking feature—was his long, black hair. _"SanClare Black." I wish they wouldn't call me that._

While on the streets, he'd learned to hate how his hair tangled and snagged on things and enabled those he should have been able to escape to catch him and hurt him, but Risa had forbidden him to cut it. She'd even threatened to fine him if he dared, something which, as his mentor, she had the authority to do on her own and the Red Boar's behalf. So now he stood before his tiny bit of mirror and painstakingly combed out the few snags it had managed to get since he'd freed it in the park and just as painstakingly re-braided it.

_Braid or no braid, Jon and Dann would have had no problem recognizing me looking like this._ Michael the streeter looked quite different from Michael the chalk-painter. It was not just his hair which had been so striking in Wil's painting. His bearing had been different, too, and the expression captured by Wil's painting had been that of someone who knew everyone was looking at him, admiring and desiring. Wil claimed he'd looked regal, but Michael knew better: _I looked like a whore._

He made a face at the mirror to check his teeth one last time then gave his reflection a fake smile, caught up his pack, and headed out once more.

The sun was beginning to hide behind the buildings when he emerged from the alley and out onto the main street. A couple of the boys from the One-Eyed Sailor were kicking their heels, waiting for their next clients—the Sailor was a more traditional brothel and operated almost around the clock—and they waved to him.

He waved back but turned away, not wanting to get into any conversations at this point in his evening. Michael knew he was envied by the Sailor's streeters, and he never stopped being thankful he hadn't ended up there.

"Oh, and it's taxes today." He remembered. So he'd have less time to waste than he'd thought.

He crossed to the stables and sneaked inside. Visiting the stables after particularly trying nights was a habit he'd fallen into when he'd discovered how restful being around horses was for his overcrowded brain. And not just after work. He sometimes visited before work, too, to insulate himself from the looming stresses.

He climbed up into the rafters above the stalls, and moved as quietly as he could until he'd found a good spot. There, he positioned himself so that he was seated comfortably, one boot-clad leg crossed casually in front of him while he leaned back against the support beam running down from the roof.

The horses never seemed bothered by Michael's invasions into their territory and rarely gave him away to the grooms and apprentices. Now he sat perched in the rafters above the stall where Pol, all unaware of his friend's presence, worked on grooming a particularly pretty young mare whose master had either spent the night before or was planning to spend the night ahead at the Red Boar.

Pol's thoughts were loud this evening, however, and Michael listened, amused, then almost laughed when his friend's roiling thoughts turned into muttering in mid-stream. "And they're all filthy-rich highborns and merchants and sea captains. Show up like kings and leave hours later, dragging like nothings. Losing all their money for what?"

His words faded back into thoughts, as he grappled with what was to him unimaginable: That sometimes these men, gamblers desperate to believe their cards would win, wagered away anything that came to mind. "Even their horses!" Pol exclaimed aloud, and Michael nearly did laugh this time. It was so like Pol to care most of all about this outrage.

A system existed at the Red Boar to ensure that the exchange from one owner to another of horses, jewels, property, and other personal goods took place without any fuss or confusion. Michael had always felt sorry for the horses this happened to, but Pol saw it as practically criminal.

"Do they miss their old stables and grooms?" he wondered softly. He gave the mare an extra caress, shaking his head. "It would be like gambling away your children."

Michael couldn't stand it any longer. "They do that, too," he said. Pol started badly, but his training kept him from crying out. He looked up at Michael, glaring. "Or they try to, sometimes." Michael quirked a half-smile down at his friend. "But it's against the rules."

"Don't do that!" Pol snapped. "If I startle, the horses startle."

"But she knew I was here."

Pol recovered his composure, though a blush still reddened his burnished cheeks. "You're up early. What's the occasion?"

"I went to Carillon today."

Pol nodded, knowing what that meant. "Make any money?" A grin took over from the embarrassment.

Michael grinned, too. "Almost twenty coppers! There were two highborn girls who kept 'happening by.'"

Pol laughed at that and flashed a smile up at his friend. "Flirt," he accused.

"How dare you doubt their dedication to Art Herself!" Michael retorted. "I'm sure it was my smudgy chalk drawings that earned their favor."

They talked on for awhile, discussing everything and nothing, all the while keeping very carefully away from anything that might touch on Michael's real life and work. By an unspoken agreement, they never discussed what Michael did nor how he'd ended up at the Red Boar. They never discussed the brand on Michael's hand. They never discussed the scars on his wrists.

But it was inevitable that something would come too close. "Daren said he wants to help you practice fighting," Pol ventured.

Michael felt his ease fade, and his hand flipped out in a dismissive gesture. He watched Pol's eyes follow the arc of his fingers through the air, and he knew his friend wondered what it meant. But Michael didn't have the energy to explain the secret language of the Red Boar streeters to his innocent friend.

_Someday I'll work up the nerve to ask him._ Pol's thought sounded clearly across the space, but he only nodded and said, "He thinks you must be pretty good, so he wants to see for himself. See if he can help you get even better."

Michael smiled a little at Pol's attempt at diplomacy and said, "Must've asked Telyr," an old joke. But this fell flat.

Pol had learned some time back that their erstwhile nemesis had been caught up by a press gang at about the same time that Michael had been tossed into the streets. And then, a few moons ago, Michael had read his name on a casualty list he'd only been perusing out of idle curiosity.

Michael coughed to fill the silence. He doubted he was all that good a fighter, even so. But perhaps he was good "for a tiny little weakling streeter," which is what Daren had said of him when they'd first met. _Maybe he actually believes I boxed Lorel Burk's ears._

Daren was a cipher. He was one of Harly's partner-owners and didn't need to work as the Red Boar's strong-arm, but he chose to do so anyway. Michael had tried to read his mind once or twice, but Daren had turned out to be one of those people whose thoughts weren't noisily obvious to Michael at the merest touch.

All he learned from Daren's mind were unimportant things. No details or desires or personal history ever seemed to leak out, and Michael didn't want to push too hard against whatever protections Daren's mind had.

But Daren always seemed to notice things others didn't. His interventions with troublesome patrons in the central salon usually began before even the streeter or server involved realized things had gone sour. If Daren thought Michael needed better fighting skills, it would probably be a good idea for Michael to accept his help.

Michael was about to change the subject back to something safer when Pol's thoughts shouted into the silence. _You did this to him!_

Michael almost thought Pol had said this out loud, it was so very clear, but he hadn't. Pol thought it. He thought it every time he saw Michael. Which was one of the main reasons Michael avoided Pol most of the time.

He knew his friend had acted out of fear and horror on that festival night so many moons ago, but those feelings had never entirely gone away. When he looked at Michael now, Pol couldn't forget what he'd seen—what Michael had looked like.

A rag doll...a bloody, torn-up rag doll.

_He sees me as a helpless, hapless, ruined toy._ Which was what he had been treated as, Michael knew. It wasn't that Pol was wrong; it was that Michael didn't want to be reminded that horrible, merciless highborn men had chased him down and played with him until they'd broken him.

Once he'd started remembering, Pol rarely stopped before the whole arc of that night had run through his brain. _And then they just left him there in pieces...no wonder Michael wanted to finish the job._

Pol understood to a point, though not well enough. After all, Pol was the reason he was here at the Red Boar. Pol's inability to let him go was the reason.

I know he's going to be with some slobbering, nasty man in just a little while, but he always seems so innocent. It's hard to believe we aren't back at JhaPel, cheating a few tics from our chores to talk.

Pol's thoughts faded into silence, but Michael's mind followed the thread to its logical conclusion: _When both of us were happily ignorant of the things grown men did in their spare time._

"Well, I just thought I'd say hello," Michael said into the silence. He felt bruised by Pol's thoughts, but Pol thought he'd been hurt by the long, awkward silence.

"I'm sorry." Pol blushed again. "I'm kind of tired today, myself. And...well, I have some news."

Michael had moved as if to climb down from the rafters, but he stopped and frowned at his friend. "What news?"

Pol stopped brushing and looked up at Michael, keeping a hand on the mare's back as if to steady himself. He hesitated, as if afraid, but finally just said it. "I saw Nanna Tierna. She came here yesterday morning, but you'd left already."

_And I missed her!_ But, aloud, Michael only said, "And?"

"She isn't a nanna anymore. She hasn't been for a long time. It sounded a little strange, like maybe she quit but Mabbina threw her out, too. Like it was both things. But what it means is that she went back to her family, and the only way they'd take her back was if she promised to marry, and now she's getting married, so this was her last chance to try to see you. I guess it was sort of a scandal, everything that happened—Mabbina throwing her out or her quitting or whatever—"

Michael looked stricken, and Pol rushed on. "She said to say it wasn't you! She said that Mabbina hated her, too, and this would have happened sooner or later, and she would rather have fought for you and been branded, too, than to have stayed a nanna. She said she wished she had been branded, too."

"No, she doesn't." Michael's right hand moved reflexively to touch the brand scarring his left.

"I know, but she meant well to say so. She thinks she means it."

Michael looked down at his hands but didn't see anything at all. "I waited for her to come see me when I was at Landsend," he admitted. "When she never did, I knew she was gone, because she would've come to see me if she'd been there. No matter what they said, she would've."

Pol nodded. "She said to tell you she was sorry. She said to tell you that she wishes—"

"—everything was different," Michael finished, his voice still soft. "She wishes she'd never met Magister Vaznel. She wishes she'd never convinced me to go to see Sirra Avram. She wishes she'd never taken me to JhaPel."

Pol bit his lip and looked away. "Yes."

Michael had always forgiven Nanna Tierna because she had tried so hard to help him and to care for him, and she truly loved him. _But so much of what she set in motion ended in disaster._ There were times when Michael felt sorrier for her than he did for himself, and he sensed Pol agreed with him.

"She brought this for you." Pol held out a thin, worn booklet.

"My drawings," Michael whispered. He couldn't say anything more. The sight of that booklet brought everything back from his first sight of Whiltierna to...

Michael slipped gracefully from his precarious perch and dropped down to stand on the mare's back, careful and sure. She barely seemed to notice.

He might have been raised since birth around horses— _which would support the Reinra theory_ , Michael thought. But it did seem his body knew all about horses even if his memory didn't.

He knew Pol envied his ease, but he watched affectionately as Michael slipped down to sit astride the mare's broad back.

Michael took the notebook from Pol's outstretched hand and held it to his chest. Overwhelmed, he crumpled over the mare's neck and buried his face in her beautiful, cream-colored mane.

He took a long, deep breath and blew it out as he sat up again, then slipped off the mare's back and dropped to the ground, graceful as a cat.

"She's the sweetest one here." Michael offered Pol one of his almost-convincing half-smiles. "Give her an extra treat or two for me, all right?" And he slipped out the stall door.

The temperature had dropped precipitously since he'd first gone into the stables—reminding Michael that it was only the very beginning of spring and still as likely to snow as to rain—and he hurried back toward the inn to escape the chill, the notebook still clutched to his chest.

He arrived at the main entrance just as the inevitable rain began to fall— _There go my chalk drawings_ —and was waved in automatically by one of the several burly men who stood guard there day and night.

The building housing the Red Boar seemed dropped into the middle of Fensgate from Court Row—a parish that included the castle and Prince Leovar's mansion—and was massive even by that fine area's standards. In Fensgate, it dominated everything around it. _Impossible to miss, and yet I managed to do it._

He wondered, as he often had, if any of the people he'd asked for help that long-ago night had given him the right directions. _Or had they all been playing games with me, knowing I'd come to no good end._ Knowing what he now did about Fensgate and its inhabitants, he'd come to suspect that this theory was the truth.

Michael crossed the wide, elegant entrance hall and pushed through the ornately etched, plate glass doors into the glittering central salon.

The girls, most of whom lived at the Red Boar, were lounging around the vast room, none of them yet ready for the night, some sipping tea or coffee, some eating an early supper. Varian, the house musician, was playing the sort of quiet, thoughtful tune on the pianoforte that no one ever wanted to hear during open hours.

Michael shivered at the abrupt rise in temperature from the brisk outdoor air and sniffed as his nose began to run.

"Catching a chill, dear?" Risa swept up beside him as if she'd been waiting for him to arrive. "Can't have that tonight of all nights!"

Michael sighed inwardly. _Another thing I forgot,_ he scolded himself. Though the stated rules for being a Red Boar streeter were that you were able to pick and choose whom you liked and say yes or no as you wished, there were times when that rule was more true than others. Harly _appreciated_ the assistance of certain streeters in entertaining special guests. Tonight, it was Michael's turn. _Again._

The Red Boar played at egalitarianism, and anyone could gain entrance to the central salon if they had the price of admission, but it took either good connections or a much larger investment to move beyond that central salon to the exclusive gaming parlors, private rooms, and streeters' beds which lay beyond.

And there were reasons for this. Harly had a plan. Michael didn't know what it was, but he knew these specially-requested assignations he agreed to from time to time were a part of this larger plan. Harly would request his cooperation, and he would bed whatever special patron Harly wanted him to bed, and, much more importantly to Harly, he would learn whatever useful secrets the men were foolish enough to divulge.

Michael had become very good at extracting secrets from men determined to impress him. His highborn airs, education, and beauty lulled them into a sense of being amongst their own kind; his notorious past with Prince Leovar, Camarat's scandalous heir to the throne, lent him a sort of highborn-by-proxy status in their eyes.

Most of the men who burbled secrets at him assumed he already knew far more than he did. Leovar had always been circumspect when it came to matters of state, though he'd been a great one for filthy stories, gossip, and nikking in barely-concealed alcoves.

_And tonight, some mouth-breathing, firstborn lordling gets to paw me because Harly said if-you-please._ It annoyed him. He never felt more like a whore than at these moments. But it could be worse. _I could be wearing a dress and nikking anyone and everyone I'm told to down at the One-Eyed Sailor._

As the Seventh Prayer bell began to toll far off in the distance, the Auditor walked through the glass doors, pausing to gaze around at all of them with a fond smile on his face. Michael thought the rail-thin, over-tall man was surely one of the oddest he'd ever met, but he never failed to be delighted to see them all.

"Likes our money, 'e does," Irini muttered as Michael moved to the bar to ask the barmaid for a cup of coffee and to store his notebook behind the bar for safekeeping until he went home. Meanwhile, the Auditor worked painstakingly through the group, alphabetically. As usual, the barmaid gave him his cup with a wink and a stunning smile, and, as usual, he winked back.

He'd half-finished his first cup by the time the Auditor got to him, and they went through the ritual of figuring up the amount Michael owed the Crown and then counting it out precisely. The Auditor wrote up the receipt, initialing it, having Michael initial it, and then taking out his heavy embosser and squeezing the Royal Seal into the paper for good measure.

Though many moons had passed since the first time Michael had gone through this little ceremony, the Auditor patted him on the arm as he moved on to the next girl, saying, as he always did, "You're the most successful boy streeter in all of Fensgate." Michael suspected he was _the_ most successful streeter, but the Auditor was judicious, surrounded, as he was, by his competitors for that title.

"It doesn't hurt that you're the most beautiful boy...well, most beautiful _anything_ in all of Fensgate." Risa flicked Michael's cheek with the end of her feather-edged scarf.

Smiling sourly, Michael made a rude gesture at her—one of the small vocabulary of hand-signal words the Red Boar streeters used to talk about their patrons without anyone knowing. Even Daren, the strong-arm, didn't know what all of the signals meant. Risa laughed and made an even ruder gesture back at him, turning his sour smile into an answering laugh.

He stood beside her, transformed from the half-starved, cringing, miserable boy she'd escorted from the hospital so many moons ago into a slender, elegant, sleepy-eyed beauty, in such high demand he was able to turn down more offers than he accepted while still earning enough to pay all of his obligations. Risa had kept her promise to make him famous, but he valued much more highly his acceptance as a part of Fensgate's humble society—an unexpected but welcome side-benefit of his arrangement with the Red Boar.

And he was not the only former ward of JhaPel who now worked at the Red Boar. Nella, with whom he'd once shared a lovely ongoing flirtation and some even more lovely kisses, had shown up at the back entrance a few moons ago. She'd been thrown out of the highborn house where she'd been apprenticing to be a ladies' maid when she'd been caught by the lady of the house having sex with the lord.

_At least she enjoyed her fall._ That much was clear to Michael. Maybe being a streeter wouldn't have been her first choice, but, like Risa, it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to her, either, and now she had the honor of being the youngest and prettiest of the girls.

Having just finished with the Auditor, Nella moved to stand by one of the windows facing the street, where she nursed a cup of coffee and frowned at whatever it was she saw. The curtains were drawn back to catch the waning daylight, and, his attention drawn by Nella's stare, Michael could see that someone was standing out at the post in the middle of the roundabout, doing something.

"Oh, shize, is it another notice?" Irini crossed the room to stand in the door and have a better look.

Sighing, Michael pushed himself away from the bar where he'd been standing. "I'll go see what it says," he announced as he headed out to take a look. He was the only one at the Red Boar aside from Harly who could read. Harly's literacy was minimal and more geared toward bookkeeping and contracts. Michael, on the other hand, could—and did—read books.

All the girls already done with the Auditor followed him out, darting across the cobblestones as the traffic passed by—drivers swearing—to the safety of the post's island. Others had already begun to gather and some were squinting at the black ink glyphs they couldn't decipher, frowning at what could only be bad news. In no time at all, a crowd had gathered. When they saw Michael, however, they parted to let him reach the notice.

The paper was already growing translucent in the heavy, misting rain, making the print hard to read. "Taxes are going up again," he called. Others repeated his words to make sure everyone heard, and a series of groans sounded at each repetition, though it was only what they all had expected.

"On everything?" someone asked.

"Everything that matters to us." More groans, but the noise subsided respectfully as Michael began to read off the percentages listed, taxing every way anyone in Fensgate could possibly earn a living. The crowd dispersed slowly, a few leaving to mourn their personal bad news after he'd read off each listing.

The news was worst for him, however, since his profession had the highest tax levied against it. No matter that he'd been forced into the work he did by the very law which moved closer and closer with every new proclamation to taking half of what he earned away from him.

"How are we supposed to make a living when they keep taking our clink like this?" Nella demanded.

Risa shook her head. "At least they're not outlawing us. Then I'd have to go to the sweats." She cast a sudden, guilty glance at Michael who pretended not to see.

"Let's hope they don't." Not that he wanted to be a streeter, but he knew from bitter experience that it was better than starving to death, and the workhouse was not an option for a heretic.

Nella grimaced but her face shifted into a coquettish smile when she saw one of her regulars approaching the inn. The daylight was almost gone, signaling the start of their work hours. She left Michael and Risa in order to catch the man before he had time to see someone he liked better.

Most everyone else seemed to be staying outside, talking about the notice and the ever-rising taxes, and the latest news of the war—whatever allowed them to put off the inevitable for a few more tics.

A loud shout of "Oy, look out!" came from the far end of the block, and Michael turned, reached out, and caught the trimble ball that had been headed right for them.

A few shouts of congratulations rang out from the boys playing the game along with some scattered applause from passersby. Michael had an uncanny ability to catch seemingly impossible pitches which made him an invaluable player.

"Come on, Michael!" one of the One-Eyed Sailor's boys yelled. He had his skirts hitched up and his wig was askew. "Come and play on our team."

Michael cast a sidelong glance at Risa who arched an eyebrow above an indulgent smirk. "Your appointment isn't due 'til Last Prayer, and I doubt you'll starve if you get a late start on the night." She waved him on his way. "I'll tell Daren where you are so he won't fret."

Pol had emerged from the stables at some point, and he caught up with Michael as he headed to join the game.

"Sorry about the taxes." He got past the awkward topic as quickly as possible.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "Let's trounce 'em, all right?"

# # #

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The days warmed and the sun shone more often, and Michael spent many days in Carillon Park. He happily sacrificed sleep for sunlight and the joy of being seen as something besides a whore, but summers were short in Camarat and too soon, the days cooled and the rain began to fall more often.

On the first cold day of autumn, Michael arrived at the Red Boar thinking only about getting himself a cup of hot, strong coffee. Doing so was not so simple a matter. He'd arrived a bit after doors-open, after the crowds had already gathered around the gaming tables, and it seemed that at least one person at every table he passed wanted him to stop.

He blew on dice for luck, flirted, teased, and generally charmed his way past these obstacles, but as it was, he had several offers to choose from by the time he'd reached the bar.

Over the moons, he'd developed a clientele, and it was a rare thing, now, when he spent time with anyone new. Tonight, his first appointment was with a socially ambitious merchant named Logan. He was one of what Risa referred to as Michael's Royalists, this thanks to the fact that much of Michael's fame derived from a period early in his career when he had been the favorite of Prince Leovar.

The foolish young highest-born, barely seventeen himself to Michael's then-twelve, and at least half-drunk most of the time, had been treated to a night of debauchery at the Red Boar by his hangers-on. He'd seen Michael and that had been that.

After their first night together, Leovar had fancied himself in love, and, as the usual rules of the Red Boar didn't apply to royalty, Michael had been compelled to accompany the prince to all sorts of society events it was thoroughly inappropriate for a streeter to attend.

Leovar had been an awkward date at the best of times, spoiled and prone to overdressing and then complaining constantly about the heat. In spite of his rather spectacular unattractiveness, sparse hair, and bad teeth, he'd been shockingly vain and desperate for attention. Michael's duties as escort had included catering to the prince's exhibitionist desires by which means, Michael gathered, Leovar hoped to shock and outrage the stuffier highborns he so disdained.

Michael's extremely expensive and provocative boots had been a gift from the prince. His lingering fame had been another, less intentional one.

The so-called Royalists were those who hoped to gain some fame or advancement for themselves by taking up with Michael. It was a sadly mistaken belief on their part, for the prince—humiliatingly admonished in public by his outraged mother, Queen Grania, and shipped off to the war to sober up and "become a man"—no longer wanted, by all reports, to so much as hear Michael's name spoken.

Now, Michael had a bit of time to kick his heels while the Royalist in question finished his card game. Michael hoped he'd win so his mood would be at its best. Winners tended to be more generous.

He lit an herbal smoke while he waited for the barmaid to prepare his drink for him and took a long drag as he waved away yet another hopeful suitor.

He took his cup of coffee over to a small table beside the fire, shaking his head at two or three men as he passed to keep them from joining him. Luxury had once impressed him, but just as he now found it easy to dismiss suitors, he no longer paid any attention to the expensive brass fixtures, rich carpets, and roaring fires that filled the Red Boar.

He was surprised when he noticed how white his knuckles were, and he eased his grip on his mug's handle. He'd buried his hatred of this life under layers of secret plans for escape, all of which depended on the money he earned with his body. The last several Auditor's visits had been painful, since the tax increase, and he couldn't stop thinking with every patron how much less of the money he earned was going into his secret escape fund.

_It isn't fair._ He knew it was a childish thought, but his every clink was minted in blood and sweat and unshed tears that the queen— _damn her to the Fires_ —thought she deserved half of.

He took a long drag on the smoke and held it for a moment before slowly exhaling the sweet fumes. It helped a little. He didn't like to resort to drugging himself into relaxation, but he'd been using the smokes more often lately than he liked to admit. _It never gets easier._

"You are posts and posts away, dear." Varian took the seat across the table from him. "I've been trying to capture your attention ever since you sat down!"

"Aren't you supposed to be playing?" Michael let the smoke trickle from his mouth as he spoke. He liked Varian well enough, and he loved the music the young man played, but his persistent flirting was irritating.

"On my break, aren't I? As you must be, just sitting here muttering darkly to yourself. Or have you been stood up?" Varian looked disbelieving as he suggested this, then sighed dramatically and cast Michael an arch look. "Had I even a single clink to exchange for your kiss, I should be a happy man."

The herbal smoke had started to work its magic, and Michael found himself smiling at the musician's sally. "A kiss is all you'd get for a clink," he retorted.

Varian clutched his hands to his chest and threw himself against the chair back. "A hit!" he cried, though his well-trained voice carried only across the table to Michael's ears. "You wound me, darling. I am in agony at your indifference."

"Well, it would be a very good kiss." Varian mock-glared at him, and Michael shook his head. "Nevertheless." He took another drag on his dwindling smoke. "As we have discussed any number of times, Varian, it is the money I am fond of, not the men."

"Greedy," Varian accused in a teasing tone. "But, then, you can be, can't you? I've never seen anyone with your confidence."

Michael frowned at the musician, fearing a new bawdy ballad was being composed behind those laughing eyes. "What are you talking about now?"

Varian sighed again, a faraway look in his eyes. "Everyone wants to have you, and you wield our desire like a weapon against us all. It's breathtaking just to watch you destroy the powerful with a single shake of your head."

Eyes rolling, Michael turned away from Varian to scan the room for his patron. "I've never heard such nonsense," he muttered.

"Nonsense? How can you expect me to believe that someone who is so good at what he does as you are isn't even a little fond of it?"

Michael's hand flipped out in a habitual, dismissive gesture which had the benefit of flicking the ashes from the end of his smoke. "I'm not saying it doesn't feel good sometimes," he allowed. "But just because what's happening is pleasant doesn't mean I like whoever's doing it to me."

"And yet you alone are able to resist the lovely Nella! How am I to believe your protests when you can do such a thing?"

_Why does the argument that I'm only thirteen never seem to be good enough for anyone?_ His irritation reasserted itself. He didn't know where he had acquired this mindset— _maybe somewhere in the unknown reaches of my locked memory_. In Fensgate, at least, thirteen wasn't very young. He'd heard of girls who'd married at thirteen, and Risa's daughter had been born when she was only a year or so older.

"I don't like to be touched by _anyone._ " Michael quirked a half-smile at Varian. "I only do it for the money."

Varian looked both confused and a little shocked by this confession, but as he opened his mouth to respond, Michael's patron arrived.

"There you are, my little beauty," Logan said, loudly enough for it to be obvious he was asserting his right to monopolize Michael's time. He sat down in the chair beside the boy and scooted it even closer as his hand found the top of Michael's boot and started exploring. He flicked a dismissive glance at Varian, who skittered away as quickly and quietly as possible. "Did I make you wait long?"

"Too long." Michael covered his reflexive disgust at being touched by turning away to toss his smoke into the fire. Logan didn't seem to notice.

He wound the boy's long, raven-black braid around his hand and pulled him close for a long, desperate kiss. Logan was the sort who liked to show off and had asked that they meet in the central salon rather than in the privacy of Michael's suite. Though he disliked being so blatantly displayed, this was not an uncommon request for a Royalist. And Logan always agreed to pay extra for the privilege.

_If only there were some way to do this without being touched._ As soon as he thought this, Michael stiffened in anticipation of an encouraging word from the Voice in his head, but it remained blessedly silent for once. The Voice's intention seemed to be to comfort him, but it only annoyed and angered and sometimes frightened him.

Bad enough he could hear the thoughts and feel the feelings of other people; bad enough he'd been branded a witch and heretic and become a streeter on top of it all—he certainly didn't wish to go insane, complete with hearing voices. _But who can hear anything over the noise Logan's mind is making?_ He couldn't even hear Varian's music.

By the time he finished for the night, the sun was lightening the sky. It was a lovely thing to see, and Michael felt almost cheerful as he turned down the narrow alley. He breathed easier as he always did when he'd reached the unassuming boardinghouse.

He moved quietly, careful not to make any noise that would disturb those still sleeping at Senna MaGlen's household, as he slipped down the area steps and through the scullery door. He was later than usual and would have to hurry to be out of the way by the time the housekeeper and her staff started their day.

A few more stairs down, and he was in the boiler room where his landlady provided one of the greatest luxuries Michael had ever known: a bathtub.

A richly-appointed bathing room adjoined his suite at the Red Boar, but it wasn't the same. He could wash there for hours and never feel clean. It cost him a bit more every moon to pay for the nightly use he made of it, but Michael never begrudged Senna MaGlen the money. Without this bathtub, he believed he might have gone mad. It allowed him to become himself again, literally and figuratively washing away the whore he became in order to endure his long hours of nightmarish slavery.

