"How dare you come into my presence? What is this hubris?" Lord Connus bellowed, flailing his staff at the youngsters. "I’ll give you the thrashing of your lives." They cowered and he strode forward, a look on his face that would slice through the soul of any enemy before the first physical blow was struck. "Eh?" he shouted. Their faces instantly dissolved into grins, unable to keep up the pretext of terror.

"We are the spirits of the harvest," the two golden-clad boys answered boldly in high-pitched voices. In a year or two they would take their places among the youngest of the warriors, their voices would deepen and they would be formidable to deal with. For now though, they were just pages in the castle, playing harvest sprites in the great festival.

"You are poor spirits. Without a doubt your harvest is not any more auspicious than you yourselves," he grumbled theatrically. "What have you brought me?’ He crossed his arms over his chest, turned back and winked at the assembly on the dais. She warmed to him instantly.

"Crops for the season, my Lord…grain and animals and beautiful gifts, dance and song." They gestured to the great procession behind them slowly and somberly filling the great white paved courtyard. The crowd were growing thick in the yard. It had become impossible to see the first story fronts of the two- and three-story buildings that surrounded the yard for the press of people and animals. The red-tile roofed porches, held up by dark green or deep brown pillars threw late-afternoon shadowed over the assembly.

It was the same every year. Everyone in the country who could manage it came to the Capital for the harvest festival. It only started out somberly. In a few hours, when darkness had fallen, there would have been so much drinking and dancing that the country folk, in their coarse, plain undyed clothing, would pack themselves six to a straw-stuffed bed in the overflowing hostels with little concern for who they shared a bed with. But who knew what secret gifts the gods of love had to offer them? What a fine place to change ones’ life, she thought, completely and permanently. The better folk, of course, laughed at the improprieties of the peasantry. It was all part of the fun. "All for you, my Lord," the first boy crowed.

"All nature does homage to you," the second boy chirped. "And bestows on you its bounty. It is the best harvest anyone can remember. Everybody says so." The curly-headed creature had, without a doubt, meandered from the script, but the eagerness in his face and voice were charming, nevertheless..

"All for me, now?" He smiled indulgently, leaning over and glaring good-naturedly at the children in their golden clothing. Their costumes made to look like leaves and vines and tendrils, their summer-tanned skin peeking out from the parts uncovered by the fabric, a glimpse of arm, of thigh, of shoulder and belly. They were fetching, at that, and she sat back on her throne under the rust-colored canopy, covered her lips with her fingers and smiled. A proper lady never smiled without covering her mouth, carrying up the filmy silk sleeve of her gown in her delicate fingers. Woman was to be perfect, flowerlike, man, perfect like the noblest beasts. He was strutting up and down, her husband, like a great cock of the walk, like a lion, like a noble beast. For a moment, she was as if stricken, hoping fervently that she was worthy of him.. He raised his staff and they cringed, big-eyed and trusting. "You say you have song?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Well, I haven’t heard one yet,’ he said menacingly. They jumped back, giggling, and the younger one raised his leaf-wrapped wand and a chorus began singing a special hymn composed for the occasion by the state composer. The words were always the same for as many generations as anyone cared to remember.

But this year, she, Domina, daughter of Hespero the Lucky was the Lady of the Harvest, having been married the preceding fall to him. That was the gods’ gift to her in recompense for years of prayer and sacrifices, her own and those of her parents, to them. Who would have thought, imagine, dreamed that she could have caught his attention and held it? He had so many women to choose from, and he picked her. She was so deeply moved when the word came that she had barely been able to stand. Her mother had helped hold her up while the messengers smiled and offered their congratulations, and in three days’ time, she had been taken to the capital in a great procession and was married to him in a ceremony so magnificent that nobody could ever remember seeing anything as sumptuous. She was only the daughter of a knight, and Lord Connus had fully-fledged princesses, foreign women to be sure, but princesses nonetheless, to chose from. From the moment she heard the news, it was her desire to be a good wife. From the moment she had seen him, she had wanted to love him completely and without reserve. They had joined together with pleasure and passion that were, he said, unsurpassed. He would know. He was said to have a great deal of experience, though his devotion and attention to her belied a jaded palate. A year later, he still made her pulse race when he so much as touched her fingers.

She flicked her hand down one of the tiny braids that fell from the greater mass of her dark hair and let her hand fall to the long, closed fan in her lap. She watched him. Even with a heavy silk robe thrown over his tunic, she could discern his magnificent muscular back, strong and broad, and it moved her to see him. He turned a little and shot her a look both haughty and affectionate. How could he be both at the same time? She put her fingers back to her mouth and smiled. It wouldn’t be fitting to show, with even the slightest gesture, in how much regard she held him. She let her eyes convey it, and he bucked his head back a little. He understood. For a moment, they could have been alone, instead of before a great crowd. Even the dais was crowded, with special guests to the side and her retinue of handmaidens beside and behind her. It was a wonderful, cozy feeling, protected, these private looks.

He strode across the dais and threw himself onto the throne beside her. She felt small and demure next to him, yearned to lean, catlike over and lay her cheek against his thick arm. His arms were great, yet his hands could caress her softly. For a moment, he fixed her with look, and she blushed. He reached over and patted her thigh. "By spring," he said. "The gods will bless us with our own little harvest," he said softly with a laugh. "The gods know I’ve cultivated you enough."

"Yes. I pray for the same thing," she said, breathlessly. True, he was talking about the getting of an heir, a serious business, to be sure. But he was also talking about her. About him. About things that couldn’t be named in daylight, only ached for. There was a time, as daylight dwindled, when they were dressing her for dinner, when she would become consumed with the desire to lay down, a physical yearning for the bed, for him in the bed. It wasn’t lust, exactly, it came from a deeper place. This was the love she had waited for all those years of loneliness, from the first moment she knew she had a body that could be stirred to arousal until he came to her that night, laid himself on her and knew her.

He was more than that, though, far more. He was the greatest warrior, the wisest of rulers, patient, kind, sophisticated. His kingdom stretched a hundred miles in either direction. He was not young. For the first years of his lordship, it had been impossible to think of marriage. Border wars flared up, mostly in the south, and occupied all his attention. She had not even been born when he had already begun to fight. When peace had been restored and he had established himself completely as lord of twice the territory his father had held, he was ready to seek a bride. She had turned thirteen in that year, and was said to be the most beautiful and desirable woman in the whole country

"What is this?" he said sharply, leaping from the throne, his eyes focused ahead like an animal on point. Riders pushed their horses through the procession as the people fell back to let them through. There was a general murmur of concern. "What’s the meaning of this?"

Perhaps it was just another part of the festivities, she thought, but the tightening feeling in her stomach belied that hope. Surely they would have been informed of some change in the usual rituals. The men came forward into the clearing that suddenly appeared before the dais. "What is the meaning of this?" he repeated.

"Lord Connus, I beg pardon of you a thousand times…" The hawk-nosed leader, in dark leather armor with metal fittings, bowed his helmeted head and struck his gloved hand to his chest.

"General Farnas." He stepped down, toward the men. His voice was different now, sharp, crisp, business-like as he appraised the six men on horses. The one in the center of the group was bowed over the neck of his mount. His hands were bound behind him, a noose hung around his neck and a dark hood covered his head. She sat up, suddenly electrified. Who was this? And what were the men up to? This wasn’t right, disturbing the festivities like this, irrespective of what business they had with her lord..

General Farnas gestured broadly to the bound man with pride. He smiled with lips obviously unaccustomed to curling in that manner. Best, she thought with a cold feeling flowing over her, to be protected by such a man. But still, he was ominous, especially showing his teeth. "I’ve brought you…"

"It isn’t..." Lord Connus interrupted, moving forward. The first subtle shades of delight crept into his voice as it trailed off.

"Yes." The small smile had grown to a grin. She shuddered.

The hooded man struggled to sit up on the horse. He was dressed in what had once been fine clothing, a quilted dark red jacket over a pale tunic and broad black trousers thrust into boots that reached nearly to his knees. She could see the tension in his narrow legs, his knees clamped tightly against the horse. The sleeve of his jacket hung loose, the tunic was ripped and he was fouled with dirt on one side.

Lord Connus gasped, put his fingers to his forehead. "It isn’t." He came forward as if going to take up a great gift. The slight man recoiled, as if he perceived the Lord coming closer. She clamped her jaw. He must be an enemy. Whatever her husband did to him but be right.

"Yes, my Lord." The men in the company broke into smiles and a few laughed softly.

"By the gods. How did you manage it?"
He strode to the edge of the dais, so that he was almost at the same level as the horse’s heads. They dragged on the hooded man’s body, pulled him to the ground and forced him to his knees. He struggled to maintain his balance, pulling away. His efforts, she knew were futile, merely some sort of posturing. Her throat felt suddenly parched, and she reached for the nearby cup, swallowing the wine only with great effort..

"I’ve waited so long," Lord Connus breathed. "Let me see." They pulled the dark hood from the man’s head and jerked his head back. His face was contorted miserably, his mouth pulled down into a deep frown, terrified but at the same time angry and arrogant. She stared at him. Who was he that he should throw their festival awry? Obviously he was an enemy. He had to be. They certainly wouldn’t handle an ally this way. If he had been an ally, she might have thought him nice looking. He had the smooth perfection of youth, a face squared-off a little at the jaw. He had large eyes, a regular nose, maybe a little on the long side, and a tilt to his chin that bespoke a nobility of spirit if not of blood. But he was quite obviously someone opposed to her husband’s interest, and therefore could only look arrogant, somehow unfinished in that way that all young men look unfinished. He was too narrow through the chest, too slight in the limbs, insubstantial. She had fixed her reference point on her own lord and all men had to compete with that, with the broad and hirsute chest, the great arms and thighs almost as thick as her own waist.

"Oh, yes," Lord Connus leaned close to the man. "Oh, yes. I have waited for you. How long have I waited for you?"

The boy said nothing, but her husband strode up and down in front of him, pacing like a lion. "Perhaps two years? Three? How many has it been?"

The young man still said nothing.

"You’re quieter than I remember you," Lord Connus observed and the men around them laughed. "Did you forget how to speak?" He leaned down and took the young man’s chin in his hand lightly, his thumb resting on the boy’s chin, just under his frowning lips. She could see the boy’s lips quiver. His eyes went downward, but the Lord jerked his hand, trying to make the boy’s eyes meet his.

But the prisoner looked up, past him over his shoulders. The dark eyes swept the dais, took in the whole of the crowd, the guests, the maidens and fell on her. She fluttered her fan a little. This was men’s business and had nothing to do with her. His eyes passed on.

"Who knew there would be such a good harvest today." Lord Connus dropped the boy’s face, and his chin went to his chest. The Lord reared back and put his hands on his hips. "My people," he said loudly, suddenly raising his hand and symbollically moving it over the heads of the crowd. "The gods in their providence have given into my hand this day an enemy, this treacherous dog from the south who would have displaced me from my rightful throne, who attacked our peaceful land and tried to make a shambles of it, who would have brought much suffering on you all, would have betrayed every one of you into the hands of foreigners and evil-doers."

"You lie," the boy gasped at last, as if the words were torn from him. He turned to the crowd. "He lies." He tried to wrench himself from the grasp of the men to address the people himself. "Come, you know me." His voice was desperate, soft-edged despite his shouting. "I am…"

"Silence him." Lord Connus said coldly, turning away.

Hands groped at the boy, and he disappeared under a collision of bodies. When they parted he way lying, face down, as if stunned, on the ground, a rag tied around the back of his head. Rough hands pulled him back to his knees. The cloth, knotted, had been thrust into his mouth. His eyes were closed, but she could tell they were rolled upwards. Someone kicked him and he opened them again. He caught her glance again, as he lowered his face, seared her with his. She tore away from it. She knew nothing of this. People were screaming all around, and her husband was obviously enjoying himself now even more than a few minutes before with the pageantry.

"What should I do with the dog?" He called out.

"Hang him," some cried out. Others merely cried, "Kill him," and Lord Connas laughed outright.

"They seem not to be fond of you," he said sadly to the boy, shaking his head and reaching out to touch his dirt-streaked face again. The boy pulled back, his eyes closing and the Lord withdrew his hand, closing his fingers slowly with ad odd, almost smug look. He turned quickly to the people.

"I will temper our righteous anger with mercy, my friends," the lord said, silencing the crowd. There were disappointed groans from some of the men, even from some of the women.

"For now, I will merely punish him for insolence. In time, I will bring him before you again and he will admit to all that he has done and pay the full price for it." There was a ripple of approval through the crowd. Next to a festival, an execution was always appreciated. "You will, you know," he said smoothly to the boy, pushing him a little with the toe of his boot.

Her husband gave orders that she could not hear over the roar of the people to the men. Their excitement had turned from thoughts of the harvest to thoughts of bloodshed. Lord Connus returned to the dais. "Now we’ll see what the little bastard is made of." They dragged the writhing boy to a wooden frame at the side of the square, and wrestled him easily into position. With his hands tied, he could do little more than register a protest with his body. His struggling was completely in vain. Connus clucked. "Coward," he spat, and the people nearby laughed.

"Who is he?" she whispered, but he didn’t hear. He was too fixed on the proceedings going on in front of him.

"Well, he puts up one hell of a fight, doesn’t he? Fool. He should know I’ll have my way in the end." They hung him with his hands above his head to the frame at the side of the square, tore the greatest part of his clothing from him. He was slight, at that, barely a man, certainly nothing compared to her husband. She blushed to be comparing the two of them. He was nothing, a prisoner, an enemy, something barely human. Whatever he was, he would be greatly changed within minutes, and she knew it. A man stepped forward with a whip, the kind that was used on intransigent servants. She felt suddenly faint. She had seen both floggings and hangings and had no appetite for either. It mattered little which they did. The end result was usually the same, although death from a flogging could take weeks to weaken a man to the point of death. Those that lived were rarely the same. Only the most robust returned to a normal life. It was almost a relief that they tied him so that his head was toward the dais so she could not see his face, and that his mouth had been stopped.

"Oh, this’ll never do," her husband muttered, stood up and barked at the man with the whip. He turned, with the instrument poised in his hand. Connus strode to the edge of the dais and jumped off, walked up to the boy and looked directly into his face. The first blow struck and the hands flexed to their fullest against the bond that held them together and she held her fan up over her mouth, fluttering it so that she could look down into it without being detected. Lord Connus spoke again, stepped forward, dropped his robes until he was in only his light loose tunic, trousers and boots. She loved to see him like that. He was regal in his robes, so manly in only his underthings. He wordlessly took the whip from the man. He was like a cat with a bird, taunting the man. She could hear nothing. But the women beside her laughed a little.

"Who is he?’ she asked behind her fan.

"Nobody, lady. His name is Banarus, son of the king of Elonia. He came to this land some years ago and lived in the palace at Tyrin before your husband moved the Capitol here."

"Yes. I know the place." She glanced up, horrified. The boy was struggling still, against the bonds, making garbled sounds against the cloth in his mouth that were still audible over the shouting and catcalling of the crowd. She felt faint, suddenly aware of the inside of her head.. It was one thing to be righteously angry at an enemy of her husband and disturber of their rites, quite another to watch his naked body beaten. She steeled herself against pity. They were distant enough that she could not see him distinctly enough, but his skin was lined with red and ran with blood.

"His father swore allegiance and sent the boy, but he was nothing more than a spy and when he returned home, he betrayed much information to the foreigners. They would have conquered us, if not for the skill and bravery of your husband. There was a battle, but this one escaped and your husband has been seeking him ever since. Even though we took their miserable land, we were unable to find him."

"Rewards were offered, and even tortures applied, but they wouldn’t give him up to us," another woman whispered. She fluttered her fan again. "Don’t watch, lady."

Her husband plied the whip against the young man’s body with passion that was equal to that which he pleasured her, and yet the effect was completely the opposite. The boy opened his eyes, suddenly and turned his head. He looked again across the dais and found her eyes again, as if directed to her by some evil magic. She shrank against the back of the chair. She heard a sound behind her, and turned to see one of the younger maids sink to the ground in a faint. Two other women fluttered their fans over her, clucking.

Her old maid leanded down to her. "Merciful gods, he’s looking at you, lady."

She whimpered a little, furrowed her brow and turned her head.

