Sildane sprinted through the maze-like corridors of the Citadel. Ahead, ghostly figures disappeared around a sharp corner and up a sheer flight of stone stairs. The knight of the Pale followed, blade in hand.
He was clothed only in breeches and bare feet. The cry of thieves in the halls had wakened him from a deep sleep, for the hour was somewhere between midnight and dawn.
The flight of stairs spiraled upward until it emerged onto the parapets of one of the highest towers of the keep. Lungs straining, Sildane climbed after the tireless intruders. At last he burst through the trapdoor and into the chill night air at the tower's pinnacle.
A whistle of air warned him and he dived to cold stone as a sword blade cut the air where his neck had been. He came up on one knee in time to catch another stroke from the attacker who had lain in wait.
He caught a glance at his assailant over the crossed blades -- a masked figure garbed in shadow-gathering gray, thin and wiry. Behind the thief, two others worked feverishly with some strange rigging of rope and cloth.
Then the knight saw only a jumble of stars and darkness as a boot thrust into his chest toppled him backward and down the hard flight of stairs. He bounced down the steps like child's toy until he crashed at last into two guardsmen on their way up. The three untangled themselves with a squall of curses, then scrambled for the top.
They emerged in time to see the last of the intruders leap like a suicide from the parapet. They rushed to the edge and stopped short.
The gray-cloaked figure plunged no more than a dozen feet until a billow of cloth swelled behind him and then he was floating downward and away from them like a bird on the wing as the strange sail caught the air. Below, the light of the two sliver moons shone on his companions as they drifted down toward the streets under similar sails, angling toward the river.
One of the guardsmen disgustedly pitched his steel-headed pike after the thief, but it missed the floating figure by an arms-length and then tumbled end over end until it splintered on the cobblestones far below.
"What kind of thieves can do such things?" the other panted as the three leaned against the parapet, struggling to catch their breaths as they simply watched the intruders float away into the night.
"No idea," Sildane grunted as he pushed himself back off the wall in frustration.
Ah, but that's a lie, he thought to himself as he stalked back down the dark stair. He had a very clear idea, though he prayed to his gods he was wrong.
When he reached his chamber far below and found it empty, he knew.
* * * *
The next morning, snow lay deep on the rough cobblestone streets of the capitol as the sun rose at last, spilling only a faint gray light. Silvery daggers of ice stretched down from the roof-tops of the city of domes and spires and the dark sky seemed low enough to scrape with outstretched fingers.
Sildane settled a thick wool cloak around his shoulders as he rode from the forbidding walls of the Citadel and out into the lanes that led toward the east gate of the city. There were few people on the streets and the air carried the pleasant smell of hearth fires burning against the chill.
The lancer drew up his hood against the wind as he passed the sentries at the gate, then kicked his charger up into a trot down the hard packed dirt road that wound east and south all the way to Lucky Town far away.
Though cold, the morning air was clear, and would have been pleasant for any errand but this one, the lancer thought as the city fell away behind. He cursed under his breath.
He turned off the road after several leagues to follow the river, whose course was sluggish with sheets of ice. Ahead, he could see thin trails of gray smoke rising from the far side of a small wood. It was there in a small clearing sheltered from the wind that the Serai were camped.
The Serai were a wandering people, never staying in one place for longer than a score of days most times. This clan was but one of none knew how many scattered across the land. They had come here a fortnight before, meaning to winter in a pleasant crook of the river outside Rill City until the snows lifted and they could be off again.
As was their way, they came into the city to dance and play for coins, sell crafts and stories, and buy whatever they couldn't make or grow among themselves. Their bright clothes and dark, soft features were like a breath of exotic summer on the gray stone streets and plazas of the capitol.
The arrival of a Serai band in any place was greeted with a mix of festival spirit and veiled suspicion. The strange wares and tales they brought with them were irresistible and most work ground to a stop as townsfolk flocked to see them.