He pulled off his clothes and let them fall to the floor though he frowned at the thin spots wearing at the elbows of his elegant white shirt. He kept a spare white shirt and pair of knickers for when he had to wash his everyday clothes—he had rather more clothes than most people, including an older, very worn pair of trousers he used for chalk-drawing days along with his old, much more ordinary boots—but now his "best" shirt would need mending or replacing.

_More expenses._ He despaired of ever saving enough money, and he sighed as he turned the lever on the boiler, releasing a cascade of hot water and great clouds of steam.

The tub was small but deep, and he let it fill up more than half-way before he turned off the flow of hot water and began pumping the cold water to balance the temperature. He climbed in when he'd cooled it just enough to not be dangerously hot and let himself sink beneath the surface.

_I could stay here_ , he thought idly and not for the first time. _Never come up for air. Stay under forever. No more expenses. No more whoring. No more anything..._

But he no longer believed that was a path he wanted to take. The answer to _"If you want to survive..."_ had once more become, "Yes." He wanted to escape this life, but he did not want to die. Lorel Burk had taught him that.

He sat up in the tub and took a deep breath. _I learned so much that night._ And what he'd been most certain of ever since was that he wanted more than anything to leave Fensgate and every last memory of it far, far behind him. Even his memories of Pol.

_Lucky Pol, living the life we were all promised by JhaPel—an honorable apprenticeship in an honorable trade with an honorable future spread out before him_. Not to mention a wealthy and powerful uncle with no other heirs.

He shook his head, dismissing the time-wasting thoughts, picked up the bar of strong soap Senna MaGlen provided and started scrubbing at himself. In this way, each morning, he washed away the feelings, the memories, and the faces of the men who never saw anything but a whore when they looked at him.

He hated them all, every one of them, no matter how gentle or kind or generous they thought they'd been. He hated every man who'd looked at him without seeing _him_. Every man who'd chosen him to play out his little fantasies. Every man who'd ever undressed him or watched impatiently as he'd undressed for them.

He finished soaping and scrubbing at his hair and ducked under the water again, staying under again to try to douse the raging flame of his hatred. It burned so strongly that he thought of it as a thing rather than an emotion; a thing separate from himself but belonging to him; a second self that did nothing but loathe his life.

Climbing from the tub after another rinsing, he paused to pull the plug from the drain, then dripped his way over to the boiler's fire to dry, wrapping a large, thin towel around himself as he went. He sat down, relaxing at last in the details of this pleasant routine, and his mind slipped away from its worries.

He didn't know how much time had passed when Ma Fitz roused him from his light doze.

"Sorry." He stifled a yawn.

"Poor dear." She smiled as she gave his shoulder a pat. "Best be off to bed, now." She handed him his robe and went back to her own work.

He stood up, back to her, and exchanged robe for towel which he used to blot at his still-wet hair. He then trotted over to his hook and draped the towel on it to dry for the next use. He pulled his boots on rather than having to carry them and picked up his clothes, draping each garment over his arm as he remembered a little late that they looked slightly better if they didn't spend too much time crumpled up in piles on the floor, then caught his pack as he hurried back to the servants' staircase and the five flights up to his tiny room.

Cyra, having returned from whatever hunting expeditions she'd gone on during his absence, sat in the center of Michael's cot and blinked her eyes in welcome as he stepped over the high threshold, pulled the door closed behind him, and automatically ducked under one of the three low-hanging supporting arches that made his small room even tinier.

Michael hung his clothes on their hooks and, ducking again, plopped himself down on the miniscule hearth he considered himself lucky to have. He'd learned how to bank his fire from Ma Fitz and now uncovered the still-glowing coals and added a very few more bits of fuel from his carefully-hoarded supply.

Stretching her way over to the hearth, Cyra climbed up beside Michael and began kneading at his thigh with her front paws, her eyes half-closed and her whole body rumbling with her purrs.

This, then, was home. These moments of quiet, pleasant warmth and companionship were what he tried to preserve and encourage himself with during the rest of his life. In this room, he was no longer Michael, kiska and heretic and whore, damned for all time and worth nothing but an hour's pleasure to anyone. He became just Michael, Cyra's friend and Senna MaGlen's good tenant.

He rummaged in his pack and pulled out a bit of butcher's paper. He unwrapped it and fed a few scraps to Cyra as he ate the rest of the meat roll that had been his supper. He rarely ate that meal in one sitting for he had little appetite during his working hours.

He reached into his pack again—his face twisting as his fingers passed over the paraphernalia of his hated trade—and found Jack's gift, the slim book that held all his hopes between its worn leather covers.

Michael had all but memorized its contents, and in its margins he'd written copious notes—answers to questions he'd had regarding his particular situation which had not been addressed by the esteemed Magister Pinhearn. Mirthia existed in his dreams as a promised land where not only was prostitution completely illegal and no one branded a heretic, but magic wasn't even considered evil! _Just...odd._

He leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace and closed his eyes, imagining his life in Mirthia. "We'll just pretend like none of this ever happened." He said this as if to remind Cyra of their plans. "And I'll find work as a clerk or something. I can read and write, and it's almost the same language there as here. It won't be that hard to learn. I can do chalk paintings in the park on pretty days when I'm not working—just like here—and then one day, someone will discover me, and then I can get commissions. Do portraits. Buy art supplies and books and..." He let the dream trail away into silence, but his thoughts continued.

And no one will ever touch me again.

He remembered the innocent, childish kisses he'd shared with Nella at JhaPel before either of them had any idea what kissing meant. He and Jiin had kissed, too, a few times. Michael suspected now that the older boy had understood more clearly where kissing could lead than he had. Still, Michael had enjoyed it. _It's different when you like the person and want them to touch you._

Michael didn't think he'd ever feel that way again about anyone.

Michael sat up and refocused on his plan. "We're doing really well," he said to Cyra as he rubbed her ears. "And I've seen George's ship – just from the docks, but still. The harbor watchman I told you about showed me. George says it's there every two moons, just like clockwork." It would be lovely, he thought, to be ready to leave by the next time George's ship was in port and miss the freezing-cold winter altogether. Mirthia was supposed to be warmer all year round.

That wasn't likely, however, and he didn't waste time on the dream. "We'll be ready soon," he continued. "We'll have to try and time everything just right. I think we might even be in Mirthia by next spring." Or he hoped they might. He prayed they might.

An enormous yawn woke him from another short nap, and he shed his robe and pulled a long night shirt—salvaged from a grown man's cast-offs—on over his head. He worked a handful of the fancy tonic Risa had given him through his long, black hair before braiding it back. Then he slipped his book back into his pack and rolled the few inches from the hearth to his cot. He pulled his collection of thin, ragged, second-hand blankets up over his head and finally succumbed to sleep.

# # #

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Another impromptu trimble game had broken out during the dying light of the evening, and Michael's team seemed to him to be trying to lose. He'd finally found an opening to score and had thrown the ball back to point base as the runner dove for it when they all heard the scream.

Though he wasn't far from the Red Boar, it was still unnervingly loud—the desperation arrowing across the distance to strike him in the throat.

Shize, it's Irini!

He'd reached the main staircase before he realized he'd even moved toward that horrifying sound.

Shouts followed him. "Go! Move!" He threw himself against the railing to get out of the way, and Daren stormed up and past him, crashing into the wall as he hit the top. He bounced back and caught his stride and vanished around the corner. He'd run by Michael so fast, his hair ruffled in the man's wake.

_I shouldn't follow. It's going to be bad_ , Michael thought, but his feet weren't paying attention to his brain. The noise reached him first, intermingling with Irini's ever-more-ragged cries.

Risa stood to one side of the door, her eyes wide. She was holding Nella back and a larger crowd had already gathered. Michael reached the door and peered in. Irini lay against the foot of the bed, her head lolled back. Blood soaked the shredded front of her gown. Michael felt her pain, though, so she couldn't be dead.

Daren had the man pinned to the ground, his arms twisted so far behind his back, they seemed about to snap off at the shoulders. The stream of swearing poured from the man as if he were a fountain of hate. Two more of Daren's enforcers pushed past Risa and Michael and came into the room to take charge of the prisoner.

He was not a familiar face, but he must have been wealthy. That wouldn't help him now, though. What he'd just done to Irini was going to ruin him if Harly had anything to say about it. And he did.

"Risa. Michael," Daren said as his enforcers cleared the room with the man in tow. "Come in here, please, and close the door. Nella. Clear everyone away. Ain't doing no good standing around."

Michael and Risa exchanged confused glances but obeyed the strong-arm's request. Nella's bleating protest cut off as the door closed, but then her voice turned to following Daren's order and the low murmur of the other gawkers' voices faded quickly away.

Irini whimpered, her hands weakly grasping at the air. Michael wanted to scream, too, at the sight and sense of her. She'd been accepted at the Red Boar and therefore saved from the streets by her extraordinary beauty and basic kindness, though her manners and speech were as lowborn as it was possible to be.

"What do you want us to do, Daren?" Risa asked, her voice rasping with her own, unvoiced screams.

Daren whispered the question. "Michael. Is it true that you healed Abbess Ethene?"

Michael's body threw him back an involuntary step as his jaw dropped in shock. "What?" he gasped.

"She's going to die. No one can save her from what that monster did. Unless what they all say about you is true."

"She was killed," Michael whispered. "They killed her rather than let her live a life born of magic. Mabbina—"

Risa was staring from Daren to Michael in open-mouthed astonishment. Irini's eyes fluttered, but she seemed somehow to be following what was going on.

"But you _did_ do it—?" Daren began.

Michael's voice ground out through gritted teeth. "And I was damned for it. And so was she—damned to death because of me! You want to do that to Irini?"

"Damned...already," the woman somehow managed to say. "Whore."

Risa's head was shaking as if in denial of everything that was happening. "We're all damned, Michael. Just not all of us have the brand like you do."

"They'll burn me," he breathed.

"No one will know," Daren promised.

"But everyone saw her!"

Risa's eyes still reflected her panic, but her brain was working just as fast. "Can you just...is there some way to...just _kind of_ heal her? Leave marks? Make it look like maybe she wasn't as bad hurt as it seemed?"

They know. Oh, Vail, they all know. They knew even when Lorel Burk—

"Irini?" Michael looked into the woman's anguished eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

Her mouth worked for a painful few moments before she managed to form the words. "Please...help."

Michael's hands shot up into his hair, his fingers twisting into it as if the pain of the pulling strands could counteract the blind panic that filled him at the prospect of taking this step. _Oh, Vail...oh, Vail. How could you do this to me?_

.: _You have the power to help her, and she's asked you to do it,_ :. the Voice whispered through his mind. .: _If you don't help, you may as well have killed her yourself._ :.

.: _Shut up, you bastard,_ :. Michael thought back at the Voice. But the nikking thing was right. He couldn't let Irini die.

"Stand back," he said as he knelt beside the woman. "I don't have any idea what happens around me when I do this."

He took her face in his hands, letting his fingers spread out to stretch from temple to chin, and closed his eyes.

.: _Risa's right,_ :. the Voice said. .: _Don't finish it._ :.

It was hard not to finish it. It was difficult to know where to start and where to stop. _The shallower the cut, the less dangerous it is,_ he thought. This was obvious, of course, but thinking it helped him focus on the damage deeper inside Irini's body while leaving the obvious outward damage intact.

He pulled his hands away with effort, still feeling her pain and wanting to take it away, but as his hands dropped from her face, he was certain he'd done it right.

"Most Holy Vail," Daren swore.

At the same moment, Risa said, "Shize."

"Dunno 'ow anyone could say that were evil." Irini pulled herself up onto the edge of the bed. Her face spasmed as her remaining injuries protested the movement, but she waved away Daren's concern. "I'll do."

"Risa, go fetch the healing kit," Daren said.

She hovered between Irini and the door. "Do we need a Healer?"

"Just bandage me up," Irini said. "If'n I need stitching, I'll go to 'ospital meself. Less fuss than havin' 'em come here."

Risa nodded and hurried off on her mission, closing the door silently behind her.

"Yer a nikkin' miracle yerself, Michael," Irini said softly. "That Mabbina's the evil one."

"Don't say that." Michael shook his head. "She's abbess now."

"After what she did to you, I'd think you'd be less impressed by titles," Daren commented. Risa came back in, the basket of bandages and salves clutched in a white-knuckled hand.

"None of us speaks of this," Daren ordered once the door was safely closed again. "The wounds weren't as bad as they seemed, understand?"

"I promise," Risa breathed. "Not a word. I'd rather die myself than have anything happen to Michael."

Irini nodded, too, and her eyes found Michael's face. "I ain't gonna forget what you done fer me, Michael. I'll be sayin' my prayers fer ye every night."

Surely, this was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to him, but Irini meant it, and Michael was profoundly touched. "Thank you," he rasped. "I'm glad you're all right."

Daren's hand was at his back, guiding him gently toward the door. "I'll see you home, lad," the man said. "You look about to fall over." All Michael could sense from the man was an overwhelming, almost fearful admiration.

Holy Vail, if you ever cared about me, please don't let this have been a mistake.

Mistake or not, it turned out to be only the beginning. Daren seemed to have been waiting for some moment like this to force Michael into the open, and now that he'd managed it, Daren had work for him to do.

Less than two moons later, Michael was already sick of the man's expectations and interruptions, and when someone pounded on his suite's door, he yanked it open and glared out, knowing he'd be looking up into Daren's impassive façade once more.

The man's eyes flickered over Michael's state of undress, taking in the cascade of unbound, raven-black hair, the whisper-thin silk robe he was clutching to himself, and the boots which comprised his entire wardrobe at that moment, but nothing showed in the strong-arm's eyes to tell Michael what he might be thinking of this.

"What now?" the boy growled. "What could possibly be so urgent?"

His patron's moan overrode Daren's reply. "Vail have mercy! You must come back here this moment, darling!" Michael, who knew he should have been immune to embarrassment by this point in his career, nevertheless blushed.

Unperturbed, Daren said, "Pol asked for you. There's a fire at the Midnight Star. Horses are trapped in the stable and won't come out. He said you could help."

Michael's angry expression shifted to one of shock. "He said I could help?" he echoed. He shook his head, denying the very idea. "How?"

"Harly sent me to get you. You know how Pol is about horses."

Head still shaking, Michael took a fading step back and started to close the door. Daren stepped forward, his foot keeping the door from shutting him out.

"Michael," he whispered. "We all know what he means. We all know you can help."

"No!" Michael's breathing sped up, and his head wouldn't stop shaking back and forth, denying everything. "Stop it, _please_! What do you want from me?"

"I won't let anything happen to you," Daren promised. "But if you can help... You know Pol won't ever get over it if they all die."

A long moment passed while Michael's brain struggled against this argument. Then he shouted, "Why can't Pol _ever_ do anything by himself?" He stomped back into the room, letting the robe drop as he snatched his shirt from where it lay across a chair and pulled it on.

"What's going on?" His patron sat up, clutching the bedclothes. He stared, horrified, at Daren and then at Michael. "You're leaving?"

"There's a fire. Everyone's needed to help." Daren kept his eyes averted. "I'm sorry, sirra."

"But I've paid already! We've barely started!"

Michael, in the middle of arranging his boot cuffs up over his knickers, stopped, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of coins which he slammed onto the bedside table. "Now we're done."

As the man sputtered, Michael gave his hair tie a final, vengeful yank, snatched up his coat, and stormed out of the room with Daren at his heels.

"Was that wise?" Daren asked, his voice neutral.

"He wasn't worth my time anyway," Michael growled. "The door hardly closed before he started talking about us going away to his summer cottage."

Daren snorted. "I doubt very much that Sirra Thorpe has a summer cottage."

"He doesn't," Michael agreed. "He had to sell his grandfather's watch to pay this time. He's too much trouble." _Just another nikking Royalist, and I'm sick of them. Vail, I could use a smoke right now._

"The things men do," Daren muttered.

Michael said nothing, seething over the entire mess. _The things_ you _do, you mean,_ he thought, instead. It seemed to Michael that Daren was willing to ask anything of him if he thought other people would be helped by it. After that first time, Michael didn't mind healing—he liked being able to do something that really helped people—but it did hurt and was so exhausting. More than that, though, he resented Daren making the decisions for him and then dragging him along to do the work.

Michael's brooding vanished when he reached the bottom of the main staircase and could see the reflection of the flames glowing across all the Red Boar's front windows. "Shize," he breathed. "It's bad."

For a moment his mind went back to the single public execution he'd witnessed, a vision of the poor man's face and a memory of his agony flashing through his mind. He swallowed hard, the memory almost making him sick, and he stumbled a step.

"You all right?" Daren slowed, ready to catch him.

"Fine." Michael nodded and plastered on a fake smile. The man grunted but accepted this and pressed on through the crowd, shoving a path for him through the chaos.

By the time they reached Pol and his uncle, it was clear that, in spite of the bucket-lines Harly had organized, not only the Midnight Star but also its stable and the theater on its other side were lost. Michael could hear the horses' squeals sounding above the noise and human screams. The collective fear beat against his senses so hard, he wasn't sure he could stand it.

"Michael!" Pol's voice sounded above the fray, and suddenly he was there, pulling on Michael's arm, trying to drag him farther into the chaos.

"Why did you do this to me, Pol?" Michael choked. "Do you know what you're asking me to do?"

Tears filled Pol's eyes. "The people are all out, but the horses are trapped—they'll die if you don't help."

Michael pulled free of his friend's desperate grasp, nearly crying himself.

.: _You can do this_ :. the Voice assured him.

"Shut up." He wished he could silence both the unwelcome Voice and Pol's pleading, but he did as he was asked.

He walked into the stable, wincing at the heat and squinting through the smoke. He could just make out a horse rearing and squealing in its panic, and Michael approached its stall carefully, thinking calming thoughts and trying to aim them at the animal. Almost at once, he could see the beast quiet, and by the time he came within reach of its bridle, it was as docile as if he'd just fed it a treat.

Bits of fiery straw swirled all around, making even the air seem to be aflame. The tortured wood that made up the stable's structure creaked and groaned and snapped deafeningly, and Michael wondered if there was enough time for him to get back out of the stable unhurt himself, let alone lead the horses out with him. The noise was terrible and the heat was almost more than Michael could bear. He hoped the horses could stand more than he could.

_These lives over mine,_ Michael thought. _That's what Pol chose. All these lives over mine._ But he supposed his life belonged to Pol as much as it belonged to anyone. He'd saved it, after all. If he chose to end it here in order to save his beloved horses, Michael couldn't deny he had some sort of right to do so.

Somehow, he remained unharmed. _Maybe it's the magic_. That was what he was doing here and now, he acknowledged. Magic to heal people. Magic to save horses. Magic that could get him burned to death as surely as staying too long in this stable would. He shook himself and refocused on the task at hand.

He reached out to all the other horses in the stable, sensing seven more. He called to them with his thoughts—something he did on a very small scale when visiting the Red Boars' stables and, from time to time, with Cyra, but which he'd never imagined attempting across such a distance and with so many minds. He felt them try to answer.

He sensed fear and some pain, but in spite of that, all but one seemed to move closer at once, and after a loud shattering noise sounded, the seventh moved closer, too. _Someone must have opened the stall doors. They missed one._ He wondered if it had been Pol, going from stall to stall, trying to save even one more horse before the smoke and heat drove him back outside.

Michael told the horses where to go, and they believed him and trusted him and followed. He led the horse whose bridle he held out through the stable door and into the open air and found that the other seven had caught up and were straggling along after him like sheep.

Someone shouted, "Look!" and several men hurried up to claim their animals. Four remained unclaimed, including the one Michael held. The effort he'd made to save the animals had exhausted him, and he leaned against the horse's side, breathing in the cool, night air.

"You did it." Pol captured him in an embrace. Michael struggled free and staggered away from his friend, fixing him with a deadly glare.

"Get off of me," he growled. "Don't you touch me."

Pol looked abashed. "Michael," he began, his hurt plain in his voice.

Harly interrupted, taking control of the horses as he had all the rest. He directed various people milling around to lead the horses to the Red Boar's stables until their owners could be found, then he turned on Pol, his face reflecting his fury.

"Don't be a fool, boy," he growled, too low for anyone else to hear. "You got what you wanted from him, now get him out of here."

Pol stared in open-mouthed surprise at his uncle and didn't move. Harly's hand flew out and struck his nephew across the face, causing both boys to gasp in shock. "Go! Every tic you waste, you're risking his life. No one must know."

Pol eyes widened in sudden comprehension and, nodding once, he grabbed Michael's arm and dragged him to the Red Boar. Michael found himself being pulled through the stable door and then shoved at the ladder to the hayloft. He started to climb only because he was too surprised by Harly's and Pol's actions to think what else to do. By the time Pol had pulled himself up after Michael, both of them had recovered enough from their shock to speak.

"I can't believe he hit you!" Michael collapsed back against the nearest bale of hay.

Pol shook his head as he followed Michael's example. "I deserved it. I can't believe he didn't do it sooner. I didn't think—"

"I know you didn't," Michael said.

"Let me finish." Pol's voice shook. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Michael. I didn't think about what it meant. I didn't think of what could happen. I can't believe I was so stupid."

Michael tried again. "Look, I understand—"

"You shouldn't _have_ to understand!" Pol exclaimed, then seemed to think he was making too much noise, though Michael couldn't see that hiding in the hayloft was really necessary.

In a near-whisper, Pol continued, "I should have thought. I should have realized. If anything had happened. If anything happens..."

Michael broke the long silence that followed. "I'm too tired to move."

Pol stood up and brushed the hay from his trousers. "You can rest here. I'm going to go back down and help," he said. "I'll come get you later."

"That's fine," Michael said. "And Pol..."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For saying you're sorry. No one ever does that."

# # #

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Blood Emperor had proven to be as good as his word, a fact which still shocked Jarlyth moons later as the ship Savoni had arranged for him finally had Reinra in its sights. Savoni had been kind, too, providing him with a ship which sailed from a neutral port and would not, by his very presence on it, condemn him to a traitor's death.

_No,_ Jarlyth thought. _There's so much more I've done that will put my head in that noose._

But—auspiciously, he thought—the ship had stopped briefly at Feniss before heading due west for Reinra. It felt right for him to leave for the other side of the Breach from Feniss, just as the Exiles had done so very long ago.

_Feniss's Gate,_ he thought, the name evocative of tales told around comfortable firesides. The final magic the Exiles had agreed to endure, just so they could escape all magic that much faster. How much easier it would have been if he, too, could have gone through a Crossing and traveled hundreds of posts across the world, taking but a single step to reach the other side of the Breach. But Feniss's Gate was an ancient creation, its magical connection with the Exiles' lands having long since dwindled away to nothing. Only the great, weather-worn stone arch remained, standing on the shore of Feniss to remind everyone that the story was true. _I always loved those Exile stories. Nylan always seemed to be worried by them...and, if Savoni's right, he's been there all this time. And now I'm going there. Vail, help me._

He'd been provided with plenty of money, too, or things that could be turned into money no matter where he ended up—jewels and gold. Savoni had been very generous, and Jarlyth knew if Serathon ever found out what he'd done, he would be hanged whether he succeeded in rescuing Nylan or not. _It has to be success. I can't even entertain the idea of failure._

The sea was even more treacherous here than it had been around Voya, and it took days for the ship to navigate to a safe landfall. Jarlyth had adapted somewhat to the voyage but had still spent much of the time trying not to be sick at inappropriate moments. He kept to his quarters which were tiny but blessedly private. Since he was a Sensitive, albeit one of the weakest ones in existence, he needed at least some privacy to counterbalance the close quarters of the ship.

After the moons-long journey to reach Reinra, crossing its landmass to get from one of its few safe eastern ports to the Breach-facing western shore took nearly two more moons. Jarlyth then spent another half-moon to find a ship willing to help him cross the Breach and make his way to the magic-hating kingdoms on its other side.

Most Reinra he met tried to talk him out of his plan, but once they realized who he was and what he therefore must be seeking, they subsided. A lost SanClare prince would be a valuable commodity if found by someone unscrupulous, but no one sane risked doing harm to a Voyavel.

Jarlyth wished there were some way to conceal his true purpose—he was certain that Savoni wanted something more than he'd admitted to—but the stories of his quest were far too well-known for him to believe he could go incognito.

Getting to the Breach from Reinra, however, took less time than it had for the ship to leave harbor. The Breach—rising up like an eternal wall of shattered glass cutting the world in two—ripped across the edge of the island and out into the ocean, disappearing into the distance. It was hard to believe such a beautiful thing could be so lethal.

It seemed they'd barely begun the trip when the captain informed him they were ready to cross. "You'd better go below and strap in. I'll send someone down to let you know when we're safely through it."

_Yes, please, dear Vail._ Once through the Breach, he would finally be in the same world as Nylan again. _It has to be true. This has to be the answer_.

As he often did, he wondered what Nylan believed had happened. Did he think he'd been abandoned? Did he think Jarlyth had given up? Did he believe no one was even trying to find him?

I'll never stop searching. No matter what. If it's the death of me, I will find Nylan and see him safely home.

#

When, a few moons after the fire, Michael awoke one clear, bright day—while it was still early enough to be called morning—he realized spring had finally dawned. With a sigh, he also remembered hoping he'd have enough money to make his escape by then, but he still needed more to ensure he could afford the bribes.

_Maybe summer. Not too much longer, at least._ He swallowed disappointment. _George's ship is in port right this moment._

Determined to turn his mind away from these depressing thoughts, he opened the window to assess the day. "It's beautiful," he breathed, and he turned back into the room, scrambling to dress. He'd only had a few hours sleep, but he'd learned not to waste days like this.

His old boots were having new heels put on, so even though he wore his more everyday clothes, he wore his tall boots. He didn't think it looked too odd, but he added his coat just to be certain. He pulled his hair back into a more severe braid than usual to keep it out of his way while he drew, then dashed down the stairs and out the scullery door into the beautiful day.

A quick stop to buy chalk and he was running for the bridge to Carillon Park. It seemed years and not moons since he'd last been, and he hoped he might see some of his artist acquaintances. He thought he might even grant Jon a day of modeling if asked, just to have a bit of a break from things.

_And this is why you aren't ready to take ship yet,_ he scolded himself. _You aren't working hard enough! And now I sound like the Voice._ Even though _it_ would never tell him to be more of a whore than he already was, no matter what the reason.

He saw Jon and Dann again that day, and they both made sketches of him while he worked on his own drawings, and they talked about art and books with him as if nothing were more natural in the world. Before they left to get ready for some party or other, they gave him a donation for his own work which made them feel generous and made Michael feel flattered that they had thought of it, so wrapped up in their work as they usually were.

The weather held for most of the day, and Michael stayed in the park for as long as he could, making a nice bit of money though it was nothing at all compared to what he usually made in a night at the Red Boar. _Nothing compared to what I make from one patron._

He was thinking of just that fact when he reached the bridge back over the river to Fensgate. He was trying to decide if he would go to the Red Boar or if he wanted to let this day be untouched by that part of his life by going straight back to his room and maybe even reading for a little while. Pol had given him a book—a silly, popular romance—which had been left behind and unclaimed in one of the carriages, and Michael was reading it as slowly as he could, a few pages at a time, in order to make it last. Though he'd been tempted to, especially by books, he never spent his money on anything frivolous, and so he read whatever came to hand. Silly romance or not, he enjoyed escaping into someone else's story.

Michael was halfway back to either the Red Boar or his room -- he had not yet made up his mind which it would be – when a man's voice barked at him.

"You that SanClare Black? From the Red Boar?"

Michael turned around, arching a disdainful eyebrow, then he raised both eyebrows in surprise at the elegance of the man's carriage. Such a carriage rated a polite answer in spite of the rude manner in which the question had been presented.

