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“I'm sorry,” were the first words she heard when she opened her eyes again. The faint flickering of a single oil lamp set nearby showed her Deiq, kneeling beside her bed. He sat hunched forward, his head pillowed on his arms, and seemed to be talking to himself.

She cleared a throat raw from screaming, and he sat up sharply, wiping hurriedly at his face.
“Don't apologize more than once,” she rasped.
He smiled, a thin and painful expression, and settled back against the wall, drawing his knees up. “Hungry?”
“No,” she said. “Why are you sorry?”
He looked away, then back to her as if forcing himself to meet her stare. “You're more hurt than I expected,” he said. “I thought you'd be . . . I didn't think they'd be so . . . I shouldn't have sent you here. It was a mistake.”
Her dazed compassion disintegrated with a surge of anger. “You sent me here? I thought Chac arranged this!”
“Yes and no. Chacerly intended to put you through the trials, but I . . . altered the arrangements a little. Lord Eredion asked for my help in guiding you; he was alarmed when the king told him who was being sent as your advisors. They might have been good in Bright Bay, but past the Horn those were the two very worst people he could have chosen. I could have avoided your going through the trials, by giving you my backing, if you'd listened to me at the way-stop, and come with me; but you're stronger than I thought you'd be, and you resisted my best efforts. I've never had anyone do that before.”
“Egotistical bastard,” she whispered, her anger not the least bit less.
He shook his head, sober now and unsmiling. “No. Truth. You've a much stronger will than you think, Alyea. You may even have a touch of the blood yourself.”
“What hold does Eredion have on you, to make a ha'ra'ha do his work?” Alyea said.
For the first time she saw a flash of his old arrogance; he straightened a little and said, “Nothing can
make
me do another man's work. He asked, and I agreed. The reason is between us, and not your concern.”
Pain abruptly surged through her again, and she shut her eyes, gasping for breath. He cursed softly and spread his large hands over her torso. One covered her stomach and the other her chest, fingers splayed around rather than across her breasts. She sucked in breath and found it easier, and the pain eased a little.
“Acana's coming,” he said, his voice curiously unemotional.
Acana came into the room, carrying a large basin of steaming water and a bundle of cloths.
“Close your eyes,” Deiq said. Alyea obeyed, too sick and hurt to argue. She felt the blanket being lifted away from her legs and groin, and the heavy pressure against her lower stomach easing. With that came a storm of pain that cut her off from everything but the awareness of someone howling like a wounded animal.
Realizing that someone was herself, that part of the pain came from a throat about to give way from too much screaming, helped her cut down to a steady whimpering that still flayed her throat. At last she reduced it to a heavy gasping, the best she could do.
“Breathe slowly,” Deiq said in her ear, his breath tickling her hair. “Slow and long and shallow. Trust me. Don't gasp like that. Please. Don't scream. Slow. Slow and shallow, there you go. Listen to my voice, listen to this rhythm . . . in. Easy . . . out. In . . . out . . . in. . . .”
She managed, with a fierce effort, to follow the tempo he gave her.
“Good girl. Good. Easy . . .
gods
, can't we stop that damned bleeding?”
She had the feeling she wasn't supposed to hear that last part. It had been a harsh whisper, and directed away from her; but her hearing seemed preternaturally sharp. The slightest rustle and scrape sounded as loud as a shout.
“Just keep her breathing,” Acana said, equally quiet. “The
ha'rai'nin
is on her way. All we can do is keep her alive until then.”
The pressure came back, a thick feeling now, as if someone leaned on her lower torso, pressing a heavy hand between her legs. The pain eased again.
“Why didn't the Jungles—”
“Shush, she can hear you. Put her to sleep, it'll be easier to hold her still that way.”
Deiq cursed again, and lowered his mouth to Alyea's ear.
“Sleep,” he said, a soft, compelling murmur. “Alyea, sleep; please, please sleep.”
She tried to resist, to summon that will he'd called so strong, but pain took the last of her strength, and she sank away from knowing for a time. When she woke, the room seemed to echo with an eerily familiar song, with words in a language she felt she ought to know. The room had filled with light again, and a spicy taste lingered in her mouth, as if someone had rubbed cactus pepper paste on her tongue.
A hand rested on her shoulder, a warm, large one. Turning her head revealed Deiq, asleep in an ungainly sprawl against the wall. Her movement woke him; he blinked sleepily, then sat up straight, a wide grin spreading across his face.
They looked at each other without speaking for a moment. Alyea found herself reluctantly matching Deiq's smile.
Without taking his gaze from her face, he called out in that same oddly familiar language, and with an eddy of scents, Acana and a strange old woman came into the room. Old—but Alyea sensed a power in her presence that dwarfed both Acana and Deiq.
“Lady,” Alyea breathed with a profound and dizzying respect bordering on awe.
Deiq's expression shifted to startlement, and Acana raised her eyebrows. Alyea didn't care. She had no interest in anything but this strange old woman whose very presence raised goose bumps over her entire body.