"Wicked bastard," one of the servants hissed. "He should suffer…" There was blood dripping down his legs, his arms, and into the dirt. She felt faint and was glad she wasn’t one of the ones standing.. He stared at her again, then closed his eyes and his head fell back. The lash came high, across the back of his neck and jaw..

"The nerve of that bastard," one of the women whispered. "To stare at you like that…"

"Yes," she said weakly. "It was improper, wasn’t it?"

"He deserves to die," another woman whispered, taking her hand and patting it. "Kirea, get the lady something to drink." The handmaid poured a glass of wine from the small table behind her and offered it to her. She could do little more than stare at it. Kirea lifted it to her lips.

"Take a little," she said softly.

"He’s so.."

"Shhhh…your husband is a wise man," Kirea reassured her, and she smiled weakly.

Her husband’s arm was slowing. The boy was hanging limply, his feet barely touching the ground. He had stopped fighting and his entire body was relaxed. Lord Connus threw the whip down and issued orders. The men began pulling the cording free and the young man dropped heavily into the arms of the nearby guards. The dragged him away. Lord Connus returned to the dais. There was blood on his cheek and his tunic. He smiled broadly. Someone made a motion to their face, and he laughed, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked at the blood that appeared on his knuckles. "Let me go clean up, and we’ll resume our festivities." There were smiles around. He touched her cheek. "Nothing to be worried about, little girl. I’ll just change and wash up and be right back to you."

"I’ll go with you," she said, rising. She wavered and caught the sculpted arm of the chair..

"Stay. It’s alright." His voice was soft, warm, and she sank into the chair again, reassured by his words. Still, she wanted desperately to go with him, to find out what had happened. He was a fair man. She already knew that, and it should be enough to merely trust him. Still, she suffered terribly from curiosity and always had. It was a fault in a woman. In a man it could signify great things, a great and intrepid explorer and conqueror or a studious alchemist or wise man, but in a woman, it was a significant flaw.

"My little wife likes dance," he said, clapping his hands. "Indulge her while I’m gone."

A group of young maidens in diaphanous auburn silks with gold embroidery around the hems appeared, bearing garlands of leaves and autumnal flowers. They danced gently, gracefully to the flutes and pipes, dropping yellow blossoms on the blood-stained ground. She breathed deeply, attempted to calm herself. There was something unsettling about the whole thing, not just the violence, but the insubstantiality of the human form. Stripped, hung up, deprived of speech, this boy had none of the marks of a man. It wasn’t just the fact that he was young, without a doubt, even the staunchest of men, even Lord Connus, maybe, should he be so unfortunate to fall into the hands of his enemies, might look just as weak. He was like a furless fox, a rat, a mongrel dog.

Lord Connus returned in a few minutes, coming upon her, lost in thought, gnawing her own lip. It was a bad habit. He touched her shoulder and she started. He had changed clothing and was now in a dark purple robe with a black tunic and trousers. He took his seat beside her. "Ah, my sweet little girl. Is that a troubled look on her face?"

"Oh, it’s nothing," she breathed, putting her fingers on his forearm. "Nothing."

"Good. I thought you were probably just missing me." He smiled, called for wine and the maid poured it into a deep golden goblet. You see, she chided herself, he has done nothing amiss. He is a good man and would do nothing that was not for our good.

**

Afternoon progressed into evening and the festivities, the singing and dancing and thanksgiving prayers turned into the gigantic feast they had all been waiting for. Domina followed closely behind Lord Connus, watching him move. At first she felt a little hesitant, the memory of the violence too painful to her, but in a while, the distress subsided, and she found herself enjoying again the same feelings she always harbored for him. But somehow, as day turned to night and darkness fell, she felt eerie again. He would move, pick up a vessel or a piece of food, gesture widely as he talked and she would feel a wave of nausea. His movements, simple movements, mirrored those he had employed when beating the traitor. Usually she saw his motions and related them to his movements when he loved her, how he looked when he regarded her naked body or when he swooped down onto the bed to embrace her. It wasn’t sympathy for the wretch, she thought, but something else. It was disconcerting to see the man she adored engage in such violence. She shook her head. He was a warrior. What did she expect?

She grew weary and yearned for the embrace of the bed. The maids hovered close around, solicitously. "Another wren?" one asked.

"I’ve had enough," she said, trying to stifle the urge to yawn. The serving boy held the platter up silently. The birds, stewed in wine, surely a dozen of them, surrounded a baked swan, all resting on a nest of greens. It was a very artistic presentation. Kirea lifted one of the little birds with an ornate silver spoon and smiled. "This one is stuffed with a little bread and sweet herbs," she urged gently, her voice soft, honeyed. Kirea was always so kind to her, perhaps because she was a mother already, and knew how to love in that special way. She had only just returned to the palace within the last few weeks, after her lying-in with her third child. The child was left in the country with with her other two to grow up with relatives. It was a little sad, but her position in the palace could not allow her to have children tagging behind constantly.

She had been married to some foreign dignitary who abandoned her with two children, and then the third was born to her after a brief affair with yet another foreigner, someone who had doubtless come to the Capital for the month of festivities following Domina’s wedding. Domina had been married about four months when they knew that Kirea was going to be a mother yet again, and, though some of the women tried to ostracize her, Domina insisted that everyone treat her kindly and she repaid Domina’s friendship with her ceaseless care and attention.

"Really. I’m quite full," she answered slowly, touching Kireas sleeve and smiling. It felt unreal, the muscles of her face weary. "Thank you."

Her exhaustion had become a physical thing, her limbs aching from it. He was still talking, louder now, than usual, drunk, without a doubt, surrounded by his dearest friends and advisors. The lack of women would not disturb them. She rose, and her maidens with her. "If my Lord permits," she said softly, inclining her head modestly toward him. "We will retire."

"Ah," he reached out, slipped his hand under hers and gently squeezed her fingertips. "Rest. I’ll be in soon." He slid his arm up hers and gently brought her face to his. Her braids fell down on his chest and he kissed her tenderly just below her mouth. "Yes. Very soon." She drank in his breath, liquor and rich food and longed for the great hand to press into her flesh, to fondle the softness of her. It was in her soul to whisper, "Hurry," but it would have been terribly improper.

She nodded and their eyes met. Wonderful. Wonderful to be loved. To be desired. She was, beyond a doubt, the envy of every woman in the palace, every woman in the city, in the whole of the country. How many women yearned for his call, hoped, night after night that he would send for them? To be his handmaiden, to be desired by him, how many countless fortunes had been squandered on trying to attract him? How many young women had grown too old to be counted desirable while still hoping he would see them and they would find favor in his eyes? She blushed and drew away, her fingertips lightly resting on her breastbone.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said, withdrawing. The women walked her back to her bedchamber and helped her undress. They washed her body and anointed her with perfumed oil, brushed out her hair and braided it. All the while they chattered gossip about other women. Nobody mentioned what had happened at the festival in the afternoon. The outside world meant little or nothing to them. They were interested in who was in love with whom, who was plotting to run away with whom, whose love had been betrayed by whom. She laid down on the great bed with its arching ornate dark wooden posters and red silk hangings. They covered her with a soft, embroidery trimmed sheet and spread a fur counterpane over her, since the nights were growing cold. Milea, her favorite maidservant, leaned over and spoke quietly. "Shall I wait with you?" she asked as some of the women, moving slowly, gracefully, blew out all the lamp flames in the chamber except one near the door and the ones on either side of the bed.

"Yes, do," she said, her eyes growing heavy as she watched the colorful figures growing fuzzy around the edges.. Milea climbed into bed with her and dismissed the others. Milea was warm, both in spirit and in the flesh, round-faced and gentle, noble and ladylike. She was a cousin of Lord Connus on his mother’s side, and came to the palace when she was quite young in the hopes that a suitable match could be made for her. She had been eager to wed, but after Domina came to the palace, they instantly felt as it they had been friends forever. Both were loathe that Milea’s parents should chose a mate for her and she would have to leave and take up a life elsewhere. Sleep lapped at her and she relaxed into it. But in the instant when dreams begin, she saw streams and blotches of red, torn flesh, hands clutching at bonds, heard the sound of the whip. She opened her eyes with a start. Her blood pounded.

They lay together in silence for a moment. Milea took her hand and they turned to face each other. "Are you alright? You seem upset."

She didn’t want to speak the words, but somehow felt compelled to. Her tongue moved thickly to push them out. "That man. That my husband captured. Do you remember him?"

"Not really. The battle was three years ago, I suppose, and I was only thirteen then. We lived so far from the city that we knew little about it until it was all over. And then we only heard that there was some sort of battle between the Lord and some rebels. For a long time, it happened frequently enough, I suppose."

"I feel for him…" She said, unsure what she meant by it.

"Who?"

"My husband of course," she narrowed her eyes at Milea. "Whom did you think I meant?"

"Well," Milea laughed and shook Domina’s hand. "I couldn’t tell…"

"Oh, I thought it was horrible what happened today, didn’t you? Every time I close my eyes I see it."

"Of course. Me too." Milea held Domina’s hand close under her chin. It was warm and she felt instantly comforted.

"But I feel guilty for feeling it was horrible. I mean, my husband knows what he’s doing. He would do nothing that wasn’t for the good of the whole of the people. But I suppose, it was the delight he seemed to take in it."

"The man is a rebel traitor, a foreigner, Domina. Waste no sympathy on him."

"It wasn’t him. It was, well, for a moment."

"Even rebels can come in pretty packages, sweet."

"Oh, I didn’t think he was very good looking," Domina was shocked. Surely Milea couldn’t be suggesting that she might find him attractive. "He just looked like a boy."

"Well, he was considered quite nice-looking and would have been quite a catch. He’s nothing now, of course. Well, now, he’s less than nothing."

"Oh, it wasn’t his looks. But I thought, what if it was Lord Connus was in that position and when I saw the blood and the wounds, I felt sick."

"Well, it won’t be your husband, silly. Domina, we’re very strong. Lord Connus is strong. That fellow was nothing. I’ll tell you something. If it was your husband, he wouldn’t have thrown himself around making such a big fuss about it. The boy had no courage at all. Put it out of your mind. It was like a nightmare. You get up, throw the curtains open and see the light of dawn, and you know that night is over, the dream is over. It’s nothing."

"Oh, you’re right." She put her head against Milea’s shoulder and fingered the end of her braid. "Yes. You’re right."

"Of course I am," Milea reached a hand up from under the blanket and gently slapped Domina on the forehead. "Enough with your worrying. What are you going to do tonight?"

Domina stretched and yawned a little. "Hmmm. I don’t know. But he’ll like it." She stretched and smiled.

"He seems to like everything you do, doesn’t he?" Milea giggled a little and tightened her arm around Domina.

"Yes. He does. It’s wonderful." She slipped her head close to Milea’s, their hair entwined. "Oh, Milea…" she sighed. "I am so happy."

"What?"

"Dressmakers are supposed to be on their way from Albanus."

"Really?" Albanus was the center of the civilized world, lying far to the south. "Who told you this?"

"Vincenia. Her brother heard it from one of the tailors. They’ll be bringing silks," Milea said almost conspiratorily. "Figured silk."

"Oh, I can’t stand it." Domina groaned with pleausure. "Have you heard what the best colors are this year?"

"Dusty ones. Paler greens, not so brilliant as in the last few years. They’ll look wonderful with your coloring."

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, yes. But everything will be trimmed with ribbons of darker colors either of the same color or a contrasting one."

"Oh, my…" She breathed. ‘When will they be here?"

"Three days’ time. Your husband is so wonderful. He’ll let you have anything you want.

"I’ll get something for all my women." She sat up and hugged her knees, then flopped back down on the bed again. "Milea, what about the form of the dresses?"

They heard the sound of the door and clasped each other in surprise. It swung open and Lord Connus strode in. His manservants had already undressed him to his tunic covered with a loose brocaded robe. For an instant, her blood ceased to move in her body. She felt it thump in her belly.

"Ah," he said good-naturedly, rubbing his hands together. "Two of you tonight? My darling, you think of everything."

Milea jumped up while Domina laughed happily. "Milea, I will see you in the morning, dear one." Milea leaned down and they kissed one another gently, and Milea bowed to the Lord and backed respectfully from the room.

He stood with his knee on the edge of the bed and pulled his robe off, then swept off his tunic, while she quickly unplaited her hair. She could barely take him all in, instantly forgetting how to breathe, her mouth falling open. He was ready for her. Almost a year they had been married, and it still shot a thrill through her body just to see him naked and aroused. She scooted down in the bed, threw her hands up over her head and spread her legs, lifting her knees, hungry. Before the wedding, she had been instructed how she was to behave. She must be affectionate and open, responsive, but not too much so. She must not speak during it or suggest anything to him, must lay still and let him make love to her. He was, after all, the man. He would determine what was to go on, and for how long and to what extent. She had never deviated from the instructions and they got along well. But she wanted him so badly, such proper rules were difficult to observe when her was before her. He was so handsome, this husband of hers. She drank him in with her eyes. She loved everything about him, even the way the hair lay on his chest, his belly. The boy was nearly hairless. She gasped. Where had that come from? Why would such a thought come to her now. She closed her eyes, pushed it away, but a tiny chill had descended nevertheless.

He laughed, seeing her eagerness, swooped down on her and his warmth drove out all other thoughts. Still laughing, he pushed her loose hair away from the places it had fallen, encompassed her face with his hands. He kissed her deeply and she was instantly intoxicated, arching her back to meet his hands. He had a talent for arousing her to depths she had never imagined possible. To be sure, before they were married, she had imagine a man coming and loving her, had kissed her wadded-up blankets and even rubbed herself until there a wonderful, peace-bringing throbbing. But it was nothing like having him enter her, thrust himself inside her. Wonderful. She missed the pleasure she had alone, but he was much more satisfying in a different way and she pressed herself tightly against him.

"Oh, you are beautiful," he sighed, pulling her on top of him. She foundered a little and slipped underneath him again as soon as possible. She loved his weight, loved to feel it against her body, pressing against her naked chest. She sat up, stunned, when he finished. He fingered her backbone gently. "Lay down here with me."

She smiled and lay back against his large, strong arm. "I adore you," she said.

"And I, you." He sighed, tightening his arms around her. He kissed her hair. "You are wonderful. I wonder how I ever managed to be happy before we met?"

She purred happily, wove her feet between his legs and savored the warmth and strength. In minutes, she dozed off, listening to him breathe, her fingers on his moving chest, deep within the fluffy hair of his chest. In the morning, he was gone. He always withdrew sometime in the night after she had fallen asleep. He snored, he said, and it was unfair for her to have to listen to him roar like a lion through the night. She loved him all the more for his consideration. As long as he stayed until she was asleep, she would sleep, untroubled, through the night.

Days passed. Despite the shock at the festival, which she could only call "that thing that happened," she managed to push it all far enough out of her mind that she quickly returned to the quiet enjoyment of her days. The end of the autumn festival signaled the beginning of preparations for winter. They put up incense the next day, mixing the different fragrant spices and herbs, grinding them together for hours. The servants, of course, did the grinding, though she supervised. A little oil was added and they were ground more and then formed into long sticks. They wrapped the sticks and buried them in earth with great ceremony. It would be a good two weeks before they would be sufficiently cured. The following day, all the women would gather to make confections, flavored with flower waters as well as fruit and spices. They did the same general things at home during the harvest festival, but now she was lady of the great palace, and, though she had women to assist and advise her in the preparations of these things, they were left up to her taste and discretion. All she wanted was to please him, though, and so it was not her personal taste, but his, that she considered. Still, she mused, they were one in the same, and that pleased her even more.

That night he was later than usual. Milea fell asleep in the bed. She had been complaining all day of feeling ill. Domina was disgruntled. She hated to be without company, but it would be unkind to wake the poor woman, simply because she was lonely. Still, it was her job, after all. Domina smoothed the blankets over her knees and waited.

She couldn’t very well call for the other women, either, and say, "Where’s my husband?" They would want to know he wasn’t abed with her, and that might start rumors. On the other hand, she wanted him. That was a selfish reason. She scowled. Plus, he shouldn’t be out so late, for his own good. She played with the wax that dripped down the side of the candle, pulling off, the long, lumpy strand and balling in up in her fingers. Nothing ordinarily keep him away so long. He had probably fallen asleep at the table. She shouldn’t get up. Shouldn’t go out into the corridors. What if someone saw her? She slipped from the bed, and put her heavy dark green, gold trimmed robe over her long white gown and slipped into her gold trimmed leather slippers. They were the heavier-soled ones, for walking across the cold stone floors, not the lighter ones for carpets.

