Krispos the Emperor

V

After a lifetime spent within hearing of the sea, Phostis found the hill country he traveled through strange in more ways than he could count. The moaning wind sounded wrong. It even smelled wrong, carrying the odors of dirt and smoke and livestock, but not the salt tang he'd never noticed till he met it no more.

Instead of being able to look out from a tall window and see far across blue water, he now found his horizon limited to a few hundred yards of gray rock, gray-brown dirt, and gray-green brush. The wagon in which he rode bumped along over winding trails so narrow he wouldn't have thought a horse able to use them, let alone a vehicle with wheels.

And, of course, no one had ever used him as Syagrios and Olyvria did now. All through his life, people had jumped to obey, even to anticipate, his every whim. "Die only exceptions he'd known were his father, his mother when she was alive, and his brothers—and, being the eldest, he was pretty good at getting his way with Evripos and Katakolon. That a rebel officer's daughter and a ruffian could not only disobey him but give orders themselves had never crossed his mind, even in nightmare.

That they could do anything else had never crossed their minds. As the road took another of its innumerable twists, Syagrios said, "Down flat, you. Anybody who sees you is likely to be one of us, but ain't nobody gets old on 'likely.' "

Phostis scrambled down into the wagon bed. The first time Syagrios told him to do that, he'd balked—whereupon Syagrios clouted him. He couldn't jump out of the wagon and run; a stout rope bound his ankle to a post. He could stand up and yell for help, but as Syagrios had said, most of the people hereabouts were themselves Thanasioi.

Syagrios had said something else, too, when he tried to disobey: "Listen, boy, you may think you can pop up like a spring toy and get us killed. You may even be right. But you better think about this, too: I promise you won't be around to see our heads go up on the Milestone."

Was he bluffing? Phostis didn't think so. A couple of times, other wagons or horsemen had trotted past, but he'd lain quiet. Most of the times he was ordered into the wagon bed, as now, no one came round the blind corner. After a minute or two, Syagrios said, "All right, kid, you can come back up."

Phostis returned to his place between the burly driver and Olyvria. He said, "Where are you taking me, anyhow?"

He'd asked that question ever since he was kidnapped. As usual, Olyvria answered, "What you don't know, you can't tell if you're lucky enough to get away." She brushed back a curl that had slipped out to tickle her cheek. "If you decide you want to try to get away, that is."

"I might be less inclined to. if you'd trust me more," he said. In his theology he was not far from the Thanasioi. But he had a hard time loving people who'd drugged, kidnapped, beaten, and imprisoned him. He considered that from a theological point of view. Should he not approve of them for removing him from the obscenely comfortable world in which he'd dwelt?

No. Maybe he was imperfectly religious, but he still thought of those who tormented him as his enemies.

Olyvria said, "I'm not the one who can decide whether you're to be trusted. My father will do that when you come before him."

"When will that be?" Phostis asked for at least the dozenth time.

Syagrios answered before Olyvria could: "Whenever it is. You ask too bloody many questions, you know that?"

Phostis maintained what he hoped was a dignified silence. He feared hope outran reality. Dignity came easily when backed up with embroidered robes, unquestioned authority, and a fancy palace with scores of servants. It was harder to bring off for someone in a threadbare tunic with a rope round his ankle, and harder still when a few days before he'd fouled himself while in the power of the people he was trying to impress.

The wagon rattled around another bend, which meant Phostis spent more time hiding—or was the proper expression being hidden? Even his grammar tutor would have had trouble deciding that—in the back of the wagon. This time, though, Syagrios grunted in satisfaction when the corner was safely turned; Olyvria softly clapped her hands together.

"Come on up, you," Syagrios said. "We're just about there."

Although he couldn't smell the sea, Phostis still thought there would be the port of Pityos. He'd never seen Pityos, but imagined it to be something on the order of Nakoleia, though likely even smaller and dingier.

The town ahead was smaller and dingier that Nakoleia, but there its resemblance to Phostis' imaginings ceased. It was no port at all, just a huddle of houses and shops in a valley a little wider than most. A stout fortress with walls of forbidding gray limestone dominated the skyline as thoroughly as did the High Temple in Videssos the city.

"What is this place?" Phostis asked. He regretted his tone at once; he'd plainly implied the town was unfit for human habitation. As a matter of fact, that was his opinion—how could anyone want to live out his life trapped in a single valley? And how could anyone trapped in a single valley have a life worth living? But letting his captors know what he thought seemed less that clever.

Syagrios and Olyvria looked at each other across him. When she spoke, it was to her comrade: "He'll find out anyhow." Only when Syagrois reluctantly nodded did she answer Phostis: "The name of this town is Etchmiadzin."

For a moment, he thought she'd sneezed. Then he said, "It sounds like a Vaspurakaner name."

"It is," Olyvria said. "We're hard by the border here, and a fair number of princes still call this town home. More to the point, though, Etchmiadzin is where the pious and holy Thanasios first preached, and the chief center of those who follow his way."

If Etchmiadzin was the chief center of the Thanasioi, Phostis was glad his kidnappers hadn't taken him to some outlying hamlet. Back at Videssos the city, he would have blurted out that thought, had it occurred to him. His friends and hangers-on—sometimes it was hard to tell the one group from the other—would have bawled laughter, probably drunken laughter, too. In his present circumstances, silence again seemed the smarter course.

The people of Etchmiadzin went stolidly about their business, taking no notice of the incognito arrival in their midst of a junior Avtokrator. As Olyvria had said, a good many of them seemed to be of Vaspurakaner blood, broader-shouldered and thicker-chested than their Videssian neighbors. An old Vaspurakaner priest, his robe of different cut and a darker blue than those orthodox clerics wore, stumped down an unpaved street, leaning on a stick.

The men on guard outside the fortress were about as far removed from the Halogai in the gilded mail shirts as was possible while still retaining the name of soldier. Not one fighter's kit matched his comrade's; the guards leaned and slouched at every angle save the perpendicular. But Phostis had seen the measuring stare in these wolves' eyes on the faces of the northern men in the capital as they sized up some new arrival at the palaces.

As soon as the guards recognized Syagrios and Olyvria, though, they came to excited life, whooping, cheering, and pounding one another on the back. "By the good god, you did nab the little bugger!" one of them yelled, pointing toward Phostis. As a form of address, that hit a new low.

"Inform my father that he's here, if you would, friends," Olyvria said; from her lips, as from Digenis', the greeting of the Thanasioi came fresh and sincere.

The rough men hurried to do her bidding. Syagrios reined in and alighted from the wagon. "Give me your foot," he told Phostis. "You ain't gonna run away from here." As if reading his captive's mind, he added, "If you try to kick me in the face, boy, I won't just beat you. I'll stomp you so hard you won't breathe without hurting for the next year. You believe me?"

