Cthilian drew a long breath, and there was no pain.  The impossibility of this kept him motionless, staring without comprehension at a vaulted ceiling of pale stone.  Sunlight fell through an oval skylight, the Eye of Vis worked in colored glass within it.  His heart -- the organ that should have been destroyed -- beat hard and fast in his chest.  He touched his shirt, felt the crumbling bits of burnt fabric that edged the large hole there.  What had happened?  Obviously, he had been shot, but he could not remember it.  Why was his memory so fuzzy? The young ir'dan tried to sit upright and saw there were Scholars around him!  Where was the plaza, the soldiers?  Panicked, he would have jumped to his feet but the Lady was there, kneeling beside him, pressing him back against the floor.  The Scholars shrank from her, but she took no notice.

"Easy.  How are you feeling?"

"I -- very well, Lady.  Was I shot? Did you. . .?"

"Heal you?"  She nodded.  "But you will be weak for a while. Try not to exert yourself."

He swallowed and looked about.  Of their party, Cthilian saw only Mzara.  The clanlord stood some distance away.  Sunlight turned the long, pale hair to frostfire, sharpened the austere angles of his face.  The sight sent a shiver through the ir'dan.  Something stirred his hazy memory.  There was no sign of the others -- of Djan.  For a moment, Cthilian's world stood still.

"The boy is with Shieann.  He's safe," the Lady said, adding under her breath, "as safe as any of us."

"But. . ."

"It's all right, Cthilian, trust me."

Reluctant, the ir'dan nodded.  This time, when he attempted to rise, she allowed it, standing and triggering another wave of withdrawal from the Scholars.

Cthilian recognized this place from paintings in Sidhain tarn -- the Great Hall of Vis.   It was rectangular and enormous.  Two rows of columns marched its length, supporting the distant roof.  Lit only by that single skylight, the limits of the room were lost in shadow.   Men stood there, insubstantial in the gloom -- Protectors and Scholars and Visandrian guard.  Cthilian's senses tingled, as if something in the Lady's miraculous healing had brightened them. The creak of leather, the rattle of steel, the quick, sudden drawing of a breath filled the echoing quiet.

"My lord Mzara!"

The deep, resonant voice drew the Lady's attention.  She turned.  The wall of men parted silently, giving way to Amdor Visandri, Master Scholar of Vis, and younger brother to Drago, Clanlord and leader of the Fastigium.   In the purple robe of the sect, Amdor was an imposing figure.  A high collar, heavily worked with silver thread and beaded with winter pearls, framed a lined, intelligent face.  Against his chest lay a heavy medallion, the Eye of Vis embossed in antique gold, bright against the robe's gleaming darkness.  At the sight of it, the Lady hesitated, eyes widening.  Her reaction did not go unnoticed.  The Master Scholar turned to the Dev lord.

"What is this, Chelon?  Why have you brought blood and chaos to this place?"

"Look to the Lady of Raynig for your answer, Reverence!  These are their colors, not mine!"

The priest's troubled gaze slid to Cthilian, lingering on the charred hole in the bloodstained shirt, before returning to the clanlord.

"You have claimed Sanctuary.  By what right?"

"By right of Blood and of rank.  I claim it as clanlord on behalf of my granddaughter and nephew."

"And on those grounds you shall have it."  Amdor turned back to the Lady.   "But this woman -- and the alorin -- are not Mzara.  The slave is property of the Clan Raynig, and will be returned.    As for you, woman.  What claim have you?"

"I claim Sanctuary as the High Dana of the Clan l'Shylian."

The Master Scholar, the third most powerful man in Devia, considered her, his face set. "That is an Old Name, long forgotten," he said finally.  "I have been warned that you are in fact a Heretic."

"That is correct, my lord. Even now troops are moving to stop their invasion."

Cthilian flinched at the familiar tones.  Lady Raynig, surrounding by Protectors, stepped into the arena of light.

"There is no invasion!"  Mzara replied coldly.  "And if there were - ask Benara why they surround only the ancient Hall of l'Shylian!  At best a poor military strategy, my lord!"

She met Mzara's rage with cold scorn.   "Lord Amdor -- the traitor is lying to save his worthless skin!  He is also a kidnapper and a would-be murderer of children.  Or is that some Heretical code of honor, Chel?  To shoot down a defenseless boy?"

Cthilian's elusive memories suddenly fell into place.  For a moment he was speechless with rage and horror.  "You tried to kill him!" he accused Mzara, voice trembling.  "Lady!"

"Calm down!  Djan is all right," repeated the Lady, impatience creeping into her voice.  "We have other, more pressing matters to resolve at the moment."

"I must see him!"  The trembling transferred to Cthilian's entire body.  Unmindful of the Lady's growing irritation, he whirled on Mzara.  "Why?  He is your own blood!"

The clanlord flushed.  "Better the boy be dead than to serve the will of the Sher'dana!"   Turning back to Lady Clayre, he retorted: "You speak of honor and point the finger of treason at me, warwitch, yet you conspire with your sisters to break the laws of Vis and return Devia to the hell of the  old days!"

