P 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 E

For Crown. For Country. For Sword.

- Krian vow

Prologue

Dieter scrubbed at his face, willing away his exhaustion. The chaos of battle had finally ceased, and his men would shortly be bringing him the last irritant of the evening - the bastard Salharan who had managed to attack their camp at rest. He shoved strands of silver-touched black hair from his eyes, looking up at the dark gray sky. "Stupid bitch," he muttered under his breath. He snapped his head down at the sound of boots squishing in the muddy swamp that their camp had become. "What?" he barked at the private trying not to shake before him.

"G-General, we caught him."

Gray-green eyes flared. "Bring him to me."

"Yes, Sir!" the private turned and beat a retreat. Dieter noted that if they'd moved half so fast in battle, more of them would have lived. It would seem the new recruits were still sorely in need of training. That would be dealt with in a fortnight when they reached the Winter Palace.

He glared once more at the dark sky. "The Winter Princess has sunk her claws deep this season." A few of his officers, gathered to give their reports, muttered soft agreements. Dieter's next words were prevented by the sound of shouting and scrabbling, words shouted in a language usually foreign to their camp. A moment later four men came crashing into the circle, three of them falling to the ground as they reached Dieter.

The prisoner remained standing, sneering contemptuously at the soldiers who had failed to control him.

Dieter stepped forward, grabbed the prisoner by the scruff of his shirt and swung a hard fist into his stomach. The prisoner collapsed, groaning in pain - but did not pass out.

"That's more like it. Now," he glared at his men, "Start talking."

The first soldier nodded, fumbling to straighten his hat as he snapped to attention. "This is the man that led the ambush, General. The others are all dead."

Unadulterated hate clouded the prisoner's face as he looked at Dieter.

Dieter ignored him. "How did he manage to take us so unawares?"

"We don't know, General." The second soldier started to shrug, then realized what he was doing and froze.

Dieter stared at the prisoner through hooded eyes. The man gave the word filthy all new meaning. His dark green military breeches were so covered in muck and grime you couldn't tell their original color unless you knew it ahead of time. His hair was a mystery - perhaps blonde or brown. He'd lost his military jacket, making rank impossible to determine, and his shirt was little more than scraps of cloth barely clinging to his form. But beneath the rags and the mud, muscle rippled and tensed as he moved and strained against the ropes wound down his arm and locked tightly around his wrists. This was no soldier-in-uniform-only.

Of course, the fact that he'd killed a few hundred of Dieter's best had proven that. "Do you have a name, prisoner?" He noticed, almost idly, that the man's amber eyes turned bright gold in anger.

"Prisoner is good enough for you," the man spat. "You may as well kill me, because I'll not tell you a thing."

Dieter smirked. "That remains to be seen." His gaze hardened as he looked at his men. "Do we know anything about him?"

"He lost his jacket struggling against us, but it had the marks of a lieutenant." The third soldier spoke quietly, as if he sensed the General would be displeased and was hoping to escape detection.

Had Dieter felt like moving, he probably would have backhanded him for acting so weak. His vision misted with rage. "A lieutenant. The best of my Scarlet is dead now because of a polluted lieutenant?" Dieter contemplated landing a few blows, but decided it just wasn't worth expending what energy he had left. "Get out of my sight, all of you. Rest while you can, because tomorrow you're going to wish the Autumn Prince had taken you away!"

The soldiers fled.

Breathing heavily with rage, Dieter grabbed a fistful of the prisoner's filthy hair and forced his head up. "How did you kill so many of my men?"

"I'm polluted, remember?" The prisoner sneered in contempt. "A little pollution is all I need to kill filthy Krians."

Dieter swung out, once more punching him hard in the gut. He glared, enraged, as the prisoner crumpled to the ground and lay still. Using one booted foot, he shoved the prisoner until he lay flat on his stomach. Crouching down, he examined the ropes that bound him. It would not do to injure him overmuch until they could determine a suitable punishment for him. Simply killing him would not suffice. No. This one would pay. Grimacing at the layers of Gods only knew what covering him, he shoved away dirt and scraps of cloth to ensure the prisoner had not suffered serious injury.

His explorations uncovered a strange, unnatural mark at the small of his back. Dieter frowned and wiped away more of the grime, breath hissing between his teeth when he realized what he had uncovered.

Seven thin triangles, shaped around a circle to form a stylized star. Five of the triangles were colored - violet, indigo, blue, green and yellow. Two triangles and the central circle were black. Dieter was torn between annoyance and glee. "That would certainly explain how a mere lieutenant managed to kill so many of my men." Rising to his feet, he called for his officers and began barking orders.

"After all the trouble you've caused," Dieter folded his arms across his chest. "It's good to know you're worth a ransom."

The prisoner shook his head, too exhausted and uncomfortable to offer more of a protest. His arms had had been chained to the ground behind him, forcing him to sit always slightly tilted back, so that the chains wrapped from his neck and down his arms didn't choke him. "They will pay nothing for me."

"If you are going to lie, prisoner, then at least tell a good one. I know a Seven Star when I see one, and I know they will be eager to get you back." Dieter unfolded his arms as an attendant approached with a steaming cup of tea. "But tell my why a Brother of the Seven Star was made a mere lieutenant? Did they think that would keep you from being detected?"

Amber eyes regarded him with hot rage, but it was not the bright gold that Dieter had seen before. The prisoner was growing weaker by the hour, and the strain had dulled his bright eyes. Dieter realized he almost felt disappointed. "They thought it would get me killed sooner."

"Not very intelligent of them," Dieter said with amusement. He took a sip of his dark tea, deciding to play along with the prisoner. "Why not simply kill you themselves?"

This time the eyes did turn gold, though only for a moment. Then the prisoner sneered. "Do not think you'll get any information from me."

Dieter smirked. "Think you I need such information from you? The Brotherhood of the Seven Star, the most polluted men in all of Salhara." He knelt to look the prisoner in the face. "Always before they have been leaders, men of power, not mere lieutenants - unless of course we are wrong about your rank."

The prisoner made a motion that would have been a shrug had he been unbound, "You are correct. I am a Lieutenant. Or was."

"Nor did you use the sort of pollution to which I am accustomed." The trend on the battlefield was to use a wide variety of small pollutions - simple spells - rather than waste their drugs on larger, more complicated spells. Yet this one had used those harder spells.

The prisoner gave a vicious smile. "If I'd done that, you would have been able to defend yourselves."

Dieter narrowed his eyes, sorely tempted to backhand him. He rose to his feet. "You're only alive because of my orders."

Giving another of his awkward shrugs, the prisoner tossed his head to stare him in the face. "You'll be killing me soon anyway. What do I care for your threats?"

"It is not my threats of which you should be wary," Dieter said. "It is my promises. And I promise that once the ransom is paid, you will suffer greatly for what you've done."

The prisoner threw his head back and laughed, the sound of it bitter, half wild. "Then I guess I have nothing to fear at all." His eyes were dampened gold. "Never will they pay a ransom for me."

 

Dieter crushed the missive in one large fist, glowering at everyone and everything within his sight. The soldiers fled, each fearing they would be the one to take the brunt of their General's anger.

The prisoner laughed at him, though he did not sound happy so much as bitterly amused. "I told you so."

"Be silent, prisoner, unless you would care to explain to me why your Brothers do not desire your safe return."

"Because they would rather die than call me Brother." The prisoner slumped over in his chains, no longer seeming to feel the pain caused by his long hours of awkward confinement.

Dieter buried his hand in the man's filthy hair and yanked his head up. "Then what am I to do with you?"

"Kill me."

"No, I think not. All the trouble you've caused, death is too kind a measure." Dieter released him, scowling as he thought.

"General!" A lieutenant approached, touching his right shoulder with his left hand in salute as he snapped to attention. "We are ready to depart."

"Then have the prisoner secured to my horse."

"Yes, General!" The lieutenant saluted again and then barked orders to several nearby grunts.

Several minutes later, Dieter mounted his horse and sneered down at the man chained to the pommel. "I hope you can keep up, Prisoner. If you fall, I will not help you up."

"Think I care?" The prisoner sneered. "At this rate, I will die."

"No, I think not." Dieter gave the orders for his men to march, then continued to speak to the prisoner. "There is too much fight in you. A few days without water and food and you will be begging for the chance to live."

"I would rather die than beg you for anything." Gold eyes flared.

Dieter merely laughed, his own gray-green eyes bright with pleasure at the thought of proving the stubborn prisoner so very, very wrong. "We shall see, prisoner, we shall see." He urged his horse to increase its pace; summoning his captains to discuss the routes they would take to get home.

 

 

Staying together the length of the journey was foolish - they would be safer if they split into smaller groups. He'd already lost more of the Scarlet than he liked; he would not lose more. Beside him, walking along the uneven, rocky ground, the prisoner ground his teeth to hear information that he could not make use of. Dieter saw the frustration and was pleased. Ordering his men away, he spoke once more to the prisoner. "Thirsty, prisoner? We have been traveling for nearly two hours."

The prisoner said nothing.

Dieter chuckled. "You will beg me before the journey ends."

"I will let death claim me first."

"I do not think so." Dieter watched him for a moment, ordering his thoughts and considering his questions. "How do you know our language?"

Silence.

"Ah, but you are a Brother."

Still the prisoner did not reply.

Dieter laughed, "But no - you said they would rather die than call you Brother. Then why do you bear the mark of the Seven Star?"

"Why would you think I'd tell you?"

"You will eventually. Shall we start with your name?"

"Prisoner will suffice."

Dieter laughed. "So stubborn. I will enjoy watching you crumble. But I grow weary of calling you 'prisoner.' If you will not tell me your name, perhaps I should give you one."

"NO!" the prisoner shouted loud enough to startle most of the assembled men. He lowered his voice, and it was full of hate and a shred of panic. "I will never accept a name from you. Prisoner is all that you need call me."

Narrowing his eyes, Dieter spoke briefly with his aide before pulling off to the side of the camp. He dismounted and strode up to the prisoner, grasping him by the throat and pressing just hard enough for it to be painful without inhibiting his breathing. "You are my prisoner and I shall call you what I like."

"No," the prisoner snarled, desperate and angry. "I will never respond to anything but prisoner."

Dieter used his other hand to shove filthy, tangled strands of hair from the prisoner's face, forcing his head up for a closer examination. Beneath a sweaty, dirty face amber eyes shone bright with anger - and the slightest bit of fear. Dieter smiled in a way that made most men shiver. "Beraht," he said softly. "Your name is Beraht."

"I do not accept," the prisoner said. "I would rather die."

"I don't believe you," Dieter said. He released the prisoner and mounted his horse once more. "You will grow tired, and hungry and weary. Already you are suffering from the lack of your precious drugs. By the time we reach camp, you will be begging me. If you want to live, accept your new name or tell me your real one."

"Never."

"Attack!" a scout called as he crested the hill and raced toward the traveling army. "Salharan soldiers, take cover!"

Dieter wasted no time giving orders to his troops, but the orders came too little too late to avoid disaster. In mere seconds his army was a mess, and it was all Dieter could do to keep them from being overwhelmed completely. Everywhere around him were the screams and cries of men and horses, the smell of blood and steel and fire, the air thick with fear and anger and hate.

But there was something strange about it all. Dieter fought off attacker after attacker as his mind tried to put together the pieces that were not fitting together as they should.

As he slew yet another foot soldier from atop his mount, he suddenly realized what was odd. They weren't trying to get him.

They were trying to get past him.

