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 the dana, who bowed back.  The orchestra broke from its paralysis and music filled the room.   A waltz!  She gathered her voluminous skirts in one hand, rested the other on his shoulder.

They danced with every eye on them.  She knew the steps perfectly, compliant in his arms.  He began to think she wasn't so bad. Then, while they spun toward one end of the dance floor, an image appeared in his mind, unnaturally vivid, shutting away everything else.  It was a vision of himself, naked and chained, spread-eagled on the cold tiles of Benara's court.

He missed a step, releasing her as if she had caught fire, slamming his psi shields into place.  Without a word, he turned and left her staring after him in a widening circle of silence.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Palas, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and kept walking.

"Danner?"  Palas' voice.  Blindly, the blackstone pushed past her.

Once alone in his room, all the horror came rushing back.  Caught in the aftermath of the psychic assault, he groped his shaky way to his bed.   Muscles rigid, he lay staring into the ceiling, breathing deeply, fighting the urge to hyperventilate.  He told himself again and again that it was in the past.  He'd survived it, and by god, he'd survive whatever else they threw at him, too.  Still, it was a long time before he calmed enough to think clearly.

"Danner!"

 Palas -- pounding on the locked door.  He leapt from the bed and yanked it open.   She flew into the room, furious.  "Jesus, Danner!  Are you trying to alienate two worlds?  The whole damned party is buzzing.  What the hell were you thinking?"

He opened his mouth, but the words didn't come.  Making a helpless sound, he turned and retreated to the bed, sitting on the edge, clenching unsteady hands together between his knees.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Sorry?  You just insulted one of our allies -- hardly good political sense!"

He ducked his head, wishing he could return the anger, but she was right.  He'd lost it and in full view of everyone.  When she said nothing more, he finally looked up.  She was staring at him, scowling.  Perhaps there was something in his face, because abruptly, the annoyance was gone.

"What did she say to you?" she asked finally, quietly.

"Leave it alone, Palas," he replied wearily.  "I'll apologize if you like.  Tell everyone I was drunk or whatever, all right?"

"No," she said.  "It's not all right.  If there's something going on that will jeopardize your mission, I need to know what it is."

Danner dropped his head into his hands, suddenly too tired to fight about it.  "She reminded me of something I've tried really hard to forget," he said.  "I -- I just wasn't expecting it.  I'm sorry I lost control, really."

"Did she go into your mind?"

He swallowed hard and nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.  Realizing his fingers ached from clenching them so hard, he opened his hands and placed them on his knees.

"Do you a think she had a chance to see anything she shouldn't have?"

"Like what?  You haven't been exactly confiding lately."  It came out nastier than he wanted.

"What the hell went on between you, then?  Damn it!  I don't need to start doubting *you*, do I?"

The blackstone felt as if she'd knocked the wind out of him.  He jumped to his feet, rounding on her.  "Look!" he shouted, jabbing his finger against his temple.  "Go ahead, Palas. Take a good, long, fucking look!"

He stood, shaking with angry pain and, in spite of every screaming nerve, brought the images back.

-- cold floor beneath his naked back -- cold steel around his wrists and ankles -- tongue in his mouth -- white-hot pain streaking across his chest and belly -- no part of him safe from their hands, their lips, their laughter, their thoughts . . .

Abruptly, the images were gone.  He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.  Her arms were tight around him, her head pressed against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't realize.  I thought . . ."

"That I was over it?" he finished hoarsely.  "So did I.  Jesus, so did I!"

"I'll get Shieann to postpone Djan's enrollment . . ."

"Isn't Evendan an Exile clan?  I thought they were on our side!"

"So did I," she said grimly.  "Until we find out what's going on, I'm not risking you again."

"What about the PR angle?  The vote is less than two weeks away."

She was silent.  He smiled wryly, his question answered.  "I'll be all right, Palas, really.  Like I said -- she took me by surprise.  I'll just be more careful about who gets in here."  He tapped his head.

There was another knock.  Palas swore and was off the bed.  She cracked the door and he saw the angry line of her back relax.  She returned at once.

"Michel," she explained, resuming her position.  "I've asked him to get information on this woman."   She laid her hands over his.  "Do you want to be alone?"

"No!"  He heard the panic and bit his lip.  Her answer was to tighten her arms around him.

"We'll find out what's going on," she whispered.  "I promise you."

It was a long time before she let him go.

CHAPTER SIX

He couldn't get near his TARDIS.  Romana would not see him, and her staff were not so easily intimidated a second time.  He was rebuffed in her outer offices and escorted away by unsympathetic security.

Leela's House was empty.  An indignant demand for her whereabouts was met with stony indifference by her fellow officers.  Anders was gone, as well.  Frustrated, the Doctor went back to the House and coaxed it into telling him they had gone for a holiday on Regalon.

"Rather sudden, wasn't it?"

The House had nothing further to say.

When it became obvious that no one wished to talk to him, the Doctor went to consult the Matrix.  The current Keeper, a sour-faced woman called Lady Dorian, told him bluntly that he did not have permission to access the great computer and would he kindly *not* darken her doorway again?  He bowed, murmured an apology for disturbing her and withdrew --- several yards down the corridor.  There, behind a large pillar and fern-like potted plant, he sat down and waited.

Sure enough, not ten minutes later, Captain Kgeren, Anders' immediate subordinate, strode past the Doctor's hiding place, disappearing into Lady Dorian's office.  He was not there long.  Within moments, he hurried out again, talking furiously into his wrist-communicator.  Lady Dorian appeared shortly thereafter.  The Doctor watched her walk quickly in the opposite direction.  Not wasting another second, the Time Lord abandoned his concealing fern and nipped quickly into her office.

There were advantages to being a past High Council President and the Doctor shamelessly exploited them.  Sitting at her desk, he entered his back-door password into the matrix terminal.  There was a nerve-racking second or two while he waited to see if it would be accepted.  It was.

"Search place names," he told it, keeping his voice low and his eye on the door.  "Rajak."

"Not found," announced the computer, but in the bottom left hand of the screen a small triangle blinked frantically.

"Check note," he said.

"Historical site.  Archive status: low priority.   Information may be available in hard copy."

Well, well.  Hearts thumping, the Doctor leaned back, staring thoughtfully at the screen.  And where might he find the hard copy?

There was another too-long wait.  Out in the corridor, he heard an alarm.  Hurry! He thought at the computer.  It coughed up another, very short list.  He quickly blanked the screen.  No sooner had it winked out than three large guards burst into the room, followed by a very irate Lady Dorian.

This time, he had no trouble getting in to see Romana.

The Time Lord High Council was annoyed.  Disconsolate, the Doctor sat in the antechamber, a guard on either side of him, and listened to the angry voices coming through the door.  Now and then, he heard Romana's clear tones, and wished he could make out what she was saying.  He'd had time for only a few words with her before she'd been called into an emergency meeting.

"It's about you," she'd snapped, furious.  "Honestly, Doctor, you're more trouble than you're worth!  If the Council doesn't insist on plunking you into a stasis chamber, I'd be very surprised!"

"Don't let them!"  The very idea filled him with panic.  "Romana!"

"What is it you were looking for?" she demanded.  "Some way of getting at your TARDIS?"

"No!  I swear!"

She hadn't believed him, of course, scowling down at the paper in her hand.  It was a print-out of the list he hadn't had time to peruse.

"Romana . . ."

"Not another word," she'd replied grimly.

There had been no time for more.  The Council had arrived, in no good mood, along with an impressive contingent of guards.  So he sat where they ordered and waited.

At long last, silence fell.  The door banged open.  Scowling Time Lords streamed past, some ignoring him, others glowering.  No one spoke to him.  The guards stood at attention when Romana came out, aides hovering at her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Doctor," she said, and his heart plummeted.  "Attempting unauthorized access to the matrix is a serious offense, as you well know."

It's the stasis chamber, he thought, stomach knotting.  "Romana . . ."

"Be quiet!"  She held up a hand and glared fiercely at him.  "The Council has decided on internal banishment."

"Internal what?"

Her aides were smirking.

"Take him away," she said coldly.  Stepping back, she motioned to the guards.  Grinning hugely, both men laid hands on him, hoisting him from his chair, and hauled him, shouting, to the transmat.

All too soon, the fateful moment arrived.  Although wedding festivities continued, Djan was due at Shiall Hall to begin his aloridan training.  And so, alas, was Danner.

A transport arrived.  It was snowing again and the two stood, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands as the young clanlord's trunks and bags were heaped into the boot.  Danner's belongings fit into a single duffle that got tossed in with the rest.

It had been a long time since Danner had been in Sidhain -- the capitol of Devia.  It had been even longer since he set foot in the Sher.  Although Benara and her sadistic courtiers were long gone, it still made him queasy to look up at those black, forbidding walls and remember what had happened inside them.

Djan sobered a bit as their transport lifted above the capitol, soaring over the treetops toward the ancient fortress.  Like all Devian cities, Sidhain was a marvel of architecture and engineering.  It was nearly invisible from the air, hidden in the forest that cunningly grew up through it.  Danner wasn't in much of a mood to appreciate the charm, however.  Their flitter lifted higher, shooting up the side of the cliffs, then over walls nearly as high, to land on the pad in one of the Sher's largest courtyards.

They were met by Scholars and a smiling high dana who spoke courteously to them and helped them into a zip.  The dana drove them through the labyrinth of corridors and courtyards to the far side of the tarn.  Danner was unfamiliar with this part of the huge building.  Even so, his heart beat faster and his hands, clenched at his sides, were clammy.

Shiall Hall, the aloridan school, was located in a massive tower at the northern edge of the Sher.  It was surrounded by the now-expected high walls, but there was plenty of room in its courtyards for the school's youthful inmates to take outdoor exercise.

A servant waited to escort the new arrivals into the Hall.  Djan and Danner were left in an imposing foyer, staring up at life-size portraits in gold frames.  A few were of Protectors and noblemen.  Most, however, were of danae, warwitches in black leather, their hair braided Protector-style.  Some were in court dress or sitting with children at their knee.  One picture in particular drew his attention.  It was very old, tucked back in the corner where the light from the chandelier barely reached.  She, too, was a dana.  As was tradition among her kind, the white dancrystal was disguised as the center gem in a jeweled head-band.  But this dana's eye were dark, not gold.  Curious, he stepped closer, but the sound of a door opening across the room drew him back.

A tall ir'dan in Scholar's purple approached, flanked by the dana.  He bowed to Djan and nodded to the upstart Terran.  "Welcome to Shiall Hall, my lord.  I'm Dean Nebs.  I hope your journey was comfortable?"

Again, it was Djan to whom he deferred.

"Yes, sir.  Thank you.  I can't wait to begin my studies."

<I'll bet you can't.> Danner thought.  He caught Nebs watching him and kept his face still.

"Commander Renwolf, let me be the first to say that the entire staff has been looking forward to your arrival.  This will be a time of great learning for all of us.   To a follower of Vis, no such opportunity should be spurned.   We have acquired -- thanks to the generosity of your Lady -- a number of books on human anatomy and sexuality to help us understand species differences.  We will make certain you receive as much from our tuition as any Devian."

Palas, you're a dead woman, Danner seethed, only half-listening to the rest of Nebs' platitudes.  The dana was saying goodbye.  He mumbled a response, then fell into step behind Djan as Nebs led them from the foyer.

Once past the spectacular entrance hall, Shiall began to look more like a boy's school.  A single, well- worn runner cushioned their steps along the stone floor.  The walls were unadorned, the furniture spartan.  Several times, they passed another purple-robed Scholar.

"This is the faculty quarters," explained Nebs, waving an inclusive hand at the surroundings.  "Ahead is the entrance to the school itself.

There was little change on the other side of the door marked: "Permission Only."  The walls continued bare, the runner unchanged.  It was, however, very warm.  In a moment, Danner saw why.  Two boys strolled down the corridor toward them.  Except for white loincloths, they were nude.  They stopped and openly gawked at the tall human.

"On your way!" barked Nebs, and they scooted.  Their laughter drifted back to the two newcomers.

Perhaps it was Djan's rank, but Danner suspected the typical ir'dan didn't have a spacious suite of rooms that included a private bath (with new Earth plumbing), a study, and a large bedroom with two beds.

"A servant will return when you've unpacked and bring along a bit of dinner.  We usually pamper our students on their first night, but after that, you'll be expected down in the main dining room.  On your beds, you will find your syllabus and school uniform. Please put the uniform on immediately.  You must wear it whenever you are in the school."  Nebs beamed at them both.  "I hope you enjoy your stay, gentlemen.  I will see you again soon."

When the man had gone, Danner picked up the folded white cloth resting neatly on the cover of the nearest bed and shook it out.  "You've got to be kidding!"

Djan laughed and, completely unselfconsciousness, stripped off his clothes, throwing them carelessly into the corner.  Reluctantly, Danner followed his lead.  It was so damned hot!  They looked at each other and, in spite of his embarrassment, the blackstone couldn't help mirroring Djan's grin.

They set to unpacking.  Danner, opening a cupboard to shove in his duffle, was struck dumb by the sight of a life-size, very anatomically correct doll.  Djan, seeing him standing there, open-mouthed, came to have a look and fell into another laughing fit.

"Training materials," he chortled.

"Obnoxious brat," said Danner, and devoutly wished himself back on Earth.

Dinner came and it was superb.  There was some sort of fowl, roasted and shiny with a fruit glaze, several strange Devian vegetables whose names he didn't know.  The bread was light and still warm from the oven.  There was even a custard that tasted vaguely like chocolate.

"Earth schools weren't like this," he said finally, polishing off the last delicious bite.  "I don't remember mine, but I'm willing to bet you any amount of money they never served anything like this dessert."

"Shiall Hall isn't really like most aloridan academies, either," Djan replied.  "This is where all the clanlords send their ir'dan sons.  My father says other academies are very different."

When the servant came to clear away their dishes, he also brought a small carafe of wine and two glasses which he handed to Danner with a little bow.   The blackstone was by this time much more charitably inclined toward this adventure.  He poured the boy a small glass, himself another, and leaned back on his bed.  "So," he said.  It was damn good wine, too.  "What's the agenda for tomorrow?"

Djan jumped up and went to get a syllabus.  Tearing off the string, he flipped through the top pages.

"Schedule!" he announced.  "Breakfast and then performance evaluation.  After that, anatomy and the female reproductive system.  Exercise, lunch . . ."

"Performance evaluation?"

Djan looked up.  "I know."  He made a face.  "I'm probably going to fail.  I -- I've only actually had sex once."

"Performance evaluation?" Danner repeated faintly.

He didn't sleep well that night at all.

The transmat ejected the Doctor and his guards into an isolated atmosphere dome. Nabarahija, it was called; the Doctor had never heard of it.

The dome contained a drab housing complex, mostly empty, and several large, unmarked buildings.  His neighbors -- civil servants, warehouse caretakers and maintenance techs -- hated Nabarahija and their jobs.  No one was particularly friendly.

He was assigned a two-room bungalow near the dome wall.  The furnishing was sparse, the air-conditioning almost nonexistent, and the communication panel didn't work.  He was programmed out of the transmat.  The guards were careful to tell him so.

It took fifteen minutes to completely explore his new quarters, after which he wandered aimlessly to the dome's cloudy wall.  They were on an island -- nothing but water in every direction.  It glittered hotly in the merciless sunlight.  There weren't even any gulls.

Gloomily, he returned to his bungalow.

Some time later, a chiming lifted him out of his funk.  He didn't move.  "You're the jailer!" he snapped.

It was Romana.  For a moment, he just stared in disbelief -- first, that she had the nerve to come, and secondly, that she hadn't sent some underling instead.  Without intending to, he scrambled up and made an ineffectual attempt to arrange his cravat.  Her lips pursed.

"You look awful."

"I feel awful."  He tried to smile and failed.  "Romana, why are you doing this?"

"How can you ask me that?  If you're given even ten centimeters of space, you find some way to cause trouble!  The trick with the matrix was the last straw!"

"I'm not talking about me!  I'm talking about Earth -- and Devia.  Surely some of those threads showed a favorable outcome.  Work with them, not against them.  Forge bonds of friendship -- earn their trust and gain influence that way . . ."

"Enough!"  She threw her hands up.  "I did not come here to argue!"

"No, I suppose not.  Why did you come?"

"I brought you some things."  She gave him one of her pugnacious looks, daring him to spurn her gifts.  The Doctor had no intention of doing so.  Hearts lifting, he took the box from her.  "Tea!" he cried in delight.  "And a book!  Romana, thank you!  Would you like some tea?  The cooker works."

