Milo's lips smiled thinly and fleetingly. "All right, Lady Zehpoor, I'll await the pleasure of your goddess on the bulk of these matters, but at least show me how you, a lone and unarmed female, managed to scare the wits out of the Muhkohee. According to the nahkhahrah, here, their ilk doesn't take fright easily."

Though Drehkos's mindspeak was daily strengthening, it still was not on a par with those deathless two who had used it for hundreds of years, nor was it a match for that of the gifted Zehpoor, therefore he had received only bits and pieces of the silent exchanges and was utterly unprepared for what followed.

The lissome figure of the drably clad woman wavered before her audience. Then, all in the blinking of an eye, she was replaced by the awesome form of a monstrous bear, looming threateningly over Komees Hari, who was momentarily petrified with shock. Huge and horrible, black as nightmare, the sow bear stood on hind legs thick as treetrunks. Yellowish fangs gnashed and baleful red eyes flashed pure, blood-lusting menace from that gigantic head which brushed the very ridgepole-more than twelve feet above the floor. The apparition shuffled slowly forward, the long, needle-tipped claws of the forepaws lowering relentlessly toward Hari.

On the other side of the table, only the nahkhahrah had remained in his chair. Even Milo and Aldora, who had been expecting something of the sort, found themselves on their feet, steel bared, standing crouched to receive the attack.

But not so Drehkos! He was up and over the table, both sword and dirk out. His shoulder struck his brother with force, knocking him prone. "Get under the table, Hari!" he snapped. "It can't really harm me, but it can kill you." Then he sent the heavy dirk spinning straight for one of those satanic eyes, ducked under the threatening forepaws,

and-

The bear was gone and Drehkos's sword was stabbing the air above the head of Zehpoor. The close bond which had been the brothers' from boyhood to the rebellion had resumed from that hour.

Therefore, as they rode down from the mountains, Hari greeted Drehkos warmly, unabashed by the knowledge that this man, his younger brother, was immortal. "Come slumming, have you?" he joshed. "You've then tired of the life of an Undying God, already? What'll you do for your next fifty-odd years, brother mine?"

Drehkos did not return the smile. "Both Milo and Aldora tried to farspeak Bili last night, Hari, and they could neither of them range his mind. And that bodes ill. That bodes exceedingly ill. Who is Bill's heir? Djef Morguhn, isn't it?"

"No, Drehkos," Hari sighed. "Young Djef died at the siege of Morguhn Hall, last year. Tchahrlee be next eldest, and he be already holding the duchy as deputy thoheeks . . . but, dammit, Drehkos, I can't tell you why, but . . . but I just don't think Bili's dead."

Drehkos made the Sun-sign before his face. "I pray Sacred Sun you be right, brother Hari."

Hari reached over to touch Drehkos's skin and mind-spoke on a strictly personal level. "And, Undying Brother, I am not alone in my faith in Bili's ability to survive. Last night, Sir Geros Lahvoheetos and Pawl Raikuh rode southwest, along with fourscore Freefighters of the old Morguhn Troop, twice that number of warriors of the Soormehlyuhn Tribe and thirty-four of the Moon Maidens who rode north with me.

"I'm prepared to swear that I knew nothing of their intended desertion until they were long gone, Drehkos. Candidly, however, I did all I could to see them well provided, well armed and well mounted. And they know, too, that they ride with my blessing. Sun and Wind grant those brave men success, I say, for Duke Bili is a man in a million, Steel keep him."

Chapter XII

It had been full night before Kogh and Zehpoor had had the opportunity to find a place apart. His first words were simple and blunt.

"It is really you then, Zehpoor Frainyuhn?" She had smiled a little sadly. "Yes, father-in-law-who-might-have-been, I am Zehpoor of the Tribe of Frainyuhn, daughter of Kehroon. How . . . how is Behdrohz, your son?"

"He is dead these twenty years, child, killed on a raid against the Duhnkin Stahn. They all told him that you were dead, Zehpoor. Your father showed him your grave. Why were we so deceived?"

The woman hung her head, half-whispering. "I am so very sorry, Der Kogh, so very very sorry. But my poor father had no choice. Mother Djainoosh announced suddenly that she had chosen me. She would not relent even when she was told it was your son I was promised to. What else could my father do?"

His arm went about her shoulders in a gentle embrace. "Nothing but what he did do, child. Do not grieve, I understand, and I am certain that my fine, brave Behdrohz would have, too. I can but regret that he is not here to see how lovely is that woman I choose to bear my grandchildren. The Taishyuhns would have made you both welcome and happy, Zehpoor."

The lamplight glinted from her hah* as she raised her head. "And does that welcome still stand, nahkhahrahll. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would still Zehpoor Frainyuhn be made happy in the Taishyuhn Tribe?"

"Why . . . why, of course, child, if you wish to give up your Vows. I have no sons left to wed you, but the winter has been hard and there are certain widowers . . ." His high forehead crinkled in concentration. "Let's see, there is a man, a hetman of a large, prosperous village. He is a raider of some renown and his house is rich with his spoils. Though he was one of my Behdrohz's cronies, age sits lightly on him and he is a strong and lusty man, he-"

She shook her head forcefully. "Not good enough."

"Well," the nahkhahrah tugged at his earlobe, "he's not a Taishyuhn, but I know of a dehrehbeh who recently lost a wife. But he be an older man."

Pushing herself away from him, she gazed levelly into his eyes. "It is not right that I should toy with you; credit the fact that I have to my woman's nature.

"On the night of the day the Bahrohnyuhn girl came to me, all bruised and ravaged by the lowlander raiders, I put her to the healing sleep and saw to her hurts. Then I ate the Sacred Plant and sojourned with Our Lady. She allowed me to see the futures She willed, among them my own.

"Kogh Taishyuhn, Our Lady wills that I repay old debts, so far as I now can. I am to remain faithful to all my Vows, save one. She will preserve me in my Powers only if I give the virginity, once pledged to her, to the dehrehbeh of the Taishyuhn Tribe."

"Zehpoor, child, I am a very old man. That son of mine to whom you were betrothed was the last child ever I sired, and his mother was the third wife I buried. His sister, who has ordered my house and slaves for about fifteen years, is herself almost old enough to be your mother, so it is most doubtful that 1 can quicken you, as a good husband should." She just smiled. "That doesn't matter, Kogh Taishyuhn.**

"Of course it matters, Zehpoor. What use is a marriage if it does not produce children? Our Lady would be the first to-"

She continued to shape her lips in a smile, but her voice hardened perceptibly. "You have often spoken for Her, Kogh Taishyuhn, but you do not now. I speak Her will, Her desires, Her commands, this time. I am to render up to you that which was long ago promised your tribe, not because I so desire, but because I am so bidden. As regards age, I am no spring chicken, Kogh, and I cannot say that I honestly wish to undergo a carriage and birthing, especially not a first one, at my age. But I am Hers and must bow to Her Holy Will. You, too, are Hers, Kogh, by your roan's rites, and you must add your own submission to mine."