Still, odd occurrences seemed to trail the Serai like the tins they tied behind their wagons and they had a reputation for a freethinking outlook on the property of others, be it chickens in an unguarded coop or a lonely farmwife on a starry night.
There were other, darker rumors about them - that their wandering served some hidden purpose, and that the face they showed outsiders was merely a pretty veil for it, but few believed them. Yet strangers are strangers and the Serai were often loved, but seldom trusted. The Rill had a saying about them -- "their men, thieves; their women, whores."
This was said with disdain, but also with more than a touch of admiration and a wistful envy of the Serai's free-wandering life.
The lancer emerged from the trees and drew back his hood as he paused on the edge of the camp. A score or more of wains and wagons scattered around a small clearing formed a rough circle. Some were merely canvas-covered carts, but most were more like small houses on wheels, pulled by teams of stout draft horses and oxen. They were sturdy and had walls and windows and even chimney spouts puffing gray smoke. The wains were painted in bright, gay colors that gleamed against the snow and bleak sky.
Men and women bustled around cook-fires hung with stew-pots and spits, readying their midday meal. Children played under and around the wagons and their laughter mixed with the music of a four-string balis coming from somewhere. The place had a feel of ease and order, a cozy air of well-being. This was not a military camp or a drifter's huddle, but the day-to-day life of a people whose home was the road.
The lancer guided his horse in between two bright wagons and into the center of the camp. His appearance brought silence to the talk around the cook fires and even the balis thrummed to a halt.
The Serai had always a place at their fires for guests, but something about the set of the lancer's shoulders told them this was no visit for songs or stories. Dark eyes wandered to the heavy sword slung from the pommel of the lancer's saddle.
Sildane swung a leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. He shuffled the heavy cloak back off his shoulders, then stood waiting, his face grim.
A man rose from one of the fires and stalked toward him. The lancer knew him; it was Django.
He was a small man, dark of hair and eyes like most of the Serai, but with a body thin and hard like the blade of a knife. Silver medallions affixed to the sides of his knee-high black boots marked him as the pent or 'father' of a Serai 'family'.
"We are eating here, northman," the man said with a sweep of his hand. "If you want to hear a song or see a show, we'll be in the market square tomorrow morning."
The lancer scowled at the man.
"To the Hells with Serai songs and with you, Django. You know why I'm here."
The Serai's eyes narrowed and he spit to the side as dark color flushed his face. There had always been bad blood between the two. He glared at the lancer, dark eyes flashing.
Others were gathering behind the small Serai now. Among them was Oazlan, the patriarch of this clan. His hair was streaked with gray and his stern features creased with age, but the old man looked strong as an oak.
Beside Oazlan stood a young woman, her eyes on the ground. Django was saying something now, his voice rising, but Sildane wasn't listening. The young woman raised her eyes.
She had the same coal-black hair and olive skin of the Serai, but her eyes were lighter, of almost almond color. They took him back to the first time he had ever seen her.
It had been in the wastes far to the south, a handful of years ago. There the Serai had found him, more dead than alive, slumped against the carcass of a horse that had died of thirst and sun.
Sildane had been pursuing Broken Knife, a half-orc bandit and raider. The renegade's band had struck a hamlet on the edge of the plains for horses and beef cattle. The half-orc himself had stolen a young girl for the eastern slave markets.
The lancer had followed the bandit into the wastes where he had fled hoping to turn aside pursuit. But the long summer had been hot and the waterholes had turned to mud. Even after killing the girl to drink her blood, Broken Knife had died of heat and thirst. The lancer had found both their bodies before his mount fell to the sun also.
Sildane had lain there, waiting for death, until he had seen the caravan like a snake in the distance. Why they had chanced the wastes, the Serai never told him. They were gaunt and sun-burnt and tired, but they were alive and they had water.
The Serai had taken him in and nursed him back to health. First among their healers was the young woman with eyes of almond and her name was Marilith.
After he had regained his strength, Sildane had decided to stay on and travel with them, and the clan had accepted him. In the long days and nights that followed, the knight had learned many of the ways of the Serai, and that the lips of the almond-eyed woman were sweeter than any he had ever tasted.
