Aurian

24

Anvar had been spared the humiliation of the slave market. After several days spent languishing in the squalor and despair of the noisome cellar, he and some fifty other slaves had been chained together in groups of ten and marched, by night, down through the narrow, twisting alleys of the city to the wharves. As dawn was breaking, they were herded into open barges and rowed some miles upriver in the broiling heat to the site of the Khisu’s summer palace.

The area was a hive of activity. The huge new edifice was being built on a series of terraces that had been hewn by hand, at the cost of many slaves, back into the face of the towering red cliffs. The air was thick with dust and rang with shouted commands. The beat of hammers and chisels, the crack of whips and the groans of the tortured slaves echoed in a ceaseless cacophony between the canyon’s walls of red stone that trapped all sound and heat in a simmering caldron of suffering.

Already the massive blocks of white stone that had been ferried down from the upland quarries were being set into place. Teams of exhausted slaves were hauling on the ropes of the great hoists that lifted the blocks, while others swarmed over the stepped banks of wooden scaffolding that lined the half-built walls, or mixed vast quantities of mortar that stood in constant danger of drying out in the baking sun. Whole camps of masons and master carvers and carpenters labored at their crafts, and architects strode around the site carrying rolls of parchment and an air of self-importance. A huge outdoor kitchen had been built on the flat ground near the river to feed the laboring hordes, and sweating cooks worked ceaselessly, seemingly oblivious to the stench and dust, amidst a cloud of swarming flies.

Anvar’s group was off-loaded at one of the flimsy wooden piers that projected out into the sluggish river, and the Slave-master for the site came to look them over, his expression sour. “Is this all?” he demanded of the barge-train captain. “I need three times as many. The palace will never be finished at this rate. Slaves last no time at all in these conditions!”

The captain spat on the dusty ground. “Don’t take it out on me,” he grumbled. “I only bring them—however many. Maybe if you treated them better, they’d last longer.” He glanced disparagingly round the dusty, noisome work site.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, you dockside layabout! If the Khisu’s accursed palace isn’t finished on time, heads will roll—and I’m not taking the blame!” the Slavemaster retorted. “How I’m expected to work with the rubbish you people have been sending up here—Look at that one!” His finger shot out in the direction of Anvar, whose light skin and hair made him very conspicuous in the group of slaves. “What in the name of the Reaper is that supposed to be?”

The captain shrugged. “How should I know? I only bring them, remember? Zahn doesn’t tell me where he gets his slaves, and I don’t ask questions—it’s not healthy. As long as he keeps sending them, you’d be wise just to use them, and keep your mouth shut. Who cares what color one bloody slave is anyway? Zahn? Not if there’s profit in it! The Khisu? All Xiang cares about is getting his God-blasted palace finished. Just do what you usually do—work the bastard till he drops and bury him out of sight somewhere, or throw him in the river for the lizards: If anybody asks, I never saw him. I’m off now. This place stinks!”

“Some help you are,” the Slavemaster grumbled. “Tell Zahn I need more—and the quality had better improve, or someone just might whisper in the Khisu’s ear that someone has been importing illegal Northerners,”

The captain spat once more. “I don’t tell Zahn anything— and I would watch my mouth if I were you. Knowing him, you’re likely to wind up buried under your own foundations.” He turned on his heel and left.

The slaves were put to work at once. One by one, each man was unshackled and questioned as to whether he had any particular skills, such as masonry or carpentry. If they had, they were lucky, for they were sent to assist the artisans and spared much grueling labor in the brutally hot climate. As the overseer worked his way toward him, Anvar found himself in a dilemma. Should he pretend to be ignorant of their language, in the hope that it might give him a chance to escape, or should he claim the knowledge of carpentry that his grandpa had taught him, and so survive longer in this terrible place? But he was spared the decision. As the overseer approached him, the Slavemaster intervened. “Not that one,” he snapped. “I don’t want him around too long. Put him on the pulley gangs.”

