Chapter Fifteen

Rikesh read the letter over a strong glass of wine with a growing sense of exhilaration. He exuded satisfaction like a cat purring, finished his wine, and called first for his two sons, then for his wife, Sonja, and finally his daughter. They trickled into the study in that order, curious as to Rikesh's summons.

"I have received an interesting letter regarding our daughter," Rikesh said without preamble. He held it up to the light for the family to see.

Sonja shot a look at her daughter, intrigued. "From who?"

Rikesh's eyes gleamed. "Our lord in the Black Tower."

A sudden, stunned silence descended on the room. Sonja eventually found her voice. "And what could he possibly want with us?"

"Is it so surprising?"

Sonja shrugged. The truth was that it wasn't as surprising as it might have been. Rikesh was a Grin of the highest order. He ran one of the largest plantations in all of Den Raven and supplied the country with a steady supply of grain used to make flat bread and vegetables. He had vast tracts of land farmed by a small army of slaves. He and his sons had even been at the Battle of Turbansk and had helped defeat the rebel queen. By virtue of his position, Rikesh spent much of his time corresponding with the Hulls that governed the kingdom, and was accustomed to his own importance.

"What could he possibly want with Hemalatha?" Sonja amended, not even looking to her daughter who stood behind a chair.

"A great honor, one that will raise this family so high we can never fall." He smiled around at the assembled family, waving the letter again. Hemalatha watched the paper flap back and forth in the dying light, wondering what could possibly be so important. "He has suggested a match for our daughter."

Rikesh finally looked to his daughter, but she merely blinked. Aside from years being told that she should not speak unless invited, Hemalatha had little understanding of her father's words.

"A betrothal," he emphasized.

Sonja drew a sharp breath. "He does us great honor taking an interest in our daughter's marriage. Who has he put forth?"

Rikesh was practically shaking. "The young Ernani of Turbansk."

Hemalatha opened her mouth to speak, but her mother was faster. "The Ernani? The ruler of the entire Suderain? But, I thought he was dead…or hiding?"

"Apparently not," Rikesh said, and slammed the letter down on his desk. "Do you understand what this means for us? Do you see the future of this family? The Ernani will not be allowed to rule the Suderain unchecked. If Hemalatha marries him, we will become the first family, we will oversee the Ernani and the reconstruction of the entire Suderain." His eyes gleamed. "The boy will be king in name, but in the actual act, it is us!"

Sonja laughed. "Our daughter, married to the Ernani, our grandchildren, princes and princesses."

Rikesh was beside himself with joy. "The girl is of marriageable age, yes? She can bear children?"

Sonja finally looked to her daughter. At only fifteen, Hemalatha was a classical beauty, by the standards of Den Raven. She was shorter than boys her own age, but she had the pronounced hips and breasts of a grown woman. Her skin was smooth and glowing, the color of creamy coffee. She spent hours each morning having servants painfully straighten her hair, and it hung in a straight, dark sheet down her back. She wore dresses in palest blue and pink and green, and walked with her eyes down and her hands clasped demurely before her. When she did speak, it was softly, and always with sweet, empty pleasantries.

"She had her first blood two years ago, and it comes regularly enough," Sonja said, still eyeing her daughter. "There's no reason she wouldn't take with child immediately."

Rikesh nodded excitedly. "I'll send word at once that we are amenable to the match." He smiled broadly at his daughter. "You should be excited, daughter. I suspect that before your next birthday you'll be a queen."

"Queen, with a little prince in the nursery," her mother added.

Hemalatha looked between the two and sensed now was the time to speak. "I'm honored. But, I wonder…" She paused. This had come too quickly, she didn't have time to process the news. She felt like someone had punched the air from her stomach. "Will I have to leave home?"

Sonja blinked. "Naturally. You're going to the be queen of the Suderain, you silly girl. Did you hear nothing we said?"

Hemalatha bit her lip. "I don't want to leave Den Raven."

"You'll like the Suderain," her father said carelessly. "Bit cooler than here, and the wine is excellent."

"But, I don't want to marry the Ernani," she finally said. "He's Turbanskian, he's-" She cut off, thinking of all the horror stories she had heard as a little girl about the barbarians from Turbansk.

