Yafatah swore. «It doon't be fair! I must have thirty stings. And I didna' do anything to them beasties.» Zendrak opened the window and let the captive wasps fly free. The rest of the swarm who still remained outside the house did not enter Yafatah's yellow bedroom. Rowenaster thought this was odd. «Why aren't they coming in?» he asked. «Because he told them not to,» said Kelandris in a monotone. Nearly equal in height to her brother, Zendrak, Kelandris cut a formidable figure at
six-feet-four. Born in the land of Tammirring, she usually wore a veil to hide
her face and feelings. Inside the Kaleidicopia, however, she tended to leave the veil in her bedroom on the third floor. Rowenaster sighed. Day after day at the university, he tried to teach people the names of the Greatkin, a process that most students vigorously resisted. To the modern mind, the Greatkin were the personages of myth and were therefore unimportant. To Rowenaster, who happened to live with Greatkin, they were a bold, disconcerting reality. The professor had long ago concluded that what scholars wrote in the history books and thought about the Greatkin was mostly romantic doggerel. Pulp at worst and speculation at best. Clearly, the academics had never had firsthand experience with a Greatkin. Scholars thought the Greatkin were gentle beings of endless compassion. Rowenaster shook his head. On more than one occasion, he had seen Zendrak box both of Po's ears. And Kelandris? Well, she was mostly like ice. As if to prove Rowen's point, Kelandris continued speaking to Yafatah, her
voice without inflection, her green eyes distant. «In Suxonli they say wasps are the messengers of Rimble.» She chuckled derisively. «His holy messengers. If they sting you, we say you've been kissed by the Power of the Fertile Dark. You'll never be the same afterward, of course.» «Thanks!» snapped Yafatah, who was beginning to feel ill with the poison of her many stings. «You do be real comforting there, Kel. Just a joy to be around. Why doon't you take your sarcasm and bad times to your room, huh? I doon't remember inviting you in.» «Suit yourself,» said Kelandris stiffly, and left. Zendrak inclined his head toward Yafatah. «I think you hurt her feelings.» «Impossible,» retorted the young girl sullenly. «That bitch hasna' got any. And doon't you lecture me on my mouth.» «I wouldn't dream of it, Ya,» said Zendrak mildly.
Rowenaster interrupted at this point. «Well, I think you should show a little respect there, Yafatah. After all, Kelandris is a Greatkin.» Yafatah pulled away from Zendrak's hands, her face slightly puffy, her expression furious. «Yeah? Then why doesna' she act like one?» Zendrak pulled Yafatah's head toward him again. «And how should a Greatkin act?» he asked. «Like this,» she replied. «Like what you're doing. You know, helpful.» Podiddley burst into peals of laughter. Po, who was a street-wise criminal by profession, was also a Mayanabi Nomad. For the past twelve years he had been a member of this heretical spiritual order, and for the same period of time, Zendrak had been his spiritual guide. In addition to being Trickster's son, Zendrak was also the ranking Mayanabi in all Mnemlith. This was understandable. Zendrak was over five hundred years old. Five centuries was ample time to perfect one's
spirit. The combination of Zendrak's Tricksterish blood and his long years of training as a Mayanabi master made him a tough, inventive teacher. It also made him unorthodox. Podiddley was laughing now because he thought Zendrak was rarely helpful in the usual sense of the word. Everyone in the room, including Zendrak, knew Po's feelings on the subject. Zendrak glanced at Po. «Go fetch some stingtrap from Barlimo's herb
pantry. Mix it into a paste with boiling water and bring it to me. Quickly.» Po, who was feeling lazy, began to argue. «Just do it.» Po scowled. Rowenaster smiled, impressed. Zendrak could turn anything into a teaching situation, he thought with admiration. Rowen watched Po stride out of the room angrily. Now Yafatah spoke. «Did you say stingtrap?» she asked Zendrak. «I did.» Yafatah groaned. «That'll turn my scalp green. I doon't want my scalp to turn green.» «Do you want to survive all these stings? Or would you prefer to die tonight?» he asked amiably. Yafatah stared at the Greatkin. «Die?» Zendrak nodded. «Thirty stings of this particular wasp can kill. It's a southern variety. Just arrived.» He winked. «Rimble-Rimble.» «Just arrived?» asked Rowenaster, feeling puzzled.
