PROLOGUE

The pounding on his door brought Ormond out of a light, uneasy sleep.  He lay a moment, staring up into the ceiling.  Waking brought with it an apprehensive tightening of his gut.  It took a moment to remember why.

"Captain!  Captain, please!"

Ormond scrambled out of bed, stumbling over his boots in the dark.  Shaking hands found the uniform on the chair beside him.  "Come in!" he shouted.

The door flew open at once.  His sergeant, Vram, stood white-faced, in the doorway.  Ormond, still buttoning up, pushed past him into the corridor.  His men, all eight of them, were gathered there.  It was unusually silent.  Everyone knew what they faced.  Even so, hoping against hope, Ormond asked:  "Well?"

"She's gone."

"Vis!"  Ormond's voice shook.  He stared at his assembled men, who looked back miserably.  For a moment, the Protector thought about abandoning the tarn and his clanlord.  Almost at once, of course, such unworthy impulses were quenched.  The Clan Dargin was not powerful, and its lands were remote, but Lord Henry was a fair man. He paid his guards what he could and treated them with decency.  None of this was his fault.

Buckling on his las-rod, the captain strode through his men and was in time to meet Lord Henry running up the stairs.  The clanlord looked drained, expression stark.

"Where is she, my lord?" asked Ormond.

"I don't know.  Perhaps the village. . ."

The guard captain nodded.  "Any possibility of locating an ir'dan?"

Lord Henry shook his head.

Of course there was not.  The village's one ir'dan, a boy just recently Changed, was in Sidhain, learning the aloridan arts.   There was, of course,  no point at all in asking whether an alorin was available.  Since the death of the tyrant, Benara, their numbers had fallen away precipitously.  Worse, in the capitol, there was serious talk of eliminating the caste altogether.  Fiercely, Ormond wished he could transport the fools here to deal with the disaster their "reforms" had wrought.

Ormond left his lord anxiously ringing his hands, and ordered his troops from the tarn.  The night was clear and cool, with moonlight bright across the sweeping lawns.  To the east, past the home wood and the lake, lay Dargin village.  The Lady Ninian would almost certainly go there.  If anything remained of reason, she would remember old Martin's son.  Whether or not she would also remember that he'd gone was another matter altogether.

The Clan Dargin had not yet succumbed to the motorized transport craze sweeping the larger cities of the north.  Ashas were brought from the tarn's modest stables, their heads held by frightened, sleepy stableboys.  Ormond mounted his and prepared to ride out.

"Captain!"

It was Dargin again, hurrying across the courtyard.  Ormond saw the naked pain in the nobleman's face and wished to Vis he could promise Lord Henry anything of hope.  But his lordship made no such request, only seized the asha's reins.

"Make it swift and clean," he pleaded hoarsely.  "Please, Ormond!"

"My lord, we will do our best."  He tried not to see the tears running down his master's face.  "Move out!" he shouted instead, "and look sharp!"

They came upon the first signs of catastrophe on the road through the home wood.  Trees lay toppled to the right and left, some literally uprooted, great clods of earth heaped everywhere.  Usually alive with twitters and cries, the night was utterly silent, as if every creature held its breath for fear of drawing the terror back.

Acutely aware of the apprehension infecting his men, Ormond went slowly, watching every shadow, every shifting patch of moonlight.  Part of him screamed to go faster, for even as they made their careful way, people were dying.  He could not help that, having responsibility first and foremost to his men and to the tarn.

They broke free of the forest.  Fields stretched away to either side, recently harvested, neat bundles of wheat waiting to be loaded into wagons and taken to the granary.  Another tree lay over the road, forcing them to leave the pavement to avoid it.  Someone behind him swore.

Now they could smell burning.  Rounding a bend, where the road climbed toward low hills, he saw a glow against the sky.  His heart, already beating too fast, became a painful hammering in his chest.  He nudged his asha to greater speed.

They clattered up and over the hill and met a crowd of fleeing villagers.  The people scattered, shouting after them, but the guards never stopped.  Dargin Village was afire, and somewhere among the flames and smoke was Lady Ninian.

Ormond tried not to look at the bodies that lay in the streets.  Some were unrecognizable and he could not -- would not -- imagine what she had done to them.  Ahead, flames leapt from the roof of one cottage to another, thatch going up in instant conflagration.  He stopped and turned to his men.

"Spread out!" he shouted, "two by two!"

The troops broke apart, reluctant, men going to the left and right.  Ormond continued along the village's main street, Sergeant Vram at his back, their las-rods drawn, trying to see through the haze of smoke and dancing shadows.  Above the roar of the fires, he heard a distant scream.

Ormond rounded a corner, coming upon the village's small market square.  Vram cursed aloud, even as his captain pulled back his asha, heart leaping into his throat.  A gust of wind stirred the smoke and, for a second, he saw her, white night-gown torn and bloody.  Pale hair lay matted across her shoulders.

It was the sacred trust of Protectors to guard the danae against danger and, in the worst occasions, the rest of the world against the danae.  Most Protectors would never face such a hideous situation as faced Ormond now.  The captain lifted his las-rod, concealing it behind his asha's shaggy head.  His finger tightened on the firing control, but he could not bring himself to press it.  He saw instead a smiling woman, children laughing and clinging to her skirts.  He remembered the sunlight in her golden eyes when, just this spring, she had given him the prize for winning the River Race and, in her gentle voice, congratulated him on his victory.  Ormond had never married, but in his heart of hearts, he had always pictured a wife like the Lady of Dargin.

"Captain!"  Terror shook Vram's voice.  "Captain! For the love of Vis!  Fire!"

I cannot! Ormond thought. Oh, Vis!  I cannot do this!

She was aware of them at last, looking up.  Even at this distance, he could see her eyes.  What looked out of them snagged the breath in his throat.  Her lips drew back in a feral snarl.  Around her, the smoke eddied and swirled madly.

"CAPTAIN!"

He threw himself from the saddle and, aiming the las-rod, squeezed the control.  The shot went wide.  Vram shrieked.  To their right, a door ripped from its hinges and flew across the street, catching the sergeant in the shoulder, toppling him from his asha.  Ormond fired again.  This time, his shots were true.

Lady Dargin screamed, a harrowing, nightmare of a sound, and fell forward onto her knees, clawing at the spreading black stain over her heart.  On either side, explosions shook the cottages, walls collapsed inward and flames soared greedily skyward.  He barely noticed.  All he saw was his mistress, his gentle, considerate, kind lady, unmoving and face down on the filthy cobbles.  The las-rod fell from his shaking hand and his knees buckled.  It was not the smoke that flooded his eyes with tears or caught in his throat.  Bending his head to the ground, Captain Ormond wept.

"My Lord Doctor!"  The Scholar bowed low, clearly alarmed.  "A most unexpected pleasure, sir."

Tired and dusty from his trek, the Doctor nevertheless smiled pleasantly.  "I apologize for landing, unannounced, on your doorstep, but I come with letters from the Fastigium."

Hopefully, he offered the documents.  The Scholar regarded them as if they would explode, but finally, gingerly, accepted them.  "I will be right back, Lord Doctor."

The Time Lord took advantage of a bench set against the Temple wall.  He had already shed his coat.  Now he gave in and pulled off his damp waistcoat.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have taken his TARDIS straight to this gate, sparing himself a fourteen-mile hike through the badlands.  However, the Scholars of the Pure Word had no use for Vis' technological gifts, only his philosophy.   Cthilian, the Doctor's good friend and guide in all things Devian, insisted that arriving unannounced was enough of a faux pas.  To show up in a piece of alien technology would be the grossest insult.  Since the Doctor earnestly desired the Scholars' cooperation, he made certain that not even the sharpest-eyed among them would see the TARDIS sully their barren landscape.

"Lord Doctor?"

The Time Lord jumped to his feet.  Resisting the urge to scrape wet hair out of his eyes, he bowed respectfully to the robed elder now standing in the gate.  The old man held his papers tightly in a bony fist.

"Do I have the honor of addressing the Dean of this prestigious Temple?"

The courtesy caused a slight unbending.  "I am Professor Zan, so titled.  Please, come in out of the sun."

The Doctor picked up his coat and waistcoat.  Ducking beneath the low archway, he followed the old man across a courtyard toward a large, sandstone building.  Windows were narrow-cut against the desert sun.  Stables of the same, pink stone flanked one side of the yard, several agricultural domes the other. A dozen spreading potea trees painted cool shade across the tiles.

"We do not often get visitors," the Professor observed, "especially out-worlders asking such a -- great favor of us."

"I understand, sir.  I do appreciate your generosity."

The old man regarded the Time Lord from under beetling brows.  "Since this bears the seals of the High Temple and of the Fastigium, I have little choice but to offer you our hospitality and assistance.   I would request, however, that you conduct yourself in such a way as not to disrupt our routines."

"Of course."  The Doctor might have pointed out that Vis, their source of strength and inspiration, was a Time Lord, just like himself, but as Cthilian had also informed him, the Scholars of the Pure Word considered that a heresy.  They insisted that Vis was Dev and pointed to highly selective writings as "evidence" of their claim.

The Dean nodded, unhappy but resigned.  "Please, come with me, Lord Doctor."

Inside the Temple, it was blissfully cool and dim.  Several purple-robed Scholars passed, bowing to the Dean, eying the Time Lord with wary curiosity.   Zan led the Doctor briskly through the building and up a narrow, back stair.  At the top was a corridor.  The Dean pointed to a door at the far end.  "That leads directly to the library, Doctor."

He opened a nearer door, revealing a tiny bedroom.  A narrow cot was set against the wall, its mattress thin and lumpy.  There was a wooden table and hard-backed chair, a chest of drawers.  The single window gave some natural light, but brought with it the heat.

"I apologize for its ascetic nature, but our numbers have doubled since the Exiles' return.  Had we earlier notice, perhaps something better could have been arranged.  Unfortunately, we are at capacity."

Zan might have to tolerate the infidel's presence, but he didn't have to like it.  The Doctor, perfectly aware that he had been given the most uncomfortable room in the Temple, smiled cheerfully back.  "Not at all!  This will do famously, thank you."

The Dean managed a frozen smile.  "I am grateful for your understanding.  An acolyte has been chosen to assist you while you are with us."   Zan hesitated.  "In his letter, Lord Dare claims you have an unusually thorough knowledge of our ways.  I would therefore ask, respectfully, that you not speak to the boy of heresies or out-world technologies."

"Of course not.  I understand completely."

Zan lingered, looking like he had other things to say.  Then: "Thank you.  I hope you discover what you need without difficulty.  Our library well deserves its superior reputation.  Should you have any questions, do not hesitate to bring them to the attention of the acolyte."

Murmuring his thanks, the Doctor waited until Zan was gone.  He went to the window.  Outside, a white slate roof reflected the sunlight back at him.  Beyond were other roofs, like-tiled and sharply peaked, reaching in graceful, terraced rows down the side of a low hill.  Further on were more agricultural domes and beyond them - an endless vista of rock and scrub.  It looked rather like parts of Gallifrey.

The expected knock came.  At his call, a lanky youth opened the door.  Bowing, the boy introduced himself as Lo.  From his air of misery, the Doctor guessed that serving the alien was punishment of some sort.

"I'd like to get started right away," he told Lo.  "Would you be kind enough to show me where I could find some writing materials?"

"I will fetch some at once, my lord!"

When the flapping of Lo's sandals faded, the Doctor went on to the library.  His appearance caused instant, if silent, consternation.  A half-dozen silver heads lifted, then ducked back to their books.  Stifling a sigh, the Doctor walked between the reading tables toward the stacks.  No one offered to assist him, but no one impeded him either.

There was a warren of rooms leading off in all directions.  They were filled with books, thousands of them.  Everything seemed adequately organized -- they used a variation of the Gallifreyen system -- and when Lo hunted him down with pens and notepads, anxious,  the Doctor pronounced himself impressed.

"The Dean will be gratified to hear you say so, sir."  The acolyte bowed.  "And he extends his invitation to join him at dinner tonight."

The Doctor would have preferred uninterrupted study, but he was here on sufferance.  "I would be greatly honored."  Then, as the boy continued to hover, said gently: "I think I'll begin in here.  Perhaps you have some studying of your own to do?"

Lo flushed, giving the Doctor an idea of the boy's current disgrace.  "Go ahead," the Time Lord invited.  "We might as well study together."

The boy went to retrieve his books, returning within minutes.  At first, he alternated reading with quick, suspicious glances at the Time Lord, but after awhile, when the Doctor merely opened a book here or consulted a face-page there, he gradually relaxed and soon was focused on his schoolwork.

Finally, early in the evening, the summons came for dinner.

The Temple's dining hall was open-ended, looking out onto a cool, heavily-shaded garden.  Tiled ponds were scattered about, the moisture held close to the earth by the trees' dense canopy.  Tables were set the length of the room -- students nearest the door, faculty by the garden.  Conversation died at the Time Lord's appearance.

