Tribute Trail
by
Chris Beckett & Terri Power

Chapter One

He was a prince, the son of a Royal House that had ruled for time out of mind a great kingdom, bounded by the sea to the north and tall mountain ranges to the south and west. Horizon to horizon stretched Khassan, the land of the Goddess, peopled by Her children.

The Prince's name was on their lips now, a chanting paean, as his horse paced the street lined four and five deep with cheering people.

"Kher - in!" A two-syllabled praise-song, "Kherin- Kherin - Kherin!" Flowers were tossed from balconies, petals red and white and dawn pink, soft on the breeze, tangling in his unbound hair, their scent as heady as his victory.

At his stirrup paced T'Shayra, the great hunting cat, coat sand-colored as the desert itself. To his right and half a length behind, rode Tarvik, Captain of the Khori, the Five Hundred. There was no rider to his left, and the emptiness of that space was a deep pain, hidden behind the visible joy. It must stay hidden; the Chosen could not show grief, especially not in the midst of rejoicing. Later there would be time, and privacy, to mourn his friend. But not yet.

The people cheered Kherin to the gates of the High Palace, where the Khori were dwarfed by the massive Black Guards on their greathorses. Kherin dismounted, walking past the saluting swords to enter the Hall of Audience with T'Shayra at his heel.

Amidst all the splendor of white and veined marble, chiseled stonework, inlay of precious woods and metals, he walked clad in his dust-grimed, unadorned, white campaign tunic. His titles went before him, proclaimed by the heralds.

"Kherin the Chosen, Prince of Khassan, Beloved of the Lady, Protector of the people, Son of the Wind, Whose Name is Sung Among the Warriors - Kherin the Hawk!"

Teiron, the High King, used none of these names as he rose from his chair of state, smiling, and holding out both hands in greeting. "Kyri!"

The affectionate name of Kherin's childhood was used now by few. The last time he had heard it had been from the blood-flecked lips of his dying friend. Later, he told himself sharply, later.

"Sister's son, you are well come in our sight. Truly the Goddess smiles on Khassan this day!"

Kherin gave the Royal Salute before returning both smile and embrace. Kherin had no acknowledged father, but this man filled a father's role, and gave him a father's love. Teiron's First Son, Alzon, heir to the Empire, stood at Teiron's right hand; Kherin walked at his left - the heart-side, and all knew it.

"My lord," Kherin began, "I and my Khori salute you. We bring Khassan victory." The words were pure formality, since a warrior of Khassan would die before bringing news of defeat.

"We - and all Khassan - rejoice with you." Teiron's smile and the pressure of his hands said there would be time later for private talk. Kherin turned with the High King to face the small knot of people at the foot of the three steps leading up to the throne. "Sister's son, let me make known to you the merchant embassy from Tylos."

"May your visit prosper both our lands," Kherin said politely, dismissing them from his mind as he turned again to Teiron. "Lord, I would go to offer thanks at the Sanctuary."

"Then let our eyes be gladdened by the sight of you soon."

There would be time for public thanksgiving and festivals soon enough, but now Kherin needed solitude. In the temple he wouldn't be harassed by crowds or courtiers.

The great hunting cat found a shaded spot to lie, and in the quiet of the fountain court, Kherin stripped to bathe in the deep plunge-pool. He was taller than most, lean-muscled, with battle scars showing silver on skin that was tanned to copper by the hot sun. His hair was long and black, the waterlogged weight of it clinging to his shoulders until he shook it back. On his brow was the sign of the Goddess, a winged spiral etched in blue that indelibly marked him Hers. There was an impression of contained power about him, and for a moment he seemed as alien as the hunting cat to the walls and colonnades. As if he belonged more to the wide plains and deserts rather than the city. A warrior in the midst of a gentler civilisation.

Kherin replaced his dusty war tunic with a garment brought for him; a belted blue silk robe oversewn with silver. A silver circlet that was the symbol of his rank replaced the Khori headband, gleaming metal shaped to echo the tattoo on his forehead. Kherin the warrior leader became the Prince again, the Goddess' Chosen Consort.

Cleansed and fresh-clad, Kherin approached the Holy Place of the Lady, a natural cleft in the rock, faced now in white marble and rose-quartz, embellished with carvings in graceful fluid lines that almost belied their stone, the work and love-gift of the finest artisans in the land.

It was dim after the sun's brightness, and cool. "Y'th'n t'yr-aith, k'al-nir'at'yn Y'th..." Kherin whispered the salutation in the ancient tongue of Khassan, heard it drift in sibilant echoes throughout the silent chamber. In his soul, he had other words for Her. Beloved, Lady, Mother and Queen... Kherin opened his heart to Her and let Her peace flood through him, transmuting raw grief to gentle memory, washing away the stresses and pains and filling him with new serenity.

Beloved, Son - thou art come home.

The setting sun painted the white stones a pale ochre as Kherin came out of the Inner Sanctuary. He saw T'Shayra fed and tended; he paused to smooth the blunt head. Her fur was dense, soft under the coarser outer coat, and she purred at his caressing, wiping a harsh tongue across his wrist. He had cared for her since he had found her a year ago, a blind mewling kit half-starved beside her dead dam. She had repaid his care with unstinting love and trust, and the fierce loyalty of her kind. He stroked her for a while as she ate, then left her to the attentions of the Precinct servants.