«Yes,» said Zendrak, his black eyes suddenly reflective like mirrors. «These are the heralds of the Jinnaeon. They are the new breed. Trickster calls them univer'silsila. According to dear old Dad, there's something special about these wasps—that we get to discover, of course.» «Of course,» said Yafatah without enthusiasm. «You want life too easy, Ya. You want all the answers immediately. You want adults to behave predictably. And Greatkin to be perfect.» «What's that supposed to mean?» Before Zendrak could answer, Po returned with the steaming stingtrap. Yafatah grimaced at the smell and sight of the foul herb. She shut her eyes, clearly feeling unwell. When she opened them again, Zendrak asked, «Trust me?» «Sometimes.» «So trust me now, and I'll make you all better,» said Trickster's son. Yafatah regarded him warily. «Yeah, Rimble-Rimble. Trusting you could make me an idiot in three counties.» «Maybe,» replied Zendrak, dipping his hands into the paste, his dark eyes amused. «You seem to forget one thing.» «What's that?» «Rimble's my father, yes. But Themyth's my mother. And she's the Patron of Civilization. This means that I can be constructive. As you say—helpful on occasion.» Rowenaster thought this was funny and began to laugh. He subsided when Zendrak glared at him. Yafatah eyed the green mess in Zendrak's hands. «I hope this is one of those occasions,» she grumbled. Rowenaster braced himself for the yells he knew were coming. Stingtrap was a powerful antiseptic as well as a tried-and-true remedy for wasp venom. Rowen's mother had dressed a cut with it once when he was a small child; all Rowen could remember of the episode was that the stingtrap hurt worse than the cut. He winced. Such were the ways of some types of healing. *6* Fasilla reached the Saambolin town of Window by dusk. She and her roan mare passed through the Jinnjirri landdraw border without mishap, receiving
little more than a feeling of slight disorientation. Window was aptly named, thought Fasilla, reining her mare to a walk as she approached the town limits. Window was just that—a Saambolin trading city that looked out across rolling, verdant Jinnjirri. Asilliwir caravans made regular stops in Window, landdraws from every country in Mnemlith enjoying the laxness of the border rules thanks to the nearby Jinn influence. Border towns in Mnemlith were often like this. Where two or more draws met, customs and
strict identities blurred. Anything could happen in a border town, and often
did. Still, the prevailing draw of the land directly under the town would hold the strongest influence. Window rested on glacial territory, the oldness of
the earth informing its people with a sense of history and pride in tradition. Therefore, it was not surprising to Fasilla that the keepers of spiritual tradition in Mnemlith, the Order of the Mayanabi Nomads, frequented Window. Fasilla eyed the Saambolin inn straight ahead of her with distaste. Aunt said the place was a notorious meeting place for Mayanabi. In earlier, less tolerant days, this particular inn had protected the Mayanabi, too. Fasilla dismounted from her roan. Hobbling the mare, she turned toward the Inn of the Guest. In Mayanabi theology, the Presence was often referred to as the
Guest. Fasilla hesitated, her stomach turning in fear. Fasilla didn't fear the Mayanabi as much as she feared the fact that the order was an ancient, secret society. Although she had never met a Mayanabi she hadn't eventually liked—with the two single exceptions of Podiddley and a pied-eyed crone named Old Jamilla—Fasilla wished to keep her affairs in the daylight. Dealings with people who met in underground rooms and behind closed doors could only end badly, she thought. If she had been a praying sort of person, Fasilla would have chosen one of the denizens of Eranossa as her patron Greatkin. The Mayanabi had too much of Neath
about them to make Fasilla feel safe. Fasilla walked to the front door of the Inn of the Guest and knocked tentatively.