Lo delivered him to the head table, bowing to the senior faculty.  Zan rose, an unexpected courtesy, and waved the Time Lord toward a place directly opposite his own.  Another honor.

The food was good and plentiful.  The Scholars were not ascetics, at least in the matter of their palate.  He answered their polite questions with polite answers and was content to eat silently when they began to discuss Vis' teachings.  Sensing that much of this was for the benefit of the heretic, the Doctor listened amiably and, by the dessert course, was rewarded by a visible relaxing around the table.

"What exactly are you looking for, Doctor?" asked one of the professors.

"Information about the One."

"Vis' consort?"  There was general surprise.  "Whatever for?"

"Because there's so little of it.  She was his lover -- in some texts, even named as his wife.  Your own legends describe her as a dana of great power, and some even suggest that she was here before Vis."

"You speak of the Treatise of Destoran," harumphed another professor.  "Hardly orthodox!"

"Indeed," said Zan.  "Destoran was a Revisionist of the worst sort!  The One was merely a virtuous dana who pleased the Sage."

"Except it is not just Destoran," argued the Doctor, "but the Lenian manuscript, as well.  You can hardly say that isn't canon!"

"You have read the Lenian manuscript?"  The Dean was clearly startled.  "You are unusually learned, Doctor.  I did not expect that in an outworlder."

"Devian history fascinates me.  I've been to many worlds, and I can assure you, Professor Zan, that Devia is one of the more unique. Naturally, I'm curious to know why."

"Very properly so, Doctor.  As Vis Himself has put it, there can be no knowledge without curiosity."

"Some Scholars believe that The One was many women," ventured a timid-looking professor at the end of the table.  "That is why she has no name -- she is merely a symbol."

"Rubbish!"  A ruddy-faced Scholar brought his fork down, hard, on the table top.  "Horvis was a fool!  She has a name in the older texts, and she was considerably more than a figure-head!"

"Really?"  The Doctor leaned forward.  "Could you elaborate?"

Zan scowled and the ruddy-faced professor looked hastily at his plate.

"Tell me, Doctor," another Scholar hastily spoke up, "is it true that you are in favor of the Terran- Devian treaty?"

The Doctor absorbed the abrupt change of subject without missing a beat.  "I am.  Your two worlds are linked, you may as well be friends, surely?"

"It depends on what the cost of such friendship is."  A brittle smile touched the Dean's face.  "Our skies are filled with those infernal machines.  Our youth no longer revere Devian culture.  The very foundations of our world are under assault."

"Indeed!" huffed another Scholar.  "No one wants Benara back, of course, but there are certain traditions that have been with our people before even she was born!  It's the height of arrogance to demand that we abandon them.  If that is the Terran condition for a treaty, I say damn the treaty."
 
Whoops.  The gloves were off already!  "I was unaware of any demands."

"No, of course they will not come out and say so, but everyone knows it's Terra behind this move to abolish the alorin."

"Terra?"

"They were behind the abolishment of convict slaves."

The Doctor blinked.  "Er, if I remember correctly, you were among those who initiated the repeal of those laws.  And very rightly so.  The Terrans only threw in their whole-hearted support."

"This is different.  Alorin are not ordinary slaves, you must agree.  A high dana in Need is to be feared above all things.  You've heard, I assume, of the incident south of here, in Dargin?"

"Yes.  A dreadful thing, but when the Sil comes of age. . ."

"If the Sil comes of age," retorted Zan darkly.  "Mzara is seventeen years old and still has not Changed.  Even if he does, what guarantee do we have that he will be what is promised?  You ask us to overturn millennia of experience on an untried hypothesis!"

"It is a hypothesis advanced by your own Sage," the Time Lord pointed out.

"Nonsense.  You're referring to the heretical Remiant series -- blatant forgeries, the lot!"

"Even Vis understood that you cannot have an institutionalized class of sacrificial victims! It's why he gave your people the technology to free yourselves from that need!"

"Doctor, please!  That is patently untrue!  The technology was stolen from him by the Exiles!  Vis knew that we were not yet prepared to wield such weapons.  You stray dangerously close to blasphemy!"

"My apologies, Dean Zan, but like yourself, I feel strongly about this.  Technological solutions aside, the alorin system is, and always has been, rife with abuse.  How many men do you honestly think are born noble bastards?  You've only a few hundred high clans, yet there nearly a thousand alorin -- and that number remains constant throughout the years!  Even when you consider the extremely liberal interpretation of "noble blood," you must admit those are startling numbers."

"I have read the Fastigium's research on the subject," retorted Zan.  "I find their statistical methodology flawed.  Personally, Lord Doctor, I will be much more comfortable when we have a Sher'dana again.  Vis was wise to divide power between Clans and the Sher'dan.  The Fastigium is in the pocket of Mzara, who is entirely too friendly with the Terrans.   With a strong Sher'dana, we can expect some balance in what comes out of Sidhain these days."

Zan grumped a moment, then with a visible effort: "But we have committed the ultimate breach of hospitality, I fear.  As Vis has said, only fools and politicians discuss politics at dinner.  You've read the Lenian manuscript, you say?  What did you think of the chapter outlining the six principles of sensory awareness?"

When dinner was over, the Time Lord excused himself, intending to seek out the ruddy-faced professor, but his plan was thwarted by Lo's reappearance.  The boy stuck to him, burr-like.  Resigned, the Doctor returned to the library.

Several days passed.  Unable to pry any information from the disapproving Scholars themselves, the Time Lord turned his attention in earnest on the libraries.  He worked his way through the main sections, then began venturing further afield.  Even so, aside from a casual mention here, an allusion there, he found precious little mention of the One, never mind substantive information.

Lo's service was exemplary.  The boy was punctual, respectful and energetic, but he never initiated a conversation, nor did he seem the least curious about the alien perusing his Temple's sacred literature.  Monosyllables or blank looks met any attempt by the Doctor to draw out the boy.  After a while the Time Lord gave up.

His research eventually carried him into the cellar stacks.  Lo, resigned and no longer paying much attention, stolidly settled himself at one end of the quiet room and worked on his sums.  The Doctor prowled up and down narrow aisles, squinting in the poor light to see the titles.

Finally, his perseverance paid off.  At the back of the stacks, deep in shadow, was a row of old cabinets containing manuscripts, notes and other hodgepodge.  And there -- half-hidden behind one of them -- was another door.  It was locked.  Thoughtfully, he returned to the reading table with an armload of books.  Lo glanced at his selections incuriously and went back to his own reading.

The hour was far advanced when the Doctor announced that he was finished for the night.  Lo, yawning, trailed the Time Lord back to his quarters and hung about for a few more minutes before obediently heading off to seek his own bed.  The Doctor sat at his tiny desk, going over his notes until the silence in the Temple was absolute.  Then he got up and, slipping off his shoes, tiptoed back to the cellar.

A single lamp illuminated the book-filled room.  He made his way to the blocked door and moved aside the cabinet.  Whistling under his breath, the Time Lord found his sonic screwdriver.  The lock gave way easily.  Beyond was another anteroom.  It, too, was lined with books, but these were clearly much older.  Some were kept in ornate, run-engraved boxes.  Closing the door carefully, the Doctor brought his lamp to one of the tables and began reading titles.

He found what he wanted at once.  The book was massive and made a rather loud thud when he set it on the table.  Leather-bound, the titles in archaic, Devian script, it was so old that its pages were vellum, or a material very like.  Doctor pulled the lamp closer and began to read.

There were those who agreed with the Dean -- that the One's identity was irrelevant to the grander scheme of things.  His fellow Time Lords shared Zan's indifference.  The High Council was much less interested in Devia's history than its present, specifically, its inconvenient alliance with Earth.

The Doctor, however, was not satisfied.  He knew the story by now, all myriad versions of it.  Devia's classic history claimed that Vis had come to a world dominated by an elite group of women with near god-like mental abilities and, through the sheer force of his personality, induced them to voluntarily give up their power.  The premise was (not to put too fine a point on it) difficult to believe.  There had to be more to it and, as was often the case, that "more" was likely to be important to understanding the Dev.

He turned a page.  Each was beautifully illustrated, the text inscribed with a fine, careful hand.  He bent closer to examine a plate -- a fairy-tale castle afloat on a sea of evergreen.  At its feet was a jewel of a lake, perfectly round and reflecting the castle's airy lines. The Temple of Lilith, he translated from the caption, in Rajak

Rajak?  Where had he heard that name before?

The Doctor was so engrossed in the enigma, he failed to hear the whisper of sandals behind him.  At the last moment, he turned, ready to face an irate Scholar.  Instead, he had a glimpse of Zan's face, distorted by anger.  Then someone else seized him.  A stinking rag was pressed over his mouth and nose.  Although he struggled desperately, there were too many attackers.  The world tilted crazily.  He found it hard to draw a breath, even when they pulled the rag away. His respiratory bypass kicked in, but whatever saturated the rag also permeated his skin.  Languor weighted his limbs and, slowly, inexorably, he fell into darkness.

The letter from Shieann was delivered by messenger.  This should have been a clue that things had gone from bad to worse, but Cthilian was so happy to see her familiar handwriting, catch the subtle whiff of her perfume, that he took it from the servant with a quick smile, and tore the envelope open.

"My darling -- I must write to tell you that my aunt Colinna will shortly descend upon the tarn.  Please, please, understand when she tells you what she must.  I can't go into detail now, but this is necessary, not only for our future happiness, but for Djan's.  I hate asking it of you, dear husband, but you must play the humble alorin until some matters are cleared up here.  And most of all, you must keep strict watch over Djan.  I cannot stress that enough, although I know it is cruel of me not to say why.  Only this -- when the plans have been finalized,  I will be able to come home, if only for a few days -- we will talk then.  I love you so much.  Shieann.   P.S.  Burn this note."

The last sentence sent a chill down Cthilian's back.  He crumpled the paper and threw it into the fireplace.  In truth, she didn't need to explain that much to him.  It had been twelve years since the return of the Exiles.  At first, all of Devia had been giddy with the excitement of the new age.  Anything had seemed possible.  Horizons opened suddenly and wide.  Nothing would be denied them.

Then had come the inevitable consequences of such upheaval.  The Sher'dan remained without a leader.  It was in confusion, a hotbed of intrigue no sane man dared contemplate.  The government was out of balance, its members prey to unseemly ambitions.   Clans saw their fortunes rise and fall as Devia changed to accommodate a new reality.  There was a growing resentment, mutters that Earth intended to remake Devia into its own image. Traditions which had never meant much to folk before were suddenly passionately embraced.

"Master Cthilian?"

The alorin looked up, blank-eyed.  Cora Landing, the tarn's Housekeeper, hovered in the doorway.
Seeing her anxiety, Cthilian managed a smile.

"There is a man here," she said, "from Lady Colinna.  He -- he orders you to attend him immediately."

Cthilian took a deep breath.  Ordered.  He felt muscles in his jaw tighten.  "I'll be right there."

A tall, supercilious servant paced impatiently in a parlor near the tarn's kitchen.  He scowled at Cthilian.  Contempt glittered in the gaze that moved familiarly over the alorin's body.  "The staff tells me that you are in charge."  He was clearly incredulous.

Cthilian bowed, throat tight with anger.  "The regent is pleased to find me useful, sir.  May I assist you?"

"The Lady Colinna Mzara s'Le arrives tomorrow from Sidhain.  She will expect the finest guest suite.  You will instruct the servants to arrange it."

"Sir."  Cthilian kept his eyes firmly on the floor, knowing they would give him away in an instant.  Play the meek slave, fall back into old habits.  It was too easy to do.

"Of course, when the Lady arrives, she will assume control of the household, by order of the regent."

Cthilian said nothing, although he was stunned.  Shieann was removing his authority?  She hadn't said that in her letter, although, now that he thought about it, she had implied it.  Were things that bad in the capitol?

"I understand, sir."

Mollified by Cthilian's diffidence, the servant harumphed and, upon the alorin's invitation, allowed that he might just like a bite of supper, at that.  Were the tarn cooks as good as their reputation?

The servant was not really a bad sort.  After discovering that Mzara's notorious alorin did not give himself airs, he was more than willing to be amiable.

"I myself have no opinion on the alorin question, one way or the other," he confided to Cthilian over the remains of a hearty meal, "but my Lady is the old-fashioned kind.  Very proper, she is, and mindful of tradition.  No doubt, the Regent's trust in you is well-placed, but I must agree that the purpose of an alorin is to serve the high danae.  What would we do if warwitch Need couldn't be satisfied, I ask you?"

The man left soon thereafter, well-fed and warning Cthilian that milady would be at the tarn by noon tomorrow.  Cthilian bit down hard on his resentment.  Then he went in search of the young clanlord.