In the Outer Court Kherin discovered Undabi, a captain of the Black Guard, sitting patiently, his bay greathorse beside him. Kherin paused as the man rose to his feet and gave the Royal Salute.

"Undabi. Do you wait here for me?"

"Yes, Prince. And no, for I had a request to ask of the Lady, and this I have done."

"May She grant it," Kherin said, smiling.

"With your aid, my Prince, She may do so indeed." The dark face broke into an answering grin. "My first-born son is of the age to serve in arms. I ask that you look upon him for your Khori - to become one of your warriors." Kherin knew the boy. "He has fifteen years already?"

"This Fallowtime, lord. And I have trained him myself."

"There is no better teacher, as I know."

Undabi's answering smile was both pleased and proud. "But I grow old, my Prince ..." and it was true: the cropped black cap of hair was threaded with grey, like the frosted muzzle of his mare. Man and beast, they had served Khassan for twenty years. "I would have a son of mine serve after me."

"But not in the Guard?"

"By the Lady's grace, and your will, Lord, he is for your Khori. This has been his wish since first he carried a spear."

"Then when the time comes, my friend, I will remember his name." Kherin gave the man his hand in the hard clasp of warrior to warrior. "The Khori are no longer Five Hundred. I shall need good men." That was another truth. Drawn from the elite of Khassan and her allies, the Khori were the Chosen's Honor Guard and the vanguard of the Royal army.

Undabi bowed low, touching his brow to the narrow, tanned hand he held. "I thank you, my Prince. May the Goddess prosper you in all things. I am at your service and Hers."

Kherin glanced at the horizon and the sinking sun, and laughed. "Then take me up on S'uldira as you were used when I was small. It is past the time when I should have been at the High Palace!"

"That would no longer be fitting, my Prince. Besides, S'uldira would carry you to the world's end, if you wished it." He put the reins into Kherin's hand.

"The High Palace will be far enough. And you?"

"I stay to offer thanks to the Great Goddess. Go in peace, Prince Kherin."

"Stay in peace, Undabi."

Kherin swung up into the saddle and gave the massive black-maned neck a caress. The greathorses, bred from a single stallion and two mares so far back in time it was now a matter of legend, held a special place in his affections. Gentle in peace and savage in war, they were as famous in Khassan as the Khori.

In keeping with her size, the mare had a pace as smooth as silk and Kherin's thoughts were free to wander. It was good to be back in the city of his birth after the long summer campaign. Even though his spirit had no yearning for the closing-in of walls and roofs, this place was full of familiar, and much-loved, things. The simple beauty of dressed stone, of water falling in the frequent fountains - the smile of a woman, the laughter of children - and after hard living, the luxuries of good wine and meat and bread, and a soft sleeping-place without the need to lie hand on swordhilt, were a balm to his soul.

Such little things, to be so pleasing. There were the greater things, too. The Festival of Gathering which he would lead for the people, remaking his own dedication at the same time - and the unfailingly wise counsel of the High King. Yes, it was worth enduring the diplomatic fencing of the feast tonight, to be able to talk afterwards with the man his soul called father.

Kherin gave the horse into the keeping of a groom and went up the wide stairway into the Palace. In the Great Courtyard, with its open pool and fountains under the clear sky, a feast was laid out on long tables. The guests were already gathered. As Kherin passed, they made deep obeisance, most smiling with their greetings. He offered smiles and quiet words in return.

Tarvik, in the full panoply of a Tsithkin Captain of the Khori, saluted him gravely, then grinned and fell in at his heel. The Tsithkin were Khassan's oldest allies, a desert people of fiercely independent ways and unswerving loyalty. Tarvik was also called the Hound, and like the trusted packleader a huntsman relies upon, he was as true as steel. He was Kherin's right-hand in battle, confidante and companion in peace. As Jeztin had also been. The sorrow of that loss was still there, but the edge was off the sharpness of it now, by the Lady's blessing.

"Cousin, I salute you." Alzon, First Son of the High King, Heir to the Land, made the obeisance due to the Chosen, then took Kherin by the shoulders and gave him the kiss of kindred. Two tall men, as alike as if born at one birth, from the blue of their eyes to the curl of the black hair and the wryly humorous smile. "The merchant-embassy has a desire to meet you."

"Those I saw earlier?"

"From Tylos, beyond the Middle Sea. They wish a stronger tie between Khassan and the North."

"What do they offer, that Khassan has not already got?"

"Little, indeed!" Alzon chuckled. "Grain and woods, mostly. I have counseled my father to require breeding pairs of some of their beasts - like the Northern long-haired goats --"

"Or a few stallions of the greathorse breed, if any can be found. I would mount my Khori on such horses."

Tarvik converted his snort into a cough. "By your leave, Princes - fine though their greathorses are, let me keep my Khassani stallion!"

"There speaks my Hound," Kherin chuckled. "Nor do I blame you, when your war-steed is one such as Benith."

"Nor I," Alzon smiled, then became more formal. "Kherin, Chosen of the Goddess, I would ask you to Read these people for my father's sake."

"Of course."