Phostis did, as fully as he believed in the lord with the great and good mind, not least because Syagrios looked achingly eager to do as he'd threatened. So the heir to the imperial throne sat quietly while the driver cut through the rope. Perhaps he and Syagrios shared the Thanasiot theology. That would never make them friends. Phostis had made orthodox enemies when orthodox himself; he saw no reason why one Thanasiot should not despise another as a man, even if they held to the same dogmas.

The guards came straggling back, one a few paces behind the other. The fellow who got back to his post first waved to usher Olyvria, Syagrios, and even Phostis into the fortress. Syagrios shoved Phostis forward, none too gently. "Get moving, you."

He got moving. More soldiers—no, warriors was probably a better word for them, as they had ferocity but seemed without discipline—traded strokes or shot at propped up bales of hay or simply sat around and chattered in the inner ward. They waved to Syagrios, nodded respectfully to Olyvria, and paid Phostis no attention whatever. In his plain, cheap tunic, he did not look as if he deserved attention.

The iron-fronted door to the keep was open. Propelled by another shove from Syagrios, Phostis plunged into gloom. He stumbled, not sure where he was going and even less sure of his footing. Olyvria murmured, "Turn left at the first opening."

He obeyed gratefully. Only when he was inside the chamber did he think to wonder if Syagrios was really as harsh and Olyvria as kindly as they appeared to be. Snapping him back and forth between them like a ball thrown in a bath house struck him as a good way to weaken whatever resolve he had left.

"Come in, young majesty, come in!" exclaimed the slim little man sitting in a high-backed chair at the far end of the chamber. So this was Livanios, then. He sounded as cordial as if he and Phostis were old friends, not captor and captive. The smile on his face was warm and inviting—was, in fact, Olyvria's smile set in a face framed by a neat, graying beard and marred from a couple of sword cuts. It made Phostis want to trust him—and made him want to distrust himself on account of that.

The chamber itself had been set up to imitate, as closely as was possible in the keep of a fortress in the middle of the back of beyond, the Grand Courtroom in the palace compound back at Videssos the city. To someone who had never seen the real Grand Courtroom, it might have been impressive. Phostis, who'd grown up there, found it ludicrous. Where was the marble double colonnade that led the eye to the distant throne? Where were the elegant and richly clad courtiers who took their place along the way to the Emperor? The handful of rudely staring soldiers made a poor substitute. Nor were the ragged priest and the nondescript fellow in a striped caftan adequate replacements for the ecumenical patriarch and the lofty Sevastos who stood before the Avtokrator's high seat.

Phostis knew a weird mental shift as he reminded himself he'd come to despise the pomp and ostentation that surrounded his father. He also wondered why the leader of the radically egalitarian Thanasioi wanted to mimic that pomp.

He had, however, bigger worries. Livanios brought them into sudden sharp focus, saying, "So how much will your father give to have you back. I don't mean gold; we of the gleaming path despise gold. But surely he will yield land and influence to restore you to his side."

"Will he? I wonder." Phostis' bitterness was not altogether feigned. "We've always quarreled, my father and I. For all I know, he's glad to have me gone. Why not? He has two other sons, both of them more to his liking."

"You undervalue yourself in his eyes," Livanios said. "He's turned the countryside around the imperial army upside down searching for you."

"He searches sorcerously as well, and with the same determination," the man in the caftan said. His Videssian held a vanishing trace of accent.

Phostis shrugged. Maybe what he heard was true, maybe not. Either way, it mattered little. He said, "Besides, what makes you think I want to go back to my father? By all I've heard of you Thanasioi, I'd sooner live out my days with you than smother myself in things back at the palace."

He didn't know whether he was telling the truth, telling part of the truth, or flat-out lying. The doctrines of the Thanasioi drew him powerfully. Of so much he was sure. But would men who observed all those fine-sounding principles stoop to something so sordid as kidnapping? Maybe they would, if their faith let them pretend to be orthodox to preserve themselves. If so, they were the best actors he'd ever run across. They even fooled him.

Livanios said, "I've heard somewhat of this from my daughter and the holy Digenis both. The possibilities are ... interesting. You'd truly rather live out your days in the want that is our lot than in the luxury you've always known?"

"I fear more for my soul than for my body," Phostis said. "My body is but a garment that will wear out all too soon. When it's tossed on the midden, what difference if it once was stained with fancy dyes? My soul, though—my soul goes on forever." He sketched Phos' sun-sign above his breast.

Livanios, the priest, Olyvria, even Syagrios also traced quick circles. The man in the caftan did not. Phostis wondered about that. An imperfectly pious Thanasiot struck him as a contradiction in terms. Or perhaps not—that label fit him pretty well. Was he claiming more belief than he really felt to get Livanios to treat him mildly? He had trouble reading his own heart.

"What shall we do with you?" Livanios said musingly. By his tone, Phostis would have bet the heretics' leader was wondering about the same questions that had gone through his own mind. Livanios went on, "Are you one of us, or do we treat you merely as a piece in the board game, to be placed in the square of greatest advantage to us at the proper time?"

Phostis nodded at the analogy; whatever else could be said about him, Livanios knew how to compare ideas. Pieces taken off the board in the Videssian game of stylized combat were not gone for good, but could be returned to action on the side of the player who had captured them. That made the board game harder to master, but also made it a better model for the involuted intricacies of Videssian politics and civil strife.

"Father, may I speak?" Olyvria said.

Livanios laughed. "When have I ever been able to tell you no? Aye, say what's in your mind."

"There is a middle way in this, then," she said. "No one of spirit, whether he followed the gleaming path or not, could be happy with us after we stole him away and brought him here against his will. But once here, how could one of good will not see how we truly live our lives in conformity to Phos' holy law?"

"Many might fail to see that," Livanios said dryly. "Among them I can name Krispos, his soldiers, and the priests he has in his retinue. But I see you're not yet finished. Say on, by all means."

"What I was going to suggest was not clapping Phostis straightaway into a cell. If and when we do return him to the board, we don't want him turning back against us the instant he finds the chance."

"Can't just let him run loose, neither," Syagrios put in. "He tried to get away once, likely thought about it a lot more'n that. You're just askin' to have him run back home to his papa if he gets on a horse without nobody around him."

Phostis kicked himself for a fool for trying to make a break at the farm house. The skinny fellow had kicked him, too, a lot harder.

Olyvria said, "I wasn't going to suggest we let him run loose. You're right, Syagrios; that's dangerous. But if we take him around Etchmiadzin and to other places where the gleaming path is strong, we can show him the life he was on the edge of embracing for himself before we lay hold of him. Once he sees it, as I said, once he accepts it, he may become fully one of us regardless of how he got here."

