Snake Bite

SNAKE BITE TITLE Other Homoerotic Dark Fantasies by L. E. Bryce

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SNAKE BITE TITLE Other Homoerotic Dark Fantasies by L. E. Bryce

SNAKE BITE & Other Homoerotic Dark Fantasies L.E. BRYCE A Renaissance E Books publication ISBN 1-58873-787-1 All rights reserved Copyright © 2005 L. E. Bryce This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission. For information contact: [email protected] A Sizzler/Wilde Edition

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CONTENTS INTRODUCTION NO SOUND OF WATER GRAVE OFFERINGS SNAKE BITE RED CLAY AFTERWORD

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INTRODUCTION The stories in this collection center around themes of sacrifice, death and dark desire. One of them, "Snake Bite," sat on my computer for five years while I tried to muster enough inspiration to finish it. Once I had finished "Ki'iri," I began searching old files for ideas that might have potential and happened upon this one. Fired by the novelty of writing homoerotic fantasy, the female protagonist became male, resulting in a situation that was quite kinky, humorous and original. "Grave Offerings" is based on a Germanic folk tale about a young man who is buried alive with a corpse and ultimately freed by tomb robbers. Many of the details are borrowed from readings on Egyptian tombs; the anecdote of the dead infant pickled in honey is one told by actual tomb robbers in the nineteenth century. "No Sound of Water," the longest story of the collection, has its origins in stories about those who attempt to cheat the gods and/or destiny only to be confronted by it in the end. It was the first story I wrote after the sudden death of my father in March 2005, and I am rather pleased with the results. Finally, readers of "Red Clay" will see hints of a bulldancing culture based on the ancient Minoans, albeit with the addition of supernatural elements. Being an avid reader of mythology and history, there is no shortage of inspiration in dusty knotholes of folklore 5

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unexplored by others. No matter the source, however, my work somehow always seems to return to the dynamic of gender roles in a world where those who yield are often powerless to control the circumstances of their own submission. Along forbidden paths lies uncertainty and the unexpected. L.E. Bryce Los Angeles, California October 2005

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NO SOUND OF WATER Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. -T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land, 20-24

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CHAPTER ONE Thirst tormented the land. For more than a year there had been no rain. Crops withered in the fields and the slightest movement or breath of air stirred the dust in the streets. Each morning men woke with dry mouths and spent their days thinking about the falling water level in the city wells. Blood-colored sunsets brought nights punctuated by mournful wails that originated from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating through every neighborhood in Bhellin until men shuttered their windows and huddled in terror. At last, the Great King went to the Snake Mother's temple and offered rich gifts to the oracle, who took the sacred serpent's bite and fell into a trance, and yet there was no word from Below. The priests who interpreted the oracle's fevered hallucinations said that the Mother did not answer prayers with rain, and that men must look elsewhere. A second pilgrimage was undertaken to the temple of the Rain, where this time the splendid offerings of gold, wine and incense, coupled with the most fervent dedication of the Great King, yielded the answer he sought. In a niche behind the rain god's alabaster image, a hidden priest spoke through a bronze flue, so the thunderous voice of the god filled the many pillared hall. "Make unto me a Great Offering, so my thirst may be quenched, and to thee I will do the same." ****

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No explanation was given. His father simply came into his room in the middle of the night with his servant and ordered him to pack his things. "It is time to go, Camros." Camros, fuzzy with sleep, feebly shook off the hand nudging his shoulder. "Where to?" he mumbled. Although he could barely hold his eyes open, he saw that it was still dark but for the single oil lamp in his father's hand. "Quickly now," urged Narisen, "and do not argue with me. There is no time for dawdling." Packing was always done leisurely, the household servants taking their time choosing what their masters would need away from home and carefully filling the great iron-bound chests. Now the servant rummaged through Camros' clothes press and stuffed garments into a canvas bag as if they were laundry. Camros wanted to ask what was going on, but his father's tone brooked no argument. He put on the clothes that were handed to him, combed his hair as best he could and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Horses were waiting for them in the courtyard. "We are going to the estate in Besar," said Narisen. Spring was not the right time of year for leaving the city. This puzzled Camros, as did riding out while the moon was still high and a chill bit the air, but when his father wished something done no one questioned it. A pair of guards and the household eunuch Ranu accompanied them from the house down the streets to the first of many gates closed for the night. Camros heard his father say something to the sentries at each post, and each time they were let through. The city, so lively during the day, 9

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had a different character at night; all felt oppressively quiet, so that a single hoof beat striking the pavement sounded like a thunderclap. As he gradually stirred from his sluggishness, Camros pondered the smallness of their escort. Whenever the household moved to the country for the summer, an entire baggage train was needed to cart furniture, clothing and other necessities. Now there were only five of them abroad, carrying as much as could fit in a single saddlebag. Because of the circumstances and his father's refusal to provide an explanation, Camros wondered if there was some trouble that required so much secrecy. Though he had not yet been presented at court, he knew from his friends and their tutors that sometimes men who displeased the Great King prudently escaped the city and went into exile before the royal hand could take more punitive measures against them. Perhaps his father had done something to make the king angry. Camros bristled at the thought that Narisen did not trust him enough to confide in him, whilst hauling him from his comfortable bed in the middle of the night. It was irksome enough that he had all he could do to hold his tongue and not demand to know outright.

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CHAPTER TWO Three days on the southeast road brought them to the Besarian countryside, where on a hillside surrounded by olive trees and wild grapevines stood a villa roofed with fading terracotta tiles. When Narisen and his small party rode up the dusty track from the gate to the main courtyard, the servants who ran out were surprised by the arrival, but once their confusion subsided they quickly went about the business of making the household presentable for their masters. Food and wine were laid out on a terrace downstairs while the suites were properly aired out and fresh linens brought up. As in the city, bath water was more of a luxury than ever these days, but enough was available for both Narisen and Camros to refresh themselves before going down to eat. Despite the rigors of the journey, Camros found he had little appetite. He toyed with the food a servant set before him, drank enough wine to unsettle his stomach and brooded. Not once had his father explained the reason for the sudden move, and Camros could read his moods well enough to guess his questions would not be tolerated. After a while, Narisen noticed the untouched food on his plate and dismissed him. "A long ride is supposed to sharpen the appetite," he said, "but perhaps you need rest more than nourishment. Go, and I will speak to you later." At twilight, as the moon rose among the first stars, Camros received a summons from his father. Narisen sat in a downstairs room that, during the day, commanded a 11

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handsome view of the estate's orchards. Now the fretted screens were drawn aside to admit a breeze carrying the mingled smells of herbs and dust. Narisen wore a loose, belted robe and nursed a glass of the white wine for which the Besar valley was famous. "After three days," he said, "you must be wondering why I brought you here." Camros did not know what to say. "I thought—that is to say—I was under the impression that—" "What did you think, son?" "I wondered if perhaps we had left because the king was angry with you." Narisen smiled and took a sip of his wine. His dark eyes remained troubled. "You mean, have I fallen out of favor with Ampheres? No, but I might well if he learns the real reason for my sudden departure from court. Come, sit here beside me. Gods, you have grown so in the last year! Eighteen already and not yet presented at court? With all the other matters requiring my attention that was remiss of me, but it might be to your advantage now." "I am afraid I do not understand." Hesitating, Narisen indicated the decanter on the sideboard. Camros looked at it, puzzled as to why his father wanted him to drink when it was not his custom to ply his son with wine. "More than a year has passed without rain. Of course, we have cisterns throughout Khalgar to see us through such difficulties, but the water levels are dangerously low and what harvest we will have this year will be poor. People will die of hunger and disease." 12

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"What has this to do with us?" The raised eyebrow his father gave him told Camros this was the wrong thing to say. "Has your education been so neglected that you do not understand the importance of a good harvest? I should see about having your tutors instruct you in more practical matters than they have been. Food and water do not magically appear, son, and this is something you will have to comprehend if you are ever to hold a government position." Camros chewed his lip. Whenever his father began chastising him, time dragged. Now was one of those moments. And all I did was ask a simple question. Instinct advised him against speaking further. "Priests have consulted all the oracles in the city, and have come back with word that there is to be a Great Offering to Shedhu." Rumors of such a sacrifice had reached Camros' ears in the academy where he was tutored with the other sons of government officials, but fearing to betray his ignorance he had not asked what it was. "Is it a special sacrifice?" Narisen gave him an odd look, dismissing his bewilderment with another sip of wine. "It slipped my mind that the last Great Offering took place when you were very small. Yes, son, it is a very special sacrifice. A Great Offering is when the most beautiful youth or maiden of high birth is given to the rain god in exchange for his blessing. Sometimes Shedhu wants a girl, other times he wants a pretty youth; only his oracles can tell us. This time it is to be a youth, so you understand now why I had to get you out of the city." 13

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But I am not beautiful or highborn, Camros wanted to say. "I am sure they would not have chosen me, Father." "Priests select ten candidates, but the final offering is chosen by lot, so I could not take that chance. Camros, your sisters are now married with families of their own and you are my only son, all I have left of your dear mother." Camros thought only of the secrecy with which his father had carried out their midnight escape from Bhellin. "The king will be angry when he finds out, Father." "If he knew the real reason," replied Narisen, "then he would be, yes. I have accepted an assignment away from the city so it will not seem that we are defying the royal edict. I will hire a tutor for you and you will have some leisure pursuits, just as you do when we visit in the summer. By now, the priests will have already chosen the sacrifice and taken him into the temple. We will wait a few months and go back in the autumn, as we do every year. Think of this as a pleasant idyll." For one who was accustomed to the noise and bustle of the Khalgari capital, the Besarian countryside was dull. The villa and its grounds were more extensive than the house in the city, but somehow it did not seem as splendid or exciting. In Bhellin, visitors were always coming to the house and Camros had many friends in his academy. Here, there was no one to talk to except Ranu, the guards and the servants, who were all uniformly boring, and since his tutor had not yet arrived from Bhellin he could only fill so many hours of the day with riding. 14

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Sensing his father no longer wished to discuss the Great Offering, Camros did not mention it again, but in quiet moments he wondered if the king knew the truth and would send soldiers to arrest them, or if his name had been added to the lottery anyway. He was the son of a minor official and had been kept out of the public eye, so it was entirely possible the priests would forget about him. A narrow channel from the nearby Olev river irrigated the estate's orchards. Fed by strong winter rains, the channel usually ran high. Now one could nearly see the channel's muddy bottom, and the orchards were brown. Only one corner of the estate was green, a shaded area where the channel pooled and ended. Curiosity, coupled with an off-key whistling from the trees, impelled him to investigate this odd oasis. A man knelt in the short grass over the channel, tending the plants that grew on the bank. His back was to Camros, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, so Camros could not see his face. "What are you doing?" Slowly, the man straightened and stood. He was taller than Camros expected and younger, with the long, sinewy limbs of a laborer. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm tending the watercress. Would you care to help?" Camros regarded the tumbled soil between the man's fingers with disdain. "I am the master's son. I do not scrabble about in the dirt." The man snorted, shrugged. "Then you'll pardon me if I go back to work." 15

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Although this was evidently his cue to leave, Camros lingered. Why the man bothered with this one little corner of the grounds when there were orchards that needed tending was beyond him. Insufferable peasant. Camros gave up and went back to the house, but was back the following morning. This time the man was on his knees in the same place, working as if his task was a leisurely pastime. Camros stood just under an ancient dry oak, glaring at the laborer's back when his discreet cough and shuffling were not acknowledged. Finally, without turning around, the man spoke, "Is there something you want?" "Has no one ever taught you to mind your betters?" Dark eyes roamed the garden before resting on Camros. "When I see my betters," the man said coolly, "then I'll mind them." No one had ever dared speak to him like this; it was infuriating. "My father could have you whipped for this." The man tilted his head, pressing his lips together in a tight line as he studied Camros. "Is there something you want, boy, or are you always such a nuisance?" Camros knew he should turn on his heel and march straight back up to the house to report this outrageous behavior, but part of him was intrigued enough to stay. "I am not a nuisance. I just want to know what you are doing." "I am tending these plants, as I told you yesterday. Is there something wrong with your wits?" Camros rolled his eyes. "I can see what you are doing, but there is an entire orchard that is withering." 16

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"There is only so much a single mortal can do. If you want a miracle in the orchard, you'd best make the proper offerings to the Rain Lord." "A Great Offering is going to be made," Camros told him, as if divulging a delicious secret. "Then the rain will fall." Other servants, to whom news from Bhellin came slowly, were duly impressed by this tidbit of information. For this man, however, there was no moving him. "If Shedhu is pleased by the morsel, he may well piss on your fields. Or not. Now, do you intend to help me, or do you intend to stand there all day with your aimless questions?" The blasphemous remarks were both shocking and thrilling to hear. Despite his better judgment, Camros ventured closer. He saw no tools, only dark, moist soil sticking to the man's fingers, which he was using to prod the earth. "You have not yet told me your name." "You didn't ask, boy. My name is Sedir," answered the man. "Now you can return the favor and tell me your name. You can be certain I'm not going to call you 'master' or some other such nonsense." Such insolence begged for punishment. Narisen would have had Sedir taken away long ago. "My name is Camros ké Narisen." Sedir arched thin black eyebrows at him. "Such a large name for such a small youth," he commented. "Well, then, Camros. What do you intend to do, stand there all day and gawk at me? Haven't you ever seen a common laborer before?" 17

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"Never one with a tongue like yours." Camros shifted the loamy soil with his toe but did not bend down to help as he was apparently expected to do. "Do you live here?" "Sometimes. I'm what is called a hired hand." "I know what a hired hand is," Camros answered stiffly. "And here I thought young lordlings like you had no idea what a field hand was." Not for the first time, Camros wondered why Sedir's tone was laced with such sarcasm. Most servants and laborers maintained at least the appearance of respect even when it was clear they bore a grudge. Sedir did not seem to care what rank his audience had. "What I meant was all the other laborers work together in the fields but you are alone." "That's because I do special work. Now then, if you want to stay you'll either help or sit quietly over there." Sedir indicated a grassy place under the tree where two roots diverged to create a natural seat. Camros sat in the shade as the day steadily grew warmer. Spring usually was not so hot, but the drought had done more to the land than simply dried out the vegetation and the springs. Sedir went about his business as calmly as if no one else was there, going to and from a wooden shed where he kept various tools and a pallet for sleeping. He said very little unless prompted, though when the noon hour came he relaxed a little and joined Camros by the tree. "What are you supposed to be doing right now?" "My tutor has not yet arrived from Bhellin."

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"You came with a rather small train, didn't you? Just you, your father, a fat eunuch and some guards. The entire household is gossiping about it." "They should not," said Camros. "Father had to leave the city very suddenly." Without further explanation, it was no surprise that Sedir immediately drew the wrong conclusion. "Oh, a bit of trouble with our almighty Great King?" "No, of course not. My father is a scribe, and he took a job gathering information about the low water levels here in Besar," answered Camros. "It is very important work and could not wait for all the usual arrangements." Everything he said was true, after a fashion. Narisen was compiling figures, a dull task that often kept him away from the estate or awake until very late at night. Sedir smiled over the olive he was munching; he had not offered any of his lunch to Camros. "So why did he bring you with him? I imagine it must be rather dull around here if one isn't working the land. I can't imagine what you would do all day if you weren't irritating the hired help." "I told you I would go if it bothered you." "Such a cross little thing! Try taking the stylus out of your backside, boy. I never said you couldn't stay." Sedir popped the rest of the olive into his mouth. "Go on, tell me some more about your fascinating life here in the country." The sarcasm of this invitation was not lost on Camros, but he was strangely reluctant to call the insult and storm out of the clearing. "We usually come here for two or three months in the summer, when it is too hot and unhealthy to stay in 19

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Bhellin. Father did not want to leave me alone in our house. I suppose he does not trust Ranu—that is my eunuch—to look after me properly, or perhaps he wants me to help him with his work, though he has not said anything to me about this." "Have you asked him?" "Why would I do such a thing?" "You don't want to help your father with this very important work of his?" asked Sedir. Camros shrugged. "Standing around measuring the drop in water channels and wells and making all those calculations is not very interesting." "People are dying all over Khalgar, or will be very soon," Sedir pointed out. "I'd think you would care something about that." "Did I ever say I did not?" Camros asked sharply. What right did this peasant with his overblown sense of selfimportance have to question his betters so? "Nobody would have to die if Shedhu made the rain fall." Lifting an earthenware jug to his lips, Sedir tilted his head back and took a draught. "And if the god Thozah didn't love war so much, nobody would ever go to war. It's not for you to question what the gods do or why they choose to do it. You can pray for the rain all you like, but it's clear that the god wants something. You can't expect to receive blessings if you don't give in return."

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Chapter Three The tutor, an emaciated scribe named Arsem, arrived the following day and had scarcely refreshed himself with a bath and meal before he insisted on getting to work. He had a thick accent and a preoccupation with neat script. Naturally Camros did not meet his high standards. Hours were spent crammed over wax tablets, holding the stylus in the manner Arsem insisted upon, practicing penmanship until Camros was certain he would have nightmares about the schoolroom. In the evening, Arsem spoke of more esoteric matters. Narisen, who was at home, delighted in the intellectual conversation, but Camros was thoroughly bored. Some of his tutors could make history and politics sound interesting; all this talk of ancient philosophers and dead religions was like the buzzing of insects in his ear. As soon as it was seemly, he excused himself for bed, and gritted his teeth through the next morning's lessons until he was free to take his exercise outside. Once more, he was drawn to the oasis by the channel. He found Sedir near the shed, weeding a patch of early vegetables. "I am sorry I am late." Turning, Sedir gave him a look that hovered somewhere between bemusement and irritation. "I wasn't aware you were supposed to be here." Camros took a deep breath; it had been a long, brisk walk. "Well, do you want me to go?" 21

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"That's up to you, boy. If you really want to stay, by all means, stay and fill my ears with your buzzing." Camros seized upon Sedir's retort as an invitation to sit down under the ancient oak. "Why do you not like me? I could have had you whipped for speaking the way you do to me, but I did not." "Oh, and I suppose you think I am supposed to be grateful for this?" Sedir asked. "Boy, you have been spoiled far too long." "And you are insolent for saying so. I am not a boy." Sedir slapped dirty palms upon his thighs. "Oh, how high and mighty we are today! How old are you, boy? Fifteen, maybe?" "I am eighteen," Camros answered coldly. "You don't behave like it." Sedir looked up through the faded leaves of the tree that shaded the vegetable garden and shed. Doffing his straw hat, he fanned himself with it. "A drop of rain would be welcome. It's too warm and dry for spring. It isn't good for the soil." "The Great Offering will be made soon," Camros said hopefully. "Then the rain will come." "Tell me, were you part of the lottery to choose the Great Offering?" "No," admitted Camros. "I do not think so." The knowing look Sedir gave him turned his belly. "You don't think so? You either know or you don't, boy." Camros was not going to have this discussion, not with an insolent, lowborn field laborer. "My name is not boy. As for the lottery, I do not know. My father is a minor official, one of 22

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many scribes in the royal household, and the offering comes from only the very highborn." Either he was not a convincing liar, or Sedir had already made up his mind. "Any idiot can see your father's hiding you from the priests while some other boy is to be sacrificed." Heat rose to Camros' face. "How dare you! I already told you, I was not part of the lottery. I am not highborn and the priests would never have chosen me." "Oh, I thought it was the god who did the choosing. I forgot that as a common field hand I know nothing about the gods. How ignorant of me!" "Why must you always twist everything I say?" demanded Camros. "You are always so angry with me. I told you before, if you want me to leave, just say so." "I never said I was angry with you," replied Sedir. "You're the one who's raising his voice. And I never said you had to leave, but if you're going to stay you're not going to take that high-and-mighty tone with me. I'm not a slave, you don't pay my wages, and I don't have to put up with it." Camros, the edge now blunted off his anger, was quiet for several moments. "Where do you come from, Sedir? Just about everyone who lives here was born here, except for the seasonal hands who come in to help with the harvest." He did not mention it, but Sedir seemed too well educated to be a laborer. Most of the others spoke with a broad Besarian patois and certainly did not have Sedir's vocabulary. The reply he received was deliberately vague. "I'm from here and there." "Have you ever been to the city?" 23

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"I've been to Bhellin a few times, and other places, but I prefer the countryside. There's too much noise and confusion in the cities." "Do you have a wife?" The corners of Sedir's mouth crinkled, then turned up into a smile. "Now you're being nosy, young man. Tell me, do you have a girl, or maybe a pretty boy back in Bhellin?" "No, of course not," Camros sputtered, "and it is none of your concern." "What, already eighteen and no lovers? And such a pretty boy you are, too!" Those words and the playful tone in which they were delivered made him feel uneasy. For the first time he noticed that Sedir, though at least ten years older than he, was rather attractive for a man. He tried very hard to concentrate on his answer, rather than on the strange sensations flooding through him. "There are no girls in my academy, and Father warned me off the serving girls. He believes one should be a man before one dallies around like that." Sedir snorted. "I suppose he expects your cock to remain limp until you're ready for marriage, is that so? And then I suppose you're somehow supposed to magically get it up and know what to do with it." Camros stiffened. The conversation was spiraling far out of control; the urge to flee grew increasingly persistent. "You are vulgar." "No, I call things what they are. As a scribe's son, you ought to know better, or do they teach you that nauseating flowery language in that academy of yours? Do they refer to a 24

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man's cock as a rigid pillar of love, or perhaps a glistening rod of joy? If you feel better talking about it in the style of Juvan love poetry, by all means let me know." Those words went straight to his groin. "You should not even be asking me about it. It is not proper, and it makes you sound like—" "Like what? Like I'm going to seduce you?" Sedir rolled his eyes before dismissing the idea with sharp laughter. "Oh, please, boy. I prefer my lovers with a bit more flesh on them, and a bit more humility. Even if I wanted to plow you up the backside, one doesn't do that sort of thing with young noblemen and I find that scribes are too much like priests to make me hard: they're too holier-than-thou to enjoy a good romp, and most of the time they think their seed is like the attar of roses." Camros could no longer stand it. "You are insolent and vulgar." "And you are foolish and selfish," Sedir shot back. His eyes burning with hot, angry tears he was determined not to shed, Camros fled the clearing. All the way back to the villa, he imagined he heard Sedir's laughter chasing him. At this point, he knew he really ought to say something to his father, but then he would have to contend with his own embarrassment at letting the conversation go as far as it had; Sedir certainly was not the sort of man who would shy away from revealing to everyone what they had discussed. As far as Camros could tell, the man had no compunctions about anything. 25

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Upstairs in his suite Ranu was waiting for him. "Master, your tutor has been looking for you. I told him you were taking your exercise. Will you see him now?" Camros twitched with the urge to slam the door or throw something. "I do not want any of that dry old stick's boring philosophy!" The eunuch frowned at him. "Are you feeling quite well, master?" Camros plunged his hands into the wash basin the servants had left out for him and bathed his face until the cool water revived him somewhat. "I hate it here," he said. "I wish we could go back to the city." "Not until your father is finished with his work, you know that," said Ranu. "Now then, you are red in the face. It is not good for a nobleman's complexion to spend too much time out in the sun, or good for his character to spend too much time with lowly servants." "I was bored." Ranu proffered a linen cloth with which he dabbed his face dry. "Still, it is not seemly, and it is not good to keep the servants from their work." Camros clutched the cloth tightly, twisting it between his fingers as if he held Sedir by the throat. "You are right," he said coldly. "I will not waste my time further."