The First Son beckoned and a group of men approached. There were five of the Tylosians present, the chief among them being Hasoe. He was a tall, heavy-featured man, with sallow skin and russet hair. He was much hung about with jewelry, as were the rest of his party. Khassani nobility might wear one or two favorite pieces, or none at all, as it pleased them. Hasoe's display gave him an alien, barbaric appearance.

However, Hasoe's grasp of the Khassani language was excellent, with scarcely an accent. He was spokesman for the delegation, smooth-tongued and impeccable in his courtesies. Perhaps too smooth-tongued. Kherin found himself disliking the man, which disconcerted him, there being no reason for it that he could see. He looked at the Tylosians a little deeper, using a deeper Sight than eyes could provide.

It was said in Khassan the Chosen could read a man's soul, sift truth and falsehood, and strike down the wrong-doer if that was the Will of the Goddess. The Goddess' Chosen was Priest, Warrior and Mage; Kherin had been trained from childhood to be all three.

He saw nothing within Hasoe but myriad webs of woven plans, all of them tangled about with 'trade' and 'profit' with no care for anyone else's well-being. Three of the others were no different. The fifth, a plump, smiling man with thinning blond hair, and rattling with crystal charms, made obeisance. He was introduced as Lord Prenin, Astrologer-Mage to the Lord Hasoe. He called Kherin mage-brother. Kherin felt more webs and tangles in him, along with the energy-sparks of small spells as irritating as gadflies. But he felt no danger, no menace. As soon as he could, Kherin excused himself with the polite phrases that told Alzon all was well, and left them to the First Son.

Seated in his place with Tarvik beside him, neither man ate much of the multitude of rich food. But still they ate well and the entertainment was lavish. The dancers in their light bright silks were as graceful as birds in flight. The singers and musicians gave joy a voice and stirred the heart to tears. Kherin gave the chief singer a silver armring in token of the pleasure their art had given him - and besides, he had seen some of the foreigners looking sidelong down their noses, and did not want the artists to feel slighted by the ignorance of the guests.

"No doubt they have other entertainments in Tylos," Kherin murmured to Tarvik.

"Aye, my Prince." Tarvik selected a candied fruit from the dish offered. "Slaves to sing and dance and pleasure them."

"Counterfeits. These sing as the birds sing, for joy in living; the dancers tread the measure to honor the Goddess, freely. Can a slave do these things?" He frowned, gesturing a sweet dish away. "My Hound, I like these traders less and less; it is in my mind that we should have nothing to--"

Tarvik's hand brushed against his wrist in a seemingly accidental touch. The code was an instant warning, and shocked Kherin into silence. He had seen nothing in the foreign envoys to threaten Khassan. But the light contact warned him to be on his guard.

"I will try that fruit-ice," Tarvik said easily. "Is it not a masterly confection, my Prince?"

It was jade-green, sculpted into the form of growing plants, leaf and stem delicately fashioned. Kherin murmured agreement to the praise, but he did not taste it.

"Where lies the shadow?" Kherin asked in the dialect of Tarvik's tribal lodge. "I see none here but the small deceits of the marketplace."

"I don't know, my lord," Tarvik said in the same language, lounging back with a deceptive smile, "but the chill in my spine tells me it is here. Somewhere. How mighty is this Trader-Mage?"

Kherin gave a quiet snort. "Should I test him now and risk breaking every window in the Palace? Not to mention any treaty that might be made for the good of Khassan. I have looked in him and there is no threat to Khassan nor Teiron in his heart. No one else here would think on such a betrayal."

Tarvik nodded. "Then my spine is mistaken." Even so, his eye was never far from the Tylosian delegation from that time until the feast was finished and the High King retired.

Kherin took his leave at the same time, making his way to the Royal apartments in the high towers. There, in the cool of the airy rooms lit by fretted metal lamps, Teiron dismissed his servants. They were at last alone. Formality dropped from them like discarded cloaks.

"Come, Kyri," Teiron beckoned. "Sit with me on my balcony, where we can watch the Lady of Night on Her journeying amid Her stars. It is long since we talked."

"The summer has been long." Kherin leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the sleeping darkness of the city. "I told you before I left that I sensed a grief to come."

"And Jeztin, your captain, is dead."

"He was my friend before he joined my Khori. The Goddess called his name, and I opened the path for him to go to Her." He fell silent, remembering each detail. Sweet-rich scent of blood on the dusty air and the gasping rattle for breath. The feel of life ebbing beneath his hands in spite of all he could do, so that in the end there was but one course to be taken...

"I do not know what to do with this grief. I thought I could beat it into a blade to avenge him, but the pain did not ease. I offered his death to the Mother and She has taken him to Her, but my spirit is still heavy. I do not understand--"

"You are young, Kyri." Teiron laid gentle hands upon his shoulders. "By Her mercy, grief has passed you by until now. It is as it is. Accept it, and learn from it."

"I know. But I think - I think that if I had been able to mourn as Tarvik did, as the Khori could, it would have been easier. To keep always the face of the Chosen, to show nothing - it was a flood pent up, a wound that festered. Until She healed me, in the Sanctuary. I know that nothing of Her creation dies save by Her will. Still I grieve. Counsel me, my lord. Is She testing my worth?"