"That might have some hope of working," Livanios said, and Phostis' heart leaped. The heresiarch, however, was very Videssian in his ability to spot betrayal before it sprouted: "It might also give him an excuse for hypocrisy and let him pick his own time and place to flee us."

"Aye, that's so, by the good god," Syagrios growled.

Steepling his fingers, Livanios turned to Phostis. "How say you, young Majesty?" In his mouth the title was, if not mocking, at least imperfectly respectful. "This affects you, after all."

"So it does." Phostis tried to match dry with dry. If he'd thought fulsome promises would have kept him out of a small, dark, dank chamber, he would have used them. But he guessed Livanios would assume fulsome promises to be but fulsome lies. He shrugged and answered, "The choice is yours. If you don't trust me, you won't believe what I say in any case."

"You're clever enough, aren't you?" Sitting in his high-backed chair, Livanios reminded Phostis of a smug cat who'd appointed himself judge of mice. Phostis had never been a mouse before; he didn't care for the sensation. Livanios went on, "Well, we can see how it goes. All right, young majesty, no manacles for you." Not now, Photis heard between the words. "We'll let you see us—with suitable keepers, of course—and we'll see you. Later on we'll decide what's to be done with you in the end."

The priest who stood in front of Livanios smiled as widely as his pinched features would permit and made the sun-sign once more. The man in the caftan, who stood at Livanios' right, half turned and said, "Are you sure this is wise?'

"No," Livanios answered frankly; he did not seem annoyed to have his decision questioned. "But I think the reward we may reap repays the risk."

"They would never take such a chance back in—"

Livanios held up a hand. "Never mind what they would do there. You are here, and I hope you will remember it." He might listen to his adviser's opinion, but kept a grip on authority. The man in the caftan put both hands in front of him and bowed almost double, acknowledging that authority.

"If he is to be enlarged, even in part, where shall we house him?" Olyvria asked her father.

"Take him up to a chamber on the highest floor here," Livanios answered. "With a guard in the corridor, he'll not escape from there unless he grows wings. Syagrios, when he is out and about, you'll be his principal keeper. I charge you not to let him flee."

"Oh, he won't." Syagrios looked at Phostis as if he hoped the younger man would try to get away. Phostis had never seen anyone who actually looked forward to hurting him before. His testicles crawled up into his belly.

He said, "I don't want to go anywhere right now, except maybe to sleep."

"Spoken like a soldier," Livanios said with a laugh. Syagrios shook his head, denying Phostis deserved the name. Phostis didn't know if he did or not. He might have found out, had the Thanasioi not kidnapped him. But could he have fought against them? He didn't know that, either. He contented himself with ostentatiously ignoring Syagrios. That made Livanios laugh harder.

"If he wants to sleep, he may as well," Olyvria said. "By your leave, Father, I'll take him up to one of the rooms you suggested."

Livanios waved an airy hand as if he were the Avtokrator granting a boon. Having watched Krispos all his life, Phostis had seen the gesture better done. Olyvria led him toward the spiral stairway. Syagrios pulled an unpleasantly long, unpleasantly sharp knife from his belt and followed the two of them. The ruffian, Phostis thought, was not subtle in his messages.

Doing his best to keep on pretending Syagrios did not exist, Phostis turned to Olyvria and said, "Thank you for keeping me out of the dungeon, at any rate." He wondered why she'd taken his side; from a young man raised in the palaces, calculation of advantage came naturally as breathing.

"It's simple enough: I think that, given the chance, you will take your place on the gleaming path," Olyvria answered. "Once you forgive us for the unkind way we had to grab you, you'll see—I'm sure you'll see—how we live in accord with Phos' teachings, far more so than those who pride themselves on how fat their bellies are or how many horses or mistresses they own."

"How could anyone doubt surfeit is wrong?" Phostis said, and Olyvria beamed. But Phostis wondered if sufficiency was wrong, too: the glutton deserved the scorn he got, but was having a belly not growling with hunger every hour of the day also something to condemn? He knew what his father's answer would have been. Then again, he also remained sure his father did not have all the answers.

In normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed arguing the theology of it, especially with an attractive young woman. The knife Syagrios held a couple of feet from his kidneys reminded him how abnormal these circumstances were. Theological disputation would have to wait.

The way he wobbled by the time he got to the head of the stairs also reminded him he was not all he could have been. His own belly grumbled and cried out for more nourishment than he'd had lately.

The chamber to which Olyvria led him was severely simple. It held a straw pallet covered with linen ticking, a blanket that looked as if it had seen better years, a couple of three-legged stools, and a chamber pot with some torn rags beside it. The rest—floors, wall, ceiling—was blocks of bare gray stone. Livanios did not have to fret about his growing wings, either: even if he did sprout feathers, he couldn't have slipped through the slit window that gave the little room what light it had.

The door had no bar on the outside, but it had none on the inside, either. Syagrios said, "Someone will be in the hall watching you most of the time, boy. You'll never know when.

Even if you do get lucky, someone will catch you in the stairs or in the hall or in the ward. You can't run. Get used to it."

Olyvria added, "Our hope is that you won't want to run, Phostis, that you'll find you've gained by coming here, no matter how little you care for the way you traveled. When you see Etchmiadzin, when you see the gleaming path as it leads toward Phos and his eternal life, we hope you'll become one of us."

She sounded very earnest. Phostis had trouble believing she was acting—but she'd fooled him before. He wondered if her father truly wanted him to take his place on the gleaming path. As things stood, Livanios led the Thanasioi, at least in battle. But an Avtokrator's son had a claim on leadership merely because of who he was. Maybe Livanios thought Phostis would be a pliant puppet. Phostis had his own opinion of that.

"We'll leave you to your rest now," Olyvria said. "Come tomorrow, you'll begin to see how the followers of the pious and holy Thanasios shape their lives."

She and Syagrios walked out. She closed the door after them. It wasn't much of a barrier, but it would have to do. Phostis looked around at his cell—that struck him as a better name for the place than room, and in truth no monk would have complained its furnishings were too luxurious. It was, however, not a dungeon. He did indeed have that for which to be grateful to Olyvria.

He lay down on the pallet. Dry straw rustled under his weight. It smelled musty. Straws poked through the thin linen covering, and in a couple of places through his tunic as well. He wiggled till he was no longer being stabbed, then drew the blanket up to his neck. When he did that, his feet stuck out. He wiggled some more and managed to get all of himself covered. Competing fears and worries roared in his head so loudly he could clearly hear none of them. He fell asleep almost at once.

Rain blew into Krispos' face. He cast an unhappy countenance up to the heavens—and got an eyeful of raindrops for his presumption. "Well," he said in a hollow voice, "at least we won't be hungry."

Sarkis rode at his left hand. "That's true, your Majesty. We got the flying column into Aptos just in time to drive off the Thanasiot raiders. It was a victory."

