Shadows were lengthening across the meadow by the time Seregil came striding down the game track. Sitting with her father and Alec in front of the cabin, Beka fought down her own impatience.

He seemed cheerful enough as he paused to greet her riders around their cook fire; perhaps it had only been the initial shock of her news that had startled him.

Coming over to where they sat, he tossed Alec the plucked goose and washed his hands in a basin next to the rain barrel.

"Supper smells good. Lucky for you Alec's the cook tonight, and not me," he said, giving Beka a wink as he sniffed the pleasant aromas wafting from the open doorway.

"I thought you looked thin," Micum said with a chuckle as they went in.

"Not quite Wheel Street, is it?" Beka remarked, gesturing around the cabin's cramped single room.

Alec grinned. "You might say it's been an exercise in austerity, after how we lived in Rhíminee. The snow got so deep this winter we had to cut a hole in the roof to get out."

The place was certainly a far cry from the luxurious hidden rooms they'd shared at the ill-fated Cockerel Inn, or Seregil's fine villa. A low bed took up nearly a third of the room. A rickety table stood near it, with crates and stools serving as chairs. Shelves, hooks, and a few battered chests held their modest belongings, and squares of oiled parchment were nailed over the two tiny windows to keep out the drafts. One of the few holdovers from their former life were the stacks of books visible in the corners. In the stone fireplace a kettle of stew bubbled on an iron hook over the flames.

"I looked in at Wheel Street before I came up. Runcer's been ailing," Micum remarked as they crowded around the little table.

Sadness tugged at the corners of Seregil's mouth. "I didn't have the heart to sell the place and put the old fellow out of a job. Will you see to it that he's looked after? I'm thinking of deeding the house to your Elsbet when she finishes her training at the temple."

Micum covered Seregil's hand with his own for a moment. "It's kind thought, but won't you be needing it again, one of these days?"

Seregil looked down at Micum's scarred, freckled hand a moment, then withdrew his own, saying nothing.

"How is everyone at Watermead?" Alec asked, cutting short the uncomfortable silence. Beka's family had adopted him as one of their own from the first day he'd arrived at Watermead to learn swordsmanship from Micum and Beka.

"Very well, except for missing the pair of you," Micum replied. "Elsbet's taken to temple life and is thinking of becoming an initiate. Kari has her hands full with the two new babes, but Illia's old enough to help now. It's a good thing, too. Ever since Gherin learned to crawl he's been trying to keep up with his foster brother, and Luthas is into everything now that he can walk. Kari found them halfway down to the river one morning."

Seregil smiled. "Shades of things to come, I'd say, with you for a father."

#

They chatted on for a while, exchanging news and stories as if this were nothing more than a casual visit. Presently, however, Seregil sighed and turned to Beka.

"I suppose you'd better tell me more. You say Klia's in charge of this delegation?"

Beka looked up hopefully. "Yes. Urghazi Turma's been assigned as her honor guard."

"But why Klia?" Alec asked. "She's the youngest of the royals."

Micum chuckled. "A cynical person might say that makes her the most expendable."

"She or Korathan would be the ones I'd choose, in any case," Seregil mused. "Phoria can't be spared from the field, and they're the smartest of the pack. They've proven themselves in battle, and they carry themselves with authority. I assume Torsin will go, along with a wizard or two?"

"Lord Torsin is in Aurenen already. As for wizards, they're as hard to spare in the field as generals these days, so she's taking only Thero," Beka replied, and Seregil knew she was watching him for a reaction.

And with good reason, he thought wryly. Thero had succeeded him as Nysander's pupil and assistant some years after Seregil had failed in that capacity. They'd disliked each other on sight and bickered like jealous brothers for years. Yet they'd ended up in each other's debt after Mardus had kidnapped Thero and Alec as sacrifices to his cruel god. From what Alec had told him afterwards, they'd kept each other alive through an horrific journey, long enough for Alec to escapere and join Seregil and the others for the final battle on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran shoreline.

This, together with Nysander's death, had laid their rivalry to rest, he thought with a twinge of trepidation, yet one would always be a living reminder to the other of what had been lost.

Seregil nodded thoughtfully, then over at his old friend. "What about you?"

Micum shrugged. "Not invited, I'm afraid. I'm just along to convince you to go, then I'm homeward bound. You'll have to make do with Beka."

Alec kept his own counsel throughout this exchange, his face unreadable as Seregil's. Beka had forgotten how silent he could be.

"I'll give you my answer in the morning," Seregil said at last, pushing his dish aside. "Now, who's for a game of Sword and Coin? Alec and I know each other's tricks too well."