"Thank you, Doctor.  I wouldn't mind a cup."  Some of the tension drained out of her.  He nipped into the tiny kitchen.  Her voice drifted after him.   "I've gone out on a limb for you, Doctor.  You must give me your word that you will not attempt to regain your TARDIS until the Council so orders."

The water boiled.  The Doctor brought the kettle and two mugs back.

"I swear," he said.

She stared, caught by surprise.  "Oh.  Then that's all right."

He measured out the tea.  The mouth-watering smell was a welcome respite from the stale scent of recycled air.  Handing the cup to Romana, he waved her toward the chair.  She took it and sipped appreciatively.

"That brings back memories," she said wistfully.  "I do miss those days when we were galloping about the universe.  Everything was so much less complicated."

"The eternal lament of aging."  He took a seat on the low table in front of her.  "You could always just chuck the Presidency -- hop aboard the TARDIS with me again.  Leave all the plotting and treachery to them.  You're better than this."

She smiled sadly.  "No, Doctor, I'm not.  I'm a Time Lord, a Gallifreyen.  Those years in the TARDIS taught me a great many things, but they never taught me to put the interests of other species before my own.  You asked if there were positive threads in the divergent time lines and, of course, there were, many of them.  But the threads that weren't . . ."  She caught her breath and shook her head.  "Your humans are far too dangerous.  They adapt so quickly, just as you do. It was under those conditions that the Council agreed to this banishment -- that you're not in one place long enough to cause trouble.  In a few days, you'll be taken somewhere else."

He stared at her, mouth dropping.  She set down her cup and, leaning forward, laid a hand on his cheek.  "I'm sorry, truly.  This will all be over soon.  Please -- stop fighting us.  Whatever your biological heritage, you're still a Time Lord.  For once, trust that we're doing the right thing."

The Doctor sat for a long time after she'd gone.  Finally, because he was simply too dispirited to do anything else, he plucked up the book she'd brought him.  Rare Birds of Gallifrey?  One eyebrow lifting, he thumbed through the pages.  Something fell out and into his lap.  He blinked.  It was a much crumpled print-out containing a list of three names.

Nabarahija was at the top of the list..

"Oh, Romana . . ." he whispered, hearts thumping.  Tossing the book aside, he jumped to his feet
and ran outside.  The heat made him gasp, but otherwise he barely noticed, hurrying across the sandy ground to the warehouse  It was cool inside, which was good enough reason to be there.

He walked along rows of dusty cupboards.  Whatever his neighbors' duties, none seemed to entail keeping the place tidy.  By rubbing at the thick coating of grime on their glass fronts, he discovered the cupboards held maps -- zoning maps, topographical and geological studies, population surveys!  Some were quite old - possibly thousands of years.  Squinting in the bad light, he moved slowly down row after row, stopping now and then when something looked promising.

For several hours the Doctor rummaged through the chaos, working his way down the ages and across the planet until, at last, he reached the end of the barn-like room.  Plowing through an especially dusty pile of ancient books and ledgers, he found a long, flat box, so old metal flaked off in chunks as he pulled it from the shelf.  Alarmed, he attempted to return it to a stable surface, but too late.  Its contents were too heavy, the case too rotted.  The bottom gave way, spilling dozens of tiny disks to the floor.

"Hullo!  Who's there?"

The Doctor dropped to his knees, frantically retrieving them.  It was a hopeless task, many of the disks rolling off into the gloom.  A shadow blocked his uncertain light.  He looked up.  It was one of his dome-mates -- Madrani, he remembered.

"What the . . .?  What are you doing here?"

"Making a mess," the Doctor admitted.  "I'm terribly sorry."  Scrambling to his feet, he offered the overflowing handful of disks.

"Oh, those things."  The woman grimaced.  "I'd forgotten they were still here."

"What are they?"

"Maps from the pre-Rassilon era."  The caretaker waved the disks away, wrinkling her nose.  "You Time Lords are such pack rats! No one will authorize their elimination."

His hearts leapt.  "Is there a reader?"

"I think so -- over in warehouse six.  You should talk to Abnan -- apartment four.  He's in charge there."

"Thank you!  Thank you very much."

"Not at all.  Glad to be able to help."

The reader was not hard to locate, although it, too, was very old and barely functioning.  Machine under one arm, a bag of disks in the other, the Doctor retreated to his rooms.

It took a while to figure out the reader.  He set it up on his table and after poking around, got a disk into it and found the power switch.  The machine made an odd, snapping noise.  Looking up, the Doctor saw a holographic map tilted against the ceiling.  He fiddled some more, finally getting the map down and level in front of him.

Definitely pre-Rassilon.  Amazed, he flipped through one disk after another, seeing long, aerial sweeps of lush valleys, mountains with forest-softened slopes and white caps, oceans that were ever-shifting kaleidoscopes of blue and green.  Much of that was changed now -- and scholars pointed fingers this way and that for the reasons.  No one would say aloud what most people feared -- that it was the Pythian curse working its slow destruction on Gallifrey itself.

Not all the maps were of wild places.  There were cities, too -- bright towers rising above tranquil fields.  Some names he recognized.  Others he did not, for the land was so changed it was almost impossible to identify where they had been.

At sunset, he made more tea and found in Romana's box a tin of almond biscuits.  Cross-legged on the floor, he leaned back against his chair and, munching, let more and more of ancient Gallifrey unfold on his tabletop.

The Doctor had, of course, seen holographic representations of ancient Gallifrey, but now that he thought about it, none had actually been from that time.  They'd never shown the world as this green, this lush, with lakes scattered about, and wide, curving coastlines of pure white sand.  Then his half-eaten biscuit dropped, unheeded into his lap.

A ring of mountains formed where two ranges met.  Arranged around its lower slopes was a city, pale pink walls reflecting in the lake that filled the basin.  It was quite remote -- the map showed no other cities nearer than a thousand miles.  Curious, he instructed the reader to provide pertinent details.  At once, a list superimposed over the image, written in old Gallifreyen, and there it was.

Rajak.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Who is Lady Abby?"

Shieann wearily shook her head and motioned Palas toward the chair beside her.  Outside, the last of her guests were pulling away.   "To be honest, I'm not sure.  She's high dana, but only just.  I have no idea why she attacked Danner.  None at all.  Evendan claims to be in favor of the treaty."

"Have you asked her?"

"Yes.  She denies it.  She claims, in fact, that Danner frightened and embarrassed her.  Michel brought up the subject as diplomatically as possible to Clare Evendan, her clanlord.  He says Danner was mistaken, probably drunk.  According to him, Aby was ranked tenth level -- too low for the kind of mental assault Danner described."  Sheiann hesitated.  "You said Danner was deeply affected by his abuse at Benara's hands.  Is it possible that the prospect of returning to the Sher might have triggered an unwanted psychological response?"

Palas sank into the chair.  "Possible, but unlikely."  She was silent for a moment.  "I begin to regret this plan to have him do the aloridan training."

"But why?  The response has been very positive.  Already it's the talk of Sidhain -- and the first positive talk about Terra in weeks."

"The praise coming from the Sher'dan was rather muted," Palas retorted.  "You may not have noticed it, but I certainly did."

Shieann returned Palas' challenging gaze steadily.  "Don't believe for a second that we don't keep a very good eye on the Sher'dan.  Since the deaths of Benara and her lieutenants, Thea Brenlorn has been acting Sher'dana and her control over the various factions of the Sher'dan is minimal, at best.  Fortunately, there is far too much infighting to allow any coordinated opposition.  Once Shaela takes control, things will change!"

"Brenlorn."  Palas stared thoughtfully at Shieann.  "An old clan and one in fervent opposition to the treaty, are they not?"

Shieann acknowledged that with a wry twist of her lips. "Unfortunately, Brenlorn is among the most powerful of our Old Clans.  Everyone has dealings with them -- including Mzara.  Association itself will not tell us much."

"Brenlorn is linked in some way with the Clan Dargin, are they not?"

Catching her breath, Shieann nodded.  "Lady Ninian.  A high dana.  Yes -- it was a fatal case of Need.  A terrible, terrible tragedy."

"She was one of the Challengers, wasn't she?"

Shieann's eyes opened wider.  "She had entered her name, yes, but so did nearly every high dana on Devia.  I have no idea what her ranking is, but I doubt it was much higher than Abby Evendan's.  Surely you don't think there's a connection?"

Palas shrugged.  "It generated a lot of publicity -- Mark says the Embassy was besieged by furious Dev determined to blame us for it.  Now Cthilian is attacked. . ."

"You cannot be serious!  Abduction of a slave -- that is not beyond belief, unfortunately.  To deliberately cause the death of a high dana and fourteen other people?   That is -- on Devia, at least!  You are Terran.  Perhaps you  expect such evil from others of your kind, but I assure you, we do not!  The very idea is as absurd as it is unlikely!"

"Don't forget," Palas reminded her coldly, "there is evidence that someone on Devia is in collusion with terrorists on our world.  As you put it, we Terrans are less polite.  I'd look long and hard at Brenlorn, Lady Regent, see who comes and goes from their Sidhain residence, ask a few pointed questions. . ."

Shieann leaned forward.  "I know this is frustrating, Palas.  You're a warrior, but this is no longer a game for warriors.  Force, open aggression - - even actions merely perceived as such -- will only make reaching our goals that much more difficult."

"You sound like the Doctor."  Palas shook her head.  "I wish he hadn't chosen this particular time to return to Gallifrey."

The two women looked at each other and Shieann wished, not for the first time, that it was easier to read that beautiful, alien countenance.  She sighed.  "I'm sure that he'll show up.  We're probably worrying for nothing."

Palas did not look convinced.

Exactly two days to the hour, the Doctor looked up to find three Council guard -- three excessively large Council guard -- filling his doorway.

"Pack your things, Doctor," said the guard leader.  "Time to move."

"I was expecting you."  He waved toward the modest pile of belongings, most of it reader and boxes of disks.

"What's all that?"

"A new hobby," he replied.  "Please -- examine it, if you wish."

Such was their distrust of him that they did exactly that.  They poked and prodded at the reader, shuffled suspiciously through the disks.  In the end, however, they let him take all of it.

The formerly uncooperative transmat moved them smoothly from Nabarahija to another dome.  Quenneg sat on the edge of a plateau, mountains to the distant east.  To the west, not far, were cliffs covered with short, amber grass that dropped off into what had once been a shallow sea.  Now it was simply miles of salt-flats, stretching endlessly into the haze.

As near as the Doctor could see, Quenneg served no particular purpose.  There were a handful of identical, windowless buildings, and satellite arrays.  A cluster of low, square bungalows stood a distance away, identical to those on Nabarahija.  Unremarkable in every way, except that it was the second name on his list.

"Is there anyone else here?"

The guard captain grunted, stopping at the first bungalow and pushing open the door.  Inside, lights sprang on.

"Can I get a message to President Romana?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as angry as he felt.

"Don't get comfortable," was the short response.  "We'll be back soon."

They left him standing in the grey-walled room.  Sighing, he dropped his bags and went to put a kettle on.  His new residence, like the old, had two rooms, the furnishings equally sparse and utilitarian.  He set up the reader and then, when the kettle whistled, brewed up the last of Romana's tea.

Mug in hand, he wandered around his new prison.  The air-conditioning worked better here, and from the look of the sun, he was further north.  His first impression -- that Quenneg was deserted --- soon proved true.  All the bungalows stood empty.  The larger buildings were, as he had first observed, windowless, and the only doors magnetically locked.  If there were clues to Rajak inside, he was not going to get at them.

Romana came the next day.  She brought more tea and, this time, chocolate biscuits.   "What is that?" she asked, looking down at the reader.

He told her, showing her some of the more spectacular vistas.  "I found Quenneg," he said.  "Here."

The mountains looked higher, snow-crested and steep.  The grasses had been waist-high then, moving endlessly with the breezes.  A glittering sea rolled to the horizon.

"How beautiful!"  Romana gave him a quizzical look.  "What are you up to, Doctor?"

"You told me to be patient.  Surely you didn't mean for me to be bored, as well?"

"I don't believe it," she said bluntly.  "You've got some nefarious plan up your sleeve.  It has something to do with that reader, hasn't it?  Rassilon!  I hope I don't regret this."

He smiled crookedly.  "I hope you don't, either, Romana."  He pulled the list from his pocket.  "Thank you."

"What does that list mean, Doctor?  What are you looking for?  Another way off Gallifrey?"

"No."  He turned the reader off, suddenly afraid she would take it away.  "It's just an old reader, Romana, an antique.  Actually -- I was going to ask if you could bring me a newer one, with more current maps of the planet?"

"What for?  Surely you don't mean to convince me you've suddenly developed an interest in geology?"

"I'm curious -- I want to see what happened to some of these other places, what they look like now.  Really, Romana!  What can it hurt?"

"Do you promise -- do you give me your word that this isn't some devious plot to get to your TARDIS?"

"I've already promised that, but if you need reassurance, yes.  Absolutely.  I swear it"

"All right," she said finally.  "I'll see what I can do."  She hesitated, then: "Doctor, what do you know about the Lady Abby Evandan?"

"Nothing.  Who is she?"

"A contender for the position of Sher'dana."

The Doctor shook his head, completely in the dark.  "Why?"

"Nothing.  I'm sure it's not important."

He looked at her narrowly.  Then: "Have you spoken to Zan?"

"Well -- no, not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"We received a letter from him.  He's in a religious retreat."

"What?"

She shrugged.  "He's a priest, is he not?  Anyway, Bhagmaranolonaka sent one his people to check on him. . ."

"I don't trust the Ambassador."

"Bhagmaranolonaka is a prig," she agreed, "but I've never had reason to believe he wasn't strictly, if tediously, honorable.  If it will make you feel better, Doctor, I'll send one of my own staff to check on Zan."

"Would you really?"  His eyes shone.  "Thank you, Romana."

For a moment, she looked back at him with a strange, arrested expression.  Then, with a crooked smile.  "Not at all. I'll have one of my staff arrange it."

Cthilian walked along the white gravel paths, hands in the pocket of his Terran sheepskin coat.  The wind was brisk across the top of the divide, and the winter-bare gardens glittered with frost.  He stopped by a wall, looking out across the lowlands.  Night approached and already much of it was in shadow.  Somewhere to the east was Mzara, lights springing on, servants bustling along the narrow corridors, the kitchens smelling of the next day's bread.  Alea would be impatient for her dinner, probably squalling her displeasure at this very moment.

And he was not there to divert her until her nurse could bring her a tray.  He was not there to sit at the table in the family dining room and hear Djan describe his day's ride or a difficult physics problem.  That was Michel Azran's legal right now -- to pass the cream, to joke with Djan, to call Shieann wife.  Cthilian tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat too great to allow it.

"You fool," he whispered to the advancing dark.  "You've had so much more than any alorin could ever hope for.  Nothing is forever.  Your self-pity is despicable!"

But it didn't matter.  The ache only got bigger as each day passed, bringing his old nightmare closer to the surface.  He remembered the first time Shieann had asked him to lie with her, to serve her Need.  He'd refused then, seeing how it would eventually be.  She was Regent of the most powerful clan in Devia.  He'd been so much wiser then.

Suddenly, it hurt too much to look toward the tarn, so he turned away and trudged back uphill toward the Embassy.   What he needed was to make plans for a life at the edge of his lady's.  He had his technical training, of course.  Perhaps he could get permission to leave Mzara'tan until such time as she Needed him -- take a position with one of the Exile clans who were rebuilding Devia's technology.

"Mr. Cthilian?"

The iri'dan started.  An embassy guard stood behind him.

"Sir.  It's curfew.  I have to ask you to come back inside."

"Of course.  I'm sorry.  I forgot."

His feet took him reluctantly back through the Embassy garden toward the kitchen gate.  There was a guard sitting at the table who looked up sharply.  Seeing it was Cthilian, however, he nodded and went back to his newspaper.

The Dev wandered aimlessly through the carpeted halls.  Most of the Terran staff had gone home, back through the corridor to Earth.  He heard the sound of a vacuum-cleaner through an open door.

The evening stretched before him, empty.  He stood at the bottom of the stair leading up to the guest quarters, unwilling to return to his room.  Then, without quite realizing it, he found himself walking back down the hall to a small waiting area outside the Ambassador's office.  The receptionist's desk sat empty; the man who occupied it was home with his family, no doubt.  On the desk was a phone and, recalling the Ambassador's previous invitation to use it whenever he wished, Cthilian picked up the receiver.