"Why don't I feel victorious?" Krispos said. Rain trickled between his hat and cloak and slithered down the back of his neck. He wondered how well the gilding and grease on his coat of mail repelled rust. He had the feeling he'd find out.

To his right, Evripos and Katakolon looked glum. They looked worse than glum, in fact—they looked like a couple of drowned cats. Katakolon tried to make the best of it. He caught Krispos' eye and said, "I usually like my baths warm, Father."

"If you go out in the field, you have to take that up with Phos, not with me," Krispos said.

"But you're his viceregent on earth. Don't you have his ear?"

"Aye, viceregent on earth—so they say. But nowhere, son, will you find that an Avtokrator has jurisdiction over what the heavens decide to do. Oh, I can tell the clouds not to drop rain on me, but will they listen? They haven't yet, not to me or any of the men who came before me."

Evripos muttered something sullen under his breath. Krispos looked at him. He shook his head, muttered again, and rode a little farther away so he wouldn't have to say anything out loud to his father. Krispos thought about pressing him, decided it wouldn't be worth the argument, and kept his own mouth shut.

Sarkis said, "If you could command the weather, your Majesty, you'd have started doing it your first fall on the throne, when Petronas raised his revolt against you. The rains came early that year, too."

"That's true; they did. I wish you hadn't reminded me," Krispos said. The rains then had kept him from following up a victory and let Petronas regroup and continue the fight the next year. He hoped he'd manage a genuine victory against the Thanasioi before the downpour made warfare impossible.

Katakolon said, "I'd expected the heretics to come out and really fight against us by now." He sounded disappointed that they hadn't; he was only seventeen, with no true notion of what combat was about. Krispos had got his own first taste at about the same age, and sickened on it. He wondered if Katakolon would do the same.

But his son had raised a legitimate point. Krispos said, "I'd thought they would come out and fight, too. But this Livanios of theirs is a canny one, curse him to the ice. He knows he gains if I don't destroy him this campaigning season."

"He doesn't gain if we take back Pityos," Sarkis said.

Krispos' horse put a foot in a hole concealed by water and almost stumbled. When he'd saved his seat and brought the gelding back under control, he said, "I'm starting to think we'll need a break in the rain even to get to Pityos."

"Even if the Thanasioi attack us, it'll be a poor excuse for a battle," Sarkis said. "By the time a man's shot his bow twice, the string'll be too wet to use again. Not much chance for tactics after that—-just out saber and slash."

"A soldiers' battle, eh?" Krispos said.

"Aye, that's what they call it," Sarkis said, "the ones who live to call it anything, that is."

"Yes," Krispos said. "What it really means is, some stupid general's fallen asleep on the job." Soldiers' battles were part of the Videssian military tradition, but not a highly esteemed part. Videssos honored cleverness in warfare as in everything else; the point was not simply to win, but to win with minimum damage to oneself. That could make unnecessary what would have been the next battle.

Sarkis said, "In this campaign, a soldiers' battle would favor us. But for the band of turncoats who went over with Livanios, most of the Thanasioi are odds and sods who oughtn't to have the discipline they need to stand up in a long fight."

"From your mouth to the good god's ear," Krispos said.

"Cowardly scum, the lot of them," Evripos growled; he'd been listening after all. By his tone, he hated the Thanasioi less for their doctrinal errors than for making him get cold and wet.

"They won't be cowards, young majesty; that's not what I meant at all," Sarkis said earnestly. "They'll have fire and dash aplenty, unless I miss my guess. What I doubt is their sticking power. If they don't break us at the first onset, they should be ours."

Evripos grunted once more, wordlessly this time. Krispos peered through the rain at the territory ahead. He didn't like it: too many hills to pass between on the way to Pityos. Maybe he would have done better to stick to the coastal plain. He hadn't expected the rains so soon. But he was too far in to withdraw; the best course now was to forge ahead strongly and hope things would come out right in the end.

That was, however, also the least subtle course. Against the odds and sods Sarkis had mentioned, he'd have been confident of success. But Livanios had shown himself to be rather better at the game of war than that. Krispos wondered what he had in mind to counter it, and how well the ploy would work.

"One more thing I'll have to find out the hard way," he murmured. Sarkis, Katakolon, and even Evripos looked curiously at him. He didn't explain. His sons wouldn't have understood, not fully, while the cavalry commander probably followed him only too well.

Camp that night was soaked and miserable. The cooks had trouble starting their fires, which meant the army was reduced to bread, cheese, and onions. Evripos scowled in distaste at the hard, dark little loaf a fellow handed him out of a greased leather sack. After one bite, he threw it down in the mud.

"No more for you this evening," Krispos ordered. "Maybe hunger'll give you a better appetite for breakfast."

Evripos started worse than the rain that beat down on him. Long used to ignoring importunate men pleading their cases at the top of their lungs, Krispos ignored him. The Avtokrator saw nothing particularly wrong with the army bread. Phos had granted him good teeth, so he had no trouble eating it He didn't like it as well as the white bread he ate in the palaces, but he wasn't in the palaces now. In the field, you made the best of what you had. Evripos hadn't figured that out yet.

Whether from his own good sense or, more likely, fear of igniting his father, Katakolon ate up his ration without complaint. Young face unwontedly thoughtful, he said, "I wonder what Phostis is eating tonight."

"I wonder if he's eating anything tonight," Krispos said. With the evening's orders given, with the morrow's line of march planned, he had nothing to keep him from brooding over the fate of his eldest. He couldn't stand that sort of helplessnes. Trying to hold it at bay, he went over to Zaidas' tent to see what the mage had learned.

When he stuck his head into the tent, he found Zaidas scraping mud off his boots. Chuckling to catch his friend at such untrammeled mundanity, he asked, "Couldn't you do that by magic instead?"

"Oh, hello, your Majesty. Aye, belike I could," the wizard answered. "Likely it would take three times as long and leave me drained for two days afterward, but I could. One of the things you have to learn if you go into magic is when to leave well enough alone."

"That's a hard lesson for any man to learn, let alone a mage," Krispos said. Zaidas got up and unfolded a canvas chair for him; he sank into it. "Perhaps I've not learned it myself in fullness. If I had, I might not come here to tax you on what you've found out about Phostis."

"No one could think ill of you for that, your Majesty." Zaidas spread his hands. "I only wish I had more news—or, indeed, any news—to give you. Your eldest son remains hidden from me."

Krispos wondered whether that showed Phostis was in fact a cuckoo's egg in his nest. But no: the magic Zaidas worked sought Phostis for himself, not on account of his relation—if any—to the Avtokrator. Krispos said, "Have you progressed toward learning what sort of sorcery conceals his whereabouts?"