"Enough of this!"  Visandri straightened, eyes blazing.  "Sanctuary has been granted, Lady Raynig.  If the Fastigium wishes to charge treason they may do so by tradition and law."

She was furious.  "And the Heretic?  Has she Sanctuary, my lord?"

The Lady's presence upset the Master Scholar.  He looked unhappily at the vivid creature standing in the bright sunlight.  Cthilian drew an apprehensive breath, seeing impatience in the Lady's return gaze.  She would not, he thought with terrified premonition, she could not be so lost to sense.

She would.

Lord Visandri cried out, stumbling backwards, hands slamming against his temples.  There was immediate reaction from the guards and for one heart-stopping moment, Cthilian was certain they were all dead.  But it was the Master Scholar who raised a staying hand.  In a voice that shook only slightly, he said: "I am all right."

The Lady's hand had gone to her las-rod -- another unforgivable transgression.  Inexplicably, even this the Master Scholar permitted.  He was uncertain, expression troubled.

"My lord Visandri, are you all right?"  Lady Clayre stepped forward, alarmed, but Visandri waved her back.

"I am satisfied that she is who she says. . ."

"l'Shylian is lost, with the other Exiles.  She is an imposter - lying!"

:"There is no lying with mind-touch," was the Master Scholar's cold reply.  "Do you question me, Lady of Raynig?"

"She assaulted you!"  The warwitch's voice rose angrily, "and threatened your person!"

"l'Shylian has been gone a long time," Visandri said slowly.  "It is not unreasonable to find that they have forgotten how to be Devian.   Sanctuary is granted, Lady Palas."

"Thank you."  She inclined her  head.  "And in Sanctuary, I issue Challenge for the Sher'dana."

Lady Clayre swore softly, eyes narrowing, as a ripple of shock and excitement ran around the room.  "You are mad, Heretic!"

Cthilian held his breath, but Lady Clayre kept precarious hold of her temper.  There were brights points of fury in her eyes.   "So be it.  You may have deceived my lord Visandri, woman, but you will not deceive the Sher'dana.  l'Shylian, indeed!  I look forward to watching you die on the Field of Challenge!"  She turned toward Cthilian and beckoned imperiously.  "Slave, come with me."

His heart faltered, but to his surprise and vast relief, the Lady put a hand on his shoulder.  "Cthilian stays," she said shortly.

"He belongs to Sidhain. . ."

"He's mine now," returned the Lady calmly.  "Of course, if you think you can take him by force, by all means, give it a try."

Lady Clayre's jaw tightened, but she dropped the subject.  She issued a sharp command, and within moments, warwitch and Protectors were gone.  The Temple guard remained, still wary.  Cthilian, stunned, realized he was, for the moment, safe.   In spite of their desperate situation, his heart lifted.

"We must speak, Lady Palas," said Visandri.

The danger was past.  Her shoulders drooped.  She half-turned, and Cthilian saw fine lines of exhaustion around her mouth and eyes.

"I agree, Lord Visandri, but two of our party are missing - including my iri'dan."

"My authority does not extend into Sidhain tarn where they have been taken.  I will send a request to the Sher'dana, but she may refuse to answer me.  There has been little interest from the Sher'dan in Temple authority for some time." His expression was grim as he continued:  "Your presence has set in motion a series of actions I can only see as being disastrous.  I cannot believe, however, that Benara would be so foolish as to refuse you access to your iri'dan."

"Your faith in our Sher'dana is touching," snapped Mzara, "but misplaced."

"Unlike yourself and your co-conspirators, Lord Mzara, I do not see this plot of which you accuse the Sher'dan."  Visandri regarded the clanlord with undisguised mistrust.  "They have not yet overstepped their bounds."

"Only because your dear brother extends those bounds at each request!," retorted Mzara.  "You have been cloistered too long behind these walls.   Every day your clanlord strips away our rights and hands them, docile as a babe, to Benara.  Even the bards sing of it -- discreetly."

"Enough."  The Lady's sharp voice silenced them both.  "I'm tired -- we are all tired.  We've been on the road far too long without real sleep.  Does Sanctuary include food and the use of beds?"

"It does."  The Master Scholar lifted a hand.  At once, two Scholars appeared at his side.  "Show our guests to their quarters," he commanded.  To the Lady, he continued: "We keep common hours here.  You have several hours to rest before dinner.  After that, my lady, I hope you will feel equal to that talk."

The Scholars led them through the College to a back garden surrounded by a high wall.  A cottage of lavender bas-stone stood beneath the sheltering boughs of a cinderwood.  It was simply but comfortable furnished.  Best yet -- as they went inside, Cthilian heard a squeal of delight and, a moment later, stumbled backward under the hurtling force of a small body.

"Cthili!  You're all right!"

Heart full, the ir'dan hugged the child close.  Looking up, he saw Shieann standing some distance away.  She met his eyes and looked quickly down, reddening.  The Lady stood in the doorway, speaking to the priests; Cthilian paid no attention.  A quick, anxious examination showed him that the boy was unharmed.  Indeed, the broad smile and the sticky red stains around his mouth revealed the Djan had been shamelessly indulging his love of redfruit jam.  Still, Cthilian was careful to keep himself between Djan and the scowling Mzara.