"If anything, She is teaching you. May it be the hardest lesson you need to learn, Kyri."

Kherin bowed his head. "I am justly rebuked. Forgive me."

Teiron smiled at him. "Enough. Now give me your counsel - tell me your view of the Tylosians."

Kherin hesitated. "I do not like them," he said slowly. "Even though I know the Goddess has many children, and shows Herself in different fashions, yet I cannot greet them as brothers. I am glad that Alzon is the one who must be pleasant to them, and not I."

"I would not ask it of you, Kyri. Do they come in peace, do you think?"

"There is no thought of war in them," Kherin said slowly, remembering what his trained senses had shown him of their minds, "but they are thick with deceits. They think always 'How shall this profit us? What shall we gain?'"

"Well, they are traders," Teiron pointed out. "That is their way. Be easy. After the Moon of Gathering, they will leave Khassan. They asked that they might stay to witness the Festival, having heard how we celebrate the Goddess' bounty. I have given them leave to do so. Be not swift to judge the nation by the few."

Kherin smiled. "I deserve that censure. The Lady of Harvest turns away none who come before Her in praise, be they from Khassan or Tsithkian or Tylos. I can do no less than bid them welcome in Her name. So they worship the Goddess in Tylos?"

"In their fashion, but their ways are not ours. They have not been gifted by Her knowledge - they think we select Her Chosen as a matter of rank. There is no word in their tongue for what you are, Kyri."

"May the Mother of All Wisdom grant them knowledge in Her time, then."

"Her will be done in all ways and all things." Teiron spoke the ritual response. He poured wine into cups of black jade and gave one to Kherin. "In three days you will lead the people in Festival and make your yearly dedication. It has been fifteen years since Her mark was put on your brow, Kyri. For ten years and more you have served Her in all Her ways. Are you happy, my son?"

Kherin blinked. "Father?" They used these words of kinship rarely. "Can I be other than I am?"

"It was no fair question. Alzon is five years your senior. Of all my acknowledged sons, he is the best fitted to take up the rule of Khassan after me. Yet it was at your birth the prophetess spoke, and I thought... well, no matter. I do not grudge the Goddess Her Chosen, but truly is it said She chooses only the finest."

Kherin reached for Teiron's hand, touched it to his brow. "My lord, father, I ask for nothing, I desire nothing that is not mine. And surely She blesses us both as we do Her bidding."

"I know it, and all Khassan knows it. We are blessed in Her Chosen - and Alzon will hold the Empire after me, by Her will, since She will not have it otherwise."

"May She call my name before that day comes, my father," Kherin said softly. It was no polite wish, rather a prophecy - Teiron, barring accidents, was good for another thirty years' rule, whereas the Consort of the Goddess always went back to Her while still in his prime. So is he called the Ageless - for he never grows old. In all probability, Kherin had another fifteen years before She called him home, and the sadness of that foreknowledge was in Teiron's eyes.

"May She choose another as fit to guide our people, then."

Garlanded and crowned with flowers and ears of corn, the children sang the Goddess' anthem. Kherin's embroidered robe was lifted from his naked shoulders. His hair was loosened from the silver circlet and he knelt, bending his head in homage to the invisible presence of the Goddess.

"Great Mother, Giver of all good things - I am Thy Chosen, Son and Beloved, Thy servant and Thy sacrifice. My life is in Thy hands. Accept the offering."

The chief priestess took up the sacred shears and dedicated them to the Lady of Harvests. There were sharp snipping sounds, then the acolytes gathered up Kherin's shorn silken curls, laying them on the spread cloth on the altar. They lay black against the white of the fabric. His hair no more than a few inches long, Kherin rose to his feet and stepped down the slope into the still, jet darkness of the Lady's pool. It was fed by an underground spring and cold enough to make his bones ache. The smooth rock floor under his bare feet dipped sharply - he felt the tug of the unseen current and gave himself to the water's embrace, sliding down into its darkness.

Accept the offering...

The chill water cradled and supported Kherin's unresisting body; he felt the touch of air as his head broke water, and heard the cry of the watching priestess echoed by the waiting people outside.

"The Goddess is good! She returns her Chosen to us, the Risen Lord, the Beloved, given back to us out of the Waters of Life...!"

The chants rang in his ears as he waded out of the pool. The servants of the Sanctuary brought fresh robes, and combed his hair into a neat cap, setting the silver circlet on his brow once more. As always after the cutting of his hair, his head felt strange - cool and light without the weight of his dark mane. He walked out into the sunlight, feeling the touch of the sun on the tattooed Mark of the Goddess on his brow. He lifted his voice in the Hymn of the Gathering, his song ringing clear and and strong in the morning. The children joined the refrain, then the young men and maidens came into the melody and all the Precinct was filled with it.

This was the sunlit side of the Festival - the smiling face of the Goddess turned to Her children. There were other aspects to the Goddess as well - Maiden and Bride as well as Mother, and at the last, the Veiled One who calls all men home.