"I am." Michael bowed, hoping his clothes weren't too chalk-stained. "How may I be of service, sirra?"

"Been looking all over for you." The man's tone suggested Michael should have known and made sure he was easier to find. "I'm to give you this." He climbed out of the carriage gracelessly and unassisted. Michael noted that the driver wore no livery that might identify the household. This made Michael suspect it to be one whose spotless reputation was held in higher regard than that of most of his patrons.

The man stomped over and waved the message in Michael's face. "My master said you'd be able to read it."

This last was said with a breathtaking condescension, especially considering how ill-dressed the man was. He seemed some sort of low-level clerk, judging by his clothing and speech. Michael arched a scornful eyebrow but accepted the folded piece of paper without comment.

From the feel of the paper alone, he knew before he'd unfolded it what it was. He'd spent moons responding to summonses written on such paper.

"Shize." He felt his strength drain away like water as he read the carefully-engraved words, the writing as familiar as the paper. "What does he want now?"

He'd heard that Leovar had returned from the wars covered in glory. He'd heard there was some sort of marriage arranged. He'd heard all the rumors as most of Camarat's citizens had. He hadn't expected to ever hear anything more from the prince in person.

"I do imagine he wants _you_ ," the man sneered. "Or ain't that the way whoring works no more?"

_Irini speaks better than this idiot. What's Leovar up to, sending someone like this to fetch me?_ If felt very like an insult, and Michael decided to make his highest-born patron pay for it.

"I have plans tonight. Tell your master I can't possibly make it. Perhaps another time." He flipped the paper carelessly back at the clerk and made as if to walk away.

"Wait!" the man yelled, angry. "Where in the hells do you think you're going? You ain't got the right to turn this down!"

"I beg to differ, sirra," Michael said, dismissive. "I must honor my commitments."

"You want money," the man growled, as if the very idea of a streeter charging for his services was an affront.

Michael barely concealed a sneer. "That is, as you say, how whoring works."

A sound like a stifled cough came from the carriage's driver, and the clerkish man whirled to glare at his companion. When he turned back to face Michael, his demeanor had changed. Sweat coated his forehead as he shifted from foot to foot.

"You have to come along now."

Michael gave a little shrug and said nothing. His Red Boar armband was plainly visible, but he reached up as if to adjust it.

The man paled and blurted, "My master said he'd pay whatever you said."

Another arched eyebrow answered this surprising news. _Leovar must be desperate. Wonder if his mother is away._ Regardless, Michael was no longer the inexperienced child he'd been when Leovar had first become enamored with him.

"Whatever I said," he repeated and smiled slowly as if savoring something sweet. "How interesting."

The man's face grew even paler, if possible, and Michael thought he looked as if he might pass out. "Please. You have to—"

"One hundred clinks." Michael watched the man's eyes widen in horror as his mouth dropped open. "Per hour," he amended before the man had managed to make even a noise of protest.

The man swayed but kept his feet under him somehow. "Whatever you said," he rasped. His imagination clearly hadn't prepared him for such a sum. Michael only wished he'd thought to say something even more extreme. He wondered if there was a sum high enough that even the terrified clerk would have returned empty-handed rather than promise it.

And, of course, it was only a promise. If Leovar thought the price too high, there was nothing Michael could do to force the prince to pay up. Knowing Leovar, however, Michael thought it a safely outrageous sum.

The man was smart enough to know when he'd been beaten. He nodded and gestured to the carriage, switching to the role of footman as he opened the carriage door for Michael and even offering a hand to help him up. Michael ignored it, not wanting to share the man's thoughts and feelings.

Michael settled himself on the wonderfully soft bench seat as his brain began calculating madly. _This could do it! This could be my last job!_

.: _I'm not sure you should—_ :. The Voice sounded worried, but Michael ignored it, impatient with its interference in his life and angry that it would try to ruin this incredible chance.

_It's just Leovar—he's so easy._ He was nice, if such a thing were possible to think about someone who paid a boy to have sex with him. _Compared to most of them, he's nice,_ Michael amended, not wanting to get into some sort of insane argument with the Voice in his head.

He distracted himself from any further internal disputes by tracing the well-worn plan he'd worked out, counting out what he'd saved over the past several moons plus this night's possible earnings. Nights spent with Leovar always went on for hours.

_I'll figure two hundred clinks, just to be safe._ Michael then subtracted known expenses and the considerable chunk of money he wanted to set aside for his new start. _And if I can get word to George by tomorrow, I'll miss the Auditors and have all the tax money!_ Without the tax money, he'd have enough for everything but bribes. But _with_ the tax money...

That must be enough for bribes. They can't want any more than that. Oh, please, Holy Vail, let this be enough!

Michael didn't begin to suspect something might be wrong until the carriage stopped. The style of the servants' entrance testified to the grandeur of the house he'd arrived at, but he'd been to Leovar's residence before, and this was not it.

Before he had the chance to react to this surprise, the clerk opened the door and nearly dragged him out of the carriage, never letting go of Michael's arm as he propelled him into the house and up a narrow staircase. The clerk's mind fairly gibbered, and fear and worry poured off of him like sweat, but nothing really helped Michael figure out what was going on.

_Stupid,_ Michael scolded himself, annoyed that the Voice seemed to have been right after all. _Whatever this is, it isn't worth the risk._

He faked a stumble and used the clerk's own altered momentum to throw the man over his shoulder. It worked, though Daren had only shown him that particular maneuver a few times, and Michael almost whooped with excitement as the hapless man made a beautiful arc before landing hard on his back.

Michael dashed back down to the door at the bottom of the staircase, only to find it wouldn't open. The handle wouldn't turn. And there was nowhere else to go.

"Shize." He looked over his shoulder.

A tall, well-muscled, aristocratically-attractive man stood at the top of the staircase, looking down at him with an oddly fond gaze. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, and the dim, ambient gas-light glinted off of them, hiding his eyes.

"You aren't Prince Leovar," Michael said.

"You've broken my clerk." The man shook his head as he began to come down the stairs. "And you're _still_ running away from me. How delightful."

The voice jolted into Michael like a pistol shot, and he tried to take another step away from the oncoming stranger, managing only to flatten himself against the unyielding door.

"You," he breathed. "No." He shook his head back and forth, trying to deny the inescapable truth.

The man stopped a length away, his height emphasized by the extra steps separating them. "One hundred clinks an hour...seems a small price to pay."

"Who are you?" Michael gasped. The man stayed out of his reach, but Michael didn't think it was for fear of his meager fighting skills. He had the sense that this man could counter anything he could try against him. He'd felt the hands on his body before and knew their strength. He'd seen the cold cruelty of this man's eyes. He'd stared into them and seen his hopes drown in their blue-black depths.

"I am the Duke of Reyahl, cousin to your beloved Leovar. Nice young man, isn't he? Make some country a lovely king some day."

Michael knew why the clerk had been so terrified. The Duke of Reyahl had the power to destroy anyone with a word. He stood but two steps away from the throne himself and was said to have great influence over his aunt, the queen, and over his younger cousin. He'd won wars for Camarat. He might as well have been king himself.

Leovar had spoken of him often with a mixture of fear and dislike and awe in his voice. But Michael had never connected Leovar's impressions of the legendary duke with the man who'd held him still while Robyn had raped him.

Even now, hearing his voice again, he couldn't imagine what had brought such a powerful man to the alleys of Fensgate looking for his pleasure.

"You may call me Terac Nalas. Or just Terac. As we shall come to know one another intimately, I'd prefer not to stand on ceremony."

"Let me go," Michael rasped. "I've changed my mind."

"I thought you might." Terac closed the final steps separating them. He reached out and stroked Michael's cheek with soft, manicured fingers. "But I haven't."

"Please," Michael whispered. Terac's thoughts were filled with nightmares. They cut into Michael's mind like razors, turning his vision red as pain tore through him.

"Dear Vail." The man's voice was a low moan of unspeakable pleasure. His hand tightened on Michael's chin, pushing his head back so that he couldn't escape the kiss.

When Terac finally released Michael, the boy's legs gave out, and he slid down to the floor. Blood ran from his nose. The man had only kissed him, but he felt as if he'd been beaten almost unconscious.

His voice sounded worse than it had after Lorel Burk, and he tasted blood when he spoke. "What have you done?"

"This is no place to talk, child," Terac said as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

A shuffling noise sounded on the staircase. The white-faced clerk hovered, a nauseated, anxious expression on his face.

"Bring him to my workroom," Terac ordered. He hurried back up the staircase then, almost seeming to skip.

"Don't do it, please." Michael's eyes pleaded with the clerk through a blur of tears. "He's going to kill me."

"He'll kill me if I don't," the clerk muttered, but he was gentle now. He helped Michael to his feet and almost carried him up the stairs. His horror overrode everything, and when they reached the door to Terac's workroom, Michael believed the man when he whispered, "I didn't know, I swear. I didn't know he meant to do this."

Michael managed to nod, accepting the apology. It seemed stupid to hold a grudge.

Terac threw open the door and greeted the sad pair with a childishly delighted smile. "I have dreamed of this moment for moons, my darling—Moons!" He waved the clerk into the room then directed him across the cluttered space beyond the door, talking all the while. "I mean, the first time I saw you, I thought you were special, but I didn't realize just how special you were!"

He turned his smile to shine fully on Michael. "That night of the fire, though...dear Vail, how amazing you were! The power! You just did it!" He waved his hands as if pulling something out of thin air. "And those healings, too! Saving all those horses and lowborns as if it were nothing. I can't even imagine how you do what you do—but to think I nearly let you die! I still shudder at how close I came to losing you."

His attention returned to the clerk. "Right here is excellent. Let's get his coat and shirt off—won't be needing those—Good, now help me with these."

"These" were two shackles, spaced about a length apart, which dangled down from the ceiling with an oddly decorative innocence. The cuffs were lined with velvet—a jarringly erotic detail for such a setting—and fit snugly around Michael's slender wrists, stretching his arms out in a "v." His feet just touched the floor.

Terac bustled the clerk back out of the workroom, patting him on the shoulder and muttering, "Good work, there, it's all going to be fine," as the man cast a last, anguished backward glance at Michael. Once the clerk cleared the door, Terac shut it and locked the deadbolt.

"That's to keep everyone else out, my dear," Terac assured Michael. "We won't be interrupted."

_Shock_ , Michael thought, as he watched himself as if from outside of his own body. _I'm in shock._ At the moment, it seemed a very good place to be.

He swallowed, still tasting blood. The man's mood had shifted with the slip of the lock, and now he seemed more like a cat settling in to enjoy his game. _Spoiled child or cat...it's just the same_ , Michael thought dully. _They both tend to break their toys._

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Just some experiments," the man assured him. "Though, I admit, you probably will find them most unpleasant. I apologize, but there's no avoiding it." He went to a nearby table and picked up an old, leather-bound book, its cover crumbling orange dust all over Terac's hands and clothes. The room was stuffed with shelves and books and glass bottles filled with strange substances. The table seemed wedged into the middle of the mess. And Michael now dangled in the center of the only open space in the entire workroom.

Terac brought the book over to Michael and held it out. "You see this?" he asked, an excited light in his eyes.

Michael stared blankly at the pages the man was showing him. A series of meticulous drawings, each one showing a more detailed view than the last of the same creature or woman or...

"What is it?"

Terac shrugged, laughing. He seemed as giddy as a child on his birthing-day, his glee cascading in stomach-churning waves over Michael. "I have no idea how to pronounce the precise name. But she's some sort of Danae—a very, very old race of magical beings."

Michael echoed the word as if he'd never heard it before. "Magical?"

"Yes. Do you notice anything about her?"

_Aside from the fact that she's naked and beautiful?_ "...She has wings?"

Terac's smile quirked as if he'd stifled more laughter. "Yes, that's true. She has something else; something you share with her." He waited a moment, but Michael's shock ran too deep for him to be much good at guessing games. "Her eyes are an unusual color, aren't they?" the man prompted.

Michael's fractured attention focused on the pictures, and he finally saw what Terac wanted him to see. "They're gold," he rasped. "Like mine."

"Precisely. Like yours. Or, more correctly, your eyes are gold _like hers_. You, too, are Danae, my dear. You, too, possess the innate magical powers of her ancient breed. You've proven that already—by your own admission—and got yourself convicted of heresy for your pains."

"I'm not magical," Michael protested weakly. "It was Vail's will... Robyn lied!"

"Of course he did. I brought him up to lie! How else would he get anyone to trust him? He's thoroughly horrid when he's just being himself."

Michael's only answer to this was a confused stare provoking an impatient sigh from Terac.

"Artistic skill is an indicator of magical power. I have long taken an interest in promising young artists, such as yourself. Such as Robyn." He let the implication hang in the air for several moments, watching, fascinated, as Michael's mind caught up.

"You made him into that... _thing_ he is?" Michael blurted. "You did that to him?"

Terac threw his head back and laughed in delight. "Yes! He was my most willing pupil, I assure you. He still is. So eager to please me, he even finds new toys for me to play with. He was greedy with you, though. Didn't want to share until I forced him to. Not that I can blame him."

Michael made a choking sound and closed his eyes. _Why did he tell me this? It just makes it worse_.

"Please," he whispered. "Let me go."

"Don't ask me that again." Terac grew serious at last. "It only makes me think less of you." He turned once more to his table and shuffled through his papers.

"In any case, it was your heretical wielding of your healing powers that doomed you to the streets. If that had never happened...well, I don't suppose Robyn would have happened, either, but if he had, I doubt poor Avram would have blamed you for it."

"The healing was a miracle," Michael protested. "The will of Vail. I didn't do _anything_!"

Terac whirled and closed the little distance separating them in three steps. He looked down into Michael's shocked, pale face. "You don't sound convinced yourself. How do you expect anyone else to believe you?"

Michael struggled against his chains, pulling so hard, the thin edge of one of the cuffs cut into the heel of his hand. "What do you want with me?" he demanded, panic beginning to filter into his voice.

Terac made shushing noises and pressed a gentle finger to Michael's lips. Michael flinched and tried to get away, though the chains afforded him nothing. For the moment, at least, the razors didn't slash his mind.

"You feel that, don't you?" the man asked, reverent. "You feel it more completely than I could ever imagine. That book tells me a great many things about your kind. The most intriguing thing it talks about is how you feel." His hands moved to rest on Michael's bare shoulders.

"You feel that, too? You feel my hands, their warmth, the texture of my skin against yours. And I, of course, feel your warmth and your smooth softness. But you feel, or should I say _experience_ , my feelings as well, don't you? So that if I touch you like this—" and he ran his fingers lightly along the insides of Michael's arms "—you'll feel my excitement. Intermingled with your own feelings, I wonder? Or do you somehow know the difference. Tell me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael rasped though every word the man said was true. He saw into Terac's mind quite clearly, as the nightmares accumulated, gathering for their next attack, and what he saw froze the blood in his veins. What he felt from the man frightened him far more than a hundred Lorel Burks or a thousand Robyn Vaznels, for Terac knew what he was doing, and he knew what it would do to Michael. He made no effort to fool himself or rationalize his actions. He embraced his vile, bloody desires and willingly did anything and everything he had to do in order to fulfill them.

Terac shook his head, a pitying expression on his face. "Poor little thing. Poor little whore. So lost and alone in this filthy world...I am sorry. I wish there were another way, but I've gone much too far to stop now. I'm _so close_ , I can almost taste it. The power you'll give me is more important than any brief suffering you may endure."

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY

Michael came to slowly, irritated by the persistent Voice whispering in his ear. For several blessed moments, he felt no pain and didn't remember that he should, but when he tried to sit up, everything came back to him in a bright, knife-edged flash. He slumped back bonelessly onto the ground, panting for breath and trying not to vomit again. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, covering everything in its metallic haze.

He hadn't thought he would survive what Terac had done to him. _Experiments...he called them experiments._ He wasn't sure he _had_ survived them. The way he felt at this moment didn't seem to promise longevity.

He looked down and saw a blood-soaked rag wrapped around his thigh. Numerous cuts on his hands and arms and chest still bled, too. _He stabbed me._

The kiss had only been the beginning. Along with the chains there had been knives— _Don't_ _think about it...just...don't...think..._

The man had used the knives in ways his mind couldn't even go near without his body wanting to vomit—to purge itself of the horrors the man had forced him to experience.

At some point when Michael had been far past doing anything but sobbing, the man had driven one of the larger knives into his leg, saying as he did so, "I do not want you to run from me again."

He was so calm through the whole thing, even when I was begging him.

Michael closed his eyes again and concentrated on breathing. Pain had grown quickly into a sourceless thing, screaming to his brain from everywhere, making it almost impossible for him to inventory the wounds he'd suffered, though one thing was too obvious to miss even through the pain.

_Oh, Dear Vail, I think it_ is _broken._ His arm lay useless beside him, a dead weight. He'd panicked after the first "experiment" and had tried to escape the shackles, struggling to pull his hands free and cutting his wrists badly in his terror. The man's eyes had widened in delight at the display but almost in the same breath, he'd slammed his fist into Michael's arm. The sound of the bones snapping still echoed through his brain, but it was the casual carelessness with which Terac had done this that stunned him. The pain of it had knocked Michael out—he didn't know for how long.

.: _You're in the street,_ :. the Voice told him. .: _You have to find help._ :.

"Shize. It's you again? Why can't you ever leave me alone to die?"

.: _You aren't dying yet! You aren't far from the Red Boar. It's only a few lengths away._ :.

Lengths. Might as well be posts. Can't move any farther. So tired. Hurts too much.

.: _You have to move! You can't stay where you are—You'll die!_ :.

The Voice sounded uncharacteristically frightened, and Michael knew he must be in a very bad way. _I must really be dying._ He almost laughed when he realized all he felt at this thought was relief.

His cruel memory flashed with images of his ordeal which rang like blows against his senses.

Terac picking up the knife, talking calmly and sanely all the while.

Terac slashing the palm of Michael's hand and sucking blood from the cut.

Terac reciting completely incomprehensible poems or spells or something and during each, a new wound.

"Who's there?"

Michael flinched awake again, fear spurring him into movement. He tried to crawl away—panic dictating his actions more than any sense—but he only drew the person's attention to himself.

Pol knelt beside him. "Michael?"

Michael breathed in his friend's confusion and fear and breathed out a previously undiscovered calm. _So...at last I've found Pol. Too late, but I've found him. He would've known better this time, too. Why didn't Vail give me any of his sense?_

"Dear Vail, what's happened to you?"

"Pol—It's all right. It'll be all right when I'm dead."

"What? You aren't going to die!" The older boy slipped one arm gently around Michael's shoulders and the other under his knees, staggering a little as he stood even under Michael's slight weight. Michael sucked in his breath sharply as his vision went gray.

"Sorry," Pol said. "I know it hurts."

When Michael could focus on something besides the pain once more, he lay on the bed in his Red Boar suite. There were several people in the room with him and a great deal of seemingly directionless activity.

Daren shouted over all the commotion, issuing orders in an uncharacteristically strident voice. "Pol, go for a healer. Don't let him put you off."

"Take a horse!" Risa added. _She's crying._ "Give it to the healer if he needs it."

"Yes. Good! Do as she says, lad!"

"Will he be—?"

"Don't stand there yakkin', lad. Go!"

Nella's voice somehow broke through the din. "I found his pack, Daren. It was right on the street where Pol found him. There's five hundred clinks here!"

A frozen silence followed this, lasting several beats.

"That isn't possible," Risa said. "That's more'n a year's profits."

"It's right here!"

"Well, and it's his, then, ain't it?" Daren barked. Michael opened his eyes just enough to see the strong-arm grab his pack from Nella's hands.

"I wasn't going to keep it!" she protested and flounced off.

"Daren?" he breathed. "I don't think it's going to matter. If I die, you can all divide it up, all right?"

Risa nearly leapt on him, anger and fear warring for dominance within her. "You aren't going to die, Michael! You're going to get well, and then we're going to go after the bastard that did this to you!"

He shook his head feebly. "No. Can't. I was stupid, Risa." He took a breath, closing his eyes against the pain. "I didn't think about anything...but the money."

_I must've passed out again,_ Michael thought. The healer had arrived and was examining him. His face was vaguely familiar, and Michael wondered from where. Had he been at Landsend Charity one of the several times Michael had been a patient there? Or was he a Red Boar patron? _Or is he mine?_

"I'll have to set this arm, and he'll need sewing-up on his leg here and here...and on his arm here. And bandages here and here and...Shize! What in all the hells happened to him?"

"Don't know," Daren muttered. "He wouldn't say."

"Ah." The healer smiled into Michael's barely-opened eyes. "He's awake. How do you feel, my boy?"

"Like all the hells happened to me," Michael breathed.

The healer's smile turned bleak. "And so they seem to have done. I'm sorry, but they're going to happen for a bit longer."

"I know. It's all right..." It took him several moments to gather his strength for the question. "Am I going to make it?"

The healer had taken Michael's hand in his own to examine it, opening his mind quite clearly to Michael's senses. A harsh, breathtaking wave of frustrated fury swept over Michael, and he nearly lost consciousness again. The healer's anger, however, wasn't directed at Michael.

Stupid, self-righteous bastards! Calling such a child a heretic. He's barely more than a baby. They're as responsible for this as the monster who held the knife. Killing him on the spot would've been kinder than branding him and throwing him to such scum to use up.

But all the healer said was, "Yes. You'll be just fine."

He spoke softly, explaining what he was doing as he began to clean the blood away to get a better look at Michael's wounds. He was trying to be soothing, but Michael felt the man's shock spike through him like fire as he cleaned the blood from Michael's right hand, uncovering an arcane design tattooed around his wrist like a shackle.

"Holy Vail Over Us," he gasped. Risa inhaled sharply, and she and Daren exchanged wary looks. Terac had stabbed the design into Michael's flesh all at once with his horrifying magic. The pain had ripped a scream from him that still rang in his ears.

From the reaction of the three adults, Michael now knew it meant something terrible, something dangerous. _At least now they understand there won't be any revenge._

Only someone very highborn and very powerful—someone who was completely unafraid of any repercussions—would've had the nerve to so blatantly display his mark. The witch-seekers would find plenty of reasons never to discover a royal heretic. Since the tattoo marked him as the duke's possession as surely as the brand marked him a heretic, it was all but certain they would overlook the mark on Michael's arm as well.

Daren carried Michael back to Senna MaGlen's just after midday. Harly had seen to it that Michael's landlady was informed of his condition and, at Pol's insistence, had made arrangements for his nephew to be allowed to visit whenever he wanted to.

Michael's broken arm would be useless for more than a moon, and his other injuries rendered him practically helpless. The knife wound on his leg was the worst of them all, having damaged the muscle, and the healer had said nothing definite about that. Michael suspected he'd have a limp.

Ma Fitz met Daren at the servants' door and gave Michael a pitying smile. She shook her head at the sight of him. "Blessed Vail protect us. How do you feel, poor little thing?"

"I've felt better," Michael said. Daren had asked him, whispering the question during a stolen moment of privacy, if Michael couldn't heal himself.

_I wish I could,_ he thought. But as best he could tell, his healing powers worked by taking the pain and hurt into himself and away from whomever he was healing. Since he was the one who'd been hurt, there was nowhere for his own injuries to go.

Now Daren's grumbling, angry emotions roiled around him, trampling over everything else including his own feelings. Daren's thoughts were still shadowed.

He wished they'd hurry up and take him to his room so he could sleep again. It was small comfort to him that Daren seemed to care about what had happened to him beyond how it upset his plans to use Michael's powers. He even seemed to have his own sort of pity for the heretic whore he carried in his arms, but Michael was weary of being pitied. Even Terac had done that, and what good had it done?

Ma Fitz followed them up the stairs to Michael's tiny room beneath the rafters while Daren issued orders as if he had the right. "Don't let him leave the house for the next moon without Pol or me being with him. And Harly don't want him coming back to work for at least that long. Healer said so, too."

Michael bit into his lip to keep from crying out in despair. A whole moon doing nothing! His clink would drain away while he ate and slept and did nothing to replenish it.

How much of his savings would vanish in a moon? Too much, he feared. The idea of using the money Terac had given him made him ill, but if he didn't use it and didn't accept it, the money to pay for a moon's worth of idleness would have to come from his Mirthia savings.

Daren settled him in his cot. The extra blanket he'd been wrapped in for the trip over from the Red Boar was tucked in around him without comment. Again without comment, Daren hung up Michael's cleaned and mended clothes on their nails, gave Cyra an idle pat, and left.

"I can't do this anymore," Michael whispered to Cyra as tears filled his eyes. "I'm too stupid. I'll get killed next time. I'm lucky I didn't this time." The cat nestled down beside Michael, purring as she pressed her warm body against him.

"Or unlucky." He fought back thoughts of the tattoo and what it might mean. "What am I gonna do now? What _can_ I do now?"

#

Pol proved his friendship over and over again during this period. If Pol hadn't come to see him every day, Michael would never have been able to leave his room. Pol helped dress his wounds, helped him down and back up the stairs, helped him dress, helped him do almost everything.

One day, however, Pol didn't come, and when Michael called out, "come in," to the person knocking on his door, the unexpected arrival sent a sick cascade of almost-remembering through him of another door, another unexpected person coming through it.

"No." Michael huddled on his cot and drew his knees up against his chest, though every wound protested this movement.

"It's just me, darling," Varian sang out as he ducked under the beams. He froze when he saw Michael, and his shock spiked so sharply that Michael saw everything through the musician's eyes for a long, nauseating moment.

_Nobody told me I looked so bad._ There were fingerprint marks on his jaw, and bruise-like circles under his eyes. An abrasion scraped across his cheek, probably from when he'd been thrown out of the carriage into the street. His lip was split—Michael vaguely remembered being slapped but couldn't remember what Terac's reason for doing it had been—and that only accounted for the damage to his face. Wounds were visible even above his nightshirt's collar and on his hands.

"Blessed, merciful Vail." Varian sank to the floor with a hand outstretched to balance himself as he all but collapsed. "What—? Monster—! Pol said you'd been hurt, but I didn't think—"

"I'll be fine." Michael tried to convince himself as much as Varian. "The healer said so!"

Tears streamed down Varian's face, and he shook his head as if denying everything. "This should _never_ have happened to you! I mean...what _happened_? Who did this?"

Michael cringed away from the young man's blazing emotions. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sensations of the almost-memory and the horror of seeing his own ruin. _He almost killed me. Maybe he meant to. Maybe he'll come back and finish the job._

"I can't—"

"Don't protect this monster!" Varian shouted. "The Red Boar can bring pressure to bear—punishment! They have power, and they'll use it for you. You pay the protection, and they _owe_ you. This man should be destroyed for what he's done to you—"

"They can't!" Michael insisted. He looked at Varian again, trying to make him understand. "I can't tell them, and even if I could, they couldn't do anything about it! He's too powerful!" Tears stung his eyes, and he desperately tried to stop them from falling. "Varian, I made such a stupid mistake. This is all my fault!"

Varian shook his head, sitting up on his knees which, in the close confines of Michael's tiny room, put him right beside the cot. He froze when Michael flinched away from him, and a confused frown drew itself across his forehead.

"You really meant it." His handsome face flushed, making him look overheated. "I thought you were just... I'm sorry."

Michael drew back even farther at this, worried by what the man might mean. "What?"

"You don't want to be touched," Varian said.

Michael wiped angrily at the tears which had managed to escape his control. "Why is that so hard to believe? I've told you and told you I want to be left alone, but you never listen."

"I always thought you were playing hard-to-get." Varian looked down, away from the boy's pain-filled eyes.

"No," Michael muttered, also looking away. "But I couldn't just tell you or anyone else to go to the Fires, either. Not when I was working."