When the Scholars were gone, Mzara at once drew the Lady off, talking to her in low, intense tones.  Cthilian yielded to the tug of a small hand and followed the child through the parlor into a small kitchen where, upon a wooden table scrubbed white, lay a half loaf of bread, some butter and the much-coveted jam.

The ir'dan realized suddenly that he was starving.  He settled down on the bench and tucked in.   Djan watched him delightedly for several moments before finding room for yet another piece.   The two of them demolished the bread before Cthilian realized, to his embarrassment, that he had given no thought to the others.

To add to his mortification, who should choose that moment to come into the kitchen, but the Lady. She stopped in the doorway and, looking hastily to the floor, Cthilian made an ineffectual swipe at his own mouth.  He should have offered the food to her first; instead he had gulped it down as if he had rank.

She made a strangled sound and he winced, but a gurgle from the child at his side made him lift a wary eye.  The Lady's mouth was twitching.  "Boy, am I hungry," she announced.  "Anything to eat?"

Cthilian almost fell for it, but at the last moment heard the tell-tale quiver in her voice.  "I am sorry, Lady," he said contritely, answering her grin with a shy smile. "Shall I fetch more?"

She shook her head.  "Don't be silly.  Visandri says we're to have a proper meal soon enough.  I need to speak to you about Sidhain. Chalana had never been inside the Old Tarn, and Mzara tells me that all Challenges are held there, in a chamber called the Sanctum."

"Yes, Lady, but I cannot help you much.  I was never allowed in the Sanctum.  No one is, only Benara, her favored warwitches and a handful of senior alorin."

"Indeed?"  For some reason this struck the Lady as unusual.  She regarded him thoughtfully for several long moments.  "No one else?"

"Not since Benara won her Challenge - a thousand years ago."

"Well, well."  The high dana walked to the kitchen window and pushed aside the shutters.  Air heavy with the scent of drafia filled the room. "Is the Beacon in the Sanctum, too?"

"No, but it's not far from it."

She fell silent again.  As the seconds stretched by, he finally ventured:  "Lady.  I -- Lord Mzara. .  ."  Cthilian floundered, reluctant to bring this up with Djan nearby, but unwilling to let the boy out of his sight.

"Chel and I have already discussed this."  For a moment, her smile appeared, beautiful and dangerous.  "You both are safe -- from him, at least."

Cthilian bowed his head in acknowledgment.  Then: "Lady, I do not think the Sher'dana will give  Danner back.  She will do everything to keep the advantage. She has no honor.  You will need another ir'dan, perhaps several."

The Lady shrugged.  Although her face gave nothing away, anxiety was in the rigid set of her back, a clenching and unclenching of her long fingers.  Heart in his throat, he tried again:  "Lord Mzara has rank, but -- I would gladly serve you if there is need."

Startled, those vivid eyes rested on his face.  "Would you, indeed?  Why?"

"You have kept your word to us, protected Djan, even from his kin who have the right to do as they will with him.  I -- I think you would continue to do so, even if I were to die.  You left your people to rescue your iri'dan -- acts of a kind and honorable dana."
 
Her mouth dropped.  Color crept into her cheeks.  "I am neither of those things," she said harshly.   "And you are a fool to think so!  What I do, I do for my own reasons.  Consider well where you place your trust, boy.  I would not hesitate to sacrifice either you or your son, should necessity dictate."

"My -- my -- son?"

She blinked and he saw her sudden chagrin.  In that frozen moment, Cthilian knew he heard Truth.  Time stopped and with it, all his thoughts.  "No. . ." he said at last, words barely audible.  "You are mistaken.  It is Kel, Lord Kel."

She swore softly and came to sit across from him at the table.  Djan was very silent, pressed against Cthilian.  How much of this did he understand, the ir'dan wondered distantly?

"I  must be more tired than I thought.  Cthilian, Djan is your son.  Our medical tests confirmed it.  We did not tell you because we didn't know Devian laws and customs, and feared for you both."

Cthilian heard her, but from a great distance.  The words fell around him; he could barely grasp their meaning.  "It's not it cannot be.  Katha said -- she said that it was impossible."

"Well, either she lied or her birth control methods failed.  You and Djan share distinct genes -- or so I'm told by both Anna and the Doctor."

"Katha would not lie!"  He seized on this as something he could understand, became indignant, but the Lady was unmoved.

"Whatever," she replied.  "Believe what you wish.  It's none of my business."

"Cthili?"

The hesitant tug on his sleeve abruptly reminded Cthilian of Djan.  The boy's eyes were huge in his face, moving from the Lady to him and back again.  Cthilian, a lump in his throat, pulled the child close.  His heart was pounding, thoughts a chaotic whirl.  Small arms circled him and hugged him back fiercely.  His son.  Dear Vis -- his son!

"Still ready to sacrifice yourself?"  The Lady asked lightly.

Cthilian could not speak, only shake his head.  She smiled, misunderstanding utterly.  She could not know that in that one careless moment, she had deepened his obligation by handing him the greatest gift possible.  Anything the Lady asked of him - anything - he could not refuse.