She didn’t want to go straight out into the hallway. There was a smaller passage, communicating from the servants’ chambers to her bedchamber. She opened the door slowly and stared into the darkness. Cool air rose from the lower level, up the nearby stairs. It was alright. She would merely pass down the passage, through the hall where the men’s bedrooms were and into the passage to the main dining hall. He would be there, then, and the only possibility was that one or two of his servants might see her. But they would be discreet. It was the cleaning people and the guards who couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

She slipped back to the table and picked up the tiny oil lamp, shielded it with her hand and stepped down into the passage. The truth was, these lamps were deplorable. They shed next to no light in a truly dark place. She raised the lamp and only a faint light fell on the stones. There was no light directly beneath her hand, since the lamp was opaque on all sides. Usually, if they went somewhere in the dark, servants carried torches, but she couldn’t very well call servant to light her way through a passage she shouldn’t have been in at all. She held the lamp out in front of her, down a little, but even that was ineffectual. She sighed, navigated the steps carefully and was once again on a flat path. Within a few steps, though, she realized there were two passages. She stopped, listened carefully. Surely she might be able to hear the voices of the servants so she would know which one to take. She heard nothing, though, and sighed.

She shrugged. It was immaterial which way she went. There was nothing in the palace to be wary of. Someone could show her back to her bedchamber. She walked on with a little more confidence, until a puff of cold wind from an aperture in the stone wall blew out the flame of her lamp. She looked back in the direction from which she had come. It was pitch black. She began to walk slowly, carefully, but the passage had turned and it was pitch dark.

She had the eerie feeling she was being observed and shivered. It was silly. This was her home. She knew it like the back of her hand. There was a finger of light up ahead, cool light. She went toward it eagerly, breathing deep the fresher air that came in with the moonlight. It was a small window, looking out into the yard. He was there, her husband, standing in the moonlight, talking with another man she didn’t recognize. There were several servants close at hand, watchful, obsequious. Along the wall there were a few lanterns lit, and a small door. She smiled a little. He would be up soon. She turned back in the opposite direction and felt along the knobby wall. She didn’t want to leave the scene so soon, and returned to the thin, barred window. The noblemen was leaving and several of the servants as well, so that her husband was left standing in the yard with one of his oldest and dearest servants. She knew the man well. He was kindly disposed towards her. There could be nothing wrong with going to her husband now. The Lord stretched a little, yawned and clapped the man on the shoulder.

She grew more confident. Holding the useless lamp in front of her as if it could still illuminate her way, she realized she could get to the yard simply by following this passage to its end. Finally, she let the lamp drop to her side. Even if worse came to worst, she could surely return here and call from the window for directions. If memory served, the servants’ hall had an exit out onto this yard. That must have been the small door between the lanterns. She continued in her original direction, feeling along the wall. Cold air again. There must be a stairwell coming. Her foot timidly tried the stones in front of her, her hands groped along the wall until she saw a pale glow and the passage turned and went downward. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, partly opened. It let in only a tiny finger of light, a the thin pale blue thread that lit the stone treads of the stairs just enough for her to be able to see her way. She quickly sped to the door, pushed it open and walked out into the night. The door swung silently closed, but it mattered little. She would go back in by way of whatever entrance Lord Connas chose. Her eyes, already accustomed to the darkness, made out the shapes of the walls, and yet, there was something amiss as she scanned them. There was a wall running along on her left, long and tall, but it didn’t sweep around in front of her, but turned, further to the left. Or stopped completely. All she knew was it didn’t come around in front of her. Her brow furrowed. She was on the wrong side of the wall. She was outside the palace.

She turned and ran back to the door. It had all but closed. She pulled on it, but it was jammed, stuck tight. Her hand sought a handle, but in vain. Maddening. She should merely shout and alert someone that she was there, but shouting was not the thing to do when one was a lady, and especially a lady of her status. The lady of the highest Lord in the land should not get caught outside the walls of the palace howling to be let back in like some peasant’s pet cat.

She would have to find her way back in alone. Surely it was not so great a task. She would merely walk around the wall that surrounded the wall until she found an opening. Perhaps a better idea would be to find a way to peek over the wall and wave to Lord Connas. That was it. He would let her in. The wall was not so very tall, and she quickly found footholds and boosted herself to peek over. He wasn’t there. In the intervening minutes, he and his servant had returned to the house. He would be on his way to bed now, and he would not find her there. He would be vexed at her, certainly.

She contemplated what to do. She could surely climb to the top of the wall, but once there, she would have to perch on the top, which had broken and sharp stones on it to prevent people from doing just what she was trying to do. And even if she could contend with the sharp stones, how would she find footholds to climb down the other side? She would have to jump. That made no sense. She would, at the very least, turn her ankle. She had done that once in a barn at home and regretted it for weeks. There was nothing to do but go back to the ground and try walking around the wall-bound yard.

She sighed, scrambled back down and dusted herself off. Setting off around the wall, she quickly saw she would have to move quite distant from it, since brambles and spiny plants had grown up on this untended side. Earth had been shoveled up, forming a terrace on which the palace yard had been built, so it dropped precipitously from the wall, making walking in that area impossible. The path followed the natural curve of the land, which took her further from the wall. This wasn’t any good. She looked back at the palace. The main part of it loomed overhead, and the walled yard rose off to the side. It was still hours before morning. There was nothing for it. If she tried to return to where she had started, she would merely have to sit and wait until someone came. She looked back up at the path from whence she had come. Perhaps there was a way to go around in the opposite direction. She had only thought to turn toward the yard. Maybe if she went in the opposite direction, to the right, she could find a path around to the front of the palace. But she quickly realized there were brambles and precipitous slopes there too. Her best choice was to try to find some shelter and pray the inhabitants to convey her back to the husband in the morning.

There was a cleared path leading away from the palace. It went down into a long ravine and then came up again in woods. She knew these woods. Not perfectly, but she and Lord Connas had hunted in them. It had been a wonderful day, with dozens of lords and ladies in their finest, the brilliant sun glinting off their shining and sumptuous clothing, off their silky hats festooned with gold and silver. It was a beautiful sight. They were hunting boar, and though the boar fought furiously, the men brought it down and there was a great feast.

She tried to console herself with cheerful thoughts of the feasting and the singing and dancing, but in truth, she was becoming concerned. It was the fearsome boar who occupied the uppermost place in her thoughts. She shook herself a little. Enough, she scolded. She wanted to speak out loud, but there was almost too intimidating a silence. It was silly. It was a dark path, that was certain, and she had to move cautiously, but there was nothing frightening here. The same rocks and trees and dirt as during the day, she reasoned. She looked up.

There was a great moon in the sky and as she passed under the boughs, with their leaves fluttering, she could see the moonbeams in the darkness, cascading through the breaks in the trees, like sunbeams, but a pale whitish blue instead of the more familiar yellow ones. They looked solid, as if she could put her hand out and grasp these diagonal columns that cast a pale pool of brightness on the path. She put her hand out into the light, but it only illuminated it in the last degree. She could not see the details of her hand and could only barely make out the figures painted on the side of the lamp in her hand. She looked up. It was beautiful. The trees close at hand, facing her, were completely dark, but those further away, the ones that covered the gently rounded hill nearby were bathed in soft, misty light. She could hear water nearby, softly moving around rocks in its path. She was filled with a sense of awe and beauty. Perhaps they were wrong to teach that there were malevolent spirits who filled the night, because the only spirits she perceived were two bats who fluttered overhead, and, in reality, they seemed no more frightening than two dark butterflies might. She smiled. Something rustled in the wood nearby, darting up an embankment. She followed it with her eyes as it scuttled, over the crest of the hill, but as her eyes dropped, she saw another form, low and close to the ground, dart away, and she was instantly suffused in terror again.

It was foolishness. She walked quickly, then, holding her arms close around her body. Enough. She wanted to be home and in bed. What a foolish girl you are, she chided. How stupid to…

She stopped. There was something ahead, lit dimly in the light along the side of the path. A great lump. A rock? Another animal perhaps? Sleeping? Fallen. She moved closer. There was clothing on its body, dull-colored peasant clothes. A man. It was a man. She gasped. He was lying on his stomach, face to one side, his arms under his head, a long and heavy sword beside him. Sleeping. She should turn and run back in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. She turned and took several steps, but the howl of an animal above her a nearby stone outcropping stopped her in her tracks. The beast was ahead of her, she turned back toward the path where the man was sleeping. But there was another wall, blocking her progress. She gasped. It moved, and a hand clamped over her mouth. It wasn’t possible. For a moment, she thought it wasn’t possible. Who would do this? She writhed, bit at the hand, snarled. The hand was still over her mouth, and the body turned her to face a tree, pressed against her. He stank, a melange of odors, all of which were vile. She felt something warm and wet running down her arm. It had to be blood, but there wasn’t any pain. She felt faint.

"Don’t make a sound. I won’t hurt you. I swear. What are you doing out here?" the voice asked.

She gasped. The hand behind her neck shook her. Did she dare answer? He’d just told her to be quiet. "Are you alone? Hurry up."

She could only stammer.

"Damn. How far are we from the palace?" He pulled her away from the tree and moved his leg against the back of hers. She was petrified. He shook her again.

"Not far," she gasped. She raised her hand and put her fingers over the tip of her nose, hoping he wouldn’t notice. It wouldn’t do to give offense because the person smelled bad, but it was overwhelming. If he saw the gesture, he ignored it.

"Do you know these woods?

"Not well." His grip was starting to slacken.

"Do you live around her? Do you have food?" He was moving his hands around her. She stiffened. "I don’t care about you," he said archly. "I need to eat. Do you have anything?’

"Where do you live?"

He scoffed, his grip loosening on her. He drooped against a tree, nearly dropping to the ground. "I won’t harm you if you do as I say," he said weakly, picking up the sword. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Fine. Come with me."

She bent to pick up the lamp. In the scuffle it had somehow landed so that there was still both oil and a wick in it.

"What is that?"

"A lamp."

"Give it to me." She handed it to him. There was something wet all over his hand as he fumbled to take it from her in the dark. He was panting, far more than he should have been for the little exertion wrestling her. She stood dumbly, her arms wrapped around her. He took stones and struck them together. They made not the slightest spark, and he cursed, threw them down and grasped her arm again. "Never mind that," he said. "Come on. Don’t be frightened."

His grip was weak now. Motionless, she could only stare at him. He was struggling to keep his footing. One hand was around her arm, the other carried the sword, but the tip was dragging on the ground, and his arm hung behind him loosely. She turned to look at him, her hand over her mouth and nose. He only glared at her. "Move," he said.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, suddenly concerned. Though Lord Connas had cleared these woods of brigands and bandits, some may have come back and set upon the poor fellow. Or a wild animal. She shivered. "We should go in the other direction," she said slowly, not wanting him to think her impertinent. "They’ll be able to care for you at the palace."

He laughed bitterly. "I’m certain of that. We’ll go this direction. There must be shelter ahead."

His fingers were on the small of her back now, dropping lower. He stumbled and went to his knees, groaning. "What happened to you?" she asked, suddenly concerned. He had only attacked her, surely, because he was afraid. He groaned and tried to rise, supporting himself on the sword. He struggled, finally finding his feet. "I can’t carry this," he said finally. "I…" He held it feebly toward her. She hesitated. "Take it," he said. "You carry it." She hesitated again. "We’re in the same trouble, I would surmise," he panted. "After all, a young girl outside the palace in her nightclothes? Doesn’t look good. You’re either running away or running back. You have someone out here in these woods, don’t you? A lover?" He spoke bitterly. "Where is he? Will he give me assistance?"

She shook her head and took the sword. He fell again and she caught him under the arms. "You can’t go on," she said, torn between feelings of terror, concern and disgust.

"I have to…"

"Why?"

"I have to." He set his face. She couldn’t see it clearly in the darkness, only shadows, but she heard it in the change in the quality of his voice. His weight was on her, and she could not bear him up long. They came to a clearing, and, panting, she let him drop to the ground, covered her nose with her hand again. It was only through her supreme self-control that she had managed not to retch from the smell. He rolled onto his back, one arm thrown out. "We can’t stay here," he said, rolling onto his stomach and pushing up on his arms, his head hanging down. "It’s too open."

"Are you running away?" she asked.

"Perpetually," he scoffed. "Come. I know I must be heavy for you. Just a little further. There are caves by the bluffs…"

"That’s a half mile away," she said miserably. Her neck hurt and the sinews of her arms burned.

"Anything closer? Cottages, abandoned farms, barns, anything. Do you know anything about these woods? A house, even a cattle stall."

She put her hands up on either side of her face and tried to remember. Lord Connas had cleared these woods, driven out the miserable poverty-stricken peasants who squatted here, tore down and burned their filthy huts. But there were still a few structures left, for the benefit of travelers who might journey this way too late in the day to reach the city before the gates were closed. "Yes. I remember. Up ahead there’s a shelter."

"Come on then. Be strong."

She helped him up and they went on. The place was closer than half a mile, but it took an unbelievable amount of time to get that small distance, since he was so weak. "You could run away," he said poignantly. "I can’t very well chase after you. You could run away and bring back men and horses and dogs…"

She smiled a little. Whatever trouble he was in, it couldn’t have been that bad. He was probably a runaway servant or a thief. The sword, she surmised, must have been stolen. Nobody as ragged as he was could have a sword like this on his own. He himself said he was perpetually running away. "I’ll get you to shelter," she said softly. "And then decide what to do."

His breath came out in a gasp and he made for a tree and hung onto it to keep from falling. "It’s only a little further," she said gently. "Come. You can make it that far."

"Yes." He pushed away from the tree and wavered. He held his arms out, palms up, piteously, to her. She let him loop his arm around her neck. Her nose did not burn quite as much as it had. She was afraid to think what the smells were. She could identify some of them, and they revolted her, but there was another, sickly smell, a green smell, if a smell can have a color, rank and vile. He was moist in places, and her hands recoiled from the dampness. Her eyes searched the darkness for a little spot of light that would indicate lamplight in the cottage, but it was all darkness below. There were stars again in the sky, the clouds passing over quickly, but nothing. She was relieved when they crossed a small bridge and heard a tiny sound. Chimes. They came from above, up a little path on a small bluff, not much higher than the height of four or five men. It was dark though, which meant nobody else was there. But perhaps provisions had been left. He had said nothing for a while, and she realized, he was nearly unconscious. "Come on," she panted. "We’re almost there." It was a steep climb, a twisting path, with only a few stone steps to ease the way. When they reached the summit, there was the tiny cottage, nestled among the trees, the small metal chimes tinkling sweetly in the darkness from a place under the eaves.

He muttered something and she let him drop. He leaned against a tree, wrapping his arms around himself. She pushed the door open. "Nobody’s been here in a long time," she said mournfully. Something make a short, shrill sound. There was the sound of something tipping over, falling from a shelf or table, and then silence. She recoiled.

"Good. Only rats," he said. "Good."

"I was hoping there might be someone…"

"This is better."

Violet clouds slipped past the moon and its face came out again. The light shone on the clearing, on the cottage, on them. He looked fully at her. There was blood streaking his face, blood saturating parts of his clothing, blood dripping down his arms and onto his hands. Her hands once again flew to her mouth, and she tried to hold back a gasp. The sword fell from her hands and he darted to pick it up.

"You’re that boy," she said. It all became clear. "That prince."

His mouth opened a little and he closed his eyes. "Oh, Gods." He grabbed her wrist. Her head snapped back. "Oh, Gods." He was panting again, laboriously, shaking his head. "You were there?," he asked darkly. "Where?"

"I was…"

She was silent. He shook her wrist.

"Who are you to him? To Lord Connus."

She drew herself up a little. "I am his wife."

He crumpled a little and snorted. "His wife."

"Yes." She stood motionless. There was silence.

"I can’t let you live," he said finally, briefly, struggling with the sword. "Come here," he beckoned to her with a filthy hand. She stepped forward almost mechanically. Self-preservation dictated that she run, but she was unable to do anything other than what he told her to do. He put his hand on her shoulder, looked at her deeply. His face darkened and he sighed. He tried to raise the sword, but its weight was too great for him in his current state. He fell to one knee.