Djan was in the schoolroom, entertaining Alea.  Cthilian paused in the doorway to watch the two, his eldest and youngest, their silver heads bent together over a large drawing pad and charcoals.  Alea's delighted laughter filled the warm, toy-strewn chamber.

He relished the sight of them, wishing his eldest daughter was here to add her bright laughter to theirs.  Alas, Palas had turned twelve this past summer and, as tradition decreed, high danae from the Sher'dan had come to Test her.  The results had been no surprise.  Like her namesake, Earth's formidable high dana, little Pala would be a high dana in her own right.  So she had gone, tearful, but excited, to enter the Sher'dan's distant Seminary.  There, she would learn to control the powers that were her birthright.  It was a great honor, but he missed her.

"Djan-Djan draw another?"  Alea tugged at her brother's hand.  He laughed, prying away the chubby fingers and wrapping them around a bit of charcoal.

"Your turn."

Djan was seventeen.  It hardly seemed possible.  The small, diffident boy had changed, growing tall and broad-shouldered, his shyness turning into high spirits.  Cthilian did not relish giving him the news.

"Papa!"  Alea forgot the story being sketched in front of her, bouncing from her chair with a vigor that knocked it over.  Cthilian grinned, scooping her up and tossing her into the air.  She squealed.  "Again!"

"Not again," he retorted, "or you'll lose your dinner.  Run along, scamp.  Here comes Mari."

His daughter's nurse appeared in the doorway behind them.  Alee was eventually persuaded to go with her, clutching the crumpled sketch paper, leaving Cthilian alone with his son.

"Something's wrong," Djan said.  "What is it, sir?"

"Your great-aunt Colinna is coming to stay.  I've had a letter from Shieann."   Cthilian gave the boy a brief outline of its contents.

"This isn't fair!" Djan jumped up from the table, facing Cthilian with clenched fists and flashing eyes.  "It's not enough that I must pretend to be someone else' son, now I have to treat you like a slave?   I won't do it!  Slavery was outlawed!"

"Alorin are different," sighed Cthilian, "You know that."

"It's not fair!"

"You'll get no argument from me," agreed Cthilian, "but your aunt has her hands full protecting Mzaran interests -- not the least of which is your future.  We'll just have to trust her.  Some day everything will settle down again, be back to normal."

He met his son's uncomprehending stare and realized that for Djan, this was normal -- this careful existence, the secret that hung over them.  For a moment, the boy's clear gaze was that of a man much, much older.

"How long will she be here?"  Djan asked finally.  Cthilian shook his head, having no idea.  "All right, Fa -- Cthilian.  But I won't just stand about like a lump of wood if she insults you or treats you badly!"

"I intend to stay out of sight," his father replied wryly.  "If we're lucky, I'll get away with a single interview."

The tarn staff was as upset about the situation as their young lord.

"The alorin quarters?  Master Cthilian, you cannot be serious!"   Cora stared back at him, incredulous.  There were angry murmurs of agreement from others gathered in the kitchen.  He shrugged, pretending indifference.

"Why not?  It's well away from the guest suite -- I hardly think her ladyship will climb four sets of stairs to hunt me down."

"It's been a storeroom for years!  I don't even know if there's a stove up there!  It's out of the question, sir.  There's a nice little apartment in the west wing, near the nursery . . ."

He was touched by their loyalty, astounded, as always, by their friendship.  "No, Cora.  You've all been very kind, but the fact remains, Lady Colinna is correct.  It won't be a hardship to spend a few weeks catching up on my reading."

Scowls all around.  He gave them a confident smile.  "In the meantime, we've only got a little time to clear out the room, get my things out of the regent's suite -- and Cora?"

"Hmph."

"Do you suppose you can find some -- appropriate clothes?"

That triggered another explosion of outrage.  He shook his head, absurdly cheered.  One of the maids finally admitted, grudgingly, that there might be something  in the laundry stores.

Lady Colinna arrived the next day, as threatened, promptly at noon.  Cthilian was not present to witness the event.  He was on his knees in his new room, trying to a coax a fire to life in a tiny, rusting stove.  The smell of smoke lingered, heavy in the frosty air.  Fortunately, he'd discovered the nest in the flue before suffocating himself.  Perhaps this attempt would be more successful

The spark caught.  He hissed in triumph, rocking back on his heels.  When the fire crackled, he stood up and moved restlessly the bed.

The staff had done an admirable job making the room liveable in a very short time.  There were rugs on the floor.  The bed was narrow -- nothing else would fit -- but it was well stocked with warm covers.  A tiny table provided a place to lay a book, piles of which occupied one corner of the room. He'd spotted the small, overstuffed armchair in one of the other attics, and Rastin, the carpenter, had fixed the leg for him.

On hooks behind the door were the clothes Ami had found.  Cthilian took down a shirt.  The silky fabric slipped through his fingers and his hand tightened on it.  He wanted to throw it into the stove, but instead, he shook it out.  The garment was dark mauve, nearly translucent.  There were trousers of like color.  With one of each, he retreated to the growing circle of warmth around the stove, and put them on.  Settling, cross-legged to the rug, he reached automatically to unfasten the braid that kept his hair out of his eyes.  Then he stopped, defiant, and held his hands to the fire instead.  He might have to act like an alorin for Lady Colinna, but he didn't have to acknowledge it in private.

Leaning across the rug, the iri'dan plucked a book from the pile.  He'd spent a precious hour last night choosing from the tarn's huge library.  With luck, this visit wouldn't last long enough for him to read them all.

In spite of his best intentions, Cthilian could not concentrate on the printed page.  His thoughts kept roaming to Sidhain, to Mzara's elegant city house where Shieann lived while the Fastigium sat in session.  Her image rose in his mind -- small, deceptively delicate, her eyes warm from the afterglow of their lovemaking.  He bowed his head, aching for her.  Sometimes he tried to remember her cousin, Katha, Djan's mother and his first love.  But Katha's face wouldn't hold in his mind.  Always, those imperious features melted into Shieann's quieter prettiness.

The hours dragged.  His new room had only a single window, a tiny square of clouded glass that peeped out under the eaves and gave a view of east tower wall.  In spite of the stove, the air was chill and his alorin garb little protection against it.  He finally wrapped himself in a quilt and, by dint of fierce concentration, managed to read a chapter or two of his book.

A scullery boy arrived at sunset, breathless from the trek to this aerie.  He hadn't come to call Danner to dinner.  Her ladyship wished the alorin to attend her at once.  The alorin's heart dropped into his toes.

Lady Colinna was a small woman, much like Shieann, but showing her age in the way that danae did not.  She sat on a velvet divan in the formal parlor, alone.  A fire burned in the hearth and Shieann's earth clocks filled the silence with their artificial heartbeats.  Cthilian knelt, bowing his head to the floor.

"Stand up."

He rose, keeping his eyes firmly on his feet.

"Turn around."

Throat tight, the alorin obeyed.  There was a harsh laugh from the old woman.

"Well, it's easy to understand why she lost her head.  You're a pretty creature -- ah!  You don't like that, do you?  It would seem the gossip is correct.  Shieann's alorin has ideas above his station."

"I seek only to please, my lady."  The traditional responses came easily.  Only the sense of humiliation was new.

"I doubt it.  You've heard about Dargin?"

He nodded, sickened by the memory.

"The timing was most unfortunate."

Cthilian stared back at her, shocked.   She smiled grimly and waved toward a chair.  "Sit down, boy.  I'm not your enemy."

Cthilian was not at all certain of that.  He remained standing.  It was a small defiance, and she chose to ignore it.  She sighed.

"I grieve for Ninian.  She was my friend, a wise and gentle woman.  Since her death, I have even found myself thinking perhaps we are wrong, perhaps we must have alorin."

He stared blindly at his feet.  Lady Colinna's voice was sad and a little tired.

"Don't look so frightened, Cthilian.  We haven't changed our minds.  I have faith in the Sil and, although I may not like it much, faith in those tiresome humans to help us produce more of them.  I would see the day that ir'dan didn't have to die so danae could live."

She was silent a moment.  Finally, he looked up.

Do you recall the rumors that circulated right after the Exiles returned?  That Djan was, in fact, your son?"

He nodded.

"On the Fastigium floor, the question of his paternity has been raised not once, but twice within the past month."

Suddenly very cold, Cthilian said:  "The Raynigs have acknowledged paternity . . ."

"As a condition for keeping their ancestral estate!"  Colinna leaned forward.  "Dargin has changed everything.  People are afraid, boy!  Public support is dwindling.  We are losing allies in the Fastigium.  If Shaela fails the Challenge, we have no chance of winning alorin emancipation."

A dreadful premonition crept over him.  Lady Colinna continued, relentless.  "Whether your son is clanlord or slave will depend on how successful we are in winning back public support.  That is why I am here.  Brenlorn and their allies must have no weapon to use against us before the vote.  Shieann must at least make the appearance of respecting Devian traditions."

She was silent a moment and there was real regret in her face.  "In two days, my niece will return to the tarn and within the week, before all of Devia, she will wed Lord Michel Avran.  I'm sorry, Cthilian.  You know tradition as well as I.   You can no longer stay at the tarn."

CHAPTER TWO

The Doctor opened his eyes.  Zan's face filled his wavering vision.  He tried to sit up, and found himself unequal to the task.  It took a few moments for the confusion to clear -- and for the Time Lord to realize that he was bound.  He was also fiercely thirsty.

"Is there --- a problem?" he asked faintly.  Someone out of sight laughed.  Hands on his shoulders hauled him up,.  For a moment, the room swam in his vision.  His hearts pounded.  What had they given him?

"I'm sorry you felt it necessary to go snooping where you weren't welcome," Zan replied.  The Doctor blinked and looked around.  There were two other men in the room, both large and muscular.   From the corner of his eye, he saw movement -- someone else slipping through the door.  He blinked, trying to bring things into focus.

"Lilith," replied the Doctor.  "Her name was Lilith."

Zan cursed, but softly.  "Right again, Doctor."

The old Scholar motioned to the men and stepped away.  The Doctor struggled to get off the narrow cot, but the men pushed him back.  One of them produced an injector.

"No -- please -- that's not at all necessary . . .ah!"

Another long, bewildering period passed.  There were more injections.  The Doctor slid in and out of nightmare, distantly aware that he was traveling, that he was being moved from one group of armed men to another.  Sometimes he heard them talking, their voices coming in echoing waves.

After what seemed an eternity, his head began to clear again.  He opened his eyes and, for the first time in a long time, what he saw made sense.  Walls, a cot, a dresser, a chair.  He got up, and when his equilibrium stabilized, stumbled over to try the door.  Locked, of course.  Turning back, the Time Lord began pulling open drawers and looking under the bed. His coat was gone and he'd left his shoes in the Temple.  Drat.

Much later, he at last heard someone coming.  There was a narrow slot at the bottom of the door.  He watched the trap lift and metal tray slide into the room.

"Hullo!" the Doctor called.  "Where am I?"

There was no answer.  The footsteps receded.

The Time Lord's dinner consisted of something that might have been meat, a heap of white, mushy material reminiscent of potato, and a cup of watery coffee.  Leaving it untouched, the Doctor examined his prison.  His door had a dead bolt on the outside. Walls, ceiling and floor were stone and plaster. The bed was wood-framed with a narrow, well-used mattress.  It was the mattress tag that told him where he was.  Earth!

Thoughtfully, the Doctor sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door.  Closing his eyes, he relaxed, opening his mind as far as he could.  He was half-human; his telepathic skills were not equal to a full-blooded Time Lord's, but he was aware of others in this place, small ripples of sentience that he recognized as human, and --- aha!  Something else.

There was a moment of recognition as that mind became aware of his.  The next instant, the feeling was gone, too swift and faint to leave more than an uneasy sense of familiarity.  Whoever it was, their presence was stronger than a normal human's.  Devian, perhaps?   He dropped to his knees, lifting the trap door, and peered through the opening.  He saw only concrete floor.

Hours passed.  More food arrived - scrambled eggs this time, and a couple of wizened sausage links.  Once more, he ignored it.  From time to time, he risked opening his mind, but he did not again feel that familiar presence.

Luncheon came, then dinner.  Each time, the Doctor attempted to communicate with his guard.  Each time, the unseen human ignored him.  The Doctor left all the food untouched.  Then, after the second luncheon appeared, he made his move.  Calculating the arrival of his next meal, the Time Lord stretched out on the bed.  He began a series of deep breathing exercises and, when his mind was calm, began to slow his hearts.

It was an old trick and one he'd used more than once to get out of a pickle.  Set the body clock, slow the physiological processes until they fell beneath levels detectable by human detection.  (At least, he hoped so!).

The world dimmed and went dark.  The Time Lord floated half in, half out of consciousness.  Distantly he was aware of time passing, of someone standing over him, then of more people, agitated.