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CHAPTER FOUR Cool breezes made the villa a pleasant haven at night. The grounds were quiet, but for the stirring of the air through the fallow fruit trees in the courtyard, and the faint sound of a dog barking in the distance. Camros saw an oil lamp burning in a downstairs room across the court and knew his father was busy at work again. They had not eaten together that evening. When his mother was alive and his sisters still lived at home, it had been very different. In those days the household had been cheerful and full of activity, but then his mother had become ill and overnight a fearful hush descended on the house. Once she was gone, Narisen had found husbands for his daughters with almost unseemly haste while making it clear that he would not countenance talk of a second wife. Camros did not mention his mother where his father could hear, instead relishing those rare moments when his father lowered his guard enough to reminisce. Camros had spent the rest of the day closeted with Arsem or brooding, and was now more than ready for sleep to come, but he shifted and tossed in bed until restlessness compelled him to get up and go to the screen. In the adjacent cubicle, Ranu snored peacefully, oblivious to his young master's distress. Gods, how he hated Sedir! He would have liked nothing better at that moment than to storm down to the shed under the trees and have it out with the laborer, to shout at and 27

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pummel the man until his anger was gone. No one, not even his worst tutor, had ever spoken so to him, and he was not about to swallow it now. What do you care what some peasant thinks? he asked himself. He is nothing to you. No, the man was too perceptive, too close to the truth in so many ways. While it did not take much thought to guess the true reason Narisen had brought his son to the countryside out of season, and while the rest of the household probably knew as well, Sedir did not stop there. The priests would not have chosen me. I am not highborn or beautiful enough to make a Great Offering. He has no right to judge me. Camros trembled with shame and relief at what his father had done, while knotting his hands into fists at the remembered sarcasm that had dripped from Sedir's voice. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if the gods could see him hiding from them; the thought, it seemed, had always been there, only now being given voice. I know it was wrong, but I want to live and perhaps it would not have been me anyway. He has no way to know. He just wants to annoy me and make me feel guilty for being the master's son. No, I would not have been chosen. Camros shut the fretted screen with a determined gesture and climbed back into bed. He is an angry, vulgar fool, nothing more. The next morning, Narisen surprised him with an invitation to breakfast. If taking evening meals together was uncommon, for Camros to see his father so early in the day was rare indeed. Camros fretted over his toilette until Ranu 28

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hustled him down to the terrace, where he spent the next hour picking over his food under his father's watchful eye. "Is something troubling you?" Narisen finally asked. Camros felt his throat constrict at the knowing tenor of those words. "I miss the city." Narisen nodded over his quail eggs. "Yes, it has come to my attention that you have been somewhat bored here, even with your tutor. I have made arrangements for you to accompany me for a few days. It will be good for you to help me in my work." This was a dull prospect whose reality was even duller, going from one dusty village to another to talk with local overseers, field workers and landowners. Camros, wilting under a wide-brimmed hat, helped his father's slave with the portable writing table and supplies. When he received his assignment, he bristled at the indignity of being mistaken for another servant, and quickly lost interest in the proceedings. Occasionally his father came to see what he had observed. Camros tried to sound intelligent and give his best answer, but it was clear Narisen knew he had not been paying attention as he should. "I did not bring you out here so you could daydream." "They are just numbers," said Camros. "I do not understand what they all mean." His feeble attempt at an explanation did not improve his father's opinion of him. "Then I will show you," Narisen said coldly. Instructing the slave to remain outside with the writing table, he had Camros follow him into the village. 29

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Mudbrick hovels faced narrow thoroughfares along which children ran, chasing each other or playing with rickety wooden hoops. A weathered old goatherd led a flock of animals along the edge of the village toward the low-lying hills in the distance. As they walked, Narisen motioned to several gaunt-faced women watching toddlers as they stood in their doorways spinning fleece. "If the water drops below a certain level," he said, low enough that no one else would hear, "then there will not be enough food. You saw for yourself how poor the crops are coming in. Those women will have no milk and those children will die of starvation and disease. It is a terrible death. Without the rain, sooner or later death will come to the city, and you will see for yourself what kind of suffering and lawlessness famine can bring." "I heard that the king has put supplies by to see us through a famine," said Camros. "There are granaries throughout the kingdom." Narisen nodded. "Yes, that is true, but you cannot expect that we will be able to eat as we did before. Last year's harvest was not a bountiful one, and those granaries are not at full capacity. When this harvest fails, we will all go hungry. These people will be the first to die." Camros swallowed hard, unable to look at either his father or the village. The place seemed so mean already that he could not conceive how the lives of these people could possibly become worse; the thought was so uncharitable that it embarrassed him. He simply nodded his head and let his 30

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father lead him back to the edge of the fields, where he was put back to work compiling the figures Narisen gave him. As the day got hotter and dustier, he found his thoughts drifting back to the green shade of the estate and Sedir. Had the man been able to see him grimacing over his thankless task, he would have laughed, saying it was only right that someone as coddled and selfish as he should see how others less fortunate lived. Other thoughts followed, the remembered warm tenor of Sedir's voice explaining his love of growing things, and the clean lines of his face and body. Now was not the time to be thinking such things, if ever it was proper in the first place. Camros chewed the ragged end of his stylus, a habit from which successive tutors had tried to wean him. You just want to see him again because he is interesting and not like these hopeless people, not because you like him. He always says such insulting things to you. Narisen, sweating through his scribe's white linen tunic, bent over his shoulder to see the columns he was subtracting. At each stop, he and the local overseer took measurements at equidistant points along the irrigation channels. These numbers he brought back to Camros, who sat with the slave at the portable table under a tree or makeshift awning, and they subtracted the new figures from previous ones to calculate the rate of water droppage. The air was still and tense, and Camros wanted more than ever to go back to the villa. Not just because he hated the work and heat and dust, but because the desperation with each new measurement grew so thick it was fast becoming a 31

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lump in the back of his throat. He honestly did not see how his work would benefit the people who, to his eyes, looked as if they were already dying. After three days, Camros yearned to go back to Sedir and tell him that he understood, and that he was not as selfish and blind as the other man believed. It was ridiculous, craving the pardon and approval of a commoner, and yet somehow it was terribly important that the man think well of him. Three days spent away from home, sleeping on packed earth floors in houses rancid with too many unwashed bodies, choking down whatever meager, unappetizing food he was given and having to smile and say thanks for fear of offending his hosts was all Camros had been able to stand of his father's work. He hated the villages with their poorly built hovels and hollow-eyed people, he hated his father for compelling him to come and most of all he hated his own uselessness. Rain and food were what these people needed, not scribes with notched sticks and knotted strings. Because he could not escape to the haven of the villa, he let his mind wander to a cool place of greenery and water, where the sole occupant was the furthest thing from desperate that Camros could envisage. He wanted to sit beside Sedir, to hear his voice again, even if it meant having to endure his insults and improper questions. Ranu had a sponge bath of warm, scented water and fresh clothing already laid out upon his return. Food and wine waited upon an inlaid table; he drank enough to wash the taste of dust from his throat, but ate sparingly. Around him, 32

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the eunuch hovered with tidbits of gossip or queries about how the excursion had gone. Camros reined in the urge to order him from the room; his father would have been cross with him for raising his voice at the staff, and he had seen and heard enough of Narisen's grim humor in the last three days to make that a sufficiently unwelcome prospect. At last, Camros yawned and asked Ranu to turn down the bed. Twilight painted the inner courtyard and sun-faded trees muted cobalt. Cooking smells pervaded the air. It was the most restful time of day, and the excursion had left him exhausted enough, but sleep eluded him. As Camros lay awake in bed, dusk passed into night and the moon rose. Gradually the night scents mellowed and the sounds grew fainter, more remote as the household retired. In the adjoining cubicle he heard Ranu take off his sandals and lie down. Sleep was not as difficult for the eunuch and within a short space he was snoring. Frustration urged Camros to get up. He slipped on his sandals and a light robe and, making sure Ranu did not hear him, left the room. His intention was to go downstairs to the inner court and sit under the lime tree by the dry fountain. Instead, he surprised himself by leaving the house altogether, going down the kitchen path in the darkness to the fields and channel below. The moon rode high and full, and the air was cool. It was a night for lingering, for walking, for dancing. Mad thoughts for one who never ventured beyond the safety of his father's house, who rarely dared anything. Narisen would demand to 33

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know what he was doing, if he knew, and Camros would have no answer. Dry earth turned to grass under his feet, and the darkness became pungent with green growth and standing water. A black shadow obscured the moon, the ancient oak whose roots churned the soil. Off to the right was the shed. No light came from within. Camros took a step forward then hesitated, thinking that Sedir might be sleeping. Whatever it was he had to say could surely wait until morning. Lifting his hand, he hesitated again, until with a tremulous breath he made a fist and rapped lightly on the door. "Are you in there, Sedir? It is me." Breathless moments in which Camros could hear only the sound of his own erratic heartbeat passed. Finally, the door opened a crack and a presence filled the darkness; Camros just could make out the contours of Sedir's face, ominous and questioning, in the moonlight. "It's late, boy. What do you want?" "I wanted to see you. I could not wait until tomorrow." "Did you sneak away from that fat nursemaid of yours? Boy, hasn't anyone ever told you that even lowly peasants need to sleep?" "Please stop!" Camros hissed, amazed at how hard his voice was shaking. "Every time I see you, you have to mock me. I am not stupid or selfish, and I am not a boy!" Sedir's bewilderment did not need words. "Did you come here all this way in the dark just to tell me this? What is the matter?" 34

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"I just spent three days going from village to village. It was miserable, horrible. I know how those people live, but I cannot do anything for them. You think I am selfish, but there is nothing I can do. It is—it is like when my mother died. My father consulted with the physicians and took notes, and there was nothing he could do then either." "Perhaps you should come inside." Sedir put a steadying hand on his shoulder and guided him into the dark shed. The blackness smelled of old wood, dirt and sweat. "Sit down on the floor and I'll find a light." A rushlight sputtering in a battered brass lamp was the only illumination Sedir could provide. Camros waved the light away; somehow he preferred the darkness for this. "I know what you think, but I hated it, Sedir. I hated how poor they were and how they looked at me and gave me their moldy food and I had to say thank you and eat it even when they needed it more. Father says they are going to die and all he does is take measurements and make me write them down." "Yes, he is measuring the fall of the channels." "I know what he is doing!" "Camros, don't get sharp with me," said Sedir. "I had no idea about your mother." "Would it have made any difference?" Tears came to his eyes, and the knot in his throat threatened to choke him. "You think I am stupid and selfish, some pampered lord's son. My father is only a minor official, and he does not spoil me. My mother was the one who used to fuss over me. I wanted to tell you that. The entire time I was in those villages I kept thinking about you, imagining what you would do or say if 35

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you could see me." The words spilled from him faster than he could contain them, and he knew most of them made little sense. Sedir was clearly puzzled. "You could have waited till tomorrow to tell me all this. I'm not going anywhere," he said gently. Camros did not understand what drove him. He certainly did not care about some peasant's opinion of him, but that did not stop him from closing the distance between them, clutching blindly in the darkness until he felt Sedir's shoulders under his hands, running them up the sides of his neck to find his jaw, his lips and then kissing him. Sedir made a surprised noise but did not resist, and Camros willingly yielded control of the kiss to him. Between them was the taste of salt and earth and growing things. Camros felt callused hands run up his back, under his tunic to graze his skin. Suddenly the air in the shed was too close. He did not protest the hands that pulled at his clothes, stripping them off, or wonder at what was going to happen next, because in his hunger he was doing the same. All he cared about at that moment was feeling Sedir's naked skin against his own and finding gratification. Lips brushed his neck, the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. Not once did he stop to ponder how Sedir, so cynical and judgmental of him, desired him so fiercely. His body needed no explanations or theories when there was proof enough in the erection grazing his thigh and the tongue that was beginning to explore his chest. 36

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Oblivious to all else save their naked bodies and their mutual murmurs and grunts of pleasure, they sank to the floor amid their fallen clothes, kicking aside tools and other items so they could move freely against each other. Camros was hard, trapped against the heavier body grinding down upon him; his hips moved in a reciprocal rhythm, his breath coming in short little gasps. Waves of sensation both painful and pleasurable coursed through his groin. He gave a cry that was quickly smothered by Sedir's mouth and tongue, and felt a sudden wetness against his belly. A few moments later Sedir convulsed and collapsed on his shoulder. He could feel the man's heartbeat pounding against his own, the sweat cooling on their bodies and the warm seed that lay like mortar between their bellies. Camros knew they would have to clean up, that all evidence of this coupling would have to be concealed, but for the next few moments he did nothing beyond try to regain his breath. "What did we do?" Sedir took his time about answering. "Bad time to regret it." "I did not say that," murmured Camros. "It is just that I do not understand—You are crushing me. Sit up." Sedir shifted his weight so he lay beside Camros. "You don't understand because you've never been in love." Love was not the word Camros would have used; he bit back the retort that rose to his lips. This wild new passion was something for which he had no name. Lust answered the physical need, yet even spent a feeling stirred in his breast which the definition of lust did not encompass. "Sedir, I hated 37

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going to those places. I wanted to scream at those people to wake up, to do something." "What are they supposed to do that they aren't already doing? They have crops in the ground, I gather, and are digging wells to find whatever hidden water the earth holds. What else would you have them do?" "They looked so helpless," said Camros. "I saw their fields, and people working, so it is not that they are lazy. It is just that they looked at me and Father as if we could work some miracle." Fingertips lightly traced his arms. "What you did was important," said Sedir. "Not that I know much about numbers and measurements, but I know it was important." He leaned in for a kiss before reaching over and drawing his rough blanket over them. "Why don't you tell me about your mother? Did she die long ago?" Camros did not know what had possessed him to mention it. A strict code of silence governed his world when it came to his mother. Anyone with whom he might have spoken had clearly been instructed to avoid the subject. "Three years ago," he said. "She got sick and wasted away. She was always so happy, fussing over me and my sisters, and then all of a sudden she was so tired. Father made her go to bed and rest, but she never got better." The tears that had threatened to fall earlier now spilled from his eyes. Camros knuckled them away, giving in and letting go when Sedir's fingers brushed his cheeks. In the past, Ranu had been the one to hold and soothe him in his grief; to be comforted now by this stranger seemed a far 38

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greater intimacy than what they had shared earlier. Sedir cradled him, stroking his hair until his sobs subsided. "Tears aren't always bad," said Sedir. "They say Shedhu weeps when he is happy." "Then he must be very angry right now." "Only the gods can say for certain." He kissed Camros on the lips and forehead before sitting up. "I would keep you here all night if I could, as you seem to need it, but you need to think about going home before you're missed. I'll get a light so you can get dressed. There's some water in a bowl over there. Clean up and when you leave don't let anyone see you." Ranu was still asleep when Camros crept back into his bedchamber and slipped into bed. Delicious lassitude, mingled exhaustion from lovemaking and grief, flooded his limbs, yet he remained awake a while longer to let his mind sift through the memories of that evening. A smile stole across his lips, and he idly ran his fingertips along his thigh and chest to recapture some of the sensations Sedir had elicited from him. As he drifted halfway between wakefulness and dreaming he became aware of a low, rhythmic pattering on the roof and on the flagstones of the inner court. Only when he heard cries of alarm did he open his eyes. Ranu was already up and at the screen, pulling it back to see what the commotion was. Cool air pungent with moisture filled the room; the eunuch put up his hand and drew it back with a broad grin. "Master, it's raining." Half-dazed, Camros got out of bed and nudged him aside. Down below the household was milling in a courtyard whose 39

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dry pavement was now dark with fat droplets. Shrieks of amazement and laughter filled the air. More people spilled into the court until there was scarcely room for movement, while others leaned out of windows with their hands outstretched to touch and taste the miracle. Fine mist clung to the orchards, obscuring them from view. Distant thunder rumbled beyond the horizon. Joy suffused the air, infecting all who came outside. It was a night for being awake, for dancing, for making love.

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CHAPTER FIVE Narisen's initial elation was replaced by bewilderment. "Where did this rain come from?" he asked, thinking aloud. "Yesterday was a cloudless day." "Perhaps they made the Great Offering?" suggested Camros. "No, that will not take place until the equinox. It takes a hundred and twenty days to purify the sacrifice." Narisen shifted his plate of food off to one side to begin leafing through a sheaf of papers. "I must write to my contacts in Bhellin and see what they have to say about this." Camros took his morning lessons with Arsem, then after lunch lay quietly in his room, listening to the light rain pattering against the roof tiles and flagstones while Ranu occupied himself with a book. More than anything he wanted to go out and see Sedir, to celebrate with him this unexpected blessing, but he dared not take the chance. His heart raced, both at the delectable secret knowledge of what he had done and the terror that it would somehow be discovered. What little he knew about lovemaking cautioned him against taking a submissive role unless he wanted to be considered effeminate and derided; even in his passion he had remembered this. There was no harm in bedding a social inferior, which his father regularly did with several serving girls, but this was different. Sedir was not a woman or a young boy he could use for his own pleasure and then dismiss. What he had done was unwise, even dangerous. 41

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This must never happen again, he thought. News took nearly a week to pass between Bhellin and Besar, and Narisen was able to disguise his queries among his usual business. What he heard appeared to set his mind at ease. "As I suspected, the sacrifice is still alive. The priests are taking the rain as surety that the offering will be made on the appointed date, and have announced that Shedhu is pleased with the youth." Rain fell intermittently over a period of ten days. Once the skies were clear again, Narisen took Camros with him back to the villages they had visited before. New measurements were taken in the channels, but to Camros' confusion his father seemed disappointed by the figures. "Two weeks of drizzle is not enough. We need at least two weeks of heavy downpour before the water rises to acceptable levels." "Then it will not help the crops?" "It is early enough in the growing season that it may help a little, provided there are more days of rain," said Narisen. "A downpour at this time of year, however, would be detrimental to the new crops, and the harvest still will not be what it ought to be." Upon his return, Camros was able to take his afternoon exercise in the orchard and see Sedir again. Their visit was chaste only in deed; the smoldering looks that passed between them charged the air with such heat that only a night's frenzied passion could relieve it. "I have wanted you so badly." Camros let his hands roam the planes of Sedir's body, until Sedir captured one of them 42

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and guided it between his legs. "I was afraid to come. If only you were a girl, it would not be so dangerous." Sedir gasped into his ear, flicking the tip with his tongue before delving deeper. "And if you were the lord's daughter this would be unthinkable. I know what you're afraid of. We won't do anything of the sort. Here, lie back and let me touch you, and I'll show you something you've never had before." What Sedir did next with his hands and mouth were beyond anything Camros ever imagined, so that for days afterward whenever he thought of it he became giddy with arousal. The following day, Sedir revealed that his vegetables were ripening. "All is not lost," he said, flashing Camros a melting smile. His penchant for blunt talk had not ceased when their lovemaking began. Only his tone had changed, becoming gentler, more playful, or perhaps Camros no longer felt threatened. Spring passed into summer, and the days grew lazy and sweltering. Now it was too hot to go out in the afternoons to visit Sedir, and to have done so would have invited suspicion when the rest of the household retired at noon for a light meal and a brief siesta. In the warm dusk, Narisen wanted Camros to work with him in preparing his report for the king. Only on those rare occasions when he went away on business and did not take his son with him was Camros able to slip into the twilight, go down to the channel and see Sedir. Any lovemaking they did was in secret. Trysts were carried out late at night when the rest of the estate was safely asleep, though in the summer it was not so easy to judge. 43

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Some of the servants slept in the courtyards or on the roof to escape the heat; to avoid detection, Camros had to pretend he was sneaking down to the kitchen or to the privy before making his way across the fields. Eventually, he was caught by Ranu, who drew him aside to elicit the information. "You have a girl," said the eunuch. Not knowing what else to do, Camros hung his head and confessed. "I know Father will not approve, but I could not help myself and she knows how not to get with child. He has his girl, why should I not have mine?" Iba, the girl in question, was a sleek, lazy thing with a tongue that grew sharper by the day. The airs she put on made Camros yearn all the more strongly for his mother. "Not that I know anything about such things," replied Ranu, "but a young man like you needs a bit of comfort now and then. We will not tell him unless he asks." Near midsummer, the rain returned for a brief spell. No sooner had the droplets fallen to earth, spattering against sun baked dust and stone, than they evaporated. The air became humid, the damp breezes at night giving no relief. Camros, frustrated at not being able to go out, stayed indoors and brooded. Rain was no longer the blessing it had been. Sedir laughed to hear him complain. "One can never please you," he said. "Here I thought the rain was a sign of divine favor." "It is hot and damp and the crops are still withering," answered Camros. "If I had to guess, I would say the gods were punishing us, just in a different way." Sedir bent to kiss him. "That's why you're not a priest." 44

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That night, Sedir entered him, slowly at first, testing his body with a slick finger, touching a place deep within that made him writhe and want more. When Sedir finally mounted him, Camros was pulled out of reverie by an almost unbearable sensation of burning and being stretched beyond what his body was meant to take. Urging him to relax, to breathe, Sedir gave him time to adjust before he began to move, and when the tension eased from his limbs Camros felt once again that sharp pleasure, only now it was building and he was straining toward it, wrapping his legs around Sedir's back to pull him closer. Never once did it occur to him that he was doing anything unnatural, and even afterward, when he realized that he had gone too far, still he could not bring himself to regret it. **** "I am taking you to the bazaar in Lasith," said Narisen. "I need to purchase fresh writing materials and thought perhaps you might wish to accompany me." Two miles south of the villa, Lasith was a small town of whitewashed buildings glaring against the hills. Neither its meager monuments nor its bazaar could compare with the cosmopolitan splendor of Bhellin, but as the trip provided a diversion from the mundane routine of the villa Camros did not complain. It was not even midmorning and already the bazaar was bustling with activity. People and livestock crowded the narrow thoroughfare as vendors competed with each other, shouting into the din and shamelessly accosting potential 45

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customers. Twice Narisen shook off women who shoved garishly dyed cloth under his nose. His horse liked the intrusion even less, snorting and shying as if about to throw his rider. Camros, marking the unusual behavior, would have commented on it were his own horse not behaving in a similar fashion. "We will find a stable," said Narisen, "and then walk. They will be calmer away from this press." As they passed under a striped awning, the ground suddenly lurched. Pottery and baskets flew into the street, and people stumbled. A low rumble vibrated through the air, the sound of the earth rippling, shrugging its mighty shoulders. Stalls and buildings began to sway; an awning collapsed a few feet away. Dust filled the air. Camros felt his horse quaver under him; the mare, frothing at the mouth, tossed her head, jerking at the reins until Camros leapt from the saddle and let her bolt. Neither his father nor Ranu were anywhere in sight. Camros ducked his head under his arms as part of the awning gave away above him. Everywhere he heard screams, but he could not seem to get breath enough to do more than gasp. Across the street, across a debris field of scattered wares and shattered stalls, he saw one of the tenements lean precariously toward the street before crumpling on itself. It was only afterward, when the shaking stopped and he saw townsfolk digging frantically among the rubble that he realized people had been inside. Aftershocks followed hard upon the initial temblor. Stunned and not knowing where to go, Camros stayed where 46

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he was, clinging to the bent awning post even as what was left of the stall rattled with each new jolt. A hand on his arm gave him a start. "You are not hurt, are you, master?" It was Ranu, dusty and shaking as hard as his voice. "My father—" Ranu gestured down the street. "He is trying to calm the horses. Come, I will take you to him and we will go home."