Dieter fought with the chains that had been secured to his pommel, then all but threw himself off his horse and shoved the prisoner to the ground as more Salharan foot soldiers attacked. His sword found its mark in the chest of the first, the throat of the second. His third-in-command took out the last as Salharan trumpets sounded a retreat.

"Get me the counts!" Dieter snarled to his second.

Pushing himself to his feet, he yanked the prisoner up hard and shook him. "Why?" he raged. "Why are my men dying for you? Why are your own people trying to kill you?" he shook the man hard, over and over until they both were gasping for breath.

The prisoner stared at him with eyes that had darkened with fear. "We have to go. Now."

Dieter narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"NOW!" the prisoner screamed. In a burst of strength Dieter hadn't expected him to have, the prisoner grabbed him and turned, using Dieter's own weight to throw the general into the scrubby forest that separated the road from a small, muddy river. Without pause, he grabbed the reins of Dieter's horse and followed the general into the trees.

Dieter struggled to his feet, but before he could the prisoner threw himself on top of the general and held him down as best he could. Dieter continued to struggle, until a thin, high-pitched whining sound filled the air. Until that moment, he had not noticed the stark, unnatural silence. "No..." he whispered. He ceased struggling, and instead began to silently recite the prayers for peace in death.

Above him, still holding the still general down, the prisoner chanted words of his own. Not a prayer, but a spell. One last dose he'd had hidden in his boot, and it was just enough to cast a single spell.

"Protect us."

 

 

"They were not Salharan." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Dieter's voice was flat. He cursed himself a thousand times for falling for a trick he should never have let deceive him.

"No," the prisoner said. "I should have realized it sooner."

Dieter shook his head, mind in turmoil. Everyone was dead. Everything was gone.

He glared hatefully at the prisoner. "Why did they want you?"

"I don't know."

"TELL ME!" Dieter roared and threw himself at the prisoner, pinning him to the ground

"I don't know!" the prisoner cried, chains rattling as he struggled against Dieter's iron hold. "My own people don't care if I live or die. Why would the Illussor?" He lay still, gasping for breath, amber eyes glazed with pain. "I don't know!"

Dieter let him go with a rough cry. "I should kill you."

"It would be a mercy," the prisoner said bitterly.

"Which is why I will not." He looked pensively at the prisoner, who was examining the food over the fire. "Are you hungry?"

"I will never be hungry enough to accept your name." The prisoner looked at him with an angry frown, and Dieter would swear there was something of a pout to it.

Dieter lifted the roasting meat from the fire. He ate heartily for several minutes, offering the prisoner none. "Why are you so touchy about a simple name? It is not as though it would kill you to be called something other than prisoner. Or you could simply tell me your real name."

"What does it matter!" the prisoner snapped. "I am of no concern to you. At least not important enough that you need my name. A prisoner is all I am, and a prisoner is all I shall be."

Dieter considered him. "You could have escaped, in the time you had after using your damned pollutions."

"Those pollutions saved your life," the prisoner replied.

"You are still my prisoner."

The prisoner hefted his chains and sneered. "So I noticed. Whatever happened to a life for a life?"

"You took the lives of my men, and the rest of them died because the Illussor wanted you. Tell me why I should not let the devils have you?"

"Because though the Krians hate Salhara, they hate the Illussor more. You will not give them what they want - especially if you think I can be used against them."

"You think you can be used to hurt them?"

The prisoner snorted, "No. But they were after me for a reason."

"A reason you claim not to know."

"I speak the truth!" the prisoner shouted, his words echoing off the cave just behind them. "I am rejected by my brothers and my country. I am nameless. I have no purpose."

Dieter stared at him in surprise. "How is a man nameless?"

"None of your business."

"Why did you kill my men, if you have no brother, no country, no purpose?"

"Kill a hundred of my enemies and I shall welcome thee as friend. Kill a thousand of my enemies and I shall welcome thee as brother," the prisoner quoted softly. He looked at Dieter, eyes burning hot gold in the firelight and setting sun. "The blood of the Kria is my only hope."

"Would that I could kill you," Dieter swore. "That is not what the saying means. Sacrificing my men for so selfish a purpose. I will find a fitting punishment if it is the last thing I do."

The prisoner closed his eyes and laughed. "Do your best."

 

 

The prisoner was dying.

Dieter had lost track of the days with which he'd been without food or water. At least three as they traveled; one or two after his Scarlet was slaughtered and however many days they had been on the road.

Ever under cover, traveling at night when the Illussor were at their weakest.

Dieter held him close, expression intent as he looked at the man barely conscious in his arms. "Do you really want to die?"

"No..." Pale gold stared weakly at Dieter. "But I will not accept your name. Let me be called prisoner and be content."

"No," Dieter said fiercely. He wished he could explain to them both why it mattered so much. Because the prisoner was right - a name mattered little to him. He shouldn't care whether the man lived or died. He should want him dead, after the massacre of his entire Scarlet.

Except he wanted the strange prisoner, filthy and weak and enemy that he was, to accept the name that Dieter had chosen. On some level, it mattered. Dieter had learned long ago to trust such feelings, whether he understood them or not.

"Do you want to die nameless?" he asked desperately, sensing somehow this was the right thing to say. "Unwanted by the people who should be welcoming you as a hero? Alone in the woods in the arms of your enemy?"

A hundred emotions flickered across the prisoner's face, pain and rage and misery flickering like shadows in dying amber eyes.

"You are Beraht," Dieter said firmly. "Accept it."

"You don't understand..." the prisoner whispered, but the rest of his protest died on his lips. He sighed, nodding feebly. "So be it."

"Say it."

"My name is Beraht."

 

Part One
Kria

A sword used well will kill its enemies. A sword used poorly will kill its wielder.

- Krian saying

Chapter One

"We lost him." Dressed head to toe in clothing that seemed to blend into the room around him, a man with dark yellow eyes knelt at the foot of a dais, bowing his head at the three men seated there. "I told you not paying the ransom would be a risk."

The man in the middle, tall and thin and gray, spoke in a booming voice that shook the dark stone chamber in which they gathered. His eyes were dark red. "Watch your impertinence. What do you mean we lost him?"

The kneeling man shook his head. "We followed him by tracking his magic. He has used it up. Until he takes another dose, we have lost him."

"Nonsense. Yellow lasts for weeks, and we know he took several vials. He should have the magic in his systems for weeks yet."

"Not if he pushed himself and burned it all off," the man said quietly.

On the rightmost side, a man with deeply tanned skin and dark orange eyes moved restlessly in his seat. "Why do you think such a thing?"

The dark-clothed man motioned to the door. "I have brought a guest who will help explain."

"Bring him in, Tawn," the last man snarled. He was pale and sickly; his hand shook as he raised it to motion the guards to open the doors. His eyes were red, so dark as to appear almost black.

Tawn nodded and rose to his feet, moving with cat-like grace to the doors and vanished into the hallway. He returned a moment later dragging a man whom he threw to the floor as he reached the dais. Gasps filled the room and more than a few of the gathered members stumbled several steps back.

The tall, gray man rose to his feet, voice booming in anger and some fear. "Why have you brought an Illussor into our stronghold?"

Tawn grinned, an expression that made those closest to him shiver, and stepped forward to lift the figure up so that they could see his face.

The Illussor's skin was a pale, almost silvery white in the light of the candelabra that fought off the darkness of the windowless chamber. His hair was the same, shining like fine silver.

The Brothers gasped, breaths hissing out in stunned disbelief.

The Illussor had no eyes.

"How did you manage that?"

Tawn laughed, cold and hard. "This one was unconscious and so did not fall to the Scream cast by his superior. He was too weak to use magic." He turned the Illussor's head, stroking a cheek still crusted with dried blood. "Take out its eyes and it will never cast illusions again." He let the Illussor go, and the blinded man fell back down upon the stones, trembling.

The Trio all nodded, and the sickly man leaned forward in his seat. "Why do we need an Illussor? What can it possibly tell us?"

"We found several of them in a battlefield, amongst a great many dead Krian soldiers. Not just any Kria soldiers..." Tawn paused, brown eyes flaring into a deep gold.

"Get on with it," the tall man spoke.

Tawn smirked. "They were amongst fallen Scarlet."

"Scarlet?" the dark-skinned man exclaimed.

"Yes," Tawn said, his voice filled with delight. "Nameless killed at least a hundred of them, and the Illussor Scream wiped out another five hundred or more."

All around the chamber the assembled Brothers murmured quietly amongst themselves.

The sickly old man shook his head slowly back and forth, unable to absorb what he'd been told. "Incredible. General von Adolwulf has been our greatest threat for years now. To think he and so many of his men were so suddenly done in by a Scream..."

"Yes," the gray-haired man spoke. "He is our nemesis because he is much more clever than that. How did such he fall for an Illussor trap?

Tawn pulled hard at the Illussor's hair. "That is a question for you to answer, Deceiver. Speak."

The Illussor was trembling, and licked his dry lips before responding. "I am merely a foot soldier. Our orders were to devastate the Scarlet. I know nothing more than that."

"You lie." Tawn pulled harder, until the Illussor cried out in pain. "Speak the truth. There is worse I can do than tear out your eyes."

Shaking in pain and fear, the Illussor never the less shook his head. "I can not tell you what I do not know!"

"You had best tell us something, Illussor." The central man spoke sharply, coldly. "Your life is only as valuable as the information you give us."

The Illussor turned toward the sound of his voice, hissing in pain at Tawn's hold. "You will kill me anyway. And I swear to you, there is nothing I can tell you."

The man with orange eyes motioned impatiently. "Lock him up. He will talk after a few days, when dark and cold and hunger begin to really take their toll."

Tawn nodded and departed the room, dragging the prisoner behind him like a sack.

The Brothers turned to one another, discussing the matter in whispers and mutters. The three men on the dais called them to silence. The sickly one spoke. "The Illussor do not simply kill an army; it is not their way. If it were, we would all be dead by now. Sol, attend!"

A man in the dark gray uniform of the Royal Army stepped forward. His eyes were bright yellow. Though he was only thirty-eight years old, his ash blonde hair was almost completely gray. Combined with his uniform, the man had an austere, almost melancholy air about him. When he stepped forward, the whispering in the room faded. "Yes, my Lord Jaspar?"

"You still have access to Kria?"

"Of course, your Grace." Yellow eyes took on a speculative gleam. "What are your orders?"

"I want to know the fate of the Scarlet, and if they were carrying anything of importance that managed to slip by us."

"Your will be done."

"Excellent," the man said with what could almost be considered glee. On either side of him, his compatriots expressed their own satisfaction. "See that you gather as much information as possible. The Illussor have been behaving oddly for some time now; to massacre the entire Scarlet is a drastic measure. I want to know why they resorted to it."

General Sol bowed low. "Your will be done." Turning sharply, Sol strode from the room to carry out his orders. Behind him, the Brothers continued to argue and suppose.

Outside in the hallway, his respectful mien fell away. He cast his eyes toward the shadow lurking between torches. "How did you happen to be so near that battle, Tawn, yet know nothing of what occurred or why?"

Tawn chuckled and pulled away from the shadows. "What makes you think I know something?"

"You always hold something back. It's a wonder the Brothers have not figured that out yet."

"They're too busy reveling in their Illussor captive."

Sol strode close and caught Tawn by the scruff of the neck. "Desist, Tawn. I've little patience for your games today."

"You never have patience for my games."

"Then why do you persist in playing them?"

Tawn laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant or happy sound. "If you enjoyed them, what would be the point in playing them?"

Sol slammed him against the wall. "Desist, Tawn."