Sildane thrust away that memory.
"I see you made it back safely," the lancer said to her. The woman turned her head and said nothing.
He looked back to the dark man standing before him.
"Leave now, northman," Django warned, his eyes cold.
The lancer scowled back at the Serai.
"Don't take me for a fool," he answered. "Last night, there were thieves in the Citadel. They stole into the vault of the wizard, Farjeon. I am here to return what they took."
"You come here to our home, accuse us of thievery? I should cut out your tongue, northman." Django drew back his shoulders like a snake poised to strike.
"And I should hang you from your heels off the Mason's Bridge like a gutter cutpurse, Serai."
The lancer's charger snorted and jerked its head, skittish at the tension it could sense between them. Sildane jerked viciously at the reins.
The small Serai's face turned black as a storm cloud. Then suddenly there was a knife in his hand as he lunged for the lancer like a streak of lightning.
The northman managed to sweep the blade up and away from his throat so that it only scored his temple. A thin trail of blood ran down his jaw. In the same motion he rammed the heel of his hand into the Serai's nose. The soft flesh crunched under his hand.
Then strong hands caught him, pulled him away from the Serai. Others had grabbed Django and struggled to keep the small man in check. He looked like a crazed animal with bright blood frothing from his crushed nose.
"Enough!" a thundering, deep voice rang out. It was Oazlan. The old man stepped between the two as they struggled and seethed to get at each other.
Oazlan was tall for a Serai with a girth in chest and shoulders that did not match the gray touching his hair. He was dressed in a thick, embroidered coat of deep scarlet that touched his knees and heavy black boots. His gnarled fingers were wrapped around a curving wooden walking stick that ended in a knob of amber clutched by the carved fangs of a serpent. He pointed the stave like the scepter of a king straight at Sildane's chest.
"Let the northman go," he said. "I will deal with him. Everyone, back to your fires. Django," he said, turning to the fuming Serai. "I will speak with you later -- go now and tend to your face."
"Come with me," the old man ordered as he turned and stalked toward a fire built by one of the larger wains. Marilith followed them.
Sildane sat down across the fire from Oazlan on a low three-legged stool. As he did, Marilith appeared with a cloth in her hand. She bent and dabbed at the cut left by Django's knife. The lancer looked up at her, but she avoided his eyes.
He turned to the old man across the flames. Oazlan said nothing for a time, then took a deep breath and sighed.
"Is this how the Rill repay the kindness of strangers? You had gentler words for us when we found you in the desert, northman."
Sildane looked at the frozen ground between his boots.
"Two things are never forgotten -- a friend and an enemy, Hetmon," the lancer replied, using the Serai term of respect he had learned during his time among them. "But a man doesn't always have the luxury of serving himself alone. I live under my own patriarch, the Tsaire. If a man seeks to harm him, I am bound to defend; if thieves enter his house, I am bound to pursue."
"Your city is large, northman - are there no thieves among the Rill?" the patriarch asked archly, resting his gnarled hands on his knees. "What makes you and your Tsaire think that my men were those who entered your house of stone?"
"We have thieves and rogues aplenty, Hetmon. But these thieves entered the very heart of the Citadel. They passed wards said to be impregnable. Many moons I rode with your clan, Hetmon. I hunted the crypts under Karan-Telmoth with your men, and I know their skill. Only Serai could do the things that were done. And there are other reasons," the lancer said, looking toward the woman.
Marilith met his eyes, but said nothing. Oazlan broke the silence at last.
"You are known to us, northman. It is true you rode with us and lent us your sword, both in gratitude and for the love of this woman." He nodded toward Marilith.
"You served us well, and in return our hearts and many of our secrets were opened to you, more perhaps than any man not born to the Serai. Therefore I will not lie to you."
He paused, looked deep into the lancer's eyes.
"We have what you seek, but we cannot give you this thing, northman. Many will die for our want of it. Tomorrow it will be carried south to where it is most needed. I cannot tell you more, but you know the truth of my words."