"My Lord," she said softly, leaning over him. "Kill me if you must, but for now, let me be of service to you. You’re badly injured. Come inside with me, and I do what I can for you. When you’re stronger, you can do whatever you must."

He sighed again, defeated, and she touched him gently, put her arm under his. He let her guide him into the house. There was a small raised bed next to the wall with some straw already piled on it, but the straw was musty. "Sit here," she said softly, and began to gather armloads of the straw and throw them out the doorway into the yard. He clutched at her weakly.

"I will have vengeance. I have something back at him. He took everything. Even her," he shook his head. "And you. I saw you. You did nothing. Your expression barely changed. You watched them do that to me, and you did nothing." His fingers clamped into her flesh, but she knew he was unable to do anything more vigorous.

Still, her blood was cold in her veins and she didn’t know how to answer. "Try not to talk," she said. "Conserve what strength you have left." He fell silent and lay back against the straw, closed his eyes and moaned a single, low moan like a wounded but resigned animal. Anxious, she walked around the small house. It was not much bigger than the small closet in which they kept her regular clothing and shoes, only half the size of the one in which they kept her best clothes. Animals had sheltered there and there was excrement from all variety of creatures in little dried piles throughout the house, the tiny pellets of rabbits, the bigger ones of raccoons and badgers, perhaps. Even on the table and the stools. "Ugh," she said, sweeping the husk broom across the table. He smiled a little, sadly and bitterly, as she recoiled from the dirt and animal droppings.

"You’re unused to labor," he observed quietly. "Or dirt."

"Yes. I am." She turned to him. It was still dark.

"I was, too. Once."

How long was night? She was suddenly exhausted. She picked up a vessel from the table. "I should get water." He nodded, struggling to sit up again. She crossed to him and leaned over, her braid falling down on his chest. "Rest a little. Lie back." She put her hand behind his head and he let her guide him back. The bed was wooden, hard without mattress or blankets. There was only moldy straw available to soften it, and that was too vile. But there was nothing for it. "I’ll try to find something softer for you to lay on," she said. He nodded, and for an instant, she perceived the extreme pain he was in and her soul cried out in anguish for him. "Close your eyes." He looked at her a last time, his eyes deep and dark, only barely reflecting anything in the dimness. She watched the bright reflections vanish, and knew he had complied.

It was so dark. She fumbled around the shelf on the back wall until she discerned an earthenware vessel not much bigger than a small serving bowl at the palace. As she brought it down, a lid fell off it and clattered to the ground. She looked over toward him, but he didn’t move. She sniffed at the vessel. It smelled dirty, but it would have to do.

She went out into the night again. This was madness. She should run. He was Banarus, the rebel, enemy of the her soul’s delight. He deserved whatever he’d gotten. Everybody said so.

But he seemed so young, so weak, like a small animal caught in a snare. She steeled herself. That was the girl in her talking, the one that picked up small hurt birds from the ground in the late spring when their attempts to fly from the nest had failed. They never thrived, she thought ruefully. Not one. Besides, they were innocent beings, and he was anything but. In a few minutes, surely no more than fifteen, she could be back at the palace, raise an alarm and they would come and punish him. But what were they trying to hurt him for in the first place? Somehow it didn’t make sense. If he had tried to take over the whole of the kingdom three years ago and was unsuccessful, why would he return now, alone? She squatted by the water’s edge, rinsed and and filled the vessel, wrapped her arms around it and carried it back to the house. It was heavier than she expected, and seemed to get heavier with every step. She sloshed water on her legs and down her heavy robe. She set the water down on the table and looked over at him. His breathing was labored but even, one hand on his chest, the other falling down off the bed. He shivered. She could do nothing to do until it was light. She wiped a cup out with the hem of her gown, blew the last of the dirt out of it and filled it with water. The wet robe clung to her legs, cold and tight. He stirred when she came close.

He stirred. "Come here. Lay down."

"I can’t," she breathed. "Drink." She held the cup to his mouth, her hand under the lip. He drank, grimace and lay back.

"Do as I say," he said. "I won’t harm you. Unless you disobey me. Lay down."

"I…"

"I’m cold. Lay beside me."

Even in the near-complete darkness, he did look pitiful. He pointed to the space beside him and the wall. She slipped slowly into it. She lay stiff.

"So your husband is the Lord Connus."

"Yes," she said softly.

"Pity for you. And do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Even more a pity."

She turned her face to the wall. The smell that came from him was made even more nauseating by the added smell of the residual must and mold in the house. She folded her hands together and rested her cheek against them, staring at the wall. He said nothing else and she lay, her eyes staring into darkness, listening to the sounds of the night birds and the rustling of leaves in the high trees outside. It was not quiet. Every few minutes something made a great noise. Finally, the small window showed a dark blue sky instead of the complete darkness. For a while, it was completely silent, and then there a few, isolated calls of day-birds, then more and more until within an hour’s time, and before it was light, there was a loud, insistent, disorganized chorus of them. She felt him move against her hip.

"We have to go," he said wearily.

"Why?" she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. He was even dirtier than she had though, and there was blood, brown and crusted on red-edged weeping wounds and a great bruise on his face. She gasped, horrified. His eyes flickered, catching her gaze and he turned away quickly.

"They’ll know I’m gone. They’ll be searching." He turned toward her, putting his face against his open palm close to her shoulder. She could feel the heat radiating from him, and touched his face with the back of her fingers.

"You’re feverish."

He turned away from her and sat up. "I know." He paused and stood up with effort. "We have to go." He struggled up, went to the water and drank deeply, then handed it to her. She looked fully at his face for the first time. He closed his eyes and looked away, every one of his movements slow, showing pain.

She felt her nose tingle and her eyes smarted. "What have they done to you?"

He laughed shortly, bitterly. "Your dear husband does nice work, don’t you think? Come on." He looked around and began stuffing whatever might be of use into a sheet that he deftly folded into a satchel and slung over his shoulder. "Well," he said shortly. "Hurry up."

"Where are we going?"

"I don’t know. Come on. Take anything that might be of use."’

She looked around. There was so little. A cup. A spoon. There was a bug-infested bag of flour. "Take it," he said, and she stuffed it into a makeshift bag fashioned from a rag on the ground.

The found another abandoned place, an old barn and settled there shortly after noon. He leaned heavily, silently against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself while she made a place for him to lay down. It was miserable, hard, and he looked wretched. Whatever strength he had built up in sleep had been more than depleted in the walk from the one shelter to this one. She avoided looking at him. He was nothing like Lord Connas. His hair was matted, filthy, his hands dirty. She had grown somewhat used to the smell, but it was still horrific. There was blood caked in blotches and streams anywhere is skin was exposed. When he caught her eyes on him, he glared but said nothing, and she blushed and looked away. Still, he was so obviously wretched, suffering, she could see from his glittering eyes, from the fever, and shivering every few minutes from chills. Many of the wounds were long, thin, their edges beginning to open, swell and turn pink and red. He should be cleaned up before too much time passed, but she was afraid to mention it.

She looked at the wounds. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said simply. He began retching again, and she stared at him. Each bout left him weaker.

"When did you last eat?"

He didn’t answer but lay staring at the ceiling. "They’re all gone," he said.

"Shhh." She had flour. Maybe she could make something with it. She put a measure of it in the cup, picked the small hard-shelled brown bugs from it and mixed it with water. It was thin. "Can you eat this?" She slipped behind him, held his head and gently spooned tiny bits of the mixture between his lips.

"Tastes like flour," he said, turning away.

"Hm."

"Tastes like old flour," he added, and turned his face against her chest. She shifted his head a little with her shoulder, instantly embarrassed that he was so close to her, so near her breasts. But he was far too miserable to be interested in that, she reasoned, and relaxed. She offered another spoon, gently rocking him as she did, and he took a little more. It was difficult to watch him, to hear him, to feel him move uncomfortably against her. He was miserable irrespective of which way he tried to situate himself and finally gave up trying.

He began to cough around mid-morning, a light hacking cough. She took off her fine robe and laid it on the ground. "Lay down," she said gently. He looked at her warily, but complied and she pulled the edge up over him to cover his body. "I’ll get more water," she said. When she returned, he was asleep. She cleared the firehole and put sticks in it, but that was as far as she could get. She knew nothing of starting a fire. It would have to wait until he awoke. She explored the place and found a box filled with clothing. As she pulled each garment from the box, each fell to ribbons and shreds, and she sank down on the floor, desperate.

He stirred and she wondered if he had been asleep. "Get something metal and a flat stone, and small smaller ones," he said shortly, and she hurried outside. When she came back in, he was standing staring down at the fire hole. "Bring dry leaves," he said. When they were in the hole, he squatted down and struck the stone against the metal until sparks fell down into the leaves. He blew on them and smoke began to rise slowly, first in a single thin tendril, then joined by others.

"We have to find something else to eat besides bug-infested flour," he said simply, his words interrupted by coughing.

She put stones on the fire and waited. "What?"

"You’ll have to find something," he said softly.

"Where?" He looked down at her. She moved a little, uncomfortable that his eyes were on her body, on her thin shift. It truly wasn’t that thin. Many people wore less in the regular course of the day, but she felt his eyes drop down and rest on her hips.

"There must be something. It’s late in the season. This is an old farm. There are surely fruit trees here and there, or nuts. Go on. Bring something back."

She went out and found an apple tree along an old fence. The apples were small, gnarled, with black spots on them, the hard flesh drawn in toward them. There were a lot and she brought quite a few of them back in a sheet. Perhaps cut up and cooked they might be palatable. He was dropping hot stones into the cup of water when she came in. He looked up at her. "Good. Good girl." She held them out to him and he ate the misshapen fruit quickly, one after another. "Eat," he said shortly, moving the now-steaming cup of water. She took a bite. They were hard, tart. She tried to avoid the places where they were discolored, bitter. He ate everything, leaving only bits of the core. She reached for the water. "You can’t drink that now," he said.

"Why not?"

"It’ll make you ill. You’ll bloat up like a sheep. Never drink water after eating green apples."

"Oh."

He began stripping off his shirt. She winced. The fabric clung to the wounds. "Not a pretty sight, is it?" he said. "You’ll have to give me a hand here." The smell suddenly became intense and she put her hand over her nose. He snorted. "It’ll be worse, far worse, if you don’t," he said hoarsely. She took a bowl, filled it with water, and rolled a few of the hot stones out of the fire, picked them up with the edge of her robe and dropped them into the bowl. They sizzled and bubbles came off them. At his instruction, she tore strips of cloth from a piece of dirty sheeting and put them into a steaming bowl. In a few minutes, she took one out, rung it out and flipped it in the air to cool it a little before putting it to his broken skin. She was pale overall, thin, but not painfully. Slight. His ribs were discernible, the knots of his spine, his shoulder blades. His back was completely smooth, as free of hair as a girl’s, buttocks so spare that sitting didn’t flange them out at all. He was hardly the picture of a warrior or even fully, a man, and was indescribably dirty. She tried to clean up the dirt and blood and the exudent from the wounds without retching. "He left me to lay on a filthy floor without any clothes," he said gloomily by way of explanation. "They didn’t even give me a horse blanket. I just lay there on the rock floor and suffered."

Her eyes smarted. She said nothing.

"People still remember me," he added, almost triumphantly. "There was a man, and may the gods help him, who brought me some clothes and let me out. They took my people and dispersed them through the country so that there are pockets of them all over the place. They still love me, still look at me as their king." He fell silent. She didn’t know what to say. He sighed deeply.

When most of the dirt was cleaned up, she laid the hot cloth on his back in the hopes of drawing out the infection. There were uncountable wounds. They were all small, but so many had already festered, driving poison into his body. He was still silent. When the water grew too foul and too cool, she heated more and repeated the procedure over and over.

"We have to leave this place. We have to get as far as possible. They’ll be looking for me."

"I know," she said, suddenly near tears.

"We need an animal. You have to find something. A donkey, a horse, anything. Can you do it?"

"Where?"

"If I was told to look for a donkey or a horse, I think I would probably start at a farm." He narrowed his eyes at her, mocking her.

"I have nothing to give for an animal," she answered flatly.

"Then you’ll have to steal it."

She sat back on her heels. His thin back was to her. He dropped his head and laughed, shot her a sidelong glance. "You don’t know much about being a renegade, do you?"

She shook her head.

"You’ll learn."

"What if I’m caught?"

"Don’t get caught. Go on. Hurry." She rose and went out. She went up over the hill behind the farm. She walked for what seemed like a very long time until she found a small footpath. She followed it. It must go either to a town or another home. When she had walked for a few minutes, she saw a house set up on a rolling hill. There was a horse, small one, in a pasture. She clucked and it came to her. She looked around. Nobody seemed to be watching. She clucked again to the horse and it began to follow her. If it followed her of its own mind, it was the horse’s decision, not hers. She turned back toward the way she had come, grasped the horse’s mane and tried to mount it. She had ridden horses many times before, but there was a person to hold it, a mounting block so she could merely step up and gently settle on a saddle constructed much like a chair. She tried several times, but availed nothing and set off back down the road, in hopes that the horse would follow her. He did, to her delight.

It was a sudden, unexpected feeling. She should have been incapable of delight. But suddenly, as she looked around, at the sun glittering on each bowing blade of grass along the road, at the large sheep-shaped cloud that caught light and shadow as they scuttered across the deep blue sky, at the goats grazing placidly on the slope, she felt delight. She was used to feeling something lovely, dignified, a sense of her own superiority in the scheme of things. It wasn’t a bad feeling, not like having some power and misusing it might give an evil person a sense of superiority, but it was quiet, nice. Everyone simply catered to her at the palace. She rarely had to ask for anything. Almost everything was at her hand before she could even conceive that she wanted or needed. But this was a different kind of pleasure. The horse, nudging her hand with its soft-whiskered face, didn’t care that she was a lady, or beautiful, or what she could do for him other than the obvious.

She smiled back at him, caressed his muzzle, the broad, flat places along his jawline. It was an unusual feeling, high in her chest, and it almost prevented her from being able to swallow. It lingered halfway between the urge to laugh and to cry. She led him along the sun-dappled road, out of the warmer part and into the cooler, sun-dappled woods, where the road turned back to the north.

In a few minutes, she saw a man, a traveler obviously, in the woods, relieving himself. He was bent down, faced away from her. She stared at his back for a moment and then noticed his bag beside the road. There might be food in it. She reached out quickly, scarcely thinking, grasped it up and hurried away. It wasn’t until she was up the hill, off the road, and headed back for the barn that she realized as soon as he stood up, he would notice his bag was gone. Surely he would run after her, raise an alarm. And what then? What if she was caught? The wife of the Lord of the land, stealing horses and traveler’s bags? It wouldn’t look good. Surely, she could pass it off as a lark, but alone? How could she explain that? A lady never went anywhere alone. She stared at the bag balefully. She could drop it and run away. But it might have food in it. She was afraid to open it. She slung it over her shoulder and clucked to the horse. Scrambled up onto a nearby boulder, she clucked again. The horse, curious, came to her and she threw herself longways across his back. He moved a little and she pulled her gown up over her legs, straddled the animal and clucked again. This part she knew. He took off, and she guided him back through the wood and down the hill to the farm.

She burst in the door and he jumped up and grasped the sword his eyes huge. "Don’t do that again," he said sharply.

"I’m sorry. But look. I’ve brought a horse…"

"You did?"

"Yes. And I stole some poor traveler’s bag to boot."

"Good girl. Let’s see what he had." He opened the bag quickly and stood back. "You’ve done well, little thief. Clothing. A cup. Matches. Food. Oh, by the gods." He unwrapped the food, dried meat and hard coarse-looking buns, and began eating ravenously. He held out a strip of dried meat to her. She hesitated, but he fluttered it at her. "Take it now, or I’ll eat everything." He began devouring a bun. but reeled a little.

"Are you alright?"

He sank down on the floor. "I’m dizzy. That’s all."

"You need to lay back down," she said gently.

"Eat. We have to leave."

The food stuck in her craw. It was stolen food, and she had stolen it, deprived a poor traveler of his meal. It was also peasant food, and she was unused to it. If she was home, she would be eating bread made with the finest flour, ground to a dust-like consistency, mixed with eggs and milk and honey and salt, formed into beautiful loaves and served steaming hot with a bowl of warm, herbed oil. "I said eat," he said, a sharp tone entering his voice. "You can’t travel on an empty stomach." She made herself consume the salty, stringy, dry meat and some of the bread. He watched her, scoffed and dug in the bag again. He pulled out the clothing. There were two changes of clothes and he smiled. "Fates again. One for you and one for me."