His "timer" went off; hearts accelerated to normal.  He shuddered, coming awake abruptly.  The cell was empty, the door ajar.  The Doctor was off the bed in an instant.  Crossing the room, he peered out.  There was no one in sight, but he didn't count on that continuing.

At the end of the corridor was an elevator, with a fire exit nearby.  As he stood, undecided, the elevator rattled.  Making up his mind, the Doctor scooted into the stairwell.  At the top was a door marked with a broken exit sign.  The Time Lord opened it.

Rain hit him in the face, turned the surroundings gray.  He could see trees looming in the mist, the ghostly bulk of another building.  The wet night was heavy with the scent of earth and pine.  A north wind made him long for his stolen coat.

He crossed a gravel driveway, ran between two large sheds.  Ahead was a fence topped with barbed wire.  Beyond that -- forest.  The Doctor paused long enough to throw a stick at the fence.  No sparks -- probably not electrified then.   He stripped off his waistcoat.  Scrambling up the chain link, he tossed the garment over the top, shielding himself from the worst of the sharp wire.
 
When he dropped to the soft earth on the other side, the Time Lord heard shouting.  Torchlight bobbed about in the stormy night behind him.  He ran, not caring which direction, stumbling on roots, fending off branches that lashed at his face.  The sounds of pursuit grew louder, spurring him to greater speed and less caution.  Something reared out of the dark -- a ruined house, roof fallen in.  He evaded it.  A fresh spate of rain made the gloom even deeper.  Doggedly the Time Lord kept going.

Gradually, the land descended.  He slipped and went rolling, coming up against the bole of tree with such force that, for a moment, he lay, dazed.  There was a new sound, a rhythmic thudding that rose above the hiss of the rain.  Suddenly, everything around him was thrown into stark relief.  Helicopter!  The Doctor rolled into a nearby thicket and lay still, hearts pounding, while the searchlight bobbed and wove across the forest floor.

After what seemed hours, it snapped off.  Dropping his head into his arms, the Time Lord remained face-down in the mud, waiting until he could no longer hear the beat of the helicopter's blades.   He finally crawled out from his concealing bush.  He could hear shouting behind him.  How many men did they have?  What little he could see of this place suggested it was a camp of respectable size.  Looking behind, he saw points of light dancing in the rain.  Shaking wet hair from his eyes, he started running.

Danner Renwolf hunched his shoulders against the drizzle and wiped his binocular lenses dry --  again.  Crouched beside him, Dr. Taylor seemed impervious to the damp chill.  Her slicker hood was pulled forward, the capacious poncho sheltering not only her body but her portable med-kit.  She had her head down, fussing with the radio.

He surveyed the valley again.  Trees stood with their feet in thickening fog.  The wind had fallen away to a whisper.  The sky, heavily overcast, showed a line of sullen red to the west.  It would be dark soon, and if the signs around them were to be trusted, real rain was coming.

"I lost him," said the blackstone finally.  "Can you get anything?"

"Left," replied Anna, not looking up.  "They see a stand of pine trees, and there's a hill . . ."

"Got 'em."  Danner focused on several figures making their way along a deer trail.  The men were heading south, toward a break in some low, wooded hills.   Anna swore under her breath.  He resisted the urge to look.  "Fix that thing yet?"

"No."

Danner heard an ominous sound, rather like delicate, electronic equipment being viciously shaken.  "Anna?"

"Crap! I knew Alan was good for something."  She sighed.  "I'll contact Rory and have him bring us another."

"Not until they reach their camp.  We'll lose the trail if we wait."

Anna peered doubtfully up at him.  "You need a way to communicate if something happens to me.  Everyone on med trek does -- it's the rules."

Danner shook his head and returned his attention to their quarry.  The blackstones had stopped, one of them crouching to fill his canteen in the stream running through the little valley.

"Besides," Anna continued reluctantly.  "I didn't like what we heard back in Chesney."

"UFOs?"  Danner grinned.  "I thought we were the UFOs."  The blackstones vanished into some trees.  "Need a decision here, group leader."

She frowned, looked around at the darkening hills.  "Let's keep going.  The camp may be nearby, or, if not, they'll surely look for a place to spend the night.  As soon as we figure out which, I'll contact Rory."
 
"That's the spirit!"  Shoving the binoculars under his own poncho, Danner pulled his hat forward, hiding the jet biocrystal that glittered in the center of his forehead.  Warily, he started down the slope, slipping a little on the damp leaves.  At the stream, they, too, stopped to refill their canteens.  Climbing once more, they picked up the track, following the bend of the hill south, into deeper wilderness.

It was Danner's first med trek -- a service mandatory for every Witchhorde Rider.  He wasn't very happy about it.  These were perilous times and he would have much preferred to be back on the danship.  Someone needed to keep an eye on Palas, surrounded as she was by the fools and cutthroats who passed for their allies these days.  His appeal for exemption from MT was denied, however.  That didn't do much for Danner's temper, either.

He understood the need for the med trek, of course. The Dev's lethal virus had decimated humanity, brought to ruin a technological infrastructure that should have launched humanity across galaxies. Thanks to the Doctor, Earth now had the vaccine, but it was useless unless it was actually dispensed.

One would think that the idea of a cure would be met by open arms.  Bizarrely, that wasn't so.  Outside New Age Alliance territories, blackstones were still pariahs.  Most ended up as slaves and their owners were generally not inclined to give them up without a fight.  Blackstones who avoided slavery usually did so by being elusive and willing to shoot first, ask questions later.

Which made the fact that they were wandering around, alone and unarmed, all the more idiotic.  Not that he could complain to Anna, of course.  It was her damned rule.

"It reduces the chances of initial misunderstanding, Danner.  Besides, the security team is only minutes away."

Minutes.  Violent death took seconds, but -- hell -- what did he know?

The wind picked up, sighing through the trees, rattling the last, stubborn leaves.  Fog thickened.  The sky faded into dark   Now they tracked their quarry with Anna's dan-sense -- that formidable, telepathic ability all danae possessed to one degree or another.

Like blackstones, danae were plague survivors.  Where the virus had given men a super immune system and enhanced physical senses, it gave women varying degrees of telepathy.  Danae were very rare, much more so than blackstones.  Rarer still were the high danae, who added telekinesis to their bag of tricks.  On Earth, the Devian plague had produced only two.  One of them walked quietly at his side.

Danner's vision adjusted, making it possible to see a few feet in any direction -- but only barely.  Anna whispered: "They're pretty far ahead.  I think we can risk flashlights."

He looked around.  Nothing like screaming, HERE WE ARE!    "If they're closer than we think . . ."

"I'm not picking anything up."

There was nothing to say to that, so he shrugged and she clicked on her light.  The bright beam danced along the path in front of them.  They walked a little faster.

Field reports suggested there was a band of blackstones somewhere in the area.  The locals, farmers mostly, claimed they were bandits, raiding farms and villages.  They were probably right.

Suddenly, Anna snapped off her flashlight.  "Remember -- nonthreatening,  We're here to help them if they want help."

Hell of a warning!  It was raining now, a light, steady downpour.  Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped.  Maybe Dr. Taylor's mind wasn't on her work.

Figures melted from the misty night to surround them.  All of the blackstones were armed, mostly old projectile-type weapons.  They moved in, separating him from Anna.  In the fog and the dark, he quickly lost sight of her.   Rough, hurried, the men searched him, finding his gear.  For the first time, he was glad he was unarmed.

"Look at that," one said, flashlight snapping on, the beam fixing in Danner's eyes.  "Jeez - check the facets on his 'stone!"

"He's an old one," another exclaimed.

"Maybe.  Don't mean he's on our side. Let's get out of here."

"Where's my friend?"

There were some snickers.  The first man, unamused, retorted: "No one will hurt her -- yet.  Move."

Hurt Anna?  Danner almost laughed, stumbling on a root when they pushed him forward. He tried again, but his question died, unasked.  Anna was in his head.  <DANNER!  TROUBLE!>

The forest lit up around them.  White light blazed from above and the air throbbed with sound.  Danner moved before thinking, knocking aside his startled guards, somersaulting under a fallen tree.  The pitiless blaze bleached the forest floor.  Squinting against the brilliance, he peered up, trying to make out what sounded very much like a large helicopter.

Dangling on the ends of cables, figures fell through the light  Masked, covered from fingertip to toe in dark, form-fitting uniforms, they advanced with military efficiency on the panicked blackstones.  One flung out his arm and a net unfurled, entangling a fleeing man.  A quick flick of the wrist and the net closed, swinging up and out of sight.  It had taken seconds.

Where the hell was Anna?

Suddenly, one of the strangers shouted.  Seconds later, they were lifting off, soaring back up through the trees.

They're running!  Someone warned them!

Anna!  Thank God!  She came out of the trees, hand shielding her eyes.  The lights snapped off.  Danner swore, temporarily blind.  He felt her hand on his arm.  "I sent for Rory!"

"Damn straight!"  The helicopter was retreating rapidly south.  His vision began to clear.

"There was a telepath with them!"

He shook his head, not terribly interested.  Two of the blackstones were fleeing into the wood.  Three others stood nearby, dazed, watching Anna and him.

"That wasn't a UFO!  That was goddamned 'copter!"

"Which is a UFO out here," Anna retorted.  "No one local has helicopters.  There aren't any tech pockets in this sector!"

A new sound filled the night -- finishing it for the remaining blackstones.  They were gone, running for their lives as the Horde ships arrived.  Two of the sleek, triangular craft roared by, shaking the earth in their passing, chasing the helicopter south.  A third stopped, hovered above the trees, then cut east, toward the open hillside.  Anna frowned after the retreating blackstones.

"Let's go -- Anna!  They're gone, OK?  We'll get 'em some other time!"

She scowled, then shrugged.  Falling into step beside him, they headed toward Rory's ship.

CHAPTER THREE

Over the past decade, the University Consortium city of Anor had doubled in size.  Once hidden from the world, a secret repository of forbidden, First Age technology, the town was now home to the administrative offices of the New Age Alliance.  North America's crazy-quilt of governments sent their representatives here, made their diplomatic maneuvers and trade deals, aired territorial grievances and settled other disputes.

Anna felt the fighter bank and turn, saw the distant ribbon of the Huron River as it wound through wooded hills.   Along its broad hilltop, the medical center flashed by beneath them, the first of Anor to catch the dawn light, windows glowing gold.

"I don't believe they lost 'em!"  At the controls in front of her, Rory was still fuming. "It was a fucking 'copter, for Chrissakes!"

"Relax, sergeant."  Anna let her seat-back up.  The poor guy had been ranting for the last two hours. "At least you have some sensor data  We'll find out where it came from."

The helicopter had a good start on the Riders and the weather was terrible.  Still, it seemed strange that it had vanished so completely.
 
Scowling, Rory dropped another fifty feet, leaving her stomach behind.  He was coming in low, much too fast.  It was early, most of the city still drowned in shadow.  They shot past central campus.  In the seat beside her, Danner slept, lean hands relaxed on the armrests.

It seemed like forever since she'd been a post-doctoral fellow here, living her double life, pretending to be a Norm, terrified that someone, someday, would realize what she really was.  And, of course, someone had.  But what she'd thought would be her worst nightmare, turned out quite differently, indeed.   Leaning over, she gave Danner a shake.  "We're almost home," she said.

The airport appeared ahead.  Rory was chatting up the Tower, cracking jokes.  Transports and the smaller, private flits were lined up along a sprawling terminal.  At the west end of the complex the aircraft were mainly military -- Rider and University Consortium Security fighters and recons.  In spite of the morning's tranquility, Anna knew that a dozen highly sophisticated sensors had been trained on them since entering Anorian airspace.  Had they been hostile, they'd never have made it this far.

Rory set the craft down smoothly between a sleek UCS helicopter and a Rider transport.  Anna picked up her bag and followed Danner onto the jet bridge.  There were Riders on guard just inside the gate.  They saluted smartly as the two Commanders walked wearily past.

It was not yet seven o'clock and the terminal was all but deserted.  Most of the shops and offices were still closed, but a breakfast cafe was open, two young girls in pink and white uniforms gossiping behind the counter.  Anna smelled coffee and her mouth watered.  Just as she made up her mind to nip over for a cappuccino, a runabout appeared, driven by a smart young man in Rider uniform.  He jumped out, saluting.  "Ma'am.  Sir.  You're wanted topside ASAP."

Danner and Anna exchanged looks.  The young man took their bags and threw it in the back.  "What's going on?"

He didn't know, but he got them to the other end of the terminal at a good clip.  There, in the diplomatic section, they were processed through to the transmat by anxious clerks.  Danner muttered something about hating transmats and walked onto the platform.  Anna wasn't that fond of the things, either.  The moment of vertigo as her atoms were disarranged always made her slightly ill.

Her apprehension grew when they came aboard and found Alan waiting for them.  It took more than routine disasters to pry him out of his labs.  Danner looked hopefully for Palas, but there was no sight of her.  There was, however, an unusually large number of armed Horde security.