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CHAPTER SIX The earthquake did only minor damage to the villa. A servant had been struck a glancing blow by falling masonry, while another lost his footing and twisted his ankle as he tried to get under a doorway. Hairline cracks zigzagged the plaster in many of the rooms, things were shifted and broken, but otherwise it was nerves that had suffered most. For several nights, as aftershocks continued to jolt the countryside, people were afraid to sleep indoors. As the weather was fair, Narisen arranged for tents to be set up in the orchards. Ten days after the quake a courier came to the villa. Narisen received him outdoors, under an awning where his servants had arranged a cot and writing desk. Camros, who sat in the shade nearby with Arsem and a servant with a broad willow fan, was not privy to the meeting but could see even from afar that his father was troubled by the message. That evening, as they took a light supper on an open terrace, Narisen shared with him the courier's report. "News is slow to leave the city with all the recent upset, but a reliable source has told me something rather troubling." Those last words Camros had heard before. Narisen had phrased the news of his mother's illness in almost exactly the same fashion. I have learned something troubling, son, and now I must tell you. "What is it, Father? Has someone died?" "Yes, and I do not know what to make of it. Parts of the city were more heavily damaged than others. The palace is still standing, and most of the temple complex, but part of the 48

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Rain Lord's house fell in. Apparently this is the building where they were housing the Great Offering; the poor boy was crushed when the shaking started." Camros did not know what to say. It was inconceivable that the gods would permit a holy sacrifice to die before the offering was made. The only possible explanation that came to mind was that perhaps Shedhu had not liked the youth the priests had chosen for him. "What will happen now?" "Of course, the priests must choose candidates for a new lottery, but it will be a few weeks before they can do this and then, I have heard, they will have to proceed as before. They cannot wait another hundred and twenty days." As the harvest drew near, they made yet another trip to the local villages. Whatever rain had fallen had not been enough to undo the damage done by the drought, and the fields and orchards stood to bring in less than half their normal yield. The village elders had plenty to say about the matter, especially when they heard about the fate of the Great Offering. "This poor yield is a sign from above," said one man. "The god wants his sacrifice." "Then he ought to have made sure the boy wasn't flattened," said a second man. "You watch your tongue!" The first man made a gesture warding off blasphemy. "I've heard talk in Lasith that in five other villages they're sacrificing boys and maidens to the god." Narisen shook his head. "All rumors at this point. By now, I am certain the priests have already selected another youth 49

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for the offering. Sacrifices of thanksgiving were made to the god when the first rains fell, and I am sure he will receive his Great Offering on the appointed date." Noisily clearing his throat, the man spat in the dirt. "What are a few pigeons to Shedhu when there was a pretty boy in the offing? The priests better do their work quickly." With his final calculations made and noted, and queries arriving from Bhellin, Narisen could not postpone his return. "This report is needed by the royal council and I am expected to deliver it in person. I have heard from Ornul and whatever damage the house sustained has been repaired. I am sure you will welcome the opportunity to go back to the academy and see your friends." Camros quietly absorbed this news. While he wanted very much to see Bhellin again and return to school, going would mean leaving Sedir behind. "How soon?" "In a few days, once I have made arrangements. If you intend to say goodbye to this girl of yours, you had better do it now." Ranu had sworn silence on the matter. Camros could only wonder how his father found out. "I did not know you knew." "I know you have been up to something at night, and at your age it is not difficult to guess," answered Narisen. "Had I known which of the serving girls it was, I might have sent her away. Then again, you are more than old enough to want sex so perhaps I should not be too harsh. As long as you remember discretion, I will keep my peace." Camros was grateful that Iba would not be accompanying them. Had she done so, it would have been awkward, as his 50

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father kept a second bedmate in their house in Bhellin. Camros knew the girl's name and had seen her once or twice in her daily duties, but no more than this; Vasa had apparently learned that it was more to her advantage to be modest and discreet, and so was nearly invisible. The following afternoon, he went down to the water but to his dismay Sedir was not in his shed. He waited a while, expecting the man might return at any moment, until late afternoon cast its shadows across the orchard and he was forced to leave. A midnight excursion produced the same result. The shed was dark, untenanted, all signs of habitation missing. Camros brooded over the mystery throughout the next morning's lessons. At noon, as the household retired for lunch and an afternoon siesta, he walked down to the orchard and casually asked one of the field workers if they had seen Sedir. The man simply frowned and said he did not know anyone by that name. **** Bhellin's municipal workers were so efficient that one had to look hard to find evidence of the quake. When Camros asked how badly the city was shaken, one of the servants told him that in the eastern quarter an entire row of tenements had collapsed, killing many people, but those buildings had been poorly constructed. Glazed tiles had been dislodged from the Serpentine Gate and part of the temple complex was damaged. Otherwise, the damage was superficial. 51

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Camros was glad to see his friends and teachers, and his return to the academy meant Arsem could be dismissed. Everyone wanted to know what he had been doing in Besar, so he told them about the various villages he had visited and the work he had done, even about the quake in Lasith. As everyone had earthquake stories of their own, his was but one of many. No mention was made of Sedir. Sedir was the shadow that clung to his homecoming. He never returned, and Camros had been forced to leave without seeing him again. His inability to say goodbye troubled him, even when he acknowledged that Sedir had been a very private man and something of an itinerant worker, prone to pack up and go elsewhere at a moment's notice. As for the workers not being able to assist him, Sedir probably had not mingled with them frequently enough to become known. Anger slowly began to tinge those thoughts. Who is to say he does not have a pretty boy every place he goes? Bile stung the back of his throat and his belly roiled. Was that all I was to him, a good tumble? Why else would he leave without saying goodbye? He did not want a scene. And I gave him what I should never have given anyone. Camros covered his face with his hands and groaned. How could I have been so blind, so stupid? Ranu, noticing how melancholy he had become, suggested he find a new girl. "I am sure there are plenty of girls in the household who would not mind warming your bed at night." Camros shook his head at the suggestion. Sex was the last thing he wanted at the moment. "It is not your job to play the 52

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panderer," he said. "Do not be so impertinent as to suggest it again." His father was busy making arrangements to present his findings to the king and council. It was rare that he as a minor official was called into the royal presence, so he fretted over his notes and opening remarks as well as his attire and was snappish. When he left for the palace, the household held its collective breath in waiting for the results. Narisen did not return until well after dusk. His supper, now growing cold, waited for him in the dining room, and the senior members of the staff anxiously gathered in the entryway to glean clues as to how the day had gone. Ignoring their scrutiny and the steward's comment that his food was ready, he searched their faces until he found Camros. "Come with me," he said. Camros followed his father into the study and waited with rising apprehension as Narisen closed the door after them. His father moved slowly, as though he had been struck, and his hand appeared to be trembling. "Are you all right?" The face that turned toward him was ashen. "Camros, I—" "What is it? Did you make your presentation to the council?" "Yes, but—" Narisen hesitated, licked his lips and started again. "Yes, but afterward the king and several lords wanted me to stay, to go with them to the temple of the Rain Lord to witness the lottery. I thought it had already taken place. I could not fathom why they would ask me, a minor official, to join them, but I went." 53

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"Why did they wait so long? The offering is supposed to be made in a week. Father, you are shaking. Perhaps you should sit—" "No! Let me finish!" Narisen turned away to pace the room. His breath came in short, sharp gasps which he punctuated with his frantic words. "When they drew the lots I saw the tiles. I heard them call the name, your name. I did not believe it, I would not believe it. I did not care that the king was there, I threw the jar over so the tiles spilled out and your name was written on every single one! "I was furious with the priests. They never even told me that you were a candidate. I argued with them, and with the king, quoting as many laws as I knew covered this situation. I made them replace the tiles with fresh ones and I watched them write down each name and put each tile in the jar. They drew again, and again it was the same, your name on every single lot. Camros, I do not know what sorcery this is. It is a black thing, some punishment for my taking you away." Halfway through his father's frantic explanation, as the first realization came to him, Camros lost the ability to speak. Only shock kept him from gibbering in terror, from screaming and bolting from the room. All he could do was stare at his father and shake his head in dumb disbelief. "The gods hate me." Narisen put his face in his hands. "First your mother and now you, and there is nothing I can do, nothing. Oh, if only I had the sense to keep you in Besar until the offering was made. I assumed—gods, how I assumed everything was all right, and now they know how I tried to hide you. The priests already have a guard on the 54

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house. They will be here in the morning."

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CHAPTER SEVEN Camros envisioned armed guards breaking into the house at daybreak to drag him away, and so spent part of the night watching the entryway in terror. Instead, a quiet procession of priests accompanied by an honor guard came to the door at dawn. All courtesies were observed. The priests bowed deeply to him and his father, uttering ritual salutations, and then they placed him in a litter with plump cushions and gauzy blue curtains. Like a prince he was borne to the temple complex, yet he never once forgot he was a prisoner. His eyes drooped from too little sleep. All night he had stayed awake in the study, alternately sobbing and lying in his father's arms. An agitated Narisen occasionally broke the embrace to rant and pace, swearing he would draw upon every legal precedent he could find to stop the sacrifice, but they both knew it was pointless. Objects were hurled, papers and scrolls swept off tables to lie in a disorderly heap on the carpet. It did not take long for the entire household to learn what had happened. Within the hour, Ranu joined them. The eunuch's profuse sobbing was more than Camros could bear, but he could not send Ranu away when he knew it was the last time they would ever see each other. The temple of the Rain was a modest white building tucked away among the grander edifices dedicated to more prominent gods. People gathered around the litter, murmuring and pointing; the priests quickly hustled Camros 56

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through the crowd and away from the public spaces to a part of the temple with hanging gardens and reflecting pools of still, green water. Upstairs they went, past rows of temple guards with their ceremonial pikes, to an apartment furnished as if for a king. "Holy one," said a priest, "this is not the house you should have occupied, but we have arranged these comforts for you so your last days among men might be pleasant ones." Camros was momentarily awed by the splendor of the chambers that were to be his. The bed was of the finest cedar, its headboard carved with devotional scenes and its soft blue and green hangings imported Rhodeen silk. Inlaid tables and chairs of exotic wood awaited his pleasure; a priest told him that scrolls, music and other amusements would be provided at his command. Camros almost did not hear him, for in the bathing room was a green marble tub large enough to hold four men. No longer would he have to content himself with a hip bath but could enjoy the outrageous luxury of a thorough soak. Servants stood ready with linens and unguents with which to anoint him. The priests withdrew, and a eunuch entered the room and instructed him to remove his clothing, the same clothing he had worn the day before and not changed. He was given a linen shift to put on and offered a bitter drink that had him clutching his belly and dashing for the privy within moments. Half the morning passed before the spasms stopped and his belly settled. The servants helped him up and into the steaming bath which they had drawn while he writhed on the 57

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privy floor in the company of the eunuch, who spoke encouraging words and bathed his brow with a moist, scented cloth. Someone had cleaned up the mess, wiping his mouth and between his legs; he did not note which of the servants it had been. The bath was scented with jasmine. A male servant washed his hair and then climbed into the tub to bathe his limbs, an intimate gesture Camros protested even when the eunuch explained that it was entirely appropriate to one of his station. Two more servants dried him with towels and smoothed scented oil onto his skin before draping him in a robe of red silk brocade. No sooner was he dressed than did a priest come in. He was middle-aged, with the shrewd, intelligent look of a scribe, and made a short little bow. "My name is Osiran," he said, "and it is my duty to instruct you in the protocols of your station." Camros was informed that he had just undergone ritual purification. From this time forward he would adhere to a special diet and perform certain daily meditations to prepare him for the sacrifice. As Osiran spoke, three more priests came into the room. All wore the silver pectorals Camros associated with high priests, but one also wore a headdress signifying very high rank. Osiran introduced the man as Idisou, chief priest of the god in Bhellin. He was thin and sharp-boned with a hooked nose. Camros did not trust him. Idisou inspected him, scrutinizing him for a long, silent moment before speaking. "We are aware of how your father 58

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tried to hide you from the god. Now that you are here, you will fulfill the mighty destiny for which you were chosen." Camros did not think it the best moment to point out that he had not been the first choice, and that he was not of the high birth required of a Great Offering. "In a week's time, on the day of the equinox," Idisou continued, "you will be dressed in wedding finery and taken from this place to the place of sacrifice." He went on to describe the ceremony, how he would be dedicated in sacred marriage to the god, how his feet would be bound and he thrown into the sacrificial cenote to drown. It was all very matter-of-fact, the chief priest describing how he would die while Camros himself tried hard not to think about what his death would be like. Before leaving, the priests asked if he wanted anything. Within the strictures set by the temple, he was permitted certain amusements and food, even a pretty girl or boy to keep him company if he wished. What he wanted most was to see his family, but he had been informed at the outset that once he was ritually purified he must forget all ties to the outside world. Philters were slipped into his food to calm him. The drugs were not potent enough to incapacitate him, just to take the edge off his anxiety. Camros spent his waking hours in a stupor, knowing he should be able to do more but too apathetic to strive for it. Much of his time he spent in thought, letting his mind wander the alleyways of memory and the untrodden paths of imagination. Osiran came three times a day to guide him through the required prayers. These 59

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were not, as the priest stated, to purify him but to help him reconcile himself to the necessity of his death. Many nights he lay in the great cedar bed with its silken hangings stirring about him and listened to the sounds of the dark. In such solitary moments, he often found his thoughts drifting back to Besar, to the green garden and shed occupied by Sedir. What would he say now, if he knew? He would laugh at me and say there is no use in trying to run from the gods. Memories of Sedir no longer brought pangs of sexual desire, only the sadness of having misplaced something valuable. One night, rain began to fall, a light drizzle at first then growing in intensity. Camros lay awake, listening to the downpour splash against the gutters. Through the screens, the air smelled moist and green, like Besar in the spring, and he thought he heard the sound of whistling. He started, his heart answering with Sedir's name, but when he sat up to find the source of the sound it vanished. He said nothing of this to the priests, even when they came in the following morning glowing at the obvious signs of the god's approval. "He looks with favor upon you," said Osiran. "Do not look so downcast. In death, you will be wedded to the god. You see, he sends the rain to tell us how eagerly he awaits you." "There was a boy before me," murmured Camros. "Why was he killed?" Osiran turned his eyes away to inspect the dishes the servants were bringing in. Several times before he had asked 60

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the question; the priests never gave a satisfactory answer. "Perhaps the god did not care for him." "I thought the oracle and the lottery were supposed to take care of that." "You are preoccupied with things that do not concern you," Osiran said quickly. "Come, you will eat something and we will perform the morning devotion." Camros sometimes wondered what would happen if he told the priests that he had been a man's lover, that he had been submissive. On several occasions he started to tell the truth, to reveal what he had done in blind passion, but always closed his mouth at the last moment. Surely the god already knew whose lover he had been, and what they had done together. All that would come of his confession would be that the priests would send him home in disgrace, or kill him, and a third boy would be chosen. No good would come of it, whatever punishment they gave me, he told himself. Even if they sent me home, I would have to tell Father why, if they did not tell him first, and he would never look at me again and call me his son. And if Sedir knew, he would call me a coward for taking the easy way out. Right away, he stopped that strand of thought. Why do you care so much for what that peasant thinks when he left you without saying a word? Camros looked at the screen, the bed with its rich hangings and the inlaid ebony table where the servants had set out his breakfast. Because you spent all that time telling him how much you wanted to do something more than what you were doing, because you were so frustrated at not being 61

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able to help, that now you have the chance to do it and you are afraid. You will say nothing, and go through with it. Such bravado was fleeting. More often than not, when the drugs permitted him to experience strong emotion, his heart pounded and his belly ached with pangs of terror. He did not see how he would be able to walk from the temple to the place of sacrifice. Surely they would have to drag him when the time came. The day before the equinox, the eunuch and servants dressed him in a crimson robe embroidered with tiny flowers and set a circlet of golden leaves upon his head. Osiran came with two other priests and the temple guard to lead him into a chamber where they made him sit upon a golden chair. From a side door, an image was brought in and placed beside him. Prayers were chanted, and one after another priests and richly dressed noblemen knelt before him with offerings of incense, cloth, wine and precious oils. Although no one bothered to explain what was going on, Camros had seen this ritual enacted with his sisters and knew it was a wedding rite, the presentation of the gifts. Several nobles, including one whom he suspected must be the king, came forward to congratulate him on his good fortune at being the god's beloved. Osiran, hovering at his ear, whispered that he should thank them. Camros managed as well as he could, his voice sounding oddly slurred even to him. That night, he asked for the god to be brought to him, which the priests duly did, carrying in a fine silver image adorned with flowers; it was the idol from the wedding 62

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ceremony. From their smiles, evidently they thought he wanted to acquaint himself with his divine bridegroom before he went to the marriage bed. A Khalgari child learned the names of all the gods almost as soon as he could talk, but Shedhu was not a deity to whom Camros could remember ever having prayed. In his father's household he had worshipped the Snake Mother and Sky Father, and his father regularly burned incense for Mesi, the patron god of scribes. If Camros knew any tales about the Rain Lord, he could not remember them now. Shedhu was slender, with a youthful face and prominent phallus upon which some well-meaning priest had draped a chain of white flowers. Camros wondered if he truly looked like his image, and what it was like to love a god. Oh, but why do I have to die to find out? My lord, he thought, afraid to speak the words in case the priests were eavesdropping. You would not be the first. There was another before you, a man in Besar. You must have known this when you chose me. The image of the god was silent, implacable, keeping its secrets. He bowed his head, pressing his brow against the edge of the table on which the image stood. His heartbeat was unbearably loud in his ears. Rising, turning away from the god, he flung open the doors and called for the priests. Osiran, one of several who had elected to keep vigil on that last night, quickly hastened to his side. "What is it?" he asked. "Do you need something to help you sleep? I told you before, we cannot give you anything too strong or you will not be able to walk tomorrow." 63

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Camros clutched at his arm. "I cannot lie. I must tell you." "What is the matter? No, come inside and tell me." Camros waited only until the door was closed before blurting out his answer. "I had a lover in Besar. He—" "Is that what is troubling you? Why, that is nothing," said Osiran, laughing. "We told you in the beginning that you were permitted a boy, if that was your pleasure." Osiran's beatific smile was aggravating. "No, it was not a boy! That is to say—what I mean is that I am not—" His calm giving way to a troubled look, Osiran went out and returned a few moments later with Idisou and two other priests. Then the questions began. The priests were relentless, wanting to know everything he had done, every detail about Sedir that Camros could remember. More than likely they wanted the information so they could find Sedir and punish him for violating a nobleman's son. Never once did they suggest stopping the sacrifice or disciplining him. After a while, Camros realized the priests only heard half of what he said, and assumed that Sedir had taken advantage of his youth and seduced him. "He did not rape me," he said, loudly enough that they all stopped talking. "I went to him. I consented." "Yes," said Idisou, "and we will deal with it. We are grateful that you told us." "Please, do not tell my father." Camros stared down at the fingers he was twisting in his lap. Idisou surprised him with a smile, the first gentle gesture Camros had seen in nearly three hours. "You are not being sent back to his house in disgrace, and we are not going to 64

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take you down to the basement and cut your throat, if that is what you fear. There were thirty witnesses who saw the tiles change when the lots were drawn. The god has made it very clear where his choice lies, so we must honor it." "Why did the first boy die? Please, I have asked again and again and no one says anything. The least you can do tonight is tell me." The priests withdrew for a moment to a corner, conferring in hushed tones before coming back. All four of them looked defeated. "You were hidden from the god's eyes when the first lottery was taken," said Idisou. "Perhaps he saw you later and decided he did not want the other boy." "But I was still in Besar when the earthquake struck." To that, the priests had no answer. Camros did not sleep that last night, and so was wide awake at dawn when Osiran led the servants in to prepare him. No breakfast was served, as the priests did not want to chance his being sick during the procession. A hot bath was drawn, after which the servants anointed his body with fragrant oil, lingering on his intimate areas until he blushed. A robe of fine pleated linen was draped over his shoulders and cinched at the waist with a belt of silver plaques. His hair was dried and combed out, and upon his head was placed a crown of flowers so deeply red they seemed to him like blood drops. Last of all, Idisou entered in his ceremonial finery, bearing a silver cup from which he urged Camros to drink. "This is the draught that will bear you to the place of sacrifice. You will be awake and able to walk, but this will dull your fear and enable 65