"I can’t wear those…" she said.

"Oh, you can’t?"

"They won’t fit."

He laughed, stood up slowly, turned away from her and stripped, bending down and putting on ill fitting trousers and tunic. She had only seen bits of his body at a time, and now, he stood before her, faced away, naked. When he was whole, he had probably been a nice looking boy. He had a long, narrow back, long narrow buttocks, good straight legs. He looked back at her over his shoulder and she blushed. He smiled a little. "Change into these." He threw her a tunic and trousers and picked up a knife from out of the man’s bag. "Kind of him to leave us these things. I only hope he’s loyal to your husband."

She smiled a little. "Why is that?"

"Because if he is, he deserves to lose his things." He turned the knife over in his hands and laughed bitterly. She hesitated and he took a step toward her. She stepped back and he caught the hem of her long gown. "Now, now, now," he clucked as she threw her hands up over her chest. "You think I want the leavings of your great lord?" He looked boldly into her horrified face. "Don’t flatter yourself." He sliced the fabric of the gown just below her hips and tore a great piece of it away. "We can use this. Meanwhile, slip those trousers on and I’ll help you fit them a little better. Put the tunic on over what you have on and you’ll be warmer." She relaxed a little, unsure how to react to him. She was relieved, yes, but the insult smarted and she wasn’t sure why. He tore small trips from her white gown, then cut off the extra length from the sleeves of the trousers and tied the ends so that they bloused out. "You can manage with the bigger tunic. Don’t worry about that. We have to go now."

He went out, perused the horse, and with effort, swung up on its back. He put his hand down for her and pulled her up behind him. "Hold on," he said. She put her fingers delicately on the top of his shoulders and closed her eyes. "I should have told you to steal a bridle and harness," he said. "Damn." He slipped off and hauled her back down onto the ground. He took the knife from his belt and began cutting long strands of grass. "You, too. Gather a lot, as soft as you can get them, nothing dry or hard, and as long as you can. Hurry up. I don’t want to get caught here."

She complied, moving as quickly as possible. He had cut enough to make a small pile when she brought back an armload. He bundled up a bit and handed it to her. "Hold this," he ordered, and divided the grass strands into three parts, began plaiting them quickly, adding bits to the length of it until, in a half hour, he had constructed a long length of braided grass that was both supple and strong. He tied it around the horse’s head and mounted again. "Now. Let’s go. "Where did you get him? From which direction?" She pointed past him. "Good, then we’ll go this way," he said, his eyes lingering on her grass-stained hand. She was suddenly ashamed. She was dirty and without a doubt, he noticed. She curled her fingers and dropped her hand. He suddenly turned the horse’s head and started off in the opposite direction.

They rode in silence for a great distance. He was exhausted, and finally stopped the horse. "I can’t go on," he said, slipping from its back. She looked at him, suddenly horrified. He was moving more painfully than he had even the previous evening. His coloring was bad, his breathing labored. He collapsed onto the ground. She slipped down from the horse, and held his head. "Let me rest," he said miserably. She tried to make a small shelter. The wind had picked up during the day and it was cooler now than it had been. She started a fire and boiled water in the cup the way she had seen him do. She daubed his face, finally moving away to look for more food. There were crab apples nearby and she boiled them into a soft, bitter mess and offered them to him when he awoke. He was very quiet, though, and it bothered her. There were swellings under his jaw and under his ears. "I’m going to die," was all he said to her. She kept water boiling, laid the clothes on the wounds in hopes of drawing the poison out, turning him and repeating the procedure over and over throughout the day and into the night. It was nothing, really, but it was all she could do. If they were at the palace, even in a city or a village, there were people who knew healing, knew about herbs and potions. She had nothing. He was right. He would die, like the small birds. He would die, and then what would she do?

The next day, he was a little better, but she kept up her ministrations. Naked and weak, he lay on a bed of leaves, his tunic bunched over his parts. He held it against himself with a hand whose knuckles and longish bones seemed too great for such a small amount of flesh. While she worked, her hair fell down into her face and she pushed it back with the back of her hand, but it availed nothing, falling down again in a matter of a few minutes. The ladies dressed her hair, her maids. Every morning. They brushed it out and perfumed it, arranged it in a great, delicate coif, with small braided or even unbraided tendrils delicately arranged on her shoulder. She didn’t even have a brush to run through her own hair. She grit her teeth. What did it matter what she looked like? He was a horrid person, at that, and he deserved to look at her in her ugliest state.

Still, there was this wounded boy who seemed so far removed from the rebel enemy of Lord Connus, and it was him that she tried to heal. It was frustrating, but she could see progress. Many of the wounds actually looked better, had stopped weeping and were beginning to close. He said nothing for a long time and then slowly moved his tunic. For a moment, she didn’t realize what he was doing, and when she did, she gasped, her fingers flying to cover her mouth. He was smaller than her husband, paler, and it stood higher, tipping back toward his belly. They both stared at it, then he looked up at her, and a sloppy, uneven embarrassed smile crossed his face. She stared at his twinkling eyes and for one horrifying moment, saw someone other than the battered creature she had been nursing. He was teasing her. She looked away, and felt by the tingling of her face that she must be blushing deeply. It wasn’t her he was responding to, not her beauty or nobility. An animal might have much the same reaction. He sighed, a little smug sigh, covered himself again and she went back to work, slowly, avoiding his eyes.

But in a few minutes, he caught her hand finally and put it on himself. She cringed, tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it against the incredible heat. He groaned, closed his eyes and tightened his hand. She pulled back a little and he released her. She sat with the one hand cupped in the other, looking away. She should get up and walk away, but she was frozen to the spot.

"I have the right," he said archly.

"You don’t," she retorted. "He’s my husband…" Even she heard the sanctimonious tone in her voice.

"This is war. You’re my prisoner…"

"You can’t hold me," she said, her eyes flashing. She started to rise, a queasy feeling in her stomach. What was it? She couldn’t tell.

"Can’t I?" He said softy, leaning up and taking her gently by the shoulders. For a moment she sat stiff. But he pulled her down so that her head was on his chest. Most of the wounds were to the side, wrapping around through his back. She rested there timidly, as if afraid that Lord Connas would burst in the door and find them together like this. His fingertips stroked her back softly. He sat her up finally and slipped the back of his hand down the front of her shift. He pulled the string at the neck and opened it, slipped his fingers, scissors-like along the fabric, barely touching her skin, along her shoulder, down her arm, carrying the gown down in his fingers. He looked at her breast. She closed her eyes, feeling his on her skin. He moved his hand gently across her, without even so much pressure as to move the skin and drop the other side. Panting softly, he sat up so that his bare chest and her half-bare one were so close her nipples would touch him if she drew a full breath. He stroked his fingers down her arm, took her wrist in his hand, gently guided her onto her back and slowly rolled onto her body. There were so many things she could do, that she should do. He was seriously injured, ill. He had virtually nothing left of his strength. Still, she lay quietly unsure why. He moved her legs apart, let himself down between them, touched her gently between the legs, and gasped. He pulled up, positioned himself. Guiding himself with his hand, he softly rubbed the head of it against her parts. Nothing had really happened. It wasn’t infidelity. She shifted. She would say something. She would get up and walk out of the barn. She would take the horse and ride it, as fast as she could, back home.

But it was so silky and hot against her skin, moving so slightly, like some small beast rummaging against her. He was panting on her forehead, the breath hot little puffs of moist wind. He seemed, in this position, almost more pitiful than he had before. She touched his arm a little, unsure why she did. It was time. She would move, speak, tell him who she was. She felt the tip of it, against her smoothness. She had never felt these things before. Lord Connas simply came in, she opened herself and he quickly was inside her before there was any chance to feel anything other than the fullness and his insistent thrusts. It was all motion. This was all sensation. She perceived it as smooth, somehow full, though and felt, with amazement, the shape of him. It wasn’t like feeling something with her hand, but she knew it, understood it somehow. But this wasn’t really infidelity. She heard him gasp again, groan and suddenly, the feelings of the round firmness of it were gone, displaced, and she felt the shaft slide slowly, smoothly, into her body. His fingers tightened against her flesh. It was over. He was inside her. There was nothing to do, impossible to go back and undo it. She should have…in one instant, in a slip, almost, she had done the thing. Now it was infidelity. He dropped down so that his face was against her cheek. He held her tightly for a moment without moving and she felt more like crying than she had before. It was physically a wonderful feeling, and she wanted to go on feeling it. But it was wretchedly wicked, and she wanted it just the same.

"Oh, gods," he said as if something desperate had suddenly shocked him, gripped him. He moved slowly at first, drew back and looked into her face. The intensity was too great and she closed hers. It was almost like nothing, though, something so wispy and gentle that it was barely anything at all. She wondered if it could possibly be infidelity to do something so lacking in passion and with such a creature that wasn’t even yet fully a man. It was sweet, though, and she put her arms, at length, around his neck. He groaned, and almost immediately came to life with a growl. His motions became stronger. He began to mouth her, her neck, her face. He held her hair and thrust his tongue into her mouth and she writhed against his hips, holding him tightly. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes. That’s my girl." Lord Connas would never have put up with that, she thought. He wanted it.

She moaned, pulled against the hand that was holding her hair. It didn’t hurt, but she felt it, felt everything intensely with a body that was suddenly alive. Something was different. She had always been polite during it, letting her husband take his pleasure from her body while she lay, loving him, but not completely involved, a little bewildered by the process that to her never took her away from the reality of life in the bedroom and yet for him seemed something more. The women said it was just the difference between women and men. They grunted and sweat and women didn’t. Women were placid, sedate, loving but not lost in it. But now, this thin, almost gangly creature lay above her, clumsy, really, panting in her face, his hands fumbling between her legs while he was already inside her. She didn’t want it to end. She opened her eyes and could only see a little of his pale chest and throat, watched dumfounded as it moved back and forth above her, soft, golden skin and sparse pale hair. She moved her head and looked up into his face, his mouth open, his eyes closed, the most sublime look of anquish on his face. As if perceiving her eyes, he opened his and looked down at her. His eyes were full, beautiful, like a great beautiful white ox’s eyes, the sweetest deepest brown. His face contorted again, instantly, as if in pain, but such pain that none would ever run from. She held him, desired him, adored him, leaned up and kissed the pulsing skin of his throat, between the bird-like bones of his breast, the softness of the sparse padding across his chest. In that moment, nothing she had ever felt before came close to what she now felt. It was as if she had died and this other creature, dedicated only to his pleasure, was born. "I would do anything for you," she gasped, suspended, like a pendulum, racing back and forth between near-tears and near-laughter. "Anything."

He said nothing, but he got his hands around her buttocks and held them tight, driving against her, moaning and muttering half-syllables and unintelligible babble, something snapped in her. The more she struggled with it, with her own body, moved her own against his, the more she was transported somewhere else, no longer the Lady of the Palace, but something else. Suddenly everything between her legs was throbbing, hard, as if something was squeezing it rhythmically. She opened her mouth wide gasping, words coming, repetitive, desperate. She lapped the side of his face with her lips, her tongue. He turned to her face, met her mouth with his own and they mouthed each other mindlessly until she pulled away, suddenly terrified she would never breathe again. When she thought she couldn’t stand any more, he came with a cry and lay against her. For a moment he was still, then she felt his whole body move, rhythmically again, but in a different way, his own breathing tortured. Alarmed, she pulled him up and looked into his face. He was weeping. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She began weeping as well and they held each other as if stricken by deep grief. How long they wept she couldn’t begin to reckon. He laid still after a few minutes, rolled off her and wiped his face. He said nothing for a long time. They he sighed deeply. "I had a wife," he said miserably.

"You did?"

"I suppose I still do. You might know her. Her name is Kirea."

"Yes," she said, almost brightly, hoping to counteract his sorrow. "She’s one of my handmaidens." It was the wrong thing to say, that this prince’s wife was her servant, and she knew it immediately.

He scoffed, shifting painfully. "I came to your country when I was seven, given in goodwill when my father and your husband became allies. I was to be raised among you and then, the theory was, when I came home, I would be well disposed toward you people and your interests. I suppose they hoped I would marry one of your women. Your husband sent one of his younger brothers to replace me in my father’s house. Everything went well for quite some time. We have traditions that are stronger than political expedience and my father chose a bride for me that came from the appropriate lineage. I returned home at ten and married a girl who was then fourteen. It was a magnificent ceremony and we were ceremonially put to bed. A week later, I came back here and she went back to her parents. In three years, I was deemed old enough to be a real husband to her and went back home again. My uncles took me aside and instructed me about the rudiments and I dutifully went in and did what I had been told to do." He laughed a little. "From that moment, my love, which had been like a child’s love for his sister, became something else, and I worshipped her. I was allowed to bring her back here, and we lived together as husband and wife for some time. I was very young and very naïve and extraordinarily happy. However. One night, your husband’s brother and his ruffian companions went out drinking and exceeded all bounds of reason. Sometime before midnight, they began racing their horses in the dark. He fell. They brought him back to my father’s palace, but he died before morning. Your allies raised questions immediately about whether or not it was an accident. I have no reason to believe it was anything but an accident. He was a drunk and a fool. When word of it reached here, he ordered that all property belonging to my country be confiscated and we were all placed under house guard. But he took my wife from my apartments. I asked, then begged, to be allowed to keep her with the rest of my household. But he wouldn’t allow it. It was only then that I learned, by way of rumor, that my wife and your husband were…" he fell silent.

"Were what?" she probed.

"Were whatever they were. He obviously took her from me and housed her in another place. I was distraught. At first, I was broken over what I thought must be her misery being separated from me, but he quickly disabused me of that notion. Still, I couldn’t believe that she would lost what I imagined to be her considerable affection for me so quickly and I survived on the hope that he was lying. Not about the physical part. I knew that was true. But about her feelings. A few months passed during which I was not only held prisoner, but tormented by your husband, who now thought it appropriate to openly flaunt his relationship with my wife while I could do nothing but sit, like a bug in a bottle and endure. Finally, my father sent an army and I escaped and joined them and after a brief skirmish, we fled. I was wounded in the fighting, and it took a while to recover. My father sent me away to another allied nation, while your husband gathered up troops and crushed my homeland. Meanwhile, I trained and studied, bided my time, licked my wounds. I decided to return, not with a great army as he would have everyone believe. I tell you, we were a small nation and small nations have little hope against great ones, who are more easily allied with others. I decided to come alone, to talk to my wife, from whom I had nothing, not even a single letter, in all that time. I thought perhaps…well. I knew she was with him. I knew that she had been with him from shortly after we came as husband and wife to your country. I have lived in misery for the last years. I ate that misery with every meal, like salt, it flavored every bite I put into my mouth. But I still harbored the hope that I could spirit her home with me. Finally, I came. I saw her."

"You did?"

"Yes. She has several children by him now," he sighed and brushed bits of straw off his long-boned leg. The straw was darker than the soft hair on his thighs and she was filled with adoration for him, for his softness. She touched his skin and he shifted his eyes toward her. They were incomprensibly sad. "I said, ‘Come home with me. Bring them or leave them as you like. I’ll acknowledge them as mine or not, if you prefer. I will say nothing ever of what went on here, if you will come home with me.’"

He paused, and a look of pain crossed his face. "She told me she could never leave him. That she loved him. That a man, even shared, is better than a boy. I reminded her of our love, of her duty, but she only scoffed at me. I resigned myself," he said, choked with emotion. "And left. But I had only gotten a few miles when I came on a contingent of soldiers, and they recognized me, and then…well, you know the rest."

"How old are these children?" she asked thickly. Kirea had always been so eager to assist her, so quick to be there at her hand. How could she have hidden her love for Lord Connus behind such devotion to her? To Domina? Even when her last child was born, and she was sent to a country estate to recover, she had returned in only a few weeks, instead of the customary few months allotted to ladies of the palace.

He smiled. "Ah. The oldest is three, the youngest, about four months. There’s one in between."

"Four months? That can’t be his. She had a lover, some…she had been married to…" She couldn’t process it all. There were so many ladies and she had only been told the complete histories of them when she first was a bride. She knew what had happened to most of them since she had come. She was certain. She had been married to a foreigner and then had an affair. But surely someone should have told her that her husband kept a woman. It was incomprehensible.