"But who," the nahkhahrah demanded stubbornly, "is there to marry us? There now is no Taishyuhn older than ami."

She nodded once. "True, Kogh, true. But the stahn is wisely become part of a larger stahn. And the nahkhahrah of this Confederation has at least ten times your moons."

Again would he have spoken, but she raised a finger. "No, Kogh, husband-to-be, hear me out. This Milo of Moral will say the words, taking those words and the proper usages from your mind. We will be joined three days hence, in the splendor of Her Newness.

"And soon, shortly after Her next Newness, you will perform the rites for Pehroosz Bahrohnyuhn and him who is war chief of the Ageless One's hosts. And the issue of that marriage will heap glory and honor upon both Confederation and Ahrmehnee Stahn, though we two will not live to see."

And he was too wise a man to think his stubbornness could prevail over the will of the Goddess. He bowed his snowy head and made the Moon-sign. Then he took the woman's head between his hands and pressed his lips tenderly to each closed eyelid, then to the full lips. Sitting back, he ritually squeezed her two breasts, then thrust his left hand far up beneath her skirt to make the Sacred Sign upon her pudenda.

"Thus, Zehpoor Frainyuhn, are you once more promised to the Taishyuhn Tribe. Your father is dead, child, so to whom should the brideprice be paid?" - "Give it to the dehrehbeh of Frainyuhn, Kogh, and tell him to equally divide it among my living brothers, keeping a share for himself." She extended a hand to touch him, then slowly and gingerly kneaded the swelling, throbbing flesh beneath her fingers. Smiling again, but now with a hint of mischief, she said, "Ah, Kogh, Kogh, I fear you have exaggerated your aged infirmity."

He returned her smile, placed his own hand over hers. "You are a lovely woman, Zehpoor, well formed and pleasing to both sight and touch." He hooked an arm about her waist and drew her closer to him, his other hand commencing another foray beneath her skirt For a moment, she seemed to melt, then she tore away from him and came to her feet in one lithe movement Her face flushed and, her high breasts rapidly rising and falling, her laughter trilled. "Oh, no, my Kogh, there'll be no sampling of the viands today. You . . . and I, too .. . must wait for the feast."

When informed of the coming nuptials, the younger Ahrmehnee warriors immediately embarked on a full-scale hunt for game. Thoheeks Hwahltuh Sanderz-Vawn and his bored clansmen joined in with a will, as did most of the civilian nobles and such Freefighters as attended them. But Milo doubted they would bag much, the winter having been both long and hard and the environs of the stahn much disturbed through movements of large bodies of troops and endless foragings. Therefore, he contributed a score of the herd of cattle he had had driven up from the lowlands, several hogsheads of wheaten flour, and ten full pipes of wine, plus many sacks of cornmeal and beans, dried fruits and vegetables, casks of cheeses and honey and salt, as well as barrel on barrel of that Confederation Army staple, shredded cabbage pickled with turnip and radish slices and garlic.

On the day before the festivities, Zehpoor called Pehroosz to her. Showing her some dried tubers, the older woman sketched the appearance of the plant whose roots they were and told Pehroosz the growing conditions favored by the plant. Then she gave Pehroosz a small wick-erwork basket and a broad-bladed digging knife and sent her off into the wooded hills.

And after the girl was safely out of sight, Zehpoor surrendered to her tears. She had come to love the patient and cheerful, albeit sad-eyed, Pehroosz, and now she anguished at the terror the child would suffer this day. But she consoled herself: terror there would assuredly be, but no harm to Pehroosz, and much lasting good would come of that brief terror; and, besides, it was the Lady's will.

"It will do you good!" the High Lord had firmly stated, when he had ordered Senior Strahteegos Hahfos Djohnz to take part in at least the last day of the hunting. "You work too hard, Hahfos, and for too long at a time."

Hahfos thought it an example of the pot defaming the kettle, since there was seldom a night when the High Lord's pavilion wasn't brightly lit until well after the midnight hour. But when the High Lord finally lost patience and framed it as an order, Hahfos gave up and set about preparations.

Unlike the civilian noblemen, Hahfos had never been able to afford to maintain two or three horses. His destrier was a fine, well-trained warhorse, but a hunter he was not, so the officer rode up to the village and borrowed a shaggy, bony, piebald pony. He set out early in the day in company with a half-dozen middle-aged Ahrmehnee who thought they had seen signs of wild pigs within easy ride of the main village.

By midafternoon, the men were still sending their big hounds fanning out widely and vainly. But though they had flushed nary a porker, a shrewd cast of barbed dart had netted Hahfos a large, solitary stag. After his hunting companions had exclaimed over the size of the creature and the length and trickiness of the cast and had Hahfos red-faced in embarrassment at their blunt, jovial compliments, they all joined to speedily gut and bleed and clean the trophy and lash it across the back of the piebald gelding.

He rode the straining, overburdened little horse only until he was out of sight of his hosts, then dismounted and began to backtrail the earlier course at a brisk walk. While the pony sucked up water from an icy streamlet, Hahfos stood just downstream in the narrow, twisting defile and, with a wetted neckcloth, did what he could to remove dried sweat and deer's blood from his skin and clothing. It was then that the scream smote his ears, bouncing from wall to wall of the tiny vale, startling the drinking pony, who threw up his outsize head, snorting through wide-flared nostrils, though he was too tired and heavy-laden to bolt

The women in the Taishyuhn villages had been fa a whirl of activity since the announcement of the nahkhahrah's wedding date. Bread ovens glowed around the clock, while the flesh of butchered cattle, game and fowl needed immediate attention lest it begin to spoil. The hoards of charcoal were quickly exhausted, so a steady supply of wood was vital and the sound of the axe was almost constant in every village. No pair of hands could stay idle in such surroundings, nor had Pehroosz's. But the work was repetitious and she had been more than glad when Mother Zehpoor had sent her out of the village on her errand.

But a location of the sort described by the wise woman proved difficult to find, and her pony, too small and fine-boned to be taken for hunting, was frisky to the point of fractiousness; so that, when finally she chanced across a likely-looking spot, she was worn out with battling the strong-willed little horse.