Zaidas bit his lip; not even a friend casually tells his Avtokrator he has failed to accomplish something. The wizard said, "Your Majesty, I must confess I have continued to devote most of my efforts toward locating Phostis rather than on analyzing why I cannot locate him."

"And what sort of luck have you had in those efforts?" The question was rhetorical; had Zaidas had any luck other than bad, he would have proclaimed it with trumpet and drum. Krispos went on, "Eminent and sorcerous sir, I strongly urge you to give over your direct efforts, exactly because they've not succeeded. Learn what you can about the mage who opposes you. If you have any better fortune there, you can go back to seeking out Phostis."

"It shall of course be as your Majesty suggests," Zaidas said, understanding that an imperial recommendation was tantamount to a command. The wizard hesitated, then continued, "You must be aware I would still have no guarantee of success, especially here in the field. For this delicate work, the tomes and substances accumulated within the Sorcerers' Collegium are priceless assets."

"So you've said," Krispos answered. "Do your best. I can ask no more of any man."

"I shall," Zaidas promised, and reached for a codex as if

about to start incanting on the spot. Before he could demonstrate such diligence, Krispos left the tent and headed back to his own pavilion. He was disappointed in his chief mage, but not enough to say anything more to Zaidas than he'd already said: Zaidas had been doing the best he could, by his own judgment. An emperor who castigated the men he'd chosen for their expert judgment would not long retain such experts around him.

Rain drummed on the oiled silk; mud squelched underfoot. The tent was a joyless place. Krispos felt the weight of every one of his years. Even with the luxuries his rank afforded him—enough room to stand and walk around, a cot rather than just a bed roll—campaigning was hard on a man as old as him. The only trouble was, not campaigning would in the long run prove harder still.

So he told himself, at any rate, as he blew out the lamps, lay down, and tried to sleep. So men always told themselves when they went off to war. So, no doubt, Livanios was telling himself somewhere not far enough away. Only by looking backward through the years could anyone judge who had been right, who wrong.

Outside the entrance to the tent, the Haloga guards chatted back and forth in their own slow, sonorous speech. Krispos wondered if they ever had doubts when they lay down at night. They were less simple than many Videssians made them out to be. But they did actively like to fight, where Krispos avoided battle when he could.

He was still wishing life could be less complicated when at last he surrendered to exhaustion. When he woke up the next morning, his mind bit down on that as if he'd never slept. He dressed and went out to share a breakfast as dank and miserable as the supper the night before.

Getting the army moving helped kick him out of his own gloom, or at least left him too busy to dwell on it. By now the soldiers were more efficient than they had been when they set out from Nakoleia. Knocking down tents, then loading them onto horses and mules and into wagons, took only about half as long as it had earlier. But, as if to make sure no blessing went unmixed, the rain made travel slower and tougher than Krispos had counted on. He'd planned to reach Pityos six or seven days after he set out from Aptos. That would stretch now.

The army rode through a village. But for a couple of dogs splashing through the mud between houses, the place was deserted. The peasants and herders who called it home had fled into the hills. That was what peasants and herders did when a hostile army approached. Krispos bit his lip in frustrated anger and sorrow that his subjects should reckon forces he led hostile.

"They're most of them Thanasioi, is my guess," Evripos answered when he said that aloud. "They know what they have to look forward to when we stamp out this heresy of theirs."

"What would you do with them after we win?" Krispos asked, interested to learn how the youth would handle a problem whose solution he did not clearly see himself.

Evripos was confident, if nothing else: "Once we beat the rebel army in the field, we peel this land like a man stripping the rind off an orange. We find out who the worst of the traitors are and give them fates that will make the rest remember for always what opposing the Empire costs." He shook his fist at the empty houses, as if he blamed them for putting him here on horseback in the cold rain.

"It may come to that," Krispos said, nodding slowly. Evripos' answer was one a straightforward soldier might give—was, in fact, not very different from what Sarkis had proposed. The lad could have done worse, Krispos thought.

Confident in his youth that he'd hit on not just an answer but the answer, Evripos spoke out in challenge: "How could you do anything but that, Father?"

"If we can lure folk back to the true faith by persuasion rather than fear, we cut the risk of having to fight the war over again in a generation's time," Krispos anwered. Evripos only snorted; he thought in terms of weeks and months, not generations.

Then Krispos had to stop thinking about generations, or even weeks: a scout from the vanguard came splattering back, calling, "The bastards aim to try and hold the pass up ahead against us!"

Open fighting at last, Krispos thought—Phos be praised. Already, at Sarkis' bawled orders, the musicians were ordering the imperial army to deploy. While it traveled as a strung-out

snake, it could not fight that way. It began to stretch out into line of battle.

But, as Krispos saw when he rode forward to examine the ground for himself, the line of battle could not stretch wide. The Thanasioi had cunningly chosen the place for their stand: the sides of the pass were too steep for cavalry, especially in the rain, while at the narrowest point the enemy had erected a rough barricade of logs and rocks. It would not stop the attackers, but it would slow them down .. . and here and there, behind the barrier, cloth-covered awnings sprouted like drab toadstools.

Krispos pointed to those as Sarkis came up beside him. "They'll have archers under there, or I miss my guess. The barricade to hold us in place, the bowmen to hurt us while we're held."

"Likely you're right, your Majesty," the cavalry commander agreed glumly. "Livanios, curse him, is a professional."

"We'll send some infantry around the barricade to either side to see if we can't push them back, then," Krispos decided. It was the only maneuver he could think of, but not one in which he had great confidence. The foot soldiers were the poorest troops in his force, both in fighting quality and literally: they were the men who could not afford to outfit themselves or be outfitted by their villages with horse and cavalry accouterments.

Being a horseman himself, Sarkis shared and more than shared the Avtokrator's distrust of infantry. But he nodded, not having any better plan to offer. A courier hurried off to the musicians. At their call, the infantry went forward to outflank the Thanasioi, who waved spears and yelled threats from behind their barricade.

"We'll send the horse forward at the same time, your Majesty, if that's all right with you," Sarkis said, and Krispos nodded in turn. Keeping as many of the enemy as possible busy would go a long way toward winning the fight.

Shouting "Phos with us!" and "Krispos!" the imperials advanced. As the Emperor and Sarkis had thought they would, bowmen under cover from the rain shot at soldiers who had trouble answering back. Here and there along the line, a man crumpled or a wounded horse screamed and broke away from its rider's control.

Then the enemy's awnings shook, as if in a high breeze— but there was no breeze. Several of them fell over, draping Thanasiot archers in yards of soaked, clinging cloth. The stream of arrows slackened. Krispos' men raised a cheer and advanced. The Avtokrator looked round for Zaidas. He did not see the sorcerer, but had no doubt he'd caused the collapse. Battle magic might have trouble touching men, but things were another matter.