Mzara, like many wealthy Dev, had telephones now.  Cthilian stood for a long time, staring at the device, then he dialed.

"Mzara tarn.  Wilden speaking."

"Wilden?  This is Cthilian."

"Master Cthilian?"  The steward's voice brightened.  "It's good to hear from you, sir.  How are you?"

"I'm fine, Wil.  I'd like to speak to the Lady Shieann."

"I'm terribly sorry, sir.  She's in Sidhain.  She left yesterday.  Didn't you know?"

"No -- no, I didn't."

"Things have been topsy-turvy here, sir.  No doubt she just forgot," Wilden commiserated.  "Would you like the number to the townhouse?"

"No.  No, thank you.  I know it."

Cthilian set the phone gently in its cradle and stared blindly across the room.  He'd known she would have to go to the capitol, but in the past she'd always -- always -- talked to him about her plans, let him know where she would be and when.  As the Terrans would say, he was out of sight and out of mind.  Numb, he walked to a chair in the corner.  He wanted to shout and curse, to smash his fist into the wall.  Instead, he retreated into his training, sitting utterly still, taking long, steady breaths until the pain eased.

Calm returned.  Cthilian slumped in the chair, letting his mind empty, listening to the small noises in the somnolent embassy -- the creak of someone moving about overhead, the rattle of a window as the wind hit it, low voices nearby.  For some reason, a quality of those voices caught his attention, lifting him out of his gloom.  One of them was familiar, he realized suddenly.  Curious, he got up and went to the door.

Looking down the hall, he saw three men standing near the stairs.  Two had their backs to Cthilian, but the alorin recognized the uniform of one -- University Consortium Security.  The third man was Dev.  A shock ran through Cthilian and he hastily stepped back into the room and out of sight, heart pounding.  Although he could not immediately place a name, Cthilian knew he'd seen the Dev before, but where?  The sense of familiarity and unease lingered long after the two men were gone.

The promised new reader did not arrive until the Doctor's next move.  They took him to the third dome on the list, this one tucked into the bottom of a long canyon.  If there had ever been clues there, they were long gone, but he no longer cared.  Nabarahija had what he'd needed.  All that was left was to make the right connections.

Romana arrived shortly after he did, reader in hand, and an attache filled with data rods.

"I still think you're up to something," she greeted him, "but here's what you asked for.  Oh -- this place is the dreariest yet!"

 "Have you forgotten Skaros already?"  He laughed, taking the equipment eagerly.

"Alas, no.  Do you mind if I make myself some tea?"  Without waiting for permission, she disappeared into his little kitchen.  He heard the kettle clatter in the sink.

The new reader was much brighter, the image denser.  He popped in a rod and scrolled the list, trying to guess where he was most likely to find Rajak.

Romana returned, confiscating his chair, tucking her legs under her.  "I like this regeneration of yours," she said.  "The one I traveled with would have been having a tantrum right about now. "

The Doctor gave up, chose a site at random.  Twisting around, he looked up at her.   "And the Romana I traveled with would have been getting to the bottom of things instead of bowing to political expediency."

Miraculously, she didn't take offense, only sighed and flopped back into the chair.  "I know.  It's not much fun being President, Doctor.  You have to think about so many other things.  When we traveled together, I didn't have responsibility for anyone except myself . . ."

"And rarely even then," he muttered direly.  She poked him with her foot.

"There weren't so many --- ambiguities.  You knew exactly where you stood with Daleks and the Jagaroth."

"Having second thoughts?"

"Always," she sighed. "The Council grows daily more contentious. There was a terrible row this morning when I announced I was sending my own envoy to interview Zan.  Bhagmaranolonaka refuses to divulge the location of the retreat.  He says it's an imposition and that stirring up resentment is not in our best interests.  He makes perfect sense, but . . ."

". . .it makes you wonder," finished the Doctor quietly. "Can you force the issue?"

She shook her head and took another sip. "I don't think you want me to do that, Doctor.  When I pressed him, he immediately accused you of 'stirring things up' and renewed the clamor to have you tucked away in a proper prison."

"That's not very subtle," he commented finally.  She gave him a long, troubled look, then turned her head away, pretending an interest in the grimy window.

"Why do you come here, Romana?"  The maps glowed, forgotten, behind him.  "You could send your staff with these things.  The notion of the President of the High Council acting as personal delivery girl is almost as hard to believe as my interest in geology."

"These are horrid places, Doctor, but they have one saving grace.  While I'm here, I am very hard to reach."  She sighed.  "Besides -- I'm curious."

"About what?"

"About that."  She pointed a bare toe at the holograph.  "You're looking for something, aren't you?  This isn't any random, historical sight-seeing jaunt."

"Unfortunately, random is exactly the right word," he sighed.  "The terrain has changed dramatically since Rassilon's time.  I hadn't realized how much.  If I had access to the Matrix, could cross reference these two sets . . ."

"Don't push your luck," retorted Madam President.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Against his will, Danner found himself taking an interest in what the Dev had to teach.  It was not just the carnal aspects of the curriculum -- although that was exceedingly pleasant.  Nebs and his staff had plenty to teach the earth iri'dan about the mind and emotions of the danae.  They even had a few clever tricks for dealing with one in the nerve-racking early stages of Need -- a sort of PMS on steroids.  Now *that* was useful.

Djan, too, seemed to be getting along well.  He struck up several friendships and often spent their free- periods in the yards playing at triple-touch -- a Devian ball game -- or the newest Earth export, soccer.

Danner had yet to see any alorin.  Discreet questioning of his instructors revealed that they had separate quarters and that they did not mingle with the free ir'dan.  His curiosity about them grew.  Then, at the end of his first week, it was finally satisfied.

The day was particularly cold.   Djan arrived in their room to announce that he was going out to have a game of football and would Danner come and referee?  Danner looked at the frosty windows without enthusiasm.

"Maybe you should just stay inside, kid.  You've been snuffling and sneezing all day."

"I'm fine.  Please, Danner?  You're the only one who knows all the rules!"

So he grudgingly agreed.  At least they got to wear real clothes outside.

There were already a dozen boys in the courtyard when he and Djan stepped out into the icy afternoon.  Frost lay over the ground.  At once, the two were surrounded and a noisy sorting out of teams commenced.  Danner edged away toward a sheltered spot near the building, teeth chattering against the cut of the wind.

Across the courtyard, he noticed a knot of students near a door.  Suddenly, above the din, he heard a cry, pain and fear in it.  His eyes narrowed.  After a moment, he pushed away from the wall and went to investigate.

No one noticed him at first.  Most of the boys had their backs to him, focused on the ground near the door.  He looked over the cluster of silver heads and caught a glimpse of a figure crouched at their feet, naked and blue with cold.   A moment later, Danner realized that the figure was chained to a ring in the ground. Blood ran down the prisoner's arm and angry bruises marked his skin.

Furious, Danner waded into the startled boys, tossing them aside roughly.  Their exclamations of anger died away at once, seeing who it was disturbing their fun.  One of them dared shout at him to mind his own business, but when Danner spun about and fixed him with a steely glare, the youth slunk off.   He was alone when he walked the last few feet to the bound alorin.

The boy ducked his head and would not look up.  Danner dropped to his haunches and reached over to lift up the bruised face.  For some reason, his touch seemed to terrify the boy, who jerked his head away.

"Easy," Danner said quietly.  "I won't hurt you."

"Leave me alone."  The young voice was hoarse.  Terrified.

"I said I won't hurt you.  I'm from Earth."

"I know."  A whisper.

Frowning, Danner looked closer.  Still the boy would not look at him.

"Commander!"

It was Nebs, shouting from across the yard.  At once, the alorin made a small sound.  "Please go!" he begged.  "Please!"

Danner rose, mystified and angry.  He watched as Nebs hurried toward him, robe flapping.  "Don't worry, boy," he said shortly.  "I'll handle . . ."

For just an instant, the alorin looked up.  Danner's reassurances died unspoken.  Chilled, he stared down at the boy, who stared back, then suddenly turned and buried his face in his shackled hands.

"Lieutenant!  I must ask that you do not speak to the alorin!"

Danner opened his mouth, then shut it again.  "Of course.  I'm sorry."

"It was part of the agreement," continued the Proctor angrily, "that you honor all traditions here.  The alorin was disobedient and is being punished.  I understand that is not how you do things on Earth, but this is Devia.  Kindly remember that."

"Proctor Nebs,  I do understand.  It won't happen again."

The Dev subsided, mollified.  Across the field, Djan was shouting.  "Danner!  DANNER!  We're ready!"

"Coming!"  Danner smiled blandly at Nebs.  "Excuse me, sir?"

There was relief in Nebs' kindly face, nevertheless, he took the time to walk Danner over to the waiting boys.   Nor did he leave until the game got started.  When Danner looked again, the alorin was gone.  It didn't matter.  In his mind was a very clear the image of the boy's battered face and the moment -- only a moment -- when he had looked directly at Danner.

The frightened eyes that had met the blackstone's were blue.

The Doctor found Rajak -- or, at least, where it would be if it still existed.  The modern map showed jungle-covered mountains, the round lake at their feet gone to swamp.  There was several domes in the vicinity, but the new map didn't say much about them.

It was stretching credulity to believe that there were two Rajaks on worlds so far apart, yet so unalterably connected.  Had the One come (returned?) to Gallifrey?  Every illustration he had seen in his researches depicted her as a dana, with the pure, white biocrystal bright in her forehead, but what if that aspect of the legend had been symbolic?  Had she been a Time Lord, too?

Romana popped in and out -- quite literally.  She had a time-bracelet.  When they moved him again, this time to the other side of the planet, he found her already in his new kitchen, the tea things out.  It was absurdly cheering.

"I gather you're the one directing where I go?" he asked, taking his now accustomed seat on the table while she kicked off her shoes and commandeered the lone armchair.

She nodded.  "I had the locations analyzed first, of course, to make sure they were safe."

The Doctor opened his mouth, saw the gleam in her eye, and closed it again.  "Have you ever heard of Taylorne's Ring?  It's south, near the Red Sea."

"No," said Romana.  "What's there?"

"Now?  Probably nothing except an emergency energy collection field, like the one this dome serves."  He looked into the brown depths of his cup, thoughtful.  "It used to be the site of ancient city.  It would be nice to have a look."

She frowned, swinging her bare foot.  In the President's stately robe, she looked very young -- but then, her regeneration was less than a decade old.

"Your behavior has been exceptional," she said reluctantly.  Her blue eyes fixed on his, slightly narrowed, still looking for the trick, the gentle sleight of hand that would leave her holding an empty leash.

"I promised you that I wouldn't try to steal back my TARDIS.  I gave you my word."

She poked her toe into his shoulder, frowning.  "Taylorne's Ring, you say?"

He nodded.

"I'll speak to the head of our Security."
 

Danner lay in the dark, eyes open, listening to Djan's even breathing in the bed next to him.  It was just past midnight.  Carefully, he pushed aside the sheet, and set bare feet on the warm floorboards.  Easily negotiating the obstacles of a messy room, he went to the window.  The night was overcast; a few snowflakes drifting on the wind.  Quietly, he dug through the closet and found his clothes.

Djan snorted and muttered.  The blackstone froze, but a moment later, the boy rolled over and the soft rhythm of his breathing resumed.  Wishing he hadn't had to leave his weapons at Mzara tarn, Danner let himself silently out into the hall.

It was empty, lights low.  Danner made his way toward the courtyard.  All doors were locked after dark, but the locks were old and primitive.  He picked them without even breaking a sweat.  Catching his breath at the bitter cold, he ran across the snowy yard to the door on the other side.  Like the first, this yielded easily to his manipulations and he slipped inside.

One of three doors in the narrow entranceway was locked.  He picked that one, too, and found a steep, stone stairway leading down into the earth.  It was clean and well-maintained, the lamps burning low.  It was also -- fortunately -- unguarded.  At the bottom was stout wooden door.  There was a bolt, but it was drawn aside.

Beyond the door was another corridor, bare of comfort or ornamentation.  The doors to either side of him were bolted.  In each of the doors was a small window, set high and barred.  He peered into the nearest.  A pallet lay in the cell-like room beyond, a naked boy curled on it, sound asleep.  The next room was empty, and the next.  At the end of the corridor was another door, this, too, no one had bothered to lock.  He set his hand on the knob when a sound at his back sent him spinning around.

"DJAN!" he hissed.  "What the HELL!"

"What are you doing?"  The boy whispered back.  "Is this the alorin quarters?"

"Yes, damn it.  Get back to bed."

"No."  Djan sneezed, muffling the sound as best he could in his fist.  "What are you doing here?"

The blackstone took a deep breath, resisting the impulse to shake the brat until his teeth rattled.

"Checking on something."

"What?"

"None of your business.  Go to bed."

"Make me."

Danner glowered.  Djan glowered back.

"All right.  But be quiet or, by god, I'll kick your ass."

The boy grinned.  "Yes, sir."

Quietly, the blackstone pushed open the door.

"Christ!"

Down the corridor, a group of Protectors turned, mouths falling open.  Danner had a brief glimpse of the alorin in their midst, bound and terrified.  Then the Protectors were moving, running toward him, pulling las-rods from their holders.

"Evendan!" gasped Djan.  "And Raynig!"

"GO!"  Danner said fiercely.  "Get out of here!"

There was no protest this time.  Djan turned and bolted back the way they had come.  Danner, cursing himself for not anticipating this, stood squarely in the oncoming Protectors' path.

He dodged the first blast.  The second caught him in the shoulder.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and launched himself at the advancing Protectors, dropping and rolling as another volley of fire lit up the gloomy corridor.

"Don't kill him!" The voice came from somewhere behind the Protectors.

Grimly encouraged by that, the blackstone regained his feet, spinning and kicking out, catching the nearest Protector square in the gut.  Another got in a blow, glancing off Danner's burned shoulder and sending the blackstone reeling into the wall.  Nevertheless, he managed to regain his balance and block the next attack, carrying through with a spin and kick that brought his attacker down.

"Renwolf!"  The shout rang through the corridor, followed almost at once by a yelp.  Djan!  Whirling about, Danner's heart crashed into his boots.  A tall Dev stood at the end of the corridor.  In one hand, he held a blaster, in the other, the young clanlord of Mzara.

The Doctor was acquiring a considerable amount of baggage.  Besides a few modest, personal possessions, he now had two holographic readers, three cases of data disks and wafers, a box of tea, biscuits and assorted treats -- and one High Council President.

"What does the Council think of your, er, fraternization?" he'd asked.

"Not much," she admitted cheerfully.  "They can just bugger off.  So this is Taylorne's Ring.

The Doctor dropped his bags on the damp ground and stripped off his coat.  They were right on the equator, and the air-conditioning was even worse than usual since humidity added itself to the mix.  It was a small dome, he came to the wall almost at once.  Below, the mountainside descended sharply, leveling out into a broad, rocky shelf.  Ancient solar collectors covered it; a dense blanket of creepers covered them.

His attention, however, moved past this sign of neglect, down into the round valley at the foot of the mountains where, once upon a time, a lake had reflected the sky.  On the opposite slopes, he could see traces of an ancient city peeping through the vegetation.  Even here, inside the dome, there were signs of it -- heaps of rubble, the remnant of a mossy wall.

"Rajak isn't listed in the Matrix database of archeological sites," she continued.  "It's curious, isn't it?"

He found himself unable to form an adequate reply to such understatement.

The dome had one residential bungalow, and this one had no furniture at all.  Romana was appalled.  "Doctor!  This will never do!"

"Nonsense!"  He grinned at her.  "So it's a little rough.  The water works!"

Romana, arms folded over her breast, tapping her foot in disgust.  "You can't stay here, Doctor."

"I can!  I must!"  His hearts skipped beats.

She looked into the kitchen and was horrified.  "There's no cooker!  How will you make tea?"

"Romana, I've been searching for the One for years!  Rajak is the best lead I have!"

Her eyes got very round.  "Is that what this is all about?"

He held his breath.  To his surprise, she relaxed and smiled.  "Now it makes sense.  Why didn't you say so at the first?"

The Doctor blinked. "Well -- I thought you -- the Council would try to stop me."

"Nonsense.  The One is folklore, and Devian folklore at that.  This is Gallifrey, not Devia."

"Then I could leave the dome?  Explore the ruins?"

Disbelieving, Romana shook her head.  "Doctor, it's very hot out there.  You wouldn't last more than an hour or two without an environmental suit."