The pulleys—the worst work on the site, as Anvar soon discovered. Twenty slaves at a time hauled on thick ropes that raised the massive stone blocks up the half-finished walls. The more blocks that were raised, the higher the walls became, and the greater the effort required from the struggling, exhausted slaves. The death toll was appalling. Once a block had begun its ascent there could be no stopping, for if momentum was lost the stone would fall, and might crack as it hit the ground, incurring a huge waste of time and labor to hew and transport another from the quarries. And the Khisu wanted his palace finished. So if a slave was unlucky enough to lose his footing or collapse from exhaustion in the line, he would be trampled by those behind him, who would, in their turn, struggle desperately to keep their own bare feet from slipping on the slimy, bloody pulp that had once been a man.

It was a nightmare unending. From dawn to dusk, the work rarely halted. Food was scarce and unsatisfying—a thin mush of cooked grain doled out morning and evening. Water was insufficient for the slaves’ needs in the burning sun, and many collapsed from heatstroke. Brutal overseers with whips stalked the lines, never permitting the pace to slacken. Clouds of biting insects assailed the slaves, and snakes and scorpions came scuttling from beneath the shelter of the blocks as they began to lift, scattering at random toward the bare feet and legs of the helpless slaves. It took many agonizing hours for a man to die from their venom.

By the end of the first day, Anvar’s fair skin was burned and blistered by the fierce sun. His hands and shoulders were bloody and raw from the friction of the coarse ropes, and his bare feet were scored and lacerated from the uneven, gritty ground. His back was striped with whip cuts, his head throbbed from the relentless heat, and his tongue was swollen in his parched mouth. His pain-filled world had shrunk to a single thought: keep moving. Endure.

In the blessed cool of evening, another gang replaced the exhausted survivors at the pulleys, and the work went on by torchlight. Anvar and the other slaves on the day teams were herded into a high-walled stockade. No attempt had been made to provide sanitation, and the place stank like a cesspool and swarmed with flies. A handful of gruel was doled out to each slave as he passed through the gate, and a long stone trough within the compound was filled with muddy river water. Anvar fought for a drink at the trough, where men crowded and jostled like beasts for the unsavory water. Then he staggered away from the mob and lay in the filth where he fell, too exhausted to think, or even register the pain of his abused body. It seemed that he only slept for an instant, before he was awakened with a kick to begin another day of toil and torture.

There was no doubt that if Anvar had been of true Mortal blood, he would never have survived this terrible place for two days together. But somehow, while he slept, his Mage blood worked automatically to heal and restore him enough to face another day of dreadful suffering, though it could only do so much. Anvar had not been trained in the Healing arts, and Miathan had stolen the active element of his powers. Food and rest were needed to restore the energy used in the Healing process, and these were in desperately short supply. So, day by wretched day, his condition began to deteriorate, the Healing becoming less and less effective and only serving to prolong his misery.

The overseers were amazed by his endurance, and wagers began to be made concerning how long this strange, pale-skinned Northerner would last. Anvar was oblivious to it all. His exhausted, pain-wracked mind afid body only worked at survival level, and the luxury of thought was a long-forgotten dream. All that remained was a faint spark of consciousness, a stubborn, relentless manifestation of the will to survive.

Aurian opened her eyes. Moonlight shone in dazzling star-and-diamond shapes through the lattices of delicately carved shutters, forming lacework shadows on the pale, thin sheet that covered her bed..She was confused—her coming here was all a daze, and she was still half asleep. But something had awakened her. Something wrong. What? The back of her neck prickled. Something. Some vague, formless fear that brought back the irrational childhood urge to hide her head beneath the covers, hoping that the unknown terror would be unable to find her there. Aurian tried to pull herself together, reminding herself sternly that she was a warrior. She lay very still, concentrating with all her senses to locate the source of the wrongness.

Ah. She had it now. The silence. Each night since she’d come to these lands, the darkness had been filled with the rhythmic, creaking chirrups of nocturnal insects that formed a shrill nighttime chorus. Now everything was still—utterly, utterly still. Aurian could hear herself breathing in ragged, shallow gasps—could hear the thunder of her own heart. Despite the warmth of the room, icy sweat slid down her spine. What else? She was missing something. Shia! Aurian could hear only the sound of her own breathing. No one else was in the room.

Shia was gone!

Aurian looked wildly around her, but the room was growing darker. Something was sapping the moonlight from her window, consuming it, drowning it in an overwhelming wave of utter blackness. Something stirred in the corner—she could feel it as it moved, creeping, no, gliding silently toward her. It passed in front of the window—and her blood congealed to ice at the sight of the shape that haunted her most nightmarish memories. Nihilim! Miathan had sent the Death Wraiths!