Sildane nodded, his throat suddenly full and tight. The great respect he had learned for this man swelled tenfold. He hated being here, hated what he had to do.
"If it is that important, I can speak to the Tsaire, perhaps this thing can be loaned…" the lancer started.
Oazlan shook his head gravely.
"This will not happen. Your mage and his witch-women know nothing of this object, save that it is ancient. It has no value to them, but still they would not give it to a band of Serai, and you know this."
Sildane indeed knew it was true. The vault the thieves had raided was covetously guarded by the Rillic court magician and said to be stacked high with scrolls, tomes, bottles of weird fluids - all of the treasures collected by the enigmatic sorcerer over the centuries he had been alive. Farjeon was strange and secretive, and he was jealous. He would sooner give over his daughters, pale creatures as eerie has he himself, than the merest potion from that hoard.
The lancer rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes slowly with his fingers, wanting to put off for even a moment or two what must happen next. He had known it would come to this from the time he had left the Citadel.
Finally he raised his head and looked at the Serai chieftain.
"If you cannot give me this thing freely, then I must dance for it."
Beside him, Marilith caught her breath. Oazlan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
"You do what you must, northman," the patriarch said, rising to his feet. "If this is what you wish, I cannot refuse you. I will make ready for it. Rest here with Marilith for now, and I will call for you."
Oazlan walked off toward the middle of the camp. The sound of the brittle frozen grass crunching under his boots was the only sound as Sildane and Marilith said nothing for a time. Both merely stared into the fire. Then the woman turned.
"You're a fool -- a mule-headed, slow-witted fool," she whispered harshly. "You don't have to do this. You can get back on that damned horse and ride out of here, and everything will be fine. You can do that."
"You know I cannot." The lancer faced her. "You know more than anyone."
"This is lunacy! Tomorrow one of our men will ride south with this wizard's plaything and it will be in hands where it will do some good. In another moon your witch-man will have forgotten this bauble and we'll be gone from here. Everything will be the same as it was for you."
"No." The lancer slammed a fist on his knee. "No it won't. Two weeks ago your wagons came here and the snows lifted in my heart for the first time since we parted. Two weeks you haven't slept a night in these wagons, but with me, but now I know you shared my bed only because it was in the Citadel! To gain knowledge and entry for your confederates! "
Sildane stopped as his throat threatened to close up as if squeezed by invisible fingers.
"Nine Hells, when I found you gone…" he started. "And you say all will be the same with me? No matter if I die here or walk away, nothing will be the same with me."
"You think so little of me?" Marilith demanded, tears coming to her eyes, of grief or anger it was hard to tell. "Like the rest of your people, you think me a whore?"
"You expect me to believe you played no role in this?" The lancer's words were bitter.
"You know that I did," shot back. "And you know why. There are greater cares than you and me. Yet you think this was my choice, the way I wanted things to come about? I have obligations as well. Now take back this idiot challenge and let this go."
"You should have left with me, back then," Sildane said, his voice low. "We wouldn't be here now."
Marilith shook her head impatiently.
"That is all passed, love," she said, her words soft now. "There was nothing for it -- we cannot change it now."
Sildane cursed to himself. When he had left the Serai long ago, he had wished for Marilith to return north with him and she had wished it as well. Only one thing had forbidden it -- the word of her pent.
Serai 'families' were complex. Every Serai child was born into a family, but rarely kept the same one for life. Pents, a word meaning 'father' or 'mother', often traded family members back and forth. Marriages, which were multiple (some had as many as five husbands or wives) and easily dissolved, did not affect one's family relationship. It was common for husbands and wives to answer to different pents.
Inside the family, however, the pent ruled and was responsible for the welfare of his or her 'sons and daughters'. When Marilith had asked to leave the clan with the northman, her pent had forbidden it. Sildane had been forced to leave alone.
"You could have stayed with me, you know -- stayed with the clan," the girl whispered with a sad smile. "That was your choice, as well."
