Elaine Corvidae - Heretic Sun

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or

are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely

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Hardcover ISBN-10: 1-59426-128-8

Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-59426-128-2

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First Edition • November 2005

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2004113967

Production by Mundania Press LLC

Printed in the United States of America

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Chapter One: Thiacene

Thraxis was in trouble. Again.

He pasted a smile on his lips and struggled not to show his disappointment to the others seated at

the long table. A dry desert wind blew in through the open window, and he took a deep breath, acutely

conscious of the silence gathering in the stone dining hall. It had been a long day, and weariness that was

as much spiritual as physical was beginning to take its toll.

The day had started out well enough. He had ridden—forgetting through familiarity that actually

sitting on a horse’s back was the act of a barbarian—into the Sanctum Minoris of Gypta, seeking out

parents he had not seen in twenty years. Although his memories of them were vague, he’d had little

trouble picking out Cyaraxes and Jumica from the other Athraskani who toiled in the Sanctum’s fields,

which lay in the narrow strip of fertile land wedged in between the life-giving brown river and the hot

desolation of the red desert. After he had identified himself to them, they had been overjoyed to see him.

At first.

The problem with joy was that it tended to fade before such things as doubt and suspicion. And

among the Athraskani, doubt and suspicion were habits by necessity.

“So, Thraxis,” said Anarete from her seat at the head of the table, “what brings you to Gypta?”

Thraxis suppressed a sigh. Anarete was a plump, silver-haired woman with a permanent expression

of suspicion. She was also the Prima of the Sanctum Minoris, and as such had nominal authority over him

even though she only wore red robes. It was her right to ask why a black-robed Athraskani, who

normally would never be let outside the precincts of the Sanctum Majoris, had suddenly appeared on her

doorstep.

Unfortunately, there was nothing about his situation that could be described as ‘normal.’

“I came to see Cyaraxes and Jumica,” he said, truthfully enough. His mother, who sat across from

him, gave him a faint smile. But her eyes, so pale a shade of silver that they bordered on white, were

troubled.

Anarete took a sip of wine from the single glass a day that the Rule allowed her. Her shrewd, silver

eyes touched Thraxis’ shaved head—radically different from Athraskani norm, where complicated braids

indicated a wizard’s rank—then moved on to his traveling companions.

To his left sat Viabold. If Anarete recognized Viabold’s name, it was as that of an Athraskani who

had left the Sanctum years before due to his inability to adhere to the tenets of the Rule. Although

Viabold had actually made an effort—undoubtedly for Thraxis’ sake rather than his own—to look

presentable by washing out his travel-worn blue robes and fixing his long hair in the traditional braids, his

behavior was not so easily altered. With a mental sigh, Thraxis noted that his friend was even now

finishing off his third glass of wine and looking about for more.

To Thraxis’ right sat his wife, the Arrow that Flies the Farthest, former Champion of the Red

Feather Clan of the Skald. And who, Thraxis had no doubt, would be the main topic of gossip this

evening among the inhabitants of the Sanctum. Bad enough that one of the most powerful of their race

would wed a human without magic, but to compound the offense by marrying a barbarian—it was

unthinkable.

Thraxis felt a fond smile touch his lips as he studied Arrow’s profile. He could still remember his

shock when he had first met her. She was so different from the Athraskani, who prided themselves on

being civilized and cosmopolitan. Leather trousers and vest hugged her form, accompanied by a wide

variety of weapons. Her long, copper-colored hair hung loose and wind-tangled about her strong

features, except where a few random braids made an effort at taming the mass. The blue line of her

Champion’s tattoo bisected her face horizontally, centered about her dark eyes, and more tattoos

showed on her shoulders and stomach.

His first reaction upon seeing her had been one of horror—he was to travel with such a crude

barbarian? And when he had realized that she was his amria, the woman he was destined to love…well,

horror had not even come close to describing what he had felt.

To their credit, both his parents had smiled politely when he introduced her, even though Jumica

looked like a woman trying to be happy about swallowing a live fish when she did it.

Anarete set her glass down deliberately, catching Thraxis’ attention. “I see,” she said dryly, leaving

no doubt that she didn’t believe him at all.

Perhaps a bit more of the truth, then. “The Black Council sent me with Arrow to bring Balthazar to

justice,” he explained. “I believe Vilhardouin sent word to all the Sanctum when he rebelled?”