Aurian tried to move, to reach for her sword—no, that was no good! The Wraith advanced, uttering the weird, cruel bass chuckle that she remembered so well. The wave of leeching coldness and terror that spun out before it washed over her . . . The spell! Finbarr’s spell! What was it? Her mind was in a whirl of panic—she couldn’t think! She couldn’t move! Her tongue was frozen in her mouth, her limbs were frozen to the bed! It swooped down on her, its great maw drooling long ropes of slimy, clinging darkness—to engulf her, as it had engulfed Forral . . . “Forral! Forral\”

“For pity’s sake, Lady, wake up!”

Aurian blinked; her vision cleared. She was sitting up in bed, in a room aglow with lamplight. Before her, instead of that hideous shape of evil, was Harihn, shaking her shoulders, his tanned face gray with shock. Her left arm was bound up in a sling, and her throat was raw with screaming. Shia was by the bed, her snarling face a demon mask of fear and fury, her slitted yellow eyes glaring—glaring at something that wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! As Aurian’s nightmare faded, the great cat suddenly relaxed, shaking her head in bewilderment, her ears still flattened, the tip of her black tail twitching back and forth. And as the bitter tide of reaction to her dream flowed over her, Aurian began to shake uncontrollably, weakened by her wounds and undone by the vivid memory of Forral’s hideous death as the barely healing scars in her emotions were ripped asunder by what she had just experienced. Unable to help herself, she collapsed in a storm of hysterical weeping.

She heard Harihn curse, heard him call a servant to fetch the surgeon. Then he was back at her side, patting her shoulder awkwardly as she wept. “Hush, Lady, hush,” he soothed her helplessely. “It was only a dream—a bad dream from the fever. I am here—your Demon is here. Nothing can hurt you, I promise.”

Then the surgeon was there. Aurian vaguely remembered the round-shouldered, wrinkled old man who had stitched the torn muscles of her calf, quaking all the while under the baleful glare of Shia, who had barely been able to restrain herself from attacking this puny creature who was causing her friend such pain. Now he was all bustling efficiency despite the comical long white nightgown that he wore. The sight of him was so ludicrous that Aurian wanted to laugh, but she couldn’t stop crying, and somehow the laughter and sobs mingled so that she couldn’t get her breath. She fought free of Harihn and clutched her bandaged aching ribs, wheezing .helplessly as tears poured down her face.

Aurian heard the surgeon tsking, then a cup was forced between her lips and she choked on a coldly burning brew, coughing and spluttering and causing further pain to knife between her ribs. “Deep breaths, Lady, if you please,” she heard the surgeon chanting patiently, speaking to her as though she were a small child. Then she heard Shia’s voice in her mind, sensible and comforting. “Enough, my friend,” the cat said, “or you will harm yourself.”

With a superhuman effort, Aurian got control of herself, enough to swallow the rest of the draft. The tight knot within her unraveled, and she could relax, though she was still shaking as she leaned back against the pillows and wiped her eyes.

Harihn looked relieved. “By the Reaper, Lady, but you frightened us all!” he said.

“Nonsense!” the surgeon said briskly. “It was only the fever. You were very ill, Lady, for several days.” He leaned over to place a hand on her forehead. “It has broken now, so you should have no more bad dreams. And you will be pleased to know that your child is safe.”

The child! She had forgotten all about it! And days, he had said. There was something she should be doing—something urgent—but the memory of Forral haunted her, and she felt weak and confused by the aftermath of her dream ... Oh Gods, that hideous creature! Aurian shuddered. “Wine?” she gasped, trying to force the memory away.

The surgeon smiled. “I know my patients are mending when they ask for wine. Is there any here, Your Highness?”

“Should she have it?” the Prince asked anxiously. “I mean, what with the drug—and she has not eaten anything . . .”

“That can soon be remedied.” The surgeon went to the door and gave orders to a hovering servant.

While she waited, Aurian tried to piece together what had happened. “How badly was I hurt?” she asked the surgeon.

His wizened face creased in a frown. “Lady, you gave me some work! But your arm is healing, and your ribs were simply cracked, not broken. They will soon improve with care. As to your leg ... The muscles were badly torn. I fear there will be some scarring.”