The lancer shook his head with a small laugh. He looked up at Marilith softly.
"And be ruled by the word of Django?" he said. "I'd rather die."
"And die you will -- and by my hand," a voice cut in, startling both of them. "How would you like that, northman?"
Django stood by the wagon, his breath misting in the cold air. The blood had been washed from his face, but his nose and cheeks were still swollen. There was a cold glint in his eyes.
"You wanted to dance, northman? You'll dance with me," he said. "The ring is set. Marilith, get my boots."
The girl lowered her eyes.
"Yes, pent." She cast a quick glance at Sildane, then rose and hurried away.
The lancer rose to his feet and faced the Serai, his face grim.
"Not everything this day has turned ill, then -- getting a chance at you almost makes the rest worth it. I've waited a long time for it," the lancer said.
"I did you a favor back then, northman," the Serai replied, a joyless smile on his lips. "Marilith would never have been happy in your cold houses of stone. She's a Serai, born to the road. After a time she'd have tired of you -- and come back to us, to me."
The cold grin spread further on his lips.
"Enough talk," the lancer snorted. "If I'm to die today, I'll do it without bruised ears. Let's go."
He pushed past the Serai and walked toward the far end of the camp, where a group of Serai were gathered around a ring of grass carefully swept clear of snow.
Oazlan was there, standing at one end of the circle. Five men sat to either side of him with heavy drums between their knees. The crowd of Serai parted to allow the lancer to enter.
Django entered the circle from the other side. He faced Sildane and casually shook out his arms and shoulders. Marilith appeared behind him bearing a small bundle in her arms.
Oazlan clapped his hands once to still the murmur of the crowd.
"The northman has made a blood challenge, and is willing to die for his suit. For blood that he has spilt for the clan in the past, he has earned the right. Django will be our champion. The dispute will end here, in the circle," he said.
He paused and bowed his head. After a moment, he raised his eyes. When he spoke, his deep, rumbling voice took on a sonorous tone, as if he
"The Dance is as old as the Serai. The wheel of time turns on conflict -- life struggles with death, water with fire, wind with earth. This dance of passions forms the circle of the universe. Today's conflict forms this circle. The Dance is the right of every Serai when all other avenues are closed to him. It is the final resolution."
Oazlan fell silent. As he did, the drummers took up a slow cadence, low and relentless like a beating heart. The Dance had begun.
Sildane had seen this ceremony only once in his time with the Serai, when two young hotheads had fallen out over the love of a girl. He threw off his cloak and shirt, then shuffled out of his heavy boots.
Across the tiny ring, Django had done the same. The slender, wiry Serai was bare to waist but for a thin silver band around his left bicep.
He turned and unwrapped the bundle Marilith held. Inside were two slim-soled boots of jet black. The Serai examined them with a critical eye, then placed them on the ground.
He slipped his lithe, muscled legs into the boots and lashed them tight at the knee. They were made of soft felt, flexible yet firm. On the inner and outer edges, set just above the thin soles, were slim blades like razors. Another was set at the toe, coming to a wicked point.
The Serai stretched and then swung one foot across his body in a high, exaggeratedly slow arc that would have opened the throat of a man standing before him. He graced Sildane with a wan smile.
The knight of the Rill turned and scanned the faces of the Serai behind him. A youth of seventeen or eighteen stepped forward, holding a pair of the bladed boots.
After a second Sildane recognized the boy. He remembered showing him how to tie a horseman's knot once.
"Jaden?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "You've gotten taller."
The boy grinned. The lancer took the boots from him and slid them on. They were a tight fit, but not uncomfortable. Jaden helped him lash them down. He thanked the boy, then turned toward the center of the ring.
He faced Django and they bowed slightly toward each other.
The Serai wasted no time.
He skittered toward the northman with a stutter-step, then twirled his body like a top, launching two rapid kicks.