Yet the Thanasioi, even with their strategem spoiled, were far from beaten. Their men swarmed forward to fight the foot soldiers who sought to slide around their barrier. The heretics' war cry was new to Krispos: "The path! The gleaming path!"

Their ferocity was new, too. They fought as if they cared nothing whether they lived or died, so long as they hurt their foes. Their impetuous onslaught halted Krispos' infantry in its tracks. Some of his men kept fighting, but others scrambled out of harm's way, skidding and falling in the muck as they ran.

Krispos cursed. "The ice take them!" he shouted. "The good god knows I didn't expect much from them, but this—" Fury choked him.

"Maybe the rebels will make a mistake," Sarkis said, seeking such solace as he could find. "If they come out to chase our poor sorry lads, the cavalry'll nip in behind 'em and cut 'em off at the knees."

But the Thanasioi seemed content to hold off the imperial army. Again Krispos saw the hand of a well-trained soldier in their restraint: raw recruits, elated at success, might well have swarmed forward to take advantage of it and left themselves open to a counterblow like the one Sarkis had proposed. Not here, though. Not today.

The imperial cavalry tried to force its way through the barrier the rebels had thrown up. On a clear day, they could have plied their poorly armored foes with arrows and made them give ground. With the sky weeping overhead, that didn't work. They fought hand to hand, slashing with sabers and using light spears against similarly armed opponents who, while not mounted, used the barricade as if it were their coat of mail.

"They've got more stick in them than I looked for," Sarkis said with a grimace. "Either they put the real soldiers who defected in the middle or ..." He let that hang. Krispos finished it mentally: or else we're in more trouble than we thought.

Unlike the infantry, the imperial horsemen stayed and fought. But they had no better luck at dislodging the stubborn heretics. Curses rose above the clash of iron on iron and the steady drumming of the rain. Wounded men and wounded horses shrieked. Healer-priests labored to succor those sorest hurt until they themselves dropped exhausted into the mud.

Time seemed stuck. The gray mat of clouds overhead was so thick, Krispos had no better way to gauge the hour than by his stomach's growls. If his belly did not lie, afternoon was well advanced.

Then, not far away, shouts rang out, first in the squadron of Haloga guards and then from the Thanasioi. Through the confused uproar of battle came a new cry: "To me! For the Empire!"

"By the good god!" Krispos exclaimed. "That's Evripos!"

At the head of a couple of dozen horsemen, the Avtokrator's second son forced a breach in the heretic's barrier. In amongst them, he lay about him with his saber, making up in fury what he lacked in skill. Half the Halogai poured into that gap, as much to protect him as to take advantage of it in any proper military sense.

The result was satisfactory enough. At last driven back from their barricade, the heretics became more vulnerable to the onslaught of the better-disciplined imperial troops. Their confident yells turned suddenly frantic. "Push them hard!" Krispos shouted. "If we break them here, we have an easy road on to Pityos!" With its major city taken, he thought, how could the revolt go on?

But the Thanasioi kept fighting hard, even in obvious defeat. Krispos thought about the prisoner he'd ordered tortured, about the contempt the youth had shown for the material world. That, he saw, had not been so much cant. Rear guards sold themselves more dearly than he would have imagined, fighting to the death to help their comrades' retreat. Some men who had safety assured even abandoned it to hurl themselves at the imperials and their weapons, using those to remove themselves forever from a worldly existence they judged only a trap of Skotos'.

Because of that fanatical resistance, the imperial army gained ground more slowly than Krispos wanted. Not even more daredevil charges from Evripos could break the heretics' line.

Sarkis pointed ahead. "Look, your Majesty—they're filing over that bridge there."

"I see," Krispos answered. Ten months out of the year, the stream spanned by that ramshackle wooden bridge would hardly have wet a man's shins as he forded it. But with the fall rains, it not only filled its banks but threatened to overflow them. If Krispos' men could not seize the bridge, they'd have to break off pursuit.

"They took a long chance here, provoking battle with their backs to the river," Sarkis said. "Let's make them pay for it."

More and more of the Thanasioi gained the safety of the far bank. Yet another valiant stand by a few kept the imperial soldiers away from the bridge. Just when they were about to gain it in spite of everything the heretics could do to stop them, the wooden structure exploded into flame in spite of the downpour.

"Magic?" Krispos said, staring in dismay at the heavy black smoke that poured from the bridge.

"It could be, your Majesty," Sarkis answered judiciously. "More likely, though, they painted it with liquid fire and just now touched it off. That stuff doesn't care about water when it gets to burning."

"Aye, you're right, worse luck," Krispos said. Made from naphtha, sulfur, the foul-smelling oil that seeped up between rocks here and there in the Empire, and other ingredients— several of them secret—liquid fire was the most potent incendiary Videssos' arsenal boasted. A floating skin of it would even burn on top of water. No wonder it took no notice of the rain.

The last handful of Thanasioi still on the eastern side of the stream went down. "Come on!" Evripos shouted to the impromptu force he led. "To the ice with this fire! We'll go across anyhow."

Not all the men followed him, and not only men but also horses failed him. His own mount squealed and reared in fright when he forced it near the soddenly crackling flames. He fought the animal back under control, but did not try again to make it cross.

That proved as well, for the bridge collapsed on itself a couple of minutes later. Charred timbers splashed into the river and, some, still burning, were swept away downstream. The Thanasioi jeered from the far bank, then began vanishing behind the curtain of rain.

Krispos sat glumly on his horse, listening to the splash and tinkle of the storm and, through it, the cries of wounded men. He squared his shoulders and did his best to rally. Turning to Sarkis he said, "Send companies out at once to seize any nearby routes east that remain open."

"Aye, your Majesty, I'll see to it at once." After a moment, Sarkis said, "We have a victory here, your Majesty."

"So we do." Krispos' voice was hollow. As a matter of fact, Sarkis' voice was hollow, too. Each seemed to be doing his best to convince the other everything was really all right, but neither appeared to believe it. Krispos put worry into words: "If we don't find another route soon, we'll have a hard time going forward."

"That's true." Sarkis seemed to deflate like a pig's bladder poked with a pin. "A victory that gets us nothing is scarcely worth the having."

"My thought exactly," Krispos said. "Better we should have stayed in Videssos the city and started this campaign in the spring than be forced to cut it off in the middle like this." He forced himself away from recrimination. "Let's make camp, do what we can for our hurt, and decide what we try next."

"A lot of that will depend on what the scouting parties turn up," Sarkis said.

"I know." Krispos did his best to stay optimistic. "Maybe the Thanasioi won't have knocked down every bridge for miles around."

"Maybe." Sarkis sounded dubious. Krispos was dubious, too. Against a revolt made up simply of rebellious peasants, he would have had more hope. But Livanios had already proved himself a thoroughgoing professional. You couldn't count on him to miss an obvious maneuver.