"Yes, yes." Tawn shoved him away and brushed off his shirt. "You need to develop a sense of humor, General Sol. Or should I call you Lord Grau? It's so hard to remember who you are and when."

Sol backhanded him. "I said desist."

"You will pay for hitting me, General."

"Idle threats. We both know that you will not kill me for a long time yet."

Tawn's eyes were bright with anger and barely repressed magic. "And on that day, you will pay for every abuse you've laid upon me. Make no mistake." He stepped back into the shadow, away from Sol's anger.

"So you've said before. Now tell me."

Tawn glared but began to explain. "Shortly before the Illussor attacked, the Scarlet was struck a hard blow by our nameless brother. He took out a hundred men with his own magic, and further damage was done by other soldiers who were killed shortly after the Scarlet began to fight back. Nameless was captured some minutes later and taken as a personal prisoner of General von Adolwulf. When the Illussor attacked, it slowly became apparent that they were after Nameless. He and the General were not seen after the Scream; it is presumed von Adolwulf was killed. We of course know that nameless lives. No doubt that is why his magic burned out so rapidly. It would have taken every shred he possessed to resist a Scream."

"Why would they want a lousy peasant? I doubt the Illussor know he is a Seven Star." Sol frowned in thought. "Keep searching for him, and when you find him bring him to me in Kria. I will take care of matters from there."

Tawn laughed. "Of course."

Sol did not reply, but turned on his heel to finally escape the dungeon where the Seven Star meetings always took place, up winding stairs until he reached a door of dark, heavy oak. From a heavy ring of keys at his waist, he selected a large, plain iron one. The door opened soundlessly into a large wine room, hidden behind several barrels.

From there he ascended into the kitchens, slipping out the back door and working his way around the white stone palace to the royal gardens. Several minutes and winding hallways later, he was back safe and sound in his own room. He woke his sleeping manservant with a sharp clap to the head. "Pack my things, Dal. We leave this very night for Kria. Where are the cleansers?"

Dal lifted a small leather case from the dresser and opened it, holding out a small glass vial filled with a milky grayish substance. "Here, Lord General."

"Thank you." Sol drank the liquid in one swallow. He swayed for a moment, feeling nauseous, as the cleanser began to take effect.

Dal regarded him politely, blandly, though his pale green eyes were attentive. "Perhaps you should sit down, Lord General?"

"I'll be fine." And several minutes later he seemed to be, though Sol knew he would not feel like eating or drinking much for the next three days while the cleanser finished the job it had only begun.

By the time they reached Kria, he would be nothing more than a familiar face at the royal court, a peasant-turned-noble from unexpected fortune. No sign of his Salharan pollution would remain.

Still far below the palace, Tawn strolled into the small dungeon where his blind Illussor was chained to the wall. "Are you ready to talk now?" He spoke in Illussor, his accent nearly flawless.

"There is nothing I can tell you."

"Let's start with your name."

Despite the blood that caked his face, the dirt and grime that covered him from head to toe, there was steel in the Illussor soldier's voice as he turned his head up toward the sound of Tawn's voice. "No. I know the power that Salharans place in names. All the power to control a man lies in the name he is given. If you want my name, you will be wanting for a long, long time."

"A name only holds power if you are the one to give it - or not give it as it were." Tawn grinned maliciously. "You're awfully stubborn for a blind Illussor. Especially one who spent his journey here trembling and crying."

The Illussor curled his lip in contempt. "Say what you will. But I know that even blind and chained, I am far superior to a man who must drug himself to do his job."

Tawn reached out and kicked him hard in the groin, good mood restored when the Illussor tried to bend over in pain, gasping, unable to cry. "You know nothing about it." He turned to leave. "I'll be back in a few days. In the mean time, I'll leave the guards to teach you manners befitting a blind prisoner."

Nothing but darkness surrounded him. After beating him, the guards had taken the only torch in the room.

Not that he could see it, but he had felt it and taken the meager comfort it offered. Now he sensed there was nothing at all. He could not hear even the shuffling and skittering of the things that thrived in dark, moldy places. The guards hadn't bothered to chain him again. What would be the point?

He cried quietly, the pain coursing throughout his body paling in comparison to the fact that his eyes had been torn out. Nothing but empty holes now, his precious eyes. Not even a strip of cloth to hide his shame.

If only he could die. But suicide was admired only when Screaming and he was no longer capable.

And he wanted revenge against the one they'd called Tawn. He remembered the face, thin and tight, cruel lines etched around the mouth and sick yellow eyes. The drugs had gone far with that one, but not quite past the point of no return.

The voices though. The ones from the damp room. He bet they were beyond that point. His life he would bet on their eyes being red, or even black.

It made him smile, a dark, unhappy smile but a smile all the same.

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor broke into his black thoughts, followed by a second thump - then the scrape of a key in a rusted door, and a screech as the rusted door was yanked open.

He bit his lip, refusing to speak. Because if he did, he might finally lose control.

A gentle touch on his shoulder. "Are you all right?" A voice he didn't recognize - of course he wouldn't recognize it - spoke softly, barely above a whisper. In Illussor. There was no trace of an accent. "Of course you're not. Are you at least well enough to move?"

"Who..." he licked his lips. "Who are you? What trickery is this?"

"No trickery, Captain."

"How did you know I was a Captain?"

The soft voice laughed, and he thought it the warmest sound he'd heard since his world was ripped away. Who was this voice? It was Salharan, no mistaking that. But why would a Salharan be kind? "You are up to something."

"Yes, but it is something in your favor. Come now, Captain. We've not much time. I've made it look as though your Brethren have come to rescue you, but if we do not depart posthaste my deception will be discovered. I have not your people's gift for tricking the mind - only the eyes. Please, Captain. Come, if you want to live to fight another day."

"Who are you?"

"Later. A name spoken now bodes ill."

"Superstition." But he nodded, and allowed the Salharan with the voice like a summer breeze to help him up. He bit back cries of pain, and tumbled into the stranger.

Strong arms caught him, steadied him, and one slid to his waist to support him. "Can you walk?"

"I will walk."

"Very well." He imagined he heard approval in that voice, and then wondered why he cared if the enemy approved or not. Clearly the darkness was driving him mad more rapidly than he had anticipated. Slowly, painfully, they made their way from the dungeon and up a set of winding stairs. When they emerged, he smelled snow and crisp winter air.

Then he began to shiver, as the cold hit him. But in the next moment a warm, a soft cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and gently clasped at his throat. He touched the cloak pin there, feeling only the cold bite of metal and the hard smoothness of gems. The crunch of boots on snow brought his attention back to his position. He looked toward the sound.

"Come, Captain. We must ride for a while yet before I shall feel we are safe."

"Won't they think it strange when you are gone?"

The warm voice laughed again, and suddenly his bitterness and anguish hit him all over again, as though his eyes were recently torn away and not days and hours gone. Because more than anything at that moment, he wanted to put a face to that voice, that summer laugh.

He never would.

A hand grasped his gently and tucked it into one of those strong arms, and bitterly he realized that for the rest of his life he would be treated as an invalid and not as the soldier he'd been for the past decade. "Careful, Captain. The ground here is treacherous in good weather and the snow makes it deadly even to those with perfect vision."

He allowed himself to be led across the field, until he could smell and hear a horse. A very large horse.

Again with the misery. These things he had not considered, simply because he never thought to leave the dungeon alive. And now that the dungeon was gone, and he was free, he wondered if he was more or less a prisoner than before.

But someone, somewhere, had seen fit to send him a second chance on a summer wind. Whether the wind boded ill or fortune, he would not question now. He let go of the arm that had guided him and reached out to feel the horse. This he had done hundreds of times, morning noon and night. Taking a deep breath he made himself move, and managed to mount the horse.

A moment later the man with the summer voice mounted behind him and took the reigns, clicking softly.

Unsettling, to ride when he could not see. He felt he could live for decades and never grow used to his new half-life. His exhaustion hit him hard, abruptly, every fiber of his body screaming in abject pain. Dizzily he wavered in his seat, but then a strong arm wrapped more firmly around his waist, and pressed him back against a wide, massive chest.

"It is hard," he said quietly. "To accept help from one of those who took my eyes."

"I am nothing like him." The summer voice took on a winter edge, the contempt and hate so deep it startled him into silence. "You are one more transgression for which he will someday pay. If I thought my apologies worth anything, I would offer them. But for what it's worth, I am not an enemy. I am a comrade."

"Are we safe enough that I might know your name?"

"That is a hard question to answer, actually. A name is a precious thing in Salhara, this of course you know."

"Yes."

"There are two stigma which can be inflicted upon a person to make it clear they are not worthy of anything but the lowest of servitude. One, of course, is to be nameless. In being nameless, a person will do anything to earn a name. Because to be nameless in our society-"

"Is not to exist," he said softly.

"Exactly. But the second stigma is to carry several names."

"Why is that a stigma?"

"Because the only thing as bad as not having an identity is to not know what your true identity is - too many names at once and you no longer know who you are. This is the stigma given to criminals enlisted to help with the war as spies. Spies must have several names, several identities, and given that one of Salhara's greatest enemies is a nation of deception...to be a spy is a contemptible thing."

"So you were once a criminal?"

"No, actually." The summer laugh turned slightly bitter. "My father was, but he went and got himself killed before they could arrest him. I was made to take his punishment."

How curious, this rescuer of his. "So what should I call you? Stranger?"

"The Krians know me as Lord Grau, and it is to that country we journey. I have duties there, and you will also have a chance to recuperate. Your people, or at least the Illussor with whom I communicate, call me Spiegel.

He gasped. "I have heard of you...but most think it an absurd rumor that a Salharan would betray his own to side with the Deceivers."

"It is no lie. And here, Captain Iah Cehka- for of course I know you, though we've never met - I will try to earn your trust. For only my Seven Star brothers know the stigma I carry. The rest of Salhara knows me as General Sol deVry."

Iah nodded slowly, hoping none of his astonishment showed. "I recall you. Gray hair, yellow eyes." Of course he knew that face. Fourth General Sol deVry of the Salhara Royal Army. He didn't appear often on the battlefield, but he'd stuck in Iah's mind. Silver hair and gold eyes, such a strange contrast. And what a relief, a small, silly joy, to have a face to go with his summer voice.

"Polluted eyes."

"I thought Salhara worshipped its artificial magic like most do gods."

"It does," Sol said in a soft voice laced with pain. "I would like to change that. Not all of us are lost to the colors of magic."

Iah felt exhaustion overtaking him again, and allowed himself to relax against the general. Though his mind still rebelled at trusting a Salharan, his instincts were quiet - they feared nothing. Iah was willing to trust them. It was not as though he had a choice, really. "Thank you, General, for rescuing me. I don't know why you did it, but I appreciate it."

"I did it because I will need you. Do you recall why you fought the battle against the Scarlet?"

"Yes," Iah whispered. "It was because General Lysam thought we'd found the Breaker." And the General was dead from Screaming, and they'd gained nothing by it. A wasted death like all the others. But if he thought of his men and his comrades now, he would lose what remained of his control.

"You might have. He was the personal prisoner of General von Adolwulf. He lives still, though I know not where. But Tawn, bastard that he is, will find him and bring him to me. And then you can tell me for certain if he is indeed the Breaker."

Iah refused to believe it was possible, that their goal was as close as that. "Then what?"

"Then we will take him to the Prince, and stars willing he will Break."

Chapter Two

Beraht woke slowly, wishing desperately to go back to sleep and avoid the ache he could already feel forming in his head. Served him right, burning off that much yellow arcen in one spell.