Varian smiled a little at that then grew serious again. "I'm sorry." Michael shrugged, trying to be rid of this uncomfortable conversation, but Varian persisted. "Truly," he whispered. "I've been selfish. I would have seen the truth if I'd wanted to. I promise I won't bother you anymore."

Michael nodded, discomfited by the musician's new perceptiveness. He tried to catch a glimpse of sky through his narrow window to gauge the time. It had only been a few days, but as the days could be counted in clink, Michael felt the passing time more keenly.

"I'm scared to go back." He almost didn't notice it was Varian and not Pol who was hearing his confession. "But I don't have any choice."

"Why did you go with him? I don't understand...did he force you?"

"No. I wish I could say he did, but no. He wasn't even there. He sent someone for me. He offered me... _so_ much money." Michael swallowed back the anger he felt at himself for not listening to the Voice. "More money than I've ever seen all at once." He coughed a laugh. "It'll be gone by the time I'm well enough to go back."

Varian frowned. "Why?"

Michael gave him a pitying look. "It costs a lot more than you think to be a heretic. I have to pay my protection to the Red Boar, my rent here, which is higher than anyone else would have to pay because there are special taxes for renting to heretics. Food and clothes cost more, too. No one can give me anything unless I figure it as payment and pay taxes on it. And the taxes are...sickening." He closed his eyes again. "When I think of all the men I have to nik just to make the tax money."

"So why did you need this man's money?" Varian asked, still confused.

Michael hesitated for a long moment, wanting so much to tell someone but afraid of saying anything out loud. In the end, the desire to tell won out.

"To get away." He shook his head at his own foolish dreams. "With what I'd saved and what he paid me, I could've bribed my way onto a Mirthian ship. I even have a connection—he was even in port! I could've paid the passage and the harbor bribes and still have had money left over to start a new life. It's all gone, now. All gone."

"But, with that much money—"

"It only would've worked if I'd left right after. The Auditor's already taken this moon's cut, and I had to declare what I earned—"

"Getting tortured," Varian growled. He looked near tears himself, and Michael suspected he'd never really thought about what might lead someone to become a streeter.

Michael sighed and nodded agreement. "Now I'm not making anything, but I still have to pay the Red Boar and Senna MaGlen. I have to eat. I have to pay for bandages and salves... I'll be lucky if I have enough to make it through until I can work again."

"You can, though, can't you," Varian asked, his face red. "Start again?"

Michael let his breath out in another long sigh. "I'll have to. What choice do I have?"

He looked at Varian again. "You have so much power over me, now, you can't even imagine. You could have me burned for what I've told you."

Varian gasped, apparently horrified that Michael would think him capable of such a thing. "Never! I'd never betray you. I swear it."

"I'll have to hope that you mean it." He felt oddly indifferent about the subject of Varian's trustworthiness. Maybe he'd confessed in hopes that he would be betrayed. He wondered about that, turning the idea over in his mind, and decided he didn't know what he'd been thinking and that he really didn't care. It had been good to tell someone. Anyone.

Varian cleared his throat, seeming to make some sort of internal decision. "Some great mob of out-of-town highborns descended on the Red Boar last night, and Pol's stuck at the stables, so he sent me here to help you. I am at your command." He added this last with a theatrical bow made ridiculous since he was still kneeling on the floor in Michael's very tiny room.

On the list of things Michael didn't want, Varian's help was somewhere near the top, but Pol must have believed the musician could be trusted if he'd sent him. Michael bit his lip, his eyes dropping to study his scarred hands. His unbroken one, white-knuckled, was clenching the blankets.

"Pol made me promise to do just as you say," Varian said, his voice very low and hesitant. "Only as you say. And I promised. I promise you the same thing. I don't want to be one of _them_ , to you, Michael. I don't want you to be afraid of me."

"I was never afraid of you."

"Even so."

Michael nodded, eyes still downcast. "I hate this." The tears he'd been trying to deny began running down his face.

"I know," Varian whispered. "And I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't know. Sorry I wasn't a better friend."

Michael had never thought of Varian as a friend, but he was there and he was trying his best and wasn't that what friendship was? Taking a huge breath, Michael sniffed back his tears once more and looked up to meet the musician's tentative smile.

"Help me up?"

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The healer's initial judgment that it would take at least a moon for Michael to recover enough to go back to work had turned out to be too optimistic by half. Though in the past, Michael had healed quickly from his various injuries, this time his healing seemed to have slowed—or these new injuries were simply that much worse.

More than a moon passed before Michael was able to bear any weight on his injured leg, and even then he could scarcely walk. Even using a crutch Pol had procured for him, it took days of practice before he could take more than a very few steps without collapsing from the pain. Pol, Varian, and sometimes even Risa and Daren visited his tiny room and worked with him, but his progress was very slow and very discouraging.

After a moon had passed, Pol had taken him back to see the healer, certain there must be some solution they simply hadn't yet tried. Instead, the healer told them the wound was very bad and that Michael, if he was lucky, would always walk with a limp. If he was unlucky... It didn't bear thinking about.

Even so, Michael hadn't imagined that it might never stop hurting. Even his arm had eventually healed—though there was now an odd, slight kink in its line, a relic of just how bad the break had been and how difficult to set cleanly—but his leg refused to improve past a certain point, and while he waited for it to heal, his hard-earned, harder-saved money trickled away, just as he'd told Varian it would. Once he'd recovered enough to return to the Red Boar, more than two moons had passed. There was so little money left, it made him sick to think about it.

The path he traveled from his tiny room at Senna MaGlen's to the Red Boar seemed filled with familiar faces, and he felt as if they were all staring at him _. They want to see if I look terrible. If I've changed. If I'm still beautiful._

He was. The healer had seemed almost upset by how well he'd recovered. His wounds had healed to smooth, white scars that almost disappeared against the only slightly darker-pale of his skin.

There was nothing too shocking; certainly nothing disgusting. If it hadn't been for his leg wound—healed well on the surface but still hurting him with every step he took—Michael would almost have been able to forget what had happened to him. _How close I came to escaping Fensgate... How close I came to dying._

_I want a smoke. Right. Now._ He'd given them up after the Midnight Star—it had just seemed silly to inhale smoke on purpose after seeing the damage it could do on a large scale. He'd wanted to take up the habit again after he'd been injured—he was sure the herbals would have helped him feel at least more relaxed—but he couldn't afford the extra expense when it was so uncertain when he'd be able to work again.

It would help to have something to blunt this moment.

No one seemed sure of how to react when he entered the Red Boar. So many of his regulars were present, watching the door as if for the return of a long-lost beloved, that when he finally stepped into the room and looked out across the sea of faces, it was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears. So much wanting from them overwhelmed him, away as he'd been for so long from the toxic feel of unwelcome desire.

_Pick one and get started,_ he ordered himself, and he scanned the crowd for someone who wouldn't ask too much. His attention was caught by a new face, however. A man sat at a crowded gambling table, ignoring the hovering girls. He sat casually, sprawled in his chair, one elbow resting on the table with his hand upraised, toying with a coin.

_Is it a clink? Double?_ It looked to be a respectable denomination. And it was a start. The man stared at Michael, his expression inquiring. The man was making him an offer, and the expectancy of all his regulars angered him.

Just waiting like carrion birds for me to come back and make them feel better...don't even care about me as long as I'm still beautiful.

He threw back his hair, left loose on purpose to show off how much it had grown, and crossed the room to the man's table, schooling his face to produce a slow, seductive smile. He reached out and closed one hand over the coin and decided in that split tic to do something he'd never before instigated in public.

With his free hand, he caught the man's face and leaned in to kiss him. The kiss silenced the room and lasted several heartbeats, leaving the man flushed and breathless when Michael ended it.

The man's mind passed the test. _Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear_. The man reached for him again, but Michael stepped back, shaking his head.

"There's more where that came from," he rasped. "But only if there's more where this came from." He held up the coin and lifted an eyebrow. The man rose, his eyes glittering with desire, and offered Michael several more coins the same as the first. With a nod, Michael accepted the man's offer, informing himself that it was a very good start to the night.

After that, his routine returned to an apparent normalcy. Nothing could ever be normal again—he knew that if no one else did—but the pretence of it had been restored.

He lived in pain every day now. He lived in fear, too, knowing from all he'd seen in the duke's twisted mind that he could expect to be summoned again. He could expect to be summoned often.

Why did he have to hurt me so badly? I could have escaped to Mirthia if only he hadn't stabbed me and broken my arm.

And he wondered, _What will happen when I refuse to answer his summons?_ He would refuse, but he didn't expect that to do him any good. What punishment would the man mete out to him in payment for the refusal? His mind supplied a suggestion— _he'll kill you_ —and he didn't even feel shocked by his reaction to it. _Good. I hope he does._

Dying would be better than living like this: living a whore's life in a miserable city where no one could be bothered to take care of someone who hadn't been born to them. It was a terrible world; a terrible place. He hated it and everyone in it more than he could bear to think about.

Michael felt a strange confusion as he considered his hopeless situation. He didn't want to die, but living like this...he didn't want to do that, either.

When at last he received the expected summons, Michael felt as if he'd been holding his breath and could finally release it. The letter was delivered to the Red Boar's door, but the person who brought it was not allowed in.

Still, the carriage awaiting outside to carry Michael away was grand enough that Daren had ordered Michael fetched from where he'd been flirting with one of his less odious regulars while the man played five-card.

The letter jolted Michael back to his new, harsh reality, and he stared at the heavy paper inscribed with his name as if it were a thing unknown to him. He didn't want to take it from the door-guard's hand, but he couldn't refuse it.

He felt oddly numb. _I can't refuse it. Some kind of spell..._

Now that he had the feared summons in his hand, his brain couldn't even form the idea of refusing it. He felt the painful prickling of gathering power along the lines of the tattoo on his wrist and at last understood what it meant and what it was for. Terac had no intention of allowing him to decline or escape. It was as strong a shackle as the metal ones he'd been chained with that horrible night.

_Magic._ No good could come of something that could force him to the will of a man like Terac Nalas. Maybe his own magic really was as evil as he'd been told. _And this is my punishment._

There was nothing to be done but obey. He pulled on his coat and left the inn to find the same grand, unmarked carriage awaiting him, a footman holding the door open.

_I don't have enough money to make it through another two moons!_ he thought as he was handed up into the carriage.

The Duke of Reyahl already sat inside, waiting for him. Michael dropped onto the opposite seat like a puppet whose strings had been cut. As the footman closed the door, Michael pressed himself back into the corner, trying to get as far away from Terac as it was possible to be in such a confined space. The man didn't say anything. His face was hidden in shadow, giving no clue to his thoughts.

Not until the carriage pulled away and had turned back toward Fensgate Bridge did the duke speak. "I did not mean to be so hurtful." He leaned forward, revealing an almost kindly, worried expression.

Michael flinched at the sound of his voice, wishing he could control himself. Wishing he could run away. _But that's become impossible in more ways than one._

"What are you going to do to me?" He didn't dare to look the man in the eyes. He wanted to be able to believe whatever lie Terac was about to tell him—at least for a little while.

"I just want to talk. And it's true, you know. I did not mean for things to get...so out of hand. The power was so much more than I expected." He gave a little laugh. "I think I was quite drunk. You suffered because of my carelessness, and I do apologize. I think I almost killed you."

"I wish you had."

"Hush, darling!" he snapped, and Michael stiffened as if in fear of a blow. Terac hesitated, and his voice softened when he spoke again. "Just hush. Don't even whisper such a thing. I can't lose you now. In fact, I must make certain I won't.

"So this is what I've come to say. If you disappear or die, and I have any reason at all to believe it was by your own choice, I will kill your friend Pol. I will make sure he knows that I'm the one who hurt you, I will kill him slowly, and I will not end it until he begs me for death."

Tears welled up and ran down Michael's face. If only Pol had let him die the first time, none of this would have happened. But it was far too late for if-onlies, and there was no escape from this nightmare anymore.

Michael closed his eyes tightly and whispered, "Fine. All right. Just don't hurt him. Please."

"As long as we understand one another."

Michael felt the man's hand close around his too-recently healed arm, and he was pulled across the tiny distance and made to straddle the man's lap. His injured leg sent screams of agony to his brain where he managed to stop them from going any further, but the tears wouldn't stop. The nightmares in the man's mind were of a more familiar variety, all focused on what Terac wanted to do to him—a negligible mercy but a mercy nonetheless.

Terac's hands were strong and knew what they were doing. They stroked Michael's body as if they had never committed any violent acts, undressing him with a deftness that implied much practice. The man's mouth burned a line of kisses from his ear down to his throat, and the flicker of tongue against skin felt like a lash.

It had been a very long time since Michael could in all honesty claim to have been raped, but there was nothing else to call what Terac was doing to him. He had not agreed to this, and no matter what he said or did, Terac would not stop.

By the time Terac had finished with him for the night, the pain from his leg had nearly reduced him to begging. His body ached all over, and he'd acquired a collection of love bites to rival the most careless floozy in all of Fensgate.

He stumbled upon reaching the ground, though the footman had tried to help by handing him down. Between what Terac had done this time and the wound he had inflicted the last time, standing seemed to be close to impossible. Standing unaided?

How will I make it home? I just want to go home!

"Here," the duke's voice called, and Michael nearly whimpered at the sound. He wondered what fresh torture the man had forgotten to perform.

The footman retrieved whatever the duke wanted to pass on, and he handed it to Michael with a look of studied blankness on his face. Michael took the proffered item automatically, then wished he'd let the thing fall.

In his hand he now held a small, blue bottle.

"It's sevillium," Terac's voice called, soft but audible in the eerie silence of the very early morning. "For the pain." Then the man added, just as the carriage began to pull away, "You'll be hearing from me soon."

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Breach crossing had been like nothing Jarlyth could have even imagined. He had no words to describe it, either, except, perhaps, bright or sharp or brutal. Unimaginable that most of those on his ship had made the crossing several times.

After several days of waiting at anchor, well clear of the Breach on its opposite side, they were met by a much smaller ship. Jarlyth was handed from the first ship to this second one like so much baggage, and the larger ship sailed away, back to Reinra.

The captain of this new ship was a woman named Sonya. "Just Captain Sonya," she replied when he'd asked her full name. Her face had weathered to timelessness, and Jarlyth would never have dared to guess at her true age. The first thing she said to him when he stepped on board her ship was, "You are in pursuit of someone lost." He knew then that she had some power, what might be called "the Sight" by country folk but which was one of the rarer and more useful wizardly skills.

"I am," he agreed. "I have been seeking him for a long time."

The woman nodded, her eyes narrowing with a shrewdness born of long experience. "Good thing your crossing ship found us for you. Not many ships aside from the _Etesian_ make a circuit of the lands on this side of the Breach. We go to all four major ports—Mirthia, Felencia, Camarat, and Tabritt. When they aren't all at war with each other, business is good. We've just come from Mirthia, our home port, so Felencia is next."

It didn't matter to Jarlyth, so long as he searched everywhere or as many places as needed to be searched in order to find Nylan. He had hoped to sense the boy once the Breach had been cleared, but he still felt only the sureness that Nylan lived. Wherever he was, it was still too far away.

She led him through the ship, showing him where all the important bits were, and they ended in her dining cabin where they were joined by her officers.

The meal was pleasant and the discussion friendly. The captain appointed one of her officers to help Jarlyth learn the dialect variations for Camarat. Jarlyth accepted this even though he had no need of such lessons. Along with several other very useful charms, including one to keep anyone from noticing the sword he always carried across his back, Queen Tristella had given him a language charm which interpreted any dialect differences he encountered and charmed his own speech into the correct words as well.

Even so, the language was not so different from the common dialect spoken throughout the former One Kingdom. The shared written language had kept it from drifting too far from its mother tongue, but the pronunciation had altered, sometimes to incomprehensibility, and many new words had been added, naming things and ideas that had not existed when the Breach had first been formed.

For the first leg of the voyage, Jarlyth kept to himself. The Breach crossing had taken much more out of him than he'd realized, and he wanted to be cautious. These were not only Reinra folk, after all, and some were clearly not comfortable with magic. Though they'd accepted him as a passenger and treated him with the polite condescension sailors generally felt for landlings, many were still from this side of the Breach. Magic was a strange thing to them, and he didn't want to risk losing their help.

Ten days after he'd boarded, they reached Felencia, a sprawling, poor-seeming country ruled over by a duke and an elected council. This country had suffered much from what Jarlyth learned was a series of ongoing little wars, and had only begun to recover from the last scuffle between them and their near neighbor Tabritt.

Tabritt, it turned out, was now at war with Camarat. Mirthia seemed to stay out of most of the problems, and he heard grumblings about this from several people as he worked his way through the various agencies who would have had dealings with lost children.

He'd known from the first that Felencia was a waste of time. Nylan was not there, and he itched to go on to the next port. The ship had business to complete first, however, so he went through the motions and found out what he could about the other lands he'd be visiting.

By the time they upped anchor at last, Jarlyth found the crew had become comfortable enough to start asking the most personal questions. His bearing had reverted to Templar the longer he'd searched for Nylan, and his actions and expressions, he knew, could be severe and off-putting. He rarely tried to temper this—he found the care with which he was treated to be useful—but sharing a small ship and meals for so long wore away at his own caution as well as the crew's wariness.

It was the first officer—a pleasant man by the name of George, a bit past the age when he should have had his own command—who eventually broached the most-discussed question. "Just who is it you're looking for?"

Jarlyth was only surprised it had taken them so long to ask. "You haven't heard of me, then? I thought I and my quest were too famous not to have crossed even the Breach."

The officer smiled, nodding as some of the crew listening nearby looked annoyed and disgusted while others looked triumphant.

_Apparently, a bet was in play._ It seemed only fair to confirm it absolutely so money could change hands.

"I am Jarlyth Denara, warder to Prince Nylan of Serathon. I have been searching for him for years, now. Ever since he was taken from Tanara and from me." He had only given his first name before, and then just "Jary." Only the captain had known his real name.

A low mutter rose up and died away in response to this. The bosun's mate, an older man, nodded. "I met a warder once before. Long ago. You don't usually get out so far, though I lived on the other side of the Breach, then."

"We never get this far," Jarlyth admitted. For whatever reason—Vail only knew—Sensitives were a gift born only to Serathon. "That's the problem."

Some discussion of the stories they'd heard of him ensued, and he answered some of their questions and avoided others. And then, one of the crew shouted out, "What's 'e look like?" the question rising anonymously from the group.

Jarlyth's face twisted into a painful smile, and he shook his head. "Like a SanClare," he said, and his listeners all laughed, the voice which had asked making a sound closer to annoyance.

He waved his hand for patience. "The deepest, darkest black hair you've ever seen; bright golden-hazel eyes—more gold, though, than green or brown. Striking. Very fair skin—like his mother's—and lovely. He'll be almost fifteen now."

The good humor of the listeners had died down quickly as Jarlyth described Nylan, and by the time he'd finished, they were entirely silent. Many of them looked...

_Frightened? Horrified?_ He wasn't sure and let go of his center to see if he could feel more. The emotions whirled up around him like a squall.

He turned to George, a sharp question on his face before it came out of his mouth. "What's—"

"Holy Vail Over Us." The man backed several hurried steps away from Jarlyth before whirling away to throw up over the side of the ship. The captain appeared in that moment, summoned by someone.

"What do you know?" Jarlyth shouted. The blood roared in his head, and he wanted to be sick, too—violently and repeatedly.

Is he dead? Have I gone mad with loss and missed that he's dead? Have they hurt him? Oh, Dear Vail, please tell me they haven't hurt him!

"I know more than you'll ever want to hear, Lord Denara."

The captain's voice was oddly soft; incongruously motherly for such a severe-seeming woman. "But you'd best know what I know before we reach Queen's City."

#

Michael's life fell into a nightmarish pattern where he found himself summoned at odd intervals by his new master—there was no other way to look at the power Terac had over him. He returned from each encounter bloodied and exhausted and ever weaker. Though he was never again hurt badly enough to keep him more than a day or two from working, his wounds healed more and more slowly after each time, and he found, too, that his heretical powers no longer flared to life at a mere thought. He tried to pretend nothing had changed, and he wanted to continue helping Daren, though each time he worked a new healing, he felt worse.

Harly and Daren all at once had decided he should become more involved, too, with their grand scheme and took turns trying to tell him more details. Michael, afraid that Terac might somehow find out their secrets from him, refused to listen and threatened to stop helping altogether if they kept at him about it.

It was not that he didn't want to help, either, but what they really wanted him to do was even more impossible than it was terrifying. Still, he felt sorry for the men. Their goal was nothing short of a revolution, and yet even with all their power and careful plans and strategies, they'd never succeed so long as the Duke of Reyhal lived.

Why do they think I can stop him? They've seen what he does to me. It isn't as if I let him.

As he became steadily weaker, Michael started to make excuses not to help at all, none of which Daren wanted to accept. He put so much pressure on Michael to continue performing healings and to listen to his plans, Michael began to hide whenever he saw the man approaching.

It all ended very abruptly, however, when, at Daren's strongest urging, Michael agreed to heal some poor, broken person worse off than even he was himself, only to wake up with a headache like a knife between his eyes and a badly bleeding nose which Daren, frantically, had still been trying to staunch. The man never asked him to help again.

Terac was killing him. Slowly, but there was no possible doubt as to the eventual outcome. Michael couldn't continue down such a spiraling path without, at some point not so very far in the future, reaching its end. And, though it frightened him to admit it, Michael found he once again felt nothing but welcome for the prospect.

#

As he led Jarlyth through the narrow, confusing streets of Fensgate, George kept glancing back at him, wary and still almost green with fear. Considering what the captain had told him, Jarlyth couldn't bring himself to reassure the man that this was unwarranted.

Jarlyth couldn't be sure himself that he wouldn't run the man through as soon as he'd made himself useful by leading Jarlyth to this Red Boar Inn where, by some cruel twist of fate, his long-lost Nylan could now be found.

Jarlyth guessed they might have reached their destination when turning a corner brought them to a street that was almost twice as wide as any of the others they'd traveled. People seemed to be everywhere, too, where all had been desolate and rundown before.

"That's the One-Eyed Sailor," George muttered as they passed a tall, gaudy building with light and noise overflowing into the street. Men and young women were paired off here and there, some in groups.

_No!_ Jarlyth corrected himself. _Those are boys. Vail!_

"It's all boys there," the officer finished miserably.

"And the Red Boar?" Jarlyth asked, his voice that of the ruthless warrior he'd originally meant to be.

"Only boy there is Michael, but there's no point in any other boy competing with him. No one minds waiting, even if it's only for a chance."

"Shut up," Jarlyth growled. "Just shut up." He knew he would never understand why Vail allowed this to happen.

George knew Michael, this child everyone on the ship believed had to be Nylan. After the captain had explained, Jarlyth had interrogated George without pity, learning enough to believe they were right and enough to make him want to eviscerate the man rather than accept his help.

The Red Boar made the One-Eyed Sailor look even cheaper and more pitiful than it had before. This building was grand and rich and beautiful. The entrance was guarded by two big men who stood on either side of the grand glass entrance and glared at everyone who approached. They apparently recognized George for they only nodded, but a gesture indicated Jarlyth was to stop.

"He's with me," George said, pale in the warm light pouring from the enormous room beyond. The guard who'd stopped him looked Jarlyth over carefully, mistrustful, but at last he waved him on.

The central salon was filled with tables which were surrounded by crowds of wealthy-looking men and a number of beautiful, opulently underdressed women. Games of all kinds—card games, dice games, games of chance and skill—were being played at the tables.

A larger group congregated around a big, round table that commanded the center of the room. Several men were seated, playing a card game. Five-card, maybe, or whatever the Camarat equivalent was, Jarlyth guessed.

He didn't need George's tentative plucking at his arm or the hoarse, "there," to confirm what his entire being already knew.

Crowded as it was, the heat in the room had led many to remove coats and jackets, and the boy who sat almost with his back to Jarlyth was one of that number. He was perched on the arm of one of the player's chairs, intent on the game. The man had an arm around the boy as if to keep him from falling off, but his hand rested low on the boy's hip, fingers drumming idly.

Nylan's hair had grown incredibly long and hung down his back in a thick, loose braid. A white dress shirt—which clung to his back here and there where the perspiration had trickled down—tucked into his close-fitting black trousers which tucked into provocatively-tall, black leather boots. He was small but long and lean and absolutely beautiful.

I'm going to be sick. I can't stand to see this. Vail, help me!

He couldn't move, and Nylan didn't notice him, so he watched, helpless and miserable and unbearably ill.

He could guess which men had never purchased the boy's time by the way he reacted when they addressed him—which they all did. _Because he's famous,_ Jarlyth remembered. George had said that he was as famous as royalty. As famous as anyone in Queen's City.

If a man had no interest in his body, Nylan's faint smiles would seem genuine, and he would talk to the person easily—answer a question, smile at a joke. If he was desired, his resentment stiffened his back and deadened his eyes. Jarlyth was shocked no one else seemed to notice the difference.

"Blow 'em for luck, eh?" a man asked Nylan, holding out his cards. The crowd, predictably, found this proposition amusing and the volume rose as everyone began calling out comments, taunts, or suggestions.

Nylan's lips twisted into something that might be interpreted as a smile but which Jarlyth saw as quickly-masked irritation. Nevertheless, the boy reached up a hand to hold his hair back as he leaned across the table toward the proffered cards.

George felt the need to narrate. "He doesn't say yes to very much. He has all these rules. He's famous and everyone wants him so he can do what he wants."

Jarlyth flicked a glare at the man. "He doesn't want to do _any_ of this."

The boy pursed his lips slowly, deliberately, and blew a near-kiss across the cards. As he drew back again, the forced smile evaporated. A roaring cheer rose from the crowd with laughter and clapping playing counterpoint. The man whose cards he had blessed looked flushed and excited and couldn't take his eyes off of Nylan.

"What happened to his hand?" Jarlyth swallowed against the sickness rising in his throat. The elegant sleeve had brushed back from Nylan's wrist when he'd leaned over, exposing ugly marks.

"That's his heretic's brand," George whispered. "And he has a tattoo that means something bad. It was new the last time I was here, but he wouldn't tell me about it."

The man who'd needed luck apparently got it, for just then he shot to his feet, nearly knocking the table over, and did a little jig of celebration as the other players threw down their cards or pushed the pile of winnings toward the man's place. It seemed to take everyone by surprise when he whirled around, caught Nylan's chin with his fingertips, and kissed him.

Jarlyth, much to his dismay, had a perfect vantage point to witness this kiss. He saw Nylan flinch as the hand touched him and then stiffen as the lips followed, but the boy recovered and reciprocated so quickly, his warder almost wasn't certain he'd seen any resistance.

This sort of thing must have happened before, for a chant began to clarify itself from the noise of the crowd. Jarlyth could make out the word being chanted: "Clink."

"What's that mean?" he demanded.

It was George's turn to flinch, but he took a step closer in order to be heard without raising his voice. "He has to pay, now. A clink for a kiss. A crown."

Jarlyth's eyes widened in shock. He was enough a man of the world to be aware what the services of a prostitute would generally cost—not that, as a Sensitive, he had ever been tempted to make use of one himself—and a crown for a kiss was beyond anything he'd ever heard of.

George nodded as if reading his thoughts. "Aye, he's very expensive." The follow-up thought to this was so clear that, with the first officer standing so close to him, Jarlyth heard it as if the man had continued speaking aloud: _And he's worth every bit of it._

_Of course. He would be,_ Jarlyth thought, miserable. He'd proven that himself to many a young woman. There were reasons the salacious stories told about bedding a Sensitive were all but countless. _But he's just a child! Can't they see that?_

And he was so unhappy. Jarlyth could feel the despair radiating from the boy from across the room. The warder could only wonder how Nylan had survived such relentless physical contact. Even with his own poor Sensitivity, he thought he would at least have gone mad.