Krispos put the future out of his mind. He couldn't even plan until the scouts came back and gave him the information he needed. He rode slowly through the army, praising his men for fighting well, and congratulating them on the victory. They were not stupid; they could see for themselves that they hadn't accomplished as much as they might have. But he put the best face he could on the fight. "We've driven the bastards back, showed them they can't stand against us. They won't come yapping round our heels again like little scavenger dogs any time soon."

"A cheer for his Majesty!" one of the captians called. The cheer rang out. It was not one to make the hillsides echo, but it was not dispirited or sardonic, either. All things considered, it satisfied Krispos.

He rode up close to the bridge. Some of its smoldering support timbers still stood. Evripos looked across the river toward the now-vanished Thanasioi. He turned his head to see who approached, then nodded, one soldier to another. "I'm sorry, Father. I did my best to get over, but my stupid horse wouldn't obey."

"Maybe it's for the best," Krispos answered. "You would have been trapped on the far side when the bridge went down. I can't afford to lose sons so prodigally." He hesitated, then reached out to whack Evripos on his mailed back. "You fought very well—better than I'd looked for you to do."

"It was—different from what I expected." A grin lightened Evripos' face. "And I wasn't afraid, the way I thought I'd be."

"That's good. I was, my first time in battle. I puked up my guts afterward, as a matter of fact, and I'm not ashamed to admit it." Krispos studied his son in some bemusement. "Have I gone and spawned a new Stavrakios? I've always expected good things from you, but not that you'd prove a fearsome warrior."

"Fearsome?" Evripos' grin got wider; all at once, in spite of his beard and the mud that streaked his face, he reminded Krispos of the little boy he'd been. "Fearsome, you say? By the good god, I like it."

"Don't like it too well," Krispos said. "A taste for blood is more expensive than even an emperor can afford." He realized he laid that on too thick and tried to take some of it off: "But I was glad to see you at the fore. And if you go through the encampments tonight, you'll find out I wasn't the only one who noticed."

"Really?" Krispos could see Evripos wasn't used to the idea of being a hero. By the way the young man straightened up, though, the notion sat well. "Maybe I'll do that."

"Try not to let them get you too drunk," Krispos warned. "You're an officer, you need to keep your head clear when you're in the field." Evripos nodded. Remembering himself at the same age, Krispos doubted his son would pay the admonition too much heed. But he'd planted it in Evripos' mind, which was as much as he could do.

He went off to see how Katakolon had fared in his first big fight. His youngest son had already disappeared among the tents of the camp followers, so Krispos silently shelved the lecture on the virtues of moderation. He did seek out a couple of officers who had seen Katakolon in action. By their accounts, he'd fought well enough, though without his brother's flair. Reassured by that, Krispos decided not to rout him from his pleasures. He'd earned them.

Krispos had urged Evripos to go through the camp to soak up adulation. He made his own second tour for a more pragmatic reason: to gauge the feel of the men after the indecisive fight. He knew a certain amount of relief that none of the regiments had tried to go over to the foe.

A fellow who had his back turned and so did not know the Avtokrator was close by said to his mates, "I tell you, boys, at this rate it's gonna take us about three days less'n forever to make it to Pityos. If the mud don't hold us back, mixing it with the cursed heretics will." His friends nodded in agreement.

Krispos walked away from them less happy than he might have been. He breathed a silent prayer up to Phos that the scouting parties could discover an undefended river crossing. If his men didn't think they could do what he wanted from them, they were all too likely to prove themselves right.

Even though he'd not fought, himself, the battle left him worn. He fell asleep as soon as he lay down on his cot and did not wake until the gray dawn of another wet day. When he came out of the tent, he wished he'd stayed in bed, for Sarkis greeted him with unwelcome news: "Latest count is, we've lost, ah, thirty-seven men, your Majesty."

"What do you mean, lost?" Krispos' wits were not yet at full speed.

The cavalry commander spelled it out in terms he could not misunderstand: "That's how many slipped out of camp in the night, most likely to throw in with the Thanasioi. The number'll only grow, too, as all the officers finish morning roll for their companies." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a soldier came up to say something to him. He nodded and sent the man away, then turned back to Kripos: "Sorry, your Majesty. Make that forty-one missing."

Krispos scowled. "If we have to use half the army to guard the other half, it'll be only days before we can't fight with any of it."

"Aye, that's so," Sarkis said. "And how will you be able to tell beforehand which half to use to do the guarding?"

"You have a delightful way of looking at things this morning, don't you, Sarkis?" Krispos peered up at the sky from under the broad brim of his hat. "You're as cheery as the weather."

"As may be. I thought you wanted the men around you to tell you what was so, not what sounded sweet. And I tell you this: if we don't find a good road forward today—well, maybe tomorrow, but today would be better—this campaign is as dead and stinking as last week's fish stew."

"I think you're right," Krispos said unhappily. "We've sent out the scouts; that's all we can do for now. But if they don't have any luck ..." He left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to give rise to any evil omen.

He sent out more scouting parties after breakfast. They splashed forth, vanishing into rain and swirling mist. Along with Krispos, the rest of the soldiers passed a miserable day, staying under canvas as much as they could, doing their best to keep weapons and armor greased against the ravages of rust, and themselves as warm and dry as they could—which is to say, not very warm and not very dry.

The first scouting parties returned to camp late in the afternoon. One look at their faces gave Krispos the bad news. The captains filled in unpleasant details: streams running high, ground getting boggier by the hour, and Thanasioi out in force at any possible crossing points. "If it could have been done, your Majesty, we'd have done it," one of the officers said. "Truth is, it can't be done, not here, not now."

Krispos grunted as if kicked in the belly. Agreeing with Sarkis that he wanted to hear from his subjects what was so was one thing. Listening to an unpalatable truth, one that flew in the face of all he wanted, was something else again. But he had not lasted two decades and more on the throne by substituting his desires for reality: another lesson learned from poor wild dead Anthimos.

"We can't go forward," he said, and the scout commanders chorused agreement. "The lord with the great and good mind knows we can't stay here." This time, if anything, the agreement was louder. Though the bitter words choked him, Krispos said what had to be said: "Then we've no choice but to go back to Videssos the city." The officers agreed once more. That did nothing to salve his feelings.

The Thanasioi tramping into the keep of Etchmiadzin did not look like an army returning in triumph. Phostis had watched—had taken part in—triumphal processions down Middle Street in Videssos the city, testimonials to the might of his father's soldiers and to the guile of his father's generals.