#

For a time Seregil was able to lose himself in the simple enjoyment of the game, the pleasure made all the more precious by the sense that the moment was a fragile one. Life was about to take a very different tack and he was determined to savor the last few moments of peace before it did.

Their brief respite here in the hinterlands had been a good one. He'd often felt as if he'd stepped from his world into the one Alec had known before they'd met; a simpler life of hunting and hard physical work.

And love. Seregil smiled to himself over his cards, thinking how many times he and Alec had lain tangled together on the bed Micum was currently using as a seat. Or on the soft spring grass beneath the oaks, or in the sweet hay of fall, or in the pool on the ridge, and once, floundering half-dressed in deep new snow under a reckless full moon that had broken their sleep for three nights running. Come to think of it, there weren't too many spots around here where the urge hadn't overtaken them one time or another.

"Those must be good cards you're holding," said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. "Care to show us a few? It's your turn."

Seregil played a ten pip which Beka promptly captured. He'd missed Micum's family, his own by default for so many years. Micum had been Beka's age when they met, a tall, broad-shouldered, amiable wanderer who'd heartily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed.

Now silver hairs were thick in his friend's heavy red hair and mustache, thicker still in the two-day's stubble on his cheeks. Tírfaie, the 'faie called humans: the short-lived ones. Someday, Seregil knew, he'd watch silver streak Beka's wild red hair, too. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.

That thought was too dark; he kenneled it with the others baying somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Well, I guess that's enough losing for one night," Micum announced when the candle had burned down to a stump. "All that riding is finally catching up with me."

"I'd put you up in here, but--"

Micum dismissed his apology with a knowing look and Beka rose to follow. "It's a clear night and we have good tents. We'll talk in the morning, eh?"

The soldiers' small black tents stood in a dark cluster in the moon-washed meadow. Seregil watched until Beka and Micum had disappeared among them, then closed the door. The candle guttered out in the draft.

The flickering glow of the fire cast shadows across Alec's face as he sat waiting at the table. The uncertain light made him look older than his years. Or perhaps showed his true age, Seregil thought distractedly.

"Now?" Alec asked, gentle but implacable.

Seregil sat down across from him and rested his elbows on the table. "Of course I want to go back to Aurënen, but not this way. Nothing's been forgiven."

"Tell me everything, Seregil. This time I want it all."

>All? Never that, talí.<

Memories surged like a dirty spring flood bursting its banks. What to pluck out first, from the debris of his lost childhood?

"My father, Korit í Solun, was a very powerful man, one of the most influential members of the Iia'sidra." A dull ache gripped his heart as he pictured his father's face, almost a mirror of his own except for the eyes, pale and cold as sea smoke. They hadn't always been like that, or so he'd been told.

"My clan, the Bôkthersa, is one of the oldest and highly respected for its honor. Our fai'thast lies on the western border, close to the Zengati tribal lands."

"Faithest?"

"Fai'thast means 'folk lands', 'home'. It's the territory each clan owns." Seregil spelled the word out for him, a comfortingly familiar ritual. They'd done it so often through the winter as Alec perfected his Aurënfaie that they scarcely noticed the interruption. Only later would it strike Seregil that of all the words he'd poured out in his native tongue during the long, snow-bound months, 'home' not been among them, much less the tale he was forced now to tell.

"The western clans have had more dealings with the Zengati than most-- raids out of the mountains, pirates along the coast, that sort of thing," he continued. "But the Zengati are clannish, too, and some of them are friendlier than others. The Bokthersa and a few other clans established trade with certain tribes over the years; my grandfather, Solun í Meringil, wanted to go further and establish a treaty between our two countries. He passed the dream on to my father, who finally convinced the Iia'sidra to meet with a Zengati delegation to discuss possibilities. The gathering took place the summer I was twenty two; by Aurënfaie reckoning that made me younger than you are now."

Alec nodded. There was no exact correlation between human and Aurënfaie ages. Some stages of life lasted longer than others, others less. Being half-Tírfaie himself, he was maturing somewhat faster than an Aurënfaie would, yet he would probably live as long.

"Many of the Aurenen clans were against any treaty," Seregil went on. "For time out of mind the Zengati have raided our shores, taking slaves, burning towns. Any house in southern Aurënen has a few Zengati battle trophies. But, as I said, some of the tribes had learned to mind their manners and trade with us. My father believed a new, more civilized age could be realized. It was a testament to the influence of our clan that he got as far with it as he did.

"The gathering took place beside a river on the western edge of our fai'thast, and at least half the clans came to make sure he failed. For some, it was plain hatred of the Zengati, especially among the easterners who didn't know them as we did. But there were others closer to home who feared the possibility of any clan allying itself with Zengat. Looking back now, I suppose it was only logical that they'd worry."