Of course, if he hadn't he'd be dead but at the moment that really didn't seem like such a terrible idea.

Finally forcing his eyes open, Beraht immediately took in the cloak that covered him. Of heavy black wool, the bottom and top were liberally trimmed with gray wolf fur. He threw it off and clambered to his feet - then regretted it. Stars he hated winter.

Food was cooking on a spit over a small campfire, a bucket of water nearby. Beraht glanced up, noting that the sun was going down. Great, he'd woken just in time for it to get colder.

If the cloak hadn't belonged to the bastard General, he'd reassume it and go back to sleep.

Where was von Adolwulf anyway?

He was sorely tempted to run for it. But he had no food, inadequate gear thanks to stupid soldiers taking half his clothes and tearing the rest - stars he was cold - and he had no idea where he was. Except still in Kria.

Surely life couldn't get much worse.

The sound of something coming through the trees and bushes had him spinning around, tensed to put up whatever fight he could.

And there was his other reason for not running away. He wanted von Adolwulf to take his name away. Beraht eyed him warily as the General first moved to fetch his heavy cloak, then moved toward him.

Beraht looked up as he drew close.

And up.

Just how much arcen had he been on? How exhausted had he been the past few days? To not notice the man was a good five inches or more taller than him? He was built like he probably killed the wolf on his cloak with his bare hands.

No wonder they'd told him to go after the Scarlet. How had it not turned into a suicidal mission?

Sheer dumb bad luck, that's how. First the Seven Star tattoo, then finding out the Seven Star didn't want him. Then told he had to kill 1000 people - at least - before they'd consider him. Then told it had to be the Scarlet.

And now General von Adolwulf was looking at him like he would quite cheerfully like to throw him in the fire.

The feeling was entirely mutual, and the size of a mountain or not the bastard General was going to know that.

"You're finally awake."

"You're very observant."

Beraht wondered how many soldiers in a day got glared at like that. He sobered, recalling suddenly that they no longer had to worry about the General's glares.

Which reminded him - why had the Illussor been after him?

Great. So his own people wanted him dead. The Krians wanted him dead. The Illussor wanted him...for something.

The next time death came up as an option he was going to take it.

He didn't bother to fight when von Adolwulf grabbed what was left of his shirt and hauled him close. Looking up was going to give him a crick in the neck eventually, but for now he'd manage.

"You'd do well to remember, Beraht, that you are my prisoner. And after what happened to my men, I will not be so kind as to kill you."

Beraht's anger flared anew at the sound of his new, hated name. Damn it, he'd been earning a real name from his Brothers. He would have belonged, would have had a place and a full Star. Instead he was now worse than Nameless and the star at his back would never go past yellow. "It's not my fault!"

"Winter's Tits it's not! Why!" von Adolwulf threw him to the ground. "Why? Why would the Illussor want a worthless Salharan?"

"When you figure it out let me know," Beraht snapped, picking himself up off the ground.

"If I were you, Beraht, I would cease being flippant." The general's eyes were a strange mix of gray and green. Currently they were as hard as stone.

It really was no wonder everyone was terrified of the bastard. Beraht shoved away his own trepidation. Maybe if he angered him enough, von Adolwulf would lose his temper and beat him to death. Not a pleasant way to die, but he would take what he could get. "Sorry, flippant is the only way I know to be. If you don't like it, ignore me or kill me." This time when the General came after him, Beraht braced himself and attempted to fight back, dodging away from the hand that reached out to grasp him.

But fighting without magic was hard to do. Especially against a man who made wild bears look small. Just how far gone had he really been?

Beraht hit the ground with a pained grunt, the breath knocked out of his lungs, unable to see clearly for a second. But when his vision did clear, he saw all too well the anger and pain that filled the General's face.

"My men are dead. All of them. Not through battle defending their homeland or reclaiming lost ground. Not for a cause. But because the Illussor wanted you badly enough they Screamed. "

"That Scream could have killed us too, you know." But the heat had gone out of his voice, though he wanted it back. Every fiber in his body railed against the man pinning him down.

The Scarlet Wolf. His own men were terrified of him. Salharan soldiers dreaded hearing his name. None of them ever expected to live to see the day after a battle against him.

And now his gray-green eyes were the color of storm-tossed leaves, dark yet bright, full of anger but also pain. If Beraht were a weaker man, he might almost feel sorry for the bastard.

But no one had ever given him sympathy. He'd be damned if he gave it to a General who scared even his own men to death. "If I hadn't still had yellow Arcen in my boot, we'd both be dead. General. So maybe you're angry, but it's not my fault. I'm as ignorant as you."

With a rough, muttered curse the General released him and roughly hauled Beraht to his feet. "Keep your mouth shut," he said, brutally grabbing Beraht's chin and forcing him to look up. "Do as I say. Try to run and I will cut off your feet."

Beraht narrowed his eyes and dug his nails into the wrist that held him. "General, one day you'll grow sick of me. You'll try to rid yourself of me. But it won't happen. I'll not leave your side until you take away my name. I refuse to live quietly with the name you've shamed me with. So don't get your hopes up about cutting off my feet."

The General's grin was nothing less than wolfish when he let go of Beraht, not affected at all by the bloody marks left by Beraht's nails. "Do your worst. The more excuses I have to beat you, the better."

"You don't strike me as the type to need an excuse."

"Think what you like." He turned away, dismissing Beraht entirely to examine their dinner, which had singed slightly. "Come. Eat."

Beraht for a moment thought to refuse, but his stomach growled and he was forced to admit - to himself - that a war, even a private one, could not be waged on an empty stomach. Reluctantly he sat down and accepted what the General gave him, eyeing it warily before biting into meat that, though singed, was the best thing he'd had in months.

"You need clothes."

"Wouldn't you prefer to see me freeze to death slowly?"

"Not until I've paid you back for killing my men."

"The Illussor killed your men." Beraht glared. "I had nothing to do with it."

"You were the motive."

"Unwitting."

"Irrelevant."

"You're every bit the bastard I've always heard you to be."

The General sneered. "Hoping to regain ground with compliments?"

"There is nothing about you worth complimenting."

Not bothering to respond, the General rose to his feet and strode to a set of saddlebags hanging from a tree. Rifling through it, he pulled out a shirt and over tunic.

"Those are far too big for me."

"If you do not put them on, I will do it for you."

Finishing his meat, Beraht threw the stick to the ground and snatched at the clothes held out to him. "Would you like to search me for pollution before I change?"

"I already did," the General said.

Biting off his curses, refusing to let the thrice-cursed Krian see how disconcerting that statement was, Beraht began to change. Von Adolwulf's clothes were far too large, but they were warmer than his own. If he was going to become a prisoner of Kria, why couldn't it have waited until Spring?

Von Adolwulf put out the fire, and in minutes it was hard to tell anyone had ever made camp there. "Come, we have far to go."

Beraht started to protest, then thought better of it.

The horse was as much a monster as the master. Which reminded him - where had his chains gone? He looked at his wrists, which had partially healed as a side-effect of the protect spell. "Do you miss them?" von Adolwulf asked.

"Don't you?" Beraht replied. "I am not the one who must worry about a knife in my back."

Von Adolwulf laughed. "Are you admitting to cowardice then, Salharan? And I've no need to fear a betrayal from you, Beraht. Do I?" He urged his horse forward, pulling up alongside Beraht. "Come. I don't have all day. You can ride the easy way or the hard way."

"So we're not going to drag me around in chains this time?" Beraht said.

"I gave you a chance," von Adolwulf replied. He reached down and grabbed Beraht by his tunic, then hauled him up and over the saddle like most would a sack.

"Let me go!" Beraht said, twisting around in a vain attempt to knock them both down. Von Adolwulf laughed and threw him to the ground. "Would you like to try again? I suggest you do it properly, because my patience is wearing thin. We won't be stopping until we reach the Stone Temple, and that is several hours away."

Beraht grimaced and mounted the horse. Morosely he wondered how many times he would be picking himself up off the ground, as von Adolwulf seemed to delight in throwing him down. He must be sporting more than a dozen bruises; no doubt he'd break something before the journey concluded.

They rode in a silence broken only by the sound of hooves speeding over dirt and grass. Von Adolwulf had chosen to avoid the roads, and so there were not even other people to distract his attention. Nor even any animals.

Winter was falling hard and fast throughout Kria. Only the southern area usually escaped the worst of the weather which fell with lethal force across Kria and most of Illussor. The snow in Salhara was not nearly so bad. It was lighter back home, and for the first time since he'd left it Beraht found himself missing his flat, sandy home.

But after another hour of riding, even those memories could not distract from the pain in his head. Like knives driven into the back of his skull and pushed through to the front. He bit back any sounds that would give away his discomfort and desperately sought for any distraction. It had been a long time since he'd had to live longer than a few hours without arcen easily accessible.

The pain was as bad as he'd been warned. He needed more.

Distraction. He needed distraction. Casting his eyes out, Beraht encountered nothing but brown field and a swiftly approaching forest - the dark, heavy, always green trees not usually found in Salhara. There was something bizarre about a tree that was always green. He'd always liked them.

As they entered the trees, the going grew rougher and despite himself Beraht held fast to the arm heavy around his waist. He looked at it, not quite able to look at the trees rushing toward and at the last past them.

Von Adolwulf was strong. In a handful of days he'd been better acquainted with that strength more than he'd ever wanted. He ached in places he hadn't known were part of his body until Von Adolwulf managed to bruise them. His wrists would not soon forget the chains...nor would his dignity. Even traitors in Salhara did not get carted around in chains. Chains were for slaves; something they'd outlawed years ago, when it grew more and more important that they have able, willing soldiers to fight against the Krians - and the Illussor when they showed up.

The arm around his waist held him with no effort. He wondered if von Adolwulf even remembered he was here. Nor did his monster horse appear to notice the extra weight. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear the beast was enjoying itself.

At least the pace and the company, hated as it was, kept him warm. Only the air he breathed in told him how chilly it was - and it was getting colder. Hopefully this temple von Adolwulf had mentioned would prove to be a real shelter. He frowned, flipping through what he knew of Krian geography in this area.

No temple came to mind. So it was insignificant enough even the Krians didn't bother to mark it on a map? He'd never heard of them neglecting such a marker before. At the rate they were traveling, they'd be a hundred miles or more northeast of the Disputed Fields by nightfall.

Of course it was foolish to think that the Krians let their best maps anywhere near their enemies. The ones they had were probably the work of children when compared to what must accompany Krian generals into the field. How he'd love to get his hands on one of those, rather than the crummy, faded scrap he'd been working with ever since he'd been given his stars-cursed assignment.

The Stone Temple was exactly that. Stone. And a temple. No wonder he'd never seen it noted on any map. It had to be the most boring thing he'd ever seen. That Krian taste for simplicity that more often ran toward painfully dull. Was there a spark of imagination in them anywhere?

Back home temples were pretty things. Fine wood polished to a shine, draped with soft, jewel-tone fabrics. Lit by beeswax candles, filled with candles and the songs of the devout. But here...it smelled damp. And stale. There were no candles, and only moonlight and wind filled the barren, open space. A single statue stood at the far end of the room. Beraht conceded the statue was impressive, eight feet high and depicting a man who looked as though everything amused him greatly. He pondered what little he knew of Krian religion - this would be the Spring Prince? It was not as grand as it could have been. There was not half the design to it that a similar statue back home would have carried.

Still...he had never been in a Krian building before. His experiences were limited to the battlefield and sneaking around at night to do further harm. The only worship he ever saw there was the strange Krian obsession with their swords.