The people rejoiced, and Kherin led their celebration. Tonight would come the Moon Dance, the ritual in which the Beloved is joined to his Bride. The time when the Chosen is one with the God whose mortal part he is - the Horned One, the Seedgiver, Lightbringer and Lord of the Dance. It was the most solemn of the duties of the Chosen, never taken lightly or without due reverence. Tonight when the moon rose silver-full he would no longer be Kherin, but instead be the Ageless God Incarnate, Consort of the Great Goddess Herself. But for the day time he was Kherin still, yet no less honored by the love of the people who brought their First Fruit offerings to his feet and stretched out their hands for his touch, his blessing. He was the Luck of the Land, their Hope and their Salvation.

As twilight came he led the dancing on the great threshing-floors, circling in the sacred measure, bare feet dusty with the chaff of this season's grain. He partnered this girl and that, their faces laughing and flushed, tossing dark ringlets on modestly covered shoulders. Though the slender bodies were ripe and clad in their Festival best, none of them was touched by the Goddess' choice. Their waists were supple in the curve of his arm, but their hands met his and parted, met and parted, until his head spun with the spinning dance, the dust swirling up under the beating feet, the music lifting, soaring, carrying him with it --

Until She came to him, and loved him, and they were One.

The Moon of Gathering and Thanksgiving waned, and Khassan put off the air of Festival. For Kherin, the richness of the autumn days always woke a restlessness in his blood. This city was his home; but he was also the Hawk, never to be caged, flying free beyond any man's call, answering only as he willed.

Kherin began to yearn again for the silences and timelessness of the deep desert instead of the crowded busy thoroughfares; for the hardy companionship of warriors instead of the precise formalities that entwined life in the palace. Such things were part of his duties, but he did not always find it easy to keep the smiling mask in place.

He found a measure of peace, at least, with Tarvik and his captains as they choose from the scores of men who competed for the honor of riding in the Khori. They had to replenish the ranks of the Five Hundred, replacing the men who had died that summer.

Kherin's standard was high and he selected only the best. Men came from every quarter of the land, from every country that owed Khassan allegiance, and from every walk of life. There were the sons of noble blood, and the nomads of the deep desert; dark skinned or copper, clad in silks or skins. Nine of every ten returned disappointed to their homes, or stayed to take a lesser post. The one-in-ten received the cherished scarlet silk of the Khori headband and thanked the Goddess on his knees for his good fortune.

As he walked from the parade-court at the end of the choosing, a man fell at Kherin's feet in the dust. Kherin thought him a latecome petitioner for the Khori, until he saw the lines of age and the grizzled hair.

"What is it, venerable?" he asked gently. The man kissed his sandaled foot, not lifting his eyes.

"Lord, most high Prince, I come to beg your aid."

The man's looks identified him as being from the northern hills. He wore rough sheepskins and loose wool trousers; his hill-tribe origins were clear in his speech.

Gaze downcast, he related his tale. "Our village is small, we eke a living on the mountainside with our herds. Now a terror stalks our lives. A great bear kills our livestock and only last month it took a child. The men of the village have tried to drive the beast away or kill it, but without success. Our wisewoman says the bear is sent by the Goddess."

Kherin listened patiently while the man spoke, ignoring the whispers of his companions. He laid a hand on the bowed shoulder. "You did right to come to me. If indeed this beast is a Sending, be sure I shall discover it, and by the Lady's grace, free you of it."

"Cousin, this is madness!" Alzon was at his side, pushing through the group that had gathered. "You cannot go to tackle this beast alone. No, let me take the Guard and deal with this matter--"

"Alone?" Kherin caught the one word out of his objection. "I had not intended to go alone, but - yes, I see that I must. If it is a beast of the Goddess, who else should be asked to hazard his life?"

"Lord, let me go!" This was Tarvik.

"No, my Hound. Your charge is the Khori when I am absent from them. And who else can I trust with my great cat?"

"Then I shall accompany you," Alzon said, "and you shall not deny me. The hunt shall be yours, and the kill if you wish it. But I ride with you, cousin."

Tarvik cut in on them, irrespective of propriety. "Lords, I say this is folly! Two of Khassan's princes..."

"Aye, and how shall any beast stand against us?" Alzon laughed and struck his cousin lightly on the shoulder. "When shall we ride, Kherin?"

* * *

After the heat of the city, the mountain air was cool and fresh. The hunters camped on the lower slopes, where streams cut the wooded flanks of the hills and there was grazing for the horses. Kherin and Alzon scouted for sign of their quarry. The villagers had given the last-known direction, but so far no sign of the animal had been found. They pressed on up to the ridge that passed through the mountains to the distant sea, and there halted in the dusk.

"We shall be well enough here," Kherin said, swinging down from his mountain pony near a small freshet gushing through a narrow channel between rocks. "In the morning we'll try higher."

"As well we thought to bring food. And wine." Alzon led his pony beneath the dark conifers, and dropped the bundle of provisions onto a mat of needles. "I'll find wood for the fire."

The shadows crept long and violet over the mountain, but the small fire Kherin built was brisk and bright with resinous wood, flames crackling. Alzon broke the hard journeybread in two, crumbled a little salt onto it and passed half across to Kherin with a wedge of goat's cheese. Kherin spoke the Blessing on the food, and they ate.

They were thirsty afterwards, and Alzon scorned the spring water, bringing out his leather flask. He drank first, then passed the flagon to Kherin. The tart draught was cool in his throat, and welcome.