"He's the king of the whole of the Suderain. If you marry him, you are the queen. Don't be stupid, it's an excellent match," her father said sharply, eyeing her unhappily.

"But he's our enemy." She looked to her mother for support, but the older woman stared back coldly. "He is, isn't her? Didn't his people oppose our lord?"

"Yes, but he lost and now he is forced to give loyalty to our king, and with you as his bride, he is tied forever to the interests of Den Raven."

"What if he doesn't like me?" she asked slowly.

"I suspect he won't," her father said rather harshly. "It's not your business to like each other, it's your business to be joint rulers of a country. A country, I remind you, we won."

"But if he doesn't like me, why would he agree to the match?" Hemalatha frowned. "He'll certainly take a Turbanskian woman."

"He won't have a choice," her mother said simply. "He'll take you because the Dark Lord commands it, and once you've given him an heir to his throne, the future is sealed. How can a man turn against his own son?"

Hemalatha felt a tendril of fear unfurl in his chest. "But then I have to give him an heir to be safe?"

"Yes, of course," her mother said. "That will be your first and most important task once you are married: give birth to a male heir. Once you have a son in the nursery, the Ernani will be forever tied to the interests of our family. He'll be tied to you, too."

"I don't think-"

"No, you don't do the thinking," her father said sharply. "Your mother and I think, and we decided this is the best interest for the family and for you." He caught her eye and she felt her stomach clench nervously. "Just listen to us, and you'll be mounting up your throne before the next harvest."

"He slept through the night then?" Hem asked when Maerad left her bedroom the next morning.

"Out like a light," she said, stretching. "I, of course, was up every hour, checking him for fever, getting more water, keeping him cool. I need a bath and a large coffee."

Hem smiled wistfully. "Well, I can't help with the bath, but I can fetch some coffee."

"Send the girl," Maerad said vaguely, heading tiredly for the bath. "If we keep her working, I think they might forget her in the kitchen."

Hem went to the bedroom where Iris was sitting next to Cadvan keeping a silent vigil. "Iris, could you get coffee for us?" Hem asked softly.

She jumped when she heard him speak, then smiled shyly. "Yes, of course. Cadvan is doing much better, you're a skilled healer."

Hem shrugged. "I had good training."

"Well, whatever the case, you did a thorough job. He slept soundly through the night." She blushed suddenly under his bright, blue gaze. "You're a good man."

"It's what any healer would have done," Hem demurred, but her gratitude made his stomach tighten.

"Coffee," she suddenly, and left the room with her eyes down.

Hem watched her go with a burgeoning feeling of confidence, but that was shattered when Saliman entered, his face cloudy. "You're not looking well," Hem observed.

"I've had an unpleasant conversation with our wise master regarding your behavior." Saliman glanced around the room. "And how are Cadvan and Maerad?"

"He asleep, she in the bath," Hem said shortly. He noticed the tension in Saliman's shoulders. "This isn't good, is it?"

"Orona's death, he's not happy about it," Saliman admitted. "He wants you whipped."

Hem's eyes widened noticeably. "I thought he wanted something more creative."

"Well, he believes that my doing it will be sufficiently humiliating for you," Saliman said stiffly.

"You're doing it?" When Saliman just stared him, Hem chuckled darkly. "Well, Sharma knows his business. Shall we go now and have done with?"

Saliman hesitated. "I don't think we should rush into it."

"I don't want to sit around waiting," Hem said briskly. "You're going to have to take care of me you know." For some reason, he smiled at this.

"It's been some time since I trained under Oslar, but I think I can manage." Saliman gestured to the door just as Iris returned with a carafe of coffee. She looked crestfallen to see Hem leaving. "Hem and I have an appointment with the Nameless One. Tell Maerad not to come for us, I'll take care of Hem."

"Okay," Iris said uncertainly.

Hem appeared beside Saliman and smiled for her benefit. "It'll be alright, Iris. This isn't my first time attending Sharma. Besides, Saliman will be keeping me company."

Iris stepped aside unwillingly, and Hem and Saliman slipped by. "You have quite a way with that young lady," Saliman observed wryly as they headed down the stairs.