“All right, all right,” the old woman said, smiling as she approached. “It's taken you that way, has it? All right.”
There seemed something immensely soothing about her voice and manner. When the old woman sat on the edge of the low pallet and lightly touched Alyea's arm, a shock ran through her whole body. The dizzy feeling disappeared. The old woman was just an old woman: a wise one, a healer, but not . . . not a goddess, not a ha'rethe.
Alyea shut her eyes, feeling a burst of embarrassment flood her face with color.
“That's all right,” the old woman said. “It happens that way sometimes. The sharing gets everything all muddled in your head.” She patted Alyea's arm gently. “Close your eyes for a bit, dear, and it'll sort itself out soon enough.”
Alyea found a comforting darkness behind her eyelids, a place of absolute silence and no physical feeling at all. She let herself float there; she had no reason to leave, nothing to return for. She could stay here forever.
A voice cut into the peace, breaking the silence, calling her name over and over. She knew that voice; she didn't want to know it, didn't want to remember it. That would force her to return to the day-lit room and the pain that waited. Much nicer to stay here, floating gently in infinite darkness.
“Alyea,” the voice said, and it sounded more insistent now. She felt a light, stroking pressure in a spot that might, back in that room, have been her face. “Remember, Alyea, remember Oruen, and Chac, and your ugren slaves. Remember the desert, and the Horn, and Bright Bay. Remember the ocean; remember the moonlight on the waters. Alyea, remember yourself, please, Alyea. . . .”
It all started to come back to her; she couldn't shut it out. The two foolish northerns, and the nagging, unanswered questions: who or what was Chac? Had Oruen actually betrayed her, or had he simply been a fool? Where were her ugren slaves, and was Gria really the last true-blood Scratha? These and a dozen more questions tumbled rapidly through her mind, and she knew she couldn't stay in the lovely, empty space any longer.
She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a long, annoyed sigh, and opened her eyes. Deiq knelt by her side, his hands cupping her face. Even with Deiq's body blocking her view, Alyea knew from the fading scent that the ishrait had left. By the same method, she knew that the old woman still sat in a corner.
“Alyea,” Deiq said in a tone of profound relief, and sat back on his heels, releasing her face.
She stared up at the ceiling and didn't answer for a while.
“Healer,” she said at last, and heard her voice coming out cold and hard. “Can I move?”
“As long as you don't jump around, ride a horse, have rough sex, or get into a brawl,” the old woman said dispassionately, “you can do anything you like. In another month or less, you'll have no restrictions. You'll find you heal rather more quickly from now on than you're used to.”
Alyea sat up, accepted Deiq's offered support, and stood. Once she steadied, she released his arm and met the old woman's gaze.
The wrinkled face slowly creased further into a wide smile. “You're well on your way to becoming a desert lord, with a glare like that,” the old woman said, and stood. “You won't be needing me any longer.
Tethkavit
, Alyea.”
Somehow Alyea understood what that meant, although she'd never heard the word before:
gods hold you, and blessings to your strength
.
“Teth-kavit,” Alyea said in return, and added, “Thank you, healer.”
“You're welcome, child,” the woman said, and left the room.
Alyea turned her stare on Deiq. He met it steadily, all his humor gone.
“How are you involved in this?” she said at last. “The
truth
this time. All of it. ”
He made a vague motion with one hand. “Lord Eredion asked me to help.”
“And why did you agree?” she pressed.
He hesitated, looking torn, then said, “He’s my father. Now and again, he calls that in for a favor.”
She stared at him, dubious but seeing no reason to disbelieve the statement. “So now what?”
“Now,” he said, “you go to your last trial.” He reached out and caught her as she wobbled abruptly. “Once you're able to stand long enough to walk ten paces,” he added, easing her back down onto the bed. He sat on the edge beside her and stroked her forehead lightly. “It may take another day or two for that.”

Sunlight without heat blazed down around Idisio, and strange, impossible shadows stretched over sand bleached of all color. Idisio knew he was dreaming, but the void where sound, heat, and sensation belonged seemed more powerful than reality. Ahead of him stood the stone spire he'd stared at earlier that evening, looming far higher and closer than it had been. Without moving, he came to within a few yards, then a few steps, then found himself standing close enough to examine the wind scars etched into its dark surface.

He blinked—
odd, to clearly feel yourself blinking in a dream
—and looked around for the source of the soundless voice. Nobody there.
Who are you?
Idisio opened his mouth to answer, found himself mute, and blinked again.
Speak
, the voice commanded, and Idisio struggled to obey. It occurred to him that the voice wasn't speaking out loud, and with that came his answer.
Idisio
, he said without moving his mouth.
I'm Idisio. Who are you?
He heard a gurgling, hissing noise, knew it for laughter.
I call you. Come to me. I have much to ask, and you have much to learn, young one. Come to me.
A blind terror overcame Idisio, and he tried to back away. He found himself unable to move. Pebbly sand slid over his bare toes as some invisible force dragged him forward, closer and closer, until his nose hovered a breath away from being crushed into the rock.