Sildane heard the boot-blades cut the air around him as he ducked out of the way. He gave ground and set himself as the Serai readied himself for another pass. This time Django kicked high, straight for the throat, but the strike was too slow. Sildane caught the Serai's leg and toppled him with a push.
The small man sprang back up in an instant, incensed. He and the northman began to circle each other, keeping their distance. Sildane for the first time heard the bleat of the drums as if from far away.
Sildane decided to stay on the defensive and let the Serai come to him. He had never trained with this kind of weapon, and was definitely out-classed by the lithe, graceful Django. He had to find a way to end the fight quickly, otherwise the Serai would eventually slice him to ribbons.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden onslaught. Django flipped a high kick with his left foot that Sildane easily avoided, but it was only a feint, as the knight discovered as the Serai's right boot sliced across his midsection.
Sildane stumbled backward, clutching his stomach. Blood flowed between his fingers, bright and steaming in the cold air. The cut was a hand's-length long and it was deep. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he tried to set himself for the next attack.
Django danced back and forth before him, exulting in the satisfaction of first blood. The small Serai started suddenly to the left, then darted right and tried to score the knight's face with a fluttering series of kicks. Sildane ducked and spun away from the attack, struggling to keep distance.
Sildane realized that the Serai was toying with him now, meaning to cut him down slowly, bury him under a myriad of nicks and small cuts. It was galling to realize there was little he could do about it. There was a chance, but it was a gamble -- he had to expose himself even further.
Sildane began to move sluggishly, added a stagger into his step as he circled. Django's eyes flashed with cold glee at the sight of his enemy faltering, but he remained cautious. He moved in again, testing the knight's defenses.
Sildane evaded another flurry of lethal high kicks, then allowed one to come too close. The heel of the Serai's boot brushed across his cheek and knocked him back three steps. He steadied himself and shook his head to clear the blur from his eyes.
The Serai's thin features were twisted with a cruel grin now. He circled toward the northman with chest held high, then struck out with a showy, arcing kick. It was the opening the knight had hoped for.
Sildane parried the strike with his forearm as he slashed a precisely-aimed blow across the back of the Serai's standing leg. The boot-blade sliced across the vulnerable hamstring, just above the knee.
Django fell with a stifled cry as the leg collapsed underneath him. Without hesitation, the Rillic knight delivered a swift final blow to the Serai's exposed throat. The Serai twitched once, his back arching off the grass, then lay still.
The duel had ended so suddenly that the ring of Serai stood stunned. Sildane stood clutching his stomach, his breathing only pained gasps. The drums fell silent.
Finally, Oazlan spoke.
"The Dance is finished. The northman has won his suit. This dispute is no more," he said, drawing a line in the air with the amber-tipped stave.
The crowd of Serai began to disperse in silence. Two men and a woman of Django's family knelt by the body, but did not move to disturb it. Oazlan approached Sildane with a heavy blanket of colorful stripes.
"You have done a great evil here today, northman," he said, but his words were not ungentle. He laid the blanket around the knight's shivering shoulders. "You have won the right to take this wizard's thing from us, but I will ask you as a man and a friend not to do it. Our need is real."
Sildane stood for a moment without speaking, his breathing slowly becoming less ragged. He wavered for a moment, opened his lips to speak, to relent. Then, over the old man's shoulder, a glimpse of movement caught his eye.
On the cold grass, first one, then another of the dead Serai's legs twitched and moved. In another moment, with the help of the others, Django was rising to his feet.
Blood coated his chest from the gash across his throat, but somehow the bleeding had stopped. His eyes were dull and glazed and his movements that of a golem, but he was very much alive. The two men took his arms around their shoulders and helped him to limp away.
Sildane was stunned. Then hot blood flushed his cheeks.
"What witchery is this?" he cried. He started to stand upright, but the wound in his stomach stopped him. His anger faded as his vision blurred and he faltered a step.
Oazlan took him by the arm and pulled him away. Numbly, the knight let himself be led. They headed toward the patriarch's wagons, where Marilith awaited them.