***

"So what are you saying?  That Gallifreyens are inherently more intelligent than humans?  Now there's a real crock of elitist crap!"

"Ah!  Another intelligent response!  You, Professor Masterson, are a prime example of my contention.  'A crock of crap," indeed! And if you try to bypass there, you're probably going to freeze the locking mechanism in place."

"Thanks.  As far as I can tell, the only claim to fame you've got is this genius, Rassilon.  If it weren't for him you Timelords would still be burning fossil fuels yourselves.  Does that look like a primary synaptic junction to you, Romana?"

"Yes.  Excellent.  There's another one, right there -- ah!  Got it!  You're smarter than you look, I'll give you that."

Anna had to cough into her hand to hide her chuckle.  The long trek through narrow, stuffy corridors, winding ever down through the ship's core had hardly been pleasant.  These two going at it provided a welcome distraction from that and the insidious whispering in her head.

Neither Alan nor Romana had ever seen these corridors while the dancrystal had been in place.  The dying, technological marvel around them was what they expected. For Anna, however, the difference in her surroundings was unsettling.  She remembered tunnels of rough-hewn stone, more ancient than even the danship; they were gone now, replaced by corroding metal walls.  Conduits snaked everywhere through the labyrinth, some broken and spilling fragments of cable onto the floor.  The decomposition of the outer ship was mild compared to this decay.

There was nothing to distinguish this particular passage from the dozens of others, but both scientists had unanimously agreed that here was the spot.  A few minutes of scrabbling about had produced, sure enough, a mechanism that caused a portion of the wall to slide in on itself.  Revealed behind it was an impressive bank of complex, and very functional, computers.  The Timelord and human had been patiently working their way into the machine, gingerly detaching, then removing an arcane variety of components.

"You're really doing awfully well so far," Anna observed drily.  "Considering you're taking apart a sophisticated alien device.  I've been expecting loud pops, a few explosions, some smoke. . ."

"Oh ye of little faith,"  Alan sneered.

Romana extracted a small cluster of wires with tiny, sparkling beads on each end.  She frowned at it.  "It's not really so mysterious, Dr. Taylor.  This is a time-ship.  By necessity it follows common scientific principles.  How many different ways do you think one could design such a thing?"

"Yes, but you said almost identical."

"Almost' being the key word..."  Romana's voice trailed off.  Alan cursed and, for a moment, they held their breath -- Anna because the others did.  She had no idea what was going on.  Why the hell hadn't she spent fifty years or so in engineering?

There was still no sign of the Timelords' troops.  Anna was aware of them, distant bits of luminescence subtly distinct from the hundreds of shipboard humans.  Mindful of Gallifreyan telepathic abilities, however, she was reluctant to look any harder.

"I don't understand something," said Anna.  "You came here the first time to take the danship away from us.  What happened to change your mind?"

Romana's delicate features darkened slightly.  "I was persuaded -- against my instinct -- that the Doctor's current regeneration was responsible for his seemingly irrational behavior."

"What behavior was that?"
 

The Time Lady shrugged.  Alan growled something and she slapped a tool into his hand.

"Thanks to the ineptitude of what they call medicine on this world, his most recent regeneration was seriously compromised.  It's always rather touch and go after even the smoothest transition, but given his hybrid nature, I was told to expect the Doctor would do some rather irrational, human things."  Romana hesitated and looked unhappy.  "The problem is, I believed them.   As the Doctor would say, I allowed my own bigotry to blind me to the larger picture.

"I traveled with the Doctor once."  For a moment, she was wistful.  "They were the best times I ever had, and if I learned one thing from those days, it is that the Doctor is not the amiable bumbler he pretends to be.  That's a defense, and a wise one.  You know that he's half human?"

Anna nodded.

"It was shameful the way the Council -- be CAREFUL!"

"Close," breathed Alan.  He handed something to Romana, who turned and handed it to Anna.  The psychologist stared down at the four tiny rods without comprehension.

"Don't lose those," Romana admonished - unnecessarily.  With great care, Anna dropped them into her pocket.  "I think we're almost there, Professor."

Anna could feel the tension as the two bent forward to their task again.  This time, it was Romana who held the flashlight while Alan, tongue between his teeth, manipulated the sonic screwdriver.  She muttered encouragement as he sweated.

"Carefulcarefulcarefulcareful -- yes --yes!  I was right!  It is almost exactly what I
expected.  Let me see!"

A grinning and triumphant Masterson dropped something into her eager palm.  At the same time, the softly lit computer bank behind them went dead.  Anna was aware at once of a sudden silence in a part of her consciousness.  Yet the absence did not affect the Eye's subliminal murmuring; it continued, unabated.  Where was it coming from if the Eye was gone?

"Romana?"

There was sharp concern in Alan's voice.  Anna looked up, took a half step forward as the Timelady, white and trembling, closed her slender fingers tightly over the object.  Romana swayed.

"What is it?"  Apprehensive, Anna focused her telepathy on her surroundings.  Nothing.  Only strong waves of agitation from Romana.