Seregil paused, sipping at his wine. "You recall me telling you that Aurënen has no king or queen? Each of the eleven principle clans are a power unto themselves; the Iia'sidra Council is a meeting ground for the making of alliances and the settling of grievances and feuds."

"And every clan has a leading family. What's it called again?"

"The khirnaros."

"And the khirnaros sends a representative, the khirnari, to the Iia'sidra."

"That's right." Seregil couldn't help smiling; you seldom had to teach Alec anything twice, especially regarding the Aurënfaie. "My father was the khirnari for Bôkthersa, just as my sister is now. He and the khirnari of all the principal clans and many of the lesser ones came together with more than a dozen Zengati leaders. The tents filled acres of land, a whole town sprung up like a patch of summer mushrooms. Entire families came, as if it were a festival."

He smiled wistfully. "The leaders went off and growled at each other all day, but for the rest of us, it was very exciting."

He rose to pour fresh wine, then stood by the hearth, swirling the untasted contents of his cup. The closer he came to the heart of the story, the harder it was to tell.

"I don't suppose I've ever said much about my childhood."

"Only that you never knew your mother, either, and that your sister Adzriel raised you."

"Well, she did her best. I was rather wild as a boy."

Alec smiled. "I'd be more surprised to hear that you weren't."

"Thanks, but it didn't much please my father. In fact, I don't remember much that did, except my skill at music and swordplay. Believe me, those were not enough most days. By the time I'm speaking of, I mostly just stayed out of his way.

"But the gathering threw us back together again, and at first I did my best to behave. That is, until I met a young man named Ilar."

Just speaking the name made Seregil's chest tighten. "He was a Chyptaulos, one of the minor clans my father hoped to sway to our side. My father was delighted--at first."

He allowed himself a bitter smile. "By the Light, but Ilar was something! Handsome, impetuous and always with plenty of time to go hunting or swimming with my friends and me. He was older, about my age now, and we were all terribly flattered by his attention. I was his favorite from the start, and after a few weeks the two of us began to go off on our own whenever we could. Then--"

He took a long sip from his cup; his hand was trembling now. For years he'd buried these memories, hidden them, pushed them away. But with a single telling the old feelings surfaced, raw as they'd been that long ago summer.

"I'd had a few flirtations-- friends, girl cousins and the like-- but nothing like this. I suppose you could say he seduced me, though as I recall it didn't take much effort on his part."

"You loved him."

"No!" Seregil snapped, as memories of silken lips and callused hands against his skin sent a chill deep in his belly.

"No, not love," he said again, shaking his head. "I was passion-blind, though. Adzriel and most of my friends soon saw through him and tried to warn me against him, but by then I was so infatuated I'd have done anything for him. And in the end, I did.

"Ironically, Illar was the first to praise and encourage my innate talent for subterfuge. Even then, untrained, I had clever hands and a talent for skulking about unseen. Ilar devised little chanllenges to test me, innocent at first, then less so. I lived for his praise." He glanced guiltily up at Alec again. "Rather like you and I, back when we first met. It's one of the things that made me keep you at arm's length for so long; the fear of corrupting you the way--"

"It was different with us," Alec assured him, waving the concern aside. "Come on, Seregil. Finish this and be done with it. What happened?"

Older than his years, Seregil thought again in silent wonder, blessing again the day they'd found each other in the dungeon below that northern keep.

"Very well, then," he sighed. "One of the most voceriferous opponents to my father's plan was Rhazien í Hari, khirnari of Haman clan. Ilar convinced me that certain papers in Rhazien's private tent would aid my father's cause, that I alone had the skill and daring to sneak in and 'borrow' them. Everyone was supposed to be off at a moonrise ritual that night, but one of Rhazien's grandsons came in and caught me at it. It was dark; he must not have seen that it was a child he was drawing his dagger against. There was a just enough light for me to see the flash of his blade and the angry glint in his eyes, I remember. Terrified, I drew my own and struck out. I didn't mean to kill him, but I did." Seregil rested his aching forehead in his hands and let out a bitter laugh. "I don't suppose even Ilar expected that; he'd sent the Haman back under some pretext to catch me, you see."

Alec raised one fair brow in surprise. "He wanted you to be caught?"