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you to go consenting. It is sometimes given to virgin brides on their wedding night, so it is fitting for you to drink." Honey masked the bitter liquid. Camros drained the cup to the dregs and waited for the dullness to come. So many drugs had they given him in the past seven days that he did not know how much more numb he could be without stumbling and losing consciousness. The place of sacrifice was nearby, but he would take a roundabout route to get there. From the temple of the Rain he would be led into the complex's central plaza where crowds were already gathered to watch him pass, and then back into the temple for the sacrifice. Fearing that he would lose heart, the priests had not taken him to see the cenote, but they had described it to him. Camros put all thought of the destination from his mind and concentrated on holding his head up and placing one foot in front of the other. Whatever drug the priests had given him was beginning to take hold, smothering his emotions and blurring the edges of his vision. People were lined up along the route, all brightly dressed and many holding flowers which they threw down in his path (where do they get all those flowers in a drought? he wondered), but he could not focus on any of them. Ranu once told him that when a criminal was executed in this way, people jeered and threw refuse. How strange it seemed that he should remember that now. Above, the sky was as gray as ashes, yet the morning air was thick and muggy. Stumbling, leaning against one of the priests who flanked him, he felt a bead of moisture on his hand, his shoulder, his head. Fat droplets struck the 66

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pavement before him, not enough to quench the land's immense thirst but enough to excite comment. People called out to him, to the god, and they cheered when he passed. On the steps of the temple, Idisou made a sweeping gesture to Camros before lifting his arms to the lowering sky. Camros could not follow what he said, though some of it was meant for his ears; all he grasped was that the god had seen the offering and was prepared to render his part of the bargain once the sacrifice was made. More cheers greeted these words. Camros thought he heard a woman's shrill shouting at the priests to hurry up and drown him, but she was cut off in mid-sentence. From the crowded plaza Camros was led back into the temple, along a colonnade and then into a large, open-air space filled with people who parted to let him pass. By now, his body felt heavy, his heart pumping faster to supply him with enough energy to move, and his breath came short. Vaguely he knew these onlookers were nobles, for he could smell their expensive perfumes and see the flash of jewels. For a fleeting moment he wondered if his father was there. Idisou led the way up to a platform garlanded with ribbons and greenery. At the back, the silver image of Shedhu stood on a pedestal, presiding over all. Camros stepped up, and for the first time saw the open space yawning at his feet. The cenote was wide, perhaps thirty feet across, and deep. The water, upon which floated numerous floral offerings, was in shadow; Camros would have to drop several feet before he struck the surface. 67

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Seeing the drop and the water below made him dizzy. Osiran put out a hand to steady him. "It will not be long," he whispered. Directly across from the platform was a dais shaded by a crimson awning fringed with gold. Camros saw a blurry figure in gold cloth; the king was present. He let his gaze fall away. It was getting increasingly difficult to stay awake, to breathe. Osiran nudged him. "Keep your head up if you can." Lifting his head was like bending iron. Once again the royal pavilion blurred into view, and then beside it, in perfect focus, he saw a man's face. A name slowly came to him: Sedir. No, it could not be. In his drug-induced haze, he was seeing only what he most wanted to see. Sedir had deserted him in Besar. Even had he known, he never would have come to Bhellin for this, could not possibly have been admitted to a crowd of noblemen and kings. And yet there he was, his dark eyes and flashing smile. Camros felt his heart race. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes grew moist. Sedir blew him a kiss. Camros blinked, but his lover was no longer there. Idisou was speaking words which Camros did not hear. He felt Osiran's hands on him, holding him upright. The priest leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "It will be only a few more moments. Do not be afraid." "I do not want to die and find he is not there," Camros said thickly. Part of him knew the priest thought he was talking about the god. It did not matter. 68

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Two priests came forward to remove his sandals and bind his ankles. He did not turn to look, but he knew that the rope trailing away behind him was attached to a weight. Before stepping away, Osiran squeezed his hand. "It is time. He is here for you." Rain droplets spattered the platform. Camros looked back at Osiran in confusion. The priest smiled at him. "You have loved him before. Take the last step. Go to him." He did not remember putting out his foot to take the step. A breathless second suspended in midair before something wrenched him downward. He struck the surface of the water faster than he had time to draw breath and was sucked under. Water poured into his open mouth, filling his lungs. The crown of flowers, shaken by his thrashing, floated away from him, back up to the surface as he continued to fall. His lungs screamed for oxygen that was not there. He clawed at the dark water, jerking his legs to try to free his ankles. Cold flooded into his limbs, awakening his drugged senses, only now it was too late to take back the last step. Suddenly he realized he was not alone in the water. He twisted, writhing into a solid presence that grasped him and slowed his fall; he was no longer aware of the weight. Hands cupped his face, a mouth came down on his and breathed into him. His lungs could no longer bear the strain. Red burst behind his eyelids, staining the darkness. The god's kiss was death, and life, and took his breath away.

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GRAVE OFFERINGS

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CHAPTER ONE The shutting of the door was the sound of desolation. A candle had been left for him if he wanted it, but Adaz had warned him that it would consume his air all the more quickly; the eunuch had also left him a vial of poison, which he tried to refuse. Adaz merely pressed the small glass more firmly into his palm, breathing in Menes' ear. "A time will come when you'll want it," he whispered, "so take it." If circumstances had been different, he would not have been alone in the tomb. When the Turyar raiders came down from the hills as they often did in late autumn and stormed the stronghold, Lord Nenkadu's concubines had not fled in time; some were carried off while others were slain in the first bloody frenzy of the raid. Only he, who had been in his master's bed at the time, had escaped; Adaz and some of the other eunuchs had whisked him away while Nenkadu, halfnaked and still dazed by sleep, stayed behind to fight. At daybreak, a force led by the lord's eldest son swept into the ruined stronghold and put the raiders to flight, but for some things it was too late. In their wake the Turyar had left scores of dead and wounded, and had made off with a sizable portion of the household plate and jewels. Certainly there was little to spare for Lord Nenkadu's funeral. Menes had not seen the body, but those whose task it was to prepare it for burial told him how savagely the Turyar had dealt with him. 71

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"You'll have to make do with what's left," said one of the eunuchs, "but what matters is still there, and we've sewn his head back on. It will suffice in the hereafter." There was no discussion that he would be the one to accompany Nenkadu into the hereafter. Beyond the brief stab of terror he felt at being told, he was ambivalent. For much of his life he had been a slave; as his lord's catamite his lot had been better than most. Nenkadu had not treated him harshly, and after some initial discomfort being taken by him had not been unpleasant, though Menes never experienced with him the passion of which others spoke so highly. Accompanying a lord and lover to the afterlife was an honor for which concubines often fought; to survive was to be treated as used goods. Menes accepted the compliments of the eunuchs who attended him. His best robe of red Rhodeen silk had been taken, but his second-best, which he had worn to his master's bed and hastily thrown on as he fled, had survived. The servants washed it and replaced the ivory buttons with golden ones rescued from a ruined garment. His hair was dressed with scented oil and Adaz found him a pair of earrings; it was all the finery they could spare for him. As they were dressing him, Nenkadu's son had come in, stern and handsome, and drawn him aside. "Such a lovely boy," he murmured, lightly stroking his callused fingertips over Menes' cheek, tracing the bow of his lips. "You must be no more than sixteen. Such a waste. If the gods permitted anything less than a living sacrifice, I would have left him his dead concubines and taken you for myself." 72

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Menes was, in fact, not long past eighteen, but the eunuchs had taught him the tricks women used to conceal their age and prolong their beauty. Had he not died, Nenkadu might have kept him another year before replacing him with a younger, fresher boy. At that moment, the priests had come in to lead him in the requisite meditations that would enable him to get through the funeral rite without fear; they assured him that once in the tomb they would give him a drink to dull his senses so he would not make a scene when the door was sealed. The march began at dawn, leading down from the stronghold across a flat expanse and then up toward the jagged hills where centuries of geological and elemental forces had fissured the cliffs to form myriad caves. Many of the local lords chose to build their tombs here, using the landscape's natural features to conceal their resting places from grave robbers. Menes walked behind the body with priests and grave goods. It was a cold day and the air cut bitterly through his fine clothes and the fur-trimmed cloak someone had lent him. He had often heard Nenkadu speak of his tomb and how lavishly it would be decorated when finished. Once inside, the way was so narrow the procession had to go in single file. In the dancing torchlight, Menes saw the figures of gods and animals upon the walls; some of the paintings were little more than outlines because there had been no time to finish the work. A dead man's body could not remain above ground for more than five days, and the 73

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household had had enough to do simply to cobble together a suitable array of grave goods. At the rear of the burial chamber, a pallet had been made ready for him beside amphorae of sweet oil and honey. He was to remain standing while the pallbearers set the bier upon the marble slab in the center of the chamber; the stonemasons had not had a chance to hollow out the sarcophagus, so Nenkadu would spend eternity lying exposed. His body had been washed with fragrant water and rubbed with oils before being wrapped in a linen shroud, yet still Menes could smell the faint odor of decay as the bier was set before him. Nenkadu's sword was placed at his right hand and a spear at his left. These were not the beautifully made weapons Menes had sometimes seen in his hand; the Turyar had stripped those from his corpse. Still carrying the funeral chant, one of the priests approached Menes. "Who will follow his master into the darkness?" Menes felt Adaz's hand on his shoulder, both to steady and prompt him, and he answered the ritual question in a quiet voice. Blessing his endeavor in the name of the Father and the gods Below, the priest gave him a clay cup and told him to drink. The liquid was as bitter as he had been warned it would be, yet the second and third draughts were as tasteless as water. His eyes were already losing focus when Adaz pressed the vial into his hand. "I know you don't want it," whispered the eunuch. "You say you'll be brave now, but in the dark all men 74

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know fear and perhaps it will take you days to die, whether you starve or suffocate, who knows? No, you keep this for when you want it, because you will want it sooner or later. It's a gentle poison. It'll make you cold and then make you sleep, just as you're going to sleep now." He felt hands on his arms, guiding him to his knees so he could lie on the pallet. Someone removed the borrowed cloak and drew a blanket over him. A soft pillow slid under his cheek. Even with the drug coursing through him, turning his limbs to wool, he did not entirely lose consciousness. He was vaguely aware of the final stages of the ritual, the anointing and invocation to the spirits of the underworld. Last of all, Adaz touched his cheek, smoothed his hair and joined the others who were withdrawing from the chamber. It did not occur to him to panic or wonder why he was being left behind, even when the last torches disappeared from view, casting the chamber in shadow. As the heavy door was pushed shut, cutting off all remnants of light, only then did he begin to feel his solitude. He thought he should get up, but the drug made him too sluggish to want to do anything other than sleep. Warm and comfortable under the down coverlet, he closed his eyes to the faint scraping of the trowels used by the men who were bricking and plastering up the entrance, and slipped into unconsciousness to the rhythm of their work. When he woke in the utter blackness he wondered for a moment where he was. Although cold, the air was stale and the odor of decaying flesh seemed even stronger now. The silence which enveloped him was loud enough for him to hear 75

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his own sluggish heartbeat, and as awareness gradually returned to him he felt the first dull stirrings of fear. He had been left to die alone in the darkness with a corpse, and there was no one to hear him plead for his life. Beyond the terror of death, he understood at last what Adaz had tried to tell him when in his bravado he refused the poison, that in the silence and dark that was the threshold of the underworld a man was left to weigh his own soul, and the uncertainty was the most terrifying madness of all.

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CHAPTER TWO Ambar's companions said he had an inborn instinct for when a funeral was going to take place. In truth, he was simply more observant than most. One needed only a bit of common sense to know that anytime Turyar warriors rode across the border, more than likely somebody was going to die. And if that somebody was important and wealthy, it was all the better. His men were of two minds about picking off this tomb. There was not likely to be anything much worth taking, not even a pretty concubine. Sometimes, if they broke in soon enough, they might find a living offering who could be sold across the border in Bhellin once they had had their fun; according to the local gossip, the dead man's women had been killed or taken in the raid. Still, it had been a lean spring and summer, and there were no other prospects. **** The boy in Pharan's arms was blindfolded to keep him from later identifying the tomb robbers. Ambar could nevertheless see how pretty he was, and how young. He had the first slight fuzz of a beard, which meant he had not been castrated as some of the male concubines were, but his hands were soft and he was almost as well dressed as his dead master. It was not often that they found a young man; if Ambar had to choose he would have preferred a woman, yet this one was just as good. He was making no attempt to escape, 77

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shivering from cold and terror and clinging to Pharan's neck like a thing possessed. "Put him down here by the fire." "You know the deal, Ambar," growled Pharan. "I saw him first." Ambar could never decide whether the tension before a job was worse than that afterward. Six men skirting the edge of the law, risking mutilation and death was a bad business, and more died from a knife in the back than were ever caught by the priestly authorities. There was no arguing with Pharan when he had the right, but if anyone was going to be sensible then it had to be Ambar. "When he's warmed up properly," he said, "you can give him your cock any one of eight different ways. But look at him, freezing and half out of his wits. There's no sense in him catching a chill while we're doing him. Here, take his earrings. They'll fetch as good a price as anything we get out of this job." Without waiting for Pharan to argue, Ambar shoved the jewelry at him and took the boy in his arms. His cloak was generous and thick enough for two, and this one hardly weighed anything at all. Finding the boy meant they would have to return the following night to plunder the corpse, which was already far too ripe for their tastes; the body did not even have a sarcophagus, just a linen shroud hastily painted with the usual sacred nonsense: a curse upon anyone who disturbed the deceased's property or rest. 78

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Ambar and his men would wait out the day in their prearranged hiding place, a cave overlooking the entrance to the valley. They had managed to pilfer a few items before necessity forced them to leave. It was not much, a pretty ivory box and the golden fittings off a chair, plus the boy's own meager jewelry; it might be enough to get them through the winter if they did not squander it. After thoroughly inspecting the jar of honey Rhadu had snatched from the tomb, they divided the treasures and dipped pieces of flat bread into the jar. There was no telling what one might find in the dark, and the last time they had enjoyed such a treat they discovered to their dismay that the honey had been used to preserve the corpse of an infant. Once the pickled body had been properly disposed of in the back of a nearby cave, the men had distributed the honey among several smaller jars and sold it to some unsuspecting Rhodeen villagers. Ever vigilant for such opportunities, Ambar had noticed two more jars at the rear of the tomb. Most likely they contained olive oil, but on occasion such jars might hold perfume. With such goods and a few hours chatting up the women in some local bazaar, the profits might yet be worth it. Among those jars, under a quilt of patterned Khalgari work, Pharan had found the boy. One hand was pillowed under his cheek in repose, the other curled near his mouth. He barely stirred when Ambar lifted him to secure the blindfold, reviving only when they were out of the tomb in the cold night air. Given how thin and close the air of most tombs 79

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was Ambar was not surprised at how quickly the living offerings lost consciousness. The boy was holding onto him far too tightly. That was not surprising either. Sometimes the sacrifices had been in the tomb so long that if they somehow managed not to suffocate or starve, their minds were broken, and the only thing Ambar could do with them after he and his men had enjoyed themselves was to put them out of their suffering. He sincerely hoped he would not have to strangle this one. "Look here, you've got nothing to be afraid of, lad," he murmured. "There's a warm fire and my cloak's big enough for two. And maybe after you've made yourself useful there'll be some hot bean soup for you, eh?" Ambar began chafing the youth's hands, which were really quite cold. "You're a pretty one, aren't you? What's your name?" A pair of hennaed lips trembled, and Ambar heard a whisper that sounded like Menes. "A lovely name." He moved down to the gold buttons of the youth's robe, plucking them off with his knife and slicing through the gossamer thin shift underneath. This one was nicely made and not too thin. Ambar rested the knife point against the hollow of the youth's throat, just so he understood what was going to happen. "Now you're going to be a good lad and we won't hurt you. We're not beasts like some men, and it's nothing a pretty one like you hasn't done before." When Ambar kissed him, the youth's mouth was cold and dry, tasting of the drugs the priests had used to keep him docile. Ambar loosened his hold long enough to find the water 80

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skin by his gear and let a few drops trickle past the boy's lips. "That's all you get for now," he said. "Is it better?" Even as his robe was peeled back to expose his body, the youth did not struggle, but in his gasps were pleas not to touch him. Ambar really would have preferred to have him quiet, but knocking a slave out was something he did only as a last resort; he wanted the body under him awake and responsive for sex, otherwise he might as well be doing a corpse. Looking for a length of cloth he might use as a gag, Ambar saw Pharan watching them with flaring nostrils. He beckoned to the man. "There's enough of him to share." His fingertips slid down the youth's chest to tweak his nipples; he received a ragged groan in response. Yes, that was better. He had forgotten how sweet a fuck a comely boy could be. "Kiss him if you want, or feed him your cock if you think he'll take it. I'm sure he's had plenty of practice." Ambar quickly undid his belt while Pharan laid the boy down on the sandy floor of the cave and removed the rest of his clothing. From across the fire, the others were beginning to take notice. In a brothel it was different. There, a man could take his time with sex, but when you had five others waiting for you to hurry up, the experience always tasted of haste and regret. As he moved forward, suddenly he did not feel the surge of lust he usually felt when taking a new partner. The sight of a beautiful body blindfolded and pinned under him, and the heat of the moment never failed to excite him, yet now the fire was gone and he could not seem to become aroused 81

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again. Looking over at Pharan, who was roughly kissing and fondling the boy, he gave a conciliatory shrug. "You found him first. Go on then, if you want him that much." He pulled his clothing back in order and hunkered against the wall of the cave with a skin of sour wine while the others took their turns. There was nothing to it really, and their captive was far too dazed or simple-minded to struggle, but at that moment he found he could not watch anymore than he could bring himself to participate. Perhaps it just isn't a boy I want tonight. Sunlight glared against the cave entrance as morning passed into afternoon and the men slept. The youth huddled quietly in a corner among his torn clothing where he had been left after they finished with him. Ambar studied him with indifferent eyes. Yes, the men took their sport, but they were usually quite gentle provided the subject did not resist and after the first time rarely touched their captives again. It was impossible to get a fair price when the goods were too obviously used, and this one could fetch a nice sum once he was cleaned up. Ambar weathered a few strange looks from his comrades, who were waiting for him to take a turn; he shrugged off their queries. They all needed to rest if they were going to venture back into the tomb after sunset, and he had already been up all night. Later, if he had time and felt up to it, he might still have the boy. ****

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In the late afternoon he woke to a dying fire and the grumbling and cursing of his companions. As he tried to clear the sleep from his eyes, the first voice he heard belonged to Pharan; the man was steadily working himself into a frothing rage. "What is it?" he mumbled. "That little bastard," spat Pharan. "He's gone." Ambar slowly sat up and looked around. It took him a moment to realize Pharan was talking about the boy. "Who had the watch?" Rhadu was instantly on the defensive. "I did, but I never saw him move, and I was watching at the entrance the entire time." "He had to have gone out the front!" said Pharan. He roughly gestured to the rear of the cave, which was little more than a hollow depression in the face of the cliff, and then to the entrance. There were no other passages. It was up to Ambar to restore order. Rhadu was as good a sentry as any, and his sharp eyes had prevented a captive from escaping on several occasions; the boy could not have gotten past him and fled. They had taken his shoes, and the last Ambar had seen Pharan had taken most of the boy's clothing. Only a simpleton would have ventured out into the freezing night in a slashed shift. There was, however, the very real possibility the youth had escaped, barefoot and half-naked as he was, and that someone would find him. Ambar urged the men to be calm even in the face of his own rising panic. "We can either go looking for him or go back to the tomb and grab what we can before the authorities come sniffing around." 83

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"Unless they're already waiting for us," said Habal. "It's half a day to the nearest village, and we've watched the locals long enough to know they send the guards out here only twice a month." "Yes, but get the priests involved and they'll hunt you with a vengeance." Ambar lifted a hand to calm them. "We took the boy's sandals; he's going barefoot. By the time he gets anywhere, he'll be crawling on bloody hands and knees. He can't have gone too far." Rhadu took the opportunity to add his agreement, pointing out that he had seen the boy not too long ago. "There's only one way he could have gone to get out of the valley. We'll catch up with him." "And when we do," growled Pharan, "I'm going to ram my cock up his hole so hard he won't be able to walk. He took the earrings, did you know? I had them in my belt and now they're nowhere, unless—" The sidelong look he gave the others and their immediate protests forced Ambar to shout them down. "Pharan, you fool! Don't go calling anyone a thief unless you can prove it!" Even as he spoke, his eyes searched the corner where the men had left the youth. Something was out of order, yet it was not until he walked over that he noticed how strangely undisturbed the sand was. This is not right, he thought. A prone body should have left some sort of indention; there was nothing. Even the gold buttons he had cut off the boy's robe were gone, and Habal, who had gathered them up, could not account for them. 84

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The moon was almost up, and they were losing time by arguing. It was agreed that they would give priority to the tomb, going after the boy only if the opportunity arose. Once it was safe, they crept from their cave and moved in single file along the valley floor in the dark. The night was clear, illuminated by a bright half moon, and they had traced the path days earlier so they might go quietly in the dark. They waited until they were deep in the passageway before uncovering the lantern. Not for the first time, Ambar wondered if this tomb was even worth all the trouble it had brought. He and his men had had to wait two frustrating days in the village for the sentries to leave the area; in winter it was not quite so bad, though plundering a corpse was really much more bearable when it was still fresh. Breaking in through the plaster and then prying open the door was not difficult, but even in the passageway they had seen that the tomb's decorations had not been finished. It had not been a good sign. "There he is," hissed Pharan. For a moment, Ambar did not know who he meant. Pharan made a gesture, and on the floor, huddled under the faded quilt, Ambar saw the boy's dark head. Now of all the places he might run to, why had he returned here? The more Ambar tried to comprehend the situation, the less sense it made. Three of the others descended on the sarcophagus, tearing open the linen shroud, muffling their noses in their scarves as they ripped off the corpse's few ornaments, while in another corner Rhabu was shoving a votive statuette into his pouch. Ambar prodded open the jar behind the sleeping boy; it was, 85

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as he hoped, full of sweet oil. The tomb's other furnishings were either too meager or commonplace to fetch a worthwhile price "We've got all we're going to get out of this tomb," he said. "Let's get the boy and go. We'll carry him if we have to." Pharan prodded the bundle with his foot, more vigorously when the boy did not stir. Ambar pulled back the coverlet, immediately gagging on the smell of putrefying flesh. Hollow eyes stared into space, and lips that had once been rosy with henna were now two shrunken, bruised leaves. "What in the depths of Below is this?" Pharan looked ready to throttle someone. A steady stream of expletives followed. Ambar's foot knocked a small object that rattled against the side of the sarcophagus. Bending, he picked the glass vial and sniffed the neck, flinching at the bitter odor of poison. Pharan and the others were already plundering the corpse of its gold earrings and buttons, the same ones Ambar had stripped off a living boy the night before. He looked back at the youth's body. Sometimes the slaves or concubines they rescued took their lives rather than trust to a gang of tomb robbers. Already the men were cursing the profit they had lost by this one's death. Ambar had a better nose for such things. A thin trail of vomit crusted the youth's mouth and chin. This one had been dead for some time, before they had even come. Now he understood all those small mysteries, beginning with his own curious lack of arousal. Strange things happened in the dark, dead places, it was said. Tomb robbers by nature laughed at the tales, yet their scorn did not negate them. 86

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The others, fueled by their greed and frustration, did not yet see it; he wondered if he should even tell them. Suddenly he did not feel very well.