"I -- I must get back to Gallifrey at once!"

"Why?  What is that thing?"  Alan reached for it, alarmed and suspicious.  Romana jerked back.

"No!  I must go to the Council at once! There is no time to argue!"  She lay a hand on the gold band around her wrist.

Anna felt a telltale thrumming and cried out: "Alan!  Get her!"

They both leapt forward.  Alan was there ahead of her, fingers closing over the bracelet.  Romana gave a startled squawk as Anna reached her other side.  There was a sudden shift of realities, and they were gone.

* * *

It was the absence of jolting that woke Danner.  For a moment, he could not remember where he was.

"Sidhain -- I think," came a quiet, tired voice at his shoulder.  The Doctor tilted his head toward the carriage window.  Light, faint and gray through lowering clouds, fell past the bars into the deep gloom of the cab.  It touched his features and, for moment, the blackstone saw an ancient weariness there.  Then the look was gone and he was facing the Doctor's quizzical smile.

They had been traveling all night.  Cramped muscles reminded Danner of this fact as he stretched kinks from his shoulders and back.  Sliding across the wooden bench, he had a look outside.  An obsidian wall stared back at him.  It was impossible to see what lay beyond it, but Danner smelled pine and the air coming through the bars was clear and crisp.

"We've had two changes of ashas, and I'm reasonably certain we've gone through a transmat," commented the Timelord.  "About ten minutes ago we entered a walled city.  It's been back lanes and uphill ever since.  We must be close to the tarn."

"Transmat?  Are you sure?"

The Doctor waved a dismissive hand.  "Why not?  Those bits of obvious technology we've see -- the clever light spheres, the las-rods -- are toys.   Don't forget -- this is a race that designed the danships.  There is nothing backward about Devia.   Underneath all this bucolic charm is very sophisticated technology -- controlled climate, the placement and number of people, careful regulation of movement and communication.  And there are other things that make me even more -- uneasy."  His voice trailed away.

"Uneasy?"  Danner retorted.  "There are things here that scare me spitless, thank you!""

Hands pressed between his knees, the Timelord frowned at him.  "Like what?"

"Like dying."

"There is that," admitted the Doctor.

The carriage swerved sharply, throwing Danner against the Timelord.  A moment later it stopped.  Voices shouted orders.  There was the sound of metal rasping across metal.  The carriage door was hauled open.  Protectors waited outside, las rods trained on the prisoners.

Someone pushed through the Dev - Ksirin, mouth twisted into a sneer.  Danner got down from the carriage and knocked away grasping hands. The guards overreacted immediately.  It was likely that Ksirin's angry shout alone saved his life.

"Hold, you fools!   Harm him and you'll answer to the Sher'dana herself!"

The Doctor jumped to the pavement beside Danner.  Protectors closed in and they were herded quickly across a small courtyard and through a low door.  Along a windowless passages of block stone they were hurried, up a seemingly endless spiral stair.  Underfoot, the steps were worn smooth with age and the tread of many feet, but now that the Doctor had pointed it out, Danner also noticed the steady temperature and humidity, the fresh air, the smokeless torches.

At last, the stair ended.  Ksirin pushed open a door.   More Protectors waited on the other side.  He and the Doctor were separated, jostled by a dozen solid bodies.   Danner had a confused impression of a long gallery as he was hustled toward the center of the room.  Its high ceiling was supported by wooden trusses beautifully carved and inset with brightly colored stone.  More of the smokeless torches burned in brass sconces, and between them hung weapons.  Most appeared of an archaic nature - sword, pikes, bows, interspersed shields and helms.  Some looked very old.
Guard quarters?  Armory?

They stopped.  Danner, half a head taller than the Dev, caught a glimpse of the Doctor.  Protectors were binding his hands behind his back, sliding one of those damned  leashes around his neck.  Unprovoked, one of the bastards hit the Timelord, and there was laughter as he staggered to keep his feet.  Danner swore.  Regaining his balance, the Doctor glanced up and caught sight of the blackstone.  A wry grin lightened his  bruised features, and he shrugged.  Then they were pulling him away across the gallery to vanish into the press of indigo-clad bodies.

"Where are you taking him?"  Danner demanded angrily as hard fingers locked around his own wrists.

"To make his apologies to Raynig," replied someone and there was more laughter.

Danner kept his temper, knowing the odds to be ridiculous.  But when one of them approached him with a leash, he lost his tenuous control - snarled and kicked out, knocking back the Protector and sending them all into an uproar.  They were on him at once, bringing him to the floor beneath their weight.  Blows came from everywhere.

Someone was shouting and, abruptly, they backed away.  Warily, he lifted his head.  He was hauled his feet, dizzy and tasting copper.  Shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it, Danner tried to pull away.  A sharp twist on his arm made him gasp and stand perfectly still.

Ksirin was there, smiling, his eyes twin windows into hell.  Reaching up ever so gently, the Dev brushed dark hair back from the blackstone's face. Danner schooled his features into a blank glare and tried to ignore the cool fingers as they brushed across his cheekbone.  With the same grotesque gentleness, the Dev slipped the leash around Danner's neck and drew it close.  Watching the blackstone's involuntary flinch, his smile broadened.