"What's going on, Alan?"  Anna edged a little closer to him as two burly Riders approached to seize their bags.

"I'd like to say that you've missed all the excitement."  Professor Masterson pushed his glass-less spectacles up the bridge of his nose.  "But I'd be lying.  We're in the middle of an international incident, so to speak."

"And?"

"The Doctor appeared out of nowhere, claiming abduction by terrorists, probably those Earth First bastards.  Our Fearless Leader dispatched two fighter units at once -- without bothering to notify the NAA."

"The Doctor was abducted?"

"So goes the rumor.  I hear you guys have been having your own adventures."

Anna permitted herself to be herded into the waiting vehicle.   They were dropped at another transmat, this one restricted to Command Bridge personnel, and from there, more anxious aides hurried them down hushed corridors toward one of the conference rooms.

In the lobby, a crowd of men huddled in small, exclusive groups.  Anna saw clusters of Deetan gray and Consortium black.  Gan Mallory from Chicago was here -- she recognized those too-crisp suits -- even the gold and scarlet clerics of the New Church.  Alan was right.  This was an Incident.

She could hear angry voices inside the room.  Rider guards threw open the doors

Damnation!  All the NAA reps were here, including the UC's formidable head of Security, Ron Sheridan.  She'd not expected that.  Sheridan rarely set foot on the danship these days.  When the UCS had to deal with l'Shylian, he'd always sent underlings.  It was understandable, given the history the two of them shared.  Their eyes met, accidental contact.  His mouth tightened and he looked away.

"Everyone's here."  Flanked by Miles and several more officers, Captain Palas McAllister looked down an acre of shining table to her friends.  She was wearing what Anna privately called her "intimidation" clothes, the indigo, form-fitting leather uniform of the Devian warwitch.

"Thank you for coming, Commander, Doctor Taylor.  I realize that you must very tired, but I would like these gentlemen to hear your report."

Anna saw the Doctor several chairs to Palas' left.  He didn't look like someone recently abducted.  His grin sparkled at them.

Further down was another surprise -- two more Time Lords.  She recognized one as Gallifrey's Ambassador, Bhagmaranolonaka.  At his elbow hovered a disapproving attache who peered down a long, beaked nose at her.  Craven, Danner sat down at once, leaving her standing at the end of the table, the cynosure of the room.

God, Palas!  What was she supposed to do?  In this atmosphere, saying the wrong thing could mean catastrophe.  Exhausted, she decided to err toward caution and gave a brief narrative of their experience.  Then, uninvited, she sat down.  Someone set a cup of hot coffee in front of her.  Alan.  He winked and returned to his chair.

"Helicopters again.  Coincidence?"  Palas asked lightly, looking around the circle of grave frowns.  "This camp was abandoned in a big hurry.  They left behind computers, generators, radio -- helicopter support equipment -- my people are still cataloguing.  Some of that equipment had UC tags.  Perhaps Colonel Sheridan could explain what they were doing there?"

"Stolen, likely, but that's not the point," snapped Sheridan.  "You launched a major, military incursion from this location on no authority but your own.  That is unacceptable!  There are mechanisms in place..."

"That's precisely the point!"  Her gold eyes flashed.  "Since last May, the Horde has been under repeated attack.  The EF has been getting past our checkpoints, finding our classified outposts -- and every time I petition the Council to look into the matter, I get excuses!"

"We've been threatened, too!" objected Smith, Deet's representative.

"But never actually attacked," Danner interjected.  "Funny, that."

"Given the evidence left behind at this camp, it's obvious that there are people within your organizations working with Earth First.  We could solve this problem very easily.  You need only allow Anna and I to look into your minds.  Nothing particularly invasive. . ."

The pandemonium was immediate.  Anna closed her eyes, listening to the shouting around her.  Of course, they would not allow it.  There was no such thing as a clear conscience.  Palas knew that very well.

The captain rose to her feet, slim hands outspread.  "ENOUGH!"

Anna felt it -- they all did -- that unnerving sense of power.

"Very well.  As Anna must frequently remind me, we are more civilized these days.  Your minds are your own. " That direct, golden gaze moved over the silent, uneasy group, lingering on Sheridan before moving on.  "I am hereby withdrawing l'Shylian from the Alliance.  From this day forward, we will make our own policy, and you, gentlemen, will be allowed back on board only if you meet our criteria."

This time, the response was silence, abrupt and profound. Then, once more, the room erupted in shouting.   Sheridan's  voice rose above the din.  "This is an outrage!  You have no right -- you are an arm of the NAA!  This could be construed as an act of terrorism greater than anything the EF has done!  Mutiny!"

"I never agreed to put this ship under any other command," she reminded him coldly.  "l'Shylian is sovereign territory, although you've all done your best to ignore this. . ."

"Sovereign?  Sovereign nations, Captain, are self-sufficient!"  Bishop Anders, red-faced, could barely contain his anger.  "How do you intend to feed your crew, Captain?  Get supplies?  From where?  As soon as it is known you've gone rogue, no one will touch you!"

Palas' eyes gleamed across the table at her friends.  Alan coughed into his hand and looked positively demonic.  Christ, Anna thought, you wouldn't . . ."

"Activate the capacitor," said Palas.

Something shifted, subliminal.  Anna caught her breath, feeling the shimmer across nerves as the danship awoke.  The walls around them faded, turning from metal alloy to stone, ancient and worn.  There were windows that looked onto a sky of palest pink, and through which came a balmy, fragrant breeze. She knew without looking that if she went to those windows, she would find a plateau stretching north and west, the top of a four-hundred mile cliff and below, a river sewn with rainbows.

"Captain McAllister!"  Bhagmaranolonaka was on his feet, white with alarm.  "Please reconsider.  This ship -- a technology that by rights belongs to my world -- is too powerful to be under the absolute command of one hu. . .person  Do not expect Gallifrey to stand idly by in this matter!"

The Doctor cleared his throat, drawing a look of ire in his direction.  He opened his mouth, but the Ambassador cut him off.  "And I don't wish to hear anything from you, sir!  Your presence at this meeting is wholly unauthorized . . ."

"He is here because he is a material witness and -- a good friend."   Palas drew a long breath.  "I would respectfully request, Ambassador, that you reserve judgment in this matter.  It is not my intent to threaten anyone in this room, but I will act to protect . . .."

Her words were drowned out by angry shouting.  Anna took a deep breath and sat up, watching Palas uneasily.  The airlessness was back.  Control, Anna thought at her, Palas . . .

Unexpectedly, the Doctor jumped from his seat onto the table.  Coffee cups overturned, pens went rolling this way and that.  He smiled into the shocked faces around him and jumped down again.  Voice clear in the silence he said: "I think the situation calls for some careful, dispassionate thought, don't you?  My suggestion would be that everyone go home, brief your respective superiors, take their counsel before doing something rash."

To Anna's surprise, the Council did exactly that.  Their straggling departure was noisy and acrimonious, but they departed.  Anna would have risen, but Palas said quietly: "Stay."  So she slumped back into the chair and laid her head down in her arms.  She drifted in a half doze until Alan shook her awake.  Anna looked up to see only l'Shylian's high command and the Doctor left at the table.

"They took that rather well."  Danner said finally.  "No one's dead."

"They're not off all the ship yet," growled Miles Nelson, Palas' first officer for forty years  "Damn, but I hate it when you get spontaneous.  The alliance is unstable enough already."

"Can you blame them?"  The Doctor looked around the table.  "As they struggle to pull themselves out of the dark ages, this ship is always overheard, an alien behemoth bristling with sophisticated weaponry even its commanders don't understand."  He met and held Palas' eyes.  "I'm surprised.  You could have read the minds of every man in this room.  Why didn't you?"

"Because you and Anna would harp on me about subtlety and the right of all creatures to their own thoughts." she replied drily.  "It's irrelevant anyway.  What they do to each other down there is their own business.  Far more important at the moment is the question of how you got from Devia to the Kentucky mountains?  I can guarantee that you were not brought through our corridor."

"None of the Exiles have a working corridor, as far as I know," the Doctor pointed out.  "And none of their danae are Prime -- they can't physically shift their ships into our space."

"On the other hand," Danner said, "one helicopter evaded two of our fighters -- just vanished off their screens.  No Earth tech there!"

Nelson looked to his commander, frowning.  "I thought the Exiles were on our side."

"The situation in Devia is deteriorating," Palas replied bluntly.  "Loyalties have shifted so many times in the past year, you need a damned scorecard.  Doctor, is it possible that they could construct a corridor in secret?"

"Not very."  The Time Lord looked over at Alan.

Absently, the professor pushed up his spectacles.  "I agree.  Of the twenty-six danships (not counting us) all but four clans have completely lost the science and engineering behind their ships' technology.  They use it, but are helpless if it needs more than simple repairs.  The other four are scarcely in better shape.."

"It just doesn't make sense.  Why would an Exile attack us?" Anna asked reasonably.  "If the treaty falls through, they have more to lose than anyone. Exile technology is all these clans have to offer the rest of Devia and, as Alan says, we're helping them get it back."

"You're giving them much more than that," replied the  Doctor.  "I've been on Devia for the past year.  All of what you claim is true -- and that is part of the problem.  Everywhere you turn, it's Earth this and Earth that -- medicine, engineering, entertainment.  Even before the villagers were killed, public backlash was beginning."

"Shieann and Michel's wedding."  Palas agreed.  "That was a pretty drastic move.  The pro-treaty faction has the votes, if only just, and once the challenge is over, the Sher'dan will be with them, as well."

"Perhaps.   Lady Mistal is the most likely to become Sher'dana, but it's the people you need to convince.  Untreated Need is a very real, very reasonable fear, but it's a fear that has been with Devia long before Earth appeared on the scene.  Callous as it sounds, wounded Devian pride is the greatest danger to your cause."  The Time Lord's smile came and went.  "It wouldn't hurt you to make an effort in that direction."

Palas shook her head, frustrated.  "Doctor, I have plenty of fires to put out already.  Do you have any suggestions that won't interfere with this investigation?"

Now the smile was back to stay.  "As a matter of fact," purred the Time Lord, "I do."

Mzara sent a transport for Danner, a trim little craft, the product of cooperative research between Earth and Devia.  No driver was needed.  When the blackstone got in, a pleasant, genderless voice reassured him that the programming was complete, his destination marked, and would he sit back and enjoy the ride?

Hell, no, he wouldn't enjoy the ride!  The blackstone stared unseeingly through the transport window, seething.  Trust Palas to make what was supposed to be a pleasant evening into a shouting match.

The transport lifted effortlessly from the embassy's pad, hovered a moment, then headed south, crossing the great, geological fault the Dev called the Wall of Heaven.  Originally, the embassy had been the home of the now-extinct Exile clan, l'Shylian.  As such, it was close to Mzara'tan and the journey took mere minutes.  The vehicle let him off just outside Mzara's inner walls.  A servant waited to escort him in.

The courtyard was crowded, but not with horse-drawn carriages.  Solar-powered vehicles had been approved during the early days -- before Devian's Old Clans started losing their nerve -- and the Dev embraced them enthusiastically.  There were flitters and zips and transports everywhere, most high-end, luxury crafts.  Harried Mzara staff ran to park them in the converted stables.  Danner's escort led him safely through the traffic jam and up into the tarn itself.

Inside, he encountered an elegantly dressed couple whose eyes went immediately to the dancrystal in his forehead.  They nodded and smiled -- and watched with open curiosity as he  continued across the gleaming foyer.  Danner was taken up several flights of stairs to the fourth floor.  There, the servant stopped and threw open a door to reveal a small, but well-appointed bedroom.   Another servant appeared with his luggage.  Danner endured their curiosity as well, and was grateful when both withdrew, leaving him alone.

The wedding was tomorrow.  Excitement raced through the ancient castle, but there was an undercurrent of unease, as well.  Opening his suitcase, he ran his fingers along the lining.  He found the catch, revealing the hidden compartment. Inside was his laser pistol.  Even Shieann didn't know he was carrying it.  Danner slipped the weapon into his belt, shaking his jacket down to hide it.  From the same niche, he took out an electronic sniffer and began the painstaking business of checking his room for uninvited sensory equipment.

His room was clean. That was the major difference between Dev and humans -- humans would have bugged his room.  On the other hand, no few Devian females could bug peoples' minds.  Hiding the sniffer, Danner left.

There was considerable activity on the tarn's lower levels where the nobility of Devia mingled in the studies and parlors.  Strains of music could be heard drifting down one hall.  Passing a window, he saw a group of young men and women skating on the marsh, fur-wrapped against the cold.  The formal dining room was filled with tables set with crystal and silver, sparkling under drifting light-globes.  He nodded to those who deigned acknowledge him and ignored those who stared at him down their noble noses.  Danner was not alorin, and his dark hair marked him as a Terran -- outside their traditions.  But he was iri'dan and bonded -- two circumstances that occurred most often in Devia's only remaining slave caste.  The majority of Shieann's guests probably found him a protocol nightmare.