Jarlyth's hands gripped themselves into fists as the "for luck" man surveyed the chanting crowd, patting his lips with fingertips as if blowing kisses to everyone, though it was obvious he meant only to remind them all of whom he'd just kissed.

His warder's instincts became more and more in tune with Nylan the longer he watched, until Jarlyth knew the thought behind every movement, gesture, and expression.

Nylan managed to conceal a glare behind a narrow-eyed, measuring expression, and made a deliberate show of wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

The crowd's response to this was approving, and the taunts turned back on the presumptuous man as some still chanted for the clink to be paid. Nylan extricated himself from his companion's arm gently as he stood up, and now Jarlyth could see just how small the boy was.

The "for luck" man towered over him, nearly three handspans taller, and he was big and muscular, besides. Nylan's apparent fragility broke Jarlyth's heart. _He's nearly fifteen! He should be taller...like his father._

Fragile he might have been, but at the Red Boar, Nylan held all the power. He looked up at the big man from beneath lowered brows and held out his right hand, palm up, wordlessly demanding payment. Jarlyth saw more scars marring pale skin. _Shize! What have they done to him?_

"Don't be that way, sweetling." The man reached for Nylan's hand, but the boy snatched it back, fingers curling into a fist as his body fell into a defensive stance, stunningly familiar to Jarlyth from their training sessions years ago.

The man took a step back, surprise blossoming on his face. The crowd jeered, now that it was obvious how inaccurately the man had read the situation. He'd thought his next move would be to the bed of the most desired streeter in Camarat.

"I could have you thrown out for theft, you know?" Nylan said. These were the first words Jarlyth heard him say, and far more than a trace of the boy's Serathonian accent remained even after all these years—though the rasp was new. "It's against the rules here to steal a kiss."

Chagrined, the man reached into his pile of winnings and fished out a large, gold coin which he tossed at Nylan, forcefully. Angrily.

Nylan, without even looking, snatched the coin out of the air with a snap of his wrist, pocketed it, and turned away from the man and the table. If he'd told the man to go to the Fires, he could not have dismissed him more thoroughly. Whoops of laughter and more jeers at his suitor followed, but they all died away to Jarlyth's ears as Nylan finally noticed him.

He'd braced himself for this reunion for over six years. He'd braced himself for what Nylan would feel at being discovered in this place for days.

But he'd braced himself for nothing. The boy's eyes skimmed over him without doing more than taking note of his existence, and Jarlyth felt his jaw slacken as Nylan's face shifted from leftover annoyance to delight at the sight not of him but of his companion.

"George!" He walked over to greet the man. Jarlyth detected a slight limp which attested to more injuries he'd failed to prevent.

"All my favorite people are here tonight—did you see Jack? He's here for the festival, too." Nylan didn't pause for any answers. "When did your ship get in?"

George's eyes flicked to Jarlyth's face before returning inexorably to Nylan's. "Just now."

"And you ran right over to see me?" A coy smile curved Nylan's lips as he looked up at the man through his long, black lashes. "How flattering."

"Well—" George gulped, a blush reddening his face.

The dissonance between how Nylan was behaving and how he truly felt was so jarring, it made Jarlyth want to vomit. He wanted to draw his sword and start separating heads from bodies, beginning with George's.

Nylan managed to look both youthfully innocent and shockingly wanton at the same time. "I'm not busy right now." He reached out to run a teasing finger over the buttons on the man's uniform jacket.

George stammered out, "I—I can't—"

Nylan's eyes widened slightly. Jarlyth sensed the boy's surprise at being put off. It was something that likely never happened to him.

"Oh..." he began, as his body language altered completely, any trace of flirtation vanishing as he took a step away from George and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked almost hurt though what Jarlyth sensed was panic. "Did you get married? Or..." he glanced at Jarlyth and came to a new conclusion. "Do you want to introduce me to your friend?"

"Don't you know him already?" George asked, confused.

Nylan looked at Jarlyth, a faint, equally confused smile playing around his lips. "Should I know you?" he asked finally. "I'm sorry. I seem to have forgotten."

"You...forgot..." Jarlyth choked out. This shock was the last one he could bear. His vision went black, and, the next thing he knew, he was staring up into Nylan's worried face as the boy knelt beside him. He hadn't noticed before how intricate the room's ceiling was, painted with fanciful, provocative scenes which wreathed Nylan's head, making the moment surreal to the point of ridiculousness.

"Are you all right?" Nylan reached out a hand toward Jarlyth's forehead to check for fever.

"Don't touch me," Jarlyth snapped, and the hand shot back as if it had been slapped away. His reaction had been automatic, but Jarlyth knew he'd made what could turn out to have been a fatal mistake. _Stupid. That was stupid. All he may have needed was to touch me to remember._

"He was sick off and on all the way here," George said. His eyes were wild with hysteria, and Nylan looked up at him, his worry deepening.

"George, what's going on?" A note of fear bled into his voice. He seemed to be almost pleading with the man. "I don't understand. Why are you acting like this? Did I do something to make you angry?"

A powerful-looking man with a shaved head and a deceptively sleepy expression appeared, shoving away the crowd that had gathered around their little tableau. "Michael," he barked. "Everything all right?"

The boy reached up automatically, and the man pulled him to his feet. "I don't know." Nylan still looked worried. "This is George's friend. He passed out."

The man grunted. "I'll look after 'em. Lord Fitch is asking for you."

Nylan's expression went blank at this, but he nodded and vanished into the crowd.

By the time the Red Boar's strong-arm decided he wasn't sick or hurt, Jarlyth had lost all track of Nylan—until he saw the boy being guided up the Red Boar's gaudy staircase by a man who'd apparently just paid him for a bit of his time.

George looked even more ill than Jarlyth felt. "Was that really him? Have I really been—?"

"What is it about you? Why was he so desperate for you to want him?" Jarlyth demanded.

George's last bit of spine melted away as he slumped onto the table. "It's just that I promised to help him." He dropped his voice to a low whisper. "If he ever got enough money together to pay all the bribes plus his passage, I said I'd help him leave here. He wants to go to Mirthia and start over. They don't have heretics there or brand people. Streeters are illegal. I think he thinks it's Vail's Country."

"So he pretends to like you, plays up to you...so that you'll help him."

"Yes. And so I'll keep his secret," George admitted. "I'm a bastard. I blackmailed the Prince of Sorrows."

"You _are_ a bastard," Jarlyth agreed bitterly. "You blackmailed a child."

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Pol was waiting for him by the Red Boar's back door when Michael was ready to leave just before dawn the following morning. Michael froze several steps away, staring at his friend as if he didn't recognize him, as Pol stepped into the dim morning light filtering through the sole window, a determined expression on his face.

Michael had no idea what to do or think. This was the first time Pol had broken the unspoken agreement the boys had maintained ever since Michael had come to the Red Boar. They'd always pretended this part of his life did not exist.

"What are you doing here?" Michael's humiliation burned up his neck and across his cheeks, and not only at being caught having just left his last patron without having so much as washed his face. He'd taken a long drink of sevillium after the debacle with George, and its effects had yet to entirely wear off.

After everything that had happened that night, he'd been unable to face going with anyone without something to blunt the edges. The man with the stupid cards had been upsetting enough, but George's behavior had been almost frightening, and George's friend... _What was wrong with him? What did he want from me?_

At first Michael had resisted using Terac's sevillium, but the pain had simply been too much to bear. After his last, disastrous attempt at healing, he'd finally given in and opened the blue glass bottle.

Sevillium worked like a magic spell, relieving not just his physical pain but also blurring his memories. It was a relief to be this numb and this separate—such a relief that, with each taste, it became harder and harder to resist taking it all the time.

Nothing mattered to him when he was under the drug's influence, and even when he tried to work up some emotion toward some particularly repulsive aspect of his life—such as the horrors of being Terac's slave—he ended up not caring. Michael tried to save the drug for the worst nights, but what he considered worst was fast becoming a very broad category.

Pol moved toward him. "I'm sorry, but I had to talk to you, and you've been avoiding me ever since..." He hesitated, his hand reaching up to tangle itself in the already-tangled curls at his forehead. "Ever since you started taking that stuff."

Michael shook his head and tried to step past Pol, but the older boy caught his arm. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Michael yanked free of Pol's loose grip on his arm and pushed through the door leading out onto the alley behind the inn. Unsteady, he almost tripped over the threshold, but the cold air struck him like a slap across the face, and his focus sharpened a little.

"I just got tired of hurting." He wasn't sure Pol had followed him, wasn't sure anyone was listening.

Pol circled around to stand in front of Michael again, desperately trying to hold his friend's wandering attention. "What kind of an answer is that?"

Michael leaned against the wall, not wanting to have this conversation, not wanting to even think.

"What are you doing?" Pol's voice broke. "You're just throwing your life away."

Michael exhaled until it felt as if not one bit of air remained in his body. Weariness weighted him down like a rain-heavy cloak. He didn't think he could feel any more exhausted.

"I don't have a life." It was hopeless. Everything was hopeless. _Even George has gone all strange now...even if I could get enough money together again...even if I was crazy enough to risk Terac's revenge...I don't think George wants me anymore. He'll never help me if there's nothing in it for him._ "You should have let me die that night."

Pol shook his head, his voice anguished. "No, I couldn't. I _can't!_ You're my best friend! My little brother, my family, my—"

"I'm a whore, Pol." The word hung in the air between them, breaking the final piece of their pact. "I'm a whore, and I'm a heretic. You can't save me from what I am."

"You shouldn't be here!" Pol insisted.

Michael glared up at his friend, the sevillium blur burned away in a flash of hysteria and fury. "I _wouldn't_ be here if you'd let me die." He pushed away from the wall, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt cuffs before yanking up the sleeves to reveal the scars he usually took pains to conceal.

"I wanted to die, but you wouldn't let me!" He almost shoved his wrists in Pol's face. "And now I have to live like this _every day_! I have to pretend it's all fine and smile at these men and act like I want them to nik me when all I want to do is _die_! Why is that so hard to understand?"

"I'm sorry." Pol wiped at the tears running down his cheeks without seeming to notice them. "I never thought it would turn out like this. I just couldn't let you die. You looked so... I felt like it was all my fault."

Michael stared at him, exhausted by his friend's suffocating concern. "I'm not your responsibility, Pol."

"If not mine then whose? You don't take care of yourself. You aren't careful—"

"Why should I be?" Michaels hands curled into fists at his side, his helpless rage resolving into true anger at Pol for forcing him to talk about truths he'd much rather forget. "This is all I'll ever be. Maybe I want it to be over with as soon as possible."

He turned and limped away down the alley, expecting Pol to chase after him with every step, but all that followed him was a heartbroken plea of, "Michael, wait."

Michael made it to Senna Maglen's in a haze of hurt and anger, but as he descended the area steps, he remembered that the upcoming night was the Festival of Kings. It was a shattering anniversary for both him and Pol, and it made sense to him now why Pol had chosen this night to confront him though the understanding didn't help lessen the hurt.

Still, it was hard to believe so much time had passed. Had it really been three years since he'd first encountered Terac Nalas as a nearly starved-to-death eleven-year-old? Three years since he'd failed to take his life in that wet, glittering cul-de-sac? Three years since he'd become in fact, as well as in practice, a whore?

He'd avoided the festival the last two years, not wanting to be reminded of that awful night. He'd escaped to his room instead, reveling in the utter silence of the empty house and the extra few hours the holiday gave him to read and sleep, but he knew this year would be different. Terac would want to commemorate their first meeting. He would send for him; he might even come to the festival again; he might even...

Michael closed his eyes, feeling as faint as the heroine of some romantic novel. _What if Robyn is with him? How will I stand it?_ He sat down abruptly on the rain-wet steps and felt the water seep through his clothes, but it was all at a distance. The next night loomed in front of him, terrifying and unknown.

Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to stand and go into the house, into the familiar, comforting scullery. He took his bath, but he was too upset for even that ritual to have its usual, calming effect. There was no chance he could avoid whatever would happen. Michael knew he'd have to play his part. He'd have to go to the festival and wait for Terac to find him.

#

Jarlyth followed the sounds of music down the deserted streets of Fensgate. He'd heard about the Festival of Kings from almost everyone he'd spoken to since his arrival in Camarat, but he'd had no idea how complete the participation was. Not a shop was open; not a streeter plied her trade.

He'd emerged from the room he'd taken at the small inn somewhat down the street and across from the Red Boar to find no one in the building and no lights coming from the windows of the buildings nearby.

He'd taken a nap, planning to be rested and at his best for the night so that he could find some moment to talk to Nylan, but now he could see that the festival would be all that anyone was interested in. The sun was setting and, for all he could tell, the world might have ended while he'd prepared for the evening.

He hurried down the street, following the distant sounds of music and the growing noise of the crowd. He hoped he could find the right words to say to prick Nylan's memory and make him understand that he was someone who could be trusted.

I can't blame him if he doesn't trust me. I wouldn't trust me if I had lived his life. And even if he did remember me, why should he trust the man who let all of this happen to him?

The festival seemed to be well underway by the time he reached its outskirts. People were crowded around tables and stalls, talking and eating and laughing as if this weren't the most wretched slum anyone had ever seen.

Jarlyth tried to blend in and pass without comment through the crowds, but he was too different and glances and stares followed him as he went. Nettled, he grabbed a roll from a nearby table and turned away from the nearest cluster of whispering strangers.

And with that turning, he emerged into the glittering center of the festival's activity where he found several couples twirling in a joyous dance. The music was familiar—an obvious relative of the faire tunes of his own youth in rural Serathon.

Once long ago, this entire western side of the Breach had been settled by those fleeing the vicious, magic-driven Blood Wars which eventually tore the One Kingdom—and all the rest of the countries there—to pieces. Little did they know that somewhere in their midst was the direct heir to the great SanClare bloodline which once ruled that fabled land.

He soon spotted Nylan dancing with a pretty girl, and his were not the only eyes drawn to the pair. Nylan's limp seemed to have vanished in the gracefulness and speed of the dance, and as the music flowed from one song and into the next, some dancers stepped out of the swirl and others joined it, but Nylan and his partner didn't pause. For this moment, at least, Jarlyth knew that Nylan was happy. It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

As Jarlyth watched, however, a man pushed through the crowds and when Nylan danced by him, he caught the boy's arm, halting the couple abruptly and sending an angry ripple through the spectators. The man then said something to the boy that drained all his happiness away and turned the angry ripple to a low growl.

Jarlyth reacted without thinking, striding through the crowd which took one look at his face and parted before him like water. He reached the man in tics, grabbing his arm in a similar fashion to the way the man had grabbed Nylan and hauling him a few steps away.

Jarlyth leaned in and whispered, "I have a sword that's longing to see some use. I shall delight in letting it get to know you as intimately as I'm sure you wish to know that poor boy over there. You know who I mean? That _child_ whose fleeting moment of joy you just destroyed?" It was a threat he was perfectly prepared to carry out. "Shall I draw my sword now so you may see what you have to look forward to?"

The man yanked his arm free, tripping and falling to the ground as he tried to scuttle away. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled off through the crowd, casting several terrified looks back to see if Jarlyth was following, though all that pursued him were a few thrown objects and the taunting laughter of the crowd.

Jarlyth realized the music had stopped during this incident only when it started up again. He turned back to see Nylan watching him warily while the girl tried to persuade him back into the dance.

Jarlyth held the boy's gaze for just a moment, then gave him a small bow before turning and walking pointedly away. He wanted Nylan to trust him, but he realized this was very unlikely. With some luck, however, he might convince the boy that he was not someone to be feared.

#

Michael watched George's friend disappear back into the crowd, stunned by his extraordinary kindness. _But it probably isn't kindness._ Michael had been the target of calculated kindnesses before, bestowed by men wanting him to be grateful as part of some twisted fantasy.

He realized Nella was urging him back into the dance, and he allowed himself to be persuaded, though the brief moment when he'd actually forgotten everything but the dancing was over, and he doubted he could recapture it. The first man had not been Terac—at least Michael was fairly certain he hadn't been—but his proposition had been too explicit to shrug off.

_Horrible man,_ he thought. _And he smelled._ He'd never have said yes to the man's offer under any circumstances, but he hated that men felt they could say anything to him. He hated that his obvious discomfort with the man's proposition had given the man so much pleasure. He hated that he'd been so caught out and right in front of everyone.

And, most of all, he hated that Terac _would_ be there. He had probably witnessed the scene unfold. He might even be angry about it. Angry that another man had approached him; angry that another man had defended him.

Recently, Terac had become prone to fits of jealousy. Jealousy which manifested itself as weird, intense fury over Michael's "inconstancy"—as if somehow it had ever been otherwise. As if it _could_ be. It was insane behavior. Michael couldn't imagine what Terac was thinking, but it frightened him.

When the next song ended and the musicians took a break, Michael decided to leave. He'd risked enough that day, and he did not wish to be dragged away from the festival or chased in full view of everyone. Best to slip away quietly and let Terac have his entertainment. If Michael turned out to be wrong about his master's intentions, he could go back to his room and have a nice, long sleep.

But he had not been wrong. Robyn stood in front of him, dressed in common clothes and unmasked. The crowd had thinned here and no one took any notice of them.

"Running away?" Robyn looked hopeful.

Michael's gaze dropped to the ground, and his voice came out in a timid-sounding rasp. "I'm too tired to run anymore."

"Pity," Robyn murmured. He motioned for Michael to come with him, and the boy obeyed.

"I think of that night often," Robyn said. "Of both nights. There is no one like you."

_Unfortunately_ , Michael thought, miserable. Or perhaps not. For that meant there was no one else who would be forced to endure what he had to. He wouldn't wish Robyn or Terac on anyone. Not even on themselves.

The plain, black carriage sat in shadow, and Michael felt an irrational hatred of carriages well up behind his eyes, burning and threatening to bring on tears.

He wanted to scream, to beg, to run away, to call George's friend to his aid—but this was inevitable; inescapable. They would have dragged him from his cot had he tried to hide out from them there.

Terac did not deny himself anything.

Michael had learned that the hard way.

#

Jarlyth had tried to stay out of Nylan's way after that strange encounter. He didn't want the boy to think he was a suitor, but this meant he had to follow Nylan from a greater distance than he liked. Shortly after the incident, the musicians took a break, and Nylan slipped away from the festival. Jarlyth followed, but by the time he realized that he wasn't the only one following Nylan, it was too late. He was too far away to overhear, and there was no way he could intervene without seeming threatening. It looked as if the rendezvous might even have been planned, and Jarlyth could only watch, helpless and miserable, as the carriage drove away into the night.

"What are you doing?"

Jarlyth whirled, his hand making an abortive grab for his sword before his better judgment converted that into a feint. He'd been followed as unwittingly as Nylan, and he felt caught out and foolish.

He thought to lie but something about the boy's face stayed him. "Trying to help," he confessed. "And failing completely," he added in a mutter.

It had to be Pol. In the time he and George had remained at the Red Boar after that first, horrifying reunion with Nylan, Jarlyth had forced George to help him uncover as much of Nylan's history in Fensgate as was possible to learn. He had heard of this boy; young man, really. Pol had saved Nylan's life more than once. They were friends.

Jarlyth could see the boy regretting his actions even as he pressed on. "You've been hanging around, watching him. Asking about him." Nerves cracked his voice. "But you don't _do_ anything."

Frowning in confusion, Jarlyth looked closely at Pol. The boy seemed stressed to his limits, scared and angry and determined. _What does he think I'm planning?_

"I'm not going to hurt him."

"Then why can't you leave him alone?" Pol looked as if he might be a bit older than Nylan's true age—and much older than Nylan seemed. "Everyone thinks it's all right because he's a streeter, but it isn't!"

_If anyone will listen to the truth, it will be this boy._ "I've been looking for him for a very long time."

"You're disgusting!" Pol snarled and took a step back. "Do you know what it does to him? All he wants to do is die!"

"I raised him," Jarlyth continued as if Pol had not spoken. "I'm his warder. He was stolen away when he was eight years old. I was almost killed, and by the time I was aware of what had happened, he'd vanished. Moons had passed. The trail was so cold, I've just had to look everywhere for him. It's taken a very long time."

"Oh, a long-lost relative?" Pol sneered. "I've never heard that one before. Are you his _daddy_?"

Jarlyth closed his eyes and fought back the urge to vomit. He had believed his faith in Vail's mercy could never be tested so badly as it had been when Nylan was taken, but witnessing what his life had become, how degrading and miserable every moment of every day was for the boy, Jarlyth briefly wondered if the goddess had been playing out a cruel game with his life, never meaning for him to succeed.

Jarlyth looked back into Pol's furious glare. "They starved him. We finally tracked the survivors down three years after, and they confessed. They'd had nothing but bad luck since taking him. Most of them were dead or broken, and I was glad they'd suffered. But still, all I could think about was that they'd starved him.

"A couple of them had tried to... do things to him, but the captain had forbidden it. He'd protected him, but even he didn't understand how much just being touched can hurt him. How painful their thoughts had to have been—like knives slicing away. He was at Tanara for a reason. My only purpose in life was to protect him. And I failed."

The boy's face reflected his confusion and outrage at Jarlyth's words. _But he's listening_ , Jarlyth thought, and he could see the doubt beginning to chip away at the boy's righteous anger.

"Such a pretty story." Pol's tone was derisive.

"No. It's an ugly story. It should never have happened." Jarlyth dropped his gaze to stare unseeing at the cobblestones. "Someone betrayed us, and he's suffered for it ever since. All I've ever wanted to do since that day was make it right." He looked up and caught the wide, fearful eyes with his own. "If I have to die to do it, it won't be too high a price to pay.

"Why did you come after me?" Jarlyth asked into the following silence. "All the men who hurt him...why are you talking to me?"

It was Pol's turn to look away. "You stuck up for him tonight. No one does that. No one outside the Red Boar ever... Everyone's afraid to help him because he's a heretic. I thought maybe you were his..."

He didn't go on, and Jarlyth wondered what the boy could have thought of him. Nothing good, that was clear, but the man found his imagination was not up to creating a scenario to match the boy's fears.

To be so used to cruelty that a simple act of kindness is taken for scheming...this kingdom...these poor children...Vail should wipe it from the world.

Jarlyth shook his head. "I swear to you in Vail's name, I'd fall on my own knife before I'd ever hurt him."

"You sound like him," Pol said softly. "Your accent. He never lost it. I've always thought it was so beautiful. Makes him sound like he's from a story."

"Serathon." At this, Pol sucked in his breath and took another step back. Jarlyth ignored the boy's reaction. "That's where we're from: the other side of the Breach."

"You want to get him killed?" Pol choked. "You want to get _yourself_ killed?"

"Everyone here is from the other side of the Breach if you go back far enough."

"Shut up! It's heresy!"

Jarlyth's vision turned red as a directionless fury overtook him. "You people have perverted _everything_ in your mania to avoid magic. You've taken the gifts Vail gave to help us all and convinced yourselves they're something despicable. He's a healer, damn it all to the Fires! He was born to save people's lives! And look what you've done to him!"

Pol looked as if Jarlyth had slapped him. "I would never have done this to him. I don't think he did anything wrong! But I don't have any power! I can't stop what they've done. I can't change it! I can only try to help, and I haven't helped at all. I've just made it worse. He's been hurt so badly.

"And now this man—this highborn—has him trapped, somehow. He won't tell me. He won't talk about it."

"He marked him," Jarlyth said.

"With a tattoo. Most whor—" Pol blushed as he realized what he'd almost called his friend. He continued, pushing past his embarrassment and gesturing at the back of his right shoulder. "Most streeters have a tattoo here to say who protects them. Michael has his Red Boar tattoo there...but this one's on his wrist and right down onto the back of his hand, and _everyone_ knows about it. This highborn is just showing off, doing that. Daring anyone to try and stop him.

"Look, if you're telling the truth, you have to save him. He isn't going to last much longer...and I wouldn't want him to have to."

His emotions were so open and clear, that Jarlyth could sense that Pol loved Nylan and wanted nothing more than for his friend's life to be good again. This confession of an understanding of his friend's utter despair came as a major sacrifice.

Jarlyth and Pol continued talking, Pol still wary but his desperation making him take the chance that this particular stranger just might be one who could make a difference. While Jarlyth told Pol the story of Michael's life before he came to Camarat, Pol told Jarlyth his friend's story since his arrival.

Jarlyth had managed to gather a few pieces of the information already, but this telling by a friend who loved and defended him was by far the kindest version Jarlyth could hope to hear. Even so, the story was so wretched, he found himself alternating between wanting to commit mass murder and suicide.

Much to the surprise of both, the carriage pulled up into the same shadowed alcove from which it had departed some time before. The footman jumped down, opened the door, and all but lifted a small, fragile-looking figure out, setting it on the ground with an oddly deferential care.

When it seemed safe to let go without the boy collapsing, the footman returned to his place and the carriage pulled away, leaving the boy standing where he'd been left, swaying unsteadily.

Jarlyth moved, meaning to go to Nylan's aid, but Pol grabbed his arm and whispered, "Wait." With the physical contact, the boy's mind opened up completely to Jarlyth, and he nearly wept at the revealed love and concern, helplessness and fury Pol felt for his friend.

The carriage turned a corner and disappeared, and Pol darted across the cobblestones, taking Nylan's arm and trying to lead him back to where Jarlyth still stood.

"You have to talk to this man," Pol insisted. "I think he knows you—who you were before."

Nylan was clearly not connecting with anything around him. His pain and despair were so strong, Jarlyth could feel them across the distance separating him from the boys. Blood stained his neck, a thin, crusted line slicing the skin below his jaw, a smear of drying blood beneath and bruises all around it. Nylan was as pale as anyone Jarlyth had ever seen. He barely looked like the same boy who had danced so happily such a short time before at the festival.

"Please," he breathed. "Just let me go home." He pulled free from Pol's gentle grasp and limped away.

Pol seemed about to call after him, but Jarlyth said, "No. Let him go. I'll speak to him tomorrow once he's rested."

"He'll probably be too blurred by then. He takes sevillium—"

"I don't want to bully him," Jarlyth said. "I don't want to do anything to make things worse."

Pol stared at the man, his face reflecting the shift in his thoughts. He'd wanted Jarlyth to be for real before; he now believed him and had begun to hope.

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Michael awoke to find himself still dressed and curled up on top of his cot. His memories of the night before were jumbled up, worse than confused, and in that confusion, he'd neglected to take his ritual bath. Now he felt as if he had defiled his one retreat from the world.

His body throbbed, the myriad wounds inflicted by Terac the night before all singing out as one unified hurt. There were bloodstains on the blankets, and he knew his clothes must be a mess, very much in need of washing and maybe beyond salvaging. He sighed, wincing at the pain this caused, but there was no way around any of it. He'd have to wear his old clothes tonight.

He was out of sevillium, but a bath would do until he could buy more. And a bath would be very welcome.

Struggling to his feet, careful not to disturb the sleeping Cyra, Michael crossed the tiny distance from the foot of his cot to the narrow window. It appeared to be almost sundown, and he felt a distant disappointment. He'd hoped it was earlier and that he could find some excuse to go back to sleep for another few hours. He wished there were some way he could sleep forever. He looked out the window and down the three floors to the alley below. Would it be a long enough fall to kill him if he dared to jump? He wanted to jump. He wanted to try it. It took everything he had to keep from pushing open the glass and stepping out into the air.

But to do so would mean Pol's life. So he had to find some way to go on. He would endure if doing so meant Pol would be all right.

#

With George now hiding out on the ship in fear of his wrath, Jarlyth had to make his own way through Fensgate. He couldn't bear to go back inside the Red Boar and watch as Nylan chipped off parts of his soul to sell, so he waited nearby in an out-of-the-way spot Pol had recommended to him. From there, he could see everything—all the comings and goings—but Nylan had yet to make an appearance, though it seemed all the rest of the street's many sordid activities were well underway.