"Don't look so frightened, iri'dan.  Until our Lady gives permission, you are not for me, more's the pity."

"Is that a fact?"  Danner spat blood.  "I guess I should count my blessings, eh?"

"If dying is a blessing, than yes."

The blackstone shrugged, pretending indifference.  Ksirin wrapped the leather strap around his hand and gave a quick, sharp tug.  Trying not to hear the mocking taunts, ignoring grins of triumph, he followed Ksirin through the gallery and into another chamber.  He recognized the Devian transmat at once.  So the Doctor had been correct -- again.

The gray-clad palace guard came no further.  Pushed up onto the platform, Danner braced himself for the expected vertigo.  When his vision cleared, he knew they were in the Old Tarn.  Here there were warwitches among Protectors ringing the platform.

"Quit gawking," snapped Ksirin, yanking on the leash.  "The Sher'dana dislikes waiting."

Once again, he was surrounded by edgy soldiers.  Down more corridors they marched, but unlike the tarns he had seen on Devia, this place was much like the danship.  There were the same stylized faces, the graceful loops and whorls of flowering vines.  And, like the danship, these corridors were eerily empty.  He saw only his escort as they made their way deeper into the building.

After several minutes of walking, he heard noises - distant laughter and a wild shriek.  The air held new scents as well, sweet with a strange spiciness that left a tang on his tongue.  They rounded a corner and the passage widened abruptly into a long, narrow room.  Facing them along the wall were a row of doors, frames intricately carved.  The scent was strong here; it made him light-headed.  Drugs, he thought.  Great.  One of the Protectors moved forward to open a door, pushing Danner through into a spacious, smoky chamber.

The room was filled with people.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light and haze, he saw men and women, norms among the blackstones and dana, reclining on divans or great mounds of cushions.  More than a few were engaged in activities that widened Danner's eyes.  Others talked among themselves in low voices, or stared blankly into space.    Music was coming from somewhere, discordant, yet oddly pleasing.   A woman danced alone at the edge of the room, out of cadence with the music.

Moving through the languid crowd were slaves in gold collars,  wristbands, and very little else.  Some bore trays of food or decanters of a pale, golden liquid.  Others served the lords and ladies in more intimate ways.  Braziers scattered across the cluttered floor poured blue clouds of incense into the air.  A slave passed near Danner, a boy, very young, with a delicate, almost androgynous beauty.   His gaze, as empty as the others', slid past Ksirin and Danner.  A moment later, he was pulled to the floor by drunken lord and Danner looked away, face heating.

One by one, the room's occupants became aware of the newcomers.  Faces turned, and the murmur of conversation died away.  Ksirin started forward, yanking on the leash.  Danner, who had never expected anything like this, followed unresisting, picking his way awkwardly through cushions and tables, head spinning from the incense.  A dana staggered to her feet and reached through his escort for him.  Ksirin knocked her hand away and she collapsed back into the pillows, giggling.

As they neared the center of the room, Danner saw two danae seated on a portion of raised floor, between them a low table upon which a game board was placed.  Jewels were heaped at each player's elbow.  As he approached, one of them exclaimed petulantly and pushed several sparkling stones toward the other.  The winner smiled and, selecting one of the gems, turned to a heavy-lidded youth who lay with his head in her lap.  He smiled drowsily to she inserted the gem into his earlobe.  It winked impossibly blue against his white hair.

Both dana were beautiful, extraordinarily so.  Silks gleamed across graceful limbs.  Whisper-fine strands of gold wove in and out of milky tresses, inset with tiny gem-bits that caught the dim light and winked coquettishly with each turn of the head.   Neither was tattooed.  Their crystals, larger and with more facets than Danner had ever seen, were vivid against smooth, pale foreheads.  And, to his surprise, he saw color within those crystals, prismatic glints that rivaled the gems in their hair.

Ksirin dropped the leash and went to sit by the dana whose jewel-heap was the larger.  She reached a slim arm around his shoulders and kissed him, deeply, slowly.  Ksirin returned the salute, his hand slipping into the folds of her silk robe.  After a long, passionate moment, she leaned away.  The nobleman sighed.  His lip was bleeding.  Smiling, licking away the crimson with a dart of his tongue, he said thickly:  "A gift, Sher'dana."

"So I see."   Her voice was husky and soft.  "And in Mzara colors."

Danner, staring at diminutive creature in disbelief, suddenly felt a hand on his ankle.  Startled, he stepped back.  The little dana's opponent laughed and clapped.

"He is quick, Benara.  Perhaps ithlix has no effect on him."

"Perhaps not."   Benara allowed Ksirin to help her up.  The bejewelled youth, displaced, pouted openly.  "This is an outworlder, Miyel.  All manner of strangeness is possible."  Of Ksirin she asked: "This is the iri'dan that fights like a Protector, is it not?  Who has just killed three of my guards?"

Across the room, a glass smashed and there was a cry of fright and pain.  High, shaking laughter rose above the music, then dissolved into sobs.  A chill ran along Danner's spine.  He forced himself not to look; Benara and her three companions were oblivious.