Anarete nodded slowly, the silver braids of her hair catching the late afternoon light as it streamed in

through the high windows. “She did. I understand that he stole a doyan’si.” Her tone clearly asked how

he had gotten access to such an abomination. When Thraxis only gave her a mysterious look, she

shrugged and went on. “Vilhardouin feared that he might carry his vengeance to the outlying Sanctum.”

“He came to my people,” Arrow explained. Her command of the Empire’s language had improved

greatly, but her accent would always be atrocious. “Many died,” she added awkwardly, glancing down

at her pottery plate.

“Viabold was kind enough to offer me his help,” Thraxis went on, neglecting to mention why a

black-level mage would need the aid of a blue robe. He waved his hand airily. “And once we had dealt

with Balthazar, he offered to come here with Arrow and me.”

“It all sounds so very simple,” Anarete said acerbically. Thraxis winced, knowing that his story

raised more questions than it answered.

Jumica leaned across the table with an eager smile. “Tell us more about your travels, Thraxis. Did

you see anything interesting? How did it compare with the Wandering Monk’s accounts?”

For a moment, her eagerness put his guard up, and he wondered if she was seeking to make him

look foolish. Then he realized that it was nothing of the sort. She wants to be proud of me. Jumica

wanted to be able to tell people about the great things her son had done. It was a strange revelation, for

he could recall little but disdain and disappointment from the Athraskani who had raised him in her place.

If only he had done anything worth telling. Instead, it seemed that he had spent most of the journey

miserable, hurting, and afraid. Not really the stuff of heroic epics.

He glanced at Arrow, but she only looked back at him, arching a single brow as if to say: “These

are your people—you tell them.” With a shrug, he launched into the tale, trying to think of anything that

might interest his listeners while at the same time making the whole thing sound more like a pleasure jaunt

than the trial of endurance that it had been. No one, he felt certain, wanted to hear about him coughing

blood and being nearly beaten to death by Skald warriors. Certainly, he wasn’t about to mention the fact

that he had poisoned himself through his own ignorance and pride.

The entire time he spoke, though, he was acutely conscious of Anarete’s eyes on him: weighing,

judging…and questioning.

* * * *

Arrow yawned and stretched, glad that the long day was finally over. After their communal supper,

the Athraskani had all retreated to conduct the evening meditation that their society required. Left to her

own devices for a while, she had spent the time checking on her two steeds, Nightwing and Stalker. Both

horses were corralled just outside the Sancta, near the odd creatures that the Gyptoans used as beasts of

burden. The cloven-footed, hump-backed animals had eyed her in a way she thought of as distinctly

unfriendly, and she had no desire to get any closer to them.

Afterward, Thraxis had returned, accompanied by his parents. Jumica and Cyaraxes had asked if

they would like to go to their quarters and talk, but to Arrow’s surprise, Thraxis had declined the

invitation. Perhaps, she thought, her husband was feeling as overwhelmed as she.

A young man in green robes had shown them to the chamber set aside for their use. The Sancta

consisted of a large number of buildings, all made from stone or mud brick. Their room was in one of the

stone buildings, and Arrow found herself idly running her hand over the large, cool blocks, wondering

how they had been fitted together so precisely. Magic, no doubt.

The chamber was small and contained only a bed, a table, and a chair. The bed was tucked back

into a small alcove and flanked by two statues clutching fans made from palm fronds. The outer wall of

the room was almost completely open to a balcony outside, and so gave the impression of spaciousness.

The air within smelled of cool stone and incense.

Arrow pushed aside a hanging of gauzy white cloth and stepped out onto the balcony. The night air

touched her face, and she breathed deeply, exploring the unfamiliar scents of desert and spices. Resting

her hands lightly on the balustrade, she stared out over the lower buildings beneath. Glowing balls of

magical light moved here and there, marking the passage of Athraskani.

Thraxis came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him, glad to

feel the solidity of flesh rather than the sharpness of bone. There had been a time, when Balthazar’s death

curse still devoured him by inches, when bone and skin had seemed all that was left of him.

“How are you?” he asked softly, his deep voice like the touch of soft fur. “I know that this must all

seem very strange to you.” He sighed, and then chuckled ruefully. “It seems odd to me, to be perfectly

honest.”

“How so?”

“After so many months living out of a tent, doing whatever I wanted…it’s hard to go back, in a

way.”

“But we aren’t staying long,” Arrow reminded him.