"Krians love their swords more than their gods, I'd say. Maybe divine displeasure is why you travel home a failure every season." He was beginning to enjoy pissing the General off, though only the Stars knew why.

But then von Adolwulf laughed, and Beraht found himself looking briefly between the general and the statue.

"A failure? I think not. Every year I succeed in keeping you thrice-damned Salharans from laying claim to the Regenbogen. Perhaps it's all the time and effort you waste making your shrines look pretty that cost you all that skill on the battlefield." He sneered. "Then again, it's not like you can expect skill from someone so polluted he needs that pollution to function normally."

Beraht returned the sneer. "If I had arcen with me now-"

Steel hissed against leather, and Beraht found himself between cold stone and colder steel. "If you had your drugs with you now, you still would be dead. Pollution is no substitute for steel, to which many of your dead comrades will attest."

"That sword didn't save your men, did it?" Beraht barely had the sentence out before his world spun out from underneath him in a flash of pain. He crumbled, holding his stomach, and watched through watery eyes as von Adolwulf stalked away.

Dieter seethed. He sheathed his sword as he approached the statue of the Autumn Prince, and reached out with one hand to touch the tip of one boot in respect. Killing Beraht would be the easiest recourse. But killing him wouldn't bring his men back. Hundreds of men, some of the best in Kria, killed by a Scream by the thrice-cursed Illussor.

All because of a Salharan. He spared a brief look over his shoulder at Beraht, who still was on the ground. Dieter sneered. Perhaps his people were mocked for favoring weapons over "magic" but it was steel that had held the Regenbogen decade after decade. The bastard Salharan could not even block a simple gut punch.

Polluted fools.

Dieter drew his cape from his shoulders and reached into a pocket buried by folds of fur. He withdrew a small ring of keys and flipped through several before settling on a small, plain steel key. Touching the boot of his patron god once more, he moved around the statue and fit the key to a hole hidden by the overhanging edge of the pedestal. A soft click was snatched away by the wind.

He contemplated Beraht, who was slowly standing. Pain was quickly masked by anger. Dieter smirked, amused. The last few prisoners taken had not lasted more than a day against 'Krian brutality.' Of course, a man who had single-handedly taken out so many of his Scarlet in the span of a few hours was obviously cut from different cloth. But he was a Brother - for all the good that had done him. Dieter's mood soured further. Returning the keys to his cloak, he stalked toward Beraht and grabbed his arm. "I should leave you up here to suffer in the wind...but any suffering you endure will be at my hand." He grinned in the way that had sent green soldiers running into walls in their haste to find a door.

Beraht grinned back just as nastily. "We'll see who suffers, General. By the end, you'll beg me to be gone."

"Don't make me laugh." He hauled Beraht along, not giving him a chance to find his feet. "And I can always tie you up, Beraht." The Salharan cringed at the sound of Dieter speaking his name, and Dieter laughed to rub salt in the wound. The Salharan obsession with names was the one thing he'd never been able to understand. One hand strayed to his sword, fingertips touching the hilt briefly. Names were important, but they were not as important as other things. He dragged Beraht behind the statue, and pulled at a sconce on the wall.

The wall swung open, revealing a set of spiraling stairs. It was a short flight, the true temple was not all that deep underground.

He heard Beraht mutter something in his native language, and smirked.

Stupid Salharans.

Temples for the Autumn Prince were always underground, a show of respect to the dead buried underground. This particular temple was empty; it took him a couple of minutes to get all the torches lit, but when he did the room was a beauty to behold. Black and red and gold, the colors of the Autumn Prince. And the Scarlet.

Beraht was still muttering to himself in Salharan; it was the first time since he'd encountered him that he'd bothered to speak his native tongue. The temple was warm despite its location, and the numerous torches dispersed the last remnants of what chill had lingered.

They were a hundred and fifteen miles north of Regenbogen, making this the last temple - really more of a refuge - before entering what Kria considered battleground. He grabbed Beraht and all but threw the man deeper into the temple, swinging shut the wooden door that sealed off the stairs. Later he would lock it. "Make yourself at home," he said.

He left Beraht to continue gawking at the temple. It was a medium-sized room, one corner given over to bedding, another to a low table for eating, relaxing. Off the right side would be a room for business - a high table, with maps and other tools for war. Off the left side was a bathing room, though Dieter regretted it did not have a proper bath. But that would come soon enough; if he continued to push home was a little less than two weeks away.

Instead of the three or more it would have taken with his men. He focused on his anger, blocking out all else as he cleaned himself up. They would all pay...after he determined what was going on. It frustrated him that, near as he could tell, Beraht seemed genuinely confused as to why the Illussor had wanted him. There would be few to no clues coming from that quarter.

Dieter scrubbed angrily, until he was red and raw from cleaning. From cedar chests in the corner he drew out clothes left the last time he'd passed through. When he remerged in the main chamber, he was not surprised to see Beraht out cold amongst the heap of bedding in the far back corner. He stalked across the room and hauled him to his feet, shaking him awake. "Now, now, little prisoner. I don't want you infesting this place with more vermin than absolutely necessary."

"What? Even your vile little brothers can't stand your company?" Yellow eyes flashed with anger. Strange that they were still so bright, when he could tell from the way Beraht had been holding his head that he was suffering severely from withdrawal.

He half shoved, half threw him in the direction of the bathing room. "Get clean. Then maybe I'll let you sleep."

The words hurled at him were uttered in Salharan. Dieter laughed. Settling himself amongst the bedding, tossing aside extraneous pillows, he drew his sword and stared at it in silence. Through his head ran the names of his third-in-command, his assistants, strategists and so many others who would not make it home. All because of a Salharan and the damned Illussor.

And he, who should have been aware of the Illussor trick. But his punishment would come soon enough. Of that he had no doubt. He allowed his mind to wander, though one ear was ever on the sounds of Beraht in the other room.

His sword glinted in the light, and for a moment it seemed as though colors shimmered deep within. It was a long sword, old but much cared for. Made with skill. The hilt and pommel were black, and in the bottom of the pommel was set a large, round, blood red stone. Even in his youth, it had been decided he would someday lead the Scarlet. Dieter sheathed it and drew the keys from his cloak before setting both aside. He locked the door and returned to his bed. A few minutes later Beraht emerged.

Clean, he looked almost completely different. Shaven, he looked young. Perhaps thirty, but Dieter wondered if he might be younger. His hair was not as dark a blonde as he'd thought; it was actually quite pale. But the eyes were still as yellow, even dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere he'd found clothes that fit, and his glare dared Dieter to protest his taking them.

As if he cared. "Now you may sleep," he said, and smirked to see the ire that flashed across the man's face. It was like toying with a new recruit. Far too easy. "And I don't suggest attacking me in my sleep."

"You're not worth losing sleep over," Beraht returned. And saying nothing more, he reclaimed his section of bedding and fell almost immediately to sleep.

Dieter sneered at his still form.

Headaches. Exhaustion. Beraht was progressing rapidly through the stages of withdrawal. It would be amusing when he woke up starving in a few hours, with no idea where to find food.

Beraht sat up, instantly awake. The room had been dimmed down from nearly two dozen to only four torches, and he was painfully aware of the fact that they were underground, with no sun and stale air. It was little better than living in a cave. Heathen Krians. As beautiful as the room was, it was still a hole in the ground.

Stars above he was hungry. For something very specific, but he was as likely to find arcen here as he was to get along with his bastard keeper. He stood up, resisting the urge to kick the man who slept only a few steps away...one hand on his sword. Beraht snorted. Krians and their weapons. If he took the sword away, would von Adolwulf snarl or cry?

Probably kill him. Which was an idea to keep in reserve. There was no telling what was in store for him when getting to safety was no longer a priority. Though he had no intention of dying bearing a Krian name, it was possible that there would be no other recourse.

Beraht realized suddenly that he had no idea where to find food. There was no obvious cupboard. They were already in a cellar. Damn it. At least the pain in his head had dulled. Stars he just wanted to go back to sleep.

"Hungry?" An all too smug voice made Beraht start. He hoped the bastard hadn't noticed. Had he been awake the entire time? Probably. One day the tables would be turned, and oh the revenge he would have.

Instead of answering, Beraht curled back up in his bedding. Everything smelled like the trees outside, mixing with dust and some strange powder that he'd determined kept out insects and the like.

Laughter met his silence, and he heard von Adolwulf lay back down. Eventually his breathing evened out. Beraht turned over to his other side and stared at the general's shadowy form.

Shaggy, black, silver-touched hair. Even asleep he dwarfed his surroundings. He slept soundlessly, breaths audible only because there was literally no other sound in the room. Beraht was surprised. A man like von Adolwulf he would have expected to sleep with one eye open...perhaps he did. Could he kill him now?

With what? Beraht snorted softly. If he had arcen, the problem would already be resolved. But without his magic, and suffering from a lack of it, he doubted he could best von Adolwulf if he had all the weapons and the general was already wounded.

He turned back over. How twisted that his captor was the person he had the least interest in killing. Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly. Beraht choked on a sound that was half laughter, half sob.

Nameless his entire life. Only to be offered a place on the condition he killed. To have even that taken away, forced to take a name bestowed by a Krian.

Not by a parent. Not by a spouse. Not by a brother.

By an enemy.

He curled up tightly, ignoring the pains of both body and mind as best he could, until sleep finally carried him away again.

Chapter Three

"Lord Grau," an older woman greeted him with a smile. "We were just finishing up."

"Excellent," Sol said, returning the smile. He looked at Iah, who sat quiet and motionless in an old, wooden chair. The cottage wasn't much, but over the years it was probably the place he thought of most fondly. Lying in the woods, just shy of the northern border between Salhara and Kria, it was an ideal place for him to switch identities. He paused to look in the mirror just inside the main cabin, having gone outside to treat his hair.

Rather than gray, it was a dark, nutty brown. His eyes too had been altered with chemicals, dimming their distinctive yellow to a dim, brownish amber. It didn't hurt that treating them thus also gave him a slow look. Lord Grau was an amusement in the Emperor's court, 'endearing' to a few of the kinder women. A lotion, yet another handy trick developed by the clever Mella, darkened his skin. In a few weeks he would not need it, the sun bowing to winter's strength, but for now it would look strange if he did not have tanned skin.

Mella clucked at him. "It's always strange, the way you alter your appearance. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"I'm not used to it, Mella. Why should you be? How fair you, Captain?" Sol dropped to one knee and carefully took one of his hands, letting Iah know exactly where he was. He spoke in Iah's language.

"Well enough, all thing's considered." Iah lifted a hand to his bandaged eyes. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

"I would imagine not," Sol replied. He stood slowly, never releasing Iah's hand. "I doubt you find it reassuring," he said teasingly. "But you make for a fine Krian."

Iah laughed sadly. "At least I make for a good something. Certainly I'm not much of an Illussor anymore."

"Now don't say that," Sol said. He tugged Iah up, gently adjusting his clothes so that they fell properly. It had taken him a long time to adjust to Krian clothing; the heavy fabrics and intricate fastenings, everything lined or trimmed in fur. But Iah seemed to wear his long coat fine - perhaps because unlike Salhara, Illussor spent almost as much time buried in the cold as Kria. "When you bring home the Breaker, all will call you a hero." He touched the bandages softly.

"I suppose..." Iah said, then changed the subject. "I would imagine we can't go around calling me Iah, can we?"

Sol hesitated. "No, we cannot."

Iah smiled. "Am I running up against a stigma with names? You shall have to explain it all to me sometime. I fear I do not understand it."