As Jarlyth waited, he struggled to think of some way to reach the boy. It didn't make sense that Nylan had forgotten his past—forgotten _everything_! As a member of the House of Voyavel, his memory should have been perfect, and it had been perfect. Before.

Time passed. Jarlyth noticed that Pol was watching him, looking more disappointed each time he saw him standing, useless, in the same place.

It was clear to Jarlyth that Nylan was unwell—living in this magic-hating world as a Sensitive, and, Jarlyth suspected, as something rarer and more fragile still, had been slowly killing the boy since his first steps had been taken on its shores. _Maybe that's what's affected his memory._

And now, after what he'd seen last night, he worried that Nylan had been badly hurt. Perhaps even now he was in need of help or care and no one knew!

As if that thought had summoned him, Nylan appeared beneath a nearby street lamp. He moved unsteadily, and Jarlyth could feel his pain. His so-called master had hurt him badly, indeed. He shouldn't even be out of his bed.

But those sorts of luxuries always meant money to someone living as basic, street-level a life as Nylan did. Taking a night off meant losing a night's worth of earnings which would have to be made up somehow, usually by working even harder the next night. The very thought of that must have driven most back out to ply their trades in spite of any hurt or misery they were feeling.

Nylan looked painfully fragile, as if a harsh word would shatter him. The cut on his neck had already begun to heal, but Jarlyth knew there were any number of similar wounds hidden beneath the boy's worn clothes.

He moved to intercept Nylan as the boy walked toward the Red Boar, but the boy kept moving toward Jarlyth, apparently unaware that the man was there. His exhaustion seemed undiminished from before, in spite of whatever rest he'd found in the intervening time, and his limp was pronounced. He didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything, and when Jarlyth took the final step into his path, the boy nearly ran into him.

"Excuse me." Nylan took a step back as he focused on his surroundings. When he saw who Jarlyth was, he took another step away and looked as if he were about to bolt.

The accent was unmistakable, though it had been softened by time. Something else had happened, too, adding a rough, damaged rasp to his voice.

The manners were also unmistakable, so deeply ingrained in the boy that even having fallen to such a place in life, the words automatically came to his lips. "Please. Thank you. Excuse me." Jarlyth tried not to think about it.

"What do you want?" Nylan had decided not to try running. Jarlyth could sense the boy's weariness even more clearly at this little distance, and he knew Nylan would not have been able to put much space between himself and any pursuer.

"I want to help you." Jarlyth wanted to kneel down and look Nylan in the eye, but he didn't think the gesture would be taken as intended.

Nylan didn't waste energy sneering at the words. He simply sighed. "Then please just go away. There isn't anything you can do to help even if you really did want to."

"Pol thinks this highborn has you trapped." Jarlyth knew it was a provoking thing to say, but he needed to keep Nylan's attention.

Nylan flinched as if he'd been slapped. "Pol told you that?" He sounded stunned and made a visible effort to shrug off the hurt and pretend indifference.

"I can help you," Jarlyth said very softly, letting go of his center in hopes that Nylan would feel his sincerity. "You don't have to stay here anymore."

Nylan's flat-voiced response disappointed his hopes. "And where will you take me? Away from all of this? Do you have a house in the country? Someplace private? Secret? Just for the two of us?" He said this as if reciting things he'd heard hundreds of times before.

"It's not like that at all." Jarlyth felt desperate to find the right words. "You were stolen away from Tanara when you were eight years old. I'm your warder! I'm responsible for you. I'm here to take you back to your family—back home." Nylan looked at him, seeming almost bored. "I've been searching for you for years... I'm sorry it took so long." Jarlyth shifted uncomfortably, unnerved by Nylan's empty stare. He had clearly heard every promise anyone could make over the years. Nothing Jarlyth could say would ever convince him.

Nylan sighed again and looked away across the street. He didn't seem to be looking at anything; just away. "You seem nice enough, but you're wasting your time. I have a rule. I don't do that sort of little fantasy. I'm not going to be your long-lost anything. So you need to go find someone else, 'cause it isn't going to be me. Ever."

Jarlyth wanted to scream. He ran his hands through his hair in pure frustration and then reached over his shoulder to check on his sword, an automatic gesture. When he refocused on Nylan, the boy was staring at him.

"What did you—Why did you just do that?" Nylan whispered. It took both of them a moment to realize he had not asked the question in the same dialect they had just been speaking.

"Nylan—" Jarlyth began, but the boy cut him off.

"No." Nylan backed away and held out his hands as if trying to ward off an attack. "No."

"Wait!" Jarlyth shouted, but Nylan turned and ran.

Swearing under his breath as he ran after Nylan, Jarlyth tried to keep up, but the boy's panic had given him great speed, and his familiarity with the area allowed him to lose himself in the labyrinth of Fensgate almost immediately.

Jarlyth lost all track of where he was, scrambling after any clue as to where Nylan had gone, when his distraction allowed an attacker to take him by surprise, barreling into his right side and almost knocking him to the ground. He spun away from the attack and into a defensive stance, his sword in his hand without a conscious thought having put it there, only to find himself about to run Pol Rayvin through while one of the Red Boar door-guards stood helplessly just beyond him, staring in shock at the sword.

Pol didn't seem to even see the sword, spitting out a stream of furious questions. "What did you say to him? What did you _do_ to him? I thought you were going to help! If you've hurt him—!"

"Pol," he shouted back, exasperated. "I promise I did nothing! I'm still here, aren't I? Not dragging him off?"

"He ran away--!" Pol noticed the sword, held slack and out of the way by the man, and swallowed, his eyes widening, but he pressed on. "He was terrified. What did you say?"

Jarlyth nearly snarled in frustration at this interruption, but Pol would not be put off with an easy reassurance. "I think he remembered something. From the look on his face, I'd guess he was too confused or frightened by it to think straight, so he ran."

Pol glared at him but calmed. "All right. I'll go find him. _You_ stay here in case he comes back. Don't scare him again!"

The boy took off into the darkness, but the door-guard had been joined by yet another figure who only flicked a glance at the sword before speaking. "So you're still around, then?" It was the same man who'd taken over when he'd blacked out at the Red Boar— _Vail, was it only two nights ago? George said his name was Daren._ The strong-arm pretended idle curiosity, but Jarlyth sensed an avid interest that set him even more sharply on his guard.

"If you're trying to steal away Michael for yourself, you need to reconsider. There's more than a few powerful people who wouldn't take kindly to losing that one." He regarded Jarlyth steadily, gauging him as an opponent. The man didn't give away much, but Jarlyth didn't think he'd be pleased to lose the boy, either—whatever use he made of him. Jarlyth didn't want to think about that.

Jarlyth lifted his chin and stared the man down through narrowed eyes. "I only care about what Michael wants," he said. "The rest can go to the Fires. And if they try to stop me, I'll send them there."

#

Michael's exhaustion and pain vanished, drowned out by panic. He ran blindly, turning down an alley on instinct. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he had to get away—he had to hide.

He was aware enough to crawl into the shadows, to stay out of sight, but that was all he could manage. He huddled in the dark, oblivious to the dirt and grime and evil smells permeating the alley around him. The only thing he could see was the man reaching over his shoulder—a gesture so stunningly familiar, Michael felt as if the world had shifted around him.

It took several sickening moments for the feelings this gesture triggered to fall into place. The memories began with a burning burst of light and sound and pain— _The Breach!_ —before flowing over him like a flash flood.

Everything he'd ever known or seen or felt—every person, place, sound—it all washed over him relentlessly as the spell finally broke, and he knew. He remembered.

"Jary," he whispered. The name was said as a plea, a prayer.

How could he have forgotten Jarlyth? Or Tanara? How could he have forgotten himself? How could he, a prince of Serathon, have come to this?

His vision blurred as tears ran down his face.

"Holy Vail," he breathed. "What am I going to do? I don't even know how to _be_ him anymore."

No Voice answered him, and he stayed in his filthy hiding place for a long time as the unwanted memories tumbled through his brain. He wished he hadn't remembered. It hurt far too much.

No one found him, though by the time he began to think clearly again, he knew a great deal of time had passed. He'd hidden too well, it seemed, and Fensgate could be the most confusing maze.

_Jarlyth must be looking for me_. But the thought of having to face his beloved warder—knowing what he'd done, what he'd _become_ —made him feel even more ill, and he huddled further into his hiding place. _I wish I'd never been born! He must hate me._

"Oh, Vail...he was _there_. He saw me there."

Michael took a deep breath and brought his emotions under control. He had to face Jarlyth. It was the right thing to do. The man had nearly died for him. He'd obviously devoted his life to searching for—

He was searching for Nylan.

But Michael knew that didn't matter. His feelings of shame were beside the point. Jarlyth deserved his trust.

Michael used the wall of the building he'd been huddled against to pull himself to his feet. He was almost surprised by the pain—his sense of himself as Michael had been overwhelmed by his memories of Nylan—and he stood leaning against the wall for several moments, marshaling his strength.

As he was about to leave the safety of his hiding place, a new realization hit him. "Terac Nalas is a waerlok. He's been blooding me."

It explained so much—his exhaustion, the draining away of his magical powers, his slowed healing...

_It explains everything._ Everything but why he was still alive.

Michael limped to the mouth of the alley and peered out, half-hoping Jarlyth would be right there, but it was Varian who found him first.

"Are you all right?" He caught Michael by the arm in time to save him from collapsing. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Why?" Michael blinked in confusion, feeling dazed by the young man's tangle of emotions which bled through his own pain at the touch. Stumbling forward to brace himself against a lamppost, Michael slipped free of Varian's grasp and turned to look him in the eye.

Varian flushed but threw his hands in the air as if to cover his embarrassment at the rejection. "You ran off and then Pol ran off looking for you, and you both vanished."

"Pol's vanished?"

A massive shadow fell over them, and they both turned to see the hated black carriage pulling up alongside them.

"There you are!" the driver barked. "His Grace wants you. Now."

"I can't, _now_!" Michael glared at the man. He'd never refused before, and the driver's face turned comically surprised at this out-of-character response.

Michael's tattoo prickled painfully, the magic that enforced his obedience flaring to life. He tried to ignore it. Pol was more important than a little pain.

"You'll come along, or I'll drag you!" The man climbed down from the carriage seat, whip still in-hand.

"Wait a moment." Varian frowned at the older man. "Don't you know who he is? He's Red Boar! You can't make him go with you."

Michael leaned closer to Varian. "The Duke of Reyahl is my master." He breathed this confession so the driver wouldn't overhear. "That's who sent this carriage for me."

"Michael!" Varian stared at the boy, white-faced. He cast an equally horrified look at the driver who seemed to be realizing his mistake in so boldly declaring his master's rank in front of someone besides the duke's preferred victim.

"If you don't come along—" He looked from Michael to Varian and back again, wary. "—something bad'll happen. You aren't the first boy I've driven to His Grace tonight."

The bottom dropped out of Michael's stomach. _Oh, shize._ "What are you talking about?"

"Your little friend came along, started yelling at me to go away and leave you alone. His Grace always said if it took me longer than an hour to track you down, I was to bring this boy to him instead. I told him you'd already gone but that I'd take him to you, and he hopped right in, sweet as you please."

Michael staggered back as if struck, and Varian caught him again, though the young man was also shaking badly. "You know what he'll do! How could you do that?"

The man snorted and reached for him. "I take you, don't I?"

Michael whirled in Varian's arms and caught the young man in an embrace. He didn't want to abuse Varian's attraction, but he had to get help, and there was no other way he could think to do it without tipping his hand to the driver. He pretended to be about to kiss. "Tell Daren and Harly what's happened. Tell them I'll try to—"

But the driver had lost patience. As he grabbed Michael by the arm, yanking him away from Varian, he struck out with the whip handle, landing a stunning blow to the back of the young man's head.

"Varian!" Michael screamed as the musician dropped to the ground like a felled horse.

Michael struggled to go to his aid, but the driver's hold was too strong. "If you don't get in, I'll finish him!" the man roared, and he shoved Michael at the carriage.

"Fine! Let go!" Michael shrugged free of the man's bruising grip as he hauled himself up and threw himself onto the seat. The driver slammed the door shut and the carriage drove off what seemed only seconds later.

His entire body shook with fear and shock, and he wrapped his arms around himself to try and still the trembling.

Oh dear Vail! First Pol and now Varian! Please, help me.

.: _Jary, where are you? I've nikked things up so bad._ :.

He thought for a moment he heard an answer, but if he had, it was too faint. _I'm imagining things. Stupid to hope._

He needed to try to save Pol, but he was desperate to escape the carriage and go back to help Varian, too. However, he'd learned long ago that the carriage locked from the outside, making his decision for him.

"Why can't Pol ever do anything by himself?" He whispered the question, and almost laughed. He wished he knew why things always ended up so much worse than they'd been before when anyone tried to help him.

_Vail! Why did this have to happen now?_ He was too weak. Too hurt. His breath hissed out as he shifted in his seat, disturbing various injuries. "I can't do this again." Fear had begun to overwhelm his anger. "I can't let him do this to me." But the concept of allowing, of giving permission, was a ridiculous one. Terac took; he didn't ask.

What is he doing to Pol? What have I gotten him into? Vail, please...if you let me save Pol, I don't care what he does to me. I don't care anymore.

Michael shook his head sharply and tried to regain control of his shattered emotions. This was new. Terac had never summoned him two nights together. Michael was very afraid of what would happen. He always hurt so much afterwards. Until this night, Terac—for all his cruelty—had seemed to understand the necessity of giving Michael time to recover, but the man had been crazy lately—jealous, erratic, raging. Michael didn't know what had happened to make him change so much from the cool, in-control bastard he'd been at first. _What if he's gotten tired of me? Just like George._

"He's a waerlok," Michael whispered. "He wouldn't just let me go. He'd kill me. Take my power." Desperation jangled through him. "If only I'd finished my training..."

_If only I could stop him. If only I could make him stop._ That was what Daren and Harly wanted him to do. _But it's impossible! They can't understand what they're asking. They don't know what he is._

"I could try." He stared out the window, unseeing. _I don't know how it could make things any worse than they already are._

The carriage stopped and tics later the driver yanked the door open and gave the impression he was about to haul Michael out of the carriage in a similar fashion. Instead, Michael pushed past him and jumped to the ground, moving as quickly as he could toward the servants' door, rushing ahead with this sudden, mad determination before he lost his nerve. The driver scurried along after him but seemed to be afraid, now, of interfering with his master's favorite toy.

The driver pretended to escort Michael to the workroom door, but at best he trailed after, helpless. Michael thought he was too afraid to leave until he'd made sure of the delivery. _But he needn't bother. I'm not going anywhere without Pol._

Several moments passed before the door opened, and Terac looked out at them. Wordlessly, he grabbed Michael's arm and pulled him into the workroom, slamming the door shut in the driver's face.

As Terac shot the deadbolt home, Michael looked around as best he could, trying to find Pol, but he couldn't see him through the mess occupying most of the space. It had grown even worse since Michael had first seen it, with even more stacks of books and papers growing into precarious towers on every flat surface. Somehow, more shelves had been wedged into the mess, and they, too, were stuffed with the detritus of the man's research and so-called experiments.

Michael couldn't even see the area where he'd been chained up, and he worried that was where Terac had put his friend.

"Pol?" He ignored his captor who shook him to regain his attention. When he turned back, glaring, Terac smiled at him—a manic, desperate, humorless grin.

"I missed you."

"I was just here." Michael tried to pull free, but Terac's grip on his arm tightened.

"Not alone. Robyn was here."

"Because you sent him for me," Michael countered again.

"I _needed_ to see you." Terac seemed to think that was all that did or should matter. He reached out with his free hand and stroked Michael's cheek, making the boy flinch. "I need to touch you."

"The driver—" Michael began, hesitant to say anything Terac could use against him but desperate to find his friend. "He said he brought someone else here tonight."

Terac smiled, his restraining hand joining the free one in unbuttoning Michael's shirt. "Don't you worry about that. You won't be supplanted. I promise."

"Where is he?" _Please, Vail, let him not have done anything to Pol._

The man paused and looked at him more closely, a slow smile blooming at what he saw. "You're frightened for him, aren't you, darling? How delightful."

Michael stepped away from the man again and this time wasn't yanked back. Terac seemed too interested in what Michael would do next to interfere.

"You promised if I did what you said, you'd leave him alone."

"You hid from me when I wanted you."

Michael's hands clenched at his sides. "I did _not_. I was just...busy. I have to work."

"The Red Boar could not find you, either. You'd run, for all I knew. I told you if I had any reason at all—"

Michael turned away from the man and shouted, "Pol! Where are you?"

He thought he heard a faint reply, but Terac caught him again, whirling him back as if they were dancing, and catching him close for a painful kiss. The noise from the man's mind sounded deafeningly in Michael's brain, loud enough to drown out any voices coming from elsewhere in the room.

He saw so much in Terac's mind and wished he could shut out the horrors the man so enjoyed. _But I can,_ he thought, going still at the shock of this realization. _My silent center._

He'd failed repeatedly to find it during his last days at Tanara Priory and again during his ordeal with the pirates, but that had been a long time ago, and he had been much younger than most were when they mastered the skill.

_And now I'm much older._ Would it make a difference? Had his ability to master the skill only lacked age and time?

Terac hadn't noticed his victim's wandering attention yet, too focused on his own desires, his hands and lips wandering down Michael's arms and throat.

Michael closed his eyes and tried to block out what was happening to his body as he pulled all of his memories of Jarlyth's silent center training together. The constant roar of the world around him receded, wavering on the edge of vanishing altogether before growing louder again. Michael bit his lower lip hard, trying to fight back to the quiet, and then, all at once, as if a key had been turned, he found silence.

He kept his eyes closed, though the shock had nearly caused him to open them. He still felt Terac's hands and mouth but sensed nothing beyond his touch.

_Silence_.

He hadn't experienced true silence since he'd been stolen away from Tanara. He hadn't experienced true silence since his last morning with Jarlyth.

Terac's hands and lips were gone.

"What are you doing?" Terac's voice sounded strange and hollow to Michael's ears, unaccustomed as they were to having no background noise.

_Can I hold the center with my eyes open?_ He risked it. The center held.

Terac grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him once for each word. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

Somehow, Michael kept the silence. "What do you mean?" He blinked innocently up into Terac's furious gaze.

"You _know_ what I mean! What in all the Fires is going on? What are you doing?"

The man's fury grew with each passing moment, but, somehow, Michael continued to block it out. He knew he was risking much, but the silence was too astonishing to give up. Was this how it was for everyone else? This blissful silence? Hearing only one's own thoughts; feeling only one's own feelings?

Terac pulled the boy to him and kissed him full on the mouth. His hand fumbled through Michael's hair and yanked out the tie holding his braid back, ripping out a few strands of hair as he did. The kiss was a punishment—bruising and devouring—and Michael didn't need to be able to sense it to know that Terac was as angry at him as he'd ever been.

After a moment, Terac shoved Michael away from him. With no warning, the boy stumbled backwards and fell hard onto the floor, his shoulder slamming into the edge of a shelf as he fell, knocking the breath from him. The blows broke his concentration, and he lost his hold on the center.

Terac seemed to know this had happened, and he was on him in an instant, pushing him all the way down to the floor.

"You can't hide from me!" His fingers twisted into the threadbare fabric of Michael's shirt. "You belong to me!"

"I don't _belong_ to anyone!" Michael spat.

Terac's hand flew out, knocking Michael's head sideways and back against the floor and nearly knocking him unconscious.

"Whore! Filthy kiska _whore_!"

Terac heaved himself back to his feet and stood over the boy for several long moments, clearly at a loss. He was furious, frustrated, and, Michael sensed as he began to regain focus, afraid.

"What's happened to you?" Terac's voice went suddenly small and tentative. "Last night...you were so—"

"Helpless?" Michael offered angrily. "Pathetic?"

"Pure!" Terac shouted. "It was like breathing power, just looking at you. The magic came off of you like water."

"Like _blood_!" Michael pushed himself up to a sitting position. "You're a waerlok. You steal power. You've been stealing mine for a long time, and I didn't understand. But I understand now, and I'm not going to just let you take any more without a fight."

"I could kill you." Terac's expression turned grim. For whatever reason, that wasn't how he wanted it to be. "Take it all."

"Then why haven't you?" Michael demanded, too angry to be afraid of what might happen if he pushed the man too far.

Terac stared at him, his grim expression fading to one that was almost tender. "...I couldn't bear to see you burn."

Jiin's voice, as they'd all stood crowded together so long ago, waiting to watch an execution, whispered through his mind. _"That's the Duke of Reyahl..."_

Michael shook his head in disbelief. "You go to the executions and take their power as they burn...right in front of _everybody_."

"How do you know this?" Terac's voice rose, panicked. "What's happened?"

"I know who I am." His heartbeat sounded too loud and felt too fast; his breath gasped in and out as if he'd been running. "I know _what_ I am." _I'm SanClare. We don't give in._ "And I'm not afraid of you anymore."

He heard a sound, like a call from far away, and knew it was Pol. He scrambled backwards and to his feet, away from Terac, and rushed toward the sound, only to find Pol, at last, chained up as he himself had been so many moons ago.

Though it was exactly what he'd feared, the shock of seeing his innocent friend in such straits froze him in his tracks, and he stared, helpless, into Pol's glazed, terrified eyes. Terac's hand closed fast on his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to make bone-deep bruises.

"Do exactly as I say, and I'll let him go," the man promised, speaking softly. Seductively.

Michael tried to shrug away the man's bruising hand to no avail, but he felt strangely, inordinately calm. Words came to his lips, and he knew he meant them more than any he'd ever said before. "I'm going to make you sorry you ever even thought about touching me."

Terac gave a laugh that was half cough and his grip loosened. His nervousness filled the room. _Now, while he's off-balance,_ Michael told himself, and he took a deep breath, glanced at Pol—who seemed too dazed to realize what was going on—and turned to face Terac, bracing himself.

"Listen to me." Michael focused everything he had on his abuser. It was precious little—only what power he'd been able to regain since the night before—but his powers had somehow saved him from Lorel Burk; they'd helped him save those horses; they'd healed all those people.

_They can nikking well help me now_.

"I want you to sleep."

Terac stared at Michael, his expression slack with shock at the transformation his victim had undergone.

"Go. To. Sleep." Michael said each word with as much force of mind behind it as he could spare. After a long, stretched-out, silent moment, Terac sank to the floor, one hand reaching out to balance himself. He moved as if in a dream. But he moved so slowly, Michael wanted to stamp in frustration.

" _Sleep_!" he insisted. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, and he wiped it away, trying not to let his attention waver.

Terac blinked, slowly, repeatedly. He was seated now, and slumped forward, his arms braced on his loosely-crossed legs

"What...'r you...doing?" Terac managed to ask, his words interrupted by more slow, exhausted-looking blinks.

"Just sleep," Michael breathed. His head pounded, and his own vision blurred. _Please._

"No," Terac breathed, the only warning Michael had before the man heaved himself to his feet like an angry dog. He bellowed, "I won't let you go!" and rushed at the boy, his hands outstretched.

The tattoo's poisoned magic flared to life, stabbing countless needles into Michael's arm. The pain tore a scream from his throat and shattered his concentration.

Terac tackled him, throwing him back toward the ground—a dangerous maneuver in such a cramped space—but Daren had tested him far too often on this sort of move for his reflexes to fail him now. Michael shifted, throwing his meager weight to one side and causing Terac to land on his side and take most of the force of the fall which included bashing his side into yet another of the ubiquitous shelves.

Giving him no time to recover, Michael grabbed two handfuls of the man's hair and slammed his head into the floor, stunning him. Without waiting to see if that had knocked the man out, Michael repeated the slam, harder, feeling sick and dizzy from the echoes.

The shock seemed to break Terac's thrall and the pain from Michael's wrist eased, though he still felt the fading echo of the violence he'd done to Terac. He'd moved with Terac's twisting and had ended up straddling the man's body, pinning the man's arms with his knees.

Terac wasn't quite unconscious and looked up blearily into Michael's face. The boy still held the man's head in his hands, and he narrowed his eyes, once more focusing everything he had on his nemesis.

His head felt as if it were filled with broken glass, but he couldn't stop. To save Pol and himself, he had to get Terac out of the way.

_I have to get out of this mess and find Jary_. Together, they could figure out some way to get away from this horrible place, but first, Michael had to get away from Terac.

But Daren and Harly's plan...

Before he remembered Nylan, Michael had been too afraid to even think of helping. _Terac has to be gone, though. They're right about that. Their plan will never work if he's alive._

And he was one of the only people who ever got close enough to the legendary Duke of Reyahl to do anything about him.

They want me to kill him.

Michael didn't think he could do that, but he might be able to stop the duke from being able to fight back.

He knew that wouldn't be good enough—not even good enough to allow him to escape—but... _I won't think about that. If I have to kill him...I'll...figure that out if I have to._

"Sleep," he breathed and spread his fingers out to their healing positions on either side of Terac's face. "Just sleep, now."

Terac blinked, his eyes staying closed a few tics longer with each blink. Michael hoped desperately that this would work. _I don't want to have to kill him—I don't want to kill anybody!_

A wave of pure fury swept through him, aimed in several directions at once—at Daren and Harly for putting this idea in his head in the first place, at Pol for getting caught, at Terac Nalas for _everything_ , and at Jary for not being here when he needed him.

And where's the nikking Voice now when it would actually be helpful?

A long, silent moment passed before he realized where it had gone. _Oh, Vail. It was me the whole time... Shize._

The Voice had always seemed to know more than Michael knew, so if the Voice had been Nylan, then maybe he could figure this out himself. _Maybe..._

"Michael?" Pol rasped, finally waking up. He'd been dangling, his weight on his wrists, and now struggled to get his feet under him.

"It's all right, Pol," Michael said quickly, not wanting to be distracted.

Terac made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and his body moved feebly but as if he were trying to throw Michael off. It wouldn't be long before Michael's slim advantage was lost.

"Please. Sleep," Michael whispered the appeal.

.: _Jary, where are you? Please, I need help._ :. Silence was his only answer. Silence had always been his only answer.

How stupid. Now I miss the Voice.

"What's happening?" Pol asked, a note of panic in his voice.

"Pol, please," he breathed, and Terac stirred a bit more. "Just _sleep_." Michael leaned forward to look directly into Terac's stunned eyes. His head swam, and his vision sparkled as if it had been his head slammed into the floor. _Oh. It was._ So much had happened in just a few, short moments, he'd already forgotten that.

Michael slumped forward even more, his hair—completely free of its braid—falling all around his face. He tasted blood on his lips and could feel it running from his nose. He was a mess, but he had to stay awake and _focus_. He couldn't let his exhaustion and weakness ruin this one chance. So much depended on this one chance.

"Michael—" Pol began yet again, but just as he did so and just as Terac seemed to have at last succumbed to Michael's spell, the door leading out to the main part of the house—the door that Michael had never before seen open—flew wide, slamming into the wall, the crash accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps.

A voice rang out. "Terac? Something's happened! You—!" It cut off abruptly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the voice said, now flustered. "I didn't realize." The footsteps scuffled away a few steps before they stopped again.

"...Michael?"

Michael looked up at the intruder and into the shocked eyes of a familiar face.

"Leovar."

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Daren gave a slow nod in reply to Jarlyth's threat. With a murmured, "Don't say you weren't warned," he turned and went back into the inn.

Jarlyth let go of the breath he'd been holding in anticipation of much more of a fight from the strong-arm. The lack of anything but words put him off-balance and made him wonder exactly what the man's interest in Nylan was.

He'd had enough of feeling caught-out and impotent, however, and in spite of Pol's admonition to stay put, he dashed off in the direction the boy had gone, determined not to wait one tic longer.