"It is.  But they were fools."  Ksirin sat up, reached for a decanter of lemon-colored wine.  Eschewing the goblet at his elbow, he took a deep drought.  "What I find especially diverting, Sher'dana, is that this particular iri'dan can also resist mindtouch."

"So I have been told."

For the first time, she lifted her eyes to his and in that moment, Danner's gut turned to water.  Pure malice stared up at him, ancient, jaded, bored to madness.  Looking him over now, her eyes lingering on his hair, his mouth, his groin, his dread deepened to cold fear.  Mzara had been right to want this monster destroyed.  But Mzara hadn't known the half of it.

"Unbind him." She did not take her eyes from his face.

"Risky, my Lady," Ksirin objected.  "He can kill in an instant."

"As can I.  Unbind him."

"Let me."  The dana with the wandering hands, Miyel, was on her feet at once.  She ran lightly behind him, scarlet robe billowing about slim ankles.   Fingers slid down his arm, lingering to entwine in his.  Her breath was warm on the back of his neck.

"Miyel!"

His hands were free.  Miyel danced away, collapsing beside the Sher'dana's sulking companion.

"Sit down."  Benara sank back onto her cushion.  "Have some wine."

Danner obeyed warily.  She motioned to the Stud, who sat up with ill humor and, scowling, poured him a glass.  The blackstone let it sit, untouched before him. The effects of the incense were already fading as his metabolism adjusted.  He had no intention of neutralizing yet another of their cursed drugs.

"You know who I am," she continued, matter of fact.  "And you know that your mistress has Challenged me?"

Danner nodded.

"I thought never to be bothered with l'Shylian again.  It was almost interesting at first.  It no longer is so."

Assuming a bored expression, Danner reached over and flicked a large, emerald-like gem from the nearby pile and let it roll off the table.  There was no reaction other than a slight smile.  She leaned back, let her hand trail over the man beside her.  The Dev moved sensuously beneath her touch, caught her hand and kissed it.  Abruptly, the Sher'dana pushed him away.  To Danner, she said:  "Your mistress has been -- inconvenient.  Mzara finds a backbone he never had, thanks to her, and even now she turns Vis' weakling Scholars against me.  Most infuriating, I have temporarily lost custody of the Sil iri'dan, would have lost him altogether had you not obligingly foiled Chel's assassination attempt.   I thank you for that, iri'dan.  Breeding for the boy was a long and tedious process."

"Djan's a little young for you, isn't he?"  Danner made no effort to hide his revulsion.  Her smile became one of delight.

"I have time.  Until then there are always beautiful, disposable creatures like yourself, iri'dan.  An alien almost Dev in face and form.  Yet there differences are there -- fascinating differences.  Are you sure you will have no wine?"

"No, thank you."

Miyel went off in a cascade of giggles.  Ksirin helped himself to another swig.

"Are you going to take him, Benara?" the Dev lord asked.

She removed the decanter neatly from his trembling hand.  Whatever the drink within, it was powerful.   The nobleman's eyes had already taken on the glassy, diffused look Danner saw everywhere around him.

"At Challenge, I think, while his dana looks on."

"But that is not for two days yet!"

Miyel's laughter trilled over the music, brittle, artificial.   "Ksirin wants him?  No wonder he's half-drowning himself in wine.  You could not satisfy such a creature, fool!"

"Slut."  Ksirin leered at her over the table.  "You want him yourself!"

"And if I do?  I, at least, could return pleasure for pleasure."

Ksirin's rage, never far from the surface, exploded.  Shouting curses, he flung the decanter at her.  Its contents splashed everywhere, staining her robe, dripping from her hair.  With an angry shriek, she was on her feet.  Danner felt power gathering and moved.  Rolling  backwards across the cushions, oversetting a kneeling slave, he was up and heading for the door.  Behind him, Ksirin screamed, a high, thin sound.   Dozens of other voices joined in as wind whipped through the room, lifting garments, cushions, papers, and sending them whirling into the air.  Danner fended off a bit of gauze drapery that flew past and slammed his shoulder against the nearest door.  It gave, spilling him into the hall beyond.

A dozen warwitches waited.  He swallowed, not sure whether to laugh or swear.  Would they kill him if he rushed their line?  Anything seemed preferable to the madness being played out in there.

The answer was no, they would not kill him.  They stunned him, instead.  When he regained his wits he was lying on his back among the pillows, staring up into the sweetly smiling Dev faces carved into the ceiling.  The sounds of pandemonium were gone; the music resumed.  He heard harsh breathing nearby.

Danner tried to move and found he could.  He rolled over and, ignoring a sudden rush of vertigo, pushed himself up on his elbows.  Ksirin crouched a few feet away, cursing, two slaves binding his bleeding arm.  The Lady Meyil, a nasty cut under her own eye, was sulking.  The room's other occupants were slowly returning to their places.  Slaves moved through the debris, straightening and mopping up.  Danner looked over at the Sher'dana.  She sat in an island of calm, untouched.  Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, breath shallow and quick.  Color stained porcelain cheeks.