“Never mind that. Will it be all right?” The surgeon hesitated. “It should,” he said at last. “That is, if you give it a chance to heal, Lady. You must stay off that leg for ten days at least, and more if possible.”

“What!” Aurian shot bolt upright, wincing at the pain from her cracked ribs. “I don’t have that kind of time!” “Lady, you must.”

“But there’s something I have to do—it’s important!” Desperately she tried to remember what it was.

The surgeon frowned at her as though she were a petulant child. “Suit yourself,” he replied frostily. “But if those muscles have no chance to heal properly, you will be crippled, or at best ft that leg will always be weak. You must stay in bed until I tell you otherwise. If not, you have only yourself to blame for the consequences.”

Aurian swore viciously and thumped the pillow with her fist, frustrated by the limitations of Mortal medicine. If only she had her powers, she could Heal her injuries in no time!

Just then the servant returned with a cup of warm broth. “Drink this, Lady,” the surgeon told Aurian, “then you may have your wine.” Despite her frustration, Aurian realized that her stomach was churning, not just from emotion, but from hunger. She drank the broth down eagerly, then the surgeon handed her a goblet of sweetish red wine.

“Have no fear, Highness,” he told the Prince. “Together with the drug it will make her sleep again, which is all to the good. Perhaps then we can all return to our rest.” His voice held an acid undertone.

Aurian’s hand tightened round the stem of the goblet in panic. She couldn’t sleep! What if it returned in her dreams? But it was too late. Already she had drunk most of the wine, and she could feel a drowsy euphoria stealing over her. It felt good, after what she had just undergone. She heard herself giggling, as she held out the cup for a refill.

The surgeon tsked disapprovingly, then shrugged. “It may be for the best,” he sighed, as he poured more wine. “Whatever she dreamed about, it gave her a severe shock. You ought to have some too, Highness. You look—” That was all Aurian could remember.

“You look exhausted. Why not have a servant watch this ungrateful woman? You have more important things to concern you, and you must sleep.”

Harihn dismissed the surgeon with brusque thanks. The wretch was so officious! But since he was so skilled in his art, he invariably managed to get away with it. The Khisal rubbed wearily at his gritty eyes, and turned back to the mysterious lady whom he had rescued so impulsively from the Arena. She slept peacefully; the terror that had haunted her face was smoothed away in repose. What had she dreamed, to cause such anguish? Had it been her husband’s name she had cried out? His inquiries to the Arbiters had revealed that she had probably been widowed, and the sunjeon had told him that she was with child. That had come as a shock. Given her condition, her performance in the Arena had been near miraculous! Silently saluting her courage, he bent over and tucked the thin sheet more closely around her shoulders.

The Demon lifted her head and snarled, baring long white fangs. “Hush, you,” Harihn soothed, keeping a wary eye on her. “You should know by now that I will not harm your friend.” The cat dropped her head back to her outstretched paws, contenting herself with a black look for the Prince. She had remained on guard all through Aurian’s illness, treating all who tended her friend with similar suspicion. Most of the servants were afraid even to enter the room.

Deciding to take the sturgeon’s advice after all, Harihn poured himself some wine. Opening the carved shutters that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, he took his cup out into the balmy, moonlit peace of the garden. Ah, how he loved this place! The small, walled area with its grassy lawn and flowering plants and trees was a haven of green in this arid city. His mother had created it when she came here, a captive bride, to this small but exquisite palace on the south side of the river— the opposite side from the Arena and the Khisu’s sumptuous dwelling. Her refusal to live in the same house with her Lord and his harem had been but one of the reasons for her murder. Xiang, used to the subservient women of his land, had not been able to deal with her pride, and her contemptuous hatred, never concealed, of the man who had taken her by force from the Xandim, her own people”.

Harihn crossed the lawn to sit on the low marble coping that circled the pool where carp swam in gilded splendor. The scent of huge white blossoms from the tree that overhung the moon-silvered water was intoxicating, but his thoughts were elsewhere. After all these years, he still missed his mother. He remembered her vividly—her long brown hair, her flashing eyes, the indomitable spirit that his father’s brutality had never quenched. Harihn dwelt here for the same reasons that she had —to maintain his independence and to keep as far from Xiang as possible. But it hurt. This place was haunted by his mother’s memory, and perhaps that was his own fault, for he had never allowed it to be changed. There had been some raised eyebrows, to say the least, among his servants when he had placed the flame-haired foreigner in his mother’s old suite of rooms. Somehow, though, it had seemed the right thing to do. Her spirit, her courage and pride and refusal to surrender in the Arena had called back such powerful memories of his mother that he had been compelled to intervene, to help this woman, though he had been too young to save the other.