She dismounted and tightly tied the reins to the trunk of a young maple, then took her basket and knife and proceeded to where a few mossy stones projected barely above the surface of an almost-circular deposit of deep loam, knelt and began to dig at the bases of a clump of the plants drawn by Mother Zehpoor.

When she had shaken the dark earth from the fleshy, finger-sized roots and put them in her basket, she probed the disturbed soil to be certain she had missed none of the tubers, since there appeared to be no more of the plants in the small area. But her knife sank only a bare inch into the loam when it was halted . . . and by something which did not feel like a stone or a tree root

Wondering, she cleared away the shallow deposit to expose a dull, grayish surface, obviously metal, but unrusted and unlike any metal she ever had seen. Shoving aside the basket, she widened the excavation until she had the object free of dirt and roots. Then she squatted back on her heels and studied her discovery.

It was surely man-made; its even surfaces and sharp-angled corners were evidence of that fact Pehroosz still could not identify the metal, for all that her mother's sister's husband had been the village smith and Pehroosz had had some little exposure to the sight of iron, various kinds of steel, brass, bronze, copper and even gold, silver and that mixture of the two called Ehleen-metal. Though this artifact bore a vague resemblance to silver, especially where her knife had cut through the dirt and oxidation, she was certain that it was not.

In size, it was about four spans of her hand across in either direction and half that in thickness. A couple of lines of what looked like some kind of lettering-though not in the Ahrmehnee language, Pehroosz knew, since she could write her name-were stamped across one side of the object, and another side sported what looked like a handle.

Leaning forward, Pehroosz sought to lift the artifact by that handle . . . and almost tumbled atop it. After long, hard effort, she at last managed to drag the weighty thing onto level ground. It seemed incredible that so small an item could be so heavy.

On the side which had rested on the bottom of the hole, she found yet another curiosity-a perfect circle of verdigris which, when carved away by her knife, revealed a disc of pitted bronze with a jagged slit, so narrow that her fingernail could barely enter it, centered in a round depression. Above this circle, a hair-fine seam ran from edge to edge across the face of the oddity. It was then that she concluded that she had found a chest of some kind, rather than simply a piece of old metal.

She decided to see if she could pry it open with her knife, but first arose to walk down to where she had tied her pony. The exertions had left her thirsty and a water bottle was tied onto the saddle. But her exertions had done more; the noise had awakened a nearby sleeper and, once awake, this sleeper was hungry, ravenously hungry.

Hahfos had left his fine, well-balanced darts with the Ahrmehnee hunters, but his wide-bladed boarspear was lashed to the pony's saddle. It was his only real weapon, since he had seen no need to burden himself with sword or dirk, replacing them with more practical saw-backed hanger and skinning knife. As a second terrified scream came hard on the heels of the first, this time blended with the scream of a pony or horse as well, he quieted his own mount enough to cast loose the lashings of the deer carcass. Throwing himself into the saddle, he drummed his heels on the little mount's barrel.

The defile twisted and turned and narrowed even more until, at its end, Hahfos was urging the pony through the stream itself. At the base of a small knoll, the water plunged into a dark hole, and the scream came yet again, from somewhere on the other side of that knofi. Hahfos put the game little piebald to the slope, leaning forward, his keen eyes searching the trees and underbrush above and his boarspear couched and ready.

Then he was among the trees at the summit and was almost unseated when his mount reared in terror at the edge of a tiny glade. Just across the open space, an Ahrmehnee girl clung ten feet up an ancient oak, splitting the air with her shrieks as a lean, cinnamon bear began to climb toward her.

The pony would go not one step closer, so Hahfos jumped from its back and ran to the base of the tree. Intent on filling his belly, the boar bear ignored the noises behind and below until several inches of sharp steel in his flesh made him aware that he was no longer necessarily the master of the situation.

Roaring his pain and fury, the big bear dropped from the trunk, spuming in midair to land facing his tormentor, who stood half-crouched, his bloody spear point held before him. Baring a mouthful of white teeth, the red bear charged.

Hahfos briefly regretted leaving his darts with the Ahrmehnee, as his dry tongue flickered over drier lips. He would have preferred the bear be at least crippled at rather a longer distance than five bare feet of spearshaft But more than two decades of soldiering had taught him to accept those things impossible to change. Gritting his teeth, he set his feet solidly and braced himself for the coming trial of strength.

His arrival had been most fortuitous for Pehroosz. No sooner had her attacker ceased his stalking of her to do battle than the slender limb which had been supporting most of her weight snapped and her wails broke off abruptly when her soft rump smote the ground with sufficient force to drive the air from her lungs and set stars dancing in her head.

This bear was no cub; he had faced hunters before. He recognized the spear and its danger and dimly recalled the burning agony of suppurating spearwounds. Dropping to four feet, he came in low, presenting as little target as possible.

Hahfos's clenched jaws ached with strain, but he was unaware of the fact. All that now troubled him was the recollection of how Rehdjee, one of his older brothers, had died of the awesome wounds inflicted by a bear which had come in under his spear, as this one seemed intent upon doing. Taking a fearsome chance, the officer lowered his point, slashing its sharp edges at the animal's forelegs in the hope of forcing it erect so that he might have a chance at the heart.

The bear's roar changed timbre and gained volume as the keen steel bit into his off foreleg, just above the splayed, long-clawed paw. Lightning-fast, massive jaws closed upon the spearshaft, jerked so powerfully that Hahfos was certain his arms would be rent apart at the joints, then clamped down, splintering the two-inch hardwood shaft beneath the iron straps and so mangling the straps themselves that the head hung at a useless angle.

"How silly," thought Hahfos then, "to have survived so many years of war only to die under the claws and teeth of a dumb beast, while trying to protect a girl who, until a few weeks ago, was my enemy!"

For a few moments, the bear mauled the broken spear, attacking it so savagely that the head completely separated from the shaft Hahfos had dropped. In the space of those moments, the hard-pressed officer drew his single-edged hanger-better suited for dispatching and butchering beasts than for defending one's life-and set his back against the wide bole of a tall old tree.

To the girl, who looked to be just sitting on the ground across the clearing, he shouted, "Run, you witless little baggage! It'll not be long till he's done with me. Run to your pony, damn you, and ride like Sacred Wind!"

Then the bear was at him, all gnashing teeth and foul breath and raging fury. In his left hand, Hahfos grasped his cursive, pointless but razor-edged skinning knife. Choosing his moment shrewdly, he jammed the wide blade betwist the gaping jaws, hoping against hope that he might slice through enough muscles to render less effective those jaws and the fangs which were the bear's principal weapons. But a snapping of the jaws immobilized the knife before it had done more than deeply gash the tongue, and a jerk of the furry monster's head tore the hilt from Hahfos's grasp.