It was only when Alzon spat the mouthful of wine into the fire that Kherin saw the bright triumph leap in the other's eyes. Kherin stared, uncomprehending as Alzon's expression changed, a soft, sinister smile touching his lips. Kherin felt a numbness begin in his fingers and knew.

Poison. But no poison could kill the Chosen and Alzon knew that. Unless it was his time. But Kherin had had no warning, had Seen nothing of this - something or someone had blinded his Goddess-given Sight. He tried to gather his power and failed.

"Too late, far too late, cousin," Alzon whispered. His eyes were shining in the firelight like a feral cat's. "Yes, you are drugged, and it cost me much to secure so swift a potion. But it will be worth the price. They offered me a binding spell but I refused," he went on. "You would have sensed the weaving and broken it, and once on guard against arcane attack, it would be impossible to snare you. Best to stay with simple poisons."

The wine hissed in the flames as Alzon poured it out. "Their mage is very skilled - you have never met such a one in combat, have you? He wove a net of many small spells, to mislead, to turn aside, to dazzle a little. You did not suspect a thing. Perhaps you are not so skilled a mage as we had thought. Besides, if you do not look to find an enemy, you cannot see one." Alzon laughed softly. "You are very trusting."

"--why?" Kherin's lips and tongue felt thick, slurring his speech.

"Why? You ask that? Are you blind and deaf as well? Do you not hear the palace rumors that swarm like maggots in carrion flesh? Have you never looked in a mirror since you grew to manhood, my noble kinsman? We are like enough to be brothers of one womb, yet you do not know your father's name?"

"I am a Child of the Goddess..."

"Fine words and superstition. Well, I have eyes and ears, if you do not. I know my father's heart, Kherin. He need not name me his successor, unless he wishes. And he wishes you to hold Khassan after him."

That was impossible. Kherin tried to say so. "The Law..." His mind was working at half-speed, as in a nightmare. He tried again to summon his will, to gather power, but there was nothing there. None of his limbs would answer him and his sight was shivering out of focus.

"Oh, yes, the Law. The Chosen of the Lady may not rule. Kings made that law, Kherin mine, and a king could change it. There was prophecy at your birth: "He will make the mountains to dance and bring change to a great nation." Well, it will not be Khassan. I would kill you if I could, but it is forbidden to shed your blood and I will not risk Her wrath. As it is - you chose this hunt, you drank of your own will - my hands are clean."

He pushed the drugged and unresisting Kherin bellydown and pulled his arms back, tying the wrists tightly. "I take no brother's blood upon my head. I will take you to those who will take you far from here. I shall return to the palace saying that you chose to track the bear alone, in spite of my protests. And you did not return."

Alzon's voice blurred into a humming drone. Kherin's last conscious thought was still of disbelief, of utter denial. Then thick darkness clogged eyes and ears and mouth, ran turgid through his veins and drowned his mind...

Alzon finished tying the rawhide thongs, lifted the senseless body and slung it over the pony's broad back. Kicking earth over the fire, he led the laden beast through the trees, down over the pass towards the border. The glimmer of torches below was all the guide he needed and it was not long before the circled caravan could be seen in the moonlight.

The Tylosian sentries spotted him and raised a shout. There was a sudden flurry of activity in the camp and one man came forward to meet him.

"Prince Alzon..." Hasoe made obeisance. "Be welcome to what poor travellers' hospitality we may offer you. We feared you would not arrive before we were forced to leave."

"I keep my word," Alzon said shortly. "See that you keep yours. Here is the merchandise, as we agreed." He tumbled the slack body from the pony's back.

Hasoe gazed down at the unconscious Kherin, sprawled at his feet. "Oh, we bring a prize out of Khassan indeed," he murmured. "Such a one as this, princely and proud, to be tamed and trained to serve the great lord of the Horse People. Surely he will count us as his allies for such a gift."

"Kherin must not return," Alzon said forcefully. "Not one word must come to Khassan."

"Ah, be assured, Prince. Where he is destined to go, the people have no knowledge of Khassan. They live on the edge of the world. He will never set foot to his native soil again, this I swear."

"So. Give me his outer robe." One of the guards stripped the heavy silk from the captive and handed it over. Under Hasoe's questioning eye, Alzon gave a grim smile and drew his dagger. "It will be found, rent and fouled with blood, at the edge of the mountain trail where the rock falls sheer to the river," he said.

"As if the bear he hunted this night had taken him in truth."

"Truly Khassan has a judicious prince in you, my lord," Hasoe bowed. "But we have little time and must take our leave. You two - see our prisoner secured and place him in the first wagon. Before he wakes, we must be on shipboard and away."

Alzon turned his pony back onto the high trail as Hasoe called for his roan mare, urging the caravan into ponderous motion, a smile of extreme satisfaction on the sallow features. "You spoke more truly than you know, my princeling, when you claim your cousin-brother is taken by a bear. So do the D'Shael call their great lord, their Sun Stallion - Caier the Red Bear. And it is to the D'Shael on the rim of the world that Kherin of Khassan goes - a rich tribute from Tylos, to their friends, and protectors, the Horse People."