Since then, of course, he’d had time to consider his rash act, and had wondered, more than once, what had possessed him. All he’d had from the lady so far was her name—Aurian. Where had she come from? What was her history? How had she —a mere woman—learned to fight so well? That she was one of the witch-breed of Northern sorcerers made him nervous, despite the bracelets she wore that, he had been assured, would negate her magic. Not for the first time, Harihn wondered if he had bitten off more than he could swallow. He had never thought, for instance, that it would mean giving shelter to the fearsome Demon! And the Khisu, of course, was furious with him, but that was nothing new.

Thinking of Xiang, Harihn had to admit that there were advantages to his deed. It had been most enjoyable to see that look of thwarted rage on his father’s face, and that of his bride. Now why did she want the warrior dead? Harihn was convinced that the women must have been traveling on the same ship. Two foreigners appearing in the city at the same time? It was more than coincidence. He smiled to himself. If his mystery lady could provide him with information to the new Khisihn’s disadvantage, that might give him a new^and necessary lever to use against the Khisu. Harihn’s mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. The hatred his father bore for him was no secret. In that respect, this Aurian could prove useful, indeed. She could fight like a demon—that much he had seen for himself—and she had her own Demon to help her. Between them they made a formidable team. The Khisal smiled to himself. Perhaps, in saving her, he had made the right decision after all.

When Aurian awakened, it was broad daylight. The Prince had gone, and a stranger was drowsing in a chair by her bed. Aurian gasped. The man was huge\ But Shia was asleep on the bottom of the bed, curled up with her tail wrapped over her eyes, and the Mage took jjLais a sign that her new warder could be trusted. She wondered if he would bring her some food. Her mind felt clear now, but her insides were cramped with hunger. She reached out to touch his arm, and the big man snapped to attention at once, his face a picture of guilt. Aurian saw the fear in his eyes, and instinctively sought to soothe him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “There’s no harm in your being asleep. Everyone else was.” She smiled at the oblivious Shia. “Only—I’m terribly hungry. Do you think you could arrange for some food? And some liafa?” While at the Arena, she had become addicted to the stuff.

The giant leapt to his feet, nodding fit to loosen his bald head, his broad brown face breaking into a shy smile. Aurian’s eyes widened. He must have been almost seven feet tall, his shoulders so broad that she wondered how he could fit them through the door. He bowed, and left the room with a speed that belied his enormous bulk.

He returned very shortly, bearing a tray almost as wide as his shoulders. From the contents, Aurian decided that whatever time of day it was, it was not breakfast time. But she didn’t care —her mouth was watering. There was a thick soup, a roast fowl, and the meal was rounded off with fruit, cheese, honey, and the usual flat bread. A flask of wine and a brimming jug of liafa competed for the small amount of remaining space. “Why, this is a feast!” Aurian exclaimed. “Thank you, thank you very much!”

Shia stirred, smelling the food, her golden eyes lighting up as they fixed on the -tsay. Aurian sighed. It wasn’t that she begrudged sharing with her friend, however . . . But her friendly giant had even thought of that. Tucked beneath his arm, where he had been carrying it to leave his hands free for the tray, was a bulky, cloth-wrapped object. He unwrapped it with a flourish, presenting it to the cat without a sign of fear. It was a haunch of raw meat. Shia, to Aurian’s utter astonishment, purred loudly and rubbed the side of her face against the man’s hand.

“Why, thank you,” Aurian told him with a smile. “That was very considerate . . . Shia! Not on the bed, please!”

“Why not? I’m hungry, too!” Shia gave her a black look, and dragged her meat out into the garden.

Aurian could wait no longer to attack the food. “What’s your name?” she asked the huge man indistinctly, with her mouth full. He simply looked at her, shaking his head and waving his hands in front of his face.