Pehroosz had not understood her savior's words, spoken in another language than her own, though his meaning had been unmistakable. But she was of a race of tough and hardy warriors and, seeing the stranger at bay against a treetrunk, his spear broken, facing a full-grown bear with only a clumsy-looking knife, she could not but try to aid him, even if her own life be forfeit The beast had reared onto his hind legs, which made him nearly Hahfos's full height. His furry chest was pressed tight against the man's leather jerkin, and only the hand gripping the throat under the slavering jaws and the straining muscles of the left arm had kept the blood-dripping teeth out of man flesh. The proximity of the antagonists, plus the protection afforded Hahfos by the tree-trunk, made it impossible for the bear to make much use of his curving, needle-tipped claws, but this same proximity rendered the eighteen-inch hanger almost useless .. . and Hahfos could feel his straining thews weakening. He doubted he could hold back those jaws much longer.

Pehroosz staggeringly ran across the clearing, snatched up the four-foot remnant of spearshaft and began to belabor the beast's back and head and shoulders with the iron ferrule, but, though the concussions of her buffets increased her own dizziness, the bear took no notice of them. She finally stood back, panting. Her eyes, casting back and forth in search of a more effective weapon, lit upon the spearhead.

The boarspear is a weapon designed to the needs of a specific purpose-that of impaling a large, dangerous animal on a long and wide steel point, while a strong metal crossbar just behind the head prevents the wounded animal from impaling himself so far that he can get teeth or tuskes or claws to the hunter. Unlike the lance, which is used for the much easier task of killing mere men, both edges of the spearhead are carefully honed to a razor keenness, so that slight movements of his shaft by an experienced hunter will slice away at the animal's internal organs, increasing hemorrhage and hastening death.

Pitting all her wiry strength to the task, Pehroosz drove the foot-long hand's-breadth of steel into the closest part of the bear's body. In the berserk rage of combat to the death, it is possible for man or beast to not even feel small injuries, but a leaf-shaped blade in the kidney is difficult to ignore. Tearing out of Hahfos's grasp, the bear whirled to face this new tormentor, and his heavy-muscled shoulder struck Pehroosz, sending her tumbling head over heels, consciousness leaving her in a great flash of blinding light.

But the respite, slight though it had been, was enough. Hahfos danced a half step to the side and, ere the roaring beast could turn back to him, the hanger had found and burst the mighty heart. When the stricken bear dropped to all fours, the roars suddenly replaced by pitiful, snuffling whimpers, Hahfos raised the heavy hanger high above his head and brought it whistling down to cleanly sever the spine, between shoulders and head, almost decapitating the dying bear.

Once sure that all life had fled the bloody carcass, the officer turned his attentions to the senseless girl, now bruised and bleeding from her violent contacts with mossy rocks and gnarled tree roots. Untying his still-damp neckcloth, he knelt beside her and, cradling her rounded shoulders in the crook of his thick arm, wiped away what he could of the dirt and blood from her scraped and purpling cheeks and forehead. Then be gingerly began to feel and probe her limbs and body, searching for broken bones.

Half-conscious, Pehroosz's mind registered the cool moisture on her abraded face, but also the warmth of Hahfos's breath. Then hard hands were rubbing and kneading her body and, through slitted lids, a scarred, bristly face loomed waveringly above her. And she snapped into full consciousness. Screaming, sobbing in terror, she writhed to free herself from the man's grasp, her broken nails clawing at his eyes and cheeks, her small fists beating at his head and shoulders.

Thinking, naturally enough, that he was dealing with a simple case of post-combat hysterics, Hahfos deftly pinioned her lashing arms in one big hand and, rumbling calm, soothing, meaningless sounds, sought to enter her mind as he would have entered that of a frightened horse.

He entered Pehroosz's mind, entered as cleanly as a swimmer dives into still water, and what he found in her roiling, half-formed thoughts and in the murky depths of her memory shook the sensitive man to his innermost core. For Hahfos was a deeply sensitive man, feeling the sufferings of others even more keenly than he might his own, unswervingly believing in the innate goodness and dignity of men . . . and women. Not even a lifetime spent among scenes of harsh discipline, suffering and violent death had coarsened his basically gentle soul. The agonies and horrors the girl in his arms had endured tore at him, now, bred full-grown within him the resolve to shield her from further fright or pain so long as Sacred Sun continued to shine on his living body.

It was nearing dusk when Hahfos led the two ponies- Pehroosz and her strange casket on the one, the other tottering under the combined weights of the deer and the bear-into the square of the main village. Willing hands took the piebald's reins and set about unloading the carcasses, treating the officer to polite, but heartfelt, exclamations of joy at the sizes of the beasts, all couched in broken trade Mehrikan. Hahfos pleased them by using his steadily improving Ahrmehnee to thank them, then led Pehroosz's mount to the house she had indicated, in the doorway of which stood the sorceress who had saved Captain Raikuh.

The moon rode high when he delivered his charger to the horse handlers and strode the distance to his small pavilion. Fil, his orderly of many years, was there to take his commander's cloak, even while he eyed askance the bark-scraped jerkin under it

"My lord had good hunting?" he inquired, draping the cloak over one arm, before reaching around Hahfos's trim waist to unbuckle the weapons belt. "Where are my lord's darts and spear? They will be in need of honing and greasing."

"Yes, Fil, the hunting was good. I bagged a deer and a bear. The darts I loaned to an Ahrmehnee gentleman. I'll bring them back tomorrow, after the wedding. The spear I left up in the hills-the bear chewed it to pieces."

Hahfos hurriedly unlaced his jerkin and, while pulling it over his head, mouthed a string of muffled orders. "Knowing you, old friend, you've had a great kettle of water seething since the last of day. Set up the trough, if you haven't already, and, while I'm bathing, you can lay out my second-best uniform, and the cat-helm, too. And send a guard to request an audience with the High Lord one half hour hence. Well, what are you waiting for, man? Let's hear those creaky bones moving!"

The High Lord left his place to stride over and wring Hahfos's hand, grinning merrily. "Of course you have my leave, Hahfos! And I wish you every happiness. Intermarriage has proven the only way to weld bonds between new lands and old. I had felt certain that some of the soldiers I'm going to leave to garrison this fort would wed Ahrmehnee girls, but that you, one of my best officers ..." He suddenly smote fist in palm, exclaiming, "And I'll gift you a wedding present, son Hahfos. You may have personal choice of the men who make up the two battalions I'm leaving here. You'll command them, this fort and the stahn as Lord Warden of the Ahrmehnee Marches."