Chapter Two

As the wagons crested the last rise, Rythian stood on the wagon box and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun on the snow. Ahead and below, still some hours' journey distant, the buildings of the Summer Hold were dark huddled masses among the snowdrifts. Beyond the settlement, the lake was a vast expanse of dull silver, patterned by waterfowl swimming on it and flying above it. The land about the shoreline was for the most part white, but here and there stretches of turf showed brown, swept clear by the wind. There would be grazing for the herds, though they might have to scrape for it. By the look of the clouds and the smell of the wind, there was still more snow to fall. In earlier years the clans would have waited until the plains were clear, but since the treaty with Tylos five springs back, the warriors had to be at the distant GodStone by the Equinox. And this year winter was slow in retreating. Rythian wondered if the treaty to protect the Tylosian caravans was worth the trouble, and dangers, of such an early return.

Syth glanced over her shoulder at the long line of herds and wagons winding like a sluggish serpent over the snowscape ahead and behind, but her major focus was checking on her own household. Alais, her hearthsister, handled her team with casual competence. Ronan, Alais' son by her short marriage to Syth's brother, drove another wagon. Between Alais and Ronan were the two milk mares, the small Tylosian mare in foal and the house cow, all kept close by half a dozen dogs. Emre, hearthsister and birthsister to Alais, rode on the box beside Syth, her heavy skirts wrapped around her feet and legs. Her pregnancy was too far advanced to allow her the more practical garb of thick breeches that the other women wore. Everyone had on several layers of quilted shirts beneath furred cloaks. Spring it may be, but the cold was intense.

Rythian was driving the family's lead wagon and the sight of him warmed the chill from Syth a little. The wind pushed back the hood of his cloak and his long pale braid gleamed against the black fur. He glanced back as her eyes rested on him and she felt the gentle caress in her mind, tangible as his mouth on hers. Husband, father of her children and always her lover, he had been a choice that had surprised her family. Certainly, it went without saying that he was a warrior. He was a skilled hunter, as talented a wood-worker as his father had been, and in Syth's judicial opinion, probably the handsomest man among the clans. He also had the rare gift of mind to mind contact; he could bring his horses from the common herd without leaving the hearth if he so wished, but rarely practised such laziness. He could entice the birds from the trees and gentle the most savage hound. But he undeniably lacked the height, strength and weight of every other warrior in the Shi'R'Laen tribe. Not that it had hampered him, being little taller than she was herself. Rythian could more than hold his own in combat; what he lacked in strength he made up for in speed and agility. There was no war-scout as skilled as he. The fact that he had no other status in the tribe meant nothing to her.

Sounds of a different kind of combat rose from her wagon. Beneath the curved roof were the three younger children of the hearth, and after the four-day trek confined in their cramped quarters, their tempers were frayed to rags. She could hear their squabbling voices, shrill as jays. She pulled an expressive face.

"Emre, take the reins. I'm going to have to separate those brats again. 'Thian!" she called, "will you take Dreyen up by you? He won't stop tormenting Fyra and upsetting Lirren."

Rythian held back his team to allow the second wagon to glide alongside. Syth scrambled back over the baggage roped to the arch of the roof, swung inside, and sounds of dispute became squalls of distress as the crack of palm on flesh sounded clear.

Flushed and sullen, Dreyen scrambled onto the tailboard and jumped from one wagon to the other. His expression lightened into a grin as he settled himself beside his father.

"Can I drive?"

"No. Wipe your nose."

"We weren't really fighting," Dreyen offered thoughtfully.

"Then it was a good imitation."

As the other wagon dropped back, four-year-old Fyra was being carried forward to sit between the two women. She waved cheerfully at her brother, and Dreyen chuckled.

"We guessed that if we made enough noise, Mam would fetch us out."

"Brat." But Rythian was smiling, and the boy leaned against his side.

"And I was feeling sick. But I'm better now." For a while the only sounds were the grunts of the oxen, the creak of harness, and the hiss of the wagon-runners over the snow. Then: "Da, Shenchan said the warband will be leaving tomorrow."

"That's right."

"Do you have to go? You went last year."

"Only on the early ridings. For late summer and leaf-fall I was at the Hold."

"I know, but why can't you stay home now and just go out on the ridings you missed last time?"

"Because I have already said I will ride south to the GodStone."

Dreyen accepted that and lapsed into silence again, for which Rythian was grateful. The child had all the persistence and curiosity of his years, and could be trying. Rythian did not wish to lie to his son, but neither could he tell him the whole truth.

Caier was not a popular leader with many of the tribe. This, the sixth of the yearly treaties with the Tylosians, would be a time of severe strain on the self-control and temper of many of the warriors. The temptation to Challenge would be strong. In the past all those who Challenged Caier died. Caier, Sun Stallion of the Shi'R'Laen tribe of the D'Shael nation, was both immensely powerful physically - and immensely cunning. Now in his forties, Caier made up in sheer brute strength what he might lack in speed. And for ten years he had led the tribe.

Once down on the plain, the caravan began to divide. The herds peeled away from the line, urged by riders and dogs, and spread over the wide expanse of snow-covered grass. The wagons continued on into the settlement, threading through the wide haphazard streets to respective longhouses.