"You forget," he reminded her, "I'm half-human."

"Nevertheless," she said, "it's too dangerous."

"Romana, please!"

She scowled.  He followed her anxiously into the living room and from there, outside.

"Why?" she asked finally.  "Why this obsession with a dead dana?"

"You are aware of Devian history?"

Her smile was faintly disdainful.  "I am.  I suppose, as much as we may deplore Vis' interference, at least he gave them five hundred years of peace and justice."

"Did he?"

Romana frowned.

The Doctor regarded her steadily. "I've been on Devia for year, Romana, researching not only the archives of the Temple of Vis, but the records kept by the Fastigium and individual clans.  They paint a slight, but significantly different picture than the official Temple versions.  If you care to look, you'll see that cracks begin to appear in the seamlessness of Devian society about one hundred years before Vis was murdered.  There is a subtle, but measurable increase in violent incidents.  Complaints against the Sher'dan rise."

"What's your point, Doctor?"

"It is also exactly the time the One disappeared.  I think she disappeared to Rajak."

Romana drew a sharp breath.  She stared at him so long that his hearts began to beat faster again.  Then, without another word, she touched the control on her time bracelet and was gone.

Shieann, at her desk in her study, heard the distant chime of the doorbell, but paid it no heed.  Both doorbell and telephone had been ringing steadily since she'd returned to Sidhain.  Challenge began in two days.  She'd barely had the time to think about it, being engaged in rallying as many supporters as possible.  If Shaela won, as they all expected, support from the various clans would not be as critical, but this business with Lady Abby had everyone worried.

Sighing, Shieann set down her pen and rubbed her burning eyes.  This was the tenth note she'd sent out, and her list had fourteen more names.  She was going to be here all morning, and after she'd promised Alea that they would go to the park.

"My lady?"

Shieann looked up, impatient.  It was her secretary.

"Your alorin wishes to speak to you."

There was simultaneously a lift of her spirits -- and a flash of dismay.  She looked again at her list.  "Thank you."

The young man bowed and withdrew.  She picked up the telephone.

"Cthilian.  Is something wrong?"

"No.  I just wanted to hear your voice."

She grimaced, hearing the rebuke in his voice.   "I'm sorry.  It's been so frantic here. How are you?  Do they treat you well?"

"They're very kind, but I miss you and the children."

"I know.  I miss you, too.  I can hardly wait for this all to be over. . ."

"Could we meet?" he interrupted.  "I could come to Sidhain - even if just for a few hours."

"Cthilian, I can't.  In fact, I really can't talk, I've correspondence to get through, a meeting to attend . . ."

There was a moment of silence on the other end.  "I understand.  I won't keep you.  The children -- they're well?"

"Yes.  I spoke to Palas yesterday, and she sends her love.  Alea is everywhere underfoot here, and according to the pitifully few communications I've had from my nephew he, too, excels in his studies."

"Good."  There was strong relief in his familiar tones.  "Good."

"Why?  Are you sure nothing's wrong, Cthilian?"

There was a long hesitation.  "I'm not sure," he said finally, "something happened a few days ago.  It's probably nothing."

There was another knock on her study door.  Timo poked in his head back into the room.   "Hold on a minute," Shieann said.

"My lady!"  The expression on Timo's face, and the urgency in his voice sent a chill through her.

"Oh, dear.  Cthilian?  I must run!"

"But . . ."

"I'll call you back."

"Shieann . . ."

She hung up, real fear running through her as a tall, indigo form appeared in the doorway behind her secretary.  It was the head of the Sher Protectorate.  She rose hastily from her desk.

"Lord Karem.  Please come in."

He did so, expression grave.  She waved Timo away.  "What is it?"

"There was trouble at Shiall Hall last night," he said bluntly.  "I received a message this morning from Dean Nebs.  Both Commander Renwolf and Lord Mzara are missing -- as is one of the alorin.  We found evidence of a struggle and, possibly, injuries, although some care had been taken to clean up the scene."

Shieann's stomach churned.  "When?"

"From the evidence -- late last night, possibly the very early morning.  I was hoping that I would  find Renwolf and the boy here with you."

"No." She shook her head.  "No -- I've not seen either of them since they arrived at the Hall."

The Protector's expression grew darker yet.  "I have men searching the Sher and the city.  We are trying to be discreet, but unless we find something soon, it may be impossible to keep this secret."

"I understand," she managed.  "Proceed as you feel best, Commander."

He nodded, and the look of unease on his face deepened.  "My lady -- the Earth Sher'dana -- she should be notified."

Vis!  Shieann suddenly felt as if she were standing on quicksand.  Palas would not be reasonable about this, absolutely she would not!  Someone was a great fool.

"I'll take care of that," she said reluctantly. "Thank you, Commander."

He left quickly.  Shieann stared at her correspondence.  Then she called for Timo.  He appeared at once -- probably hovering right outside the door.  "Cancel my meeting," she told him, "and get me the Terran Embassy."

CHAPTER NINE
 

Cthilian was in his room, half-heartedly watching a television program on the little set beside the bed, when the Ambassador's attache came breathlessly to his door.

"You're wanted downstairs," the young man said tersely.

Something in the attache's expression froze Cthilian's blood.  He got to his feet at once and hurried after the man, down the stairs, through the carpeted halls, to the palatial offices at the back. The Ambassador looked up and smiled, distracted.  "Good," he said. "Please sit down, Cthilian."

"What's wrong?"  The ir'dan asked, remaining where he was.

"Lord Mzara and Commander Renwolf are missing."

For a moment, everything dimmed.  He sat, speechless with horror.

"Lady Shieann says to try not to worry, that everything possible is being done to find them."

"I must speak to her . . ."

The Ambassador shook his head sympathetically.  "She asked that you be patient and that she will contact you as soon as she learns anything."

Cthilian nodded tightly.  "And the Lady Palas?  Does she know?"

"That," sighed the Ambassador, "is my next task, and one I'm not looking forward to."

"I understand completely." Cthilian agreed, forcing a smile.  "You will let me know the minute you hear anything?"

"Of course."

Cthilian thanked the man and returned on shaky legs to his room.  He sat down on the edge of the mattress and stared blindly into the television screen.  They had Djan. They had Djan and he could do nothing but sit here and wait for others to save his son.    And what made it harder to bear was the conviction that they would not find the boy because they didn't suspect what he did.

Suddenly, he knew he couldn't wait.  Everyone wanted him to stay put, thinking that he was at risk.  Perhaps he was.  Cthilian didn't care.  He stood and went to his little desk.  Inside were notepads bearing the Embassy crest, and a pen with the same logo.  He wrote a quick note and sealed it in the envelope.  Almost, he wrote Shieann's name on it, then changed his mind.

"Palas McAllister," he wrote instead, and tucked it back into the drawer.

Cthilian got his jacket and gloves.  The Embassy staff was frantically busy, no one paid much attention to the quiet ir'dan who slipped through the halls.  He made a quick trip to the janitor's closet near the kitchens, another into the cellars.  Then he let himself out a side door.  He kept a wary eye for the brown and green uniforms of the Riders, but saw none.

With apparent aimlessness, Cthilian wandered through the empty gardens, hands in his pockets.  A great deal of elaborate landscaping had been done to the grounds since he'd first laid eyes on the ruined clan hall.  Still, he found the way between flower-beds heaped high with mulch, down past a stand of elaborately trimmed topiary to a tumble of boulders.

The only  road that led to the Embassy was well guarded -- not only at the Embassy gate, but at the pylons that marked the steep way down the side of the Wall of Heaven and again at the bottom of the cliffs.  That road, however, was not the only way down.  He knew another.  Carefully he stepped among the rocks until he found the opening, half-hidden beneath a tangle of dead creeper.  With another look around, he hunkered down, stripping away the overgrowth, pulling aside rocks until he had widened the opening enough to drop down into it.  Fishing out the torch he'd snitched from the janitor's closet, he flashed it around.

Once, long ago, he'd led the Doctor and the Lady down this secret path.  It was not the easiest of routes into the lowlands, but it was unguarded.  For a moment, he stood, playing the light along the ancient, shallow steps that descended into darkness.  Then, heart pounding, he started down.

Danner had no idea where they were -- other then the cargo compartment of a transport.  He crouched in the tiny space, Djan pressed up against him.  He felt the aircraft bank sharply and begin to descend.  Djan shivered ceaselessly,  and through his clothes, Danner felt an unnatural heat.  The boy coughed.

They had been in the boot for at least a half hour.   If not for Mzara's young clanlord, he'd have tried to get away by now.  As it was, the boy was clearly ill and it looked depressingly like the Change.

"Sorry," coughed Djan when Danner had testily pointed that out.  "I'll see if I can postpone it."

Now Djan roused himself.  He, too, sensed the end of their journey.  "Think they'll kill us?"

"No, now shut up."

The transport landed, and none too gently, either.  Djan made a strangled sound and rubbed his head.  A moment later, the access panel slid aside.  "Get out," came the harsh order.

Danner went first.  He clambered down into a wet, paved courtyard.  A stone manor house loomed over them.  He smelled stables, and the rich tang of evergreens. It was very cold.  The men surrounded them, weapons trained firmly on the Terran.

"Warriors of Vis, I presume?"

"Inside," barked the leader.

Djan slipped, flung out shaking hands to catch himself.  Danner got him before he could sprawl to the icy pavement.  "The kid's sick," he snapped when his guard snarled.

Inside were corridors paneled with dark, aged wood, so narrow that the party could walk only two abreast.  Deep carpets muffled the heavy tread of boots.  On the walls were old paintings in massive frames -- hunting scenes, mostly.  They came to a back stair.  Djan, now burning with fever, went to his knees.  Swearing at them under his breath, Danner scooped him up and carried him the rest of the way.

At the top of the stairs they took the boy away -- a process that ended with Danner on his hands and knees, head ringing, and two of his captors out cold.  The others dragged him down the hall and through a door, sending him stumbling into the center of a large, low-ceilinged room.  There were Dev there, nearly half a dozen, most in Protector uniform, but some well-dressed, clearly noble.  He recognized none of them.

Someone swore.   Danner knew the voice.  He stared in disbelief as one of the Dev moved aside, to reveal a familiar figure in black.

"What the hell?" It was a human -- Ron Sheridan, second in command of the UCS and an old nemesis of Danner's.  "What's going on?"

"Well, well."  Danner got to his feet, reeling a little from the blows.  He wiped blood off his lips and sneered.  "I guess we know where the UC stands these days -- or are you just a free-lance traitor?"

"Why is he here?"  Sheridan rounded on the man beside him.  "Now he knows I'm involved!"

The Dev gave Sheridan a contemptuous stare.  Danner's heart was thudding.  He was in for it now.  Sheridan was not going to be nice.  Thanks to Danner, he'd lost his woman and a lot of influence.  The fact that it had happened ten years ago was hardly likely to make any difference to the man.

"When we're finished. Terran, you can do whatever you want with him.  Right now, we have more pressing matters."  The Dev turned from the fuming UCS man and told Danner's guards: "Take him up."

Something shivered over Danner's senses.  It was familiar.  It was Need.  His pounding heart forced itself into his throat.  He would have said something, if he'd had his wits about him, but they were moving again, out of the parlor and back into the gloomy corridors.  They hurried him up more stairs, and the feeling got stronger.  Another hall.  They stopped in front of a door.  On the other side, he heard screaming.  The sound was abruptly cut off, and with it went the suffocating sense of Need.  He was weak-kneed, both relieved and apprehensive.   His guards, looking none too happy about being there, consulted among themselves for several minutes and then, apprehensively opened the door.

Danner saw the bed first, and the naked youth sprawled across it, blue eyes wide and blind, mouth slightly ajar.  It was the alorin from Shiall Hall.  Two servants paused in the act of lifting the corpse away to stare at the Terran.

Danner spun and drove his fist into the man behind him.  Without pausing, he continued his spin, felling another with a kick. Bolting out the door, he immediately confronted three Protectors, and with them, the Dev from the parlor.  He still might have made it, taking out another two in the corridor, if the damn warwitches hadn't shown up.

Their telekinesis flattened him before he could brace himself, throwing him to his back on the carpet and forcing the air from his lungs.  They kept him there, gasping, until lights began to explode behind his eyeballs.  When his guards hauled him up, he could barely stand.

Danner was hustled back into the room and thrown down on the bed.  He fought, not caring that he couldn't win, while they pulled his wrists over his head and bound them to the headboard.  Finally, tired of it, one of the guards reached over and punched him.  They left, muttering, slamming the door.

Breathing hard, thoroughly terrified, Danner twisted around.  He was in a lady's bedroom, furnished with the same sorts of fragile objects and furniture Shieann favored.  It was a large room with many windows, all of which were currently shut away behind heavy curtains.  In the front of the fire a knot of people bent over someone in a chair.  An old woman straightened, turned to a nearby table and took an injector.  Danner caught his breath, recognizing the man beside her -- Ambassador Baggie's attache.  The Gallifreyen was dismayed to see the Terranand said something urgently to the old woman.  She shook her head, brushing him away.

The woman on the chair was Lady Abby.  Danner stared up into the bed's canopy and felt slightly sick.  She was no longer in Need -- why the hell was he here?

The Dev lord, Brenlorn, approached the bed.  He looked down at the prisoner, who glared back, fists clenched.  "Commander Renwolf., you and the boy are a complication we can ill afford."

The old woman bent over Lady Abby, hiding her from sight.  There was a sudden, harrowing scream.  The man closed his eyes briefly.

"What the hell is going on?"  Danner demanded, trying to see what they were doing to her.  "Who are you?"

"Lady Aby will win the Challenge," the nobleman replied grimly.  "We are set upon that, Commander.  We will do whatever it takes to return our world to its rightful state."

"Including making deals with Time Lords and Terran traitors?"  Danner looked again at the two.  "The old woman -- who is she?  Not Dev, that's for sure."

"None of this is any of your business, Commander.  As for Sheridan -- it's a pity you had to find out about that, but you and he will have to work out your differences later."

Another moan.  The old woman took something else from the tray.  A slim, white hand -- all he could see now of Lady Abby -- gripped the arm of the chair until the knuckles showed white.  Straightening, the old woman turned to the nobleman.  "That is the last dose, my lord.  I would suggest that we leave her to her business."

The man nodded.  With another long, unreadable look at the blackstone, he strode from the room.  The warwitches were right behind him.  Low-voiced, the Gallifreyen said something to the old woman, who waved him away impatiently.  She picked up her tray, but instead of following the others out, she came to stand beside the bed.

"What are you doing to her?"  Danner asked.

The face was lined, papery with age, but the blue eyes in it were brilliant.  "Pity you're going to die.  I imagine you would prove an interesting study."

Danner barely heard her.  The unmistakable feeling of Need was creeping over his nerves again.  He cast an uneasy look toward the chair.  Lady Abby's eyes were closed.  Suddenly, her body arched.  Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a bestial snarl.  With a motherly pat on the cheek, the old woman departed.  The click of the lock falling into place was thunderous.

Need's suffocating presence grew in the room.  The dana in the chair twitched and whimpered, head going from side to side.  Danner licked dry lips and struggled against the shackles.  If he could get free, he could put some of those handy aloridan tips to use.

The chair overturned, bringing his attention swiftly back to Lady Abby.  She was on her hands and knees, panting, firelight gilding her naked body.  Shudders ran through her, and her hands clawed the carpet.  He waited, barely breathing.  Her head turned.  She saw him.  Getting to her feet, she stalked over to the bed.

"We meet again, my lady."  Danner did what he could to keep his voice calm and low, but it was hard.  Need was screaming along every nerve and he could feel power gathering around her.

Eyes glittering with madness, the dana reached down and ripped away his shirt.  He caught his breath, forcing himself not to flinch.  He remembered one of his aloridan instructors -- what was her name? -- reiterating a common point:    "Fear is to be overcome at all costs.  Fear begets fear, and a warwitch in Need who fears you, will kill you, do not doubt."

He was Sil.  She would not kill him, not in aloridan, anyway.  But it could still be damned unpleasant.  His memories of such encounters seemed unnaturally vivid.  He took a deep breath.

"What's your hurry?"  He even managed a smile.  "Unchain me.  Let me show off what I've been learning."

But this was not ordinary Need.  There was a flicker of awareness in the golden eyes staring down at him, but only a flicker.  After that, the madness was upon her.

"I know what they look like," Romana said defensively, "but they've been checked out and they're fully functional."