“No, of course we aren’t.” He hesitated. “But they do have a library here…it’s said to be very

impressive. I would like to take a little while to look at it. And to spend more time with Cyaraxes and

Jumica.”

Unease touched Arrow’s heart, but she shoved it aside. “But then we’ll leave and go back to the

Skald, right?”

“Wherever you want to go, love,” he reassured. His arms tightened about her waist, and she felt the

silken brush of his lips across the tattoo on her shoulder. She shivered in delight, closing her eyes as he

nudged aside her hair to explore the sensitive spot on the back of her neck. When she opened her eyes

again, it was to see the face of a young girl hovering just beyond the edge of the balcony.

Arrow let out a yell of surprise. A lifetime of training took over, and she pulled away from her

husband, drew her sword, and put the tip to the throat of the intruder in the space that it would take a

normal human to draw breath.

“You’re fast,” the girl said appreciatively, as if she wasn’t even slightly concerned about being

threatened with immediate death. She hung suspended in the air, her hands resting on the balustrade, her

red robes flowing idly about her in the night breeze. Like most of the Athraskani, her braided and coiled

hair was black as a raven’s wing. Her face was angular, striking rather than pretty, and dominated by a

very long nose and a pair of eyes as yellow as clear wine.

Thraxis’ black brows beetled together in a glare. “By all that’s true, who are you? What are you

doing looking into other people’s windows?”

The girl only grinned, utterly unrepentant. “I was curious. I wanted to know what they were all trying

to hide from me.”

Arrow slowly let her sword drop, and then sheathed it again. This girl did not strike her as a threat.

“Hide from you?”

“Oh, yes. When they told me I had to stay with the novices today, it was clear that they didn’t want

me to see something. I spied the light in here and thought that there might be visitors to the Sanctum.” The

girl’s pale eyes narrowed critically as she studied Arrow. “Are you some kind of bodyguard?”

“You should be answering questions, not asking them,” Thraxis snapped.

The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m Thiacene. Honestly, can’t you come up with better questions? ‘Who

are you, why are you looking in the window’—really, not much of a challenge.”

“Given that Anarete didn’t want you fraternizing with outsiders, I’d think you’d be more polite to

people who could report you to her.”

Thiacene didn’t seem terribly concerned. “I thought investigating would be worth getting

caught—but then, I thought I’d find something more interesting than two strangers with no more sense

than to make love on a balcony where the whole world can see them.” Ignoring Thraxis’ sputters of

indignation, she levered herself up so that she perched like an imp on the balustrade. “So who are you?”

“None of your business,” said Thraxis.

Arrow tried to hide a smile and failed. Ignoring her husband’s annoyance, she said, “I think that

should be obvious, Thiacene. This is your brother, Thraxis.”

The two Athraskani looked at one another, as if they routinely met long-nosed strangers with the

same unusual eye color. “Jumica and Cyaraxes are your parents?” Thraxis asked, as if he doubted it

could be true.

Thiacene nodded. “Yes. I knew that I had a brother who was ten years older than me—Mother

would get images of him every so often from a friend at the Sanctum Majoris.” She looked at Thraxis

skeptically. “You don’t look anything like him.”

“People change,” Thraxis muttered.

“I suppose. What happened to your hair?”

“I shaved it off.”

“Oh.” She frowned thoughtfully at him some more. “I don’t know why they didn’t just let me come

to supper with the rest of the initiates and meet you there. Have you done something scandalous?”

“I’m his wife,” Arrow offered.

Thiacene’s eyes lit up and she laughed. “Ah ha! Perhaps that’s it. They don’t want me getting

strange ideas from my older brother.” She looked as though she would say more, but at that moment the

faint sound of voices came from another part of the Sanctum, carrying clearly in the night air. Thiacene

made a face. “Father’s looking for me—I’d better go.” She dropped easily over the side of the balcony.

“See you tomorrow!”

Arrow peered over the side, but Thiacene was lost to the shadows. Straightening, she turned to see

Thraxis leaning against the wide entrance to their room, his face thoughtful and slightly sad.

“Did you know that you had a sister?” she asked softly.

He glanced up, and she saw grief in his eyes. “No. No, I had no idea.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He held out his arms, folding her close when she came to him. “But at least I know why

they tried to hide her from me.”

Arrow shifted her head against his shoulder so that she could see his profile. “Why?”