As his face pressed into the unyielding surface, he screamed—and woke.
Riss stared at him with eyes too wide and face too pale for that to have been his first scream. Two oil lamps had been lit, and Scratha sat nearby, his dark face unusually grave.
“Tell me,” he said, and Idisio, still dazed, recounted the dream as clearly as he could remember. As he talked, he began to feel foolish almost immediately, and waited for them to laugh at him.
Scratha didn't laugh. Not a flicker of a smile passed across his face, and Riss seemed no more amused than the desert lord.
“Again,” Scratha said. “What did the voice say? The strange words you heard, what were they?”
“Saythis ta arkarn something,” Idisio said, the word tangling hopelessly over his tongue. “Saythiss tay arknain? I don't know.”
“
Se'thiss t'akarnain
,” Scratha said.
“Yes!” Idisio felt a great swell of relief. “You know it? What does it mean? I thought it was nonsense, just dream words. . . .” He trailed off. Scratha's expression hadn't lightened. “What does it mean?”
“It means,” Scratha said, “that I've been a fool.” He stood. “Pack. We leave now.”
Dawn laid a faint hint of grey on the far horizon as Scratha led them through the courtyard. People were already stirring, or perhaps only just going to sleep; some looked as if they had been drinking for some time.
“Say nothing, look at nobody,” Scratha said as they walked rapidly across the flagstones. “Not even each other, Riss.”
Idisio, his stare firmly on his feet, smiled a little as Riss made a faint, disgusted noise. She'd been watching him anxiously ever since he'd awoken from his nightmare, and it had started to feel like ants crawling all over his skin. He'd always hated being stared at.
The flagstones ended in a set of shallow steps; Idisio had a dim recollection of staggering clumsily up them the evening before. His attention on his feet now, he managed the descent rather better. As soon as his feet touched the uneven ground, however, he couldn't resist lifting a quick glance towards where he remembered that frightening stone pillar to be.
“
No
,” Scratha said, stepping in front of him as though he'd expected Idisio to do just that. “Not yet. Trust me. Keep watching your feet, and follow me.”
Idisio blinked hard and obeyed, almost nauseated with fear now. Without being able to see the sun or stars as a guide, he had no idea which way they were going. He thought they'd turned west, towards the deeper desert and incidentally towards that stone spire; but he had no intention of looking. He saw no sense in pushing Scratha into one of his extreme moods by disobeying a clear order.
Light crept steadily through the air: the beginning of dawn. Idisio's feet, slogging through steadily deeper and sandier dirt, became distinctly visible. His calves began to protest, reminding him of how far they'd walked yesterday. He bit his lip and hoped his lord would call a halt soon, one at least long enough for him to rub the soreness out of his legs.
“Stop,” Scratha said at last.
Idisio knelt instantly and massaged the beginning of a cramp from one calf.
“Idisio, look at me.”
Idisio dutifully stood and raised his gaze to the angular face before him. “Yes, my lord?”
“I'm going to explain about your nightmare now,” Scratha said. “Do you want Riss to hear this, or should I send her out of earshot?”
Idisio didn't need to look to know that Riss fumed at the notion of being set aside like a child. “She can stay.”
“Riss, do you want to stay to hear this, or would you rather step aside?” Scratha asked.
“I'll stay.”
Idisio let out a long, quiet breath. For some reason he found he
did
want Riss by his side. She seemed a steadying influence, someone who would keep him from screaming if this conversation turned into a waking nightmare like the one two nights ago had.
Scratha motioned for Idisio and Riss to sit, and lowered himself onto the ground in front of them.
“I've already said you're ha'ra'ha, Idisio,” he said without any preamble. “You've never noticed before because you've repressed it all your life. Riss, shut up, I'll explain later. I don't have time right now.”
Idisio nodded without speaking. Riss huffed but stayed quiet.
“So the effects, now that you've learned the stillness of aqeyva, are hitting you all at once,” Scratha said. “And you're not prepared. I blame myself. I should never have brought you up the Wall. When you told me about your fits I should have shipped you straight back to the northlands. But I thought if I kept you out of aqeyva trance, you'd be safe enough. I was wrong.”
“Is this a reversible thing?” Riss said sharply. “Because if it isn't, and you'd have sent him back north, he'd have had to deal with this all by himself, wouldn't he? That sounds fairly stupid to me.”
They both stared at her as if she'd grown an extra head; then Scratha's expression cleared.
“You're right,” he said. “I didn't see it that way. Thank you, Riss.”
“She may be useful after all,” Idisio murmured.
Scratha grinned briefly. Idisio forced a tight smile and waited tensely for his lord to continue. The desert lord hesitated, as if deciding what to say. When he spoke, his voice sounded unusually clipped and blunt, as if he were holding to a much shorter explanation than he wanted to give.
“
Se'thiss t'akarnain
roughly translates to 'beloved child of northern relatives'. It's a bit more complex than that, but close enough. It means you've attracted a ha'rethe's attention.”
“It was a nightmare,” Idisio said in feeble protest. “Just a . . . a dream.”