He laughed outright. "You’re shocked."

"He’s my husband."

"He’s a dog," the boy said bitterly. "You see, then, that’s why I have to avenge myself. He has taken my country, my father, my wife, my honor, my life. I am powerless to strike directly at him. I should have ended her miserable faithless life when I could have, but it didn’t occur to me. You’ve fallen in my hands. It’s fate."

"But you need me now."

"Yes," he said defeated. "But when I’m well enough…" his voice trailed off. She thought of the first moment when he realized who she was, his struggle with the sword. "I have to do it. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Somehow, she did. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she sobbed. It wasn’t even the threat that made her weep. It was something else. She was already dead. How could she go home to a husband who would surely know, somehow, as clearly as if she had told him, that she had despoiled herself? To a husband who was not faithful, and never had been.

"Hush, now," he said, suddenly concerned. "I…it’ll be fast. I swear. You won’t feel anything."

"But…" she faltered. "Will you tell me first?
"If you like. Or I can just surprise you."

She laid back against his shoulder. It was an incongruous conversation and yet somehow it all made sense, and she felt some grim satisfaction in it. "I want to know. I don’t want to worry every minute that you might suddenly do it…"

"I will. I’ll tell you first. I promise." He laced his fingers between hers and held them tightly, raised them and kissed her knuckles. "You are so soft. Your skin is soft. Your hair. Your body. I like the way you feel." He lay back and squeezed her gently against his body. He kissed her hair and she felt suddenly sleepy, and as if, for a moment, they were not a fleeing prince and a faithless bride but two filthy little country bumpkins, lying on a bed of straw learning to enjoy life and each other. It seemed so peaceful, so loving. He had to be lying, though, about those things he’d said. How could she believe them? Kirea. Domina reviewed her in her mind. She was a tallish woman, thin, with a serious but beautiful face, long, delicate fingers. She was always polite, always sympathetic, frequently trying to be of assistance, almost always trying to feed Domina. How could Kirea be Lord Connus’s lover? How could Kirea be this boy’s wife? She looked into his face.

"Are you sure everything you told me was right?"

He scoffed again. "You’re thinking of my wife, aren’t you?"

"Yes."

"It’s true. Every word. I would rather it wasn’t. I was a fool to come back. But I thought perhaps she…I don’t know what I thought. That she might come away with me because she remembered her duty, or because she had tired of him, or because, over time, she realized her love for me and her homeland. I was just wrong." He paused. "In the morning, we set out again."

"Where are we going?"

"South. Home. Well. It’s not home. Home is where your husband has his southern outpost. But it’s where I’ve been for years. I’ll have to keep you with me at least until we cross the border and I’m safe." His voice was brittle once again, but his chest was still soft and warm, rising and falling rhythmically, sweetly. There were two parts, the animal that was wonderful and the boy that was angry and vengeful. She snuggled against the animal and ignored the boy, falling asleep with her hand lightly resting on his chest and his hand over hers.

In the morning, as he had said, they set out. He had been restless in the night, coughing and vomiting and she held his head and comforted him as best she could. He laid his head against her chest, panting and she was once again in fear for him. He had difficulty mounting the horse and she tried to be of as much service as she could. He couldn’t pull her up, and she led the horse to a rock, stood on it and scrambled up. He didn’t mention anything from the previous night, as though the conversation and the intimacy had never happened. He looked even sadder though, than he had before, as if her knowing the truth about him was an even greater burden. They set out when the sky was still a pale blue and rode in silence until it turned bright pink and orange and they heard honking overhead. He looked up. "Geese," he said. They swept overhead, flying away to the south on their great wings. "They’ll be over the place I was born in only a few hours, and then they’ll go further, into the great lands of the south, to the great water."

"Have you ever seen it? The great water, I mean?"

"Yes. Many times."

He nudged the horse and they set off again. "Are you in very much pain?" she asked finally.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Everything hurts. Should I say that? Surely your great husband wouldn’t admit it."

She laid her cheek against his back and tightened her arms around his waist. His tunic, like hers, was rough, but she felt differently somehow about it, that everything was right, was as it should be. He put his hand on her hand, his forearm on her forearm and held it there. She kissed him softly, kissed the homespun fabric that covered his back and shoulders, the hard, almost sentient shoulderblades that he flicked in pleasure as she touched him with her lips. She pulled her hand away, pushed his hair aside and moved the cloth and kissed the back of his neck, snuggling down into the softness where his shoulder and neck met. His skin was whole there, except for the place abraded by the noose and she was careful to avoid it. Moments, she couldn’t remember whether or not she was the wife of the great leader or just a girl in love with a boy. He reached back, panting and fondled her but it was impossible to caress her as fully as she wanted. "We have to go on," he said. "We can’t stop now."

She shook herself. Love? Such thoughts were preposterous. He was nothing, and she knew it. There was nothing, not even sentiment or pity, that could possibly make her forget who she was. She straightened up, covered him again. She hated him, hated this lying boy. He was surely only a peasant, only a spy like they said. She would run away at the first opportunity and go back home. They would capture him, and then…he began to cough, at first just a shuddering and then, within seconds, so deep that it rocked her body as well.

"There’s only one way out," he said when he had caught his breath, stopping the horse on a rise. "Look there. It’s the main road. We’ll have to take it. It’ll be dangerous from here on out." He looked back at her. "Braid your hair and stuff it in your tunic. If anyone asks, you’re my little brother." He scoffed. "That’s a hell of a fiction, isn’t it? We can always hope only to run into complete idiots." He smiled a little at her, and she warmed to him. "Maybe we should rest here for a while, and set out again later." She nodded and he threw himself on the ground under a tree, wrapped his arms around himself, turned onto his side and closed his eyes. She looked at him. He was pale and weak but the bruises on his face were beginning to fade, and the swelling was going down enough that she could glimpse the young man she had seen unhooded like a falcon at the harvest festival. She had known then that he was the handsomest creature she had ever seen. Why hadn’t she been admit it? She knelt beside him, staring at him. He had not attempted to touch her since the night he had laid on her. She crept a little closer until her knees almost touched his arm as he lay with his back to her. Moments passed. His head turned slowly to her and he opened one dark-lashed eye.

"Well, come on, then," he said holding out his hand. She hesitated. He shrugged and started to turn away. She slipped her hand into his and he pulled her gently down alongside him. His lips were on her face, tentatively at first. Then warmer, with more confidence as he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her lips. She lay back, her arms around him, gently urging him on top of her. He responded quickly, kissing her deeply, pushing her clothing aside while she did the same for him. She took hold of it and he cried out softly, anticipating. He entered her, rolled her onto her side and supported her hip with one hand. He moved against her gently, encouraging her to move as well, but she didn’t like it as well as she did when he was on top of her and before they had finished, she had managed to scoot under him and enjoy him in that way.

He put his arm around her again when they finished and held her, his head close against hers. "This changes nothing," he said. "I want you to know that." He nuzzled her. She knew what he was talking about, and it sent a chill through her.

"I understand," she said simply. In truth, she did.

"We have to sleep," he said gently. She nodded and he purred into her hair. She listened carefully, but there was nothing to indicate that he suffered the same grief he had before. He was soon asleep and she settled against him, closed her eyes. It was nearing evening when they awoke. "I’m starving," he said. "We have to get something to eat." He looked at her. "You know, it’s going to be tricky. I can’t very well be seen, not more than in passing. Too many people can recognize me." They mounted the horse, and he guided the animal down the embankment and onto the road. They had only traveled a few minutes when thatched roofs with low brick chimneys peeked up over fields of ripe grain. The stuccoed walls appeared as they came closer and the fields gave way to low-growing gardens that stretched out behind the houses. They came to a deep ravine, with a small copper colored stream running at the bottom of it and a high wooden bridge over it.

"You’ll have to manage this," he said brusquely. "I’ll wait with the horse under the bridge." She nodded, suffering a little pang. She didn’t want to be separated from him. They had been together almost constantly for the last days, and now he was sending her alone to do something she couldn’t quite comprehend. He beckoned her with his hands, stuffed her braided hair down into her tunic and picked up some dirt, smudging her face and hands. She pulled back, recoiling. "Sweet, do you want to be recognized? You can’t very well go about looking like the lady of the land. Now. You’re just a little fellow, traveling from the capital to your uncle’s house in West Portius."

"Why?"

"Because you are. I don’t know. Your cousin went to war and never came back and he needs help on the farm. I don’t know. Make something up. Better yet, pretend you’re an idiot, and they’ll probably feel sorrier for you. But get something, alright? If you can’t beg it, steal it, but come back with food. Will you?"

"I’ll try."

"Good girl. I’ll wait here. Hurry."

She started to lean up for a kiss. He pulled back quickly. "Little fellows shouldn’t kiss big ones on the mouth. At least not in public. You’re a boy. Don’t forget Go."

She nodded and set off. She came first to a little house with a crooked chimney, a rusty weathercock that squealed miserably. There a shoe over the door and the sound of tapping coming from inside. Domina hesitated, then knocked. The woman of the house came to the door. "What is it?" she said sharply. She was a thin, shrewish woman. "What do you want, boy?"

Domina shook her head and backed away. "I was looking for someone else," she said shyly, swallowing hard. She, who had given orders to anyone in the palace without batting an eye, now couldn’t speak to a peasant.

"Who?"

Domina thought quickly. "Marcher Alginson." He was the bard who entertained in the ladies’ wing of the palace. It was the first name she could think of.

"Who?" The woman squinted at her.

"I must have the wrong place," she said faintly.

"I’d say so," the woman said, slamming the door loudly. She wilted, her stomach both growling from hunger and burning from humiliation and fear. She was a great lady. The wife of the lord of the whole land. How was it that she was reduced to begging and covered with filth? She could run away. There were soldiers in the street up ahead, sitting outside a public house, drinking under the trees. If she went up to them, she could just tell them who she was and they would take her home. If the well-being of Banaras was an issue, she could just leave him out of the story. She got lost, that was all. She looked down at her clothing. Impossible. Who would believe it?

She went to the next place, another house. She knocked on the door and a portly man in a leather jerkin answered it. "Excuse me, my Lord…"

"My Lord?" He laughed. "Wife, come quickly. There’s a mad boy on the doorstep."

"A mad…" the woman appeared at his shoulder, peering over. She had grey hair, a sallow complexion and was missing several integral teeth. "What do you say?"

"A little mad boy. Thinks I’m a great lord." He put his hands on the small of his back, just above his hips and laughed.

"I was hoping…" Domina hesitated.

"What is it? Are you lost?"

She nodded. "I’m on my way to my uncle in West Portius," she said. "From the capital. But I think I’ve gotten lost."

"I’d say. You’re twenty miles in the wrong. West Portius is over that way." He pointed over her head and grinned.

"Do you have anything I can eat?" she asked, summoning up courage.

"Eat? Why of course," the woman pushed past her husband and took Domina by the arm and led her in. "Of course. It isn’t much, but we were just sitting down to dinner. Come. There’s a place for you at our table."

"We can do even better than that," the man said happily. "Because I have business in Nape, just on the other side of West Portius. I’ll take you there on the morrow."

"You will?"

"Certainly."

She wilted, but smiled. Now what was she to do?" They showed her to the table. "Come, husband, take the boy out back and let him wash up first."

"Oh, please. Don’t go to any trouble on my account," she said. "I wouldn’t want you to…"

"Nonsense. You can’t enjoy a meal if you look like just fallen off a dung wagon. You’ll feel better. Husband, get him the nice soap and a good towel."

"Right, my dear." The husband set off eagerly, hobbling. He had probably broken some bone in his leg, but it must have been many years ago.

"Anyone who comes to our door is a welcomed guest. Why, there are so many stories of the gods disguising themselves as travelers and punishing those who are ungenerous and rewarding those who are…" the wife smiled.

"And if it’s all the same to you, we’d just as soon end up on the reward, if you don’t mind." The man returned to the chamber, grinning and bearing the assigned items.

"Oh, please. I’m no god," she said. She was, however, the wife of the great lord, which was almost the same. She washed her face and hands and they admired her greatly, cooing at her.

"What a lovely boy you are," the wife said. "I know girls who would give up anything to have a complexion like yours."

"Are you sure we haven’t had a visit from a god?"

"I’m quite sure," she said faintly.

"Well, sit down." They put food into a trencher and laid it in front of her. She was starving but ate slowly, hesitating. It was coarse fare, nothing that was familiar to her, rough and barely palatable. Banarus was out there in the woods, waiting, hoping for her to bring him something back. They talked amicably nevertheless. She knew a great deal about art and music and folk stories and the gossip of the capital. They were delighted to hear the stories of the greats and she was happy to tell them. When she was finally full, she realized how exhausted she was. It was one thing to close one’s eyes and lose consciousness, and quite another to rest. She had not rested since she night she left the palace. They showed her to a room and the woman offered to wash her clothes and in the morning, she said, they would be mended and ready.

"I couldn’t impose," Domina begged.

"There’s no imposition. We’re a poor couple. Childless, which makes us doubly poor. Come, son, give me your clothes and let me mother you a little." Domina hesitated.

"Oh, please. I thank you for your generosity. I can’t tell you how…but please, I can’t…"

"Why, dear?"

"I…Someone is…"

"What?"

"My brother. He’s waiting for me."

"You have a brother?"

She nodded.

"But you came alone."

"He was not feeling well, and so…I have to go back to him."

"Well, you go find him and bring him back here, won’t you? If he isn’t well, we should take care of him. He can’t spend the night out in the weather."

"Yes," she said feebly. "Yes, of course."

She slipped out into the darkness, followed a road that was only a little brighter than the darkness, and found the bridge. He was sitting under it.

"It took you long enough," he said bitterly, struggling up. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I was nearly adopted by a childless couple," she said shyly.

He laughed shortly, held out his hands. "What did you bring me?" he asked quickly.

She shook her head. "Nothing?"

"Nothing?"

"They fed me at their table. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…"

"You couldn’t slip something into your clothing?"

"Well, it wouldn’t have done any good," she retorted. "The wife wanted me to slip out of my clothing so she could wash them. I told them I had a brother waiting for me or they would have had me spend the night. As it is, they want me to bring you back." He stared at her dumbly. "Will you go?"

"Oh, certainly. I’ll walk into their kitchen and say, ‘By the way, I’m Banarus, the treacherous rebel dog, would you like to turn me over to the great lord? I’m certain you’ll get a fat reward.’" He glared at her. Even in the dark under the bridge she could see him glaring. "I’m starving. Did you miss that?"

"I didn’t," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"All I asked…"

"I know. I tried. I’m sorry."

"Damn. Let’s go…" He led the horse out from under the bridge and back up onto the road.

"I’m sorry," she said trailing along behind.

"Don’t tell me about it. I’m hungry. You’re sorry. I think you get the better deal. I’d damned sure rather be sorry than hungry."

"I’m really sorry."

He whirled on her. "I’m really hungry."

"I know." Her eyes burned and her face contorted.

"Oh, don’t start that," he said. "Don’t." He grimly led the horse along the road without looking back at her. Tears began to slip down her cheeks and she held her breath to keep from making a sound. He was ahead, muttering angrily. She had to breathe. She took a gasp and it came out a sob. He turned back, and strode to her. She dropped her head, afraid of his anger. He dipped down so that he could look up into her face. "Come on, now. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’ll be fine."

"I didn’t mean not to bring you anything. I wanted to take something for you, but they were so kind…"

"Don’t worry. There’ll be something up ahead. I’ll get something to eat, don’t worry. Don’t cry any more." She sniffed and he took her head and laid it against his shoulder. "You see? I’m not really angry. Just hungry."

She nodded. They walked for a few minutes and then he handed the horse’s grass bridle to her. "It’s dark now. I can do this."

"Shall I come with you?"

"Oh, certainly. That would make a fine sight. Two of us on a thieving mission, leading a damned stolen horse. That’s a very good idea."

She shrank back again. He came forward. ‘I’m sorry. I truly am. I can’t think straight and I’m testy. Forgive me. You stay here," he said shortly, and took off over a rise. Her anxiety began afresh almost the minute he was out of her sight, and she tried desperately to reason herself out of it. He was used to this sort of thing. She shuddered from cold and fear. How could anyone get used to this? She half expected something monstrous to jump out at her at any moment, human, or animal or spirit. The time passed slowly and she wondered if she was feeling what he felt while she was gone. She heard a dog barking in the distance.