When no one answered, Fasilla felt a mixture of relief and irritation. If the message from Aunt had been about anything other than Fasilla's beloved child, the Asilliwir herbalist would have left Window without a further attempt to make her presence known. Biting her lower lip, Fasilla knocked a second time. Still no one answered. «What kind of inn do this be?» she muttered under her breath. Fasilla stepped back from the oak door and scanned the upper dormer windows. Fasilla frowned. Every window curtain was drawn shut. Odd, she thought. Putting her hands on her hips, Fasilla decided to just make a nuisance of herself until someone came out to shut her up. Cupping her hands to her lips, Fasilla yelled, «Aunt? Aunt, where are you? It do be your friend, Fasilla!» At the mention of the word «friend,» the front door of the Inn of the Guest opened. Fasilla peered into the darkness of the building. Glancing over her shoulder at the last soft light from the setting sun behind her, Fasilla hesitated, chills creeping across the back of her neck. «If this werena' for me Yafatah, I wouldna' do this thing,» she grumbled, and walked into the Mayanabi stronghold. Fasilla was met inside by a tall man with a beard and quiet brown eyes named Himayat. He was about forty-five, his temples graying. He wore a pair of brown glasses perched on his large nose. He smiled at Fasilla and welcomed her in her native tongue. From his physical appearance, she judged Himayat to be Asilliwir-born like herself. Relieved, Pasilla said, «Well, I do be pleased to meet you, Mr. Himayat. I was fierce scared that—well, never you mind Tis me own fears.» Himayat chuckled, his brown eyes forgiving. «Be of good cheer. You're among Friends,» added the Mayanabi, putting ever so slight an emphasis on «Friends.» Fasilla took a deep breath. «Well, that be good news.» She smiled raggedly. «I be looking for the Jinnjirri named Aunt. Do you know where I may find her?» Himayat's face sobered. He reached for Fasilla's hands. She gave them to him without knowing why she did so. Himayat's eyes grew wet with tears. «I am sorry.» He paused. «Aunt died early this afternoon.»
Fasilla's face paled. «Died?» she said in a disbelieving voice. Tears sprang to her own eyes now and slipped down her cheeks. «Aunt is dead?» Sobs
rose from deep inside her. Aunt had been Fasilla's closest and oldest friend. They had shared everything together. Fasilla's knees gave way and she slumped to the floor. Himayat put his arms around her and held her as she wept. After a few minutes, Fasilla coughed back her tears and said, «I came because Aunt told me something in me mind. Something important. It
must've been just before she died,» added Fasilla, her voice trailing off into a numb silence. Her mind felt empty with shock. «We will speak of it, Fasilla. But perhaps not right now? Maybe you would
join us for a bite of supper. You may bathe first if you so desire. Our house is yours,» he added, opening his arms to include the entirety of the Inn of the Guest. «But why?» asked Fasilla, her expression bewildered. «I doon't even know you.» «You are Aunt's friend. That makes you our Friend.» Fasilla swallowed. Hospitality as generous as this wasn't known to Fasilla outside her own Asilliwir clan. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. Without introduction, she asked Himayat how Aunt had died. Himayat replied calmly, «Aunt was stung by a holovespa wasp. She had a lethal reaction to it. It happens sometimes. Even with people who have no previous history of allergies.» Fasilla pressed her lips together. Not to Aunt, she thought stubbornly. Fasilla didn't know how she knew, but she was absolutely certain that Aunt had not died from a toxic reaction to a wasp. Something in the urgency of Aunt's last message made Fasilla feel suspicious—and angry. But why? she asked herself. I have noo reason to think this Himayat a liar. Then she thought, Maybe he didna' know Aunt as well as me. Fasilla nodded quietly to herself. Taking a deep breath, she got to her feet and asked where she could bathe. She would talk to these Mayanabi. She would find out everything they knew and didn't know about Aunt's death. Then maybe she would know why Aunt thought Yafatah was in danger. As it turned out, dinner was a preparation for Aunt's burial ceremony—Mayanabi style. The meal was celebrated in the same spirit as a wedding feast. Those cooking for it referred to the Presence as the Beloved and to Aunt as the lover who was now returning to the Beloved's house. This was a strange concept to Fasilla, but she held her tongue as she helped decorate cakes and other pastries. As evening wore on, out-of-town Mayanabi began to arrive in Window by the droves. It seemed that Aunt had been very well known and well loved by several generations of Mayanabi. Incredible, thought Fasilla, when one remembered Aunt was thirty-six years old at the time of her death. Special Dunnsung-born musicians gathered in the cozy eating hall of the Inn of the Guest. As they set up their lotaris and drums, Fasilla overheard the following conversation. «I came by way of the Feyborne, how about you?» «I'm wintering in Dunnsung. So I rode in from the south. Weather's chill on the peninsula. More chill than I've ever remembered it, Shruddi. Here, let me help you with that case.» «Thanks,» said the first musician, pulling out a ceramic drum with a floral design stained on the leather drumhead. «It was so weird,» she added. «What was?» «What I saw—I mean, what I didn't see on the cliffs.» «You're not making any sense. Start over.» «You know the flower the winterbloom?» «Sure. They bloom in the dead of winter.» He grinned. «When no flower in its right mind would do so.» «That's right. That's their magic. Their message. Winterbloom flower when nothing else can. And this is their season. Winter.» Shruddi paused, her voice slightly tense. «There wasn't a single winterbloom to be seen in the Feyborne.» The lotari player shrugged. «There's been an awful lot of snow, Shruddi. Maybe the blooms were buried.» She nodded. «That's what I thought. So I got off my horse and dug into the snow. I found the winterbloom. They were dead.» The lotari player, who was also a Mayanabi Nomad, stiffened. «Dead?» He whistled low under his breath. «What kind of sign is that?»