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CHAPTER THREE Very little time remained to him. Still, he ran, keeping one step ahead of the temple soldiers, and there was always the chance he might yet elude them, but his instincts told him it was finished. That was the risk he and all other tomb robbers took in courting the dark, and sooner or later most of them lost the gamble. In a matter of days, driven by some unnamable madness, his men had turned on each other for the meager gold and fragrant oil they had taken from the tomb. At first, Ambar had tried to keep the peace, yet was unable to shout them down in the usual way. The pragmatist in him cautioned him to stand aside as words were replaced with weapons, and madness turned to murder. By the end of the third day, only he and Pharan were left, and he could see in the other's fevered eyes that it was not finished. He slept lightly, waiting for the inevitable attack. And when Pharan came at him with a cudgel in the darkness, he was ready, impaling the man on the long knife he always wore at his belt. How the local priests were alerted to their presence, Ambar did not know; the usual sentries were not expected for another week. He suspected that one of the men had, in a fit of irrational greed, tried to sell some of the goods in the local village where their activities were noted by the temple authorities. All he could do now was try to outdistance his pursuers and reach Khalgari lands. On foot, with the late 88

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winter rains due to arrive any day, he did not hold out hope of getting very far. In a large town just west of the border, he sold his plunder in the bazaar. Now that he did not have to divide the profits six ways he had a sizeable income that would go a long way toward helping him survive the winter. He could afford to purchase a horse and some provisions. If he moved quickly enough, he might just escape. First, however, he had some unfinished business with the spirit world. He had had plenty of time to think, and he now thought he understood why he had not been seized by the madness. Only he had not lain with the phantom they had brought out of the tomb. His flagging desire puzzled him at the time, yet in hindsight perhaps he had sensed the danger the others had not. With living captives, it was understood that one used them, but you just did not court the anger of the dead in that way. Ambar did not know whether the disaster that had befallen him and his men had been caused by the catamite or by his master in his anger at having his property defiled. Some instinct told him it was the youth's spirit that needed to be propitiated, which would be far easier to do anyway since he did not know the master's name. Money in hand, he found a man who knew the spirit world and, surrounded by jars of herbal remedies and charms, he described his situation. When told, the old man hemmed and hawed, finally offering a solution that would consume a good portion of Ambar's savings. 89

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"And you're certain about this?" Ambar did not like the duplicitous look in the man's eyes. This one knew he was a tomb robber, for in order to get what he needed he had had no choice but to confess the truth. "Oh, absolutely," said the man. "The spirits speak, and old Ghabban hears them. You can make amends, but only if you can find somebody suitable. Of course, a few hours are all you get, and then he's gone." Ruing the loss of the money he needed to buy his escape, Ambar nevertheless told the man to teach him the incantation. Afterward, still trying to commit it to memory, he watched Ghabban prepare the necessary herbs and felt his apprehension grow while the man hummed to himself and occasionally looked back over his shoulder at him with calculating eyes. At the door, with the incantation memorized and the herbs safely stowed in his pouch, Ambar gently slid his dagger between the old man's ribs, clapping a hand over his mouth to prevent an outcry. Ghabban gasped, his eyes glazed over and he slowly sagged to the floor. Ambar dragged the body to a closet at the back of the house and dumped it inside. "You should learn to keep your secrets better, old man. You would have gone straight to the priests, I saw it in your face," he said. "There are already men after me, and if they get me so be it, but not until I finish this." Ambar leisurely cleaned the knife and his hands in the washbasin before helping himself to Ghabban's valuables. The man would eventually have other customers; he could not 90

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linger. He took back the coin he had paid, plus what he found in the man's strong box. On the other side of town, he made discreet inquiries about the local brothels, finally settling on one that was clean and offered a good selection of boys. Before going in, he stopped at the public bath to wash and put on his spare clothing. By the time he returned, it was close to sunset. In the downstairs common room, the boys flirted with the patrons under the watchful eye of their master. Ambar mingled with the rest of them, searching for a suitable boy and having little success. They had either the wrong coloring, were too garishly painted or too forward with their charms, which was good enough if all he wanted was a casual fuck, but the boy he chose needed to have a certain air of vulnerability—nothing he was likely to find in a brothel. A whore could be as ruthless as any merchant; Ambar always made certain to watch his purse when he took one upstairs. Looking toward the stairwell, he finally saw the one he wanted, a lovely youth with honey colored skin. Ambar met his eyes, smiled and gestured to him. "What are you called?" he asked. "I am called Haliki," answered a low, husky voice. "Or any other name you wish, if the fee is right." So far it was the typical transaction. "Are you taken for this evening?" There was none of Menes' innocence or fear in this one. Kohl-rimmed eyes seductively appraised him, hennaed lips parted at the suggestion of an entire evening rather than a 91

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mere hour. "I've no other takers," said Haliki, "but if you want me for the entire night you'll have to talk to Shobaz." The proprietor was as shrewd as he was bemused by the request. His eyes narrowed at the thought of what his boy might bring in with several clients instead of just the one. Ambar swiftly made his position known. "I don't exactly see a lot of customers. You may get busy tonight or you may not, who knows? I've got gold in my hand and a hard cock that wants a pretty boy all night, so is it going to be yes, or no?" In the end, Ambar turned over the coins and let Haliki lead him upstairs to his sleeping cubicle. The cramped space smelled of sex and stale perfume, like a hundred other cubicles in a hundred other brothels he had visited, and the kiss that brushed his lips was the practiced kiss of all the whores Ambar had had over the years. Nevertheless, he had meant what he said when he told the youth's owner that he was hard. So many months had passed since his last partner that he was tempted to forget his intended purpose and simply take this one. Hold off, you fool! You didn't pay five menar just to fuck some cheap whore. On a low table under the window, he undid his pack and took out two cups and a small jug of wine he had taken from Ghabban's house. "Will you have a drink with me? It's going be a thirsty night." He noted the suspicion in Haliki's eyes. "This stuff isn't very strong. I keep it watered to make it last." Although the youth hesitated over the cup Ambar gave him, he sipped the contents; to put him at ease, Ambar also 92

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drank. The herbs were in the youth's cup itself, not the wine. "I have pomegranates and dates also, for later," he said. Haliki set the cup down. He let the corner of his robe drop enticingly over one shoulder; the fabric was worn and stained in places, but had once been very fine. Ambar moved closer to him, undoing the ties as his mouth came down on Haliki's. He led the kiss, his hands sliding under the linen to fondle naked flesh. Haliki was pliant, responding with little gasps that slowly thickened and trailed away. His body grew heavy; when Ambar drew back, the young man's head was slumped on his shoulder. "I'm sure you're very sweet, but it's another I want tonight." He gently eased the young man down on his sleeping pallet and, taking the sash from his robe, bound his eyes. The words of Ghabban's incantation were already on his lips. If this doesn't work, I'm going to have one lousy, very expensive fuck. At first, nothing happened, and Ambar began to curse the old man's shade. By degrees, the air of the room changed, growing very close and still, and the curses died in Ambar's throat. Haliki's even breathing became labored. Ambar leaned forward, wondering if he had used too much of the drug. The body on the pallet began to tremble with cold. A hand moved, plucking at the worn coverlet and the edges of the blindfold. Ambar gently removed the blindfold. Even in the weak lamplight, the youth blinked. "Menes, look at me." The glazed eyes gradually gained focus. "Who are you?" asked a drowsy voice. 93

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It had worked; it was no longer Haliki with him. "I took you out of the tomb. I gave you water," he said. "My name is Ambar. Do you remember?" He saw the youth's brow furrow as he tried to pull forth the memory of something that might not have happened at all. "There were men. They..." His eyes hardened. "You were one of them." "I didn't take you," Ambar said quickly. "It was the others who did." Menes' hands felt the robe he wore, pulling it closed against the chill. He looked up at Ambar, who had stripped off his tunic and shoes and was now lying above him. Fear slowly replaced curiosity. "What do you want with me?" "To make you forget all that," answered Ambar. "You drank poison, didn't you, when you knew you were going to die? I found the bottle when we went back in." Menes' eyes were beginning to fill with tears, streaking the elaborate kohl; he brushed aside the wetness with a quivering hand. "It was so quiet and cold. I was afraid. No one was going to come," he whispered. He turned his head to the side. "Where am I? This isn't my body, and this place ... I've never been here before." "No, it's just a body that we're borrowing. We're in a town near the Khalgari border—I don't remember the name. But you're not really here; we left you in the tomb." Ambar held him, letting him feel the heat of his body and the lips that grazed his temple where flesh met soft hair. "You must have been something to see in life. I never really got to see your face, but you must have been beautiful," he 94

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murmured. He had no idea why he was saying such a thing; many of the live offerings they found had been just as attractive. "Was he a good master, the one they buried you with?" And he had absolutely no idea why he cared what the boy's master had been like in bed. All that matters is what happens here, what we do before dawn. Menes nodded. "He did not beat me." "That is good." Ambar bent to kiss his cheek. "I will not beat you either. I just want to touch you, make you feel good. Did you ever enjoy it with him?" He could not believe he was asking a dead catamite how he liked being fucked, as if it had ever mattered. "I did, sometimes." "Show me what you like, Menes." Cold fingertips hesitantly touched his face, tracing his lips. So he liked kissing, slow, lingering kisses full of heat and tongue. For Ambar, kissing was something you did to keep your partner interested while you stripped off your clothes. Sometimes it felt good, but more often than not he just wanted to get the fucking over with. This isn't about what you want. You said you were going to make him feel good, and now you're going to do it. But just because Menes liked kissing did not mean Ambar was going to put up with it all night. There had to be some way to move things along. He moved his lips along a firm cheek and jaw, the pressure of his tongue eliciting a gasp from his partner. Long fingers closed around his hands, guiding them down to his chest, where a firm nipple rose under his touch; he rubbed both until they were hard little pebbles. Menes writhed 95

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under him, begging him to kiss them. This was something Ambar usually did only with a woman, but he obliged, brushing his lips across the nubs before flicking them with his tongue. He would have preferred the taste of the young man's own skin to that of the henna Haliki had used to enhance his nipples. Why whores felt the need to paint every inch of their bodies, Ambar had no idea. The moan that answered his touch made his groin ache; he was so ready it hurt, and the hands roaming his body did not help. He had forgotten that Menes had been a catamite, that he knew how to touch a man. Ambar slid back up his body to kiss him, to grind against his thighs with his need. "Why do you want me?" The question was whispered against his lips, but Ambar heard the apprehension in those soft words as clearly as if they had been shouted. "I took you out of your tomb," he answered. "I didn't know you were already dead, and the others—I don't know what they knew." Mentioning them had been a mistake. Ambar felt the arms around him tense. "In the darkness, I remember—" "I didn't touch you then." "You kissed me, you undressed me." No, it wasn't you, he wanted to argue. Menes had never really been there; the cold body clinging to him that night had been an illusion spawned by the restless shadows. "Yes, but that was all I did." "And now, why now?" What do you want me to say, some lover's nonsense that I couldn't stop thinking about you, that I love you? In the name 96

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of Below, boy, I don't even know you except as a shadow that won't leave me alone! I just want to make it right with the dead. "You were dead. We took a ghost out of the tomb," said Ambar. "A man's got to answer for that." "If I had been alive, what would you have done?" Menes could not seem to speak above a whisper. The effect was disconcerting, but somehow fitting. Ambar bent to his ear. "I won't lie to you, boy. If you'd been alive, I probably would have taken you like they did, and then we would have sold you, but it would have been a better fate than dying alone in the dark with a dead man. You shouldn't have drunk the poison. It was such a waste." The youth's lips moved over the words, repeating them. "It was a waste of money for you." "Yes, even tomb robbers have to eat, but that's not what I meant," said Ambar. "I'll tell you what we think: gold and concubines like you are for the living, not the dead, and it's a waste to shut someone as young and beautiful as you in the dark." "It was my duty to go with him," murmured Menes. "There was no one else to do it, and perhaps I had only another year or two with him before he would have sold me." Ambar did not understand. "Only a fool would have done that." Menes smiled faintly. "I'm older than I look. I know what every pleasure slave knows, but it's not so easy for a youth to hide his age as it is for a girl." "How long was it before you took the poison?" Ambar asked. "You couldn't have been in there above four days." 97

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"I don't know. I slept, and then they were gone and it was dark." Menes closed his eyes and pressed his face into Ambar's shoulder. "I knew no one was going to come back for me, that I was alone." Trembling hands gripped his arms, clutching at his shoulders and trying to burrow into him. Ambar, stunned at his own tenderness, stroked the young man's hair. I should be opening his legs and fucking him, not doing this. His erection was still nagging at him, wanting an end to the stimulation. From the moment he had asked directions to Ghabban's house, he had told himself that he was going to make things right, yet now he had to wonder exactly how he intended to do that. Was it not more a matter of finishing what he had begun that night in the cave, to take the turn he had forfeited? That part of him that was a man admitted he wanted the boy, and had been tormented by the opportunity he had not taken, yet that part of him that feared the gods knew better. Even a tomb robber believed in the power of the dead. Otherwise, he would not go to such trouble to destroy the corpse from which he snatched the jewelry and deface the inscriptions on the funerary shroud and equipment. The taking of the boy's spirit from the tomb had awakened the powerful anger of the dark. Ambar's need went far beyond mere lust. Whatever Menes might feel, it was for Ambar to make amends. He was no poet, and only a fool would believe anything a tomb robber said. It was in the youth's lingering terror that Ambar found the promise of reprieve, in offering 98

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the warmth and comfort Menes had not known in those last suffocating hours. His hand slowly traveled down the youth's belly and, finding him hard, began to stroke. The response his movements elicited excited him, and he stifled the boy's moans with his mouth. Finally, it was enough. He had to come, or else in his frustration he would throw his partner down on his face and take him. Just short of the boy's climax, he stopped and kissed him thoroughly. "I want to be inside you." His eyes roamed the cubicle around the pallet; the male whores usually kept themselves well oiled, but because this was not always enough there was often a jar of some oil or salve nearby. He found a plain clay vessel on a shelf within arm's reach, and opened it to moisten his fingers with the oil. Some of it he rubbed on his erection, now almost too painful to touch, and the rest he smeared between Menes' legs, drinking in the sight of the oil glistening against the boy's puckered opening. Drawing up his partner's legs, he entered slowly, as he always did when he was with a boy. Once he was in he usually spared no thought for his partner's pleasure; the whores either faked it or relied on their own devices, and he was paying for his own release, not theirs. Now he had to find a rhythm and angle that would give his lover the greatest pleasure; it was an art for which he lacked the skill. The feel of the youth's hot passage around his cock was maddening, and he knew that if he did not move soon he was going to lose all control. 99

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It was Menes who initiated their lovemaking, undulating his body to create a delicious friction that made them both moan. Grunting at the unexpected sensation, Ambar responded by thrusting back. Their eyes met, and Ambar had but the flash of a moment to wonder what thoughts rested behind that fathomless black gaze before the rising crest of his own pleasure left him too incoherent for any further speculation. They were both gasping and clutching at each other, each lost in his own pleasure; Ambar knew his bedmate had come only when he felt the contraction of muscles against his member and the warm fluid spreading across his belly. All rational thought stopped as his own climax took him, and he could do nothing more than groan at the tension that bled out of his body. After sex, he usually cleaned up and left, as he never paid for a long stay and most whores were not worth it after they served their purpose. Now he was stunned to find himself lying close to his partner, gently brushing away the sweatdamp strands of hair that were straggling about his face. When he bent down to kiss Menes' temple, he knew he had lost all reason. You fool, it isn't even him, just a spirit in the body of some cheap whore. But for now, he was. Menes tilted his face toward him. Ambar took a corner of Haliki's robe and drew it across his mouth. "I've never really liked henna on a boy's lips," he murmured. "Are you warm now?" There were no words save for the mouth that answered his, drinking in the ardor of his kisses. Arousal was slowly building again, not the frenetic passion of before but a 100

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leisurely exploration of hands and lips and skin. His initial need slaked, Ambar was able to hold back until their mutual excitement no longer permitted restraint. Afterward, the boy's lips grazed his cheek. "You want me to forgive you," he murmured. "Why didn't you just ask?" A half-dozen honeyed answers sprang to Ambar's tongue; he settled for the truth. "You don't know how much I had to pay for the body you're in now. I'm going to enjoy it, but I meant what I said when I told you I wanted you to feel good." He swallowed, wondering if he was about to undo the night's effort with his foolish words. "This isn't about love, you know that. It's not just about sex either." Words failed him then, as he knew they would. Menes stroked his face with his fingertips. "I know you weren't one of them," he said softly. "All you had to do was ask me." Ambar pulled the boy close and drifted off to sleep. He woke to find Haliki stirring next to him. It truly was the young prostitute now, dazed from his drugged sleep. Menes was gone. "I don't remember what we did," he grumbled. The note of accusation in his voice came as no surprise. Ambar reached for his clothing. To tell the truth, he was as baffled by the night's events as Haliki. It wasn't love. No man worth his wits falls in love with a ghost. "You enjoyed it as much as I did, though I think maybe the wine was too much for both of us." From the way Haliki's mouth tightened, Ambar sensed the young man was within an inch of throwing him out. However, no whore worth his asking price would ever do such a thing to a well-paying customer, and Ambar knew he had nothing to 101

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fear. He threaded his fingers through Haliki's disheveled hair, knotted it into a fist and pulled him forward for a kiss. "I'd better be on my way. The next time I'm in town, I'll ask for you." An hour later, in the cold predawn twilight, he took his newly purchased mount past a drowsy sentry, through the gates and up the track toward the hills. Already he could see that it would be rough going. Rummaging at his belt, he took a sip of the fiery local liquor to fortify himself against the cold. I drink to you, Menes, he thought. Either I'll lose them in the hills or I'll be seeing you again very soon. He took a deep breath, feeling more clear-headed than he had in days, and set off for the border.

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SNAKE BITE

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CHAPTER ONE At the mouth of the cave, the priest who held him by the arm paused and half-spun him about. "Swallow your fear, young man, or there will be more pain than there ought." Jhirin already knew how much it could hurt. He could still remember the quiet summer's evening when he'd raced ahead of his mother for the water jar that was almost taller than he was. In the lengthening shadows, he had not seen the shape coiled around the back of the jar until he reached to tip it toward him. The dark shape whipped toward him with an angry hiss, and he heard the crash of pottery and his mother's scream. After his ankle swelled and he grew feverish, his father wanted to kill the snake, but it was not allowed. A priest came in the morning with a jar to take it away. Because he lived, the priests had come for him. He remembered their whispering shadows by the hearth. Blue serpents coiled up their arms, and they wore snakeskin girdles that gave off a dry, sour smell. With rough hands, they examined the puncture marks on his ankle, blue-black bruises against white skin, and hissed at him to be still when he was frightened by their tattoos. Without a word to him, they told his parents that the Mother had Called him. He remembered how his mother cried when they took him away, and then he had cried, too.