“I know that you understand the different levels of power among the Athraskani,” he said slowly,

“but I don’t believe I explained to you how we know what a child will become when it is born, before it

grows into its full magic. There is a spell that can be cast which reveals the baby’s potential—the level of

power that it will someday attain, once it reaches adulthood.”

“That’s how the Black Council knew that you would be of the black level someday,” Arrow

guessed.

“Yes. And they used that knowledge as the basis of their decision to take me away from my parents

to raise themselves.” His mouth tightened in old anger. “But after we gain our full power as adults, other

Athraskani can often sense how strong an individual is. Lower-level Athraskani can only tell if someone is

stronger than they—Viabold, for example, couldn’t easily distinguish whether I was a red or a black level

mage unless I did something to make it clear. But I would be able to guess Viabold’s general abilities

even if he wasn’t wearing his robes. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But what does this have to do with Thiacene?”

“After…what happened to me…it must have been a terrible risk for Cyaraxes and Jumica to

conceive another child. They must have prayed that their baby would be a red level wizard like

themselves. A future red robe would most likely be left with them. How horrified they must have been

when the testing showed that Thiacene was yet another black.”

Arrow pulled back in surprise. “But she was wearing red robes!”

Thraxis looked at her gravely. “I know. They’ve lied to her—not only to her, but to everyone else in

the Sancta. Most of the Athraskani here are lower level mages, after all—they would never know.

Anarete must be in on it as well—she would have been present at the testing, and she would know that

Thiacene is stronger than a red robe should be.”

Arrow swallowed heavily. “They lied to keep Thiacene with them.”

“Yes.”

“What will happen when the truth comes out?”

Thraxis shook his head. “I don’t know. The Black Council will be furious, that’s for certain. But I do

know that they won’t find out because of us.”

“No.” Arrow leaned against him again, wrapping her arms around his waist. “No, they won’t.”

* * * *

Anarete settled to her knees, silently railing against the age that made her joints creak. She could feel

the hardness of the stone floor through the reed mat that she knelt upon, and she cursed that as well for

good measure.

Damn Vilhardouin , she thought as she arranged her scrying ball in front of her. The old bitch must

not trust her, sending a spy like that fool Thraxis down here.

Like many of the other inhabitants of the Sanctum that she ruled over, Anarete had been born in the

Sanctum Majoris, the heart of Athraskani civilization. As a red robe, she had never been a rival for

Vilhardouin’s power, and so had done her best to strike as many alliances as possible with the ambitious

woman. In time, when the Primus of Gypta’s Sanctum died, Vilhardouin had been in a position to offer it

to one of her old supporters. Anarete had taken the post gladly. It meant that she could more or less run

her own Sanctum her own way, without constant toadying to the Black Council. And it meant that she

could get away from Vilhardouin, for, despite their alliance, they had never liked one another at all.

And now, after all these years, she’s decided that I need a keeper . Anarete scowled, clinging to

her anger so that she couldn’t feel the trepidation that boiled underneath it. If Thraxis sees Thiacene…

There was no telling what Vilhardouin would do if she learned that Anarete had kept one of her precious

black robes from her. That Anarete would lose her position as Prima and be forced to return to the

Sanctum Majoris in disgrace was the least punishment she could expect.

Fifteen years ago, it had seemed worth the risk. A chance to help two of her own and secure their

loyalty to her. And a chance as well to spit in Vilhardouin’s eye. Now, though, with discovery so

close…she couldn’t imagine what she had been thinking.

Taking a deep breath, Anarete composed her thoughts as best she could and chanted the spell that

would summon Vilhardouin to her own scrying ball far away. After several minutes, Anarete felt the

answering touch of magic and opened her eyes.

Vilhardouin scowled at her from the ball’s crystalline depths. Age had marred her beauty, but had

only enhanced her regal bearing and air of command. Her silver eyes were hard and cold as flint, and

Anarete almost felt sorry for Thraxis. The poor child had probably never had any choice other than

become Vilhardouin’s lackey.

“This had best be important,” Vilhardouin said icily.

Keeping her face composed, Anarete bowed slowly, nearly touching her forehead to her knees.

“Greetings, Vilhardouin of the Black Council,” she said, letting the ritual calm conceal her anger and fear.

Vilhardouin responded with a chill little nod. “You may speak, Prima of the Sanctum Minoris.”

Anarete resumed her kneeling position. “It is not for me to question the Black Council,” she said,

“but I request clarification.”

“On what matter?”