Danner's orders (the least contentious ones) were to meet with Shieann and find out, first hand, where things stood.  When he went to the family wing, however, he learned that the bride and her women had gone to the village for the final fittings of their gowns.  He asked about Cthilian and got a quick, frightened look.

"I'm sorry, sir," the servant said, dropping his gaze.  "The alorin isn't here.  It wouldn't be fitting."

Danner bit back his angry response, seeing the man's miserable expression.  So he asked for Djan, instead, and was pointed toward the schoolroom.

The young clanlord was seated at a desk by one of the tarn's narrow windows, staring out over the marsh, eyes blank, face drawn.  He started, hearing Danner's footsteps.

"Commander Renwolf!"

"Whoa!" the blackstone marveled.  "You've grown ten inches!"

The boy grinned.  "No, sir, only four, I think.  Is the Lady Palas with you?"

"She'll be here in time for the wedding.  Where are your obnoxious sisters?"

That got a grin.  "Palas isn't coming -- can't get out of school.  Alee's hiding.  The nursery staff's been running around for the last half hour, looking for her.   She's in the tea-cupboard, of course.  Alee always goes there when things are topsy-turvy."

"And how are you doing?"

Djan looked around, a frightened, surreptitious gesture that added to the core of anger that lay coldly in the pit of Danner's stomach.  "All right, sir.  It -- it's a very important occasion.  The Clan Avran and Mzara have never had a connection.  It will add to Mzara's influence."

"Your father?"

Carefully held control crumpled.  The thin face darkened.  "My father is a Raynig," he said.

Danner opened his mouth, saw anguish in that young face, and closed it again. The two stared at each other.  Then: "I was supposed to meet your aunt, but she's being fitted or something.  What say we go for a ride?  It's a nice day and it's been a long time since I've been on a good asha."

Djan blinked, caught off guard.  For a moment, he stared closely at Danner's face.  "All right, sir.  I guess it would be permitted.  You are a Protector."

"That's right," beamed Danner.  "Go ask permission from whomever you must."

Djan was gone like a shot.  Danner sighed.  Truthfully, he loathed ashas and rode badly, but the youth's pain was more than he could bear.

Djan returned promptly.  "Avran says it's all right, sir."

"Avran?"

"He's to be my guardian."

"Right.  OK.  Let's go."

Avran.  It didn't help that Danner liked the gregarious young lord.  Still -- the injustice rankled.  If not for Cthilian's help, Devia would still be suffering under the madness of its former Sher'dana.  He followed Djan down a back stair and out into a small courtyard behind the stables.

Once, Mzara's stables had held a hundred ashas.  Now, there were only as many as were desired for pleasure riding.   A groom had their animals already saddled.  He held their heads while Djan and Danner clambered into the saddle.

"Have a care, my lord" the man admonished the boy.  "Old Man Temble says it's going to snow and snow hard."

"We won't be long," Djan promised.  "Come on, Danner!"

The boy was off, his asha clattering across the wet stones, through a gate hastily opened by another groom and out onto the rocky causeway.  Danner gritted his teeth and followed, envying the youth his effortless skill.  They passed a carriage crossing the causeway bridge to the tarn.  The blackstone had a glimpse of two startled faces peering from the window and then they were past.

He shouldn't be doing this.  Both Palas and the Doctor had impressed upon him the need for strict discretion.   Be the perfect guest.  Don't make waves.  Get them through the wedding.  It was the same fucking excuse Palas had used when she gave him his orders for after the wedding.  Danner's fingers clenched around the reins.

Djan turned east, leaving the road.  A narrow path had been beaten into the snow.  It ran along the edge of the marsh, then turned inland, toward forest and hills.  Djan guided his asha expertly through a stand of trees, then reined in to wait for Danner.  Breathlessly, grateful for the respite, Danner leaned forward across the animal's stocky neck, giving it a desultory pat.

"Where do you want to go, sir?"

Danner looked around.  The trees stood, silent, behind him.  Ahead the land began to rise.

"I'd like to see your father."

Djan shook his head.  "It's forbidden.  Aunt Shieann says that we must obey tradition until the alorin law is overturned . . ."

"Yeah, I know.  I've heard all the good excuses."  Danner stared off into the distance.  A low edge of clouds was building in the west.  The groom's prediction looked likely to come true.  "But you know?  I never was one for tradition or diplomacy."

Djan clenched his jaw.  Gloved hands tightened on the reins.   "Neither am I," he said suddenly, intensely.  "Follow me, sir!"

The boy was off again, asha hooves throwing snow in every direction.  They rode hard, into the hills, through more trees.  Just as Danner was starting to think Djan was lost, they crested a ridge and the boy stopped.  "He's down there."

A tiny cottage nestled beside a stream.  Smoke rose from its chimney.  Theirs were the only tracks, asha or human, in sight. As hard as he looked, Danner saw no other cottages, or even a road -- although the latter might easily be buried under the drifts.

Now that they were here, Djan was uncertain again.  Danner nudged his animal's flanks and started down the hill.  After a moment, Djan followed.  They dismounted at the tiny stoop.  Djan hung back as Danner rapped sharply on the door.

It opened.  "Danner?  DJAN?"  Cthilian looked past them anxiously, his mouth thinning.  "Get inside," he ordered.  "Quickly!"

They crowded into the foyer.  There was barely room for the three of them.

"What in Vis' name are you doing here, Djan?  I thought we talked about this!"

"I tricked him into coming," Danner said.  "Nice to see you, too, Cthili."

"He didn't trick me," Djan burst out.  "I wanted to come!  I wanted to see that you were all right!"

The young voice wobbled.  Cthilian, shaking his head, said resignedly: "You're here.  Come in."

The parlor was warm, books scattered about.  A heap of blankets around one chair revealed where Cthilian spent much of his time.  Danner wished he could read Devian.   He realized suddenly that he had no idea what interested his friend.  Science?  Philosophy? Crosswords?

Cthilian pushed books from the other two chairs.  He looked from Danner to Djan and relented.

"I should be furious," he told the boy sternly, "this could be disastrous -- but, I confess -- it's very good to see you."

Danner turned away and studied the fireplace while father and son embraced quickly, fiercely.  Then Djan moved away, suspiciously bright-eyed.  Cthilian held out a hand to the Terran.  "And it's good to see you, too, sir.  Did the Lady Palas come with you?"

"Afraid not.  She 'll be coming later."  He hesitated.  "Cthili -- could I talk to you -- privately?"

The iri'dan gave him a startled look, then glanced at Djan.  The boy took the hint at once.  When Djan had vanished down the hall to the kitchen, Danner took a deep breath.  "You've had aloridan training, haven't you?"

"All ir'dan do -- alorin or free."  Cthilian's smile was crooked.  "Although it won't be the same experience for Djan -- thank Vis.  Why?"

"Because I'm supposed to accompany him to Shiall Hall."

Cthilian's eyes widened. "To watch over him?"

Danner's anger, simmering since the night before, died under the open gratitude in the other man's eyes.  "That's part of it," the blackstone said finally.  "It seems that it would look good if Terra was to embrace a few Devian traditions -- so, like you, I'm the offering."

Cthilian tilted his head, regarded his friend with dawning sympathy.  "I forget your peoples' attitudes to such things," he said.  "But you should know, for free ir'dan, it is not an unpleasant experience."

Danner peered narrowly at the Dev, but Cthilian was always a master at keeping a poker face.   "OK -- I admit, it sounds like fun, but . . ."

Cthilian leaned forward, eyes narrowing.  "You're worried," he observed with devastating accuracy.  "What is it?"

The human pretended nonchalance.  "The academy is in the Ser.  I --- I haven't been back there since the Exiles returned."

Understanding dawned.  Cthilian nodded.  "Benara."

Danner shrugged. "She's dead.  Stupid, huh?  It's not really a big deal.  Even the Doctor says I'll probably get right into the, er, swing of things.  But enough of my insecurities. What about you? What happens now?"

"Father!  Danner!"

The two men spun around, hearing the alarm in the young voice.  Djan stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

"Ashas!" he said.  "A lot of them!"

Bewildered, Cthilian frowned at his son, but Danner was on his feet at once, running to the window, sweeping aside the curtain.  Sure enough, asha and men formed a thin, black line along the hillside, making their cautious way toward the cottage.

"Time to leave!"

Cthilian, whitening, came to stand at his side.  "No clan colors. . . *Get Djan out of here!*"

"You, too."

"Please --- I can distract them.  HURRY!"

Seizing their coats, Danner and the Mzaran heir hurried out, mounting their ashas.

"Where are you going?"  Djan cried as Danner turned around, urging the reluctant animal toward the stream.

"Somewhere we're not likely to leave tracks," he replied shortly.  "*Move*."

The boy looked over the unbroken snow and nodded, pushing his own beast after Danner's.  Fragile ice wafers splintered when the ashas set hairy hooves into the water, tossing their manes in disgust.  Danner led them along the shallow edge, around the bend.  Trailing willow boughs hid the cottage from sight at once.

"Will he be all right?" Djan asked quietly.  He was very pale, gripping the reins with convulsive strength.

"I don't know.  See that ruined bridge?  Wait for me there."

Djan wasted no time with questions or protest, but nudged his asha forward.  Danner turned his around, retracing their steps. At the bend, he paused and pushed aside branches.  There were ashas all around the cottage -- he counted five of them.  More were likely behind it.  The blackstone set his asha to scrambling clumsily up the bank.  Tying the beast to a sapling, Danner laid a hand on the gun at his back and made his way quietly through the trees.

The cottage door flew open and four men lurched out, a struggling Cthilian between them.  One of them hurled the alorin forward, kicked him as he sprawled in the slush.  Danner ran, bent double, along a low hedge-wall to the cottage.  A fifth stood watch at the back, his attention on their trail.

Leaving the sentinel unconscious, Danner helped himself to the man's weapons.  Flattening himself against the side of the cottage, he heard the creak of leather tack and the leader's shouted order to move out.

Danner waited.  Finally, they appeared, walking in their own tracks, single-file.  Smiling grimly, Danner waited until the first two were past and he saw Chilian.  The alorin was astride, bound hands gripping the saddle, reins in the grip of the man beside him.  Danner took that man out, winged another, and in the ensuing confusion, stepped out into the open, his weapon trained on the man who looked to be in charge.

"Relax," the Terran advised.  "Cthilian -- over here."

The alorin, pale hair a-tangle, a bruise discoloring one cheekbone, nudged his asha out of the line.  One of the men reached over to stop him.  Danner shot the man in the shoulder.

"I'm serious!" he barked.  "This gun is a repeater.  Are there any more heroes?"

Face twisted in rage, the leader shouted: "Kill him!"

Danner shot two of them, somersaulting out of the return fire.  Cthilian yelped, his panicked asha rearing, and fell into the snow.  Danner regained his feet and shot the leader.  The survivors didn't wait around.  Turning tail, they fled.

Cthilian struggled to his feet, breathless and snow-covered.  He staggered to Danner, holding out his bound wrists.  A quick slice with the blackstone's pocket-knife and the alorin was free.

"Are you all right? I heard shooting!"  Djan appeared around the corner of the cottage, pulling back his asha and looking at the carnage with alarm.

"GET BACK!" both men roared in unison.

The boy flushed, but didn't move.  Danner, shaking his head, stomped through the drifts to the dead officer.  "Who are these yahoos?"

"I don't know," Cthilian replied through chattering teeth.  His thin, alorin clothing was soaked through.  "Brigands?"

"Yeah.  Right.  We're going back to the tarn -- yes, you, too.  Tradition be damned!"

The transport set the Doctor down beside his TARDIS.  He clambered out and stretched, looking around.  There was nothing to see in any direction but desert and, very faintly in the haze, mountains rimming the western horizon.

He'd half expected to find his ship gone, but it sat where he'd left it, undisturbed, hidden from the road behind several long, low hills.  He let himself in and felt the TARDIS' pleasure at seeing him.

"Just a short hop, my dear," he said aloud, and set the controls for the Temple of the Pure Word.

No longer concerned about priestly sensibilities, the Doctor materialized in the Temple's main courtyard.  Pushing open the door, he found himself facing a knot of purple-robed Scholars who stared back at him, dismayed.

A Scholar finally regained his wits and, after looking to his brothers for support, came up to the Doctor, huffing and puffing.  "Lord Doctor!  I must protest!"

The Time Lord cut him off abruptly.  "Where's Dean Zan?"

The Scholar looked even more upset.  "He's not available at the moment, Lord Doctor . . ."

"Then I'll wait."  Without another word, the Doctor strode across the courtyard and plunked himself down on a bench.  The Scholar hurried after him, increasingly agitated.

"Please, Doctor . . ."