"Names are power. Power of life. Power of death. Do not give a name lightly. Do not take a name lightly. Do not share a name lightly. Do not speak a name lightly," Sol recited. "To give a name is to give a life. To strike a name is to kill a man. Whosoever names you has power over you."

"I still don't really understand."

Sol nodded. "I will explain over dinner, if time permits. For now, more important matters. Do you speak Krian at all?"

"Only battle speech," Iah said. It wasn't unusual for soldiers to pick up a measure of fluency in the language of his enemies. Krian, Salharan and Illussor soldiers alike all managed to learn at least a bit of one another's language.

"Then we will practice on the journey. You will have to be fluent."

Iah smiled. "Or I could be mute."

"That will be our last resort," Sol said. He stood and tugged Iah to his feet. "We will also have to drill you on Krian custom. I don't suppose you know any of that?"

Iah frowned, and his head swayed back and forth in thought. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped, a pang in his chest. Captain's bobbing like a bird again. We're in for it now! "They're obsessed with their weapons," he said finally.

Sol threw his head back and laughed. "Obsession is what we would call it. Krians know weapons. How to fight the old way. They take it very seriously."

"Yes," Iah said. He shook his head, recalling things that had never made much sense to him. "I've been told they name their swords. The more absurd rumors state they treat their swords like lovers."

"Sort of," Sol said quietly. "A man names his sword after the person he loves."

Iah grimaced. "How Krian, to call a tool for killing after a beloved."

Sol's voice carried a gentle reprimand. "Krian soldiers go into battle assuming they will die. Like all of us. They call their swords after their 'beloved' so that they'll die with the person they love beside them."

"I have never heard such a thing," Iah said softly, ducking his head.

"Neither had I," Sol said more gently. "It will take us two weeks to reach the Winter Palace. Let us hope we can make you properly Krian by the time we reach it."

Iah nodded.

"Come," Sol took his arm and tucked it into his elbow. "We will eat the dinner Mella has prepared and begin your instruction tonight. By journey's end, you will be as comfortable as a native." He laughed briefly. "Provided of course that you do not get into any fights. If there is one thing even I will not attempt, it is to fight a Krian. Nothing would single me out as foreign faster."

"Of that, I have no doubt."

"Come then," Sol said. His words were not the up and down tones of Illussor, nor the clipped, sharp words of his own country. They were the gruff, rolling words of the Krians, and Sol spoke it as flawlessly as he had Illussor. "Dinner awaits and I'm starving."

He guided Iah into his chair and contemplated the man as he took his own seat. Even blind and uncertain, Iah had an inherent dignity about him. Sol remembered the way he'd trembled during the meeting of the Seven Star. Shock and fear must have been overwhelming, for no one ever dared to take an Illussor captive. For Salhara, who relied so heavily on arcen to perform magic, Illussor was feared as much as despised for its natural magic. And the dreaded spell for which they had come to be named. Whatever the country had once been called - for that hadn't always been its name - it was lost.

The Salharan in him winced at the idea of a name being not only discarded but forgotten. But Illussor was fitting, so perhaps the stars knew something he didn't. He snorted softly and turned his mind back to Iah.

Strange how complacent the man was...but perhaps it was simply desperation. It was not as though he'd had many options. Still. If it were his eyes, he would not be so calm.

Of course, if Tawn ever tried to attack him it would not end in his eyes being harmed. Sol forced himself to relax before his tension relayed itself to Iah. Tawn was a problem he would take care of in time. Likely neither of them would survive the encounter. In the mean time, the bastard was useful.

May his sister forgive him.

Sol closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Thank you, Mella." He smiled at her and indicated for her to go. Mella nodded and departed, leaving the two men alone. Sol switched to Krian, and the language was both strange and familiar on his tongue. He had learned it back when it was frowned upon to have anything to do with the enemy. Before he'd been made a soldier. The Krian language was easy to love - far simpler than the flowery words of the Illussor, and so different from his own. Though he did not love the country, he did not hate it either. Not like he did Salhara. "A bowl of stew is directly in front of you; utensils to the immediate right. A glass of wine to the left and up slightly. Napkin south of the bowl. Bread below the wine glass. If you need anything, you've only to say."

Iah seemed uncertain, and Sol repeated the words again, slowly. Iah nodded, and after he began to eat Sol did likewise.

"You..." Iah spoke slowly, his Illussor accent glaringly apparent. "Know my problem."

"My sister," Sol said. "She fell sick. The fever took her sight." Calmly Sol ate, enjoying the hearty stew made from a lingering deer he had killed the previous day. All too soon such meat would be hard to come by.

"I am sorry. What was her name?" Frustration laced the awkward words, punctuated by the way he fumbled to eat.

Sol took pity and switched to Illussor. "Her name was Ariana." He bit back the bitter words he wanted to speak. The name was a pretty one, even if the giver had proven unworthy. It suited her, he must remember that.

Silence fell, and Sol listened to the wind outside. "It is going to snow," he said in Krian. "We will have to travel quickly, or we will be caught in it." Iah nodded and he continued. "The Winter Princess is ruthless to those who disobey her will."

"What?" Iah asked.

Sol switched back to Illussor. "Do you know anything about Krian religion?"

"They worship the seasons," Iah said after a moment of thought. "I've heard 'Winter Princess' before, along with 'Spring Lord.' But that's all I know."

"The Autumn Prince presides over death. After the dying of all things in autumn, the Winter Princess brings a time of slumber, for things to mourn and heal, until the Spring Prince coaxes Winter from her sadness and she once again brings warmth as the Summer Princess."

"I see..." Iah said, not really seeing at all.

Sol laughed. "All you really need to know is that anything bad can be laid at the feet of Autumn and Winter. All good things are attributed to Spring and Summer. Technically they're the gods and goddesses of the various seasons. I don't think even the Krians know why they call them prince and princess - I would hazard to say its affection, but that doesn't fit at all."

Iah smiled briefly.

"The most common epithet you'll hear is-"

"Tits of the Winter Princess!" Iah said, and the Krian rolled easily off his tongue that time. He laughed. "That phrase I know - my men were rather fond of it. I'm afraid their image of a winter princess is probably not very Krian. And I suppose it is rather more fun to say than "Goddess curse you!"

It surprised Sol when he laughed again. He smiled across the table at his companion, then remembered that Iah could not see him. A familiar pang, and for a moment he saw not Iah but his sister. Dead three years and at the end she may as well have been dead. After her vision had gone, Ariana had given up.

Not that he could blame her.

He watched Iah eat, the confidence that grew with every successful effort.

Strange to have a companion when he was used to working alone. Fitting that the companion was Illussor. And when this journey concluded, he would well and truly find an end. In Illussor. The closest he would ever have to home.

If he didn't die killing Tawn first.

"You still have not said anything about my Krian name." Iah smiled ruefully. "It's strange. I recognized your name, and indeed I would recognize a number of Salharans. But the only Krian I know by name is the General von Adolwulf." He stumbled over the name, native sing-song syllables clashing with the harder Krian.

Sol snorted in amusement. "That is because when the General is around, it is hard to notice anything else. The Scarlet Wolf..." He leaned back in his seat, tapping his spoon against the table as he thought. "I wonder if he is still alive. Tawn voiced doubts; it was a Scream after all..."

"If anyone could survive a Scream, it would be the Wolf of Kria."

"At least we know the Breaker survived."

Iah nodded. He smiled a moment later. "You are still avoiding the matter of giving me a name. As I said before, I would pick one - but my knowledge of Krian names is limited to the Wolf. I think people might notice a resemblance."

"Yes, perhaps." Sol managed a laugh, then fell silent.

"Is it really so hard a thing? To pick a name?"

"A weak name will result in a weak person."

"Ridiculous." Iah reached carefully for his wine glass, fingertips knocking into it enough to jar but not quite spill. He held it in both hands and sipped slowly. "A man is weak or not; his name does not decide that."

Sol did not bother to argue. "I do not want to pick a name that does not suit."

"It will suit."

"Why are you so eager to take up a new name?"

Iah touched the bandages covering his empty sockets. "Perhaps because I no longer feel like myself. It would be nice to be someone else for a little while."

"Erhard," Sol said it heavily, as if they meant something. "Erhard Grau. My cousin, whom I have brought with me after a hunting accident cost him his vision. That will also account for why you may falter and speak slowly - or occasionally not at all."

"Erhard," Iah repeated. He said it a few more times, growing comfortable with the syllables. "And you are Lord Grau?"

"Alban Grau," Sol said. "You will call me Alban, or cousin."

Iah nodded, and he continued to drill Iah on Krian culture, pausing only just long enough for Mella to bring out their dessert when she returned from her walk.

Sleep was not forthcoming. Would he ever grow used to the permanent dark? Every morning he woke up expecting to see the sun. A moment of panic as he realized he couldn't see.

Followed by a wave of grief as he remembered he would never see again.

Only Sol and his summer voice kept the grief from consuming him. Steady, patient - the voice of a teacher or a priest. It was hard to fit it with what he knew of the soldier. Fourth General Sol deVry. Well known for his magical dexterity and the burning yellow, not quite orange of his eyes. Almost but not quite to the point where there would be no escaping the deadly effects of the flower the Salharans called arcen.

Doubts mingled with the fear that kept him awake. Fear for the moment of waking; doubts for his current circumstances. Only days ago he had been telling stories with his men around a campfire.

Then his commander had lost all reason, driving them into battle against five hundred Scarlet. Because he'd sensed the Breaker.

Iah had felt it too, right at the end.

Uncorrupted. Untapped. Pure as forbidden crystal.

Had they really found their Breaker at last? What if the Scream had killed him? How many more years would they have to search for another? What if he lived? Would he agree? Why should a Krian or Salharan agree to help?

But a Salharan was helping. And that brought more doubts to the fore. What was Sol's real game? A man who played all sides was conceivably playing more. How did a Salharan General come to know so much about what only a select few Illussor knew? Even he wasn't supposed to know as much as he did.

Iah shuddered and turned his mind off. Too many things. Too much of it wrong. Only the dark to turn to now. He'd never see his sister's face again, or those of his friends. Not their graves, not their families. Never would he see his home.

No more magic. Perhaps there was a blessing there...but better to die an Illussor than to live as...whatever he was now.

This wasn't helping. He hadn't quit when Tawn had ruined his life. He wouldn't quit now.

An owl broke the still night, and Iah pulled his blankets up further. Opposite him, Sol slept soundlessly. The man was as quiet in sleep as he was awake. Iah reached a hand outside the blanket, feeling the heat of the fire. Slowly he sat up, and shifted and turned and fumbled until his head was near the fire rather than far from it. Feeling the heat of it wash over him, he began to whisper softly all the Krian words he could think of, repeating them until he felt he had a grasp for how it should be properly said.

There was no way anyone would think him Krian, not after only two weeks of study. But he would try, and die doing it if he must. To bring the Breaker to his King. That Esta might smile again, though he would never see it.

So possibly his friends and comrades would not be reviled by his blindness.

And, if he were honest, for that summer voice.

Gradually the words grew slower, and fainter, until Iah fell asleep with Krian words half-formed on his lips.

"Ready, Cousin?" Sol spoke slowly, as if to a child - or a man badly injured in an accident.

"Yes," Iah said. His voice was low, and he pronounced everything slowly. Though their audience was only Mella and Sol's manservant - Dal? - there would be no room for error later. Better to get it right from the beginning. He still felt as though he were sleeping, dreaming, to be preparing for a journey into the heart of Kria. How many times had he heard his comrades and superiors bemoan their inability to breach Kria? None got past the Scarlet Fortress and lived for long.