“This…observer…you sent—did you wish him to report on our work here? If so, I will show him

the ruins on the morrow.”

Vilhardouin frowned. “I sent no observer.”

Quibbling over semantics—that was what the Athraskani did best, Anarete thought in annoyance.

“Forgive me. This visitor, then.”

“I said that the Black Council sent no one.”

Now it was Anarete’s turn to frown in confusion. “Thraxis. He came here to visit Cyaraxes and

Jumica. I assumed you had sent him to more purpose than that.”

“Thraxis is dead.”

To her surprise, Anarete saw that Vilhardouin had actually paled. It gave her some pleasure in the

face of her fear. “I assure you he is not. He sat at my table this evening, and unless ghosts can eat and

drink, he was very much alive.”

Vilhardouin’s face went even whiter, and her mouth tightened. “Damn him.”

“He is not here by your leave, then?”

“Aren’t you listening? He was supposed to be dead! That cursed Viabold must have lied in his

letter. Is he there as well?”

“He is. Along with that woman—Thraxis’ wife.”

“His what?”

“His wife,” Anarete said triumphantly. “The barbarian. Spear, or some such.”

“No.” Some of the shock eased from Vilhardouin’s features. “Another lie. I wasted years trying to

maneuver Thraxis into Melilandra’s bed—the Black Council ordered it, and still he defied us with his

excuses and evasions. If she was not good enough for him, he would not demean himself by rutting with

some filthy barbarian.”

“Oh?” Anarete whispered a chant and passed her hand across the surface of the scrying ball. The

image within—and within Vilhardouin’s as well—altered to show the bedchamber she had given her

guests. The room was still well lit, and she had no trouble making out the intertwined shapes on the bed.

She watched their writhing with interest, until Vilhardouin’s image abruptly reasserted itself.

“Thraxis will report to me at dawn tomorrow morning,” the leader of the Black Council said in a

voice that would allow no argument. Then she broke the spell binding the two scrying balls, leaving the

small room in darkness.

* * * *

Thraxis knew that there was something wrong when he came up the stairs to the small set of

rooms he shared with his parents . It had been a long day—one of the other boys had knocked him

down while they were playing, and he had skinned both knees. Old Ligares, who supervised the

novices’ recreation, had snapped at him to quit crying and heal himself. Thraxis had managed to

ease the wounds on his knees, but the pain from the comments of the older boys didn’t go away so

easily.

Mama would make him a cup of tea when he got home—that would help . But the stairwell

felt oddly cold and quiet as he made his way up it, his brown robes clutched awkwardly in one

small fist to keep them from tripping him up. Filled with trepidation, he climbed the last stairs

slowly and pushed open the door.

Inside, everything was dark and still . Things were missing—the wall hanging his father had

woven, the small statuette of a woman that his mother had cherished. Suddenly afraid in this

familiar place that no longer felt like home, Thraxis called “Mama?” in a small, quavering voice.

Surely she would appear and tell him what was wrong.

But his call went unanswered . Panic took hold. “Mama! Da! Mama!” he screamed. He

dashed through the rooms, looking for them, but there was no trace of their presence. Even their

extra robes were gone.

The sound of a footstep in the outer room brought him running back out . But the thin woman

in the black robes wasn’t his mother. She caught his arm roughly when he ran up to her.

“Mama—Da—I can’t find them,” he gasped between sobs .

Vilhardouin looked down on him with eyes that held no pity . “Your parents are gone.”

Terror . “Gone? Where? I want to go with them!”

She gave him a little shake. “They’ve left the Sanctum. You’ll never see them again.”

To a five-year-old boy, those words were the end of the world .

“Stop crying!” Vilhardouin snapped in annoyance . “I knew we should have taken you before

this. I said stop crying this instant!”

It was an impossible request . With a hiss of aggravation, she turned and left him huddled in

the middle of the empty room. “You may come down to supper when you stop crying, and not a

moment before. Don’t you realize that this is for your own good? Your parents were nothing but

red robes—they could never take care of you like we can.”

Thraxis couldn’t manage anything more than a confused sob . Still angry, Vilhardouin shut

the door hard behind her, leaving him alone in the darkness.

Chapter Two: Ancient Days

Thraxis strode briskly down the corridor leading to Anarete’s chambers. The flap-flap of his sandals

chased echoes from the walls, and was mimicked by the quicker stride of the young man she had sent to

roust him out of bed before the sun rose.