Hahfos reeled on suddenly weak legs, feeling a little as if a warclub had smashed his helm. March wardens were nobles of the Third Rank, the peers of ahrkeethoheeksee, army marshals and lord councilors. He had never dreamed of aspiring so high!

"And," the High Lord continued, "I'll even give you the chit's brideprice."

Hahfos's color deepened. "Please, mah lord, no, man ... mah lord is too generous."

"All right then," chuckled the High Lord, "call it a loan. I'll hold your house and effects at Goohm as security."

The wedding of Kogh Taishyuhn to Zehpoor Frainyuhn was completed in less than a quarter-hour, but the festivities stretched on for more than a week-dancing and eating and dancing and guzzling and dancing and ritual mock combats and dancing and a few deadly-serious combats and dancing and pony racing and dancing and more gorging and guzzling, followed as a matter of course by more dancing. Over the long centuries, Milo had been exposed to many different peoples and cultures, but he could not recall another so obsessed with dancing. The village and the sprawl of camps surrounding it resounded by day and by night to the throbbings of Ahrmehnee drums, the wails of flutes and the rhythmic stampings and clappings and shouts of dancers and those who had stopped long enough to cram their mouths with food or drain off gourds of thick beer and tankards of wine.

Milo had thought it wise to keep most of his soldiers in the castra, bringing no more than a score of officers and men from each regiment. He still knew relatively little of the Ahrmehnee, but he knew his soldiery in great detail and had no wish to in any way endanger this unexpected godsend of final peace with the fierce mountaineers who had for so long plagued his border duchies. But as it turned out, most of the Confederation troops got to enjoy a bit of Ahrmehnee hospitality, since few of them-all hardened guzzlers and tough specimens in top physical condition-could take more than a full day of the "party," many only half that time ... or less. And Milo began to understand a little better the things which he had found hard to fathom in years past-how parties of middle-aged or even older raiders could hike units of pursuing Regulars into the ground, then suddenly turn and assault the exhausted troops with all the savage ferocity of a treecat

As he drifted off into a much-needed sleep on one of those nights-his ears still assailed by the wild, rhythmic music, still seeing in his mind's eye the bright bonfires and the circles of sinuously weaving women, the long lines of leaping, stamping, whirling warriors-he thought, "Hahfos and that Ahrmehnee girl will be a start. What a mixture that will be! Horseclans stock and Ehleen and now Ahrmehnee, and more than a few dashes of the Middle Kingdoms-in another hundred years, this Confederation should be home to an unbeatable race!"

EPILOGUE

Dr. Sternheimer had been admiring his fine new young body when his intercom buzzed. He strode quickly across his bedroom, reveling in the lack of those arthritic pains which his previous body had begun to develop, and depressed the button, looking up at the screen, but prudishly keeping his own nudity out of range of the video-camera.

"Doctor," announced the caller, "the Armenian Expedition is back at the Broomtown Base. Dr. Braun is on the radio now. I... I think perhaps you had best speak with him yourself, doctor."

Hurriedly, Sternheimer slipped into a coverall and zipped it while stepping into a pair of canvas shoes, left his suite and jogged down the hall to the lift, then changed his mind and took the stairs, three at a time. He arrived at the top of the seven flights sweating lightly, breathing normally and inordinately pleased at the overall fitness of this most recent body.

On the roof of the main tower, the shielding had been rolled back and a cool breeze with the tang of the sea brushed his face and ruffled his dark, wavy hah-. As he began jogging toward the distant penthouse which was the communications center, the distant, booming roar of a bull alligator drew his gaze to the north.

Though the morning sun was already cresting the eastern horizon, its heat was not yet sufficient to dispel the misty fogs of the night, and, as far as the dark-brown eyes of Sternheimer's latest body could see, the deadly swamps were covered in a billowy haze. The ocean of opaque whiteness was only marred by the upthrust tops of the taller trees-pine, cypress, swamp oak.

The bull boomed yet again. Closer to hand, a stooping eagle sank swiftly into the mists, then reemerged, broad wings beating for altitude. In its cruel claws some long animal writhed and jerked. Too short and broad, thought Sternheimer, to be a snake; most likely a large lizard then, or an immature crocodile. As he pressed his two thumbs to the identification plate of the door, he watched the avian hunter flap away westward with its catch. "Braun? Sternheimer, here. How was your trip?" The voice from the transmitter sounded weary unto death. "A bloody balls-up, David, from start to finish. Jay Corbett is dead, and Erica too, probably. Both my ... this body's legs are becoming gangrenous, and I'm going to have to make a transfer soon."

"Were you able to get the devices out, Braun, and the precious metals?" Dr. Sternheimer snapped. He could not have cared less about his subordinate's physical ills: bodies, after all, were expendable.

Braun sighed deeply. "Oh, we got them out of that volcanic valley, David-over a hundred packloads, in all."

Sternheimer smiled broadly, admiring his expanse of even white teeth reflected up at him from the polished metal surface of the table. "What's the total tonnage, Braun? One of the cargo copters is down for maintenance, but I can send the other two up and-"

Braun sighed once more. "That won't be necessary, David. Those packloads and animals are scattered along two hundred miles of mountain trails, along with the corpses of the guards and packers."

The smile quickly disappeared. When Sternheimer spoke again, his voice was cold and tight, tight as the clenched teeth behind the almost immobile lips. "You had better start at the beginning, Dr. Braun."

"As you wish, David, as you wish. Corbett and I deduced that the volcano was on the verge of a major eruption, and he determined that if we could block the fissure that served it as a safety valve, we-"

"Yes, yes, I know all that, Braun. I approved it, remember?" Sternheimer found it difficult to keep the frustration and anger out of his voice.

"Well, David, we must have miscalculated somewhere along the line. The eruption was two days later and infinitely more violent than we had imagined it would be. We had forded the Catawba River and were skirting the northwestern flank of an odd rectangular plateau-making as rapid a progress as we could, since we were expecting a pursuit of some kind in the absence of an eruption-when a terrible earthquake occurred. We lost half the packtrain right there, David. A good half-mile of cliffs collapsed outward and buried them-men, mules, ponies, everything!

"The animals which survived went wild, of course- panicked, bolted, threw their riders or fell on them. That's what happened to my left leg; it was fractured and partly crushed when my mule fell. The mountain over the volcano must have literally exploded, because huge chunks of superheated rock fell all over the place. The piece of granite that landed on top of Corbett must have weighed all of twenty or thirty tons, David, and was still too hot to touch a day later.