Looking down from his bare little cell in the citadel, he saw none of the gleam and sparkle, none of the arrogance, that had marked the processions with which he was familiar. The fighting men below looked dirty and draggled and tired unto death; several had bandages, clean or not so clean, on arms or legs or heads. And, in fact, they'd not won a battle. In the end, Krispos' army had forced them back from the position they tried to hold.

But even defeat hadn't mattered. Instead of pressing forward. the imperial force was on its way back to the capital.

Phostis was still trying to grasp what that meant. He and Krispos had clashed almost every time they spoke to each other. But Phostis, however much he fought with his father, however much he disagreed with much of what he thought his father stood for, could not ignore Krispos' long record of success. Somewhere down deep, he'd thought Krispos would deal with the Thanasioi as he had with so many other enemies. But no.

The door behind him swung open. He turned away from the window. Syagrios' grin, always unpleasant, seemed especially so now. "Come on down, you," the ruffian said. "Livanios wants a word with you, he does."

Phostis did not particularly want a word with the Thanasiot leader. But Syagrios hadn't offered him a choice. His watchdog stepped aside to let him go first, not out of deference but to keep Phostis from doing anything behind his back. Being thought dangerous felt good; Phostis would have been even happier had reality supported that thought.

The spiral stair had no banister to grab. If he tripped, he'd roll till he hit bottom. Syagrios, he was sure, would laugh the louder for every bone he broke. He planted his feet with special care, resolved to give Syagrios nothing with which to amuse himself.

As he did every time he came safe to the bottom of the stairs, he breathed a prayer of thanks to Phos. As he also did every time, he made certain no one but he knew it. Through the years, Krispos had gained some important successes simply by not letting on that anything was wrong. Even if the tactic was his father's, Phostis had seen that it worked.

Livanios was still out in the inner ward, haranguing his troops about the fine showing they'd made. Phostis could wait on his pleasure. Unused to waiting on anyone's pleasure save his own—and Krispos'—Phostis quietly steamed.

Then Olyvria came out of one of the side halls whose twists Phostis was still learning. She smiled and said to him, "You see, the good god himself has blessed the gleaming path with victory. Isn't it exciting? By being with us as we sweep away the old, you have the chance to fully become the man you were meant to be."

"I'm not the man I would have been, true," Photsis said, temporizing. Had he still been back with the army, half his heart, maybe more than half, would have swayed toward the Thanasioi. Now that he was among them, he was surprised to find so much of his heart leaning back the other way. He put it down to the way in which he'd come to Etchmiadzin.

"Now that our brave soldiers have returned, you'll be able to get out more and see the gleaming path as it truly is," Olyvria went on. If she'd noticed his lukewarm reply, she ignored it.

Syagrios, worse luck, seemed to notice everything. Grinning his snag-toothed grin, he put in, "You'll have a tougher time running off, too."

"The weather's not suited to running," Phostis answered as mildly as he could. "Anyhow, Olyvria is right: I do want to watch life along the gleaming path."

"She's right about more than that," Syagrios said. "Your cursed father can't hurt us the way he thought he could. Come spring, all these lands'll be flowing smooth as a river under Livanios, you bet they will."

A river that didn't flow smooth had won more for the Thanasioi than their soldiers' might, or so Phostis had heard. He kept that thought to himself, too.

Olyvria said, "It shouldn't be a matter of running in any case. We won't speak of that again, for we want you to remain and be contented among us."

"I'd also like to be contented among you," Phostis answered. "I hope it proves possible."

"Oh, so do I!" Olyvria's face glowed. For about the first time since she'd helped kidnap him, Phostis longingly remembered how she'd looked naked in the lamplight, in the secret chamber under Videssos the city. If he'd gone forward instead of back ...

Outside in the inner ward, Livanios finished his speech. The Thanasiot soldiers cheered. Syagrios set a strong hand on Phostis' arm. "Come on. Now he'll have time to deal with the likes of you."

Phostis wanted to jerk away, not just from the contempt in his keeper's voice but also from being handled as if he were only a slab of meat. Back at the palaces, anyone who touched him like that would be gone inside the hour, and with stripes on his back to reward his insolence. But Phostis wasn't back at the palaces; every day reminded him of that in a new way.

Olyvria trailed along as Syagrios led him out to Livanios. The Thanasioi who still filled the courtyard made room for the ruffian and for Livanios' daughter to pass. Phostis they eyed with curiosity: some perhaps wondering who he was; and others, who knew that much, wondering what he was doing here. He wondered what he was doing here himself.

Livanios' smile instantly changed him from stern soldier to trusted leader. He turned its full warmth on Phostis. "And here's the young majesty!" he exclaimed, as if Phostis were sovereign rather than prisoner. "How fare you, young majesty?"

"Well enough, eminent sir," Phostis answered. He'd seen courtiers who could match Livanios as chameleons, but few who could top him.

The Thanasiot leader said, "Save your fancy titles for the corrupt old court. I'm but another man making his way along the gleaming path that leads to Phos."

"Yes, sir," Phostis said. He noticed Livanios did not reject that title of respect.

"Father, I do think he'll choose to join you on the gleaming path," Olyvria said.

"I hope he does," Livanios said, and then to Phostis: "I hope you do. Our brave and bright warriors surely kept your father from making life difficult for us this year. We have a whole season now in which to build and grow. We'll use it well, I assure you."

"I don't doubt that," Phostis said. "Your little realm here already reminds me of the way the Empire is run."

"Does it?" Livanios sounded pleased. "Maybe you can help keep it running as it should, as a matter of fact. Knowing your father, he's doubtless made sure you have some of the same skills he uses, though now you'd turn them to the cause of righteousness."

"Well, yes, some," Phostis said, not caring to admit he'd disliked and scanted administering imperial affairs. He wanted Livanios to think of him as someone useful, not as foe or a potential rival to be disposed of.

"Good, good." Livanios beamed. "We'll yet scour greed and miserliness and false doctrine from the face of the earth, and usher in such a reign of virtue that Phos' triumph over Skotos will be soon and certain."

Olyvria clapped her hands in delight at the vision her father put forward. It excited Phostis, too; this was the way Digenis had spoken. Before, Livanios had seemed more an officer out for his own advantage than someone truly committed to Thanasios' preaching. If he meant to put it into effect, Phostis would have more reason to think hard about fully binding himself to the movement.

Syagrios said, "We'll hit the imperials some more licks, too. I want to be in on that, by the good god."

"There'll be slaughter aplenty for you, never fear," Livanios told him. Phostis' newly fired zeal chilled as suddenly as it had heated. How, he wondered, could you get rid of greed and at the same time maintain a red zest for slaughter? And how could the gleaming path simultaneously contain both righteousness and Syagrios?

One thing was clear: he'd have time to find out. Now that his father's push had failed, he'd stay among the Thanasioi indefinitely. Had he really wanted that as much as he'd thought before he got it? He'd find that out, too.