The Doctor looked doubtfully at the envirosuits, then back at the President.  "You're coming?"

She nodded.

His smile was crooked.  "Still don't trust me, do you?"

"Of course, I do!"  But a tell-tale flush crept over her cheeks.  Abruptly, she turned away and began pulling on the suit.

He said nothing more, secretly glad to have her along.  In silence, they dressed, then walked out into the dome.  Romana placed a de-stabilizer on the wall and an opening appeared.

As soon as he stepped through, the hot, heavy air seemed to catch in his throat..  The suit's aged cooling unit rattled in distress. His visor fogged up at once and the read-outs on the inside of his helmet announced an absurdly high temperature.  They stayed just outside the dome for several minutes, and the rattle eventually faded.  "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready!"  Her voice was tinny through the speaker.  Together, they set out for the valley.

It was a long walk down the mountainside.  Water dripped endlessly from the lush, distant canopy and the ground was treacherous with vines, brambles and mud. It took the two Time Lords nearly an hour to reach the ancient lake.  The water was stagnant and covered with algae.   Dead trees, water plants choked the shore.  The air stank with rot.

They circled toward the opposite shore and, higher up the mountainside, what remained of Rajak.
It was rough going.  The Doctor quickly realized he should have brought along a machete.  Again and again, some impenetrable green wall forced them to the right or left.   By the time they finally cleared the worst of it, the sun was setting.

"Let's rest a moment," Romana gasped, collapsing onto a mossy heap of paving stones.  The Doctor nodded, looking around.  He'd seen no animals, no birds, no sign of nesting in the crumbling walls.  Silence and a sense of desolation weighed on him.  Determinedly, he focused on the project at hand.  If the One had come to Rajak, where in the city would she have gone?  The Pythian temple?  Rajak was certainly old enough to have one.  Usually, the priestesses built in the highest part of the city.  That ridge to the south was a likely place.

"We'll try there," he said, pointing.  Romana reluctantly got back to her feet.  The sun rested on the distant peaks behind them.  Shadows lengthened beneath the broken walls.  Another half hour's trek saw them to the top of narrow ridge.

"Doctor!"

He followed Romana's gaze and saw it.  From the dome, the temple was hidden behind the bow of the mountain.  It was sheltered in the hollow between two cliffs, most of the main building was still standing.  There were a succession of smaller structures built into the mountainside behind it, but most of these were little more than caves now, their pillared, porticoed fronts fallen to rubble.  The entire complex overlooked a cascade of broad, paved terraces descending to what had once been a river.

Here, there were only isolated clumps of vegetation and the way was much easier.  They reached the first of the terraces.  Each one was connected to the next by three stone ramps, each twenty feet across.  One, they had been lined with statuary and banks of garden containers. The containers still contained their gardens, but those had long since gone to wild, little islands of jungle arranged in neat order up the mountainside.  Most of the statues were broken, as well, although this looked deliberate.

The way was steeper than it had been further downslope,  and the Doctor soon discovered his suit's limitations.  He began to sweat and had to stop frequently to catch his breath.  Romana seemed to be having an equally hard time, catching his arm several times for a few moments' rest.

The sun was barely visible above the mountains.  Shadows stretched, long and dark, across the terraces.  Even now, when the air should be alive with the sound of living things, the oppressive silence continued.

They reached the temple as darkness overtook them.  Their helmet lights went on automatically.  Broad steps led up to the imposing entrance.  The Doctor passed beneath a broken roof and into what must once have been a vestibule.  Romana followed more slowly.  Here, the floor was littered with chunks of the fallen ceiling.  Shifts in Gallifrey's crust had left great cracks across the floor, widened by plants pushing stubbornly through them.  The Doctor stooped and scraped at the thick layer of muck..  Beneath were tiles, dulled with age and neglect, but still showing bits of color.  He stood and they continued on, making their way deeper into the structure.

Once, when Gallifrey had been the center of a vast empire, a place like this would have been forbidden to any male, the exclusive domain of the powerful and mysterious Pythian priestesses.  Now it was simply an echoing maze of halls and empty rooms.  Every once in a while, they would find a nook sheltered from elements.  There, the intricate friezes and murals could still be seen -- stylized depictions of Pythian ritual.

Stairs appeared unexpectedly, most leading to nowhere; the upper stories had long since collapsed.  A sense of melancholy filled him, although he could not say why.  Romana, too, seemed affected by the atmosphere of this forgotten place.  Through the visor, her face was pale and she walked closer to him.

It was now completely dark.  The only light came from their suits and his hand-torch.  They turned a corner and came to a large, round room, its domed roof now open to the sky.

"We've already been here," Romana observed. "We're starting to go around in circles."

She was right.  He recognized it, too.

"I haven't seen anything that even hints at your One," she continued, "and it's getting late.  Let's go back."

"It has to be here, Romana.  One more look around?"  Perhaps it was the angle of the light, but he noticed something he'd missed earlier.  Curious, he played his light across the ground.  Among the cracks and fissures in the ancient floor, he noticed one that was remarkably straight.  He followed it along with his light, saw how it turned at a neat, forty-five degree angle and continued on.  This was not left by some long-ago earthquake!

"Romana!  A door!"

She joined him, focusing her helmet light on the spot.  "You're right!  How does it open?"

"The mechanism must be around here somewhere."

They split up, each taking separate walls.  It was the Doctor who found the switch, disguised as a grape among an intricate garden frieze.  With a great rumbling, the crack widened until it was a square hole, steps descending into darkness. At the bottom, a corridor continued on.

Here, the structure showed damage - cracks in the walls, a portion of the ceiling fallen and unstable.  They moved carefully around a cave-in and came upon a set of double doors.

"These doors are different," Romana said, running a gloved hand across the pitted surface.  "The rest of the temple is much older."

The Doctor had already noticed that.  "Newer," he agreed, "but still very old.  This is no Pythian construct."

"The priestesses traditionally carved their holy signs into any portal."  Romana's hand torched moved across the doors.  "I'd say this was Rassilon era, or just after."

The door mechanism was placed sensibly and conspicuously beside the door -- none of this over- clever business of hiding it among the decoration.  He passed a hand in front of the sensor.  Nothing happened.  Romana clucked and, pushing him aside, rubbed at the crystal, dislodging a thick layer of grime.  A loud groaning rattled the corridor and sent dust sifting down on them.  With hideous screeching, the door parted and beyond, lights sprang to life.

"Remember, students," she admonished, striking a pose, "always keep your sensors clean!"

"You had old Copchekan, too?"

"A more recent regeneration, I'd imagine, but yes.  Oh, my!  It's a lab!"

It was.  The Doctor stared around, mouth ajar.  Several doors led off it.  Romana wandered along the benches, stopped to touch an ancient tabulator.  Dust was thick on everything.  He went directly to the large, central control station.  Some of it was still active.  He recognized a few of the controls.  Hearts leaping, he looked up.

At the far side of the room stood a row of twelve tall, black cylinders, each six feet high.  Cables of varying thickness sprouted from their tops, running into a massive relay racks overhead.  From there, they were sent off across the ceiling to disappear into wall conduits and out of the room.

Romana joined him.  "Stasis chambers," she said, seeing the same monitors as he.  "Antiques, to put it mildly."

The Doctor, however, was running through the benches.   He reached the first cylinder.  It had a door-panel in the front that resisted his attempts to open it.  Gritting his teeth, he pulled with all his strength.  It gave way in a shower of fine corrosion. Beneath was another layer of material, transparent.  The cylinder was empty.

"Doctor!"  Romana was messing about with the control console.  "I've got something!"

He hurried back, peering over her shoulder.  She'd managed to activate the main screen on the console.  The sign of Rassilon stared back at them.   "There should be an identification screen next -- ah!"

 "Vislandrilorandron," he read softly.  She looked around at him, wide-eyed, and bit her lip.  "See what else you can find," he said, and returned to the cylinders.   The next one in line was empty, as was the third, fourth and the fifth.

"Bah!"

He turned around.  Romana banged the terminal with her hand.  She called across the lab to him.   "This computer is hopeless.  I'm going to check the other rooms, see if I can locate the primary data storage unit.  Maybe I'll have better luck with that."

She disappeared through a doorway on their left.  The Doctor remained, moving to the next cylinder and the next.  Each was empty, and by the time he reached the last in the line, his optimism had dimmed considerably.

Like the others, the front panel was extraordinarily difficult to move, but this time, his strength alone wasn't sufficient.  There was a nearby table. It was a simple matter to wrench the leg from it -- the bolts simply fell apart.  He returned to the cylinder and with his makeshift crowbar, pried the panel away.

Inside was a dana.  For a moment, the Doctor was transfixed, hearts pounding.  Slowly he walked around the cylinder.  On the other side, by the floor, was a small label.  He bent and rubbed clean the grimy surface.

"Project Pythia," he read.  "Subject #1."

CHAPTER TEN

Cthilian crouched at the forest's edge and studied the lodge.  It had been over ten years since he'd been here, but his memories were clear enough.  He let his gaze travel along the stone facade, past the mullioned windows, toward a tower at the eastern end of the building.  Lights gleamed in the upper windows -- Lord Raynig's personal quarters -- and he could see shadows moving back and forth behind the drapes.  With another quick look up and down the snowy lawn, he started cautiously across it.

It had been surprisingly easy to get here.  Climbing down the Wall of Heaven had taken most of the night, but by dawn, Cthilian made it to Mzara.  With his conscience shrieking at him, he'd stolen a flit and taken it by back roads to Raynig.  Concealing it in the undergrowth outside the tarn, he'd done a little reconnoitering and quickly discovered that the lords of the tarn were not at home.  Luckily, he overheard a couple of carters talking about taking supplies to the lodge.

Raynig's hunting lodge was south of their tarn, high in the hills overlooking the Ivahadran River.  When he had been alorin to Katha Mzara Raynig, he'd been there many times.  Now he made his sure way toward the laundry shed.

The shed was built up against a wall sheltering a small, back garden. As he'd expected, this late at night it was deserted.  He let himself in, winding between the vats and ringers to the storeroom at the back.   There was a window there, its lock still broken after a decade.  He opened it, wincing as the rotting sash rattled in the frame, and wriggled through, dropping down into bushes that were much larger now than they had been.

He crept across the garden and let himself into the lodge by a back door.  To his left were the kitchens, to the right, the butler's quarters.  As he'd hoped, the kitchen was deserted except for the scullery-boy asleep by the hearth.

This place brought back memories, few of them good.  Even the stolen moments with Katha no longer brought him pleasure, knowing as he now did that she had been ordered to seduce him.  It still made him cringe to remember how easily he'd been manipulated.

The cellar was the most likely spot to find prisoners.  Cthilian reckoned there would probably be a guard at the top of the stairs, and he was right.  The man was asleep, however, head bowed to his chest, snoring gently.  Even so, he was almost sick with apprehension as he opened the door and tip-toed down.

The alorin made his way through the cellar, coming at last to a low door. He pulled back the bolt, happy that it was well-oiled, and opened the door.

Cthilian knew what he would find -- a cave of a room, earthen floor and stone walls -- once a root cellar and, much later, a handy spot to throw the disobedient alorin.  A familiar figure huddled against the wall.  Cthilian dropped to one knee, laid a hand on his son's slender shoulder.  The boy stirred and opened his eyes.  At first, bright with fever, they held no recognition.  Then: "Father?"

"Can you walk?"

"Where --- where's Danner?"

"I'm not sure.  Come.  Try to stand."  He slid a shoulder under Djan's arm and, somehow, the youth managed to get to his feet.

"So, you are the father!"

Cthilian's heart stopped.  He peered across the cell, half-delirious boy in his arms, and saw they had not been alone.  An old man lay next to the wall, covered by dark, ragged blanket.  Awkwardly, he sat up, clutching the blanket to him.

"Sir, I -- spoke only to comfort the boy.  His senses are disturbed -- the fever . . ."

"He -- my father.  Yes."  Voice thready, there was nonetheless defiance in the fever-bright gaze Djan fixed upon the old man.

"Djan . . ."

"No -- father -- no more hiding.  Tired of hiding . .."

There was a tug on his arms as the sturdy young body sagged.  Cthilian, thoughts in disarray, said the first thing that came into his head.  "We are leaving, my lord, will you come?"

For a moment, the old man said nothing.  Then his mouth curved into a bitter smile.  "I am not in much better shape than the boy.  I take it speed and silence is critical."

"My lord, it is.  If you think it is safer for you to remain, then do so.  We must go."  He ran a tongue over suddenly dry lips.  'You will not stop us?"

"Who said I won't go?"  Imperiously, the old man reached up a hand.  The dry, frail fingers held surprising strength, gripping Cthilian's tightly as the alorin pulled him to his feet.  They stepped out into the corridor.

"You -- you're a Scholar, sir!"

"Indeed."  The purple robes were filthy.  Unshaven, hair in a sparse tangle over his shoulders, the old man studied him a long moment.

Cthilian said: "This way, my lord."

With Djan leaning heavily against them, he took them deeper into the cellar, past casks of wine stacked to the low ceiling, through a storeroom filled with broken furniture and trunks with their upholstery flaking to dust.

"You've been here before," the old man accused.

"Yes."  Cthilian opened a door.  Steps of rough-hewn stone led up.  The darkness was heavy with the scent of damp earth.  "Have a care, my lord, the stair is very old and not much used."

The Scholar moved past him and started up.  His movements were awkward, painful.  Cthilian bit back on agonized impatience.

At the top was a massive wooden door, braced with iron, two heavy bolts locking it against invasion.  While Djan sagged against the lintel and the old man watched, he struggled to pull them back, wincing at the screech of rusted metal.  The door sagged open.  Icy wind hit him like a fist.

The door was overgrown with shrubbery.  Cthilian pushed the tangle of branches aside.  "Stay here," he said.  "I'll be right back."

The stables were to his left.  He would have to steal another flitter. The one he'd taken from Mzara was nearly a mile away, hidden in a glen.  He'd not reckoned on Djan's illness, nor his son's elderly cell- mate.

Steal again.  Vis.

Leaving the old man to watch over Djan, Cthilian slipped along the lodge, looking upward, seeing nothing but dark windows.  When he returned, it was to find Djan on his knees, the old Scholar attempting to lift him back up.  "The fever grows worse!  He will be entering the final phases of it soon."

"I know, my lord.  Come!"

Together, they got the trembling boy to his feet and struggled to the stable.  Inside, a single light burned.  Cthilian went resolutely to the nearest vehicle.  Heart thudding, he opened the door and they got Djan inside.  The old man clambered after him.

Cthilian's hands were shaking as he powered up the flitter.  He found the control and the stable door opened.  The transport lifted, started forward.  Ahead, the driveway curved around the front of the house, then straight out a gate and into the deep woods.  They went forward slowly, engines low and quiet.

Suddenly, he saw beams of light coming around the lodge.  In the next instant, he was looking into the torches of two guards.  Cthilian turned on the headlights, blinding them for a few precious seconds.  He jammed the accelerator, and shot toward them.  Shouting, they flung themselves to the right and left.  Then he was around the house and headed for the gate.

"My lady!  My lady!"

Shieann looked around.  Cora stood in the door, pale as a ghost.  "What is it?"

"You -- please come with me, my lady."

"Cora, I have to leave.  The Challenge begins in an hour!"

"My lady!"

Sighing, Mzara's regent unbuttoned her coat and followed the agitated woman through the townhouse to the kitchen.  There she stopped dead.  Several of the kitchen staff were bustling about a table at which sat an elderly man shoveling stew into his mouth with a desperation that suggested he'd been hungry for some time.  She realized in the next moment that his horribly soiled and crumpled robe was purple.

"Scholar?"

He looked up at her thoughtfully.  Then: "I am Professor Zan."

Shieann pulled out a chair and sat down.  Zan.  She knew the name, although they had never met.  He was the leader of a small, but very influential branch of the Temple.  They'd stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Mzara on the issue of general slavery.  That support had been visibly absent when she had striven to abolish the alorin as well.

"Be welcome, Scholar."  The courtesies continued.  "You appear to have -- met with an accident.  May I ask how and why you're here?"

"I am here thanks to the quick wits and courage of your alorin, as it happens."

"Cthilian?"  She twisted around, but only her kitchen staff stared back at her.  "Where is he?"

"Upstairs, my lady.  Lord Mzara is very ill."

Shieann was on her feet at once.  "Cthilian's here?  With Djan?  I -- please excuse me."