"David, poor Erica was a brick, then. She reorganized our remaining men, set up camp right there on the spot and sent out patrols to round up as many of the animals as could be found. She set my leg, splinted and bandaged it and had a horse litter rigged up for me. It developed that we still had most of the devices, although almost all of the metals had been buried, as had our transceiver and all our extra weapons and ammunition.

"That night, it looked like the whole world was ablaze, with forest fires in every direction, as well as the continuing fireworks from that damned volcano. The only thing that saved us from being roasted alive was that Erica had had the forethought to burn off all the underbrush in the area, while the wind was being sucked northward in the immediate aftermath of the initial eruption. As it was, we had to shelter as best we could under rock overhangs and in crevices to escape the night-long falls of hot ash from the volcano and windborne embers from the fires."

Sternheimer's voice gave no indication that he was at all impressed by the tale of horrors. "All right, Braun, that's quite enough embroidery. Get down to the bottom line, man. Enormous expense and labor went into fitting out your expedition, and I want a damned good reason why it, and you, failed. How did you lose the devices?" He waited for a moment, then, "Well, Braun . . . Braun, are you there?

Another voice came through the earphones, however. "Dr. Sternheimer, this is Mark Morton speaking. As medical officer for this installation, I must advise you that to interrogate Dr. Braun longer at this time will be to risk his total death. His present body is very near to- expiration, all of its systems having been poisoned by the massive infections in its lower extremities. I have administered to him all the drugs I dare to; any more and he will lose consciousness, and he might not then regain consciousness enough to effect a transfer to a sound body."

"Oh, very well," snapped Sternheimer peevishly. "Let the fumbling fool make the transfer. I'll not deny him life. But put on the base commander now."

Saul Perlman sounded apologetic. "All I know, David, is that some friendlies rode into the base here, with Dr. Braun on a travois, having found him tied to the saddle of a dying mule. He was out of his head with pain and fever, and they only brought him to my base because the chief had recognized the mule as one of ours.

'The point at which the game hunters found him is well to the west of the planned route of return; therefore, surmising that-out of his head as he was-he might have strayed from the main party, I had one of the scout copters manned and we made two full-range sweeps to the north." He paused, then added, "We found what was left of them on the second. I've but just come back from there."

"And . . . ?" probed Sternheimer. "Eighty kilometers almost due north of Broomtown and nearly seven kilometers west of the mapped route, they were apparently ambushed. From the conditions of the remaining bodies, I'd say they all died a week or ten days ago. We found the corpses of twenty-two men, nine mules and four ponies at what looked like the site of the ambush; all the human bodies had been stripped and hideously mutilated and every scrap of trappings and loads had been removed from the dead animals. The mules had all been skinned, David, and so"-he gagged and gulped- "had several of the men!"

"Now there's a practice I've never heard of," said Sternheimer.

"Neither had I," Perlman continued. "The tribes around here don't do such things, but I've heard traders speak of some tribe or tribes well north of here which are incredibly savage and bestial. Let's hope they're not migrating south."

"Any sign of Erica Arenstein?" demanded Sternheimer. "None," replied Perlman. "And we searched very carefully, very thoroughly, for all that the stenches were almost unbearable in places. And from the little that poor Braun has been able to tell us, I think she was killed or captured sometime prior to that final fight

"Somehow, Braun and at least two others got away. At least, we found two whole and clothed bodies of men who had been sent along as guards. One was about fifteen kilometers south; he and his animal had fallen into a gorge and we were lucky enough to spot them from a copter. The other was dragged in by some of the locals, and they were gone before we could question them."

Think your 'friendlies' might have killed him?" inquired Sternheimer.

"No, the javelin head that Mark took out of his right lung was almost identical to the one he took out of Braun's leg-an entirely different pattern from the locally produced weapons. They were very crude, David, of iron, not steel, and wickedly barbed."

"Well, Braun can no doubt shed more light on this botched business," -Sternheimer concluded. "As soon as his transfer is concluded, I want him brought down here to the Center. Were I at all superstitious, I'd have to think that there's a jinx on all our efforts against those damned mutants. Nothing has gone right for us, for our designs, since Moray led his horde of stinking nomads east from the Great Plains.

"Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever see the end of him."

Prologue

Sir Geros was ensconced in the privy behind his small, neat house when a scurrying servitor brought word that the tower watchers reported two armed riders approaching from the northeast. As the old warrior dropped worn baldric over his scarred, shaven head and fitted its links to those of his scabbard, he heard the first belling of the hall's pack of hounds.

By the time he reached the courtyard, the riders were through the open gates—which laxity was as a rasp drawn across a raw nerve to the old soldier. He and the old thoheeks had always seen eye to eye on tight security for both hall and hard-won duchy, even if their ideas had differed on other points, but now Thoheeks Hwahltuh was gone to wind and neither his widow (the fat, Ehleen bitch, thought Sir Geros) nor the regent followed very many of the practices of the old lord's lifetime.

The riders guided their big, northern horses at a slow walk through the broil of leaping, snapping dogflesh, the second, larger man pulling along as well a pack-laden sumpter mule. As they came closer, Sir Geros could see that, under the thick overlay of dust, the scarred faces of both men were lined with fatigue. Weary too were the beasts, their heads drooping low, but the riders sat straight, their plain half-armor dented and patched here and there but polished and oiled beneath the road dust.

Polished, also, were the unadorned hilts of their broadswords and the light axes dangling from their saddlebows. The heads of the two lances socketed on the mule's load sparkled like burnished silver in the first rays of Sacred Sun. Sir Geros did not need to examine the scabbarded sword-blades to know that they too would surely be well honed and unblemished.

He knew—and respected and empathized with—this stripe of men from the days when he was a warrior and had ridden with and fought beside Middle Kingdoms freefighters. The Sword was not only their life but their grim god—and they treated that god with respect.

As the hall servants kicked and cuffed the pack away from the mounting blocks, a groom reached for the reins of the lead rider's stallion and nearly lost a hand for his courtesy. Big, square yellow teeth clacked bare millimeters from the jerked back fingers.

Sir Geros detected a fleeting glimmer of soundless command—his mindspeak, for all his strivings, had never been very good—and the warhorse stood stockstill while, jackboots creaking, the wiry rider dismounted and, after hitching his sword around for easier walking, strode toward the old castellan.

A swordlength away, he halted. "Don't you recognize me, then, old friend? Have these years of soldiering changed me that much?"