Vilhardouin .

Somehow, he had hoped to have more time. It had been a vain hope, but still…he had not believed

that Anarete would be so eager to carry tales back to the Black Council.

My error, he thought grimly. And, among the Athraskani, any error in judgment was a weakness to

be exploited by others.

Anarete waited in a small meditation chamber. Despite the early hour, her eyes were bright and

alert, and there was a look of smugness on her face that he did not like at all.

Well, easy enough to get rid of it. “You may leave us,” he said loftily, drawing upon all the arrogance

he could muster. She started to protest, but he fixed her with a cold look, reminding her that, no matter

her nominal rank, in the end his power would always mean more to anyone who mattered. Pursing her

lips in annoyance, Anarete nodded and left.

Thraxis turned towards the scrying ball as though it were an enemy. His long-fingered hands absently

brushed imaginary specks from his traveling robe, and then tugged his hood forward until it hid his shaved

head and most of his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he tucked his hands into his sleeves and

waited.

He did not have to wait long. Light flared from the scrying ball, illuminating the little room in harsh

white radiance. Vilhardouin’s familiar features formed deep within it, her expression one of grave

displeasure.

Well, at least that was also very familiar.

“Vilhardouin,” he said coolly, as if they met casually in a hallway. “You wished to speak with me?”

Her mouth tightened, and he realized that she was too angry even to play her usual games. “Do not

taunt me, Thraxis,” she warned. “You are in very grave danger of being declared apostate.”

He bowed to her slightly. “I had not realized. And which of my vows have I broken?”

“Obedience. Obedience to your peers, to your people, and to the Black Council.”

“Ah. And how have I disobeyed?”

“You know that very well, Thraxis—you are not ignorant, even though you pretend to be. You lied

to the Black Council by faking your own death. And you wed without our permission or approval.”

A mixture of anger and bitterness surged in his heart, but he forced himself to maintain a calm,

slightly aloof, demeanor. “I did not lie. Viabold sent word that Balthazar was defeated—that was all.

There was no mention of my fate in his letter.”

“A lie of omission, then.”

“And aren’t you the slightest bit curious as to how I came to be alive at all?”

“That is irrelevant.”

It hurt. It shouldn’t have, not after so many years of knowing that the woman who had raised him

cared nothing for him at all. Vilhardouin had never loved him, had never even pretended to feel any

affection towards him. The only thing that was relevant about him was his power.

But still, in his heart he had always held on to some tiny fragment of hope that she did care, after all.

“Very well, then,” he said with another slight bow. “And my marriage to Arrow is also of no concern

to you. The Black Council cannot force any Athraskani to marry against his or her will—the Rules are

very clear on that point, are they not? By extension, you have no right to deny me the spouse of my

choice, either.”

Vilhardouin’s face was colder than he had ever seen it. “You have done this out of spite.”

“I love her!” he snapped, then cursed himself. Vilhardouin always out-waited him, always sat smug

while his temper frayed and hers remained intact. Taking a deep breath for calm, he silently spoke a

mantra to ease his racing heart. “I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“You’re right. I cannot comprehend such irresponsibility as you have shown. You will remain in

Gypta until the Black Council arrives.”

That surprised him—he had expected her to demand that he come crawling back to the Empire on

his knees. “Surely you aren’t coming all the way here just to decide what to do with me.”

“No. You are only one of the matters that we must deal with. Anarete says her mages have made

progress—tell her that I expect to see it when I arrive.”

And with that, the scrying ball went dark.

Thraxis took a deep breath, let it out, and contemplated smashing the ball into a thousand pieces.

Not that such an act of destruction would help anything ultimately. But it might make him feel better for a

moment.

“Damn,” he said aloud.

* * * *

“Where’s Thraxis?” Viabold asked curiously when Arrow slid onto the bench beside him. They sat

in the common dining hall, an enormous room lined with three long tables. Athraskani of all ranks formed

a rainbow of colored robes as they moved about the room, but without them the hall would have looked

plain indeed. The lack of decoration was alien to Arrow’s eyes, used as they were to the riot of color

and ornamentation favored by the Skald.

“I don’t know,” she replied, poking uncertainly at her breakfast with a wooden spoon. A mash of

cooked barley huddled in the bottom of a pottery bowl, wafting out the scent of cardamom. “He was

summoned to Anarete’s chambers early—I don’t even think the sun was up yet.”