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"Hush," barked old Anja, who supervised the dormitories where the novices slept. "If you knew what an honor it is to be Called forth by the Mother, you'd not mewl so much." He didn't care about the Snake Mother or the place where they took him, the warren of ancient sandstone buildings halfburied in the mountain where few were allowed to go. All he could think of then was his mother and father, and his sisters whom he would never see again. The priests told him so, in the House where they shaved his head and painted red ochre moons on the healed puncture marks. They told him that when one belonged to the Snake Mother he or she could not belong to anything or anyone else. His vision swam in the torchlight, the first light he had seen in nine days. Dazed, he gripped the priest's arm for balance and tried keep his gaze on the ground under his feet. The mouth of the cave was overhung with roots and ropes of vines that looked like so many serpents writhing in the half-light. Somewhere beyond there were real serpents, dry raspings in a darkness that smelled of the sloughed skins that had frightened him long ago. Once he was down in the earth, they would bring one to him, larger and far more potent than the one that had sought the cool tiles of his mother's storeroom so many years before. Because of the pain in his feet and the haze of the drugs the priests had given him in preparation, they did not demand he quicken the pace. Only when he stopped to catch his breath did they hiss at him to continue. Had Anja been there, she would have cuffed him and told him what an honor it was to receive Her gift and become that 105

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rarity, a male Oracle. Jhirin knew only that the last Oracle had died young and in seclusion, her life divided between ecstatic delirium and agonized lassitude. Jhirin had seen her but once, licking at the air serpent-like with her tongue while her arms, tattooed with the marks of her service, stroked the black serpent coiled like a belt around her waist. And now he was doomed to the same half-life, if the Trial did not kill him first. I do not want this, he thought. His heart was thundering from terror and the drugs. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere left to go and the throbbing soles of his feet reminded him that he had already tried. **** Jhirin had never been able to perform his required duties in the Serpent House; he could not even look in the direction of the building without a shiver of fear. He was as unlikely a choice as any, and surely his choosing of the black tile had been a divine jest at his expense. The other novices chided him for being so foolish. They had been taught that serpents were the Mother's messengers, and as such they were to be revered, not feared. "Only heretics and halfwits are afraid of the serpents," said Annaya, one of the female novices. Unlike him, most of the temple novices had not been Called in the formal way. Most had been given to the Temple as orphans, or offered by parents who already had too many children. Annaya, the acknowledged beauty among the girls, had been the youngest of thirteen. Others, like the two fair106

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haired Rhodeen girls Esteri and Sequi, had been captured in war and dedicated in thanksgiving to the Mother, or were recruited by the temple on account of some noteworthy talent. The priests of the Snake Mother might view Jhirin as being especially blessed, but most of his peers thought he was stupid and said so openly. "You must have done something foolish to be bitten," said Esteri. Maybe he had. It had been almost fourteen years ago and he had been so young, no more than four or five. He could not remember much beyond the rasp of scales and the lunge of fangs. Ghira alone did not laugh. She, too, had been Called by snakebite, but unlike Jhirin she remained unafraid. "They speak to me," she said softly. "They don't bite unless they have something to say." She did not try to hide the bite mark on her right foot, nor did anyone tease her about it. Ghira was not someone who could be teased. Jhirin admired her serenity and, as they both grew, looked with increasing interest at her swelling curves. Male and female servants of the Snake Mother were quartered separately and not permitted to marry, but during the great festivals they might mingle and court each other. Jhirin kept telling himself that at the next festival he would approach Ghira and touch her in the way he had dreamed of doing ever since his voice and body began to change, but always he lost his nerve and the festival would pass without note. 107

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In early spring, as the first green began to appear on the dusty hills around the city, word reached the novices that the current Oracle, not yet thirty, was dying, and the old women in the Serpent House were already counting out lots to choose the next. "It will be the black tile," said Annaya. "All the others are white." The way the other girls talked, they all wanted the little black wafer of clay and the title that went with it; only Ghira did not express a desire to become the Oracle. As for the boys, they were silent on the matter. The lot rarely fell to a male, so they had no reason to believe they would be chosen. Black for the Serpent Mother, black for the Oracle's consort and the swelling that comes with its kiss. Jhirin remembered the poison that had blackened his ankle and hoped for a white tile. "The Bridegroom's poison is strong," Ghira said to the other girls. When the chosen one was female, her attendant serpent was male; if a male was chosen, the priests would select for him a Bride instead. "How can you know if it will be you?" For a moment, Annaya looked uncertain, then a hint of scorn flashed in her dark eyes and she glanced away. "Because it can't be anybody else," she finally replied. As her gaze roved the courtyard, it lit upon Jhirin, busily studying the papyri for that day's lesson. "It certainly wouldn't be that little fool Otassi, or him." If she had been a boy, Jhirin would have struck her, though the penalty for exchanging blows in the temple 108

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precincts was a whipping; it would have been worth the lash to break that upturned little nose. Instead, he set his teeth and went back to his studies. "Then it isn't one of the serpents from the Serpent House?" asked Kiriku. The serpents assigned to the novices were generally considered tame. Many of them were nonvenomous and used in public rituals, but Jhirin knew there were others, deadly vipers kept elsewhere that only the Oracle and her attendant priestesses were allowed to handle. "They say it is a daku," answered Ghira, "brought from the Rhodeen wastes." Esteri looked pale. The daku was the deadliest of all serpents. Annaya frowned. "And what else do they say?" She was impatient, even contemptuous. This time, Ghira ignored her. Twenty-eight days after the funeral, the priestesses of the Serpent House herded the novices into a dim, circular room that was cold and musty from disuse. "Here she comes, the old goat," whispered Sequi. There was muffled laughter as Felutha appeared on the top step, holding between her hands the clay pot containing the tiles. One of the priestesses hissed at them to be quiet, while the old woman descended the steps toward them. Jhirin waited at the end of the line with the other young men, a dry clot forming in his throat as Felutha began the low tuneless chant of the Calling Song. He never had the chance to slip his hand into the pot for a tile. Down the row, he heard Annaya give a startled gasp and gave a little sigh of relief as she waved a black tile for all to 109

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see. The insufferable bitch could have all the snakebites she wanted, he thought, and he would not have to endure her taunts anymore. The priestesses surrounded their new Oracle, their voices taking up a new chant. Jhirin briefly glimpsed Annaya among the press of gray robed bodies, looking both triumphant and a little uncertain. She'll remember what Ghira said about the Bridegroom. The deadliest of serpents ... It gave him great satisfaction to think of her trembling in terror as the lethal daku was placed in her arms. A short while later, the remaining candidates returned to their dormitory but Annaya did not go with them. Once the rite was over, she was immediately spirited away to the Waiting House to undergo the ritual purification and preparation necessary before the Trial. The next time anyone outside the House saw her she would be Oracle, with a snakeskin girdle cinched around her waist and blue serpents spiraling up her smooth brown arms. And soon she will look like the old Oracle, dazed and tasting the air like a snake. "You'll have no choice but to go into the Serpent House now." Sequi came around behind Jhirin and hissed in his ear, jabbing at his neck with two fingers hooked like a serpent's fangs. "The new Oracle will be sure to send you." He shoved her hand away. "Be quiet," he growled. The other girls and a few of the boys laughed in unison, save Ghira who sat quietly by the courtyard fountain and stirred a leaf over the water with a twig. Jhirin wondered if she was disappointed at not being chosen. He would have liked to sit beside her and ask, but did not want to draw the 110

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attention of the others upon them. Perhaps in a quiet moment, when they were alone, he would ask. His sleep that night was troubled. He saw himself entering a deep place heavy with the odor of mildew. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw it was a cave, one of the Mother's sacred places, but where there should have been silence the air trembled with a soft, persistent hissing. He froze, trying to move backward, to run from that place, but his limbs refused to obey him, and suddenly he felt a heat in his loins that had nothing to do with fear. He awoke into the darkness of the sleeping room to the sound of rain spattering against the courtyard tiles, and for a breath did not know where he was. Slowly he focused on the steady drip of water against the stone gutters and realized he had been dreaming. Running a hand between the woolen coverlet and his body, he found the hardness that had accompanied him out of the dream world. Biting his lip, giving a furtive glance to the rest of the dormitory to make certain the other youths were still asleep, he took himself in hand, pulling and stroking until his breath hissed between his teeth and his body arched in a delicious spasm. A few moments later, as he gasped and rolled over to wipe his hand on the washcloth he kept beside the bed, shame took the place of lust. This had been the first time he had pleasured himself without thinking of Ghira, and he was sickened by the realization that it was not even another girl he had imagined. No, he had come to the thought of the least erotic thing in the world, a cave whose pulsating entrance 111

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hissed in time with his strokes.

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CHAPTER TWO As the moon turned, the girls anxiously waited for Annaya to return. The waiting continued. It should have been no more than twenty-eight days, but thirty came and went, long enough for the murmurs of disquiet to grow and spread. "She should have come out by now," said Esteri. "No more than a woman's moon cycle, they said." Sequi, no longer teasing, began to look troubled. On the thirty-sixth day, the first day of the dark moon, the priestesses descended on the Novice House. They came without warning, swiftly and silently, and gathered the young men and women together in the common room. When Felutha appeared with the red clay pot, all questions stopped. Annaya must have failed the Trial, thought Jhirin, though he did not know how that could have been possible. A chosen Oracle did not perish so soon of snakebite. But she wasn't the Oracle, not yet. They have to choose again. He looked at the floor, at the sandals of the girl standing next to him, anything to avoid looking at Felutha and her pot. Felutha came to him third, after Soraya and Kiriku. They had not wanted to reach into the jar for their lots anymore than he did. Even now they were half-faint with relief at having drawn white tiles. "Jhirin," Felutha snapped, "It's time to choose." 113

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Reluctantly, he slid his hand into the dark opening. His fingertips brushed the worn edges of the lots. The tiles felt cold, almost moist, and he could not tell merely by touch which one was the black tile. He withdrew his hand, clutching the tile in his fist. He did not know what color it was, and could sense the eyes of the priestesses on him. "Hurry up," someone hissed. Slowly, he opened his fist. The tile was black against his palm. For a long heartbeat, his eyes did not believe what they saw. Black, for the Snake Mother and Her deadly messenger. He did not breathe, did not hear what the priestesses were saying. He did not hear what the other novices were saying or if they said anything at all. Someone was gently prying the tile from his hand and he was swallowed within columns of grey cloth. The priestesses started to lead him away. Ghira's face was a blur of terror. She lifted her hand to him, and as he was led past he reached for her, but their fingers never quite touched. He was taken to a part of the temple grounds he had never seen before, a small, isolated building the older priestesses called the Womb House. There were no windows, and once the door was shut the only light came from a single oil lamp. The women of the House, kneeling together in the flickering lamplight, were chanting. This was not the Calling Song or the song with which they had acknowledged him, but some other ancient, amorphous chant he did not know. 114

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They made him undress and then gave him a drink that made his insides turn to liquid. As he crouched and spasmed over the pot they gave him, their tuneless singing went on and on. No food was brought, only teas mixed with strange herbs that made him sleep or sweat, or see shapes in the darkness. Strange desires took hold of him, and in his nakedness he was ashamed to be seen in such a state; they would not leave him alone even to spend himself, even when he cursed at them for being cruel. The head priestess was tall and cold as stone, measuring him with sharp eyes. Jhirin was afraid of her, knowing this woman was the true source of power in the household, and the one for whom the Oracle was but a figurehead. "I am Etira," she told Jhirin in a voice like smoke. "Here, you will do as I tell you." The other priestesses were alternately indifferent and unsympathetic. All of them hung on Etira's commands, watching him as she did. A priest visited once, a plump figure wearing a hood sewn from mottled red snakeskins. The man looked down at him as Jhirin turned to the wall and tried to shield himself with his hands. What few words he said were addressed to the priestesses; Jhirin was to him no more than a curiosity, a male lying where a female should have been. Afterward, one of the priestesses conveyed the priest's message to Jhirin. "Inyat says you must accustom yourself to our presence." "Why did he not say so himself?" Jhirin asked weakly. 115

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"Because it is forbidden for him to address you directly. All that is said to you from this time on will be conveyed through us. Even after the Trial, we will attend you and your Bride, and it will be thus all the days of your life," she replied. "However, he did say that you should put aside this unseemly modesty and relieve yourself." "I would," he hissed, "if only you'd leave me alone." She was sympathetic, yet adamant. "Only at those times when you are receiving your Bride's caress will we leave you." Her head bent close to his ear, so the edge of her veil touched his skin. "Do not think I have not seen a man pleasure himself before, or that I have not stroked one there. If it would get you to lie still and not complain, I would take you in hand myself. Alas, it is not permitted." All he could do was growl in frustration. "Curse you," he muttered. "Indeed," she said, rising from his pallet. "A curse be upon this house and its old and withered priestesses that their charge is a comely young man who must remain chaste for his Bride." He did not ask about Annaya, for if he was here then that meant Annaya was dead. Jhirin could not help but feel some sympathy for her, for he knew that she had endured what he faced now. So many days in this smoky darkness, with neither sun nor moon to mark the time, she must have gone mad, he thought. I wonder what they've done with her body. The bodies of executed criminals were often taken out to the waste and left there for the scavengers to pick clean, but whatever else Annaya had been, she was not a criminal. 116

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Those who died of snakebite died a sacred death. Their bodies were never thrown away. The priestesses did not volunteer the information; it was as if his predecessor never existed. Instead, they told him he was honored, that he alone among the men of the priestly class would take a Bride, and each day they came to repaint the old puncture marks on his ankle with the same henna Khalgari brides used to dot their foreheads. Two eyes of red glared at him, a reminder of the pain that had come before and would come again. He tried to rub off the marks, but they scolded him for doing so, stopping only when they saw—as he did—that the henna had saturated his skin like bloodroot ink and could not be rubbed or licked away. He flung a cloth over the marks on his ankle, but was helpless against the stifling darkness. The room was so close. There were no windows and the brazier was always burning, filling the room with a dizzying white haze. The priestesses were accustomed to the fumes and, in those moments when he was steady enough to leave his pallet, they attempted to instruct him, for part of his duties as an Oracle would be to read the patterns in the smoke. They told him to breathe deeply and not to fight it. He tried once and half a second later was on his knees retching. If this is what the life of an Oracle is like, he thought, I cannot stand it. At some point, cannot became will not. He did not know quite when the determination to run came upon him. From a young age, denizens of the temple were 117

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taught that the outside world was a place of noise, violence and petty sin. They did not crave escape or an ordinary life. Not until now had it occurred to him to wonder how difficult or easy it might be to escape the Womb House. He knew that the House sat at the very rear of the temple complex, nearest the ruins of the first temple. But the ruins and dark places were full of serpents, and he knew the complex was guarded. Still, the temple slaves regularly left the complex to run errands in the marketplace or elsewhere in the city. If he was clever enough, he might be able to pass himself off as a slave. Once stirred to this purpose, he began to take greater notice of the priestesses who came and went from the House. Other than Etira, Felutha and the woman who had teased him, the others were strangers. He did not want to draw suspicion to himself by asking their names, so he remained on his pallet and surreptitiously studied their faces. It was not long before he realized that they were never present all at once, but came and went in shifts. By their coming and going, he began to tally day and night. Five such days passed, and by the increased activity in the House he knew the twenty-eighth day was drawing near. If he wanted to escape his fate, he would have to act soon. Mentally he made his preparations, visualizing the route he would take and drawing up a list of places where he might hide and wait if the alarm was raised. That he had no clothing was not a cause for concern; his blanket was sufficient to cover his nakedness, and he had long ago been taught how to knot a simple garment from a square of cloth. 118

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A novice could be put to death for willfully leaving the temple; the punishment was graven into the walls of the great peristyle entryway to the Snake Mother's sanctuary. Jhirin had seen the laws many times. He knew the offenses and corresponding penalties by rote, but his desperation was greater than his obedience. What did it matter that the temple guards would slit his throat before the altar? The Trial would kill him all the same. He would risk the chance of the sacrificial knife over the certainty of the serpent's poison. The crone assigned to watch him was asleep. Gathering up his blanket, running it under his arms and knotting it over his shoulder, he covered himself before carefully creeping from his pallet and past the brazier, softly on feet trained to make no sound. He crept through the doorway and down the three steps that led to a path. Off in the distance, he could see the main temple and dormitories; as the pylon gate was near the temple, he would have some distance to go. He tried to still his breathing as he paused to see if the way was clear. His body trembled from hunger and the drugs they had given him. He felt slow and thick, and every movement took more strength than it should have. Three steps took what little breath he had. He squeezed his eyes against the sun glare on the pavement, but the light blinded him, searing the darkness behind his eyelids. Tears slid down his face; he shielded his eyes with one hand and groped for the shade. And then, as he gasped for air he did not have, a pair of hands clamped down on his arms like a vise. He began to 119

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struggle wildly, lashing out with legs and fists, oblivious to the voice of the man behind him shouting for help. Many sandaled feet ran down the pathway; half-blinded by the sun, he could not see them to count how many temple guards there were. Panting, he flailed and pulled until the one pair of hands became many. They held him fast and bore him down to the hot pavement, where he lost consciousness.

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CHAPTER THREE He was tied down, placed on his stomach and his arms and legs tethered to stakes driven into the floor of the Womb House. The priestesses stood above him, whispering and muttering to themselves about how unmannered and ungrateful he was; only Etira addressed him directly, hissing at him to mind his elders just before she backhanded him across the face. A priest came with one of the temple guards. Jhirin could not lift his head to see which of the men was carrying the knife, but at any moment he expected one of them to lay a hand over his brow to tilt his head back and bare his throat. He had seen it done once or twice in the temple, with criminals who were sacrificed to the Snake Mother. Many of the temple guards had served in the Great King's army and knew their work well; the blade would cut quickly and deep, he would gasp for a moment and then his head would fall forward as he lost consciousness. Therefore, he was surprised by the slender, hard object that traced a line down the center of his back, briefly sliding between his buttocks before withdrawing. He tensed, wondering if the men would do what he was beginning to suspect they might do. Surely they would not dare use him in such a manner; the law codes said nothing about violating a condemned member of the priestly class in that way before his death. 121

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Above his head, he heard a whoosh of air and a grunt, but before he could even begin to wonder what the sound meant pain lanced through the soles of his feet. He gasped, sobbing into the sheepskin they had spread under him; he scarcely had time to draw a breath before another blow landed on him. This time he screamed. He had seen such canings dealt out, yet because there was neither blood nor broken bones, he had not believed it as painful as others said. Now he understood why they howled and wept. On the third stroke of the cane, he passed out. When he regained consciousness, he was still lying on his stomach, but his wrists and ankles had been untied. Cautiously, he tried to get up, falling back again when the movement jarred his feet. An ointment dulled the pain somewhat, yet he did not think he would be able to make it to the slop jar without assistance or discomfort. Gray gauze fluttered and settled beside him. "You have some spirit," said the priestess. Though he could not see her face, he knew her voice as the one that had teased him over his need for privacy. "Perhaps you will live longer than your predecessor, but you have been foolish. We have tended your feet as best we can, but you will never walk again as you once did." From across the room, Etira sniffed and said only that he did not need to walk to perform his duties. Another day passed, in which he lay on the sheepskin with his feet propped up on a pillow. One of the priestesses attempted to massage ointment into the skin, but he winced and pulled away at the contact. A basin of hot water was 122

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brought for him to soak his feet, and this temporarily alleviated the pain. Near dusk, several priestesses entered the House carrying implements and folded bundles; when Jhirin inquired, they told him that the time of his Trial had come. They bathed him with scented water, then a stool was brought for him to sit as they anointed his hands and forehead with henna; his lips were also reddened, though they stopped short of outlining his eyes in kohl. A golden torque went around his neck, the rubies in the eyes of the opposing serpents winking in the lamp light and then, with two priestesses supporting him, a black silk robe was draped over his body. A veil of gauzy red material went over his head and would cover his face on the short walk from the Womb House to the place where he would meet his Bride. Jhirin did not know how people dressed for their weddings outside the temple, but at that moment he felt more like a bride than a groom. With help, he made it as far as the cave entrance but could not stand for the ritual just inside. Instead, the priestesses had him kneel on the sandy floor. His robe and veil were removed, leaving him wearing nothing but the torque, and his flesh was anointed with an unguent that would please his serpent Bride. He shivered to hear them speak in such terms of a deadly snake, and as they ministered to him he gazed about him with wild eyes for some sign of the creature. He was to take his place on a wide shelf carved from the living rock, with a sheepskin spread under him. They would not touch the serpent themselves, but one of the priestesses 123

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indicated a wide basket set in a corner of the chamber. "She will not come to you until we are gone." They left him; he heard the scrape of their sandals and the bronze doors clanging shut behind them. He was now alone in a cave lit only by a single oil lamp that threw eerie ochre shadows over the walls and magnified the basket on the floor. Alone with a viper not five feet away, he could not help but hug his knees to his chest and try to stifle a sob. Serpents had no ears, he knew, and would have been deaf to his tears, yet he concentrated on being as quiet as possible in the vain hope that the creature would not stir. He did not see the lid tremble and fall away, only the shadow that rose from the bottom of the basket. Although he had never seen a daku, he had been told that it was twenty feet long and could rear high enough to strike a grown man in the face. He froze, his heart hammering wildly in his chest and his breathing coming hard. The body that took shape was dark and slender, but when he saw it was not that of a serpent he paused. A daku was a deadly viper from Rhodeen, and yet the body before him had a human's limbs. As it stepped forth from the basket into the lamplight, his breath caught in his throat. The priestesses had called the serpent his Bride, yet the creature before him was no female. **** The daku paused, tilting its head and tasting the air with its tongue. "I was to be given to a bride," a voice softly hissed, "but you are no bride." 124

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"Neither are you," Jhirin croaked. The male body before him was smooth skin and firmly muscled contours, but he could not take his eyes off the erect member that jutted from between its thighs. When the creature hissed in response, Jhirin started back, anticipating the strike of fangs. Instead, the daku inched forward until it reached the edge of the shelf. It sniffed at the air a few inches above Jhirin's naked skin. "Your scent pleases me," it murmured, "though I was promised a bride." Jhirin tried not to flinch when long fingers touched his ankle, running up the outside of his body to touch the hennaed marks on his lips and forehead; the daku's skin felt cool and dry. "I do not understand," it said, "you are marked for my kiss, but you are not female." "I-I think they made a mistake." As he said it, he understood what had happened. The priestesses had forgotten to change the serpent originally intended for Annaya. "It was not supposed to be you." The dark body slithered onto the shelf beside Jhirin, close enough for him to see it had neither nipples nor navel. Its breath was a warm hiss in his ear as it took in more of his scent. "Do I displease you?" it asked. "No," he murmured. In fact, he was becoming acutely aware of a growing heat in his groin. Despite his fear, the other's proximity was beginning to excite him. How can this be? he thought. It is a serpent and it—he—is male. How could I possibly want to ... how could I even think of it with a male? Tilting its head, the daku leaned in close, and warm heat suddenly flicked along the curve of Jhirin's ear. Its fingers 125

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hovered over his shoulder, holding him in place yet not quite touching him as it continued its exploration, running its tongue over his cheek to the edge of Jhirin's lips where it paused and waited for him to turn his head and accept the proffered kiss. Once, in a shadowed corner of the Novice House, Jhirin had kissed Ghira. It was nothing more than a quick peck on the lips, for they were both young and inexperienced and wary lest the other novices stumble upon them. The kiss, far too brief even to be called that, left him wondering if the lack of passion he felt was normal, or if he would have enjoyed it more had he not been so rushed. But now, with the daku's mouth claiming his, its forked tongue urging him to reciprocate, he had more than an inkling of what he should have felt then. The tongue that twined with his felt unusually long, and he momentarily froze to realize it was slightly forked. Then the daku's hands were on him, stroking his back and flanks, cupping his buttocks and kneading them until he tried to grind his hips into the smooth body. He had endured so long without release, and now this being was teasing him, caressing every inch of his body save that part where he most needed to be touched. Then that tongue was sliding down the curve of his jaw, lapping at the throbbing pulse in his neck and moving to his left nipple, where it circled and flicked the tiny nub until he was whimpering for more. Jhirin had long since stopped dwelling on the fact that it was a male who was giving him pleasure, and stopped cringing at its soft hisses; the thought 126