Sir Geros looked hard then. He took in the gray-blue eyes, their corners crinkled from much squinting against sunglare and the elements, the high forehead, permanently dented by the heavy helm which probably was now part of the mule's cargo. He could see that the skin must once have been fair, but now it was weathered to the hue of polished maple, with the fine, high-bridged nose canted slightly to one side and with two large and innumerable small scars scoring the reddish-bristled cheeks.

A short, red-blond spade beard spiked forward from the man's chin, and a thick, luxuriant mustache must once have flared, though now it was plastered to his face with sweat and dust.

The stranger had stripped the leather gauntlets from hands which were square, with a dusting of blondish hairs on their backs; the fingers were long and the nails clean and well kept. A small ruby set in carven gold adorned the least finger of the right hand—which digit, Sir Geros noticed, was missing its last joint—and the next finger bore the steel-and-silver band of a noble Sword Brother. This last proved the old warrior's first estimation correct; this man was a sworn member of the Sword Cult.

But Sir Geros' black eyes strayed at length back to those gray-blue ones, so like to… to hers, to those of the Lady. The Lady Mahrnee, she who had been the beloved first wife of Thoheeks Hwahltuh, and whom Sir Geros had worshiped at a distance for all the years he had served her husband.

And he knew then that, at long last, their eldest son was come to claim his patrimony.

Roaring, heedless of the dust and filth of travel, Sir Geros flung both arms about the younger, slighter man, pounding the armored shoulders and trying to speak his heartfelt welcome through tightened throat.

The riderless stallion reared, nostrils flaring. Men and dogs scattered as the big horse pirouetted on his hind hooves, the front ones lashing out, while he arched his thick-thewed neck, showed his fearsome teeth and screamed a challenge.

"Let me go, Geros!" laughed the younger man. "Steelsheen thinks you're attacking me. Let me go before he hurts someone."

Chuckling, the warrior strode over to the big gray, took the scarred head in his arms and gentled the beast for a few moments. Then he turned and walked back to Sir Geros, the stallion sedately trailing him.

"Has your mindspeak improved any these last years, old friend?"

The rays of Sacred Sun glinted on the shaven pate as the castellan shook his head ruefully. "No, my lord, I still can receive well enough, but…"

The younger shrugged. "Very well. Hold out your hand to Steelsheen, rub his nose, let him get your scent. I'll tell him you're a friend."

When the stallion had grudgingly accepted the fact that his brother would be most wroth were he to flesh his teeth in this particular two-legs, the younger man turned about and walked back to where his companion still sat his horse.

"Dismount, Rai, I want you to meet my oldest friend." His ready smile returned. "You know of him, even though this will be your first meeting."

"At the captain's command," was the crisp reply.

The big-boned, broad-shouldered, long-armed man hiked a leg over the high, flaring pommel of his warkak, slid easily to the flagstones and walked to meet them with the slightly rolling gait of a veteran cavalryman. His bushy, chestnut brows met over a thick, slightly flattened nose. Across the front of his corselet was painted the device which signified his rank, that of troop sergeant. And Sir Geros noted that the left gauntlet had been altered to encase a hand lacking two fingers.

When the sergeant came to a halt, the captain said, "Rai, this is Sir Geros Lahvoheetos, vahrohneeskos—that's 'baronet,' as we would say it—of Ahdrahnpolis."

The sergeant swept off his broad-brimmed travel hat of soft felt and grinned widely, bowing easily for all his binding armor and clumsy boots. "Now this be a true pleasure, my lord baronet. It's right many a long, weary mile I've rode a-singing the songs of yer noble deeds."

Sir Geros' fleshy face encrimsoned, whereupon the young officer laughed merrily and clapped a hand on the shoulder of each of the men. "Rai, you embarrass Sir Geros; he's a very modest man, for all.

"Geros, know you that Rai here is not only my sergeant but my friend, as well. Had he not taken me under his shield when first I went… was sent… a-warring, I'd have long since fed the crows on some battlefield. Captain Sir Bahrt of Butzburk assigned Rai to me when I was but a pink-cheeked ensign, and we've soldiered together ever since.

"Since you both are my friends, it is meet you should be friends to each other."

Wordlessly, Sir Geros extended his hand and, after a brief hesitation, the sergeant shucked a gauntlet to take it.

As hand clasped hand, Sir Geros spoke from the heart. "Sun and Wind witness that ever shall I be true to our friendship, sergeant. And may Sacred Sun shine blessing upon you for bearing Lord Tim safely back to us. He is the hope and salvation of this duchy, and there are those here who do love him."

He moved closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "But there are also those here who hate our lord, who would see him dead, so we must guard him well, you and I."

Stepping back, Sir Geros clapped his hands and bespoke the throng of servitors. "Master Tahmahs, see to the horses and the mule. Majordomo, the thoheeks suite must be opened, aired and prepared by the time Lord Tim has done with his bath. Oh, and see to our lord's gear, as well. Send a lad to the bath to pick up our lord's armor, clean it and take it to his suite."

More orders were snapped to other servants, and shortly, like a well-oiled machine, the hall staff were immersed in their various functions.

Chapter I

The Lady Mehleena, widow of the six-months-dead Hwahltuh—who had been Thonheeks of Vawn, chief of Sanderz and stepfather, through his first wife, of his overlord, the still-living and much respected Ahrkeethoheeks Bili, chief of Morguhn—was breaking fast. Beside her at high table sat her personal priest, Skahbros, and her eldest son, hulking, black-haired Myron. Beyond the seventeen-year-old man her other three children sat, while her companion—some servants whispered "tongue-sister," some others muttered "witch" and speculated privately that the old lord's death might have been less than natural—Neeka flanked the priest.

The Lady Mehleena more than filled her chair. Although the massive piece of furniture had been constructed to seat a full-grown and armored man, it was all she could do to wedge her monstrously fat rump and meaty thighs betwixt the arms; nonetheless, she would have no other chair, for this one had been her late husband's and, to her, it symbolized the power and privilege of the greatest noble in the duchy. Not that she deluded herself into the thought that she ever could lawfully occupy that position—for, though the stray Middle Kingdoms burklet or distant Kindred holding or tribe of mountain barbarians might be ruled by a woman, Mehleena was Ehleeneekos through and through, and the positions of women in civilized society were distinctly inferior to those of Ehleenee men.

On the silver plate before her was a two-liter bowl which formerly had been brimful with maize porridge topped with butter, cream and honey, her usual morning meal. Within the short time they had been at table, Lady Mehleena had reduced the bowl's contents to something less than half, washing it down with long drafts of sweet, potent honey wine, the servitor behind her refilling her cup whenever it neared emptiness. But not quite all the sticky mess had gone to maintain her overample girth. Her lips and chin were gooey with it, and so was the fine silk of her clothing over the mountainous swell of her breasts.