He did not even begin to understand how Sol fit easily into not only Krian court life but also apparently into Illussor. The man was tricky, no two ways about it. Spiegel. Mirror. Interesting that his countrymen had given their Salharan spy a Krian name. No doubt it was part of the game.

A sharp wind blew up, and Iah felt homesick. In only a month or so the palace would be half-buried in snow. Esta would insist on dragging him out and do her very best to see they froze to death doing things normally reserved for children.

Iah forced the thoughts aside and focused on the tasks at hand. Carefully he held out a hand, quelling the relief that sprang up when Sol gently took it and guided it toward the waiting horse.

He would miss horse-riding, for there was no way he could ever do it solo now. Another pang to be shoved aside for later. There was no time for such things. Sol helped him up, steadying him until Iah felt comfortably settled, then mounted behind him. He spoke rapidly in Krian to Mella; most of the words were lost on Iah. To his left he heard Dal mount his own horse and second later they were off.

"What is the view?" As Sol began to talk in slow, careful Krian, Iah felt himself relax despite the frustration that tried to rise when he was forced to have Sol repeat things. But Sol was patient, and bit by bit he began to understand what was being described.

Snow, with the promise of more from the clouds above. Trees, the sort that were green in winter. Smoke in the distance, from villages and towns. And little more than a shadow, the city where the Krian emperor lived in spring and summer. The land was rolling, up and down and very seldom flat.

"We travel due north for a bit, then we turn and go west. That will take us past the summer palace and on toward the Winter Palace, where we will meet up with the king and his court. If we attempted to go to the summer palace, we would find ourselves very alone." Sol laughed.

Iah smiled, despite himself. "How do you move so easily?" he asked in halting Krian. For three days he'd been studying it, before they finally left the cottage. He had another fourteen to get the hang of it. "In this country?"

"Many years of study," Sol replied. "I studied the languages for years before I become a soldier, and one cannot study a language without learning about the culture. I know enough about a lot that I can get by in many a situation. The skill was enough to make me a Brother of the Seven Star," he spoke levelly, but there was bitterness beneath the calm that Iah could not miss.

"People trust you easily, don't they?"

Sol was silent for a moment, obviously startled. "Yes. I suppose so. Certainly you did not protest as I thought you would."

"I have little choice," Iah said, but he knew that wasn't all of it. Sol inspired trust, even when you didn't want to give it. It would be all too easy for him to fall into doing exactly that. He wondered what would become of his homeland if Sol proved ultimately to be only a loyal Salharan.

After another silence, Sol resumed speaking - in Illussor. It made Iah dizzy, how smoothly he switched between three such different languages. Clearly he'd been blessed with a sharp ear and clever tongue. It was little wonder his magical ability was said to be impressive. "As we're merely minor nobility from the country, having weapons is not expected of us. Not all Krians can be soldiers, after all. That is fortunate for us, as all my skill cannot duplicate the Krian fighting ability. However, on that note, a lack of general knowledge will give us away just as fast. Even the poorest peasant knows the difference between a long sword, a short sword, a dagger, and so on."

"First and foremost, you should always make note of someone's weapon the first time you meet them. Obviously you will not be able to say much -- but you can ask what manner of sword a man bears and the sword's name. Then compliment the name - say it's pretty, strong, anything of that sort."

"All right..." Iah said slowly. He was considered skilled with his short sword - the only kind Illussor bothered with. Like Salhara, they relied more on magic and when many a battle could be won by a brief tricking of the mind...who needed weapons? They were tools. One did not give a name to his hammer or his belt. Yet the Krians named their swords, and obviously treated them with an accord usually reserved for people.

This journey so far was only increasing the strangeness of the Krians. They mocked their neighbors for using magic but named their swords. Iah shook his head. And they said the Illussor suffered problems of the mind.

Which they did, but that was neither here nor there. Iah snorted softly. "So what should I not say? It seems that would be more crucial."

A soft laugh. "Yes, indeed. The man to most be pitied, and in a strange way respected, is the man whose sword does not have a name."

Iah nodded, understanding. "A man with no one."

"Exactly. Of late, it has become rather a notorious position in which to be."

"Why is that?" Iah asked, hearing the amusement in Sol's voice.

"Because the most powerful man in the kingdom has not named his sword. Nor has the most infamous man in Kria."

Iah thought for a moment. "The Emperor, of course, and while I know who I think the most infamous man in Kria is, I sincerely doubt Kria agrees."

"On the contrary. The Wolf of Kria is infamous everywhere." Sol's arms tightened around his waist. "Steady," he said, switching to Krian. "Travelers on the road." Iah had already heard the sound of additional horses and voices which were becoming clearer. The words they spoke were nothing like the curses and screams and threats he knew from fighting. These people sounded happy, their words still the rougher sounds of Krian but softer than he was accustomed; smoother. Perhaps because they were completely lacking in fear and anger. Their voices lacked the knowledge that any moment they would die.

"Hale," Sol returned the greetings cast their way. "To town for winter?" He laughed at the reply given by what Iah guessed was an elderly man. The words eluded him. This was the speed at which he would be expected to speak? He felt a moment of panic - perhaps they should play that he was mute. Was there any real reason to do otherwise? Speaking wouldn't be necessary to identifying the Breaker.

Realization struck him so hard it made him gasp. He felt Sol's arm tense around his waist but barely noticed what else was going on around him.

He couldn't identify the Breaker. Without his eyes his magic was dead. There would be no way to tell if the Breaker was present without it. Which meant he was completely useless. How could he have been so stupid?

"Iah?" Sol asked softly, and Iah realized suddenly that it had once again grown quiet. "What's wrong?"

The words lodged in his throat, choking him. Iah forced himself to take a deep breath, but it didn't dispel the misery of realizing that he was really and truly completely useless now. "I can't-I just realized-there's no way for me to identify the Breaker. He could be standing next to me and I'd never know..."

"Nonsense. You rely too much on your magic being controlled by your eyes. Control and source are not the same thing, are they? There is no doubt in my mind that you will be able to sense him."

Iah nodded stiffly, unconvinced.

Mixed into the misery, the fear, was the realization - surprisingly bitter - that if Sol had not thought him useful in identifying the Breaker he would still be in the dark, completely at Tawn's mercy. Surely Sol was not so cold as that.

He was a spy, though, and one who played three sides. A man who, according to the beliefs of his country, did not know who he was. And for the first time the ideology began to make sense. How did you trust a man when no one knew who he really was? Iah desperately forced the insidious thoughts aside. He would do himself no favors by doubting his rescuer now.

But the doubts lingered.

Sol contemplated his companion. Ever since his fears regarding the Breaker, Iah had been silent, withdrawn. Though they'd only been together for just over a week, Sol realized he missed their conversations. It was rare he had anyone but Dal for conversation.

Iah, he'd found, was hard to read. Many emotions and reactions could be anticipated, given what he knew of Iah's situation and of course personal experience with being thrown into deep, murky waters. But outside of that, he had no glimmer of the man's thoughts.

It was more than a little frustrating.

But what had he been expecting? Had there ever been a time when the three countries were not raised to loathe one another? Every year more men went to "private school" and too many families were left crying. Never mind what Tawn had done to Iah's eyes. It was at least as bad as being declared Nameless, if not worse. Of course he would withdraw, as the disorientation faded and his senses returned to full strength.

Sol bit back a sigh and schooled his expression. Master the outward, bury the inward. When he was reasonably certain he had everything under control, he spoke. "Are you feeling unwell, Cousin?" Outside in the hallway were the sounds normal for a busy inn. This time of year everyone from the country was moving into the nearest village or city. Those that could afford it, like Lord Grau, were headed for the Winter Palace. No place in Kria was finer for enduring the seemingly endless cold.

"I am well," Iah said slowly. A knock at the door cut him off before he could say more.

"Come in, come in," Sol said, smiling and chatting with the women who brought in food for them, politely turning down the invitation in their glances. They took it in good grace; there were plenty of other rich men to choose from.

One girl knelt and arranged the food before Iah as Sol had dictated to her earlier. She muttered to herself and fussed over Iah, who started at the unexpected attention. "Poor, poor thing," she said. "Such a waste of a handsome man." She turned to Sol. "Your cousin is very brave, to continue on like this."

"Yes, Erhard is quite brave. He would have made a fine soldier, had he not been his mother's only son."

"Sad, sad," the woman said, and fussed with his hair. The story was a familiar one. At last she stood, shooed by her companion. "Enjoy; tell me what you think of my cooking!"

Iah shook his head slowly. "That was..." he fumbled for the word. "Unexpected."

"They were mourning," Sol said, and laughed. "If you'd been able to see, I doubt they would have let you refuse them."

"I see," Iah said, amused.

Sol smiled briefly. "Your plate is in front of you. Sausage north, potato cakes east, bread to the south. Have you ever had Krian food?"

"No, I haven't. It smells strange, but good."

Sol nodded and began to cut into his own sausage. Everything in Kria was heavier than in Salhara, stronger than anything in Illussor. "It's very good. Strange, especially as Illussor food tends not to use the spices or the quantities favored by the Krians." He paused. "Except for that spicy dish I refuse to eat. It nearly killed me the first time I had it."

A pause, then Iah burst out laughing, throwing his head back and shaking with amusement. "Kimmi? I have not had that in months. I would have liked to have seen a foreigner try that for the first time!"

Sol caught himself staring and forced his attention back on his food. "I am glad you are laughing, though it is at my expense," he said teasingly. "You have been somber since this morning and it troubled me."

The laughter faded. He missed it. "My mind will not settle," Iah said quietly as he hesitantly began to eat. "This is good," he said, surprised. "A little overwhelming...but I could get used to it."

"Your mind will not settle?" Sol pressed.

Iah played with his fork, then set it carefully down. "It is nothing," he said whisper soft, speaking Illussor.

A clear indication that the discussion was one best not overheard. Discussing food was one thing.

Sol followed the trail of his thoughts easily enough. Nor could he blame him. Sol was not the sort of person to be trusted, least of all by those who employed him. Never mind the man that now knew more about him than any other living individual. Iah didn't trust him.

It was only reasonable. He shouldn't have expected otherwise.

So why had he?

Chapter Four

"Lady Esta!" A breathless maid all but fell over in her haste to deliver her message.

Esta smiled at her in the mirror. "A lady walks, Trul."

"That's because if they run, their skirts'll have'em going downside-up."

Laughing, Esta set aside her brush and stood up. "What has you running in here like a cat fleeing the kitchen with a scrap in its mouth?"

"A really tasty scrap," Trul replied. She licked her lips for effect, making Esta shake her head and chuckle. "Rumors have it you're going to be appointed the Grand Lady of the winter ball!"

Esta's amusement died. "I don't want to be the Grand Lady."

Trul rolled her eyes. "But my lady! Everyone knows the prince has his eye on you! Why are you so recalcitrant?"

"Recalcitrant?" Esta quirked a brow. "Have you been slipping into the beds of library boys again, Trul?"

"They're so cute." Trul said, and gave a grand sigh. "You don't know whether to love them or tuck them in and read them stories." She leered. "But they generally make their preference clear."

Esta was forced to laugh. "Trul!" She reprimanded gently. "My delicate ears!"

Trul snorted, then manhandled Esta back into her seat. She grabbed the brush from the dressing table and, completely at odds with her rough mannerisms, began gently to brush out Esta's floor length, white-gold hair. "How did you want it, my lady?"