There was a crashing and he came through the underbrush, head down. He was holding a limp chicken in one hand, holding the other hand out as a counterbalance as he careened down the stony embankment. "Made it," he said. "Come on." He moved quickly to the horse, swung up and pulled her behind him. He put his heels to the horse’s flesh and it darted off. They rode quickly for a few minutes and then he slowed near a branch of the stream. Fumbling in his tunic, he pulled out a small pie and handed it to her. "They had a few of these on the windowsill. I thought you might still be hungry."

She hesitated. "I already had two. Took the edge off a little. Go on." He turned to the dead bird, eagerly pulling out its feathers and throwing them into the stream. They floated like small white boats, reflecting the moon, in the brilliant water. She squatted by the water’s edge and watched them follow the moon-brightened water, as they scuttered down to where the stream turned. Some became mired in the detritus in the bend, among the wood and leaves. Others made the turn and sailed on. She smiled a little.

He was working diligently, not paying attention to her or the feathers. He chopped the bird’s head off with his sword and then hung it by its feet while he made a fire. He spitted it, then and roasted it. "Well, you didn’t tell me what you had," he said conversationally, squatting beside her. He was bigger than her, and though she knew it intellectually, she felt it now with him beside her. He looked so boyish, but in truth, he was quite large.

"A stew. And bread."

"Was it good?" He stroked down her hair, pushing it back over her shoulder.

"I was hungry," she said simply. He leaned back and motioned to her. She crawled to him, and he petted her gently, stroked down her back.

"I want you," he said simply. "But I’m worn to ravelings." He looked at her. He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, his hand sweeping down to loose the front of his trousers. Her hand joined his and she stroked him tenderly. He dropped his head back and let her fondle him until finally he came. He was so matter-of-fact about it, not shy at all. She would have been unable to breathe for humiliation if she had let something from inside her body spray out with such abandon and yet he merely smiled and wiped off the drops that had fallen on his skin instead of onto the ground.

"Check the chicken," he said, his voice suddenly soft and relaxed. She crept to it and touched it. It was hot, burned her fingers and she snapped them back, thrust them in her mouth and sucked on them. He moved to crouch beside her, his face illuminated in the reddish glow of the fire. When he turned his face to her, she was astounded at its beauty. The bruises were all but gone. He took her fingers from her mouth and put them into his own, closing the lips she had only just realized were beautiful, around them. She felt his tongue work on the tips, between them, and gasped. He dropped her hand suddenly and turned back to the chicken. In the reddish light, silhouetted against the blackness, his profile was shocking in its perfection. He seemed almost completely unaware how beautiful he was. He pulled the chicken half with its spit from the stones and pulled off a piece, blew on it and tasted it. He shrugged and put it back. "We could bathe," he said.

"What? Here?"

"Why not?" He pulled his tunic over his head. In the dim light, she could barely see that he had been hurt. He leaned down and pulled his trousers over the narrow hips. She should have become accustomed to seeing him naked by now, but there was something different about seeing him incapacitated and seeing him acting under his own power. "Come on." He slipped into the water, wet himself all over, dipped his head and came up, shaking like a dog. She moved almost mechanically into the water, and he pulled her clothing gently from her, let it drop into the water. "It’s all filthy," he said. "May as well give it all a bath as well."

She said nothing, but balked when he tried to pull off her tunic. "What if someone comes?" she said, clutching the top of it. He lifted it up over her hips, put his hands around them and held her away from him, looking at her.

"So beautiful," he said softly. "I want to see you naked." He slipped his hand under hers and lifted the tattered garment over her head. She clasped her arms tight around her, her hands over her breasts. "Nobody is around for miles. Don’t be shy." He pulled her hands gently away. "Oh, so perfect." He kissed her shoulders, her breastbone, the place between her breasts. His hand covered her left breast, holding it gently, his thumb across the nipple, the movement almost imperceptible except that it shot heat through her belly and between her legs and made her reach out for him, long to have the whole of his body tight against hers. "Yes," he purred, dropping his head to nuzzle her. She kissed his skin, the shoulder that was at the same level as her lips, and then the tight chest, a combination of bony hardness and muscular softness. He directed her head to his nipple and she kissed the small, hard knot set on the lip-silky skin. It almost instantly puckered, and he groaned, shifting ecstatically, his fingers gently pressing against her shoulders. She dropped to her knees and kissed his ribs, his flat, thin belly, the bones on either side that led to the pelvis. It was erect, almost like a separate entity, distinct in personality from him, and she suddenly felt feelings towards it as if it were a lost, sweet but mischievous puppy. She kissed it from pure affection, for the beauty of it, and he muttered something and slipped his hand around the back of her head, in her hair. "Yes, beloved," he said. "Oh, yes."

She offered her mouth to him, her hands reaching up and circling the bony softness of his buttocks. He pressed forward, wrapping his hands around her head, sighing encouragements. He pulled her up, laid her gently on the bank of the stream and pressed himself into her. In the midst of all the misery, the hunger and the dirt, in the wake of the revolting wounds and the smell, she was instantly and completely happy. He moved her head to look fully at him, panting against her face. She smiled and when she did, tears came up in her eyes. He moaned, closed his and pressed his face against the side of her head. She wrapped her arms around him and he came, shuddering to climax with a cry of anquished passion. "I love you," she whispered over his cries. "I love you. I adore you."

He lay weakly in her arms. She stroked his hair, held his beautiful head against her chest. He reached up without looking and stroked her cheek. At last, he groaned and sat up. "Surely the chicken is done by now."

He scrambled up, dusted the sand from his lower legs and arms. "Get up, pretty one," he chided, pulling her up. He gently stroked the dirt off her back for a moment, then, still holding her arm, swatted her harder. It was still gentle, the little quick swats, and she writhed and pulled away but he playfully pursued her until she was unable to breathe for laughing and he was kissing her flesh deeply and wallowing his face in her belly. She had never felt this way, and certainly not with her Lord. He was jovial, but not playful, and he never would encourage her to be playful.

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Fourteen."

"You’re very young to deserve the miserable life you must have at the palace."

"It’s a fine life," she said, but he turned, shaking his head, and went back up to the chicken.

He pulled a bit of flesh off and tasted it. "Perfect. My favorite recipe. Spit one chicken and cook as long as it takes to bathe and make love to a beautiful maiden." She blushed. "Didn’t he ever tell you that you were beautiful?"

"Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"Somehow it’s different when you say it."

"Maybe it’s because I mean it and you know you can trust me."

"Do I?"

He proffered half the chicken to her. She shook her head. "You should eat it all. Remember I already ate."

"I hate to eat by myself." He settled back though, naked, and pulled bits of flesh off the bird. He ate with an almost feverish singlemindedness of purpose for a few minutes. She slipped into her tunic and knelt beside him. He looked up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. It was a wonderful smile. There was something profoundly innocent in his look. His body was clean, spare, thin, so wonderful that some moments when she looked down at it, she felt as if she was looking at her own. He sat, knees up and his forearms resting on them, curving forward to eat the meat, leaving three or four soft horizontal folds of thin pale flesh rippling below his ribs and above his hips. He leaned back suddenly against a tree and the flesh instantly was taut against his frame. He smiled at her and fed her snippets of the meat. She took them eagerly, not because she was hungry but because he was feeding her.

"How old are you?" she asked suddenly.

"Sixteen," he smiled again. "And your husband?"

She looked up into the star-dusted sky. "Hm. I’m not sure. I think he’s…I don’t know. He’s old. At least forty."

"I hope to be forty one day," he said. His face fell suddenly. "We have to talk about what happens if they catch us."

"If they…" Her face fell. It was too good to be true. Of course they wouldn’t just forget about them. She had somehow, in the last few days, managed to forget life at the palace in exchange for this. This was a far harsher existence in its realities but far more delicious in the way it made her feel. To be empty in luxury, or full in complete poverty. How impossible of the fates to demand that she make a choice.

"Yes. We’re getting close to the border, but we’ve got the worst ahead of us. They’ll be watching more carefully. They know I’ll try to get out, and the only way to do it is to go through one of the towns to the south of here. If we run into trouble, I swear to you I won’t betray you."

"Oh…" she clasped her hands to her chest. "Please, we can outrun them, can’t we?"

He looked up at her and slowly a smile crossed his face. He put the chicken bones down on the ground and wiped his hands on the grass. He turned back and held his arm out to her and she slipped into it and laid her head in the crook between his shoulder and chest. He touched her hands gently, lifted one and kissed her fingertips.

"We can try. We can only try. But if they do, I will deny that I’ve done anything with you, and you must do the same. I’ll tell them that I was keeping you as a trade for my own wife. But I will not act as if I have any feelings for you and you must swear to me now that you will do the same."

"But…"

"Swear it."

"I do. I swear…"

"Good." He sighed. "I want you to be safe. I can die if I know you’re safe."

She put her hands up on either side of her head. "Don’t talk that way. You’re not going to die."

"Why? Because you love me?" He stroked a finger down the side of her face and lifted her chin to look at her. His eyes were large and soft-looking and she melted with adoration for him.

"Yes. Because I love you."

He laughed and turned his face away. She touched his chin and turned it back to her. He glanced into her eyes for a moment and then his eyes rolled up a little and grew bright. She dropped her hand. "I don’t want to die," he said. "I don’t. I only wanted to live, and to live with a woman that I hoped still loved me. Maybe she never did. I was foolish enough to think that position and familiarity would make for love. But in her case…"

She snuggled against his chest. "I don’t want to talk about anyone else," she said. "There isn’t anyone else. Not in the whole world."

They set off in the morning. He pulled her up in front of him this time, and after a few minutes, began stroking her throat, her neck and slipped his fingers up under her tunic and caressed her breasts. She reached up and threw her arms around his neck, stretching so that his fingers stroked the long tightness of her. He kissed her deeply as the horse meandered, finally dropping its head to nibble at some flowers growing on tree-clinging vines. He slipped off the horse and pulled her down. "We shouldn’t waste the time," he panted, pulling his clothing off. "I want you so bad."

She pressed herself against his smooth, naked chest, fondling his thin tightly muscled back. They rolled onto the ground like puppies, took turns being on top, wrestling gently and laughing. He grew serious suddenly, pulled her underneath and finished, then lay back. "Oh, gods," he said. "I think this was well worth the price of a beating, don’t you?" He led her down to the water and they washed again, then mounted up and set off. In a few hours, they were both hungry. He didn’t want to stop right away. The signs declared that there was a town up ahead and they headed for it.

Before they reached it, though, they were overtaken by a group of mounted soldiers. He was instantly quiet, and watched the men cautiously.

"Where are you boys headed?" one of them asked.

"West Portius," he answered courteously. She could hear the strain in his voice.

"West Portius?"

"Yes."

"Why, that’s thirty miles east of here."

"Oh. Thank you," he said, turning the horse’s head. "We’ll go that way then. Very much obliged to you."

"Wait. Come along with us, boys. Say," the leader said, pulling his glove off and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He straightened his helmet. "You’re a big fellow. Why aren’t you in the guards?"

"I…" She felt him stiffen.

"You should join up. What about your little brother here? How old is he?"

"Fourteen," she said.

"Twelve," he said simultaneously. They looked at each other.

"Twelve? Fourteen?" The leader, still on horseback, put his hand on his sword hilt.

"Fourteen," he corrected himself. "I always forget. He’s…not my…favorite brother."

"Fourteen. Get down here, young fellow. You’re the tiniest fourteen I’ve ever seen. Let’s take a look at you."

"I don’t think so," Banarus said, turning the horse’s head quickly. He kicked the horse and it shot away from the men. "Hang on," he shouted and she did, her cheek pressed tight against his back. The men came quickly in pursuit, and he tried to turn the horse sharply as some of the men on their better trained, better bred horses outflanked them and cut them off. The horse, unused to being maneuvered quickly, lost its footing and went down. They tumbled to the earth and in an instant, one of the guards had a sword to his throat and a foot in his chest. They grasped her arms and she froze, terrified.

"Who are you?’

"I’ll say nothing," he spat. They kicked him and she cried out and struggled against the arms that held her. He glared not at them, but at her. She remembered what he had said and stood still. At length they turned their attention from badgering him to her. The leader swept to her and stood boldly in front of her. "Alright. You say you’re fourteen? You’re awfully small." He swept his hand up and pulled her cap off. When he saw her braid, he pulled it out of the tunic and weighed it in his hand. Very slowly he took the twisted grass cord off the bottom of the braid and began unplaiting her hair. She swallowed hard, unsure what to do next. She began to tremble. She should say something. It was too quiet, and the man’s eyes were hard. There was a growl from the ground.

"Don’t touch her," the boy said thickly.

"Why not?"

"She’s the great lord’s wife."

There was a deep and frightening silence. They looked back and forth from the one to the other. She didn’t move. "Are you?"

She said nothing.

"Why doesn’t she speak?"

"She’s terrified. Let her alone."

The man swung back around to face her. "Are you?"

She shook her head.

"She says she isn’t." He flourished his hand at Banaras.

"She is."

She shook her head. "Please…"

Another guard came riding up on a gray and white horse, an officer obviously of a higher rank. "What’s going on here?’

"We’ve just captured this boy with this girl. He won’t say who he is but when we started to question her, he said she was the wife of the great lord. They’re probably mad. Should we beat them and let them go?"

The newcomer went white. "Good gods." He swung down from the saddle and looked at the group in amazement.

"What?" the other guards asked.

"It’s them. It’s the renegade prince. He stole away from the palace several weeks ago, and the lady was gone from that night, too." He winced and turned to the guards. "Are you idiots?"

"I hope not, my Lord."

"It’s a damned good thing I got here when I did." He strode to Banares, who was slowly righting himself. "Oh, yes." He turned to her. "Yes. I’ve seen her in the city, from a distance. It could well be that this is her. Are you well, my Lady?"

"Yes," she said faintly. "I’m…"

He didn’t wait for her to finish. He turned on his heel and began issuing orders. "Dispatch a quick rider to the palace. We’ll start back as well. Have someone who can confirm who she is come back along this road. Meanwhile, bind him fast."

"What about her?"

The guard scoffed. "If she’s the Lord’s wife, what do you think he’d do to us if we kept her tied up? I think we should be enough to manage her." They bound the Banares and wrestled him onto a horse. He was meek, and it frightened her to see him so quiet and subdued. They rode to the next town to the north and the men stopped at an inn. She looked back at him from where they put her behind the greater officer, hoping to discern something. But he rode with his head down, and would not look up to catch her gaze.

They were returning to the city. She was afraid for him, for herself. Riders met them outside Latherton, about twenty miles south of the Capital. To her horror, her husband was among them. He swept off his horse and greeted her warmly. She could barely move, her hands hardly able to touch him. He embraced her and her hands touched his belly, his chest, but they seemed foreign to her, thick and graceless.

"Are you alright, my dearest?" he asked.

She nodded dumbly.

"Are you?"

He looked back at the boy. "I’ll attend to you later," Lord Connus said significantly. "Come, we’ll go on into town." He pulled her up behind him on his horse. He and his men joined the small column and rode into Latherton. It was a more substantial place of perhaps a thousand people, and much better buildings, some that rose three stories high. They stopped in the square near the fountain where women were balancing their pots and urns on their hips and staring, dumbfounded at the military display. Some spoke to children who ran off, returning in minutes with equally coarse men.

Lord Connus swept down from the saddle and gave a sharp order to the men. They pulled Banares from his horse roughly and pushed him to the ground. His hands bound, he could do little to maintain balance or dignity and foundered, his long, slender legs awry. Lord Connus hauled him up by the front of his tunic.

"You will suffer for what you’ve done." He spoke directly into Benares face.

"I wouldn’t doubt it. I’ve already suffered, though, and I’ve done nothing." The boy didn’t flinch. A crowd, quiet and watchful, was gathering. She scanned the faces of the women, covering their mouths with their fingers or the ends of their veils. The men stood, some with arms akimbo, some close to each other in silent, tight groups of two or three. They didn’t know what was happening, she thought. They wouldn’t care. It could have been a cattle show, or a magic worker who had come to town to entertain them. But still, he had said there were people who still loved him in this place. But what could anyone do?