«I don't know,» said Shruddi anxiously. «But I think we better have a council and discuss it. Nature doesn't act like this. Even during a Jinnaeon, it doesn't act like this. I'm worried.» Fasilla stopped arranging the dried winter flowers on the table in front of her. She straightened. Now she was more than certain Aunt's death wasn't an accident. She could feel it in her draw and in the uneasy voices of the musicians. A few minutes later, Himayat called all the Mayanabi together. He indicated
that Fasilla could sit in their circle. The food rested on tables behind the
circle near a roaring fire. Fasilla sat in a kneeling position next to Himayat. Himayat took her left hand and the Dunnsung musician named Shruddi took her right. They closed their eyes. Fasilla kept hers open, feeling sad and out of place in this strange group. The Mayanabi began an invocation: «O Thou, Beloved Guest, Be Thou welcome in our midst. Enter every wounded heart, Lighten every earthly burden, For ours is not a caravan of sorrow But an abode of joy Where all meet at one table And give Thee thanks.» When the invocation was finished, the Mayanabi Nomads sat in silence for a few moments, their bodies still, their breathing regular. Fasilla felt a deep sense of peace emanating from all those seated around her. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. This was the same peace she had always felt around Aunt. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to keep back the pain of her
loss in Aunt as a friend. Since the others held her hands, Fasilla could not wipe her face. Her tears streamed freely down her cheeks. Himayat opened his eyes. Seeing Fasilla's distress, he motioned for one of the Mayanabi near Fasilla to hand her a handkerchief. Feeling someone touch her arm, Fasilla opened her eyes, her expression startled. Seeing the handkerchief, she took it gratefully and blew her nose. As she did so, several Mayanabi left the room. Fasilla noted that all of them were wearing white. When this group of six returned, they carried Aunt's body with them. Fasilla stiffened. She had not expected to see such disfiguration in Aunt's face from the swelling caused by the wasp venom. Fasilla blinked, mildly horrified. At that moment, Himayat leaned toward her and asked, «Would you like to take part in this?» He offered a slip of
white paper with words written on it. Fasilla accepted the paper weakly, her face pale. «I'll tell you when to speak,» he whispered. Fasilla nodded, feeling too shocked by the day's events to say anything. Himayat got to his feet slowly. He was dressed in a long robe of black. He wore a red belt around his middle. It ended in tassels and tiny bells that tinkled gently like lilting wind chimes as he moved. Bowing to his own people and to Fasilla, Himayat began the burial service saying: «Mourn not o'er the death of the beloved, call not back the traveler who is on her journey toward her goal; for ye know not what she seeketh! Ye are on the earth, but now she is in heaven. «By weeping for the dead, ye will make sad the soul who cannot return to earth; by wishing to communicate with her, ye do but distress her. She is happy in the place at which she has arrived; by wanting to go to her ye do
not help her; your life's purpose still keepeth you on earth. No creature that hath ever been born belonged in reality to any other; every soul is the beloved of the Presence. Doth the Presence not love as we two-leggeds cannot? Death, therefore, doth unite man and woman with the Presence.