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of a serpent doing this to him made him shudder in equal parts terror and delight. Somewhere in the back of his mind was confusion as to how they would consummate this coupling, but he would leave that to his lover. Down his body his lover went, avoiding his thighs and the member that by now was fully erect. Instead, the daku moved down his legs, gently licking the hennaed puncture marks on his ankle. "You have been kissed before?" Jhirin did not understand at first, and thought his lover was referring to the act of kissing, until its tongue teased the marks once more. "No," he answered, "I-I was bitten." "Bitten," it sighed, hissing. "How do you think serpents kiss?" Then its tongue flicked down over the top of Jhirin's foot. A toe was briefly sucked into a hot mouth before a trail of wetness slid across the sole. He flinched at the pain, but the daku firmly grasped his foot in its hands and kept licking, pondering over the bruises left by the caning. "You are injured," it said. "They ... whipped me ... the priests." He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out at the alternating pain and pleasure. "I-I tried to run and ... they whipped me..." The daku carefully set his foot down and slid back up his body to kiss him again. "Who is the one who did this to you?" When Jhirin answered with Etira's name, it threw back its head and uttered a low sibilant sound that made him shiver. The serpent was angry, and every novice knew that an angry reptile was one most likely to strike. He shrank away, only to have the daku reach for him and kiss him. "Tonight," it said, 127

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tonguing his ear, "this female will be visited by my little brothers and sisters." Its hands were parting his thighs, lifting his legs until they were flush with his chest. Then, still holding his legs open, it dipped to tease the sacs under his member and, venturing lower yet, circled his opening with wet heat. He tensed at the thought of being licked there, but the tongue persisted, lapping and circling until his tension subsided. The tongue breached the ring of muscle, teasing his insides, and was joined by a long finger that probed and massaged. He winced at the initial burning sensation, but slowly relaxed and began to enjoy the stimulation. And then, the finger brushed something inside him that made him whimper and arch his back in ecstasy. He thought he would come at that moment; when he did not, his hand went between his legs and gripped his member, stroking in time with the finger that slid in and out of him. His hips ground down on the finger, and he returned the thrusts, moaning at his impending release. Then, maddeningly, it stopped. Withdrawing its finger, the daku clasped his hand and urged him to be still. "Not yet," it hissed. "I want to be in you." It reached for something behind his head; he saw it was the jar of unguent with which the priestesses had anointed him. Jhirin did not see what his lover did with it; as he lifted his head to see, hands gripped his thighs, once again lifting and holding them apart as something slick and hard nudged his entrance. He willed himself to relax, for the other's 128

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member was much thicker than its finger and for a moment he had the sensation of being uncomfortably stretched. His lover gave him a moment to accustom himself to the member inside him before beginning to thrust; the angle stimulated that spot inside him that gave so much pleasure, and soon he was returning the thrusts, panting for the daku to take him harder. He heard its hissing breath come in short gasps and, looking up, saw its head thrown back, its eyes half-slitted and its tongue lapping at the air. The hands that held his thighs open caressed them in time with its thrusts. Then, still thrusting, it leaned down to lie atop him. "So tight," it panted in his ear. He started to answer, but his reply was swallowed by his lover's tongue. They kissed, while the friction of the new position stimulated Jhirin's member. He clasped his arms hard around the daku's torso, feeling the scaly patches that were beginning to erupt on its back. Its hissing grew louder, but he was too far gone in ecstasy to care. He locked his legs over its buttocks, trying to press it more deeply into him. The friction against his member was too much; he felt his orgasm building, until it came upon him with an intensity he had never experienced at his own hand. Crying out, he clawed and grasped at the body still pumping away above him. Warm liquid seeped between their bodies, and he heard his lover groan in his ear. The member inside him began to pulsate, and more warmth filled his passage, and that was the last clear thing he remembered before the visions came. Soldiers in Khalgari dress lay siege to a walled town. Jhirin saw them smash through the gates, but when he tried to turn 129

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away from the rape and carnage he found he had no eyes or hands with which to cover them. He was disembodied, drifting along the bloodied streets and above the burning buildings, immune to the starvation of the survivors and the illness that came after. Women smeared with ashes rent their clothing and wailed over the bones brought back on litters in place of the gold and slaves their menfolk had gone to seize, and Jhirin moved among them, following the processions of mourners out of the city into the tombs that pitted the barren cliffs. And then he was in the house of the Great King, bowed by defeat and anger against the gods, aged by grief for the loss of a beloved son slain in battle. Before the shrine of the Serpent Mother the broken man wept for the Oracle's wisdom, which he had not heeded, and Jhirin had nothing to tell him that had not been said before. Jhirin understood now that what he saw was but one path of the future, and that there were also others leading to places alternately brighter or more terrible. When he returned to his body, he was lying trembling in the daku's arms. His lover's hands were stroking him, soothing the spasms that seized his every limb. "What ... what did I see?" he gasped. "The future," it said, "as it might be, or perhaps you had a glimpse of the past. It is not always clear." The priestesses had already explained to him that whatever he saw he should pass onto a priest who would interpret the visions and disseminate them. "It hurts," he said. 130

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"The pain will pass," it hissed gently. "My essence is not strong, only enough to give you pleasure and then to make you see. The other one, she wanted me to be quiet and make her an oracle, but she did not want to see." Jhirin could think clearly enough now to realize the daku was talking about Annaya. "Did she die?" "I did not like her. But I like you very much, even if you are not female." Leaning over, it stifled Jhirin's next question with its mouth. He let his arms slide up over the smooth flesh, pulling the daku down to him as he returned the kiss. As their bodies moved together in tandem with the deepening kiss, he realized that, despite the residual ache, he was becoming hard again. When he shifted position to taste and touch more of his lover, he felt the soreness in his passage, yet still he wanted more, wanted to be filled and taken deeply until he came again. He breathed his desire into his lover's ear, only to have the daku draw back from their embrace. "So eager you are," it murmured, "but you would not survive my seed a second time this night. No, I will pleasure you another way." Gently pushing him back onto the sheepskin, it began to work its way down his body, nibbling and sucking on his nipples until he moaned, then licking a trail down his belly. A hand reached down to stroke the base of his member, tracing the underside with a firm thumb as he propped himself up on his elbows to watch. He watched the forked tongue dart out to catch a droplet of pre-ejaculate and then swirl around the head, delving into 131

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the tiny slit at the top. The daku's mouth opened to take him in; he watched in growing excitement as his wet member slid in and out of those dark lips, and began to thrust into the suction of that hot mouth, faster and faster until he could no longer contain his orgasm. Moaning, holding the other's head to him, he erupted hard in its mouth. Afterward, he lay boneless, embarrassed by what he had done. Turning his head, he started to speak, to apologize, stopping when he saw the dark body rise on its knees before him, one hand clasped about its member and stroking hard. He touched the tip, rubbing his finger over the slit until the daku groaned and came between both their hands. Hissing hard, it took his hand and licked it clean of its seed before urging him back onto the sheepskin. "You must rest," it said. Jhirin did not need it to tell him how limp and exhausted he was. The oil lamp was beginning to burn low. Surely morning must be near. "They will come at dawn," he whispered. "What will they do when they see you here? They thought they were giving me to a female serpent." The daku pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. "Only you will see me, and only at night when I make love to you. To them I will be just another serpent, and we will not tell them that I am not a bride." A forked tongue licked his cheek. "It will be our delicious secret, yes?" He smiled and nodded. "Yes, our secret." Cool lips nibbled on his earlobe. He had not thought that a cold-blooded creature could be so passionate, and yet he now found himself lying in the arms of an insatiable serpent lover. 132

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"And will you be afraid?" it asked, breathing into his ear. "Will you be afraid to touch me when I am in your arms as a serpent? I promise to save my kisses for the darkness, when you may kiss me back." Jhirin did not know. He could not envision himself making a promise he might not be able to keep. "I've been afraid for so long," he said. "It will be difficult, but I will try." "I would never hurt you," the daku murmured. "I like you." Brushing his lips with its tongue, it demanded a last deep kiss before sliding off the shelf into the shadows. Jhirin heard the rasp of scales against a sandy floor, but had no energy to lift his head to watch the daku shed its human form and slither back into its basket. He did not know what his reaction would be when he saw his lover as a serpent for the first time. He wanted to believe that he would not be afraid, but his fear was so deeply rooted he doubted he could overcome it all at once. "Be patient with me," he whispered into the darkness. A soft hissing sound answered him. Closing his eyes, he drifted into a half-slumber heavy with the dual aches of pleasure and poison that coursed through his body, and waited for the priestesses to come for him.

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RED CLAY

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CHAPTER ONE Grasping the bull's horns in both hands, Danaz vaulted up and over, landing squarely on the animal's back. The bull lowed under the sudden weight, shifting in his tether as if to buck and throw the young man off. Danaz only laughed, his oiled black braids glistening as they swung back and forth and his body arching sinuously as he clung to the animal's flanks. As Thadi watched, he felt his heart constrict. His loins tightened; he shifted from one foot to the other to ease the pressure. His companion saw, and gave him a knowing look. "Everybody gets hard watching sooner or later," Gahan whispered in his ear. "That's why they don't let decent women watch the dance." His face burning, Thadi pretended not to hear. Vaulting off the bull's back into the arms of his catcher, Danaz sauntered past them. He winked at Thadi. "Are you ready to try it?" The inflection he gave the question made it sound like he was soliciting something else. If only Danaz would not tease him so; it made concentration so very difficult. Danaz was handsome, he knew it, and that was the problem. All bull dancers were limber and graceful, but some more than others effortlessly exuded the sexual energy and danger that was the trademark of the sport. "You know I've been ready for weeks." Thadi had been with the dancers for ten months, training his body on the wood-and-leather bull upon which they all practiced. He 135

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learned to leap with the two other youths with whom he had been dedicated at the god's festival; the long, hard hours had distracted him from the sting of losing his family and not being able to go to school anymore. Still, Danaz would not let him try the real thing. Each day he went into the ring with the others, learning the bull's nuances, watching others leap, catch and try to avoid the bull's horns, while he had to make do with the vault upon which all dancers first learned the craft. Gahan thought he might make a better catcher, but Danaz only shook his head and said that all dancers had to leap the bull sooner or later. Let me do it, he thought. More than anything, he wanted Danaz to be proud of him, to flash him that melting smile that won him so many admirers, trysts and gifts outside the ring. Thadi was certain that most of the dancers, male and female, were half in love with him, too. Danaz arched an eyebrow at him. "Then show me. Calze will be your catcher." With the exception of Calze, the other dancers went to the sidelines to watch. In the last two weeks alone, Thadi had seen Melan sprain his ankle from landing badly and Eithra graze her thigh on the horns, and this from practice alone; Danaz would not let him watch the actual dance until he had proved himself capable. All dancers had scars, which they wore as proudly as the jewels and other tokens their admirers sent; it meant that the bull had not yet dispatched them to meet the god. Thadi expected that sooner or later he would have his share. 136

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Going around to the front of the bull, he sucked in a breath and gathered himself for the sprint and vault. Fortunately for his first true run, the bull was already weary from practice, and complacent enough for the exercise. Thadi did it easily, cleanly dismounting into Calze's waiting arms. Danaz was at once at his side to embrace him and kiss his cheek. "If you do that every time in the ring, you'll be breaking hearts left and right." Thadi, flush with adrenaline and his own success, could feel the heat emanating from Danaz's skin. So very warm. Briefly he wondered what it would feel like to have a long, lingering moment pressed up against the other's body, skin to bare skin, as their lips met. Just as swiftly as the curiosity seized him, he banished the thought. Bull dancers were supposed to refrain from sex before performing, and Danaz was very strict in enforcing that rule with his team. You saved your energy for the bull, and only afterward could you indulge in bodily pleasures. No bull dancer ever survived past nineteen, and Danaz was getting to the point when he would no longer be able to dance. Sooner or later nature took its course and a dancer's body became unwieldy. Most dancers were dedicated to the god around fourteen or fifteen, and were ritually freed of their obligation if they survived three years in the ring. Smart ones left the dance, became trainers or, if they still craved blood sport and the adulation of the crowd, went into the fighting ring to become gladiators.

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Word was that Danaz had been with the dancers four years and showed no inclination toward giving up his troupe. Thadi was too in awe of him to ask about it. "You've finally lost that scribal softness," said Danaz. He was still grinning. "After you've had a taste of the dance, you won't ever think of books again." At supper, he was allowed to leave the novitiate table and sit with Danaz's troupe. Gahan and Calze moved over so he could have the place of honor next to Danaz. This alone would have kept him glowing for the rest of the night, but Danaz toasted him and made a little speech. The fare in the dancers' barracks was always plain, consisting of black bean soup, fish and fresh vegetables. Sometimes there would be bread or olives, a bit of cheese or a comb of honey, but these were luxuries. Dancers needed more muscle than fat, especially the girls. That night, however, a bowl of grapes inexplicably appeared at the table. Thadi had not tasted grapes since leaving home. Afterward, Danaz took him aside into the little shrine where the initiated dancers prayed before going out to the bull. "In two days you'll offer your first dance. Then you can pray to the god and he will hear you." Thadi looked into the niche that housed the figure of Abishu. The god was crowned with bull's horns and boasted a monstrous phallus that someone, probably one of the female dancers, had adorned with garlands. From Gahan and some of the others, Thadi had learned that Abishu was a god of fertility and death who had been brought to Akkil from Juva, where gods had the bodies of men and the heads of beasts. 138

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Some even whispered that Abishu was older than the Juvan gods, older even than that kingdom's most ancient monuments, born in a land far to the east whose name no one now remembered. "The bull dancers are sacrifices to him," explained Danaz. His eyes caressed the wooden idol, and his voice took on an unfocused, dreamy tone. Many dancers were devoted to the worship of the bull god who ruled their lives, but Abishu was not a deity to whom Thadi wanted to pray. Akkil had its own gods of fertility and the afterlife, gods whom Thadi had known since childhood. He had no need for this bizarre deity who looked more like a figure of nightmare than a deity capable of quickening lust or barren wombs. "We have our own gods," he murmured. "Why should this one be so popular?" Eyes bright with devotion answered his query. "You ask that only because you've never seen the dance," murmured Danaz. "Maybe you've been with a girl, maybe you think you know something about passion, but the dance puts it all to shame. There's nothing in the world so erotic and dangerous at the same time; you can smell the death and sex in the air. Half the crowd wants to see the god take his due, while the other half imagines themselves with the dancers. You can't imagine how many men will want to take you to bed just from having seen you dance the bull." "Is that why you don't leave? You're almost too old to stay," said Thadi. Why he dared speak he did not know. Perhaps it was the foreboding air of the shrine that loosened 139

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his tongue. "Why are you risking death to stay here when you could just walk away? Is it the attention you love?" Hands clasped his shoulders and a mouth came down on his, rough and demanding and hot. So many nights Thadi had dreamed of being kissed like this, yet under the ominous gaze of the god whatever excitement he might have felt was tempered by violation. "You know nothing of what waits for you out there," Danaz breathed in his ear. "Dance the bull before the god and then ask me that question."

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CHAPTER TWO Drums enunciated the heartbeat of the dance. The pounding of the kettle drum and the rattle of the sistrum echoed the thumping in Thadi's chest as he took his place alongside the other dancers. Even without looking, he could feel the eyes of the crowd shift to him, taking his measure as both bull dancer and perhaps something else. Danaz told him many times that bloodlust and sexual need were not dissimilar. "It smells the same, and among animals it often is the same. Next time we choose a bull you'll come with us and see for yourself." You can smell the sex and death in the air. Thadi did not know what either ought to feel like, only that the atmosphere of the bull court was charged with some otherworldly force. From his place on the sidelines, he let his gaze slide across the sandy arena where the bull was being paraded out, up to the stands with their crimson pillars. A twenty-foot image of Abishu dominated the center of the arena, its black granite feet stained from generations of blood sacrifices. Once the bull was presented to the god, it was the turn of the bull dancers. A year ago Thadi would have been mortified at the thought of parading half-naked before so many strangers; but for a painted leather loin-guard, he wore only a pair of golden hoop earrings. During long hours of practice, dancers learned to be practical. Clothing would impede the dance; a hem or loose ornament caught upon the bull's horns could mean a dancer's life. 141

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Over time, he had come to understand something else. Whether or not he cared for the god he served, what he did was a ritual act and his body, molded by hard work into the perfection expected of a ritual instrument, was part of that. Should he fall and not be able to rise, his life belonged to the god. His body was an offering, and he knew without having to be told that in a temple offerings were always displayed to best advantage. In the first stages of advanced training, the bull was tethered. Novitiate dancers were urged to spend time with the animal to learn his moods and habits, but in the commotion of the ring there was no way to predict what he would do. A dancer did not need the priest's opening invocation to know the bull was an avatar of Abishu, free to charge, to take offerings if he wished them; the sacrifices knew better than anyone. Thadi had practiced numerous ways to approach the bull, to run in, catch the horns and leap before he was caught. Although he had not been permitted to watch the dance for fear that he might lose his nerve, from the other dancers he had heard horror stories of those who did not leap quickly enough, who were snagged upon the horns and dashed against the side of the ring. Twice he had seen a dancer put on his or her finery and not come back. The drum quickened its pulse. Gahan went, flirting with the bull before vaulting from a standing position. Such a maneuver was the mark of an experienced dancer. Thadi would need momentum to compensate for the lack of such upper body strength. 142

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When Gahan vaulted off and into Calze's arms, the drums slowed to a more temperate beat before building again. Melan went, executing a cartwheel on the sand and then taking the vault. Agitated, the bull snorted and shifted, trying to dislodge its unwelcome passenger, but Melan remained firmly astride until he was ready to dismount. The drums beat hard, the breathless rhythm urging Thadi forward. For his first ritual leap, he decided he would leave the fancy acrobatics to the others and make a simple run. The bull was lunging to the left, trying to gore the dancers twirling on that flank. Thadi came in from the right, sprinting toward the massive head and gripping the horns at the last second. It was not quite the grip he wanted, but sufficient. He flipped his body over, feeling the blood race to his head and pound in his ears. A second later the sensation was gone, replaced by the feeling of muscled flesh between his thighs. With one hand he held onto the bull while lifting his other arm for the required flourish. Now the bull was dangerously agitated. Thadi heard a cry and saw Saliq flinch as he spun away. Red stained the dancer's side, running in rivulets down his leg. Saliq did not stop to see how bad it was. No one with any sense took their eyes off the bull, no matter how much it hurt. With the tang of blood in his nostrils, the bull gathered itself to charge. Now was not the time for anyone to be on his back. Thadi wildly looked around for Calze, but it was several moments before the catcher appeared alongside the bull. The ritual did not allow Calze to call out. With urgent gestures, he signaled to Thadi to take the simplest, quickest 143

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vault he could. Thadi slid into position, poising himself for the dismount. The crowd's anticipation was a palpable thing; he could not afford to ponder it. Suddenly the bull lunged, dislodging him before he was ready. He missed Calze's arms and fell heavily onto the sand. As he gasped breathlessly around the pain in his side, he saw Calze move toward him then abruptly back. He turned his head, his view of the ring and stands lost by the massive body bearing down on him. Hot, rancid breath struck his face half a second before something slammed hard into his chest.