“His name is Bohan. He cannot answer you, for he cannot speak.” As Harihn entered, Bohan prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the floor. The Prince gestured negligently, and the huge man left the room. “I sent him to serve and to guard you—he is a eunuch, as is proper.”

“Poor man!” Aurian gasped. “How cruel!”

Harihn looked surprised. “Cruel? How so? All ladies of rank are served by eunuchs. How else would the sanctity of their persons be guarded?”

Aurian shuddered, thinking of Anvar. Anvar! Great Chathak, how could she have forgotten him?

The Prince shrugged. “It is of no consequence. I trust he is satisfactory?” He settled himself comfortably on the bottom of her bed and casually helped himself to a leg of her fowl. Aurian took another huge mouthful, reluctant to lose any more of the bird. “How are you feeling?” Harihn asked, and she choked getting it all swallowed. She took a gulp of wine and a deep breath.

“Hungry,” she replied pointedly, then regretted her churlishness. After all, she was very much indebted to him, and dependent, at the moment, on his continuing goodwill.

The Prince smiled tolerantly. He was handsome, Aurian thought, with his black curling hair, thick level brows, and dark, lustrous eyes. His face was gentler, less angular and wolfish, than that of his father, but the same pride was in his bearing, and his body was lithe and strong. She was, however, beginning to find his condescending manner very irritating, and had to force herself to keep a rein on her temper. “My apologies, Your Highness,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m never at my best when I first wake up.”

“You may call me Harihn,” he told her, with the air of one conferring a singular honor, “and I have no objections to you eating while we talk.”

Thanks a lot, the Mage thought sourly. “Thank you very much,” she said aloud. “You may call me Aurian.”

Harihn raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

With an effort, Aurian restrained herself from flinging her breakfast in the complacent idiot’s face. It was good, and she needed it. Instead she gave him a very direct look. “Harihn, why did you rescue me?”

The Prince smiled. “Lady, you have naught to fear from me. You are more valuable to me alive than dead. You see, I need you—and your Demon, if she will help. I saw you fight in the Arena, and I need your skill to protect me. My life is in danger from my royal father—not to mention his new wife. If she should give him another heir—” He made a slicing motion across his throat.

After a moment, Aurian discovered that her mouth was open, and hastily shoveled some food into it, to give herself time to think. She had almost started to tell him why she couldn’t possibly stay—but she realized that the self-absorbed young Prince would hardly take her problems into consideration. Besides, she could not leave until she had found Anvar and, even more important, discovered a way to remove these bracelets that crippled her powers.

The Prince was frowning, obviously wondering why she was not overcome with delight at the prospect of being his bodyguard. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” Aurian said hastily, managing to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “I’m overcome by the honor you do me. But ... the surgeon must have told you of my condition. How can I defend you adequately when I’ve grown great with child?”

Harihn shrugged. “I appreciate your frankness in discussing this delicate matter with me, of course . . .” The distasteful curl of his lip gave the lie to his words. “However, it may not be a problem. You have your Demon to assist you, and besides, your condition may lull any would-be assassin into a false sense of security. After all, who would expect a pregnant concubine of possessing warrior’s skills?”

Aurian choked again. When she had regained her breath, she pushed the tray away, her appetite abruptly gone. “Did you say concubine?” she demanded.

Harihn’s eyes widened. “Surely you did not expect me to marry you? My people would never countenence a foreign sorceress as their Khisihn!”

“Of course I didn’t! I thought you wanted me for a bodyguard, not—” Aurian spluttered angrily, all restraint scattered to the winds. “You must be out of your mind!”

Harihn assumed such an air of benign patience that Aurian wanted to throttle him. “The surgeon warned me you might react in this way,” he said. “Being pregnant, you are not in your right mind at present—and I have your history from the Arbiters. I appreciate that as one newly widowed, your sensibilities may be raw, but it is not permitted for a woman to be without a man to govern and guard her. How could it be otherwise? You need a man’s protection—a home and a future for your child. If you leave here, you will be at the mercy of the law, and the best you can hope for is slavery—or a return to the Arena. Could your child survive another such bout? Could you? I think not. I have no idea how things are managed in your own land, but here, as a widow, your husband’s brother, or some relative, or even his closest friend, would take you into his family as his concubine, or even as a wife, if he wished. You are a stranger here, and have no one to do you this service. Surely you cannot be insensible of the honor I do you?”