It took only moments for him to realize Pol had been right to make him wait. Fensgate beyond the glowing street of brothels and gaming hells sank into dim, stinking, barely-populated confusion.

He got turned around almost immediately and had to backtrack more than once to find a familiar starting point. He didn't find Pol nor any sign of Nylan and soon he feared he would never even find his way back to the Red Boar.

As the minutes rushed by, he became more and more angry at himself and his failures. But a voice more filled with despair than he could imagine interrupted his own spiraling misery.

.: _Jary, where are you? I've nikked things up so bad._ :.

It was so faint, he almost believed he'd imagined it, but he called back immediately.

.: _Nylan! Where are you?_ :.

Even as he sent the question, however, he found himself moving, following his instincts and tracking the call to its source.

He ended up in a few dead-ends trying to follow the direct-line of that faint voice, but he backtracked determinedly until he rounded a final corner only to find a young man who was definitely not Nylan. The man had somehow climbed to his feet and was now struggling to stay standing, bracing himself against a lamppost. Even in its dim, flickering light, Jarlyth could see the blood soaking the man's hair and most of his shirt.

It's the musician. George said his name was—

"You're Varian, aren't you?"

The young man nodded, then stopped, buckling under the pain. Jarlyth moved quickly to catch him, throwing a limp arm across his shoulders and catching the young man around the waist to help him stand. "Dear Vail! What—?"

"I've gotta get to Harly...tell him what happened. He said I had to tell them—"

Nylan was nowhere to be seen, but from what he could sense from the chaos of the man's pain-filled thoughts, Varian knew something about where Nylan had gone. _In any case, he needs a healer. I can't leave him here._

With Varian's faint but clear directions to guide him, they made their way back to the Red Boar much more quickly than Jarlyth would have imagined possible from his own circuitous route away from it. Varian burned with determination, as if on a mission from Vail Herself. In the midst of this determination, Jarlyth caught a glimpse from the young man's mind of Nylan—desperate and terrified—trying to send a message.

Dear Vail, what has Nylan gotten himself into?

Daren, his face a thunderstorm, hurried up to them as they approached the Red Boar. A few of the girls trailed after him as well as a curly-haired, dark-skinned man.

"Varian!" One of the girls rushed up to him and attempted to staunch the blood with a flimsy scarf. "Honey, what happened to you?"

The young man ignored her, his eyes locking on the dark-skinned man. "He has Pol. Michael was scared to death. He's gone, too, now."

"Pol!" exclaimed the man who Jarlyth guessed to be the boy's Uncle Harly.

"Did you know?" Varian's eyes burned with pain and desperation. "Did you know who his master is?"

"Varian," Daren began, his hands held out as if to beg for calm.

" _Did you know_?"

Harly didn't seem able to meet the musician's eyes, but he nodded. "I'd seen that mark he left on Michael's wrist before. He wasn't trying to keep it much of a secret."

To Jarlyth's shock, the young man hurled himself at the man, his arms flung out in a grotesque parody of an attack. Harly and Daren caught him, fending off his flailing and pinning him, trying to make him calm down before he did himself further injury.

"Stop it, Varian," Daren insisted. "You know we couldn't do anything against the Duke of Reyahl. Michael knew it, too."

Varian's struggling stopped as he collapsed, coughing, in the strong-arm's grasp. "You just let him go back over and over again, and you still take his money." He spat out the words but his voice held more tears than anger. "You nikking _bastards_."

Jarlyth had stood frozen through this entire exchange, but now he had a target. He drew his sword from its scabbard in a smooth, lightning-fast arc, the tip coming to a stop, hovering inches from Harly's nose.

"Pol is your child?" he asked, ice-calm.

Harly swallowed, his eyes crossing briefly as he focused on the sword's point then returning to normal as he looked up into Jarlyth's unforgiving gaze. He nodded once. "Michael is yours."

Jarlyth didn't bother to answer. They could all see the truth written in his eyes. "Where do I find this Duke of Reyahl? He has much to answer for."

#

As if Michael had hit him, Prince Leovar staggered away, a hand flailing for support. He was so stunned by the sight of Michael, he didn't notice Pol dangling right behind him.

Michael's eyes flickered over to Pol's, catching his friend's startled expression, and thought as clearly and pointedly as he ever had.

.: _Get him._ :.

Pol's expression went from startled to an almost comical shock, but he moved quickly, his battered hands gripping the chains above the shackles as he lifted himself with muscles made strong by his work, and flipped his legs up, catching Leovar around the throat and hauling him backwards, slamming him to the floor.

Fighting against the faint wave of dizziness and nausea his Sensitivity forced him to share with the prince, Michael crawled away from Terac and dragged himself up to his knees and then to his feet. He lurched over to the open door and closed it again, making certain it was locked.

"Shize." Pol stared at Michael, wide-eyed. "Is that _the_ Leovar?"

"My one and only." Michael wiped his bloody nose and mouth with his sleeve. He looked down at his erstwhile lover—who was out cold—and felt not even a twinge of pity that Pol had put everything he had into taking the man down. "Did you see where Terac put the keys?"

Pol shook his head. "I think I might have been too busy swearing at him to notice."

Michael cursed his body for its weakness as he made his slow, limping way around the room, searching for the keys. He checked first in the unconscious Terac's pockets, fearing the entire time that the man would wake up and grab him again, but he finally found them half-buried under papers and scrawled notes on the central worktable.

"Are you going to kill him?" Pol asked as Michael dragged a chair through the mess of the room so he could stand on it to reach the shackles.

"I don't know." Michael glanced back at the unconscious man. "I don't want to kill anybody."

He changed the subject as he climbed up to unlock the first shackle. "Thank Vail you were here. I was too done in to do anything about Leovar."

Pol tried to shrug but just nodded his head when the attempt failed thanks to the awkward angle of his arms. He gasped in relief as Michael managed to unlock the first shackle, then muttered, "Glad not to be entirely worthless."

Michael gave Pol a quickly-fading smile as he dragged the chair a few steps over, beneath the other shackle. This one unlocked much more easily, but once he'd freed Pol, the last remnants of his strength evaporated. The roaring in his head reached a deafening volume, and the key dropped from his fingers.

Pol caught him as he swayed and nearly fell, lifting him down from the chair. "You sit here," the older boy ordered. "Rest a minute."

"We need to get out of here," Michael argued though he let Pol guide him onto the seat. He felt as if he might throw up and leaned over, closing his eyes against the vertigo.

"We _need_ to make sure neither of these highborns can follow us and cause trouble or mess up your escape," Pol countered.

Michael couldn't argue with that but didn't know what to do, either. _I can't kill them._

"Why hasn't anyone else knocked on the door?" Pol looked around at the room as if he hadn't seen it before.

"No one interrupts the duke when he's here," Michael replied, his eyes still closed. "I've never even seen that door open before."

"Leovar said something was wrong. Surely they'll send someone else for him and not just the prince?"

"His servants are completely terrified of him," Michael said. "None of them would even think of disobeying his orders. I think it'd have to be someone like Leovar to dare interrupt him, no matter what."

He could hear Pol rifling through the mess, searching for something—Michael couldn't guess what. After a moment's silence, he changed the subject. "What did he do to you?"

"Chained me up and knocked me around a little," Pol replied. His voice sounded odd. Embarrassed. "Mostly, he talked about you."

"I'm sorry," Michael whispered. "He only hurt you because of me."

"I know," Pol growled. "Bastard told me all about it. I can't believe you were so stupid!"

Michael's head shot up, and he stared, open-mouthed, at his friend. "What did I do?"

"You let him blackmail you!" Pol said. "For _me_! How could you be so reckless? Why do always have to be such a nikking little martyr?"

"You don't even know what you're talking about." Michael struggled to stand, but his vision darkened, and his legs gave out, dropping him back onto the chair. He swallowed back nausea and took a deep, steadying breath before continuing more quietly. "This was nothing. He would have cut you to pieces if I hadn't shown up. I couldn't let that happen."

"No. Of course not." Pol trembled with anger. "But you'll do it. You'll take it. All the pain, all the torture, all the misery—you'll do it. Because, I can't handle it! I can never help you. I can't be trusted to even know what you're protecting me from!"

"Pol..."

" _I_ wanted to protect _you."_ Pol looked away from Michael's shattered expression and returned to his search. "But you'd never let me help. And I know it's my fault...I know it's all my fault. But I wanted...I would have liked the chance to fix it."

Michael let out a long, sad sigh and dropped his gaze to his hands which were clenched together in his lap. "The moment I was thrown out of JhaPel, it was too late to fix anything. And that wasn't your fault."

"Nanna Tierna told me what happened." Pol made a soft noise of satisfaction. "It wasn't your fault, either."

Prince Leovar groaned loudly, startling both boys, but Pol reacted at once, taking a running step across the room to where the man lay prostrate and kicking him in the head.

"Pol!" Michael exclaimed, shocked. "What if you kill him?"

Pol whirled to face his friend again. "So what if I do? What if we kill them both. So what?"

"I can't kill anyone," Michael insisted. "I know what it feels like, all right? I just can't do that to anyone."

A disgusted noise growled out of Pol, but he set his jaw and nodded. "Fine, then. Let's chain them up." He held a pair of handcuffs aloft, triumphant, and dropped to the floor beside Leovar. He rolled the man over, yanking his arms behind his back and locking on the cuffs as tightly as they would go. Then he turned to look at the duke and said, "Let's give him his own treatment."

"We don't have time," Michael argued. "We need to get out of here!"

Pol shook his head. "I don't know what you did to him, but we can't risk leaving him like this. What if he wakes up?"

Michael didn't bother to confess that he wasn't certain what he'd done, either, and pushed himself to his feet.

It took both of them to wrestle the heavy, uncooperative body of the unconscious duke into position beneath the dangling shackles. Once they'd managed that, Michael climbed back up to stand on the chair, this time to lock the shackles around the duke's wrists.

The left was easiest to do first, and Michael hauled the heavy arm up and steadied it as best he could as he struggled, one-handed, with the shackle dangling uncooperatively above. It took everything he had to match shackle to wrist, and perhaps it was this distraction or his utter exhaustion from everything including the effort it had taken to drag Terac to the chains, but Michael knew—if only a tic before—that he'd lost control of whatever it was he'd done to the man. He snapped the shackle closed just in time.

But the man's right hand still swung free.

A roar like that of an enraged animal came from the duke as he gained his feet and swung out wildly, throwing Pol off of him and knocking Michael from the chair.

"Kiska _trash!"_ he shouted, a blow catching Michael across the back of the head as he fell, snapping his head sideways. The next thing he knew he was kneeling, half-sprawled, his hands barely managing to brace himself from collapsing the rest of the way to the floor.

_Vail, everything hurts. Even my hair hurts..._ His mind cleared a little, and he realized he'd been lucky. _Or unlucky. He almost broke my neck._

Though he couldn't see what was happening, he heard Pol yelling. The sound of running, coming closer. A great crash. _Oh, Vail—Pol!_ A long, terrifying silence filled with only gasping breaths. Anger filled the room around Michael like heat from a pyre.

Then, "How dare you," the man whispered. Michael blinked, trying to focus, and found he was sprawled at the man's feet. "When I'm through with you, you'll wish I had killed you."

Michael looked up to meet the man's terrifying eyes and clenched his teeth against a desire to beg—to do _anything_ to stop the pain. _I won't beg. SanClares don't beg._

He wanted to stand up and face this last punishment, like a true SanClare would, but that had become impossible. His muscles simply weren't able to obey him any longer. He'd come to the end of his strength, distantly amazed that he'd lasted even half as long as he had. It seemed miraculous that he'd managed to put Terac to sleep at all after everything he'd been through in the past many hours. It was a miracle he was still conscious. _I was so close...I was almost free._

.: _I'm sorry, Jary. I just can't seem to do anything right._ :.

He was unsurprised when the man wrenched his left hand—shackle and all—free from the ceiling, and he was even less surprised when Terac pulled back that same, just-freed arm and back-handed him across the face. But then he'd already known he wasn't going to get out of this in one piece.

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Michael thought he may have been unconscious for a moment or two, but he struggled up through confusion and pain to find himself crumpled on the floor. He looked up at Terac who stood over him, furious. The man caught sight of Leovar's unconscious form and swore as he turned back to his victim. He grabbed a handful of Michael's tangled hair and lifted him from the floor, tearing a choked scream from his throat.

"Terac—" Michael began then bit his lip. He couldn't reason with this man. He wouldn't waste his breath trying.

"Your little friend has provided so much entertainment already." Terac sounded almost his usual self which made a jarring contrast to his wild-eyed expression. "I think I shall let you view the rest of the fun from here." And at that, he caught Michael's once-broken arm in one hand as he loosed his grip on the boy's hair and yanked him up to the remaining shackle.

"No!" Michael struggled and flailed a kick at the man. "Just _stop it_! Let me _go_! JARY!"

"I shall break it again, child." The man was ice-calm. "If you force me to."

"Don't do this!" Michael gave up all hopes of royal dignity. He choked on sobs as Terac closed the shackle around his wrist once more. "He didn't do anything! I'll do whatever you—"

The hand flew out again, cracking against Michael's jaw and splitting his lip. The blow threw him off his precarious balance and dropped him, putting all his weight onto his shackled wrist. The edge cut into his arm and blood ran down as more blood poured into his mouth and down his chin.

"Monster!" a voice shrieked and Michael turned bleary eyes toward the sound, just in time to see Pol lunging at Terac from behind.

The man whirled and swatted Pol away easily, sending him tumbling into the mess, hitting shelves and boxes as he fell. Michael could feel echoes of Pol's pain mingling with the power radiating from the man.

My power. It isn't right that he should be able to hurt us with my power!

Michael struggled to get his feet under him yet again, gasping at the pain. Pol was right, he knew. He was a martyr. He would always rather be the one being hurt, but that was because he knew what it felt like when others were hurt. It was best if only one person had to suffer.

And it might as well be me.

Michael closed his eyes and cast a prayer to Vail. By all rights, he should already be dead. He was still alive because the goddess wasn't done with him yet, and if that was the case, she'd better be prepared to protect him this time, too.

Searing pain knifed through his head as he concentrated on stopping Terac. The pain blotted out everything except his determination to defeat the man. To save Pol. To end this nikking nightmare once and for all.

Just. Stop. This.

Terac made a sound that was almost child-like, irritated, and he froze in his progress toward Pol. The older boy stared at the duke, equally frozen, though in terror. After a long moment passed with the duke still unmoving, Pol's eyes flickered to Michael, and his shock filled the room, giving Michael a glimpse of himself through another's eyes once more.

_Shize...why do I always look half-dead?_ He panted, breathing through his mouth, coughing through the blood. And there was _so much_ blood, matted in his hair, staining most of his face, running down his chin and arms and all over his tattered clothes.

"Find the key, Pol," he rasped then closed his eyes and bit into his battered lip as he braced himself to make one last push.

.: _Jary, I'm so sorry. I have to do it. He'll never stop._ :.

I wish he were here, I wish he could hear me, I wish I'd remembered sooner, I—

.: _Nylan!_ :.

Michael froze, his heart hammering in his chest.

.: _Jary?_ :.

.: _I'm almost there—_ :.

A splintering crash came from the far side of the room. An even louder slam followed, shaking the walls.

"Nylan!"

He's finally come. He's finally here.

"Stop it, Nylan! You'll kill yourself!"

"Have to," Michael rasped. "Stop him...waerlok..."

"Then close your eyes," Jarlyth ordered. "And let me finish this."

Michael obeyed his warder, just as he'd always done. But he was beyond the limits of his strength and had nothing left to block out anything.

As the blade plunged into Terac's chest, Michael felt the man's shock and confusion and denial as clearly as if it were his own. The pain bloomed out from the center of his body, echoing Terac's agony, and Michael remembered the pirate ship and what it had felt like to be caught up in someone else's death.

He didn't fight it this time. He wanted to, but he was so very tired, and it seemed the easiest thing in the world to slip away into the quiet, painless darkness.

#

Jarlyth swore and shoved past the falling body of Terac Nalas to reach Nylan as Pol stumbled forward in his wake, diving to the floor to look through the bloody mess for the dropped key.

"Nylan, please." Jarlyth caught up the boy from where he dangled by one wrist, blood running down his arm in sickening streams.

Pol shot to his feet at Jarlyth's elbow, bleating, "Here! I found it!" His hands shook so badly, he could barely hold the key. He dragged a battered, blood-stained chair under the shackle and climbed on it, reaching up to free his friend.

"He wouldn't stop." The boy's face was ashen with shock. "The duke kept hurting him, and he kept fighting back. I'd think he was done, and he'd get back up—"

The lock clicked as the shackle opened, dropping Nylan into Jarlyth's arms. "Wake up, Nylan," Jarlyth whispered. "Please, wake up."

Harly walked over to join them from where he'd been examining the body, a look of unutterable distaste on his face. "The duke's really dead. And about nikking time, too."

Pol flung himself at his uncle, hugging the man around the waist. "I thought he was going to kill us both!" The boy was clearly on the verge of hysteria. "You should have seen Michael—"

Harly returned the boy's hug. "I know, child. I know. But we need to go." He looked at Jarlyth, his gaze steady. "We can't count on surprise this time."

Jary took a deep breath and nodded. "Let's go then."

"But the prince—" Pol began.

Harly shook his head at this. "I'm not ready to kill anyone in cold blood. He hasn't done anything to us—"

"Yet!" Pol held his ground. "Michael—"

"We can't go killing everyone who ever spent clink on the boy, Pol," Harly exclaimed. "Like it or no, it's what he did."

Jarlyth felt this was said for his own benefit as much as for Pol's, but he reluctantly agreed. He knew nothing about this pretender prince, but if Harly thought it safe enough to leave him behind, he wasn't going to commit cold-blooded murder on his own account.

He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped Nylan in it, wary of his injuries, and settled the boy more carefully in his arms. At the same time, Harly picked up a cloak, which had been left draped over one of the many stacks of papers, and tore out the lining which he then used to bind up Nylan's wrist.

Pol snatched away his own arm when his uncle tried to examine him. "I can wait! You said we have to go."

"Right, then." Harly turned and led the way back to the shattered door.

_He's still breathing, he's still breathing..._ Jarlyth thought the chant, making it a prayer to Vail for the boy's continued survival. He stooped to retrieve his sword, yanking it free without even a grimace of distaste. The man had deserved so much worse for what he'd done to Nylan.

Pol glanced at the blood-stained blade then up at Jarlyth's face. Whatever he saw there made him swallow hard and hurry to catch up to his uncle.

#

Michael woke with a gasp, knowing where he was immediately. "No!" he choked, and started to struggle against the hands holding him. "No, let me out! Please, don't make me—"

"Hush, Nylan! Please! You'll hurt yourself."

He went as still as a rabbit trying to hide in plain sight from a predator. _Jary._

"Forgive me, Nylan," Jarlyth's arms tightened around him, and the man's voice whispered a prayer in Michael's first language. "Thank Vail, thank Vail, thank Vail, you're awake. Thank Vail, I found you. Thank you, Vail."

Michael stayed frozen for several long tics, barely believing the moment was real. _But it has to be. Everything's quiet_.

"Jary, I—"

"Thank Vail, you remembered." Jarlyth pulled back to look Michael in the face, though only dim moons-light illuminated the dark interior. They were in the carriage, and Michael wondered if he could be dreaming all of this—if Terac was just done with him for the night, but he was so badly hurt that he'd fallen into a dream to escape. In case it was real, though, Michael felt it was important that Jary know the truth.

"I hate this carriage," he whispered, staring up into his warder's tear-filled eyes.

"We'll set fire to it when we stop," Jary promised. "It'll never bother you again."

"I didn't want to," Michael continued. "I didn't want to do any of it."

A spike of pain so profound it nearly made Michael sob overwhelmed his warder's reserve. "I know, sweetheart. I know that. Don't talk, now, all right? You're hurt."

"Is Varian all right?"

"Yes. Daren's looking after him. He was so determined to deliver your message."

"I knew he would." Michael faded back toward sleep once more. "He loves me."

When he woke again, the world was on fire.

"Shize!" Risa's voice hissed while another familiar voice shouted, "I'm going! He hasn't left yet."

"Don't burn me!" Michael tried, again, to escape Jarlyth's arms.

"Hush, you're fine," the man soothed, patient and gentle. "We're back at the Red Boar. Someone's gone for a healer."

"There's smoke...Midnight Star." _I'm talking nonsense. I have to stop talking, or he'll think I'm crazy._

"What's he saying?" Jarlyth demanded.

Pol's voice. _Pol! Thank Vail..._ "The Midnight Star was right there. It burned down about a year ago. Michael saved all the horses that were trapped and wouldn't come out."

"He saw me save the horses." Michael could feel himself losing consciousness again. He pulled back from the edge of darkness, irritated by its constant pull which kept taking him away from Jary. "S'why he wanted me."

"Where is he, then?" A brisk voice. Familiar. _My healer..._

"Jary, is he really dead?"

"In a moment, Nylan," Jary said, calming.

He does think I'm crazy. I sound crazy.

"Ah, shize," the healer muttered, and Michael finally focused on a face as the man leaned over him. "He always looks as if he's been through the wars." He looked up at Jary and smiled. "Bring him inside, will you?"

#

Jarlyth didn't want to put Nylan down let alone leave his side, but he'd smiled at the healer and greeted him by name, muttering a half-delirious, "Look, sirra. More scars."

His wrist was a horrible mess, but for all the lacerations and damage and gruesome amounts of blood, he'd managed not to cut the artery. His face was not much better, but it was hard to see how much damage there was through all the blood.

"It'll need stitching." The healer sighed as he examined his wrist first—the worst of Nylan's injuries. "Must you always require me to sew?"

Jarlyth turned a glare at the man, but his eyes met Nylan's instead. The boy gave him a slight shake of the head and a soft smile before returning his attention to the healer.

"You are so good at it," he whispered. "And then I have such nice, clean scars."

The man didn't reply, though he gave the boy a skeptical, raised eyebrow. The girl Jarlyth had seen tending bar before entered the room, carrying a basin of hot water and towels slung over her arm. Another girl followed with a basketful of salves and bandages. The one named Risa looked to Pol's injuries, bandaging the lesser ones and cleaning him up while he waited his turn with the healer.

Jarlyth left them to it, exiting the room to grab a bit of air and to just have a moment to thank Vail four or five hundred more times for Nylan's life and restored memory and heroic endurance. _He was so brave, so strong, so-_

"Sirra, may I speak to you?" Harly asked, unaware he interrupted.

"I should go set fire to the carriage." Jarlyth's response drew a confused frown from the innkeeper. "I promised him," he added with a small smile. "He hates it."

"There is enough ablaze already, no one would notice an addition."

Varian's revelation that the Duke of Reyahl had been the one torturing "their Michael" had set off a near-riot in the street outside the Red Boar. As the news spread throughout Fensgate, it spawned a full-fledged riot. But at some point before he and Harly had headed off to save the boys, the innkeeper had set his plans in motion, taking advantage of the chaos to launch a revolution.

Order had somehow been imposed on the rage and destruction, and from all he'd seen as they'd made their way to the duke's mansion and back, Jarlyth thought the highborns of Queen's City had much to fear from this uprising.

Has this really all started because they were angry about what had happened to Nylan?

He followed Harly back down the vast, gaudy staircase into the central salon, empty of gamblers this night but full of people and activity still. People called to Harly, asking questions and demanding decisions. He responded with quick authority. _A true leader. He's been planning this for...years, probably._

They exited the building and stood on the steps, looking out across the destruction all around—though none of it even touched the Red Boar.

The carriage had already been torn apart, and two young men, still half-dressed in their One-Eyed Sailor costumes, were dragging the frame away.

"What are they doing?" Jarlyth asked, baffled.

"For the barricades. They'll be setting them up all around the parish. We can't hold the entire city, so teams are going out, sabotaging key targets, and coming back to Fensgate. If necessary, we'll blow the bridges. We hold the harbor, though. That's key."

Jarlyth nodded, wanting to ask more questions, but he held himself back. He couldn't get involved here. He had to think of Nylan and in the midst of a revolution, just how in all the hells he was going to get them both safely out of Camarat.

Something brushed by his foot and slipped between the men guarding the door. Harly turned to see what it was, too, and barked a laugh. "That cat of his—never seen anything like it."

"Cat?"

"Michael's cat. She's loyal as a hound, follows him around, shows up when he's in trouble...it's uncanny."

It was uncanny, come to that, though it was likely best not to mention it even to these broad-minded lowborns. Nylan's bond with cats appeared to be unaltered in spite of all the other changes he'd undergone.

Harly looked up at him at last, radiating nervousness. _Odd after all he's done already this night._

"None of this would be happening without your boy." He looked even more uncomfortable. "He's always been...different. Everyone knew he was special. He's used his powers to save...I don't know how many people. Good people who had no hope. It was like watching the Hand of Vail at work. We all knew he wasn't meant for this life—"

"Pol explained the laws." Jarlyth tried to be understanding, though he could not understand how a kingdom could justify treating any child the way Nylan was treated, not to mention so many of the others he'd seen even just on this street. "I know there wasn't much that could be done to help him."

Harly's eyes dropped to his hands which were fidgeting with a small, worn notebook. "I'd like to ask you, sirra...who is he?"

Heavy footsteps stomped toward them, and Jarlyth turned to see Daren approaching, Captain Sonya beside him. Three more of her officers stood a few lengths back, hats held respectfully in their hands. George was nowhere to be seen, Jarlyth noted.

Daren answered Harly's question. "He's Prince Nylan SanClare of Serathon." The man looked deathly, his face drained of color, and the captain's eyes moved from face to face warily, paying the most attention to Harly whose face she watched as carefully as a hunting cat.

Shock struck Jarlyth in the chest, shaking him to his bones. _Are we betrayed? She had to have told him—what does she mean by exposing us like this?_

"The Prince of Sorrows," Harly breathed, horror dawning.

The captain shot a grim look at her crew, seeming satisfied and as if this won her some sort of wager. She turned to Jarlyth who was trying to decide if he should fly at her or away to snatch up Nylan and try to make some sort of escape.

"I thought Daren knew, Lord Denara," she apologized. "I asked him a simple question as to when he thought you'd be ready to make sail, and he..." Daren stumbled away as she said this and leaned against the wall. "But you see," the captain explained hastily. "This proves they're still under the laws of the One Kingdom."

"Still under the laws...?" Jarlyth began, but then he understood what she meant. It was beyond unlikely that any of these people knew even the names of the various kings and queens from the other side of the Breach. If Harly and Daren knew Nylan's prince-name just by hearing his true name, it could only mean that Camarat's connection to its ancient homeland remained intact. "But that means—"

"He's the SanClare come to judge us unawares." Harly backed away from Jarlyth as if afraid he might run him through.

Daren straightened with difficulty, still pale with horror. "It means that if we tell who he is, we'll be set to turn this revolution into a rout. _Everyone_ will fight to avenge the true SanClare!"

"We can't get involved!" Jarlyth let his anger take over. "We have to get back! He has to get back! This place is _killing_ him."

But it was too late—with Daren following at his heels, Harly ran back into the Red Boar, shouting, "The SanClare's come! Just like the tales all said! It's a sign from Vail Herself!"

All the revolutionaries believed as soon as Harly told them who their Michael truly was—and their prior, un-ironic fury at the highborns for what _they_ had done to the boy redoubled as soon as they realized all those same things and more had been done to the fabled Prince of Sorrows.

The news seemed to spread like water flooding out from the Red Boar and through the streets of Fensgate. It was like magic— _Or unstoppable disaster._

By the time the Third Prayer bells sounded just before sunrise, Jarlyth was convinced everyone in Queen's City knew.

After a few more whispered words with Captain Sonya, he'd rushed back to the room where Nylan had been taken, and he remained there, standing outside the door with sword drawn, the blade resting on his shoulder, his expression as cold and deadly as it had ever been.