"Don't worry about me," replied the Doctor airily.  "I've all the time in the world."

The Scholar opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again.  Turning, he hurried back to his fellows.  Most of them, the Doctor noted, were wearing robes that identified them as high- ranking members of the sect.  They spoke together in low tones, and with frequent glances in his direction.  The Doctor, curious, waited.

More Scholars gathered in the courtyard.  There was general air of anxiety.  Finally, the Scholars separated and the first man returned.  "I am Professor Lin," he introduced himself.  "And I'm afraid --- well, it very much appears --- that is . . ."

The Time Lord waited patiently as Lin threw another glance of appeal at his fellows.  They were no help, staring blankly back at him.

"Professor Zan has disappeared!"

This was certainly no surprise to the Doctor, but he kept his face still and the disappointment out of his voice.  "Indeed?  When?  Under what circumstances?"

"We don't know exactly.  He retired to his bedchamber the night before last, and never came out."

"You're certain he didn't creep out into the dead of night?"

"Why would he do such a thing?" Lin demanded.  "And as to that -- why did you?"

The Doctor blinked.  "That's between the Dean and myself."

"The Dean never left his room," Lin said finally.  "An acolyte always stands watch at his door -- just in case he needs assistance during the night.  The boys on duty swear they never left their posts, that Dr. Zan never once left the room."

"They noticed nothing unusual?"

Linon gave him another long look, then hurried back to his colleagues.  There was more whispered consultation, then:

"If you wish, Lord Doctor, you may examine his room.  We have decided that, should he not return by tomorrow, we will summon the Protectors.  It would be preferable, however, to handle this situation internally."

There was nothing in the man's face or manner to suggest he had the faintest idea what had happened between Zan and the Time Lord, so the Doctor followed Lin through the Temple and into the faculty wing.  Here, the quarters were much more comfortable.  There were carpets to soften the stone floor, and the walls had been plastered and painted.

Zan's room was at the end of a corridor.  Next to the door was a hard, wooden bench -- likely the spot where the attendants waited.  One sat there now, leaping to his feet at the approach of his elders.  He sprang to open the door, staring, round-eyed, as Lin ushered the Doctor into the room.

"I'd like to speak to the boys on duty that night," said the Time Lord, looking around.

While they were summoned, he prowled from the bed to the desk to the small sitting room adjacent.  A half-empty carafe of wine sat on a table near a window that overlooked the desert.  In the bedroom, the sheet had been turned back; a book lay open on the night-table.  Slippers, one atop the other, lay beside the bed.  There was no sign of trouble, no evidence that Zan had intended anything but a routine evening.

Several minutes later, a Professor herded four, frightened young men into the small room.  The Doctor smiled encouragingly at them.  "Don't be alarmed," he said.  "I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

The boys looked to Lin, who nodded gravely.

"I'm interested in anything you may have seen or heard that night -- voices in the bedroom, anything at all unusual."

They shook their heads.  "Nothing?" the Time Lord asked, disappointed.  "Nothing the least little bit odd?"

More head-shaking, but this time, one of the boys looked less sure of himself.  The Doctor pounced.

"Sir," he replied reluctantly, "I -- I did hear a rather odd noise.  I thought perhaps Dr. Zan was ill -- it sounded very much as if he couldn't breathe.  But when I went to the door and knocked, he opened it a crack and told me he was fine."

"And no one saw him after that?"

There was a solemn shaking of heads all around.  Taking a deep breath, the Time Lord dove into his pockets and came out with his Bilandrian energy-reader.  While the Scholars and acolytes looked on curiously, he walked around the room, thrusting the meter this way and that. With each new reading, his heart sank further.  Finally, he shut the meter off and dropped it back into his pocket.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I must return to my TARDIS right away."

"But, Doctor . . ."

"I'm sorry I can't be more forthcoming, Professor.  I suspect that Dean Zan is alive and well, but until I make a few inquiries, I would prefer not to risk giving out incorrect data."

"Of course, Doctor.  You will let us know?"

But the Time Lord was already on his way out the door.

"This is terrible!"  Shieann, very upset, turned away and walked to the window.  "How dare they?"

Colinna was on the sofa, saying nothing, Michel in the chair opposite her, grave-faced and quiet.  Djan stood beside his father in the door of the library.  Seeing them together, Shieann was suddenly struck by how much they resembled each other.  More like brothers than father and son, these days, of course.  No wonder Colinna wanted them apart.

"The situation is not ideal."  Danner moved with his ominous grace from Cthilian's side to hers.  "So let's fix it.  Who's behind this?"

"Who knows?   There were  no clan marks identifying any of them."  Michel shook his head. "If I had to guess, I would say it is the Warriors of Vis -- our version of your Earth First."

"I find it hard to believe that even they would dare attempt to abduct the Sil."   Michel said.

"No one knew Djan was at the cottage, including myself!"  Shieann bent a stern look on the Terran.  "No, they were after Cthilian."

"But he's only an alorin . . ."

"Exactly."  Danner looked from one Dev to the other.  "If they took Djan, there would be an uproar, would there not? Kidnaping Cthilian wouldn't get nearly the press, but it would put you in a bad position."

Shieann closed her eyes briefly.  He was right.  And what would she do to save him?  Throw away alorin rights forever?  Vis!

"Rumor claims the Warriors have ties to many of the old Clans."  Colinna's light eyes snapped.  "We are related to half of them.  It wouldn't be difficult to get agents into this very tarn.  If anyone saw you three return, we may very well be unable to salvage anything from this debacle!"

"I don't want freedom at the cost of my father's life," Djan said in a thin voice.

"Pah!  You are a child!  You have nothing to say about this!  We are not fighting only for you, but for the freedom of all the Sil who come after you.  As long as the alorin law is in place, they, too, risk becoming slaves.  Stop being so damned selfish."

Djan clenched his jaw and turned away, fists knotted at his side.   Shieann's heart ached to see his misery, and Cthilian's.

"Not Earth," she said finally. "Take him to your embassy, instead.  We'll have a better chance of producing him if we must.  And let no one know what you're doing.  We can think of a good story if it becomes necessary.  Djan -- listen closely.  You have been in the tarn for most of the afternoon.  Your ride with Danner was only a short distance -- down to the river and back."

"Our ashas' tracks . . ."

"Have you looked outside?"   Shieanna swept aside the drape.  Outside, snow obscured even the adjacent towers.  "Danner, how long will it take you to get to the embassy and back?  Tonight is the first of the festivities.  You must be here for them."

"Shieann -- my lady, please.  May I speak to you?  Alone?"

Oh, Vis!  Now it was Cthilian.  She recognized that quiet, stubborn look.  Shieann held her temper with an effort, nodding.  Colinna muttered something as the Regent moved toward a small antechamber off the library, her alorin right behind her.  He closed the door after them.

"Cthilian, please.  We haven't the time for this . . ."

"Don't send me away."  He was quietly desperate.  "Don't you see?  If they can separate us they've already won!  Let me stay.  I'll keep to the cottage, I swear."

"No -- it's too dangerous.  And this is only a for a few weeks, my love. Only until this damned vote is over and done!"

"But I can keep an eye on things while the rest of you are busy with the wedding.  What if they come after Djan?  Alea?  Please, Shieann!"

She closed her eyes, trying to fight the irritation and, underneath that, the dreadful terror that he might be harmed, even killed. "I couldn't bear it if something happened to you," she said finally.  "Even if we weren't bonded, Cthili, I could not.  Danner's right.  You must go to the Embassy.  The Terrans will keep you safe.  They owe us that much!"

"I don't want to be safe!" he burst out, taking her shoulders and forcing her to look at him..  "Shieann!  Please!"

"No!"  She pushed him away.  "Why are you doing this?  You know what we're trying to accomplish! Colinna is right.  It's as much for your sake as for Djan's.  Stop fighting me."

He stood, blinking rapidly.  Then, in a strained voice: "I am your alorin.  If you order me to go, I must go.  But you told me once that I am also your husband, and if that is true, that surely my place is here, by your side, with our family.   Which am I, my lady?  Slave or husband?"

"Vis, Cthili!  That's not fair!"

"Shieann . . ."

"You're going.  Not another word!"

He stared at her, eyes stark, then nodded jerkily.  Mute now, he opened the library door and stood with his eyes on the floor, alorin-like, to let her pass.  The others fell silent when they came back in.  She said to Danner: "How quickly can you take him there and be back?"

"In a flit?  An hour?   I don't suppose you have any more of those nifty secret passages?"

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a haze for Shieann.  Somehow, she made it through the arrangements for the hand-fasting, chatted with her guests, smiled and smiled and smiled until she thought her face must crack.   Djan, Vis be praised, finally seemed to understand the gravity of the situation and it was a subdued, but courteous young man who came to mingle with the guests and to help Alea's harried nurse keep a tight rein on the imp.

Danner returned shortly, as promised.  Avran whispered the news in her ear, knowing it would ease her mind.  He was so good.  Almost, Shieann regretted that she could not love Michel.

The prenuptial dinner came too quickly.  The guests were already at their tables when the bridal party entered the dining hall.  Danner was instantly visible, the only dark head in a sea of silver, far back in the corner with other distinguished commoners.  She took her seat  beside her affianced and tried not to look in the Terran's direction.  Silence fell.  The door opened again and all heads turned.  Her heart flipped over.  It was Djan carrying the betrothal box, two Scholars at his back.  For a moment, her heart was full.  Traditionally, the clanlord always gave away the daughter of a clan.  Avran's father had agreed to the role when Djan adamantly refused.

The impact of this was not lost on the guests and a ripple of whispers followed his progress down the long aisle between the tables.  Avran took her hand, gently reminding her of her own duty, and helped her rise.  The boy stopped at their table and set the box between them.  It was as old as the tarn, this box, the wood dark with age, the carvings worn to near-illegibility by the hands of countless Mzara brides.  She opened it while Djan continued his stately march around the table to stand between their chairs.

All eyes were rapt upon them.  Even Colinna was smiling.  Taking a deep breath, hoping her shaking hands would be taken for excitement, Shieann lifted out the wide, silver ribbon.  Djan reached forward and took it.

The boy lifted her wrist and tied the ribbon around it, fingers ice cold.  There was the barest of hesitations when he took Avran's.  For a moment, Shieann was back in time, to a cluttered bedroom in the Sher, her world in ruins, and the quiet-eyed alorin who had assuaged her Need and stolen her heart.   The ribbons they'd used then were taken from the unknown dana whose rooms they'd confiscated, but it hadn't mattered.  Nor did she care that they were only alorin ribbons.

Avran was speaking.  She shivered and realized that their wrists were now tied together and there were words to say.  Djan had removed himself to the end of the table and was sitting, watching them and smiling.  Shieann hoped she was the only one to see the brittleness of his expression.  Vis - she hoped no one noticed hers!

"And upon the Day of Joining, you will be mine, our lands bound together as our hearts," she said, automatic.  Thanks to Vis, it was almost over.

Michel's face swam into her vision. He kissed her.  They sat down to thunderous applause.  She reached automatically for her wineglass, throat parched, and realized too late it was the hand tied to Michel's.  Everyone noticed, of course -- were watching for it -- and the room rang with good-natured laughter.  They would be bound thus through the entire meal, always a source of merriment.

After eternity passed, the dessert dishes were cleared away.   She and Avran walked from the dining hall and were soon surrounded by well-wishers.   It was another interminable period before they broke free and reached the sanctuary of the Family wing.  There, at the double doors, the ribbon was unbound and returned to the box.  Avran gave her a gentle kiss and withdrew to his own quarters.  Shieann managed one more smile for onlookers, then fled inside.

Colinna and her bridesmaids were waiting -- another gauntlet to get through.  There was more smiling, more gossip, more wine.  Her head began to ache.  Colinna finally noticed the lines etched deep around Shieann's mouth and, clucking, sent them all off to bed.  Finally -- *finally* she was free.

Her room was dark.  "Light," she commanded wearily, then gasped.

Danner sat near her bed, long, indigo-clad form almost too large for the delicate chair.  His hair lay in a straight curtain across his shoulders.

"Excuse my invasion of your privacy," he said, waving to the surrounding bedroom, "but I'm getting to know all the little tunnels and secret panels in this place.  I thought you might like word of Cthilian."

"Oh, Vis!  Yes!"  Trembling, she sat down on the edge of her bed, heedless of her glittering gown.  "Is he all right?  What did those villains do to him?  That bruise . . ."

Danner held up a lean hand.  Dark eyes glinted sympathetically.  "Relax, Shieann.  He's already healed.  They knocked him around a bit, that's all.  We've got official permission to house him -- it's an old earth tradition of political asylum.  He'll be safe."

She sighed. "Thank you.  I can't imagine what would have happened if you hadn't been there!"

"Don't mention it.  I was and now we know to be careful."