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CHAPTER THREE "Oh, that's quite a fall you took there, young man," said a voice like old leaves. Slowly opening his eyes, Thadi saw the black shadow of someone bending over him. He was lying on his back in the sand, looking up at the lightening sky. The air was cool, presaging the dawn. "Here, sit up," said the voice. Once Thadi's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the voice was attached to an ancient face framed by ragged white ringlets. Bits of shell and polished bone hung down from a leather circlet that stretched across her brow. A man was with her, light-skinned and wearing Rhodeen dress. "Who are you?" The man passed the question to the old woman, who answered. "You call me Ynaii," she said. She patted the man's arm. "This is Sulas. As I'm a bit hard of hearing these days, he listens for me." Thadi slowly sat up, flexing bruised limbs as he contemplated the ring with its empty stands. "Where is everybody?" And more importantly, how long had he been lying senseless on the sand? Once her translator passed on his query, Ynaii shrugged. "They've gone back to their quarters." "And they just left me here?" That did not sound right, but a knot closed in Thadi's throat all the same. Beyond missing Calze's arms, he could not quite remember what had 145

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happened, but he was sure he must have been injured. "Why didn't they take me back and put me to bed?" "Who can think straight after the bull dance? The girls are locked up for the night, snug and chaste, and the boys are safe in the arms of their lovers. They're not going to spend the night at your bedside. That's why I'm here." Mortally injured dancers were sacrificed. Others were helped back to their quarters where their wounds were tended. Ynaii's explanation made no sense. Thadi waved Sulas aside and tried to stand, swaying as his vision suddenly wavered. "I'm fine, just a bit dizzy." "Come with us," said Sulas. "You don't want to stay here." Reluctantly, he followed the pair out of the courtyard and along the adobe colonnade facing the sea. Dawn had just begun to stain the water, and through the thin mist he could make out the Isle of Arrin across the bay. At the doors, however, he stopped. "I'm not allowed beyond the court." Sulas passed his protests along to Ynaii, who rolled her eyes. "How do you think your fellow dancers manage all those trysts, young man? It's only the novitiates who have to stay in, and if you're dancing the bull it means you're not a novice anymore. Besides, I do my work at my own hearth." "I feel fine," he protested. "There's no need." "It is best not to argue," said Sulas. "You will see." The old woman's house was some distance from the bull court, on a street in a corner of the apothecary market. Though the door was open to let in the faint morning light, the dwelling was musty and dark within. Along the shelves of one wall, Thadi saw various jars and vials. A loom took up 146

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another wall. There were no windows, and the fire was dead in the hearth. "Over there by the loom, there's tinder," said Ynaii. "Sulas, make us a light." The firelight cast eerie shadows along the wall, but offered little warmth. Thadi studied the black cranes that rode the seam where the wall and ceiling joined; unlike the frescoes in his family's home and the bull court, these were worn, paint and plaster peeling from the stone. Ynaii went into the larder and brought out flat bread and olives. She ate by the hearth, yet did not offer any to Sulas or Thadi. "You stay there and rest," she said, speaking as if to the empty air. What was left on her plate she set on the hearthstones. "This is for you if you want it, but I doubt you can eat anything right now." "I should go back to the bull court before I'm missed," said Thadi. "Danaz will be wondering where I am." Sulas translated his words. "Your friends know where you are," answered Ynaii. "No one will be wondering." "I feel fine." "You stay there and rest," Ynaii told him. "Later we will talk." Talk about what? Her tone, however, did not invite argument, and Sulas gave him a look indicating he should simply let the matter lie for the time being. Thadi reluctantly took a seat by the fire and tried to massage some warmth into his limbs. He knew he had fallen badly, yet the old woman made no effort to examine him as a healer should. She said I took a fall, but I don't feel or see any injuries, and 147

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if I were hurt inside I would already be dead. "When can I go home?" "When I tell you, boy." Relying on Sulas to interpret was annoying. Thadi did not see why the old woman could not make out his voice when it was certainly loud enough, not to mention that Sulas' northern accent was almost impenetrable. "Did Danaz send for you?" Ynaii clucked her tongue. "Who is that, your troupe leader? No, but there are others who came for me," she said. "Be patient a while and I will tell you. Now I am going to have a visitor today and there are things I must do before then." Brushing the crumbs of her breakfast off her faded skirt, she moved about the room, pulling items off shelves and placing them by the hearth. Sulas was sent out for clean water, which she began to heat over the fire. When her preparations were finished, she went over to the corner loom and began to weave. Back and forth the shuttle went, clacking like the beads of her headdress. Thadi had heard the sound often enough in his father's house to ignore it; it did not distract him from his thoughts. "Sulas," he finally asked, "why doesn't she hear me?" "She's used to hearing me, that's all. Once she gets used to you, you should have no trouble being understood." Late in the morning, a patient came to see Ynaii about an ulcerated leg. Thadi knew the man from the city marketplace, a leather merchant with a bulbous paunch and a thirst for too much wine. Although he had made much sport of Thadi as a 148

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boy, the man did not seem to notice him. Perhaps a year in the bull court had changed him more than he thought. Ynaii had instructed him to stay in the corner with Sulas and be quiet, but something did not feel right. Emmen should have seen him by now, given him a good-natured jibe or asked how his sister was faring; the man had three wives already, but was always smacking his lips whenever Rhianna came to market. Thadi nibbled on an olive and watched. Emmen was clearly in pain, watching apprehensively as Ynaii fetched out a knife and began heating it over the fire. "I don't want any scarring," he grumbled. "And make sure that tea of yours puts me out before you start cutting." "If you want to live a long life, maybe you'd better lose your taste for the grape and stop stuffing yourself with so many sweetmeats," said Ynaii. "Either way, stop your complaining." Sweat beaded Emmen's brow as the blade in Ynaii's hand began to glow red-hot. "Quit your barking and do it, old woman." It was clear Ynaii enjoyed baiting him. "Here, drink this and lie down, you fool. Sulas, come here and hold up your hand. The patient is going to tell you how many fingers you have." Emmen mumbled something under his breath. By the door, two servants watched closely; they would help him home once the operation was over. "'ucking Rhodeen has eight fingers. 'obably two cocks as well." Sulas caught Thadi's eye and smiled. Ynaii tapped his shoulder and together they unfastened his loose trousers to 149

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reveal the ulcer. From where he sat, Thadi could not see much, but the discoloration he could see made him grateful he had not been asked to help. Professional physicians were brought in to the bull court to tend to injuries, and many of the dancers knew how to dress wounds and prepare healing poultices and teas. Thadi had once seen Danaz sewing up a gash in his own leg, cringing and then glowing in admiration at the way Danaz worked without flinching. Emmen's two slaves were called in to hold their master down while the incision was made. Both gagged at the smell of blood and pus, and Ynaii made displeased noises as she probed the open wound. "Pah, you stink worse than your tannery! I pity your wives. Sulas, hand me the paste. We'll scrape out this mess and pack the ulcer, and see how it does." The patient twitched and mumbled throughout the operation, occasionally cursing when Ynaii probed too deeply. Ynaii did her work quickly, stopping every once in a while to chide Emmen for this and that. When it was over, she took payment from one of the slaves and had Sulas help them shift Emmen's girth out the door into the cart waiting just outside. "He never looked once at me," murmured Thadi. Not that he necessarily wanted Emmen looking at him in his loinguard, as the man probably would have made some snide comment about his lack of modesty and pretty looks, but surely Emmen should have noticed him. "The drugs made him too hazy to notice even his own slaves," said Sulas. "You saw how afraid he was of the knife. 150

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Most of those who come in here are concerned only with their ailments and the money and don't pay heed to anything else." "You don't want that man's attention." Ynaii was busily tidying up the hearth, wiping up blood and other matter and tossing the dirty linens at Sulas. "I know him," said Thadi. "I went to school with his son. Tarmen is as much an idiot as he is." Sulas repeated the remarks, at which Ynaii chuckled. Thadi had not meant it as a joke, and was increasingly uneasy in their presence. Whenever she spoke to him, Ynaii never looked directly at him, but at some point just beyond his shoulder. At first he thought she might have failing eyesight, yet she seemed to have no difficulty focusing on Sulas or anyone else. The same held true for her hearing. She had had no trouble communicating with Emmen or his slaves. "I feel fine," he said. "There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to go back to the ring, and Danaz will be waiting for me. I'm not going to keep him or you any longer." Sulas blocked his path to the door. "It would be best if you stayed." "Either you give me a good reason or get out of my way." But when Sulas appealed to Ynaii, her only answer was a dismissive gesture. "Let him go and see for himself."

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CHAPTER FOUR Leaving the house, Thadi walked straight into the bustle and press of the marketplace. Only after several moments did he realize he was almost naked. However, he was far too incensed to go back and ask for a cloak or other garment to hide his nudity. Already it was mid-afternoon; he had wasted more than half the day with a foolish old healer who neither tended to him nor acknowledged him directly. Valuable practice time had been lost, and the next bull dance was in three days. Danaz would be displeased with him when he found out. At some point, perhaps in the cloth market, it became apparent that no one noticed him. Surely people would stop and point at a half-naked bull dancer, and yet they moved past him without a word of apology, without even touching him. Puzzled, he went to the nearest stall and waved his hand before the vendor's face; the woman never turned her head, never broke off her conversation with the customer in front of her. They can't see me. Fear replaced bewilderment, and for the first time that day he wondered if Danaz really knew where he was, if Emmen had not acknowledged him because the man truly could not see him. He spun on his heel, calling out at the top of his lungs; the other market goers went on with their business as if he did not exist. A pair of eyes lurking in the corner of a stall caught his attention. They belonged to a faded, wild-eyed man who 152

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beckoned to him. Cautiously Thadi approached the place where the man huddled among bolts of cloth. The vendor and his assistants continued with their work without noticing either one. "What do you want?" "You're the only one who sees me," the man said in a frail voice. "I've been here—I don't know how long." "Who are you?" "I had a name once, but I don't know it now. I'm nobody, just a shadow." The man's gaze took in Thadi's lack of dress. "You look like a bull dancer. I remember those. All so pretty, the dancers." Thadi took a step back as the man tried to paw at him. "Why doesn't anyone else see you?" Shaking his head, the man trembled with burgeoning tears. Somehow he seemed too insubstantial for weeping, a thing like dry leaves that would blow apart and scatter at the first strong breath. "I woke up one day and I was a shadow, and that's all I know. I remembered things once, but I don't anymore." Frightened, Thadi stumbled away, ignoring the thin voice calling after him, and found his way back to the old woman's house. Sulas was waiting for him in the doorway. "Don't do that again," he said sharply. "Finding you the first time was hard enough." "What do you mean?" Upon hearing Sulas speak, Ynaii called from within. "Is the boy back so soon?" As Sulas passed on his acknowledgement, Thadi made his own answer, raising his voice. In his father's house it would 153

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have been enough to bring the neighbors running; Sulas glared at him but Ynaii had no reaction. Thadi was certain now: no one could see or hear him, except Sulas and that wretched creature in the bazaar who claimed to be invisible. "I want to know what is going on and I want to know now. I want to know why you don't hear me and why no one else sees me." Sulas passed his question along, and then beckoned him inside at a cue from Ynaii. The old woman swiftly closed the door and motioned to the hearth. "Sit down, boy. Nobody says such things outright, of course. It isn't our way. Usually ones like you remember or they guess fairly quickly. "Remember what?" "Thadi," Sulas began, speaking very softly, "what do you think has happened to you?" "I don't—" The bull had charged with him still on the animal's back. He had been thrown, the bull had come toward him, but everything after that was a blur. Groaning, Thadi doubled over in disbelief. His life, barely begun, was over. "Why didn't you tell me in the beginning? Why am I even still here?" "Telling people they're dead isn't something one does," said Sulas. "Ynaii, he wants to know why he's still here." "Difficult to say," she answered. "Do you have any unfinished business with the living, boy?" Dead. No longer alive. I shouldn't even be here. Sooner or later all bull dancers reconciled themselves to the probability of early death. Danaz had always seemed nonchalant about it, and most of the others mirrored this attitude. In the 154

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beginning, just after his dedication when the realities of the bull dance were explained to him, when he saw dancers return bruised and bleeding, he had been afraid, but those around him had known what advice to give to keep him from dwelling on mortality. Thadi shook his head. "I don't think so." Ynaii nodded. "I have to ask these things, you know. Sometimes the spirit wants revenge for some wrong or unrequited love or something else makes him stay. And sometimes the spirit doesn't even know its body is gone, that it's dead." "Sulas can see and hear me." "He can do those things because he's also dead." Such a thing should not be possible. Sulas looked no different than any other man, and if Ynaii could see and hear him why should she have so much trouble seeing Thadi? "How can that be? He doesn't look dead." "You haven't spent enough time with him to know the difference," she answered. "Sulas is what we call a rhani, a spirit wearing the illusion of flesh. I can't explain the particulars to you, as the existence of such beings is a closely guarded secret. All I can tell you is that sometimes the dead find it very difficult to pass on unaided. I have the means to release you, or I can give you the gift that was given to Sulas." Thadi glanced over at Sulas then back at her. "You can bring me back to life?" "I am not alive," murmured Sulas. 155

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"Exactly," said Ynaii. "I told you before, a rhani is only an illusion. The mana that animated your body was lost when you died; all you have left is your ba, and without a house it will fade in time. Sulas was able to obtain for me a piece of your body. With it I can give your ba a new home, a shabbu made of red clay, but you must understand that it would be a shell, nothing more. You would become like Sulas. You would not need to sleep or protect yourself against the elements. You would never grow old or become sick, but on the other hand the pleasures of eating, drinking and sex would be lost to you. Those are things that sustain the mana; the ba does not require them." "I don't understand," said Thadi. "I ate an olive before, when Emmen was here." Ynaii shook her head. "No, you only seemed to eat it. Have you ever been in a funerary chapel, young man? What you ate was your own funeral offering. Granted, I have not been to the place where the bull dancers bury their own, but no doubt they placed food beside your urn. Many tombs have such offerings painted upon the walls to feed the dead in perpetuity. However, you do not need to eat or drink; you are simply accustomed to doing so." Long moments of silence passed. Thadi sat and tried to comprehend everything the old woman had told him. He was not even sure he was truly sitting; he could no longer tell what was real and what only seemed to be real. "I don't know what to do." "I don't offer this to every wandering ba I meet," Ynaii told him. "Some who get lost on the way to the afterlife are 156

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wretched things I'd've gladly seen dead when they were alive. Perhaps you should think about what you would do with a new life." Thadi shrugged. "I don't know. My family gave me up to the bull court a year ago. I don't think I could go back to them." He thought then of Danaz, of the smile that would surely light the other man's face when he returned. "I could go back to the ring." Right away Ynaii made emphatic gestures negating these options. "You can never go back to your life as it was before. A bull dancer is supposed to be a sacrifice, and a sacrifice must have mana. That is what you had, and that is what you were." "I saw you die," added Sulas. "The bull stomped on you. The priests used the axe to finish it." Thadi had always been certain he would know when he died, that he would feel his last moment of breath. Now he did not know whether to feel relieved or cheated. "If I can't go back to the ring, if I can't return to my family or eat or sleep and or do any of the things living people can do, then what is there?" Sulas spoke a few words of Juvan to Ynaii, at which she nodded. "There's a life of sorts, a worthwhile one but not easy," he answered. "If you're willing to make the effort, there's a priesthood in the south, across the desert in the mountains of Juva, at a place called Shakkad. The men there know the secrets of the dead, and they can teach you to do what I do, to find lost spirits and help send them beyond." 157

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"And what about me?" asked Thadi. "I'm trapped in this existence." "No, you aren't. You can die whenever you want," said Sulas. "Say the word and Ynaii will release you, or say you want life and she'll make the shabbu and you can live." Too much was being asked of him too soon. Without the prospect of true life, Thadi did not know if he wanted to continue existing or let himself be extinguished. He sighed heavily. "There's another one out there in the market, one like me." "Yes," said Ynaii, nodding. "I've been trying to find him for a long time, but he keeps vanishing. If you see him again, bring him to my house." "Can you do the same thing for him, make him into a rhani?" "Not without a piece of his body, and that one's ba has been disembodied so long he has become unhinged and faded beyond such help. All I can do is set him free."

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CHAPTER FIVE Ynaii had put on a blood-red robe for the rite, explaining that blood was the color of life and that she was honoring the forces that bound mana and ba together. "What we do here won't offend any gods, or steal any sacrifice from this god Abishu. He's already taken what he wants from you." "Are there many priests at Shakkad?" Thadi asked. "There aren't as many as you might think, and very few women at that. We don't call ourselves priests, because we don't honor any particular god by what we do," she explained. "Most of us are content to stay in Juva, but men die everywhere, so there's no harm in my bringing my work to Akkil." "Have you been doing it long?" "For more years than you've been alive, boy. Now watch what I do and don't interrupt. It's very important for me to concentrate, otherwise I might make a mistake and that would go ill for you." From a little leather pouch she took a shriveled bit of flesh and mixed it in a mortar with ocher and clay; Thadi knew it was what remained of his body, but did not take up Ynaii's invitation to examine it more closely. During this time she took no visitors, no customers, and posted a sign outside saying she was away on business. "Not that half of them can read anyway," she muttered, "but Sulas will deal with anybody who gets it into their heads to knock too hard." 159

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With the door shut and the windows shuttered, with only the light of the hearth to guide her she labored most of the day over the clay figure before she pronounced the work satisfactory. In one corner of the hearth she prepared a pit in which she laid the figure and covered it with embers. "Baking the shabbu is the most dangerous part," she told Thadi. "I've only ever lost one, when I was new to it. I don't tell you these things to frighten you, you understand. If the shabbu breaks, I'll have to speak the words of release." After Ynaii and Sulas had fully explained what his choices were and what would take place, Thadi had chosen to become a rhani. No, it was not life as he had known it, but he was not quite ready to slip into the unknown. There were things he still wanted to do and see, even if some of them were forever beyond his reach. Ynaii was careful not to let the shabbu bake too long, or to expose it too quickly to the air. When it was cool enough to hold, she took it in her hands and let him see it. Given the care the old woman had taken, Thadi expected an approximate likeness. On the street where his family lived there was a Juvan potter who specialized in making funerary shabbu, for in Juva the dead were embalmed and placed in tombs, where clay representations of their servants waited to accompany them into the afterlife. This shabbu was unpainted and small enough to fit in his hand, a human figure with male genitalia and a rough face. It did not look like him; it did not look like anyone. 160

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"Your mana is fused with this figure," said Ynaii. "It isn't like those cheap figures they put in tombs. This is a true shabbu, a vessel of life." "I don't feel any different." His new body took three days to manifest, and during that time he remained in a back room behind a partition. At first he felt nothing, only gradually becoming aware of an odd, fragmented sensation. Sulas explained that as the shabbu's power took hold parts of him were slowly becoming visible. "You can see for yourself in a looking glass if you want, but it might be a terrible shock." On the third day, Ynaii hobbled into the room to examine him. After a moment, her lips curved into a broad grin. "No wonder decent women don't get to watch the dance. What a pretty thing you were! Sulas, be a dear and fetch him some proper clothes; he can't walk about half-naked like that." An oversized tunic and a weather beaten pair of sandals were found, and Thadi quickly changed into the new clothing. Ynaii gave him a cord with which to tie back his hair. "It'll never grow back if it's cut," she said, "so be careful." Now that he had a body, Ynaii began to discuss arrangements to send him to Shakkad. "I know a few men who know the way and might be willing to take you. Another rhani would be best, but I can't spare Sulas and I don't know of any others outside Juva." Thadi nodded. "I was hoping ... I wanted to see Danaz again." "You're fond of this bull dancer, aren't you. You never said anything about a lover when I asked before." 161

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Had his new body been capable of it, Thadi might have blushed. "Danaz wasn't—I mean, that is—" "This young man wasn't your lover, but you wanted him to be, is that it?" asked Ynaii. "Did you ever have anyone before? No, and according to her, he never would now. Sex was nourishment for the mana. "What will happen to him?" Ynaii shrugged. "I release the dead. I don't necessarily know the future." "But you knew to come for me." "Sulas always goes to the bull dance to watch for the fallen dancers," she answered. "I only go sometimes. It's a foolish sport." Thadi stared at her. "Women aren't allowed to watch the dance." She answered his shock with a laugh. "That rule only applies to maidens and married women. No one cares what a dried-up old crone does, and sometimes I enjoy watching pretty boys doing silly, dangerous things. As for this one, Danaz, he will stay until he meets the god. That's what he wants." "How do you know?" "Because if he's the one I think he is, I've seen him jump the bull, that's how," she said. "The others enjoy showing off for the crowd, but he does it differently. He isn't interested in what an audience thinks of him. When he dances, it's just him and god in the bull. I've known enough priests in my time to recognize an act of worship when I see it. And he's old, too old to still be bull dancing. He'll dance till he dies, because 162

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that's what he wants; it's gotten into his blood. Maybe you don't think so, but you're lucky you never had him. You never would have kept him." Thadi did not argue. It was the truth, and had always been the truth. Had he lived, he might have had Danaz for a night or two, and that would have been all. Three weeks passed before Ynaii was able to find someone to take him to Shakkad. During that time, he was obliged to stay indoors, as he could not risk being seen by any who might have known him in life. "Once you leave Akkil," she said, "it will be easier for you, though you must still be cautious." Several times she reminded him that rhani did not feel, but she what she meant was hunger and physical pain. Emotions were bound to the ba and survived death; had it been otherwise he would not have known the knot of regret he felt now. He was strongly tempted to venture back to the bull court and revisit his life, to say the farewells out of which his sudden death had cheated him, but whenever his thoughts began to turn in this direction a knowing look from his companions would remind him that common sense dictated discretion. At first he thought he might linger in Akkil until Danaz met his bull and greet him in the place between lives, but in those three weeks he had time enough to think and he came to the realization that Danaz would go willingly to the sacrifice; his spirit would not become trapped between worlds as Thadi's had been. 163

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When the guide came to the house, Thadi was surprised to learn that the man knew what he was. "A caravan tale told to frighten children," the man said. His dark, weathered skin and thick Juvan accent marked him as one of the desert folk. "But in most tales you can always find a bit of truth. I know what you are, just as my father knew. You can be sure I won't go up to the mountain itself, but I'll leave you where they can see you." Thadi gave Ynaii an uncertain look. "Is Shakkad an evil place?" "I've heard stories—" began the Juvan. "And that's all they are," Ynaii said sharply. As the man shrugged and went back to his date wine, she bent close to Thadi's ear and whispered, "Mener knows the desert as well as anyone can, and I trust him, but don't listen to his nonsense. Men like him are afraid of the dead because death is the one thing they can't escape." "I keep thinking about the man in the bazaar," he said. "He told me he didn't even remember his own name. Will you find him?" Ynaii looked over at Sulas, whom Thadi knew had been searching the bazaar. "We will try," she replied. "There's nothing else we can do." The red clay shabbu rested in a pouch close to his skin. At Shakkad, he would give it to the priests who guarded the secrets of his life and death, and they would bury it in the floor with a hundred others to keep it safe until the day came when he grew weary enough of the world to leave it. 164

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AFTERWORD If anyone two years ago had come up to me or emailed me saying that my long quest to be published would be realized, but that it would be as an author of homoerotic fantasy, I would have called them insane. Not only had I never read anything in the genre or given much thought to what two male lovers did behind closed doors, I had always shied away from writing sex scenes. The path to my first homoerotic short story was a somewhat convoluted one. As a lifelong Tolkien fan, I eagerly lined up for Peter Jackson's trilogy of The Lord of the Rings films. I collected Decipher trading cards, reproduction jewelry and joined online Tolkien communities where I could write stories based on Tolkien's books. Finding little interest in Frodo and Sam, thinking Aragorn was a bit too scruffy and Legolas too much of a target for the raving hordes of fangirls, I turned my attention to the more majestic vistas of The Silmarillion, the history of Middle-earth that precedes The Lord of the Rings. The Elves in the film seemed so remote, so androgynously beautiful that they became fascinating. I wrote about them, and began reading the stories others wrote. And therein I discovered slash. The possible affair between Fingon and Maedhros notwithstanding, much of it was thoroughly beyond canon. I was shocked, then intrigued and read more, until the idea of two androgynous, beautiful males making love stuck with me. In my own writing, however, I 165

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was too much of a canon purist to contemplate putting Tolkien's characters into such situations. Original characters slowly nudged their way into my consciousness, clamoring to tell me about their world. Still anxious about the sex, on a weekend in May 2004, with the house entirely to myself, I began writing my first homoerotic fantasy. Brief installments posted to my Live Journal yielded positive comments, though I confess that first sex scene took an entire day, four pages and several necessary breaks to write. Less than a month later, encouraged by online friends, I submitted the piece to Forbidden Fruit magazine and received an enthusiastic acceptance letter about two days later. "Ki'iri" was published in September 2004. L.E. Bryce

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS "No Sound of Water" originally appeared in Jack, Issue 1 in June, 2005. "Grave Offerings" originally appeared in Jack, Issue 2 in August, 2005. "Red Clay" originally appeared in Forbidden Fruit, Issue 9 in September 2005.

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