He wiped a crumb from his stubbled chin, nodding.  She paid little heed beyond a brief order to her staff to see that he was provided with whatever he needed.  Then she was on her way up the sweeping staircase to the third floor.  Ahead, she saw servants coming and going from Djan's bedroom.  They stepped hastily aside as the Regent hurried past them.

Cthilian was bent over his son, pulling the covers up to his chin.  He straightened at the sound of her arrival.  She would have run to him, but something in his expression stopped her.

"My lady," he said carefully.

Of course.  There were servants everywhere.  She said: "I'm happy to see you.  How is Djan?"

"Entering the final stages of the Change, my lady."

"There is a doctor on his way.  Who found him?"  Sheiann advanced to the bed.  Djan's eyes were closed, but she could see them darting here and there beneath the fine-veined eyelids.  His slim fingers plucked at the coverlet, restless with fever.  On his forehead, the stone had not yet broken through, flesh was swollen and red.

"I did, my lady.  They were being held in the Raynig's hunting lodge with Lord Zan."

"You found them?"

He nodded.

"And Danner?"

"I -- I didn't have time to get him out, too."  Her alorin looked strangely alien in his earth jeans and soft, suede jacket.  Anxious eyes went constantly toward the sick boy.   "Shieann -- the Scholar.  He knows I'm Djan's father."

She nodded, not caring. Cthilian looked very tired. She longed to lay him down in their bed back at the tarn, to watch him sleep -- a secret pleasure.

"I should go, my lady, before anyone knows I'm here" he said then. "Would be all right with you if I took a transport back to the cottage -- or the Embassy again, if you wish?"

"I would prefer you remained with Djan.  It will comfort him to see --- familiar faces when he wakes."

"As you wish, my lady."  He bowed; she could not see his eyes.  "If I may -- do I have your permission to take him home then?  The worst of it will come within hours and he should be somewhere quiet, where the dan is undisturbed."

"Certainly.  I'll send some of my security men back with you."

"Thank you."

She stayed a moment, wanting to throw her arms around him, but he'd already turned away.  Stripping off his jacket, he went at once to the bed and picked up a basin of cold water.

"I have to go.  The Challenge. . ."

He nodded and dipped a cloth into the water.  Shieann hovered, hesitant, uneasy, then turned and hurried away.

She met Cora coming up the stairs.  "My lady!  The Terrans are here!"

"Captain McAllister?"

"No, ma'am.  Lady Anna and her iri'dan, Professor Masterson."

Shieann nodded, thoughts a'whirl, and hurried past her, down the stairs toward the library.  Truth be told, she'd expected them long before this.

"Anna!  Alan!"   They embraced.  She looked around.  "Where's Palas?"

"At the Raynig estate."

"Raynig?"  Did everyone know about this but her?

"Cthilian left Palas a note at the Embassy," Anna said, and when Shieann shook her head, "but I've just heard from her that they aren't at Raynig tarn.  Now I find out Cthilian's here, and with Djan.  Would it be possible to speak to him?"

"I -- he told me he found the boy at their hunting lodge.  It's near Preneria -- on the Ivahadran."

"That's what we needed to know," Alan said with a satisfied smile.  He produced his cell phone and relayed the information.  "It'll only take them a few minutes to get there.  Guess you've got some ammunition to use against those Warrior bastards, now, eh?"

"Yes -- yes, of course."  Shieann managed a smile.  Cthilian had left a note to Palas -- and said nothing to her?  "Of course, most of the Fastigium is in the Sanctum already, as I must be.  Retribution will have to wait until after the Challenge, but it will come."

"Cthilian?" reminded Anna gently.  "Can we talk to him?"

"Djan is in the middle of Change and Cthilian is with him.  I -- he wants to move Djan back to the tarn.  Is that advisable?"

"Absolutely.  I'll go with them, if you like."

"Yes, thank you.  I would like that very much."

"My lady?"  It was Timo!  Damnation!  Things were moving too fast.  Strings were slipping out of her hands.  "You must go, my lady!  They begin within the hour!"

"Don't worry," Anna said, pressing Shieann's hands briefly between her own.  "I'll look after your boys. Go!"

Shieann nodded, feeling oddly adrift, and allowed Timo to hustle her from the room.

"Doctor!"

Hearing the anxious note in her voice, the Doctor loped into the next room.  Romana was standing before an enormous computer bank.  Most of it was dark, but a few lights were blinking.  She was not looking at the machinery, however.

"Doctor, I've received an emergency communication from my office -- from Captain McAllister."

His hearts lurched.  "Palas?  Calling you?"

"Yes.  It is odd, isn't it?  Stay here -- and for Rassilon's sake, don't touch anything!"

She was gone, leaving him to glare at the empty spot by the computer.

"Wonderful!" he snapped to the room at large.  These past few years, relations being what they were between Gallifrey and Earth, the Doctor had become accustomed to acting as unofficial intermediary.  That Palas would suddenly approach Romana directly meant there was more than a routine problem.

The Doctor moved restlessly back to the cylinder room.  He tried the other doors and found all of them locked. Without his sonic screwdriver, half-hearted attempts to pick them met with failure.  He tried again to coax some life from the control console, but as unsuccessful as Romana.  Finally, frustrated,  he returned to the computer lab.  Romana had cajoled the data entry and retrieval unit into functioning.  She'd brought up a directory -- the correspondence log.  He tried accessing it, but it required a password.  Everything on the system did, in fact.

"Pythia," he tried.

Nothing.

"Eye of Harmony."

No.

"Omega.  Lilith! Devia."  Nothing.  If he had his TARDIS, he could have put one of her password cracking programs on the job.  He began rattling of anything that popped in his head, pacing back and forth between the computer and the stasis lab.  It was on his fourth such perambulation that he suddenly stopped, eyes going wide.  Spinning around, he raced to the computer.  "Benara," he said.

He was in.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Danner opened his eyes.   He saw a ceiling that sparkled with light.   Weak, aching, he tried his various limbs and found one hand unchained.  Damn.  Awkwardly, hurting everywhere, he sat up and for several moments, knelt in the middle of the ruined bed, waiting for the dizziness to recede.  Running a tongue over dry lips, he looked around.

The bedroom looked like the aftermath of Armageddon -- furniture overturned, holes in the plaster, one of the windows broken.  No sign of Lady Abby.  Feeling like he'd been hit by a truck -- repeatedly -- Danner pulled half-heartedly on his shackles.  Wood creaked.  Thoughtfully, he looked at the poster.  It was the only one of the four that remained -- the other three were splintered stubs.  Seizing the chain with both hands, he braced himself against the headboard.  The poster gave way with a loud crack.  He swore, rolling frantically to one side as it crashed down onto the mattress beside him.  Sliding the chain from the broken wood, he fell off the bed.

His pants lay on the floor near the hearth.  Danner pulled them on.  His shirt was a lost cause.  Fortunately, his leather jacket was in one piece.  Dressed, he collapsed into the armchair beside the fire, light-headed, limbs trembling with weakness.  He needed food, fast, and at least an hour's real sleep -- which he was not likely to get.  Making an ineffectual attempt to push his hair out of his face, he waited a moment longer, then pulled himself to his feet and headed for the door.

There were still guards on the landing.  He slammed the door shut in their startled faces and drew the bolt, but it wouldn't take them long to break through. He ran for a window and found himself looking down two stories to the frozen ground.  Behind him the bolt gave way.  Another wave of dizziness left him weak-kneed and clinging to the sill.

"You're awake."

Sheridan.  Danner's heart dropped.  He made his unsteady way back to his chair and collapsed.  "So -- when did you go rogue, Sheridan?  After Anna dumped you for a 'stone?"

The UCS officer refused to rise to the bait.  He ordered his men out and surveyed the room, sneering.  "I see you performed as expected, stud.  There's no accounting for taste, of course."

"Eat your heart out."  Danner watched the man approach, wishing he had the strength to make the impending beating into a real fight.  His fingers curled tightly around the chain dangling from his wrist.  "So what's the plan, Sheridan -- after you kill me, I mean?"

Sheridan grinned, walking around the blackstone's chair.  Danner closed his eyes, listening to the soft tread across the carpet.  The hair on the back of his neck rose, anticipating.

"Oh, you're not going to die -- not right away.  You're a negotiable commodity."  Sheridan stopped directly behind him.  Danner forced himself to stay calm.  The less he moved, the faster he recovered.

A hand knotted in his hair, jerked his head back.   "In a little while, Mzara will be facing a new Sher'dana and a revitalized isolationist movement.  Without Dev support, and with you in our hands, how long do you think your whore will hang on to the danship?  A day?  Two?"

The hateful voice was very close to his left ear.  Danner's hand tightened around the chain, whipping it up and over his shoulder.  Sheridan screamed and abruptly the blackstone was free. Pushing himself away from the chair, Danner spun around.  The room tilted ominously.  Sheridan's roar echoing in his ears, he started for the door.  It crashed inward -- the guards!  He reeled about and launched himself at the window.

There was only time to fling his arm over his eyes before he fell into the highest branches of the ornamental trees beneath.  Yelping, he kept going and hit the ground with bone-rattling force.  For a moment, everything greyed.  The snow against his cheek stung him back into painful awareness.  He heard a shot and something spattered in the snow to his right.  Rolling, he found better cover under a line of junipers.  Bleeding from myriad scratches, pain shooting through his wrenched shoulder, the blackstone bolted for the woods.

They spotted him at once.  He heard the whine of a disrupter and flung himself to one side.  The trees loomed before him.  Slipping, he nearly fell..  Regaining his balance cost precious reserves of strength.  His heart was beating with painful violence.

More gunfire.  He pitched forward, rolling toward the low, stone wall that marked the forest's edge.   Men in Raynig silver and red appeared behind him.  One of them raised a blaster, aimed it.   There was blinding light -- he thought he was dead -- but the beam unaccountably bent and exploded against a nearby sapling.  He felt a sudden presence, a warm caress along his nerves.  Then Palas was gone.  The man who fired at him screamed and fell.  The snowy afternoon turned bright with laser fire.

Danner managed to crawl to the wall.  Several pairs of hands pulled him over.  He saw Nelson, who gave him a thumb's up.  Down the line, several Riders broke cover, running low across the snow toward the lodge.

"Got a spare blaster?"

Miles threw him one, but the fight was already over.  The signal came from inside.  Miles had to pull him to his feet again.  "I'm hungry," he explained apologetically.  Nelson rolled his eyes.

The computer held all the information the Doctor had desperately hoped he wouldn't find.  File after file flashed across the screen.   Each one left him colder and angrier.  When he felt the shiver of a time displacement field across his nerves, he turned to face Romana, in no good mood.

"Doctor, there disturbing news from -- what is it?"

"It's all here."  He gestured to the ancient, humming machinery around them.  "Vis was working for Rassilon -- trying to find a way to reverse the Pythian curse and restore Gallifreyan fertility."

She gave him a blank look.

"Rassilon wanted a new kind of priestess, one who would pose no threat to his new order.  She would have to be strong with  life-force, but docile and easily led.  So they picked a world --  Devia -- and seeded its prehistoric people with a genetic virus, then leapt ahead to see what resulted.  At first they were triumphant -- the experiment had yielded the danae and the ir'dan.  The dana produced more than enough of the critical life-force to rejuvenate Gallifrey, but the genetic design was flawed -- as we've seen amply demonstrated by the world's terrible past."

Romana stared at him, lips parted, stunned.  He continued, relentless.

"They were close, but not close enough.  The danae were not the gentle, pliable tools Rassilon had hoped for.  So Vis began to introduce new viruses, hoping to modify the women.  Lilith was the first to show all the traits they thought they wanted.

"In order to keep a closer eye on the experiment, Vis came to the world and became, as you have seen, its sage and supposed savior.  For a while, it looked like they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.  Then something happened.  The records stop.  Most appear to have been erased.  My guess is that Vis had fallen in love with Benara, but if we want to hear the rest of the story, we're going to have to talk to someone who was there."

Slowly, reluctantly, Romana followed his gaze.  She shook her head.  "Don't even think about it, Doctor!  If that dana is indeed this Lilith, than she's been in stasis over a thousand years!  She might be sane, if she does revive. . ."

"It's too late."  He met her eyes squarely.  "Vis was very thorough and an obsessive planner.  The instructions for revival are complete.   I initiated them five minutes ago."

Forestalling the tirade he knew was coming, the Doctor strode past her, back into the cylinder room.  It had come alive -- lights flashing, air full of soft, whirring noises.  The cylinders were now lit from within.

"You are so irresponsible!"  Romana stalked after him.  "Couldn't you wait to satisfy your intellectual curiosity!  We have far more important things at the moment."

"What did Palas want?"  He stopped in front of the occupied cylinder.  Lights illuminated the dana from above and below.  It struck her crystal and reflected back with aching brilliance.

"They've found Zan."

That distracted him.  She smiled bitterly.  "You were right.  It appears that the ambassador's attache has been working with the terrorists.  The Council wants to talk to you at once."

"I . . ."

He broke off and spun back around.  Behind him, Romana caught her breath.

Revival was complete.  The Doctor felt Romana's hand on his arm, fingers tightening.  Slowly, the transparent inner chamber lifted up through its outer layer and into the ceiling.  Through the open door of the outer liner, he watched pale eyelashes flutter and open.  For a moment, he saw only the whites of her eyes, then the dana began to crumple.

The Doctor reached into the cylinder to help.  Her eyes suddenly focused, clear and dark and filled with rage.  She straightened, hands clenching. "Time Lord," she said, and it was a curse.

He tried to speak, but his words ended in a gasp. Anything he might have said, any thoughts he might have put together -- all vanished in a sudden, blinding tide of agony.  For an eternity, nothing made sense.  Then he was staring up into Romana's white face, nerves tingling and hearts pounding.  Her features swam in and out of focus. "Botticelli's angel," he murmured.

"Doctor!  Are you all right?  Say something sensible!"

He heard the frantic edge to her voice and scrambled to his feet.  The lab spun. "Lilith!"

"She's gone."

He turned too fast and Romana had to catch him before he fell again.

"Where . . .?"

"Through there."  She pointed to one of the locked doors, now ripped from its frame and lying on the floor.  "Sit down, Doctor!"

He nodded and collapsed obediently at her feet.  His head pounded.

"There are guards on the way," she said.

"WHAT?  Romana . . ."

"No.  Listen -- this has gone far enough.  She's very powerful, Doctor.  It was all I could do to keep her out of my mind.  If she's not sane, she'll be very, very dangerous. . ."

He was feeling better and got determinedly back on his feet.  "I'm going after her."

"Wait for the guards!"

He shook his head.  "I doubt she has much reason to love Time Lords, Romana.  Sending troops of them after her may very well result in completely unnecessary bloodshed.  She *is* a high dana."

"You could be killed."

"So what if I am?  I'll just regenerate.  It's what you and everyone else has wanted anyway all along, isn't it?"  He gave her an encouraging smile, but she just bit her lip.

"I should have listened to you from the beginning."

"Yes, but you didn't, so let's not make things worse."  The Doctor wrapped his fingers in hers.  He lifted them to his lips and held her eyes soberly, steadily. For a moment she hesitated, still uncertain, then, abruptly, she nodded.

Beyond the shattered door was a small room.  It contained a seven-foot silver box and a small control stand beside it.   At first, the Doctor thought it was a TARDIS, but a close look at the control read-outs showed him otherwise.  The box was only a time corridor, although considerably more sophisticated than the Devian model.  He checked the destination coordinates.

In the next room, he heard voices, Romana's rising above them, giving orders.  Without wasting another moment, he stepped inside.

The fever was at its height.  Cthilian replaced the cloth on Djan's burning forehead.  There was blood on it.  The young clanlord tossed and shivered under his blankets, but Lady Anna's drugs were strong and he did not wake.  Cthilian sank to his knees beside the bed, almost too tired to think.   Where was the Lady?  She'd promised to return soon with more of her medicine -- to get his son through this terrible next stage.

What time was it?  The alorin got shakily to his feet and went to the window.   Pulling aside the curtain he saw starless dark.  Snow whirled out of it to whisper against the window panes.  He could feel the chill coming off the glass.

By now, the Challenge would be well along, the lesser-ranked danae finished.  If Shaela won, he would be free.  Then what?  He laid his aching head against the window.

Djan cried out faintly.  Cthilian returned to his side and put a fresh cloth on the boy's forehead.  The fever was so high, it was drying them as quickly as he could replace them.  There was more blood now.  The swollen lump had begun to split. <Anna!  Where are you?>

He went to the bedroom door and looked out.  The corridor was empty -- lights burning low.   At the end was one of Shieann's grandfather clocks.  It lacked an hour to dawn.  Soon, the servants would be getting up.