For to whom doth the soul in truth belong, to the Presence in the end is its return, sooner or later. «Verily, death is a veil behind which is hidden life that is beyond comprehension of the man or woman on earth. If ye knew the freedom of that world and how the sad hearts are unburdened of their load; if ye knew how the sick are cured, how the wounded are healed, and what freedom the
soul experiences as it goes further from this earthly life of limitations, ye would no more mourn those who have passed, but pray for their happiness in their further journey and for the peace of their souls.» After Himayat finished speaking, a man of Piedmerri draw handed him a golden censer. Himayat lit the cones of woody incense inside. As the pungent smoke spilled into the eating hall, Himayat circled the body of Aunt, going from left to right. He did not swing the censer but carried it motionless in his cupped hands. The smoke followed his movements, swirling into filmy ribbons of gray behind him. Himayat handed the censer back to the Piedmerri. Then he knelt beside Aunt's shrouded form and said his people's Prayer for the Dead: «O Thou, the Cause and Effect of the whole Universe, the Source whence we have come and the Goal toward which all are bound. Receive this soul who is coming to Thee into Thy parental arms. May Thy forgiving glance heal her
heart. Lift her from the denseness of the earth, surround her with the light of Thine own Spirit. Raise her up to Heaven, which is her true dwelling place. We pray Thee, grant her the blessing of Thy most exalted Presence. May her life upon earth become as a dream to her waking soul, and let her thirsting eyes behold the glorious vision of Thy Sunshine.» Himayat finished speaking and nodded to Fasilla. She remained seated. Her hands shook as she smoothed out the paper and cleared her throat. Her voice hoarse with emotion and nervousness, Fasilla read the following: «Heal Aunt's spirit, O Sovereign One, from all the wounds that her heart has
suffered through this life of limitation upon the earth. Purify her heart with Thy Divine Light and send upon her spirit Thy Mercy, Thy Compassion, and Thy Peace.»
«So be it,» said Himayat. Taking a deep breath, he smiled at Fasilla and the rest of the people sitting in the circle. «Lest this moment become dour, I invite you to dance in celebration. Please stand.» Himayat remained in the center of the circle near Aunt's body. He opened
his arms wide as if to take in the entire circle of people and the universe, too. «It is customary among my people,» he said to Fasilla, «to think of death as a wedding.»
Fasilla shrugged, trying to get into the spirit of it, and having difficulty. Himayat smiled broadly. «Aunt is dead, but only her body is thus. Her soul
is united with the Presence. And to this, we will drink tonight. We will toast Aunt's good fortune. She is the lover returning to the Beloved. But do not think that by our emphasis on joy at this time that we despise the earthly
existence. Do not think we eagerly wait to leave here. This earthly life is a good one. And for the opportunity of living it, we give thanks. But we also know that when we are called back to the Presence, we should not complain. Indeed we should leave with happiness in our hearts. Ours is not a caravan of despair or tragedy. Ours is a caravan of knowledge.» Himayat nodded at a middle-aged Mayanabi. She was dressed in rough woolens and had very few teeth. Her eyes were strange. One was yellow and one was black. Her step was spry. She entered the circle, carrying a ceramic drum. Himayat gave her a rhythm and she began to set the pace of the dance. As
she played, Himayat said, «This is a dance of the Universal. This is a dance for all landdraws. And for all times. The concentration is light. See the light in the eyes and countenance of the person on either side of you. Now bow.» The dance moved slowly to the right. Fasilla had no trouble learning the simple steps to the dance. The chanting and breath control were a little more demanding. Unexpectedly, she felt a surge of joy flood her body and
face. Her eyes danced with her feet. This is it, Fasilla thought. This is the way it should be. Dances for all draws for all times. A kind of universal ritual that raised everyone above individual differences and distinctions. Tears sprang to her eyes once again. She blinked them back, bewildered at the intensity of her own emotion. She glanced at Shruddi, who stood to her right. To her surprise, she saw that Shruddi had her head turned toward her. Was she staring at her? Fasilla didn't know. Fasilla had no time to conclude anything; Himayat started the next dance a moment later.
After an hour of this, everyone's spirits were soaring. Himayat finally called the celebration to a close. After a short prayer, several Asilliwir-born Mayanabi fetched food and drink for all to share. Even though Aunt's shrouded body still lay in the center of the circle, the mood was festive.