The healer, Pol, and Risa were the only people he allowed to enter Nylan's rooms, and one look at Jarlyth's face seemed to be enough to scare everyone else away, at least for a little while.

_Yes, let's all let him sleep for awhile, unaware that everyone knows. Vail Over Us, why did_ everyone _have to know?_

Captain Sonya at least understood and had returned to the _Etesian_ to prepare to sail at a moment's notice.

As soon as he's rested, we'll go. If I have to cut a thousand people in half to reach the docks, we will leave this place far behind us.

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

It was dark though it was just past Seventh Prayer, and Michael felt he'd been asleep for a moon, though it hadn't been quite a full day. He felt stronger and his wounds seemed to be healing much faster than he'd become used to. _Just like before Terac. I used to heal so fast._

It made him wonder if the waerlok had been bleeding off his power all the time and not just during the experiments. He'd been so tired for so long. _The tattoo._ It had worked to control him even when Terac was far away. _It makes sense. I'll have to ask Jary._

His sleep had been interrupted a few times, with his caretakers waking him to check his wounds, change his bandages, apply salves, and feed him. Jarlyth had always hovered in the background, watching. _Glowering at poor Risa and the healer._

He'd only just been left alone after another such visit, and he'd feigned sleep to get them to leave. After waiting to make sure no one was going to duck back in to retrieve a forgotten tray or something, he slipped from the bed and limped to the windows. He'd been put up in one of the guestrooms rather than in his usual suite, and its windows overlooked the street.

"I wasn't dreaming it," he whispered as Cyra rubbed against his ankle. "Fensgate was on fire." Burnt-out carcasses of things no longer identifiable lay strewn all around the Red Boar, charred remains of the still-ongoing revolution that had arisen around...

Me? Or was it Terac's death that really made everyone go mad with hope?

They knew he was a prince, now, too. Or the SanClare Unawares. He'd heard his prince-name shouted in the streets that morning by people telling each other the news. At one point it had reached a near-chant outside the windows, though no one seemed aware he might be able to hear them. It had been like a memory come to life, so reminiscent of that jarring moment so many years before when his name had first been revealed.

I don't like this. I wish they didn't know.

He did not like what else was going on, either—the fighting and confusion and destruction were too chaotic and out of control for him to trust. _If they aren't careful, it could all go so very wrong._

Most of all, he didn't like the way his thoughts were winding. Everything was coming together in his head, creating a picture he found more disturbing as each piece fell into place. When it at last became perfectly clear, he leaned back against the windowsill for support.

"They set me up." He could feel himself trembling. "I trusted them, and they used me."

How he wished the Voice were there to help him through this horrible cascade of understanding. He couldn't tell Jary— _he'd kill them all._

_When did it start? Was it before or after Harly bullied me into becoming a whore?_ He saw the why of it, though. He'd long understood what they'd hoped he could do for their cause. _I just didn't understand how far they'd gone to make it possible for me to do it._

"They needed someone who could get close to the duke. And even if I didn't know it, Harly or Daren probably did...probably knew he'd already shown an interest in me."

Or had they known about Robyn's real connection to Terac Nalas and not just the public one of master and apprentice. _Probably. They know so much._

Michael blinked tears away. "Leovar, too. So that Terac would hear about me." Cyra miaowed, demanding attention, and he knelt, careful of his injuries, to sit on the floor beside her, rubbing her ears as she slithered into his lap and began kneading his thigh.

He'd seen in Terac's mind that there had been others like Robyn, young artists who showed promise. _I hope he didn't kill them all._

_The magic rumors made him take notice of me, though._ "Like the horses. Shize..."

Michael shook his head, wishing it were that easy to negate this horrible truth. "That's why Daren was so set on me healing Irini..."

That's unfair. He didn't want her to die. He cares at least that much...but I bet he put the idea in Pol's head to have me save the horses. Damn him to the Fires.

By that time, he remembered, the rumors of his healings had spread far and wide. His flagrant use of his heretical powers had been one of the worst-kept secrets in Fensgate.

And Terac was watching me, looking for more proof than just my golden eyes that I was worthy of his particular attention. I didn't do anything that first time but run away.

Michael ran through everything again, trying to find a way for it to not be true; trying to find a way that his nightmare of a life could remain a series of horrible accidents rather than the cold-blooded plan of someone he'd believed he could trust.

"That's why you looked so sick when Pol brought me in," Michael said aloud. "Isn't it?"

Daren stepped out of the shadows, his shoulders slumped.

Michael didn't know how or when the strong-arm had slipped in nor how he'd evaded Jarlyth's notice. Maybe there were secret entrances in the guest rooms as there were in some of the streeter's suites.

Michael didn't look at the man. "You didn't know what he did to his victims. And maybe he never did that to the others. Maybe it was me. He talked like it was just me—like my power required new methods. He called the things he did to me 'experiments.'"

Daren's voice was very quiet, trying not to alert the blood-lusting warder standing just outside the door. "It was too late, then. I couldn't take any of it back." He sounded as if he were about to cry. "He'd trapped you, and I couldn't do anything—"

"You could have helped me get away," Michael said in a harsh whisper. "You could have realized it was too much to ask and _helped_ me get away from him... Do you have any idea what he did to me?"

"Your Highness, if I'd—"

"Don't you call me that." Michael glared up to meet the man's eyes at last. "I'm not your _anything_! I'm not your long-awaited SanClare, either. I'm _just_ a whore. You and Harly made sure of that."

Jarlyth shoved into the room, sword out and eyes blazing. "Nylan! What in all the hells—?"

"He was just leaving, Jary," Michael said. "And so should we. I'm sick to death of this place."

As he struggled to his feet, Daren hovered between helping him up and fleeing, but one look at Jarlyth made his decision, and he hurried from the room.

Michael shrugged away Jarlyth's offer of help, too, brushing past him to shut himself in the bathing room. Ma Fitz had brought his things over while he'd been asleep. She'd cleaned and mended his clothes and tucked the few belongings he'd kept in his tiny room into a clean canvas bag.

_I'll miss her. I'll miss Pol and Risa, too._ He'd miss a lot of people, with more names coming to him as he pulled his boots on. But none enough to stay even long enough to say good-bye.

I just want to be done with this place forever.

Jarlyth had regained his composure by the time Michael emerged, dressed and ready to go. He sorted through the small pile of things Ma Fitz had brought along with his clothes, pulling out the few he wanted to take with him. The book on Mirthia which had given him so much hope for so many moons; the sketchbook Nanna Tierna had given him so long ago, now battered and worn; a barely-used box of colored chalk; and a couple of his favorite books, much reread over the years. That was all.

_An entire life, and this is all I have to take away from it._ He stuffed his few extra bits of clothing into the pack, too, and hefted it over his shoulder.

"I'm ready." He looked up at Jarlyth.

"What about the cat?"

Michael smiled down at Cyra and returned one of her long blinks with his own. "She'll follow. She always does."

They quit the room in silence with Cyra at their heels and moved through the corridor and to the staircase without incident. Time froze when Michael came into view of the people filling up the central salon, however.

Michael couldn't see Jarlyth's face, but he knew the man's expression must be intimidating from the reactions of those ranged below them. Only Varian moved toward them through the crowd.

"You're leaving." A soft, sad smile graced his lips.

"Are you all right?" Michael ignored the question hidden in the other's words. "He hit you so hard."

Varian reached a hand back to finger the bandage artfully wrapped around his head. "Your healer's very good. I'll be fine." He hesitated, then blurted out, "Prince of Sorrows, huh? Makes me even more of a fool than I already knew I was."

Michael shook his head. "You weren't a fool. You're my friend. You always were."

He reached up and caught Varian's face between his hands, caressing the stubbly cheeks and smiling at the confused, almost-frightened look on the musician's face.

"What are you doing?" Varian gasped, though he didn't pull away. "Your warder'll kill me."

"He won't," Michael soothed, still smiling. "It's a gift. For you and for me. I want the last person I kiss here to be someone I love."

Varian shook his head minutely, not breaking Michael's light hold on him. "No. Don't."

Michael hesitated, searching Varian's face for the true objection. "If you want me to, I want to. I don't want to be mean to you, Varian. It's just...it would be nice to end it like this, instead of..."

He could see understanding dawn in Varian's eyes—that his last kisses now were from the Duke of Reyahl with blood and pain, hate and violence and sex all twisted together, the memories like knives.

"Kiss me, then," Varian whispered. "It would be my honor, Your Highness."

The room had gone still, as if everyone in it had stopped breathing, wanting and not wanting to witness such a moment.

Varian bowed his head as Michael stretched up on his toes to reach the young man's mouth. His lips were soft and warm, gentle. He didn't demand or push or grasp. His hands came up, fingers weaving caressingly into Michael's hair, holding him close, and Michael suddenly wanted to cry—to grab onto Varian's shirt-front and sob his heart out right there in front of everyone.

_Never again_ , he thought. _Never, ever again._

Varian stepped away first, ending the kiss gently, catching Michael's hand as he did so and clasping it to his chest.

"Your Highness." He bowed—a deep, formal bow like those taught to young highborns—released Michael's hand, turned, and strode away through the crowd.

Michael watched him go, concentrating still on not crying, and almost jumped when Jarlyth asked, "Are you all right?"

Michael forced a smile as he so very often did in this place. "I just needed...a different memory."

Jarlyth's chin jutted out in a half-nod of acceptance. "Let's go. Our ship's waiting."

Harly stood outside with Pol beside him. More men were ranged around the front steps. They were all very obviously waiting for Michael and Jarlyth. The warder made a noise like disgust at this new interruption, and Michael was briefly afraid that they meant to stop him from going.

Instead, Harly waved his arm, indicating the group below them. "Volunteers," he explained. "To escort you to the ship. I picked the best of them. Everyone wanted the chance to honor the Prince of Sorrows."

Jarlyth inclined his head and murmured, "Thank you, sirra." Michael fought down a sudden urge to scream at Harly for daring to use his prince-name.

Harly turned to Michael to ask, "Can you ride? We thought it might be easier that way. Pol wanted to go along, so he can bring the horse back."

Michael shook his head. "No. My leg's a mess. I could keep my seat, I think, but I couldn't guide the horse."

Pol and Jarlyth both spoke at once. "I'll ride with you," and Pol blushed.

"Ride with Pol," Jarlyth said. "You can say your good-byes." He moved off down the steps to talk to the volunteers. Michael saw Daren in the group and looked away, but he couldn't help watching as Jarlyth approached the strong-arm. The two spoke briefly, and when Jarlyth walked away, Daren looked ashen. But he stayed.

Harly and Pol helped Michael up into the saddle, and Pol's memories of Michael's visits to the stables—the gracefulness with which he'd climbed up into the rafters and back down again, the ease he'd had with the horses—flitted around in his head.

"Seems like a long time ago when we last talked in the stables," Michael said.

Pol climbed up into the saddle in front of him, looking a bit startled that his friend would bring up something he'd been thinking.

"Yeah, it does," Pol agreed. "And now you're this big, highborn prince. I don't even know what to think."

They headed off at a walk, the group moving forward slowly at first, and Pol guided the horse around several burnt-out husks blocking the street.

The revolution continued. Michael thought it was going well, but sometimes the sounds of explosions or shouts or crowds sounded very nearby. That they were being escorted by a group of scary-looking men didn't set his mind at ease, either.

"Don't think anything," Michael said. "I'm just me. I don't even know who this 'Prince of Sorrows' is supposed to be. I hardly remember being him. I was really young."

"I know it's best that you're going," Pol said. "It's best that you get away from here—far away...but I wish you didn't have to go."

"You could come with us," Michael ventured. He meant it. What life would Pol have in Fensgate if the revolution failed? He'd be burned just like his mother before him.

Pol didn't answer him, and Michael did his best not to eavesdrop on his friend's mind, not wanting to overhear a refusal or betray the joy of an agreement.

The volunteers were watchful, careful, but after they cleared the end of the block, they picked up the pace, and Pol was able to urge the horse on. Jarlyth always stayed nearby, ready to pull Michael from the saddle or grab the horse's reins if need be.

The sounds of the revolution sprinkled the night, and what little talk there was amongst the volunteers was very quiet.

_We're sneaking out of Fensgate. That can't be good._ He and Pol fell silent, too.

They finally reached the last turn which would take them to the docks and found overturned, half-burned carts and the fallen-down wall of a building completely blocking the street.

"No horses from here," Pol said, and he dismounted. Jarlyth helped Michael down, and the two friends stood facing each other.

Daren called to Pol, "Harly said for you to go back before we reach the docks."

"I know." Pol glared over at the man.

_Does he know?_ It seemed likely. Michael supposed he should be equally angry at Pol's uncle, but the truth was, he'd never quite trusted Harly after their first meeting. He'd never forgotten the man snapping at him for being foolish enough not to want to become a whore. But he'd thought he'd known Daren. _I thought I could at least trust him._

"I guess this is it." Pol turned back to Michael with a stiff smile.

"You won't come with us," Michael had known all along that Pol wouldn't. He'd hoped, but he'd known.

"Uncle Harly would be lost without me. You know that."

"But Pol," Michael protested. "What if you lose?"

Pol shrugged, though his fear of just such a fate was visible through the brave façade he wore. "Then we lose. Have to try, though, don't we? Keep the bastards from hurting more people like you. Like my mother."

"I wish I could stay—" Michael began, but Pol's bark of laughter interrupted him.

"Vail above Us All, Michael. You do not. You never, ever wanted to be here—even when we were at JhaPel. Oh, you were happy enough there, but you always wanted to be somewhere else."

Michael smiled ruefully. "I just didn't remember where."

"Nikking Serathon." Pol shook his head, still stunned by the truth. "Ned joked about that, remember? I'll have to tell him he was right."

"Do that. Tell him good-bye for me. And Jiin. Everybody." They were both overcome with the finality of it all at the same moment and stumbled into each other's arms, hugging as if neither ever wanted to let go.

"Go on, then," Pol grumbled as they both stepped back, trying to pretend they didn't have tears in their eyes. He looked up at Jarlyth and snatched the reins from his hand, growling, "You'd better take good care of him!"

"I will. I promise," Jarlyth said, solemn.

"Fine. Well...good-bye." And so saying, Pol swung up into the saddle and clattered away, back to the Red Boar.

Michael watched him go, realizing as he did that this was really the end of his life in Camarat.

_I'm really leaving. Finally leaving._ But going back to Serathon...he couldn't imagine that. After everything he'd done, everything he'd been...

The volunteers were clearing a path, which looked as if it would take a bit of time. Jarlyth guided him out of the way, staying with him on guard.

Leaving here is one thing, but going back to Serathon...I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that. My father didn't love me before; now he'll have good reason to hate me. I don't want...

"I'm sorry, Jary," Michael said. They were alone, too far for any of the volunteers to overhear them.

Jary opened his mouth to argue, but Michael shook his head. "I was weak. I was scared. I should never have let them bully me into this life. I should have been willing to die instead. I wasn't."

"Nylan, don't—"

"I am so, _so_ sorry. I wanted to be strong. I tried to be good, but I was so scared and so tired and so hungry—"

"Stop it!" Jarlyth growled, his outrage palpable—a rare thing for a warder to let his charge sense his feelings. "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. You _survived_. Do you have any idea how strong you are to have done that?"

Michael took a step back from the man, startled by the sudden outpouring of emotions he could sense. Outrage, fury, misery, helplessness—all were mixed together, all so powerful—and over all of this, love.

"How you managed to endure what you've been through, I'll never understand. It would have killed any other Sensitive, even me with my pitiful powers—"

"I should have been strong enough to die—brave enough," Michael insisted. "I was, once, but...I just—I didn't want to die. I don't want to die. So, now I'm nothing. I threw away my honor—"

"That's nonsense! You glow with honor. When I saw you that first time—"

"Shize." Michael blushed furiously and stared down at his scarred hands which were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Jarlyth's voice shook with emotion. "This life was killing you—I could see that. But you're pure in spite of it. The way you treat those around you, your concern for Pol and Varian, the girls at the Red Boar, even your cat—"

"Don't do this to me, Jary." Michael's head jerked as if in anticipation of a blow. His voice trembled with unshed tears. "Don't be nice to me. I don't deserve it."

"Well, if that's true, then I don't deserve your forgiveness," the man retorted, a look of pure misery skittering across his face. "I should never have fallen in that fight— _never_! This all happened because of my weakness."

Michael inhaled sharply and looked at his warder as if the man had gone mad. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." He rubbed at his nose to stop the threatening tears. "They killed you! I felt you _die_. I don't even know how it's possible that you're here at all!"

And at that moment, Michael's long-ago deep-rooted trust in his warder ran straight into his even deeper-rooted fear and distrust of men.

"I—" he began. "How do I know you're you?" he whispered. "It could be another trick. He's a waerlok—maybe this is all some sick game he's playing."

Jarlyth rocked back on his heels, dumbfounded. "That's crazy, Nylan. You know it is."

"I don't!" Michael backed away another step, shaking his head. "You don't know what he did to me—what it was like! Everybody tricks me and lies to me, and I'm _so stupid_ , I believe them. I don't want to be lied to anymore!"

"How would he know about me?" Jarlyth asked, very calm, his voice soothing. "How would he even know about Tanara?"

Michael felt shattered and sick, knowing he was acting crazily. But his fear of this being a cruel joke was too strong to be easily overcome.

Jarlyth smiled a gentle smile. "You spoke your first word on your first birthing day. It was 'Yary' because you couldn't say the 'J.' Your favorite color was always purple. You've always loved cats, and they've always loved you. They used to follow you around like ducklings all over the Priory. You never minded going to bed on time, but you hated to get up in the morning. You—"

"Jary," Michael said as if his heart were breaking. "Where have you been?"

"Looking for you," his warder said. "You were so hard to find... _I_ am so sorry."

"Can you really take me back? It isn't just—I didn't go crazy and make it all up?"

"You didn't. It's real, and I'm going to take you home."

The temple bell began ringing Last Prayer, and Michael thought, _It has to be Jary. It just has to be true._ Exhaustion overtook him and, without realizing he'd decided, Michael closed the distance separating them. He fell into his warder's open arms and rested his forehead against the man's broad chest. "Jary. Please make everything be quiet."

# # #

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"All right?" Jarlyth gave Nylan an encouraging smile, silently relieved he'd been able to soothe the boy's meltdown. He caught sight of the loyal little gray cat padding her way toward them out of the gloom and added, "See? Your Cyra's ready to go, too."

The boy sniffed hard and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand but nodded. Jarlyth picked up their few belongings and surveyed the progress. Daren stood watching them and gestured when he saw he had their attention.

"Are they still sounding Last Prayer?" one of the volunteers asked. He glared toward the temple.

Nylan's sick fear swept over Jarlyth. "Vail protect me...oh, dear Vail, please—"

"What does it mean?"

Nylan didn't answer, but seemed about to pitch over in a faint.

"Damn it, Nylan," Jarlyth snapped. "Tell me!"

A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. "It's the witch-bell!" Daren glared at Jarlyth as if he had struck the boy. "They sound it when they're on the hunt."

"Leovar saw me there," Nylan whispered. "He knows I killed the duke."

"I killed the duke," Jarlyth began but a cracking noise ripped through the air and one of the volunteers screamed. Nylan lurched toward the wounded man, his instinct putting him in danger as the air filled with noise and the volunteers broke into chaos.

Daren caught Nylan around the waist and hurled him at Jarlyth. "Run!" Daren shouted. "Through the gap—they're coming up behind us."

_Guns. They use guns here!_ Too easy to enchant and turn against their wielders, guns were nearly unknown in Serathon and even cannons were rare things. _I didn't think about guns._

Jarlyth held Nylan in front of him, prepared to feel a bullet enter his back so long as his body shielded the boy from the evil things, and the boy stumbled forward, stunned by the pain all around him but thankfully not resisting being kept from healing.

Volunteers reached down and dragged them up and through the gap, and Jarlyth wished he'd taken even a moment to really look at any of them. He'd trusted Harly's judgment after their adventure together to save the boys, but he could see now that in spite of the chaos, few if any of the volunteers had run. Some lay wounded, maybe even dead, cut down by the evil guns. _These men are dying for Nylan._ For their fabled SanClare.

As soon as they were through, along with the remaining volunteers, they began work on closing the gap against pursuit. Jarlyth didn't see Daren among them.

"I thought the revolution had blocked off Fensgate completely!"

"No, sirra," one of the volunteers said, apologetic. Blood stained his arm, but he still worked on in spite of it. "The temple and JhaPel held the bridge to Carillon open. Our fighters have been pushed back from there a block at a time since Fourth Prayer."

"Shize, we're _here!"_ Nylan wailed, and Jarlyth turned to look at what had so upset the boy.

It was a tactical nightmare. Behind them lay a large, open area, dominated by an enormous stone arch.

He almost missed what Nylan was saying, so stunned was he by the sight of that massive edifice.

"—burn people here, Jary! This is where they burn witches!"

"Nylan...do you know what this is?"

The boy looked outraged at the question. " _Yes!_ I've been _telling_ you! It's—"

"Feniss's Gate."

Nylan stopped with his mouth open and looked at the arch. "Shize."

"They're going to be through that in no time," the same young volunteer shouted at Jarlyth. "You need to get to your ship! We'll cover you."

The sounds coming through the too-flimsy barrier told Jarlyth that they would never make it to the ship in time. There was only one possible way out for them now. He caught Nylan's shoulders and looked him in the eyes, desperate.

"Nylan, you can do this—you can activate the Crossing."

#

Michael stared at his warder, wondering what he'd ever done to Vail to make her do this to him. _Jary's gone crazy, and the revolution's going to fail and Pol's going to burn—I'm going to burn._

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Now isn't the time to freeze up." Jarlyth tried to smile but produced a terrifying expression of mixed fear and agitation instead. "You can do this. You can save yourself."

"Myself?" Michael echoed. "What about you?"

"I'll guard your back. I'll make sure you get away."

"No, Jary!" Michael grabbed onto the man's arm. " _Don't leave me_!"

Jary shoved him away toward the dormant Crossing and turned his back, watching the barrier as it slowly crumbled. The volunteers stood around, helpless, holding onto cudgels and knives and knowing this was how they were going to die.

"No—" Michael began again, standing where he'd stumbled to a stop.

.: _If you don't do this,_ :. Jary said, mind to mind across the little distance, .: _My whole life will have been for nothing._ :.

Michael staggered back a step and turned toward the stone arch, witness to so much death. Michael could feel it in the air all around him. The pillar jutted out obscenely, the chains hanging off of it, blackened and worn.

There was power here—so much power, born of blood and misery and pain. This whole place was like an enormous version of Terac's workroom.

Experiments...he killed all those people, and it must've started with experiments.

He struggled up onto the platform, his bad leg no better than dead weight, but he finally made it, almost collapsing as he rested his hands against the pillar before him. This close to it, he could sense the power roiling beneath the carved surface. All he had to do to awaken it was reach—

Noise exploded behind him, and he fought every instinct to turn until he heard an all-too-familiar voice.

"Stop him!"

Something slammed into the pillar, near his hands, cracking off a piece of the stone. Michael backed away at once, whirling to see where the shot had come from.

In a new gap in the barrier stood none other than Prince Leovar. His men had come through the gap, long-guns at the ready, but they were few and still outnumbered by his depleted volunteer force, all of whom were standing ready to fight with their pitiful weapons. Only the long-guns gave Leovar the advantage. Jarlyth stood between them all, closer to Michael and farther from Leovar. He held his sword, as helpless against the long-guns as any of them were.

"This makes it easy, Michael," Leovar said, his voice loud enough to carry across the open space as he climbed down the barrier and strode toward Jarlyth. "Since you're going to burn tonight."

Jarlyth made an inarticulate sound of rage and seemed about to rush forward, but Leovar stopped and held up a hand. "I wouldn't! My best shooter has the dear boy in his sights. And then there won't be any need for a pyre."

.: _Nylan, just go! Leave me and GO!_ :.

.: _I won't leave without you, Jary,_ :. Michael insisted. .: _Even if that means I burn._ :.

"Do you have any idea who he is?" Jarlyth demanded.

Leovar looked at Michael with distaste. "A _very_ expensive whore with whom I once fancied myself in love. And my cousin's murderer."

"And Prince Nylan SanClare of Serathon," Jarlyth added, each word as sharp as a knife.

Every long-gun barrel trained on them dropped as every man with the prince muttered, almost in unison, "The Prince of Sorrows."

"No!" Leovar stumbled forward a few steps. "That isn't possible. You—"

"Can't you say my name, Leovar?" Michael asked. "I think you owe me that much—you made me say yours often enough."

Leovar fell to his knees, shaking his head against the demand. He found the tip of Jarlyth's sword under his drooping chin and froze. None of his men reacted, too stunned by the primal magic they'd just experienced to fight against it.

"Say his name, pretender." Jarlyth pricked the man's throat with a twitch of his blade. "And pray they aren't the last words you ever say."

"The Prince of Sorrows," Leovar sobbed. "The SanClare Unawares!"

"The Crossing, Nylan," Jarlyth said. "Let's go. While we can."

In spite of everything, Michael smiled as he turned back to the arch. Those words were a promise that they would go together. Cyra leapt up beside him, her tail lashing as if to say, "Well?" and he almost laughed. He pressed both hands to the pillar and closed his eyes, reaching for the hidden power sealed within the stone, and to his delight, it rose up to meet him.

#

Jarlyth kept the threat of his sword at the prince's throat while he waited for Nylan to awaken the Crossing and save them both—possibly save them all. The revelation of Nylan's identity coupled with true, full-fledged wizardly power might change these magic-fearing men's minds about how so-called witches should be treated.

Though he'd braced himself for it, the shockwave from the Crossing's activation kicked him forward a step. Only reflexes saved Leovar's life, though a fresh cut did slice its way along the younger man's jaw.

Jarlyth heard voices yelling and praying all around him and hoped none of the men returned to violence in their terror. He ran across the distance separating him from his charge, feeling as if each step took moons, and scrambled up onto the platform, finding Nylan's hands grabbing the back of his collar to help pull him up.

The boy's arms were around his waist in a bruising embrace, and a muffled flurry of abuse stormed from his mouth. "—Told you not to leave me!" were the last of the words, said clearly as Nylan stepped back in order to glare up at him.

"I'm sorry, Highness." Jarlyth smiled again.

"You should be!"

Nylan had his back to the Crossing and couldn't see the sunlight blazing through from hundreds of posts away on the island of Feniss. It looked peaceful and wind-blown and just as it had been when last Jarlyth had seen it so many moons ago.

"Michael," Leovar wailed, and Nylan turned a cold stare on the man. A volunteer stood over him, long-gun in hand. All the weapons seemed to now be in their allies' hands, Jarlyth noted with grim satisfaction.

"What do I do now?"

Nylan's right hand rested on the arch—giving or taking strength, Jarlyth didn't know.

"Pray to Vail for mercy," Nylan replied, his voice like ice. "I have none to give you. But pray hard. My mother's name was Voyavel." And with that, he turned and stepped through the Crossing, his cat at his heels.

Leovar collapsing in a dead faint was the last thing Jarlyth saw before he followed his prince home.

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to Alix and Casey, the earliest readers of versions this novel, and to Andrea who read too many variations to count and gave great advice and critical notes along the way. Also, a huge debt of gratitude goes to beta readers Sharon, Rebecca, Randy, Molly, Caroline, Mike, and Vicki whose feedback was invaluable to shaping the final novel.

And finally, for her encouragement and pom-pom waving to keep going, my biggest thanks go to Lisa.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenna Waterford lives in Chicago with two perfect cats and one somewhat helpless Roomba® and can be found online at jennawaterford.tumblr.com.

Also by Jenna Waterford

The Princess of Sorrows