Down the hall, he heard a muffled crash, then another.  Closing the door carefully behind him, he followed the sound down the hall.  Rounding a corner, he saw the door to Shieann's room standing ajar.  Was she home?  Was the Challenge over?  He quickened his steps.

The room was deep in shadow.  A chair lay, overturned, by the bed.  His eyes adjusted to the low light and he saw a figure curled up in the window seat.  "Shieann . . .?"

Force hit him, knocking the breath from his lungs, lifting him into the air and hurling him against the wall.  He cried out in pain and surprise, sliding to the floor, head spinning.   Somehow, he managed to stumble to his feet.  The figure hadn't moved, but the room crackled with menace.  Djan! he thought, and turning, fled.

He could feel that awful presence following, heard portraits rattle against the wall behind him as he ran down the corridor, putting distance between her and his son.  A large vase shattered -- a suit of armor fell over, nearly tripping him up.  At the servant's stair, he pulled at the door, only to have the handle wrenched from his hands.  He spun around.  She was at the end of the corridor.  Between them, a table fell over, another vase breaking, flowers scattering across the floor.

The alorin could feel her like insects crawling over his skin.  Her feet whispered across the carpet, crunching on the shards of glass.  She was so near, they almost touched.  He'd never felt such power.

To his vast relief, she showed no inclination to go back toward Djan's bedroom.  "Who are you?"  Her voice was rough,  as if she'd not used it for a long while.

"Cthilian, my lady," he replied faintly.  "An --- alorin."

"Where am I?"

"Mzara tarn."

She made a small sound, hand going to her breast.  Her dark eyes rolled up and without another word, she folded quietly at his feet.

"Danner!"

The blackstone started awake, striking out in confusion.  He heard a sharp hiss and slim fingers locked around his wrists, pushing them to his chest.

"Shit.  Palas.  Don't do that."

"Sorry.  I need you."

"Oh, no . . . ."

"Not that kind of need, idiot."  Palas threw his shirt at him.  "The Time Lords are here.  We've got trouble."

"You're being redundant," he muttered, grabbing the garment and sitting up.  His wise, delightful love shoved an apple at him.

"Eat it and come on."

He made short work of the fruit, following her along the Embassy's deeply carpeted corridor to one of the many conference rooms.

"We've been unable to get access to the Challenge," she told him.  "The Sanctum is sealed.  We've no way of letting the Fastigium know about Lady Abby."

"Did you reach the Doctor?  His TARDIS could get in."  He tossed the core into a waste receptacle as they rounded a corner.  She produced an orange and he lit into that.

"I submitted a formal request to speak to him, but nothing.  Nelson says he isn't among the Time Lords who just arrived."

They reached the conference room.  Riders sprang to open doors for them.  Alan was there, and Nelson.  So was Anna, who he'd thought was on Devia, tending to Djan.  An array of Time Lords lined the other side of the table.   Among them was the Ambassador, his long face even longer than usual.  Lord Bhagmaranolonaka avoided Danner's eyes, looking instead at Palas.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Palas was faster.

"I don't see your assistant, Ambassador."

A flush stole up the Ambassador's neck.  "I expect, Captain, that he is where he is supposed to be -- at the Challenge, where I would be if your accusations hadn't necessitated this side trip!"

"So sorry you have to miss out on the blood bath."

Startled at the intensity in her voice, Danner glanced at Palas.  Her face was set.

I'm not the only one with demons in the Sher, he thought.

"The Time Lords do not in any way, shape or form condone the gladiatorial nature of the Devian high challenge.  However, we recognize . . ."  He broke off with a sharp intake of breath.  Palas had pushed a large piece of white paper across the table, under his nose.  It was an artist's rendering of the old woman who'd given Lady Abby the injections.  Danner's memory of that horrible crone was crystal- clear.

"You were talking about recognizing something?"  Palas said softly.

Consternation was in every Time Lord face.

"This is a trick," Bhagmaranolonaka said, furious, pushing the paper back at her.

"She's a Time Lord, isn't she?  I have testimony from Danner, whose word I trust infinitely, that this woman was present and giving Lady Abby some unknown drugs.  I have the testimony of an elderly Scholar by the name of Zan who claims he worked with your attache to abduct the Doctor.  There is now evidence of Time Lord involvement in slave trade between Devia and Earth.  I have asked repeatedly to speak with the Doctor and been refused.  An explanation for any of these interesting. . ."

Palas broke off.  On the table monitor in front of her, her secretary's image appeared, eyes round as saucers.  "Ma'am, sorry to interrupt, but there are more Time Lords coming . . ."

Danner looked sharply at Bhagmaranolonaka, but the man was as surprised as he.  The conference room doors opened.

"Romana!"  Palas rose as the Time Lord High Council President swept into the room.

"Madam President!"  Bhagmaranolonaka paled.

Romana was in full Time Lord regalia, pale hair swept up in a shining knot at the top of her delicate head.  The high collar framed a tense, angry face.  There were several Cardinals at her back.  This was not a social call.  She pinned Bhagmaranolonaka with those flashing eyes right away.

"Ambassador.  I regret that I didn't get your memorandum -- the one summarizing Commander Renwolf's report."  From her tone, it was obvious there had been no such memo.

"There was no need to bother you with this.  Obviously there has been a misunderstanding . . ."

He was interrupted by Romana's sudden exclamation.  She leaned across the table and caught up the drawing.  "Where did this come from?"

Now the Ambassador looked very unhappy.  There were fine, white lines at the corners of Romana's mouth.  Without a word she passed it to one of her entourage.

"Who is it?"  Danner asked.

"Dr. Ajaramalada -- one of Gallifrey's most brilliant geneticists.  It was she who discovered the protein complex that usually suppresses the Doctor's human genes.   Unfortunately, Dr. Ajaramalad's brilliance came with an equal helping of emotional instability.  She disappeared several decades ago after an unpleasant incident at her College."

"President Romana, I must protest!  This is all speculation and until the Challenge is over and my attache can be present to defend himself against these outrageous allegations, we should take no action!"

"I'm sorry, Ambassador, but I do not agree.  Nor did the High Council in an emergency meeting.  If it is not too late, we'll demand entrance to the Sanctum -- inform the Fastigium of the situation.  At the very least, the Challenge could be postponed until we arrive at the truth of the matter."

"Madam President, we should do no such thing.  To interfere in a cultural event of this import..."

"We have been interfering on Devia since prehistory!"  Romana's blue eyes were abruptly bleak.  "The Doctor has made a discovery with implications I do not want to consider right now, thank you.  I have other concerns at the moment.  Palas -- may I please speak with you?  In private?"

Palas looked around the table.  The Ambassador was red-faced, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.   "Madam President, there is absolutely no need . . ."

"Shut up, Baggie."  Romana snapped.  Turning her back on him, robes in a crimson swirl around her, she followed Palas from the room.

CHAPTER TWELVE
 

Cthilian found himself at the eye of a storm.  An unknown high dana of rare power lay unconscious in a guest room.  His son was in the final throes of the Change.  Mzara was in an uproar. Out of habit, the tarn staff, bereft of their mistress, turned to her alorin.

Cthilian sent a message to Sidhain, but he doubted anyone would see it delivered until after the Challenge.   So he did the best he could to allay their fears.   "Set them to their usual tasks, Cora, but keep them out of the wing.  Tell them that Djan is very sensitive now, that the slightest sound will upset him."

"But they know about -- her, sir.  What shall I say?"

"Tell them. . ." his poor, befuddled mind spun uselessly, then: "Tell them she's a relative.  In the meantime, please try the Embassy again.  I need Lady Anna."

Djan was quiet, sedated by the last dose of Lady Anna's medicine.  He left the boy under the watchful eye of a servant and walked down the hall to the guest room.  Inside, the stranger slept, pale hair bright against the rose silk pillows.  Cthilian kept remembering her eyes -- dark as Danner's and filled with pain.

Those eyes suddenly opened.  He caught his breath.  A call would bring the guard, but he remembered his first sight of her and held his tongue.  Instead, slowly, he sank into the chair beside the bed and set his hands, open on his knees.  It was the ir'dan assurance of non-aggression.  She relaxed slightly.

"Alorin?" she queried in a faint voice.

"Yes, my lady."

"You told me -- you said -- this is Mzara tarn?"

"Yes, my lady."

She closed her eyes again briefly.  "How long have I been gone?"

"My lady, I don't understand.  Who are you?"

She turned her head slowly, looking around the room.  It was as if she was drinking in every detail.  "Lilith," she replied absently, "Lilith Mzara.  This is my home."

He said nothing, and after a moment, she sighed.  "What is the year?"

He told her and watched her face go whiter still.  "So long?"  Then, her eyes widened.  Before he knew what she was about, she was sitting up.

"My lady!"

She threw aside the covers and jumped from the bed.  Cthilian felt power building around her.  The door opened.

"Doctor!"  His heart leapt.  The Time Lord flashed him a distracted smile, but his eyes were on Lilith.

"You!" she cried.

The Time Lord flung up his hands.  "Lilith!  Wait!  Listen to me!"

"My lady!  This is the Doctor!  He means you no harm!"

"He is a Time Lord!  He means nothing else!"

"You're ill, my Lady. . ."

"No."  The Doctor stood perfectly still.  "The Time Lords have much to answer for.  We have wronged Devia terribly, and she has every right to distrust me."

Defiantly, Cthilian walked to the Time Lord's side.  "Go," the Doctor said in a low voice.

"No, I will not."  He looked earnestly at the stranger.  "I don't know what wrong he's talking about, my lady, but I do know that the Doctor would never willingly hurt anyone."

"Not even to save his own people?" she asked coldly.

The Doctor was silent a moment.  "I would do everything in my power to save them," he said finally, "but not at the expense of another race.  Never that.  Vis' experiments were a *secret*, Lilith.  Gallifreyens had embraced Rassilon's Age of Reason to escape the brutal Pythian rule, yet what he and his scientists did to Devia was Pythian in its cruelty.  The rest of Gallifrey would not have stood for it then, nor will we now."

"Fine words," she spat.

The ground moved.  Cthilian's knees gave way.  Strong hands caught him before he could fall.  He heard the Doctor's voice from a great distance.   "Lilith, we must talk, but this young man is done.  Give me time to put him to bed and we'll go wherever you wish. . ."

"I'm fine, Doctor," Cthilian protested.  It took supreme effort, but he regained his wits and smiled cheerfully.  "Just a little tired."

"You are the verge of collapse, iri'dan."  For the first time, he heard amusement in the dana's antiquated accents.  "The Time Lord is right.  I can feel the blossoming of a new ir'dan -- your son?"

Cthilian was afraid all over again.  "No -- no, my lady. He is . . ."

The look in her dark eyes stopped his words.  "Yes, my lady," he said finally, faintly.

She looked at him for a long, long time.  Just when he was thinking he done something dreadful, she said quietly, "Come here."

His heart jumped into his throat.  At his side, he felt the Doctor tense.  Before the Time Lord could do something foolish in his defense, Cthilian went to her.  It was not courtesy that sent him to his knees, it was exhaustion.

She touched his dancrystal.

The alorin gasped.  Strength poured through him in a clean, healing rush.  For a moment, he was dizzy and breathless -- as if he'd slept for ten hours and feasted besides.  She smiled, holding out a slender hand to help him up.  Cthilian bowed, unable to take his eyes from her face.  "Go to him, iri'dan.  I swear I shall do nothing to the Time Lord unless in self defense."

"My lady."  Cthilian bowed his head, not wanting to go.  "Doctor?"

"Do as she says.  I'll be all right."

Cthilian did not want to leave them alone.  Nothing in the way she looked at the Doctor gave the alorin peace.  With dragging feet, he turned and left the room.

"I don't like this place," Danner muttered to himself, and wished devoutly that Palas was with him.  He stood at the end of a long, formal garden, six Riders at his back.  The massive walls of the Sher frowned down upon them, towering above even the tallest trees.  Stone walks crisscrossed a pleasing arrangement of straw-covered flower beds that, in the spring and summer, were aglow with color.  The main avenue, wider than its tributaries, led straight to a columned building at the far end.  It looked ancient, its walls covered by a tracery of leafless ivy, the stone giving back the fading sunlight with a muted glow.  Looks were deceiving.  The Sanctum was a TARDIS.

When Danner had last gazed down this path, he had been one of sixteen alorin, fodder for Benara in her battle for supremacy.  How many alorin were in there now, he wondered suddenly?  How many were dying to give the Sher'dan a queen?  God, he wished Palas was here.

But she was not.  She and Romana were elsewhere, rescuing the Doctor from yet another crazy dana.

"Commander Renwolf?"

He shivered slightly, and found a grin for the Protector in front of him.

"Sir, they have agreed to let you in, but not your men."

He'd expected his request to be turned down like the others'.  Damn.  Danner nodded.

" Please follow me."

Now his hair really did stand on end.  Heart thumping painfully, he walked down the path and through the Sanctum door, held wide by more Protectors.  At once, the impression of archaic stonework vanished.  He was in a TARDIS control room, all silver and ablaze with a light that had no visible source.  Protectors surrounded the console; warwitches lined the room, sober-faced, watchful as he passed through.

On he walked, nervous as a cat, through another door and out onto the endless plain that was the Arena.  His gaze was drawn at once to Devia's Eye, a massive crystal that isolated and focused dan energy.  It was to this that the danships were anchored, no matter where they might be in the physical universe.  Its power was unimaginable.  Even the Doctor, who knew just about every damn thing in the universe, didn't understand it.

A dozen danae in white formed a ring around the walled pit that housed it, hands clasped, heads bowed.  The cover was withdrawn.  From the crystal's thousands of  facets, beams of crimson light shot skyward, piercing the low clouds that scudded across the sky.

Twin towers of stone faced each other across Eye.   Even now, ten years after he'd first seen this place, the sight brought a physical rush of terror -- sweating palms, pounding heart, a sudden inability to breath.  There were five alorin crouched in the pen beneath Abby.  Deja vu overwhelmed him, and he was one of them again, crouched shoulder to naked shoulder, waiting for the attendant warwitches to take them up the tower's stone steps and into the arms of death.

"Commander?"

He shook himself, clenched his fists.  A warwitch was in front of him, her image swam in his vision.  Anger was better than fear.  He found some of it and walked with her across the trampled grasses to a raised platform where the Observers sat.  There had been no Observers when Palas had faced Benara -- the queen had dispensed with such lawfulness a millennia earlier.

Most of those present were Devian, of course, Scholars and members of the Fastigium.  Brenlorn, Evendan and Raynig sat together.  Raynig's clanlord half rose from his seat, face darkening.  Evendan pulled him down.  Slightly apart sat the foreign dignitaries -- a relatively new wrinkle in this particular tradition.  Bhagmaranolonaka's attache twisted around and saw him.  In spite of his shrieking demons, Danner took some pleasure in the way color drained from the Gallifreyen's face.  He did not see the old woman.

Every eye was on him as he walked around the Observers' platform.

"Danner?"  Shieann half rose.  "What are you doing here?"

He looked from face to scowling face, then around at the towers.  Shaela sagged against the silver ropes that bound her to the pillar at its top.  Abby was like-confined, but stood straight, watching him with hot, angry eyes.  It was clear which way the combat was going.

"I have come to warn you," he said clearly.  "Abby Evanden's strength comes from Time Lord technology!  In the Raynig hunting lodge, there was an old woman -- identified by the High Council themselves as a Gallifreyen geneticist.  She and this Time Lord have been giving Lady Abby injections -- altering her to produce the powerful high dana you've . . ."

"LIES!"

"No lies! I was there!  I saw it!"

Pain hit him, unexpected and strong enough to send him to the ground.  He heard shouts of outrage and then another voice, a man's, above the noise.  Lifting his head, Danner saw Shieann on her feet, pushing toward him through the confused onlookers.  Suddenly there was a warwitch between them, forcing the Regent back, politely but firmly.  Within seconds silence had fallen again and he was alone.

"You're lying!"  It was a high dana.  He looked past her and his heart jumped.  The danae accompanying her had been at the lodge, had helped subdue him there.

"Lady Thea!"  Colinna cried.  "What is the meaning of this?  An accusation of fraud is made!"

Danner recognized the name.  Thea was the interim leader of the Sher'dan.  Whoever won here today would take her place at the head of that powerful body.