"Benara?"  Meyil began, querulous.  The Sher'dana's eyes opened.

"You may both amuse yourself with him," she replied.   "And I shall watch. Ilana.  Mordra."

Two warwitches standing on either side of her stepped forward.

"Put force bands on the iri'dan.  I should hate to see more damage to my friends."

Still dazed from the las-rods' effects, Danner's clumsy struggles were useless.  They bound him quickly and efficiently, and left him swaying, the unwilling center of attention for a suddenly rapt, silent audience.  Impatiently, Ksirin pushed away his two nurses and struggled to his feet, but Miyel was faster.  In one quick, eager motion, she tore at the blackstone's shirt.  He twisted out of her grasp and came up against the unyielding presence of the warwitches.

"What is it with you Dev?" he objected hoarsely.  "Are you the nut-bars of the universe, or what?  Leave me alone!"

She slapped him with unexpected strength, knocking him back against his guards again   Before he could draw a breath, she caught his hair, twisting it painfully around her fingers, and pulled him down.   His aching mouth covered by hers, Danner's small, desperate sound of protest was all but inaudible.  Thoroughly horrified, he tried to pull away, but was unable to break the warwitches' unrelenting grip.

"NO!" shrilled Ksirin, pulling her back.  "Not the face!  You must not mar the face!"

"Pah!  I like the bruises!"  Shaking him off, she tore again at Danner's shirt.  When that was gone, she reached for the drawstring of his trousers.  The blackstone managed to turn a plea into a curse, for which he was rewarded by another savage backhand across his face.  Benara smiled faintly, the pink tip of her tongue just barely visible between her lips.

Ksirin won the round by flinging Miyel into the onlookers.  While she thrashed and fought to regain her feet, the Dev lord quickly yanked the drawstring.  Danner's trousers fell around his ankles, and he swore again, voice breaking in fury and humiliation.

And, at that moment, the Sher'dana struck.  Her presence in his mind was sudden,  vivid -- almost painful.  Danner gasped, flung his walls up with every desperate ounce of strength he possessed.  Her mockery rang around him and she was gone as quickly as she had appeared.  Danner found himself lying on his back once more.  Rough hands were locking cold metal around his ankles; someone's tongue was in his mouth.  The grasp on an ankle loosened; he kicked out and heard a scream.  At once, an invisible force crushed the breath from his lungs, sent bright crimson spots
exploding across his vision.  Pain followed, coursing through his veins like acid.  Thought fragmented.  Vision dimmed.  There was screaming.  Possibly, it was him.

If you continue to resist, there will be more pain.  The promise hung in his mind, cool and
merciless.  Do you doubt I can make you beg for death, iri'dan?  Will you defy me that far?

He lacked the courage to find out.  She acknowledged his anguished surrender and withdrew.  Awareness sifted back -- his throat burned, tears filled his eyes.  His breath came in ragged, painful gasps.  This time, the touch on his  lips was gentle, almost tender.  He blinked rapidly and saw Benara's face inches above his.  Slowly, deliberately, she licked a tear from his cheek and kissed him again.

When the l'Shylian whore comes to Challenge me, iri'dan, you will be mine, body and mind.   She will watch you come to me willingly, eagerly.  It is that image she will carry to her death.

Danner was trembling all over.  His thoughts spun in chaotic circles.

Open your mind.  Stop fighting me.

Danner had no control over what the Sher'dana chose to do with his body.  She could manipulate his nerves and smash his pride, but he would not go to her willingly - not now, not ever.  If she wanted his heart, she would have to rip it from him.  Every muscle cramped in anticipation.

"NO!  Fools! "

Benara was gone, from his mind, from his sight.  The possessive, restraining hands were quickly withdrawn.  Still weak from her assault, Danner nevertheless managed to roll over and get to his knees.  The Sher'dana, white with rage, was glaring up at a terrified warwitch he had not seen before.

"I cannot say how it happened, my lady," the warwitch was saying.  "There were many guards, and they were most attentive."

"And yet this Heretic escaped?"

The Doctor had slipped through their fingers again!  Danner felt semi-hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him.  Wisely, he did not give in to it.

"Y-- yes, Sher'dana."  A bare whisper.  Not unreasonably, the warwitch feared for her life.

But the Sher'dana fought for control and, with the effort, achieved it.   "I'll see to this myself.  Assemble the warwitches and seal off all the outer doors.  No one leaves
or enters until this Doctor is found!"

The warwitch bowed her head and hurried off.  Benara, small hands clenched into fists, turned back to her prisoner.   Perhaps he was less successful at hiding his triumph than he had hoped.   Her smile faded, and deep within that gold gaze something very dark drifted toward the surface.  She leaned down.  Her finger traced the outline of his swollen mouth.

"Try not to be too disappointed," she said, so softly only he heard her.  "I shall return. In the meantime, enjoy the attentions of my court.  Miyel is quite imaginative, and what Ksirin lacks in that quality, he more than compensates for in enthusiasm.  After a few hours in their hands, iri'dan, you will be more than willing to let me look into every corner of your primitive mind."

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