"You know I did nothing except come back in hopes of bringing my wife home," Banares continued, his voice sullen. "I left without causing any harm to anything in your kingdom. Why do you hate me so much?"

"You have to ask?" Connus’s eyes were cold on him.

"I’ve done nothing to you. I came to you as a boy of seven. For years, I did exactly as you asked, everything you required. I did nothing but have a desirable wife, and you took her. Have her. You destroyed my country, my fortunes, my future, but I didn’t come back with an army. I came back alone and tried to win my wife back. That’s all…"

"And took mine?"

"I found her. Or she found me. In the woods. I would only have asked you to return my wife for yours. That’s all. You beat me nearly to death. Isn’t that enough to expunge whatever anger you have against me?" People were shifting uncomforably, able to hear the voices of the men.

"Alright. Let’s say I hold you innocent of all wrongdoing up to the point that you left the palace. I will say that. In front of all these people. Up to that moment," he turned to the crowd. "He and I are even." Some of the men nodded. The boy relaxed a little.

"But…" Lord Connus’s voice was cold and cutting. Banares stiffened again.

"There’s the matter of this horse," he said, smiling softly. He touched the muzzle, the plaited grass bridle.

"Horse?"

"Yes. You stole the horse?"

The boy faltered a little. "Yes. I did."

Lord Connus turned to the crowd. "Is anyone missing one…well, elderly farmhorse?"

A man stepped forward timidly, his hat crunched between his clasped hands. He bowed repeatedly. "My Lord, may I speak?
"Speak, man."

"Yes. I lost a horse. A few days back."

"Is this the horse?" Lord Connus flourished his hand toward the animal.

"I…"

"Call him."

The man clucked his tongue in his toothless mouth. "Trot. Trot."

Lord Connus laughed. "The horse’s name is Trot," he said, squeezing her arm. "That’s a fine name for a plow horse, isn’t it? She nodded, cold throughout. The horse looked at the man, and loped toward him, nuzzled him in that way Domina had become familiar with in the last few days. "Well, he recognized the horse, the horse recognized him. It’s enough. Good people of Latherton. What is the penalty for stealing a horse?
There was silence.

"Eh?" he persisted, bending toward them, his hands on his hips.

A man scittered forward, bowing deeply. "Hanging, your lordship…"

"Hanging?" Lord Connus repeated in an incredulous tone. "Ah. Hanging," he said sweetly. "We can hang you for a horse thief."

The boy fell silent again.

"This is your horse?" the Lord asked the owner.

"Yes, Lord," he answered humbly.

"Get a noose," the Lord said briefly. "I should have done this when I had a chance before."

They wrestled with the boy, pulling on his clothing so that she glimpsed his shoulder and the muscles of his chest and upper arm, straining against the hands that confined him. She quickened at the sight of his flesh, but sickened instantly. They got the noose around his neck and he groaned miserably. "You always intended this. This isn’t much of a surprise, is it?" They pushed him down again.

"Not really," Lord Connus purred. "But isn’t it good to know that you’re being hanged for something legitimate? You really can’t complain, can you?" He laughed and slipped back to her side, put his arm around her, triumphantly. The man began leading Trot away. She felt a pang of misery. She liked the horse. He was their friend, their companion. Oh, by the gods, she would lose them both, and go back to the empty life of the palace. At best. If he forgave her. But they were going to hang him. Lord Connus moved close to the men who were wrestling Banares.

"Oh, husband," she said softly, unable to contain herself any longer, her fear for her beloved greater than her fear of her husband. She crossed quickly to where they were standing. "He didn’t steal the horse."

"What?"

"I did."

"What?"

"I stole it…" She dropped her head and put her face over her hands.

"He told you to…" Lord Connus insisted.

‘He told me to beg for food…"

The boy shook his head violently, turning in the arms of the men. "It isn’t true," he protested. "I did it myself. She had nothing to do with it."

She shook her head. "I did it. Ask him to tell you where the horse came from…" Her only hope was to keep it all as public as possible, and yet, what could she preserve him for? Her husband would only take it out on him worse later, and they would be separated forever anyway. She would not live without him. Lord Connus might gain the pleasure of hurting Banares, but he would not have her. Running away from impossible, though. She closed her eyes and knew what she had to do.

"Alright, where did the horse come from?" Lord Connus scowled. He glared a little at her. She furrowed her brow and looked away.

Benares shook his head. "I don’t remember," he said hoarsely.

"Oh, come now, boy. It was only a few days ago. How could you forget? Where was the horse?" one of the guards asked, prodding him with his foot.

"Up by a house."

"Tied or loose?"

"Tied," he said faintly.

"By the house."

"Yes. Near the barn."

"What do you say?" Lord Connus turned to her.

"It was in a meadow and loose. There was no barn. I just clucked to it and it followed me…"

"Get that farmer back here." They called to the owner and he slowly returned to the group, bowing and nodding. "Where was the horse?" the Lord asked. "And was it tied?"

"It was in a meadow near the house."

Her husband’s face darkened. "There is more to this story."

"Husband, you have told him he isn’t to be punished for anything that came before, and he cannot be punished for the horse, because he didn’t have anything to do with it." She held her hand out to him, entreating, trying to make her voice soft so that he didn’t fully comprehend that she was contradicting him.

"This means nothing. Nothing at all." He hesitated, then smiled. "Of course it does. I understand perfectly." Only then did she dare to breathe again. He looked at her and smiled gently. "Lock the boy up. I’ll attend to him in the morning. Come, my beautiful wife. It’s late, and I’ve not supped." He put out his hand, and hesitatingly, she slipped hers inside it.

"My house is entirely at your disposal," the headman of the village came forward, bowing subserviently.

"Of course it is," Lord Connus snapped. At the man’s shocked look, he smiled. "I thank you for your hospitality," he added gently. "Lead on."

"I will give you and your lady the best room, of course, but I have rooms for many of your men as well, and a barn in back for your horses. It’s not much of a barn, but I’ll have some boys come around and care for the animals. Does that please your lordship?"

"It does. I’m famished."

"I’ll have a dinner laid out for you within a few minutes. Come and you can clean up from your journey." His voice was smooth, comforting, his demeanor obsequious and it obviously put Lord Connus in a considerably better mood.

They were led upstairs calmly and then there was an explosion of activity as the headman ordered his servants, kin and even friends and acquaintances to make haste to meet the party’s needs. The hierarchy was clear. The householder ordered and pushed about his underlings, and was himself jostled out of the way by the Lord’s servants and cooks who were equally intent on making the Lord comfortable.

"Bring the food here," he said shortly when some of the headman’s people brought hot water, oil and towels to the room. "And find her something decent to wear." They nodded, bowing out.

"Let’s get cleaned up," he said quickly. She hadn’t bathed in hot water in days, and he had ridden a long way quickly. She washed her hands and arms and face and dried quickly, wrapping in a sheet. He watched her.

"This has been an ordeal for you, my sweet," he said gently. She nodded her head, afraid to say anything lest the truth be known. Having been out, away from the pompous stricture of the palace, she thought it had been an ordeal to live like that. "Come. Sit with me," he stroked the seat beside him and she sat. In a few minutes, there was a scratch at the door and one of the women, curtseying, handed in a small pile of clothing.

"Shall I wait on the lady?" she said politely, almost coquettishly. But through the crack in the door, Domina could see that the woman’s days as a coquette were but a dim memory.

"She can manage," Lord Connus said, taking the bundle. "Thank you." He closed the door and dropped the clothing on the bed and she dressed herself quickly. They ate. He regaled her with stories from the palace, light stories and humorous ones. She found herself smiling at him, and at length, he came to her as he always had and she lay beneath him as she always had.

She awoke, though, with a start after sleeping for how long, she couldn’t tell. There was a wolf or dog outside howling. It seemed too close, given the number of guards that were on duty. She rose from the bed and looked out the window. Banares was tethered to a tree, on his knees, his shoulders strained back, looking up at the window. He threw his head back and let out another howl. She held the bodice of her gown closed and moved the curtain, stepping into the light cast by the moon. He saw her. He sat back on his heels. She could say nothing, couldn’t move, couldn’t even gesture to him. They stared at one another. She dropped her hand and let her gown fall open, as if his eyes alone could satisfy her need to be touched by him. A guard came into the dim light.

"What the hell are you going?" He caught the boy a kick in the chest and sent him sprawling. Lord Connas was at her elbow in an instant and she clutched at her gown again.

"What’s the meaning of this?"

"I…"

"You bastard," Lord Connas yelled down at him.

"He didn’t do anything," she said.

"Didn’t do anything? He woke us both. I’ll teach the little bastard…"

She grasped his arm. "Not now. I want you. I’ve missed you so much…"

He smiled, slipped his arm around her and kissed her back to the bed. She lay beneath him, his great form, his huge arms on either side of her head. He satisfied himself and lay back down. "It must have been terrible for you. But don’t worry. I’ll make him pay one way or the other. But why did you say you had taken the horse?" She sat up.

"I did, husband. I couldn’t lie like that, or see a lie worked. There are enough things, I’m sure…"

"I had just promised not to punish him for anything else…you ruined my strategy." For the first time in their marriage, she heard irritation in his voice, irritation against her.

She lowered her head. "Forgive me. I’m not very clever. Not like you. You can think of strategies. I can only react to things, and I was mistaken. Punish me if you like…"

"Oh, my sweet girl. This has been bad enough. I understand. What I don’t know is what to do about him." He sighed. "We’ll stay here for a few days. I’ll let him suffer worrying about it. That’ll be a good start." He sighed. "There are pockets of resistance yet, people who would gladly give up their lives to save his worthless hide. The trick will be keeping them from getting to him while I take my time to enjoy what the gods have delivered into my hands." Her stomach churned. He would torment the boy to death. Life was not worth living like this. She could not tolerate waiting idly by while he destroyed this one that she loved like her own life. He would make the boy suffer, how long? He would make her suffer forever.

"What did he do to make you so angry?"

He put his hand on her back and stroked her gently. "You would never understand, beautiful one. Aren’t you going back to sleep?"

"Yes," she said, and laid back down. How could being trapped feel so warm, so much like being loved? He cradled her in his arms and spoke softly to her. She closed her eyes, laid still and finally, when he was convinced she was asleep, he gently laid her head on the pillow and withdrew. Without opening her eyes, she listened intently as he closed the door and heard the sound of his feet on the stairs. She sat up, terrified. His voice came then, from outside, ordering them to quietly bring the boy in. Sounds came from another room, then, mewing sounds, terrified and pained and she knew he had bound and silenced the boy and had begun eking out his vengeance. There was nothing to do. She was unable to give him any assistance, unable to even conceive of what she might do to stop what was happening. Sickened, she waited, listening, weeping, then went to his traveling bag and drew out his razor.

**

It was close to dawn but still quite dark when there were noises in the yard, shouts of men, the whinny of horses, the sound of metal against metal. "What the hell is that?" Lord Connus asked, dropping him. He curled into a ball on the floor and panted miserably. "Good Gods," the Lord said returning from the window. "There’s a fight."

He raised his head. They’d come. Someone had come to rescue him.

"You stay here," the Lord said, giving him a nudge with the toe of his boot and laughing. Droll. Where else could he go tied up like this? The Lord picked up the lamp and took the two men that had been with him. He heard them racing down the stairs, arms clanging against the walls of the narrow stairwell. He rolled onto his back and tried to wrestle his way to the window. All the effort he had put into recovering and that bastard had all but wrecked him again. Still, a rescue. It was worth it if these men could get him the hell out of this country. He thought of her. Damn.

He couldn’t reach the window. Small matter. He wouldn’t have been able to raise himself to look out it anyway. He closed his eyes again and basked in the pain. How many had come? If it was too few a number, they would be in the same position he was. If there were enough or too many, they might slaughter everyone in the place. The door rattled. He opened his eyes, dully. A ragged young boy burst into the room, a knife stuck in his belt and a sword slung around his back. He was dirty, barefoot and bareheaded, his cropped hair filthy and matted. Without a doubt, he had slept in a barn, and one that was none too clean, at that. He said nothing, but pulled the knife. Banares turned his back quickly to the boy, lifting his bound hands. The boy slipped the cold knive between the bonds and cut them asunder.

"Who…" he said, but the boy put his fingers to his lips. "How many are you?"

The boy shook his head in the near darkness. He stood up unsteadily, put the knife back in his belt. Dumbly, Benares rose and followed the boy.

"Keep that out," Banares whispered. "And give me that." He pulled the sword from around the boy’s shoulder and back. He glanced out the window. A crowd was growing. But there were only three men fighting the Lord and his men. Three. It would be a slaughter. May the gods rest them, he thought.

The boy plucked at his arm, and he pulled away from the window. "Wait," he said. "There’s a girl. I can’t go without her…"

But he had no idea where she was in this great place. The boy shook his head vigorously, pulled on him again and he realized the futility of it. She had gone back to her husband, back to his bed. In time, she would go back to her palace and the bastard would have it all. His wife, his love, and if he lived, he would lick his wounds in some foreign land, a stranger. There was nothing else. They slipped quietly down the steps, through the kitchen and out into the yard.

He followed the boy silently, low to the ground. They came around the edge of the buildings and the boy motioned him again to follow. The stalls. Horses. He was instantly and completely alert. Despite the smallness of the fight out in the front of the inn, it had captured the attention of all the men, and there was nobody in the stables. Idiots. Thank the gods they were idiots. The lethargy borne of pain and exhaustion, the terrible oppression of being captured again, lifted, and he moved swiftly through the tunnel-like structure. There were several horses close at hand, tied to the upright supports of the trough. They were agitated by the excitement and shied away, whinnying their distress. He loosed two of them and handed one of the bridles wordlessly to the boy. They led the animals out the back and into the open ground. The boy scrambled onto his horse clumsily, his face pale and pinched with terror. Who the hell was he? It mattered little. It was a rescue, and that did matter.

If they was lucky, there would be a contingent of more men waiting at some removed place for them. If not, he could strike across country and manage somehow. He started to turn the animal toward the road, but the boy flailed a map at him, and pointed in the opposite direction. Foolish. If he was going to escape, he should go toward the border, toward the coast, and the boy wanted him to go in the opposite direction, back into the very center of the country.

Still, the boy had come with the rebels, knew what plans there were, what the plot was, where it was safe. He turned meekly and followed the boy. He barely dared to look back, but knew he had to, otherwise they might be chasing them and they wouldn’t know it until it was too late.

They rode northeast for a good period, at a fast clip. Finally, when he was sure they were not being pursued, he stopped. Enough was enough. The light was coming up in the sky, and he could see better now.

"Hold up," he called. "Hold up. They aren’t after us yet. Do you have anything to eat?"

The boy, ahead of him, shook his head, and motioned him along. "Wait," he pushed his horse forward and caught the boy’s bridle. The horse stopped almost instantly and the boy slipped to the ground. He slid down from his own mount and before he could say anything, the boy had enveloped him in a tight embrace. He felt the soft face come up alongside his own and the warmth, the body, the legs moving in so that their feet were almost in a single line, the arms enveloping him. His hands moved along the back. There was something strange, too much fabric wrapped around the narrow body. He pulled back as the little face moved across his, the mouth open, the breath sweet and young.

He pushed the boy back, stared into the face, touched the cropped hair.

"Girl," he breathed. "Good gods." She opened her mouth again, pressed against his and caught his tongue with hers. "Oh, gods. How?"

"We haven’t much time. We’ll go north this time, and cross the frontier to the east, and then come down on the other side of the mountains, in neutral territory. You can raise an army once you’re among your own people and come back and reclaim your land and your throne. They’ll be looking for us to the south, though. It occurred to me that the best place to hide, though, would be within the country. He would never think to find us if we were just two brothers living in a little place not causing any commotion. There are a lot of little villages in the north. We can hide in any one of them almost indefinitely. I brought some money." She displayed a bag of coins.

"Clever girl," he said, caressing her. "I think my days as a prince are over. I’d already resigned myself to that. I like your plan, though."

"Are you hurt?"

"I don’t care. I’ll be fine. It doesn’t matter now." He grinned at her. By the gods, she was here. She’d made her decision and it was him.

"Who were those other men?" she asked.

"I don’t know that either. Come on. Get back on the horse. We have a long ride ahead." He boosted her up onto the horse’s back and mounted his own. He reached across and put out his hand and she slipped hers inside it. "Little brother."