Poking an elbow into her eldest son's ribs, she snarled, "Sit up, you oaf! Sit straight As a soon-to be, must be, thoheeks, you must learn to make an appearance. And keep your hand off Gaios' legs. You must learn to confine your loveplay to the privacy of your chambers. Your peers are still half-barbarian at heart. They neither can nor will understand or tolerate such; they'll think less of you and make sport of you for your sophisticated tastes."

Absently wiping at the bits of porridge which had sprayed over him along with his mother's harsh-voiced words, the young man grumbled, "Mother, for all you say, you know that damned ahrkeethoheeks will never allow me to be Thoheeks of Vawn, any more than my oafish cousins will ever confirm me chief of Sanderz. They hate us one and all, you, me, or any person of the Old Race, and you know it."

Dropping her golden spoon with a clatter, Mehleena's fat, beringed hand lashed a backhanded slap which caught Myron full in the mouth.

"Shut up! How dare you gainsay your mother? You will be, must be, thoheeks. This land must be returned to civilized control and its people to the worship of God.

"Besides," she smirked her satisfaction, "we have the barbarians hoist on their own hooks this time. Your brother Ahl can never be chief; the barbarians' own laws forbid confirmation of any man who cannot lead in war. And how can a blind man do such, eh? So, since Behrl died last year you are the eldest living, uncrippled son of Hwahltuh." Waving the line of servitors back, she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "As I have said before, Myron, all that is needful is that you make the proper appearance at the ahrkeethoheeks" court and play-act a little. He'll be bound to confirm you thoheeks—which is where the power and wealth lie. Let your cousins name whomever they wish their chief. It's just an empty title, anyway.

"Once you're confirmed and secure back here in Vawn, we can see to setting the land and people to rights and forget the ahrkeethoheeks, the black-hearted pig. He never comes this far west, and—"

"But… but, Mother, they… they say he has eyes and ears everywhere?" Myron looked about him, squirming uneasily in his chair. "And… and for all we know, Tim could come riding in any day."

With a scream of rage, the corpulent woman sprang up, overturning the heavy chair and, with a sweep of her arm, sending porridge bowl, plate and brimming cup smashing down the length of the table. The priest gasped a gurgling cry as a sudden lapful of hot porridge burned through the fabric of his robe to highly sensitive portions of his anatomy. Maddened with pain, he dumped an ewer of cool buttermilk atop the discomfort.

Fearing the onset of one of her cousin's fearsome and ever more frequent rages, Neeka, too, arose and moved toward Mehleena. Behind the high-table serving area, the servitors huddled in a knot, trembling, for their lady had, on occasion when thwarted, near killed servants.

But this time their fears proved groundless, as did Neeka's solicitude. After taking several deep breaths, Mehleena signed for the chair to be righted and the floor and table cleaned, reseated herself and resumed her conversation in an almost normal tone.

"Myron, my son, I can but thank God that womenfolk of my house are long-lived, for I can see that, for all my efforts to improve you, you are going to need someone to think for you for the rest of your life.

"Of course the ahrkeethoheeks has spies and informants in the halls of his liegemen, but Neeka knows who all of them are—every one, Myron. And we await only your confirmation to see to suitable 'accidents' to rid ourselves of them.

"As to the Lord of Incest, your half brother, let me assure you that as surely as we sit here at table, we are rid of him. There's been not one word from him since we heard of that battle wherein his captain was slain and most of the officers and common sorts slaughtered. That was over five years ago, Myron. Both Neeka and I feel certain that the young swine is dead. And—"

The door at the end of the dining chamber swung open and a tall, spare man and a tiny, brown-haired woman entered. At sight of the newcomers, Myron started to rise in habitual deference, but his mother shoved him back into his chair, snarling wordlessly.

The tall man smiled wryly. "Good morning, dear stepmother. For all your preachments, I see that sweet Myron still knows his place, and, except for you, would defer to his betters."

Rage darkening her puffy face, Mehleena made to rise, but the man languidly waved one well-kept hand, "No, no, my dearest stepmother, keep to that place… for all that it should he mine, I doubt me there's another dining chair that is massive enough to hold the hundred kaiee you must weigh without splintering 'neath you." He chuckled, and his diminutive companion pealed a silvery laugh.

"Were your poor father alive," Mehleena hissed in cold rage, "you'd not bespeak me so, you eyeless spawn of a barbarian bitch!"

But another, maddening chuckle was her only answer.

In a slow, stately advance, the couple came up the length of the room and took seats at one end of the wide table. While servitors set the places and brought food, the blind man rubbed absently at inkstains on his fingers, ran a hand over his neck-length ash-blond hair and then steepled his long fingers before remarking, "Ah, the good Father Skahbros is setting a new fashion in clerical garb, a robe bedecked with food stains rather than crusted with jewels. Most original, I must say, holy sir." His dry chuckle came again, while the embarrassed priest hung his head.

"If all you've come for is to insult me and bedevil my priest, you are to quit this board!" Mehleena snapped, her voice quivering with the intensity of her hate. "I'm the lady of this hall and I'll not have—"

The blind man's palm smote the table with a sound like a thunderclap. All mirth had departed from his handsome face, and, when he spoke, ice shards crackled in his words.

"You will mind your words, my lady… and your manners! You forget yourself and overestimate your station. While still my father lived, you were lady of Sanderz Hall, and the years of pain and misery you brought us all were many indeed.

"But the thoheeks is gone to Wind now, his body ashes for half a year. Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn has appointed me regent over clan and thoheeksee until it is known for certain if Tim Sanderz will return to claim his patrimony—that office and rank to which he was born.

"For the sakes of those of your children who are more like our father than like you, I have allowed—understand me, madam!—allowed you to retain the outward trappings and authority of chatelaine. But, as all save you and your creatures seem to know, you rule within your sphere only by my sufferance!

"Were my sweet sister, the Dowager Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn, amenable, she would be in your place. But for all the evil you wrought and tried to wreak against her and Tim, she would not see you debased and humbled within this hall, nor will she allow me to send you, your cousin, your pervert of a son and your priest of an illegal cult packing.

"But mind your flapping tongue, madam, and your manners around me. I have neither love nor even bare respect for you. I…"

But Sir Geros—whose hatred and contempt for the second wife of the old thoheeks was matched only by her hatred of him—had entered the room and, ignoring its other occupants, made his way rapidly to Lord Ahl. Bending, he whispered a short message into the blind man's ear, then, at a curt wave of the regent's hand, departed as quickly and quietly as he had come.