Viabold frowned, then shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. Too bad Anarete had to get him so

early—I, for one, enjoyed a night in a real bed.”

“You’ve been sleeping in a real bed for months.”

“My dear Arrow, a bunch of pillows in a tent is not a real bed, no matter what you Skald think.

Especially not when the thin wall of said tent is all that’s separating you from a pair of energetic

newlyweds.”

A woman of about Viabold’s age walked past at that moment. She flashed him a grin, and he

responded with a little wave. “Not to mention the other, er, opportunities that can be found here,” he

added.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway like a thundercloud on the horizon. Although Thraxis neither

spoke nor made any overt motion, all eyes were suddenly on him, drawn perhaps by some Athraskani

sense of the power radiating from his thin body. His pale eyes flashed like yellow fire in the shadow of his

hood, and his mouth was set in a grim, taut line.

“Something’s wrong,” Arrow murmured to Viabold even as she shifted her position so that her

sword was in easy reach.

Without looking to either side, Thraxis strode across the room until he stood before Anarete.

“Vilhardouin says that you have made progress—on what?” he demanded without preamble.

She looked up at him slowly from where she sat at the head of one of the tables, forcing him to wait

on her reply. “That is none of your concern.”

“Really? Did I mention that the Black Council is coming here?”

Anarete paled sharply. “Th-they are?”

“Indeed. They’re going to find out about Thiacene—you can’t stop them.”

Someone let out a little cry—Arrow thought that it might have been Jumica. Thraxis, however, didn’t

take his gaze away from Anarete’s. “If the Black Council has you working on some sort of project, your

best chance is to amaze them with your progress when they get here. It might make them more lenient.

Tell me what it is, and I will help you.”

A faint flash of hope touched Anarete’s plump features, then vanished. “Why would you do that?”

“Because Thiacene shouldn’t have to suffer for this. Because you did the right thing when you lied

about her true power.” There was a murmur of startled voices at this announcement, but Thraxis ignored

them. “Let me help you if I can.”

The two Athraskani stared at one another for a long moment, yellow eyes and silver locked, as if

they sought to read one another’s thoughts. Then Anarete gave him a short, sharp nod.

“Very well,” she said. “Come with me.”

* * * *

An hour later, a small party of Athraskani and humans made its way across the desert. Without

further explanation, Anarete had led Thraxis, Arrow, and Viabold outside to the corrals where the

Sanctum’s animals were kept. A human servant, Kefre, retrieved two mules from the corral and hitched

them to a small wagon with a linen awning to keep off the sun. While Kefre took the reins, Anarete and

Viabold sat in silence in the back, beneath the awning. Thraxis and Arrow both mounted horses and rode

alongside, much to the amazement of Kefre, who had never seen such a thing before.

They soon passed out of the fertile lands and into the dust and stone of the desert. Wind pushed the

sand into high dunes, and Arrow could feel tiny grains pelting her flesh whenever a breeze picked up. The

sun beat down mercilessly, even though the morning was not far advanced. Kefre had given her a white

burnoose to keep off the sun. Thraxis’ traveling robe, enchanted to keep the wearer either warm or cool

depending on his needs, provided all the protection her husband required.

Although the land around them looked deserted, Arrow could discern the track of other footsteps in

the sand before them. “Do you come this way often?” she asked Kefre, hoping to glean some hint of their

destination.

“Often enough, pretty one,” he said with a broad smile. Kefre claimed that his parents had come

from a kingdom even further to the south, which he referred to as the Land of the Bow. His skin was an

incredible shade of brown, so dark that it bordered on true black. He was, she thought with a touch of

regret, probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her entire life.

Realizing that she wasn’t going to get a better answer, she glanced away, only to find Thraxis

glowering at Kefre. No doubt he had heard the driver’s mild flirtation.

She steered Nightwing over to amble along beside Stalker, Thraxis’ mount. “Kefre isn’t going to tell

us anything without Anarete’s permission,” she said in a low voice.

“Hmph. He probably doesn’t know.”

“Stop acting so jealous.”

“I saw the way you were looking at him.”

Arrow rolled her eyes. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I? You’ve been staring at him since the moment we left.”

“Just because I’m looking doesn’t mean that I’m planning to run off with him.”

“You don’t see me staring at every woman who walks past.”

Now she was annoyed. “Forgive me—I forgot that I’m married to the paragon of self restraint. Let

me know when you decide to be a real person again.”

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