"Oh yes, that's what all his attentiveness had been leading to. The 'faie seldom stoop to murder, Alec, or even to outright violence. It all comes down to Aku'wy, a complex ideal of honor, in the end. The Aurenfaie are different than the Skalans, so different I can scarcely explain it. Honor is everything- it defines the individual, the family, the clan-- An honest 'faie is expected to die rather than commit an act that would bring dishonor on themselves or their clan." He shook his head sadly. "Ilar and his fellow conspirators--there were quite a number, as it turned out-- had only to manipulate me into betraying the honor of my clan by theft to accomplish their end, the disruption of the negotiations. Well, they certainly got that! What followed was all very dramatic and tawdry. Given my reputation, my all-too-obvious relationship with Ilar-- I was found guilty of complicity in the plot, and of murder. The Iia'sidra was unexpectedly leniently with me-- I was only exiled. Did I ever tell you what the usual penalty is for murder among my people? It's an ancient custom. The guilty one is shut up by the khirnari of their clan in a tiny cell. Everyday they are offered two bowls of food. One is poisoned, the other not. The condemned can choose only one or refuse both, day after day. In some clans, if you survive a year and a day, you're let free. Few ever manage it."

"But they sent you away instead?"

--the choking heat, the darkness, the words that flayed--

No!

Seregil suppressed a shudder. "Yes, they sent me away."

"And Ilar?"

"He escaped, disappeared, having accomplished his purpose. The Haman used the scandal to wreck the negotiations, just as he'd hoped. Everything my family and others had worked years to accomplish was swept aside in less than a week's time, and the whole plot had hinged on duping the son of Korit í Solun into a dishonorable action. And you know what?"

His voice was suddenly husky, so husky that he had to take another gulp of wine before he could finish. "The worst of it wasn't the killing or the accusations, or even the shame. It was the fact that people I should have trusted had tried to warn me, but I was too vain and headstrong to listen." He drew a shaky breath. "So there you have it; my shameful past."

"And this happened over forty years ago."

"By Aurënfaie reckoning, it's still last season's news."

"Has your father ever forgiven you?"

"He died years ago, and no, he never forgave me. Neither have most of my sisters, or probably most of the rest of my clan who've borne the burden of the shame I brought on our name. It nearly cost us our place in the Iia'sidra."

Talked out, Seregil knocked back the last of his wine as images from that final day in Virésse harbor flashed unbidden through his mind: his father's furious silence, Adzriel's tears, the scathing jeers and catcalls that had propelled him, hardly more than a child, up the gangplank of the foreign ship. He hadn't wept then and he didn't now, but the crushing sense of remorse was as fresh as ever.

Alec waited quietly, hands clasped on the table in front of him. Stranded in silence by the fire, Seregil suddenly found himself aching for the reassuring touch of those strong, deft fingers.

"So, will you go?" Alec asked again.

"How can I not, after what Adzriel and the Queen must have gone through to gain permission?" Crossing the bit of floor that separated them, he extended a hand to Alec. "The question is, are you coming with me? It may not be very pleasant for you, being the talímenios of a criminal."

Alec took his outstretched hand, squeezing it almost to the point of pain. "Remember what happened the last time you tried to go off without me?"

"Remember? I think I've still got some of the bruises!" Tightening his own grip, he swung Alec out of his chair and onto the bed. "Come on, I'll show you."

#

Seregil's sudden demand for lovemaking surprised Alec less than the wildness of what followed. Anger lurked just beneath his lover's frenzied passion, anger that was not meant for him, that left a scattering of small bruises across his shoulders, back, and thighs to be discovered by tomorrow's sun.

Alec didn't need the heightened senses of the talímenios bond to tell him that Seregil had been trying to somehow burn all memory of that hated first lover from his own skin, or that it hadn't worked.

Locked, sweaty and breathless, in Seregil's arms afterwards, Alec rested his head on his friend's chest and listened to the racing heart just beneath his ear gradually slow to its normal steady pulse. For the first time since they'd become lovers, he felt empty and uneasy instead of sated and safe. For the first time he felt a black gulf of silence separating them even as they lay heart against heart, skin against skin. Yet he did not pull away.

"What became of Ilar? Was he ever found?" he whispered into the darkness.

"I don't know."

His lover's voice was cold, expressionless, but reaching up, Alec's fingers found a trickle of hot tears on Seregil's cheek. Stroking the wetness away, he said softly, "Once, just after we met, Micum told me that you never forgive betrayal. Later, Nysander told me the same. They both believed it was because of what happened to you in Aurënen. It was him, wasn't it? Ilar?"

Seregil took Alec's hand and pressed the palm to his lips, then moved it to his bare chest, letting him feel the quick, heavy beat of his heart. When he spoke at last, his voice was strained thin with remembered grief.

"To give someone your love and your trust-- By the Light, how I hated him for that! For robbing me of innocence too early. Spoiled and silly and willful as I was, I'd never had to hate anyone before. But it taught me things, too: what love and trust and honor really are, and that you can never take them for granted."

"I suppose if we ever met I'd have to thank him for that, at least," Alec murmured, then froze as Seregil's hand suddenly tightened around his.

"You wouldn't have time, talí, before I cut his throat."