Great Gods! He was actually preening\ Aurian cursed her imagination for coming up with the idiotic story of a missing husband. She cursed the ridiculous laws of this land that passed women around like possessions, and cursed this arrogant young booby who thought he was doing her such a favor! What gall! Then she pulled herself together, and started thinking with frantic haste. Maybe that tale about Anvar being her husband would stand her in good stead, if he coujd be found . . . She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers beneath the sheet. “But Your Highness,” she blurted out, “what about my husband?”

Harihn frowned. “Aurian, your husband is dead.”

“But what if he isn’t?” Aurian protested. “We don’t know for certain.” At her words, the image of Forral’s face rose before her with such painful clarity that she gulped back a sob. Oh, Forral, forgive me, she thought. “What happens if he comes here only to discover that I’ve become another man’s concubine?” she went on, unable to suppress the quiver in her voice. “Please, Your Highness, surely you could put a search in motion? I beg you ... As a woman alone in a strange land, I throw myself upon your mercy.” Well, groveling had worked with the Arbiters. If only the Prince would take the same bait . . . But as Aurian forced tears into her eyes, she saw Harihn’s expression harden.

“Lady,” he said flatly, “to find the one you seek would be impossible.”

Drat it! I’ve outfoxed myself! He has no intention of finding Anvar, Aurian thought, because he wants me himself. She had no other recourse but to persist. “What, with light skin and light hair, and blue eyes? I’d have thought he would stand out in this city. If he was brought here with Sara, surely someone must remember having seen him?”

“Exactly! And in all this time, there has been no word of such a man—What did you say? He was with Sara? The Khisihn? Why?” Harihn leaned forward, his eyes suddenly intent.

What had got into the man? Aurian wondered. Could she use this sudden interest to her advantage? “Did Sara not mention him?” she fished.

“She most certainly did not! Should she have? Were they together? Why did she not speak of him? Is this something I could use to discredit my father?” Harihn’s questions tumbled over each other in his eagerness.

So that was it! Aurian fought to suppress her relief. If she handled this right . . . She assumed what she hoped was a shocked expression. “I’m not surprised she didn’t mention Anvar to the Khisihn. She’s his concubine. That’s why she wants me dead, Harihn—in case I betray her secret! Of course if poor Anvar is dead, it won’t make any difference, but if he’s still alive, it would put your father in a very embarrassing position.”

The Prince let out a whoop of triumphant laughter. “Ah!” he said. “You are repaying my investment already! I wondered, when I rescued you, if you two knew one another. Two outland-ers arriving so close together was too much of a coincidence. I wonder what my father will say when he hears that his precious new Khisihn is another man’s concubine!”

Aurian sighed. What an innocent! “Sara will say that I’m lying, or that you are lying, and the Khisu will believe her of course, and then we’ll both be in trouble,” she said flatly, and Harihn’s face fell. “What you need is proof,” Aurian urged him. “If you could only find Anvar . . .”

The Prince’s face lit up. “By the Reaper, Lady, but you are clever! I never would have thought of that. What a pity that you are a foreign sorceress. You would make a far better Khisihn than that she-jackal of my father’s. You are worth your weight in the treasures of the desert!” It seemed an odd sort of compliment, but Aurian let it pass. Harihn leapt to his feet. “I will send a man down to the docks at once—the trail should start there, if anywhere.”

“Harihn, I don’t know how to thank you,” Aurian told him, in an excess of relief. “As soon as I’m on my feet, I’ll repay your kindness, I promise. With your permission, I’ll start training your personal guard in Northern fighting skills. Then, if your father should make a move against you, you’ll have as much protection as possible.” And when I go away, she thought, at least you’ll still be defended.

“Lady, you have my heartfelt thanks.” Harihn faced her, his front of arrogance replaced by gratitude.

Aurian realized that he was very much afraid of his father —and very much alone. And now she intended to betray him— to win his trust and use what aid he could offer her, and then, as soon as it was expedient, to leave him. In that moment she hated herself. How far would the ripples of Miathan’s evil spread? Were they beginning to engulf her, too? Aurian forced a smile, but she was shuddering inwardly, despising herself for what she was doing. “Your Highness,” she said, “it will be my privilege to help you.” And may the’ Gods help me, she thought.