He stood, reminding her again how damned tall the Terrans were.  She looked up at him, conscious of a sudden curiosity.  How would it feel to have aloridan with a such a creature?  He and Palas fit perfectly -- both so dangerous, so exotically beautiful.  Her hand stole to her throat as she suddenly, incongruously, imagined the human tearing her gown from her, throwing her down upon her bed . . .  She swallowed.

"Good night," he said, smiling, nothing further from his mind, and was gone as silently as the shadow he so resembled.

CHAPTER FIVE

The TARDIS materialized in the Citadel without difficulty.   The Doctor emerged to find Leela waiting for him, two guards at her back.  He gave her a wary smile and was relieved to see her scowl turn into a wide grin.  She threw her arms around him and gave him one of her painful hugs.

"Ooof!" he gasped.  "I take it I was expected?"

"Actually, we're here for Ambassador Bhagmaranolonaka," she confessed, "but I'm much happier to see you.  What brings you back to Gallifrey, Doctor?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid.  You say Baggie's on his way?"

Leela's lips twitched, hearing the Ambassador's less-than-beloved, childhood nickname.  "So they say.  Where are you going, Doctor?  Shall I send someone to accompany you?"

"Not necessary, Leela.  I won't be here long.  I've just stopped by to have a little chat with Romana.  You don't know where she is, do you?"

"I suppose -- in her offices?"

"Such a conscientious Madam President," he grinned.

Leela walked with him part of the way to the transmat, chatting about her husband and son -- and her new daughter-in-law.

"A namby-pamby creature," Leela confided, disappointed.  "All frills and ribbons -- shrieks at the sign of gibb-fly.  The boy adores her.  I can't imagine what's got into him!"

Leaving the distressed mama at the transmat, the Doctor continued on to the Panapticon, and the executive offices of the Time Lord High Council.  His unannounced arrival caused instant consternation among Romana's staff.  When the Doctor showed every sign of ignoring the President's barricade of clerks, an earnest young man hurried to intercept him .

"Sir?  SIR!"

The Doctor stopped.

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"Of course."

More scrambling while a woman scrolled hastily down her computer screen.  The man hung over her shoulder, frowning.  "Sir, I don't see your name ---- SIR!  Come back!"

Romana was seated at her desk, several Time Lords around her.  She looked up, startled, as he walked in.  He took advantage of her confusion, striding across the room and slamming the data rod down in front of her.

"Hullo, Romana.  How are you?"

Her mouth opened and closed several times, before she managed: "What are you doing here?  How dare you burst in like this?"

"Are you in on this little plan?"  He jabbed an angry finger at the rod.

She looked at it.  Her mouth thinned.  "Gentleman, if you would excuse us?"

The other Time Lords, giving him dark looks, left the room.

"What is this?"

"Artron measurements."

"So?"

"Do you know where I took them?  In the room of the Devian Scholar who helped abduct and deliver me into the hands of the terrorist group, Earth First."  The Doctor's voice shook with anger. "Tell me we're not part of this madness, Romana.  Please."

"I heard about your abduction, Doctor.  Bhagmaranolonaka already submitted his report.  There is no evidence whatsoever that we had anything to do with this, and plenty to suggest either Devian or human isolationists.  These Scholars of the Pure Word are not in favor of the treaty, I believe."

"Then where is my abductor?  Why does his empty room have trace artron readings?"

"I have no idea.  To divert suspicion?"

"I was held in a terrorist camp, Romana, by well-armed, well-organized human thugs who chased me with dogs and helicopters.  How did I get there? They certainly don't have access to that kind of technology!"

"The Dev do. . ."

The Doctor shook his head.  "When I was held in the camp, I felt something.  At the time, I didn't recognize it, but I now believe it was another Time Lord.  The feeling lasted only a second -- he must have sensed me and blocked me out."

The Lady President sighed and her expression was not unsympathetic.  "Doctor, you are in an unusually difficult regeneration.  Your human genes are no longer suppressed.  I'm surprised you have any telepathy at all."

"It works well enough," he said evenly.  "Listen, Romana, I'm not asking you to take my word for it.  Go to Devia, question Zan . . ."

"No, Doctor.  You listen to me.  We may be opposed to the treaty, and we may speak against it whenever we have the chance, but we do not involve ourselves with kidnapers or murderers!  Those are the tactics of less developed races like the humans and Dev.  You have been asked repeatedly to stay out of this, and not only because you're a damned nuisance.  The behavior of primitive races can and frequently does pose danger to others.  If you insist upon stirring up the pot, so to speak, you will inevitably get burned."

Jaw set, the Doctor looked away.  He felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut.  Romana -- who he'd traveled with, who'd shared the risks and joys of those gypsy days.  "Romana," he said thickly.  "Open your eyes!  Turn over some rocks!  Something is not right here."

"Oh, you're absolutely right, Doctor. Didn't you read the Prognosticator's report.  It quite clearly indicates the threat this alliance poses to our world."

For just an instant, her eyes could not meet his.  He gritted: "I'm aware of this so-called threat, and also that the Prognosticators saw no outcome!  The time line diverges, an inevitable result of its disruption!  No one knows that this terrible "threat" will amount to anything!"

"We followed some of the divergent threads as far as we were able, and in several, we are attacked, and in one, destroyed."

"And how many threads were there?  Four?  Five?  A million?"

"I know you're fond of Earth, Doctor and, indeed, in spite of your accusations, we mean neither Earth nor Devia harm!  Both of them will do very well without the other.  After all, they would not have met if it were not for Vis -- another renegade Time Lord.  We are merely setting things right.  In a few thousand years, when each world has progressed socially as well as technologically, then they will be ready to meet, the proper time line restored."

"And Gallifrey again safe and supreme."  He turned on his heel and headed back to the door, blind with anger and deep disappointment.  It slid open.  Six Council guards stood outside.  None were known to him.  He shut the door and turned back, stared bleakly at the woman he'd counted among his few, true friends.  Romana looked truly miserable.

"I"m sorry, Doctor. I really am, but this is too important.  I will look into your accusations privately, I promise you.  But in the meantime, you're staying on Gallifrey and out of trouble until this problem is resolved."

Danner was in his room, trying to figure out how one tied a cravat.  He frowned into the mirror as the door behind him opened.  He spun around, gun out at once.  It was Palas.  Swearing, he returned the weapon to his belt.

She shook her head and came in, tossing a duffle and garment bag onto the bed.  Crossing the room, she stopped in front of him.

"Still mad?"

He scowled fiercely, then shrugged.  "Depends.  Can you tie one of these things?"

Giving him a decidedly provocative smile, she reached up and gently rearranged the crumpled folds of silk.  "You're such an asshole," she said, and kissed him.

"Asshole, am I?"  He kissed her back, fiercely.  When they parted, he was breathing hard and wishing the ceremony wasn't minutes away.

"I have to get dressed," she murmured into his ear, raising his temperature even further.

Damn!  He sat heavily on the edge of the bed while she opened her garment bag.  Something shimmering emerged from it.

"Where's the Doctor? I thought he was coming to this soiree."

"So did I.  You've heard nothing since he returned to the Temple?"

Danner shook his head.

"I suppose we shouldn't worry," he said.  "The Doctor does occasionally do something unplanned. He'll probably show minutes before the ceremony."    He turned in time to see her wriggle into her dress.  It was, he presumed, right in style -- the skirts full, the bodice form-fitting and low-cut.   She examined herself critically in the full length mirror."Zip me up?"

He stood, walked around behind her.  Her skin showed creamy pale against the dark green satin.  Danner resisted the impulse to kiss the back of her neck.  "Any more flack from the NAA?"

"Absolutely."  Her mouth twisted into wry smile.  "At least our Devian diplomatic contacts have taken the news well -- especially on the heels of announcing your enrollment at Shiall Hall.  The NAA, however, has decided that's evidence that we're 'going over' to the enemy."

"Maybe I shouldn't go -- or at least, wait until things die down a bit."

She turned around, brows drawing together.  "Shiall's a mission, nothing more, nothing less. What is it that bothers you so much about this?"

He shook his head and fastened the tiny hook at the top of the zipper.   Looking up and into the mirror, he saw her eyes on him, troubled.

"Well?  I didn't think you were such a prude."

"Prude?"  His brows shot up.  "I'll show you prude."

He leaned forward, but a soft knock interrupted them.  Palas sighed.  "That'll be someone to fix my hair. Talk about this after the ceremony?"

Shaking his head, he left her to the maid's tender ministrations and strolled out into the corridor.  He found Djan and Lord Avran, both looking uncomfortable in their formal clothes.  Djan was slumped against the wall, hands in the pockets of his coat, staring at the floor.   Also present was Lady Shaela Mistal, one of the Challengers for the post of Sher'dan and, in almost everyone's estimation, likely to win it.

"Danner!"

He was caught up in her perfumed embrace.  Grinning, he returned it.  "Nice to see you again, my lady."

"And you.  What's this I hear about you entering Shiall Hall for training?"

"Word does get around.  Are you ready for your big showdown?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."  She grimaced.

At the end of the corridor, the door opened to admit  the housekeeper.   "My lords.  My lady," she called softly.  "It's time."

They exchanged looks.  The boy bit his lip.  Avran's grin was lopsided.  He lay a hand on the young heir's shoulder.  "It'll be all right, Djan.  We'll have your father back soon, you'll see."

Palas appeared when the Dev had been hustled away.  Danner's mouth dropped.  She whirled for him, the gleaming skirts billowing around her.  Danner held his breath wondering if she would remain in the bodice.  "Well?" she demanded.

He was speechless.

There was never much chance of making a discreet entrance with Palas on his arm.  The soft buzz of conversation fell away as, one by one, the other guests turned to watch the Earth contingent make their way toward their seats.  As before, the Terrans were settled at the back.  Palas' fingers found his. He gave them a quick squeeze.

The ceremony was long and ponderous.  There was more of the ribbon business.  Scholars intoned at length in ancient Devian, of which Danner knew about three words.  Clouds of incense rolled across the assembly, tickling his nose.  At one point, Palas gave him a sharp elbow in the ribs, starting him awake.  Finally, mercifully, it was over.  The newlyweds were escorted from the hall, their guests falling in behind them, everyone making their way to the ballroom and post-wedding festivities.

It was impossible to get anywhere near Michel or Shieann, and, within minutes of entering the room, Palas was immediately surrounded, as well.  Danner found himself suddenly on the outside of a crowd of richly dressed Dev eager to greet her.  Restless, wishing himself in the peace and quiet of his room, he wandered aimlessly through the crowd toward archways that led into the wedding buffet.

Through the crowd, he saw Ambassador Bhagmaranolonaka and his attache.  With them was a beautiful dana.  Danner veered and headed for the small party.  The Ambassador saw him and smiled.  "Commander Renwolf, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

The Ambassador was in formal regalia -- full, shimmering robe and a very high collar.  In Danner's opinion, he looked ridiculous.  His attache was more soberly dressed.  The man scowled at Danner and turned his shoulder, resuming his conversation with the dana.  The human ignored the slight.

"I was wondering if you knew where the Doctor is?  We were expecting him . . ."

"The Doctor has returned to Gallifrey," replied the Ambassador.  "Unexpected business.  Is it true what I hear -- you'll undergo the Devian ir'dan training regimen?"

"That's the plan," smiled Danner.

"A great sacrifice, I'm sure."  This from the attache, who had left the dana and now stood at Bhagmaranolonaka's elbow.

Danner ignored the sneer.  "When will he be back, sir?"

"I have no idea.  You know the Doctor -- quite unpredictable.  The human side in him, no doubt."  The Ambassador waited just a fraction of a second too long to add: "No offense meant, of course."

"None taken.   Excuse me."

Smiling blandly, Danner strolled off to the refreshment tables.  No offense. Like hell.

He was examining a colorful tray of hor d'oeuvres, trying to determine if they would be palatable when a cool voice at his shoulder said: "You must be the Terran sil iri'dan."

The blackstone turned around and found himself looking into the eyes of the Gallifreyens' companion, the beautiful dana.  For some reason, every alarm in his head went off.  He narrowly avoided backing into the table.

"Maybe," he replied, scrambling to recover, wondering where the hell Palas was.  "And you are?"

"I am Lady Abby Evendan."  Golden eyes moved down his body, glinting with appreciation. "Your dana is not with you?"

Evendan.  They were Exiles.  Danner relaxed slightly.  "I slipped my leash."  He offered her an hor d'oeuvre.  She laughed and took it.

"Since you're so daring, do you dance, as well?"

"Alas, no."

"And I thought your courage was legendary."

"My lady, if you agree to dance with me, your courage is not in question."   He offered his arm.

Danner knew some ballroom dancing, human and Devian, had spent painful hours learning them as part of his diplomatic duties.  With Lady Evendan's hand resting lightly on his, he led her out onto the floor.  Silence fell around them and suddenly they were alone on the gleaming flagstones.

Hair standing on the back of his neck, Danner bowed to