Surprised that she could feel hungry with Aunt's body lying in plain view of
the table, Fasilla got in line with the Mayanabi. As a Jinnjirri woman handed her a steaming portion of roasted, glazed fowl, Shruddi walked up beside Fasilla and said, «You felt something in our circle, didn't you?» Fasilla shrugged lamely. «I was giddy with dancing—» «No, you weren't,» said Shruddi evenly. «You danced like an old hand. Who is your Mayanabi master?» Fasilla stepped backward. «I doon't have one—» Shruddi stared at Fasilla. «I can feel him near you. Even as we speak. He's one of the great ones, I think.» «Oh,» said Fasilla with visible relief. «You mean Zendrak. He's just one of my housemates—» The people nearest Shruddi and Fasilla stopped speaking, their faces astonished. Shruddi seemed to be feeling the same emotion, for she struggled to find words in the ensuing silence. Finally Shruddi said, «Just Zendrak? Is that what you said?» she added in a shocked squeak. Fasilla bit her lower lip. She had gotten so used to Zendrak's presence at the Kaleidicopia, she had forgotten that he was the ranking Mayanabi master in all Mnemlith. Not to mention an incarnate Greatkin. Titles like those meant a great deal to the people in this room, Fasilla reminded
herself sharply. Trying to muster up some respect for Zendrak, Fasilla said, «I forget who he be sometimes. We had breakfast every morning for the past three months—along with the rest of them misfits at the 'K.' When you see someone pick his teeth with a fork, you don't always remember he be a Mayanabi master.» Himayat entered the conversation now. «And so you see the human side of a First Rank Mayanabi master. How wonderful. And what a challenge.» «I beg your pardon?» said Fasilla, not sure she had understood Himayat correctly. Himayat chuckled. «Those of us in the room have it easy. We can imagine Master Zendrak being anything and everything. We can create him in our own image. Our own fantasy. But you, Fasilla—you know the reality of the man. You know his bad habits. And his good. You have the opportunity to accept the reality. Not just the fantasy. The legend.» He paused. «Do you see my meaning?» Fasilla took a deep breath. «I suppose. I mean, I suppose it could be like that.» She shrugged. «Only, he doon't be very nice sometimes. Sometimes he loses his temper fierce bad.» «So much the better,» said Himayat, starting to laugh in earnest now. «The better for what?» asked Fasilla crossly. Himayat grinned. «Don't you realize he's teaching you when he does that? Don't you realize he's asking you to learn flexibility?» Fasilla said nothing, her face coloring pink. Flexibility wasn't one of her strong suits. *7* Ever since the Ritual of Akindo, Kelandris had slept fitfully, her dreams
often turning into nightmares. These night terrors were a grim legacy of the trauma Kelandris had experienced in Suxonli. For three nights now, she had cried in her sleep. Private and Tammirring by draw, this was a side to her personality that Kelandris let no one but Zendrak see. And it was only in sleep, when her body relaxed, that she showed him the pain she lived with. Their bed was full of secrets. The man in green gently woke Kelandris again. She gasped for air as she came out of the dream, her forehead damp with a cold sweat, her unveiled eyes nervous and unfocused. Kelandris sat up. Pressing her back against the wall, she hunched against her knees, pulling the blankets around her tightly. Zendrak said nothing, watching. Among other things, Zendrak was a healer. And among other things, Kelandris had been in his care for the past
year. Zendrak rarely spoke of this portion of their relationship to Kelandris. Kel knew she needed his help, but she was also proud and would not ask for such help unless she were close to death and certain she could not help herself. Zendrak respected her pride, although admittedly Kel's pride made his healing of her much more difficult. Zendrak continued to watch
Kelandris, waiting for her to speak. Finally Kel said, «She's coming for you this time.» «Who?» «Elder Hennin,» she said hoarsely. Zendrak shrugged. «Let her.» «You're not invulnerable,» Kelandris snapped, her green eyes angry.
«I never said I was,» he replied, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. «Elder Hennin is nothing more than a great nuisance—» Kelandris said nothing. Hennin had proved herself to be a formidable adversary to her in Suxonli, certainly more than a simple «nuisance.» Of course, Kel reasoned in silence, Zendrak did not have to go through that. I did. Kelandris sat up in bed, her shoulders hunched with the weight of her memories. Finally she said, «You're a fool, Zendrak, if you think she can't hurt you. You've lived too long. You've forgotten what it's like to hurt.