"Braided and bound. I don't want it getting dirty while I'm out; I won't have time to wash it again before tonight." Esta sighed and began to play with the jewelry spread out across her vanity table. Beautiful, ornate weavings of gold and silver. Gold chain, so delicate in places it looked as though it had been made by a spider of rare ability. Interspersed with silver roses of equal beauty. Her dress for that night would be of frosted pink silk, accented at the raised waist and hem with a slightly darker pink. With her hair decorated with more gold and silver roses, she would make her mark.

And feel utterly nothing for it. She detested the endless parties, and never a man that wanted truly to dance with her. Esta sighed, and studied her face in the mirror.

It was a stern face, but she knew it was also pretty. Features not so delicate as was preferred in women, but the added strength helped lend authority. Her skin was perfect, flawless and fair. Eyes pale blue. She scowled. Behind her Trul chuckled. "Practicing to scare off the men again, my lady?"

"No need," Esta said with a grimace. "They all frighten easily enough anyway, except for the one I want to scare off and he knows all my tricks."

Trul tsked at her. "Only my lady would begrudge having the prince for a friend." She set the brush aside and began to weave the long hair into an intricate braid. Her voice was tart as she continued, "and he's angling for more than that. Yet here you sit scowling!"

"Don't start up again," Esta said tiredly. "Friends do not make for good lovers. He's just too lazy to find someone else. I don't want to be a queen. I would be terrible at it."

An unladylike snort was Trul's only response, her mouth too full of hairpins to reply properly.

Esta frowned and began to toy with bottles of perfume, deliberating on which she would wear that night. Rose, perhaps. Mathis hated her rose perfume.

Honestly, what was he thinking? Her the Grand Lady. She was going to kill him.

Of the five dukedoms that had once existed, only two remained. The other three titles and lands had been reclaimed by the crown. It made sense, then, that the remaining two dukedoms were close to the royal family. Iah and Esta had been the prince's playmates growing up, alongside Kalan, the only other child of a Duke.

Three boys that had done their very best to torment the only girl in their little group. Later, as the group expanded, they still had done their best to torment her. Though somewhere along the way it had been made clear to all the other boys that they were the only three allowed to do so. And when Kalan had drifted off into government and finances, and her brother had taken himself off to fight, Matthias had remained - perhaps not by choice, but he was there all the same. When her father and Iah had both decided to surrender the title, Matthias had seen it went to her.

It was a pity he was trying to ruin a good friendships with something as silly as romance.

So definitely the rose perfume. That would make it clear where she stood, as her words seldom had any impact. "I really would make an awful queen."

Trul rolled her eyes. "Yes, my lady." She shoved the last hairpin into place and stood back to admire her handiwork. The braid, done by dividing the hair into seven sections and weaving them slowly together, shortened it by several inches. With judicious use of hairpins and a few ribbons, the mass coiled and looped around the back of her head in an elegant, complicated knot. "You're ready."

"Thank you, Trul." Esta stood up and shook out the skirts of her black riding habit. "Where did I set my jacket?" She smiled as Trul fetched it from the bed, and allowed her maid to help her into it and fasten the gold buttons. "I'll be back before evening bells. Be ready, because I'll have to change in a hurry. Have a quick wash ready, I'm sure I'll need it."

"Of course, of course." Trul shooed her off. "Just see you keep that hair clean!"

Esta laughed as she entered the hallway, nodding politely to a few passing servants. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the colored glass windows, adding strange patterns to the blue carpet lining the hallway. She hummed the tune to her favorite waltz as she walked.

Passing by a window, she paused. Outside was a glaring lack of green. A few trees clung pathetically to a few of their yellow and orange leaves, but overall everything had turned gray and brown and flat. Clouds filled the distant sky, promising that soon all that barren land would be filled with snow. Once it fell, there would be no going anywhere. It also meant the soldiers would be returning, free until spring forced them back to the battlefield.

Sometimes she wondered why they bothered to continue fighting. More often than not it seemed childish, compulsory. Unfortunately, she knew all too well why it continued, and wished she didn't.

Forcefully resuming her humming, Esta continued through the palace. She ran over all that must be done before that evening, silently offering prayers and wishes for a smooth afternoon.

A familiar voice broke into her mulling. "Esta," Prince Matthias said, and bowed. He smiled.

And despite her ongoing frustrations, Esta had to smile back. "Matthias," she greeted. Then she glared. "My servant is spreading unamusing rumors. I assume, of course, that they are merely rumors."

"Of course," Matthias said immediately. "I would never dare to hint that I'm angling to make you the Grand Lady of the Yuletide ball. Not on my life."

Esta glowered. Had they been alone she might have given into the temptation to hit him. Matthias might be the classic idea of royal beauty, and that smile was lethal on the unsuspecting - even occasionally those who should know better. More than once growing up she'd found a frog in her pocket or a snake in her bed. "It had better be a rumor," she replied. "What are you doing about now, anyway? Court shouldn't be out of session yet. They talk longer than that."

"Don't I know it," Matthias said. Around him his retainers chuckled. "I told them I had more urgent matters."

"Like spreading rumors."

Matthias turned and grinned at the nearest of his retainers. Duke Kalan of Ferra had been his friend nearly as long as Esta. "I'm in trouble."

"It's remarkable you noticed for once," Kalan replied. "I told you extra sleep would do wonders."

Laughter filled the hallway. Esta rolled her eyes. "I will leave you men to amuse yourselves. No doubt I will see you this evening."

"Easy journey, Esta." Matthias grabbed her hand as she passed and squeezed it briefly. They shared a look, and Esta squeezed back.

"Stay out of trouble, Matthias." Esta said, and left them.

She encountered no other interruptions on her way to the back of the castle, and the garden was empty - everyone off preparing for the night's festivities. Humming softly, Esta wove her way through the garden to the very back, slipping out a hidden door and locking it behind her. The gold key - one of only three that existed - was slipped back into its hidden pocket in her black riding skirt. From the pocket of her jacket she pulled out a pair of soft, black gloves. Her fingers trailed lightly along the stone wall as she traveled down a short, set of stairs.

At the bottom was a tunnel. The underground road had taken many men many years to construct. Done in utmost secrecy at the command of Matthias's great-grandfather. From memory and habit Esta lit a torch.

It was damp, and smelled of mold and age and stale air. Not quite as bad as the dungeons she and her friends had sneaked a look at when they were young, but very nearly. Zero light, and no sign beyond the torchlight that the tunnel was ever used. An endless path of shadow. When her mother had first begun to teach her what must be done, Esta had cried the entire four mile journey. Not once in those first trips had she let go of her mother's skirt. She'd been eight.

The fear never died; it merely shifted from fear of the strange to fear of the all too familiar. Every time she did it, she thought this time I won't be scared.

And she was always wrong. Humming, Esta forced her feet to move. On and on she walked; the two mile journey always seemed like ten no matter how many times she did.

Usually once a day. Sometimes twice. Always with the hope that each journey would be her last. That someday they would find the Breaker.

But it was a dim hope. After so long, what were the chances?

She continued walking, the unrelenting dark broken only occasionally by torches left burning by the owner of the third key. He did not have access to the door at the tunnel's end, but Matthias had made sure the man was more than capable of taking care of the tunnel. He liked her walking the dark road even less than she did.

The humming shifted between different dance tunes, and mentally she spun around the ballroom on the arm of a mysterious, exotic stranger. Someone different. Exciting. Who liked to dance and didn't care about who her friends were and the power she held. A man who simply wanted to dance and then stroll through the rose garden.

Well, soon enough she would have a suitable dance partner again. Even if she did have to brow beat Iah into it every single time. Her mood cheered as she thought of her brother, who despite his soldiering life never failed to find something to smile about. And who could make her smile no matter what. Every now and then her steps were interrupted by a quick dance step.

By the end of the two mile walk, much of her anxiety had been soothed away. As always, dancing eased everything. Taking a deep breath, Esta set her torch in a sconce and withdrew a silver key from a second hidden pocket.

The door clicked open, the sound resoundingly loud in the dead silence of the tunnel.

Inside was a room full of pale silver light. Rather, a light was at the center and reflected off the crystal lining the chamber.

The source of the light was a large, round crystal - or at least the object looked crystal. What it actually was no one who could know remembered. So many details had been lost. Holding the crystal in place was a man. He sat, unmoving, in a chair carved from the same rough crystal that lined the chamber. His age was hard to determine. Esta knew he was now twenty-eight.

Five years younger than his brother.

His name had been Benji.

Now he was only Keeper.

His pale green eyes were open but saw nothing. In all but fact, the man once called Benji was dead. Were she to touch him, his skin would be like ice. Esta shivered. Never would she grow used to this-this-

Horror. Abomination. To think-

She turned away, and mentally reprimanded herself. Duties. She had duties. To which she must attend until the solution could be found.

But it still disgusted her, to think of what their ancestors had done. What had continued to be done, until the current King declared enough was enough. Maybe he and Matthias would fix it. At least they were trying.

Until then, she would do as her mother and grandmother had done and care for the Keeper. He did not age; did not move. The crystal that imprisoned him also cared for him. It was Esta's duty to ensure that crystal and Keeper were never disturbed. Never altered.

Esta knelt and clasped her hands together. Her prayers were soft, as musical as her humming had been. They echoed around the chamber, adding a spark of warmth where usually there was only cold light.

She prayed for the Keeper, and all those who had Kept before him. And she prayed for the Breaker to come.

Eventually she stood, and began to move around the chamber, ensuring that all was as it should be. It was neither warm nor cool in the crystal chamber; not exactly pleasant...it simply was. As a child, she had been enchanted by the crystal. Had thought it magical.

And it was, but not magical the way a child thought of the word. There was nothing good here; only necessity. Desperation. Esta wished bitterly that her ancestors had thought a little harder. But she had not been in their position, so perhaps it was she who erred. Then again, Benji had been a sweet boy and a sweeter man. Now he was merely the newest Keeper.

The last one, the King's brother, had Kept for sixty years. So far Benji had been Keeper for ten years. She hoped there would not have to be an eleventh.

Her humming was somber on her return journey, completely at odds with her ever-increasing pace. She had lingered too long - it must be past evening bell by now.

Ignoring everyone she saw as she reached the palace proper, Esta raced for her room.

"You're late!" Trul howled at her. "Late! Late! Late! What in the world have you been up to?"

"Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry. Come - stop shouting and get me dressed. I'm already late; you needn't make things worse with your scolding."

Trul continued to mutter as they scrambled to get Esta ready. In record time Esta was shaking out the skirts of her gown while Trul arranged her hair.

A knock at the door startled them both. "Answer it," she said, and began to fuss with her own hair.

"Trul, step outside for a few minutes." Matthias's somber voice cut deep, for he was rarely anything but jovial. It was a quality that irked his father's men to no end. They felt he took nothing seriously. Most days, Esta would agree with them.

But she would also be the first to say the King's old retainers and advisors needed to remember how to laugh.

"Matti?" she asked when the door had closed, giving up on her hair and turning to face him. "What's wrong?"

"Essie..."

"Just say it." Esta started to feel sick. There was only so many things that could make Matthias so uncomfortable - miserable, to be more accurate.

"Esta..." Matthias stepped forward and took her hand. "The latest reports from the field have come in."

Esta closed her eyes, holding his hand tight. "Please, no. Iah...he's...is he?" She fisted her other hand to still it's shaking, focusing on the sting of nails in skin to keep from screaming or crying.

"He's missing," Matthias said. "His commander Screamed. No one was left alive, they thought. But Iah was not accounted for. No one knows where he is. By all reports, he was there when the battle started..."

Her mind began to race as she processed the words. Iah wouldn't abandon his men, nor would