"Ronan," Rythian called, "Take your wagon to the back." The boy nodded, raising his whip in salute, and turned the team down the side of the barn. The runners lurched and bucked over the hard-mounded snow, but the six beasts leaned well into their collars and kept it stable. Alais steered her team in his wake, while Rythian brought his six to a halt beside the longhouse doors. The snow was drifted deep, almost to the top steps.

Syth pulled her team alongside. Rythian lifted Emre down. The two women looked at the snow-laden roof, the hidden steps, and the threatening sky. "I think," Syth said, not for the first time, "that the Elders were foolish not to wait another week."

"Caier," Rythian said shortly, "has plans that will not wait on late thaws, or poor weather. Emre, stay where you are until I've cleared the steps. Another fall won't help matters."

"My ankle is strong now," she objected, but stood still, skirts bunched up out of the snow. She was finding it increasingly irksome to be limited by a difficult pregnancy, a rare thing among the D'Shael.

"It isn't your ankle we're concerned for." Syth pulled off her heavy gloves, thrust them through her belt, and started untying the lashings of the wagon. Rythian unstrapped a shovel and began scraping the snow from the steps. Dreyen tumbled down from the wagon and promptly disappeared into a drift with a squawk of surprise.

Rythian swept the last step clear, then, using the blade of his belt knife as latchkey, he opened the first door into a mass of cobwebs festooning the porch. Brushing them aside, he used his knife again to open the inner door. The air smelled cold and stale, but not damp, which was good. Raised some four feet off the ground, the boarding of the floor was dust covered, but dry. The closed louvers of the roof would need to be cleared, but the hearth could be lit. It was a stone-built trough some twelve feet in length. Most of its depth was filled with flints used to bed the layers of coals, logs, and peat which would burn continuously until the tribe moved out again with the first snows of autumn. The hearth provided heat for cooking and comfort; it was the central focus for each family unit.

At last year's end, wood had been left ready. Rythian fired it with flint and steel, the strengthening flames highlighting the Sun Symbol carved and painted on the end wall beyond the hearth. The Symbol glowed red and gold as if freshly made, as welcome as the fire.

With the day so far advanced, there was little time to spare. Emre tended the hearth while Syth investigated the state of the rooms that opened off the main chamber. Rythian went through the door to the right of the Sun Sign and down into the stable block as Alais swung open its doors. In the swathe of light he could see that the earth floor was dry and he gave a nod of satisfaction, not unmixed with relief.

"I checked the other barns," Alais said. "The fodder and straw are still sweet, the seals on the storage pits are safe and the roofs are sound. If the house is the same we'll have come through the winter well."

"Well enough," he smiled and she laughed quietly.

"Better than some, I'll wager," she said. "I'm sending Ronan to the herds for our horses. He'll bring Goldstar and Chyren for us. Who do you want for your war-string?"

"Zaan, Frost, Llynivar and Stormrunner, but tell him to bring Amber in first. We should get her bedded down and watered before the rest."

Alais nodded and disappeared.

With the swiftness of long practice the wagons were unloaded, their contents stowed in the longhouse and the barns. The three mares, the cow, and two of the oxen were stabled, fed and watered, and stalls were made ready for the stallions from the herds. By nightfall it was all done and they were sitting around the glowing hearth, eating the rich stew Emre had prepared. Lirren, the youngest, was more than half-asleep, but Dreyen and Fyra still had plenty of energy left. Their exuberance was in marked contrast to the subdued quiet of the women, and Rythian was uneasily aware of it. He did not have to guess at its cause.

Unobtrusively he watched the faces of the women he loved; Syth, Spear Woman and Lioness; she was the center of his life and the core of his heart. She possessed the enduring strength and dignity of the mountains - and a temper that no one sought to rouse. She was only a few fingers width shorter than he, and it was not only the directness of her blue gaze and the straightness of her carriage that earned her the name of Spear Woman. Before their marriage and the birth of their children, she had ridden the wartrails at his side.

Alais, She-Wolf and Firechild, swift to anger and often restless. Yet she was warm and loving and fiercely protective, and almost as dear to him as Syth. She matched him for height and could use sword and spear with equal skill, if not strength. In the past she, too, had ridden the wartrail with him, hearthsister and spearsister. She was the Huntress of the hearth, sharing with him the teaching of the children the skills they would need.

Emre, Summer Woman and Flowerchild; not for her the wartrail or the hunt. Small by D'Shael reckoning, she seemed almost placid beside her birthsister's fire. There was a gentle strength about her that was as rich and generous as the earth itself, and she had a special place in the hearts of all who knew her. Though Syth was wife and First at this hearth, in many ways Emre was the heart of the hearth, beloved by all. If he should lose all this -

Frowning, Rythian stared into the hearth and refused to acknowledge the chill that slid down his spine.

Syth, her concentration split between her husband's face and making sure Emre did not peck at her food, was the first to break the ominous reserve. "You should not be going," she said abruptly. "There is too much to be done here."

Rythian glanced up. Syth met his gaze, and there was a shadow of fear in her blue eyes which startled him.

"I have to go," he said, voice quiet. "You know that. It takes both Arun and myself to ride herd on Voran's temper, and it gets no easier as the seasons pass."