You've forgotten what it's like when every nerve is alive with pain and every emotion is stirred into anguish.» «I've outgrown those things, Kel. At my age, emotions— all of them—lose their edge. They become almost boring.» Kelandris sat bolt upright. «My pain bores you?» She felt outraged, the desires of her heart made insignificant by the dispassionate sweep of his longevity. She glared at him. «You have outlived your dreams, Zendrak. And so mine become, like Hennin, a nuisance to endure—but not indulge?» Zendrak said nothing for a few moments. «I do not like to see your pain, Kel,» he admitted. «In seeing yours, I have to remember my own.» Kelandris swore and got out of bed. She pulled on a black bathrobe, her motions angry. Turning to look at him, she said, «If you're what I am to
become, then I refuse it. I refuse to live five hundred years like you. Life is feeling. If you don't feel, you're dead.» Zendrak smiled. Then seeing Kelandris stare at him, he sobered. «You find me funny now?» she cried. Zendrak shook his head. «No—I just—well, I've waited a long time to hear you give me that lecture.» Kelandris advanced on him. «Don't you play your Mayanabi games on me, mister. I pack a pretty good punch,» she said, making a fist with her left hand. Kelandris had proved her mastery of fisticuffs on more than one occasion in Zendrak's presence. Even Podiddley had been at the wrong end of Kel's arm once. Zendrak eyed Kelandris cautiously. Then he said, «Do you truly believe I have no feelings, Kel?» She hesitated. Lowering her head slightly, she said, «I don't know.» «Do you want to know?» «I don't know.» Zendrak shrugged. «I have more than enough passion still left in me, Kelandris. And I have a desire for you that the years have not subdued.» Kel's eyes widened a little bit. She took a step backward. Although she and Zendrak slept next to each other in bed, theirs was a purely platonic
relationship at this point. It was all that Kelandris could handle, although she would never have admitted this to anyone—including Zendrak. Now it appeared that Zendrak wanted to change their relationship, perhaps be her lover again, as he had been once in Suxonli, seventeen years ago. Kelandris stiffened involuntarily. She did not know what to do. Her own indecision and vulnerability angered her. Biting her lower lip, she whirled away from Zendrak, announcing over her shoulder, «I'm going to take a shower.» Opening the door to her room, she quickly scanned the hallway to see if she could get to the bathroom without running into anyone else from the Kaleidicopia. At three in the morning, the wide hallway was empty. Kelandris gathered her black bathrobe against her otherwise naked body and ran toward the third-floor bathroom. She ducked inside and shut the door, her heart pounding, her emotions extreme. She leaned against the door, her head bowed and her green eyes closed. Her mind flooded with questions. Would Zendrak still be in their bedroom when she returned? What would he say to her? What would he expect of her? Kelandris gritted her teeth. She didn't want to think about these kinds of questions. She
didn't want to feel these feelings. Despite her brave lecture on the benefits of feeling life deeply, ever since the Ritual of Akindo Kelandris had disciplined herself to feel nothing. It was a survival technique more than anything else. To feel anything was to open a veritable box of emotional trouble. Experience had taught her that passion of any kind put you at the mercy of other people. So to remain in control of her life—such as it was—Kelandris had used her formidable will to numb her emotions. She had promised herself she would never feel deeply again about anything. Or anyone. It was a matter of survival.
«Damn you, Zendrak,» she swore, tears filling her eyes. «Everything was fine between us and then you just had to go and spoil it.» Continuing to swear, Kelandris turned on the water in the shower. She waited for it to warm up. When the room became steamy, Kelandris dropped her black bathrobe. It fell to the floor revealing a muscular but surprisingly feminine body. Her bones were long to support her weight, but they were also delicate. Her belly was slightly rounded, her breasts soft and inviting. She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat her senses into forgetfulness. Moments later, she felt a draft. She poked her head out of the shower, her long blue-black hair clinging to her face and neck and breasts. Zendrak stood inside the room, closing the door as she stared at him in astonished indignation. «I locked that door!» «And I opened it,» he said. He too dropped his bathrobe. Around his neck hung a necklace of black stones. The necklace was made of obsidian, and it had been forged in Soaringsea. Like Kel, his body was muscular; his chest was covered with fine dark hair. Although his body was considerably older than hers, it was a mirror image except that it was harsher and male. Without asking permission, he climbed into the shower with Kelandris. Kel reacted like a cornered animal. She pulled away from him, cowering against the wall. Zendrak ignored her fear of him and his sex and reached for her. Water streaming down his scarred face, he pulled Kelandris toward him and held her in silence. He kept his hands free of the erogenous places, touching her only as a friend might. Trembling, she made fists with her hands but she did not strike him. She could not. In her heart, she knew he meant her no harm. And had never meant her any harm. He had been ensnared by the events in Suxonli as much as she had. And yet, she could not accept this—not entirely. He had made love with her and left her just before the revel began. And when the night turned from a festival into a trial, Zendrak was nowhere to be found. Kelandris had never found a way to