"It is true," the patriarch said as they walked. "Django still lives. He wears the talisman of the cat, a prize won long ago. It has restored his life."
"I face death in the ring with him, while he risks nothing? Is this the justice of the Serai, hetmon?" Sildane asked, incredulous.
His anger and loss of blood made his head spin. He staggered and nearly fell, but the Serai patriarch bore him up.
Finally they reached the wagons, where he was given a chair. He sank into it like a dead man. A warm fire was burning under a big kettle not far away, and Marilith knelt beside it with a long needle in her hands.
"The terms may seem unequal to you, northman," the hetmon explained as he reached down to take a kettle from fire. "But consider this. One, though the talisman is strong, its uses are limited. No one knows how many lives were granted its former owners. Django may well have met a final death in the ring."
The patriarch paused as he poured steaming water into a wooden stein. The aroma of strong tea wafted from it.
"And two," he continued. "To the clan, this death is real. Django will now begin his life anew. His wealth shall pass to his heirs and his rank is gone. His family took on a new pent when the Dance ended. In many ways, he truly lost his life in that ring. That may not comfort you, but that is the way of things."
Sildane said nothing; he was too weak to argue. He would brood on the fairness of the duel later. He watched Marilith's back as she worked with her vials and pouches by the fire, thinking about the patriarch's words -- a new pent. Oazlan placed the stein in Sildane's hands.
"Yes," he said. "Many things will be different now. I will go and see to your gild. When your wounds have been tended, you may take it and go."
The old man turned and walked away. A weariness had seemed to settle on his broad shoulders.
Sildane sipped at the tea saying nothing until Marilith turned to him, holding a needle threaded with gut. A strange mix of emotions played across her face, but not the least of them was relief. She avoided his eyes as she knelt beside him to inspect and clean the blade cut.
They still said nothing as she expertly stitched the wound closed. Sildane realized the tea had contained some narcotic, for he felt little pain. At last she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.
"Now what?" she asked. Her voice was clear, but in her eyes water brimmed. "What is your word, knight of the Rill?"
Sildane looked out toward the center of the camp, which was deserted now but for his charger, which still stood at the place where its reins had touched the ground.
He looked back at her.
She was silent, but her eyes said enough. They offered him a choice as clearly as if she had spoken. Leave with me, they said, or with your gild, but not with both. She was a Serai, after all, and had her own obligations.
Oazlan appeared. In his big, gnarled hands was a bundle wrapped in blue cloth. It looked small and unimportant and Sildane stared at it for a long time.
* * * *
A few minutes later found the lancer on horseback again, headed back up the trail toward Rill City, and the Tsaire, and Farjeon. He leaned over in the saddle a bit, favoring his side where his wound had begun to ache.
The late afternoon sun, already low in the winter sky, peeked suddenly out from behind a bank of gray clouds. The lancer closed his eyes and leaned back his head to catch the sunlight.
He smiled as his hands fell upon the arms around his waist that squeezed him gently. He turned to feel the caress of the woman's face against his cheek and breathe in the soft scent of her dark hair.
But it was only in his mind, for when he opened his eyes, Sildane's hands clutched instead the bundle of blue cloth holding Farjeon's prize. Whatever the gods-forsaken trinket was beneath the wrap, it felt cold as a lump of ice through the cloth.
There had been no words between them as he had left the Serai camp, but Marilith had stood at the edge of the ring of wains and watched until he disappeared from sight.
The clan had decided to move on early, Oazlan had told him, perhaps that night or the next day. Where they were bound he did not say.
The breeze that blew in Sildane's face was warm. In time it would be warm enough to melt the snows and the ice from the top of the river beside him. Then springtime would come to Rill. But it would not come, the lancer knew, to the empty space between his ribs.
Bio:Dustin Appel lives in Texas with his wife, Natasha, and a cat named Banjo. He still searches Dallas in vain for the legendary Mexican Martini and for a sure-fire way to add 20 pounds to his bench press.
E-mail: dustin_appel@yahoo.com
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