"I hear you," retorted Lady Thea.  "There is a time and place for such accusations and it is not here!"

"You don't understand," Danner struggled to his feet, shaking off their hands.  "According to Romana, the injections were based on a flawed formula!  If she hasn't already, Lady Abby will go crazy!   If she does so, can anyone here go against her?"

"Tis Benara all over again!" someone gasped from the platform.

"You're lying."  The dana glanced at the Lords Raynig and Evendan, then back.  "Any other Terran would be dead for this sacrilege, Commander!  Abby Evanden is a powerful dana, but she is not Benara. We do not fear her."  Her voice rose to be heard among the restive onlookers.  "When the trial is complete -- there will be a hearing in the Fastigium. . ."

"Why?" An old Scholar rose and faced her.  "There is nothing in the law that says so.  In fact, the law is very specific in these situations.  No scandal, no breath of impropriety must sully this most sacred trial!  There have been six instances in history where Challengers have committed fraud and in four of those cases, the Challenge was halted until the truth was established.  I demand that this Challenge be suspended on the same precedent."

"My lord Zan, this is Sher'dan business.  I have every respect for your knowledge of the law, but I speak of Sher'dan law, which the Temple . . ."

"I speak of DEVIAN law," the old man roared.  "Or do you now put the Sher'dan above that?"

Lady Thea's eyes went suddenly blank.  Danner felt the subliminal shiver in the dan.  "Look out . . !" he began, but he was too late. The old Scholar's eyes rolled up in his head.  Clawing at his throat, trying in vain to draw a breath, he collapsed into the horrified onlookers.

Suddenly, warwitches were everywhere, Protectors among them.  He recognized Raynig and Evendan colors, of course, but there were several others, as well.  In moments, the Observers were surrounded and a shocked hush fallen over the Arena.  Lady Thea smiled icily at Danner, then turned to face the towers.  "Continue!"

Palas only needed one look at Cthilian's face.  "She's here," said the Terran dana, turning to the Lady Romana.  She lifted a hand and Riders moved forward.

"Lady, please!  Wait!"  Cthilian jumped to block their path.

"What is it, Cthilian?"

"She's very powerful," he said.  "Perhaps more so than you, my lady.  Please -- there are dozens of innocent people here.  Djan . . ."

To his enormous relief, the dana nodded and had her men stand down.   Romana gave him a faint, encouraging smile.  "How is the boy?"

"The fever is broken, my lady.  He is resting comfortably."  Cthilian looked from one woman to the other.  "You wish to see Lady Lilith."

"Yes."  Romana directed a brief, thoughtful look at Palas.

"She and the Doctor are in the guest suite, talking.  They've been at it almost an hour."

"Talking?"  Romana was openly relieved.  Palas lifted an eyebrow.

"I take it there's no immediate cause for panic then?"

"No, my lady -- at least, I think not."  He hesitated, then, remembering Lilith's reaction to Time Lords, said respectfully: "It might be wise, Lady Palas, if you were to go first, to introduce yourself."

"Ah."  Her rare smile appeared.  "I've no objection."

Leaving Lady Romana in Cora's care, Cthilian led Captain McAllister through the tarn to the guest wing.  A maid was sweeping up the shards of the broken vase; he had only recently judged it safe to let the staff back into area.  Palas gave the scene a long, expressionless stare, then kept on.  Cthilian moved ahead to knock on the door.  It flew open.  The Doctor smiled out at them.  Behind him, on the foot of the bed, sat a dark-eyed dana.

"Come in," beamed the Doctor.  "This is Lilith.  We've been expecting you."

It was a slaughter.  Abby was so far beyond Shaela's rank that it took only five more minutes to overcome the other dana.  Shieann sat, hands clenched in her lap, watching with dry, burning eyes, as the warwitches carried the body of her dearest friend from the tower.

They'd thought the Sher'dan too splintered, beset with infighting, unable to do anything like this.  It was a misjudgement that would cause Devia its freedom.  She thought about Djan and Cthilian, and grew colder still.

Lady Thea, triumphant, turned to the Observers.  Her eyes met her clanlord's.  Mouth twisting into a cynical smile, she made the ritual invitation.  "Lady Abby Evendan stands victorious once again.  Are there any here who would offer Challenge to her?

Silence greeted her words.  A wind sprang up, unusual in this place, billowing the white gowns of the danae around the eye, sending silver braids whirling.

"Very well!  I declare this Challenge . . ."

"Hold!"  A familiar voice rang out, and Lady Thea faltered into silence.  From behind the wall of warwitches and Protectors came the Doctor.  "There is a Challenger!"

"What absurdity is this?  You're an outworlder, Doctor.  You cannot Challenge!"

"I do not," he agreed.  She waved back the Protectors advancing on him.  "I am merely her attendant."

"Then who," gritted Lady Thea, "lays the Challenge?"

"The Clan Mzara, my lady."

Shieann's mouth dropped.  Thea spun, golden eyes raking the Fastigium to find her.

"The Clan Mzara has no high danae," retorted the warwitch.  "You try my patience, Shieann!"

"Ah, but they do!"  The Doctor turned.

The line of warwitches suddenly parted.  A slight, delicate figure made her way past the platform to join Thea and the Doctor.

"I am Lilith Mzara, of the Clan Mzara.  I demand my right to Challenge in this Arena."

"Lilith?  Who is Lilith? This is intolerable!  Guar. . ."   Thea broke off, eyes widening, fixing on the fragile woman who faced her.  Color drained from her face and a curious, bereft look touched her features.  Shieann watched with the others, breathless.

"Challenge is accepted," said Thea finally, voice shaking.  She made a swift, furious gesture when one of her council protested.  Wordlessly, she stood aside.

"Who is Lilith?" Colinna hissed in Shieann's ear.  "I've never heard of her."

"Nor I," whispered Shieann..  She looked to the Doctor.  He stood, hands clasped loosely at his back.  It was impossible to read his expression.

Wary, the Lady Aby watched as the mysterious high dana ascended the empty tower.  The stranger stood quietly while warwitches tied her to the support pillar with the traditional silver ribbons.  One of them touched her gown and drew back the hand with a cry.  They all but fled from the tower.

The ground shifted.  Lady Thea wrapped her arms around herself and lowered her head, closing her eyes.  Visible alarm shifted through the indigo ranks.

Lilith had thrown away the staff.  She faced Lady Abby, unblinking.  Another tremor shook the plain.  Colinna's hand gripped Shieann's.  It seemed the air had fled, so hard was it to draw a breath.  There was now an almost constant shivering underfoot.

The Eye went dark.

Danner braced himself against the ground's instability, unable to drag his eyes from the leftmost tower. A crimson glow was gathering around the stranger, strengthening, expanding.  Her crystal was a blaze between eyes filled with light.  Wind whirled around her, lifting her hair, billowing her gown.  Among the assembled Dev, he saw face after face go still.

Lady Abby dropped her staff, tore off her ribbons, and went to her knees.  It was no longer possible to look directly at Lilith.  The light that surrounded her was too great.  Danner felt something tease at the edge of this thoughts.  From the tower came dozens of fine, brilliant rays.  They crossed the Arena, too fast for his eye to properly follow, piercing each Dev in the center of his or her forehead with exquisite precision.  Then other threads of light appeared, binding one Dev to another, leaving human and Time Lords outside a pulsing, living web of energy.

Danner spun around, aware of something powerful all around him, a sense of elation and understanding he could only interpret, never experience.  He could see the feeling mirrored on the Doctor's face.

The light vanished.  The ground heaved and in the pit, the Eye was alive again, brilliant beams once more lancing the clouds.  On the lefthand tower, Lilith hung in the ribbons, spent.  Behind them, Danner could hear shifting and whispering among the Observers.  As one, they looked toward the tower with something approaching reverence.

"I think," said the Doctor finally, not taking his eyes from the dana's drooping figure, "that this is a time for the Dev."

"I agree."  Danner smiled grimly toward the Gallifreyen diplomatic aide who was watching them with open terror.  The blackstone stalked to the observation platform.  People moved aside to let him through.  The aide squeaked in alarm and tried to run, but Danner was faster.  He dragged the struggling Gallifreyen back to the Doctor.

"You can't do this!  How dare you!"

"Be quiet, Remdan.  You'll have your chance before the Council.  Where's your confederate?"

The narrow face darkened, mouth thinning.  "I demand to see the Ambassador!"

"Oh, you'll be seeing a great many people."

One on either side of the frightened aide, the Doctor and Danner started toward the exit.  Behind them, the cover was moving over the Eye.

They reached the door.  Danae sprang to open it for them, but, like the other Dev, the attention of the women was on Lilith Mzara.  Danner paused and looked around.

She was descending from the tower.  He watched as she crossed the field and mounted the other.  With great tenderness, she lifted Abby to her feet, stroked the half-conscious dana's pale hair.   As one, the Dev on the platform left their chairs, and walked to join the two women.   Then the Doctor laid a hand on Danner's shoulder.

"Let's go."

Danner gave himself a little shake. "Yeah," he replied, and the two of them escorted a white-faced Remdan to the guards waiting outside.

The answer to Cthilian's letter came by the afternoon post. It took only seconds to read -- Scholar Dargo was not one to waste words.  Heart thumping, both nervous and elated, he folded it carefully and hurried down to the tarn's main floor and Shieann's study.

It was not possible to see her right away.  Dignitaries were crowded into the antechamber, waiting their turn with the Fastigium's new leader.  Cthilian hovered a moment and then, cravenly, decided to try again later.

Later came at dinner.  Shieann arrived at the table late, settling in with a harried nod for Cthilian.  They were interrupted several times by aides, apologetic, who required her signature for that, her response to this.  Throughout it all, Cthilian held tight to his temper.

It had been this way since Lilith's ordainment.  He knew how closely the new Sher'dana worked with his Lady.  He knew that Shieann was laying the foundation for a new Devia, one that would allow them to meet Earth on equal footing.  He knew all these things, was fiercely proud of Shieann, but the discontent grew in him nonetheless.

Finally, as yet another aide scuttled off with a signed petition, he said: "I've been hired to work with Dargo Kragorn on Masterson's capacitor."

She blinked.  "What?"

"It will require my going to Kragorn'tan several afternoons a week.  They'll be relocating to Sidhain within the month, but it means I won't be able to leave with everyone tomorrow."

"When did this happen?" Shieann asked finally.  "I was counting on you to be at the capitol."

"We talked about this several days ago, don't you remember?.  I told you then I'd been contacted by Kragorn's head technician about a job.  He wants me on his team."

"I don't remember," she said finally.  "I don't think it will be possible, Cthili.  There's so much to do.  I need you with me.  Who will run the household?  Oversee the children?"

"Cora and Weil can run the household as well as I, and why can't we raise our children?"  He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," she said in a tight voice, "but I thought you understood what's at stake.  Devia is finally emerging from . . ."

"I understood a lot of things -- that you were going to get an annulment, for instance.  I understood that I would be able to do something other than hover at the edges of your life!  Was I mistaken?"

When she simply stared at him, he said miserably: "I'm tired of being pushed to the side, Shieann.  The law says I am no longer a slave, but I feel like one still!  This job with Kragorn will give me a chance to contribute to the rebuilding of Devia, just as you do."

She was stricken, and he knew he was doing this badly.  He looked away, through the tarn window to the marsh.  There had been an ice-storm the night before, and the sun turned the gnarled branches to glass.   Heart thumping, he waited for her explosion.

"The annulment," she said softly.  "Vis.  I forgot all about it."

He bit his lip.

"Oh, Cthilian, I'm so sorry.  You're right, I should have begun the proceedings. It -- it's just that I never think of myself as married to Michel, not deep down inside."  She twisted her napkin.  "I cannot imagine your not being here whenever I need you . . ."  And her voice trailed away as, for the first time, she really heard what she was saying.  He looked down at his plate, still piled high with food for which he had no appetite.

"I love you more than life," he said finally.  "If you cannot -- if you will not accept this, then I will never speak about it again.  I will stay here and be your alorin, but it will -- it can never be the same."  He smiled wryly.  "On the other hand, I'm not sure I know how to be anything else."

Shieann rose from the table, half turned from him, going to the window.  She set her hands upon the sill, her knuckles were white.  He could see only her profile, set and distant.  Then, abruptly, her shoulders sagged.  For a moment, she simply stood, head bowed.

"No.  You're right.  You should take the position.  Kragorn recognizes your competence, it would seem, while I -- have been doing my selfish best to overlook it."  She took a deep breath.  "But you may be right. It may be too late for us to shake off a lifetime of tradition."

Cthilian felt his throat tighten, heard his world crashing around him.

"Lady Anna speaks of something called evolutionary biology.  She claims it plays a strong role in how we behave."  Shieann straightened and turned to face him.  "But that doesn't mean we can't try to change, does it?  Surely it must be possible for reason and emotion to coexist!"

"That question made us who we are." He pushed back his chair and went to her.  "And I think the answer is yes.  I won't love you any less for having a niche of my own in life.  What about you, Ribhan?"

She shook her head, bit her lip.  He saw a tear gather at the corner of her eye and wiped it away with one tentative finger.  In the next instant, her arms were tight around his neck and the slim body against his shook with sobs.  Holding her, he stroked the fine, pale hair until the storm had subsided, and with it, most of his own pain.  She lifted a tear-streaked face to his and gave him a wobbly smile.

"You're right, of course, as you always are, my wise, patient iri'dan.  However," she hiccupped, "I shall probably forget and order you about."

"And I shall probably forget and obey you," he agreed ruefully.  "But who knows?  With a little practice, I could become as impudent and obstinate as Danner."

Her eyes grew very wide, then narrowed.  "Don't you dare!"

"Why, my lady?  Was that an order?"  He drew back in mock offense.

"No," she said, a defiant tilt to her small jaw, "but this is!"  And she seized him, pulling his lips down to hers, kissing him fiercely and for a very long time.  "So there," she said breathlessly.  "What are you going to do about it?"

"Capitulate immediately," he replied, and sweeping her into his arms, carried her upstairs to their bedroom.

EPILOGUE

The Doctor was getting annoyed.  Remdan was safely under lock and key; Baggie had tendered his resignation, and Vis' secret laboratory was under the magnifying glass of several Gallifreyen Colleges.  He'd even had the unprecedented pleasure of a formal apology from the High Council.

So why wouldn't they release his TARDIS?

He stood at the edge of the docking area and scowled at the ring of guards standing around the ship.  It was a startling sight, one blue police box in a row of identical silver boxes.  Those guards, while polite, had been firm.  They had not yet received authorization to release his TARDIS to him.

Maybe it was because they hadn't found Dr. Ajaramalada yet -- although that seemed awfully far- fetched.  Leela herself had been dispatched to hunt down the renegade geneticist.  Fidgeting, he looked around.  A guard officer was heading toward him.

"I hope you've got the authorization!" the Doctor, stepping out into his path.  "If not, I demand to speak to the President!"

"The clearance just came through, sir.  Sorry for the delay."

"Oh."  The Doctor frowned, not quite sure whether to believe it.  "Well, then.  Thank you.  I take it I can leave?"

"Any time, sir."

The Doctor hurried to his TARDIS, handing over the authorization, tapping his foot impatiently while the officer put it into his reader.  A moment later, the officer nodded.  "That's it, then.  Have a safe trip, Doctor."

They marched off, leaving him alone in the empty bay.  His key was somewhere in Rajak's jungle, alas.  He scrambled up and, groping around, found the spare.  Home again!

Inside, the lights came on.  The Time Lord felt the ship's essence stir in recognition.  "Glad to *be* back," he replied fervently.  "Let's go!"

"Splendid idea!  Where?"

The Doctor spun around.  "Romana!"

She gave him her spritely grins, rocking back on her heels.  He took in the straw hat, the little striped skirt.

"I found it in my old room!  You never got rid of it, you sentimental thing."

"Romana, what are you doing here?"

She sighed, wandering over to the console.  A subliminal chuckle ran through the ship.

"I resigned."

"You did what?"

"I'm tired of being the President.  Having an adventure with you again reminded me of how much fun we had!  I decided that you need a companion."

"You decided."

"Yes."  Those blue eyes were faintly anxious, in spite of the bravado.  He frowned and joined her at the console.

"Just two things."

"What?"

"I decide where we're going."

She made a face.  "Oh, all right.  What's the other?"

"That you don't argue with my decisions."

"I promise."

That would be the day.  The Doctor reckoned it would be about an hour before she broke either or both promises.

He was off by fifteen minutes.

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