Hem glanced at him. "She's just scared. It's easy to do what you're told when you're terrified."

"You are, unfortunately, correct."

Saliman led Hem down the tower and through a long corridor that was open to the elements on either side. It opened into the same barren courtyard where the Nameless One had broken Saliman's mind. Hem, who hadn't been outside the tower in months, felt a sudden thrill when the cool breeze tousled his hair. He blinked in surprise at the red sun peeking out from behind black clouds.

"Good morning." Hem started in surprise. Sharma was standing near a dead fountain, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was relaxed but his eyes were narrowed and dark.

"Sharma," Hem said graciously as they approached. Hem was pleased to see the Nameless One frown. "I hear you've decided that a whipping is a suitable punishment after all."

The Nameless One shrugged. "We all make mistakes, some are just more grievous than others."

"How good of you to be so forgiving," Hem agreed.

He and Saliman stood before the Nameless One now, and he surveyed them with some interest. "He's a stubborn boy, Saliman, and no use to me until he can follow orders. You need to teach him obedience." The Nameless One produced a startingly mundane leather belt from behind his back. He offered it to Saliman. "He needs discipline."

Saliman took the belt reluctantly and ran his hands over the tired leather and metal buckle. "If you think that is necessary."

The Nameless One crooked a finger at Hem and he came within arm's reach of the Nameless One. "Now, Cai, you will kneel right here, at my feet, and Saliman is going to whip you. You are going to look me in the eye while he does it. I want to see your eyes, do you understand?"

Hem balked at the command. "Your obsession with me is getting out of hand."

The Nameless One face didn't move but his index finger pointed down and Hem felt an unbearable weight pressing down on his shoulders, back and knees. Like the strings being cut on a puppet, Hem collapsed to his knees at the feet of the Nameless One. "That's a rather expensive shirt, Cai. You should take it off."

Hem was appalled when his fingers moved at the neck of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He folded it neatly before carefully placing it to the side.

"Good, Cai. Now, lay your palms flat, right here, at the toes of my boots." Though he contested the will of the Nameless One, Hem did as he was told. He felt the Nameless One place one finger under his chin and tilt his face up so he was staring directly into the dark, glowing eyes. "Perfect. Stay just like that the entire time."

Saliman's grip on the belt tightened, but he didn't take a different position. "How many lashes?" he asked in an embarrassingly small voice.

"Until I say stop," the Nameless One said softly, his eyes hungrily searching Hem's face.

Saliman still didn't move. He was studying Hem's back, tracing a line of bruises that ran down his ribs, studying the muscles that moved under his tan skin. In all his time as his ward, Saliman had never had a reason to raise a hand or belt to the boy, and he detested the thought now. "Please, Orona's death was my fault. I over-estimated Hem's abilities, and then I lacked the skill to fix what he could not. If you would prefer, you could-"

"No, Saliman. Cai blamed himself, and I quite agree. He is your ward, he is your responsibility. Now, begin." Saliman grimaced and took a step directly behind Hem. He rolled his shoulders, but before he could raise the belt, the Nameless One held up a hand. "No, Saliman, use the buckle. And you, boy, count."

Hem drew a deep breath, but when the first lash came, he gasped. A line of fire ran down his back and he felt the trickle of blood as the buckle opened the skin. "One." His voiced squeaked out of him and he hated it. Another lash, another sharp cry. "Two." Saliman hesitated on the third, horrified by the blood flowing freely down Hem's back, but the Nameless One jerked his mind and the next three came in rapid succession. "Three. Four. F-five." His shaking voice caught the Nameless One's attention, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled the smell of blood and pain.

"Keep going!" he snarled when Saliman paused.

"Six!" Hem croaked. Hem was staring directly into Sharma's glowing eyes. He saw the merciless pleasure, the unbridled hatred, and he realized that the Nameless One wasn't going to stop until he passed out. "Seven."

Saliman was trying not to see Hem. He unfocused his eyes and looked just a space ahead of him, but his arm missed and he almost hit Hem's cheek.

"Careful, idiot! We don't want to scar his handsome face," the Nameless One said quickly, still not looking away from Hem.

"Eight." Hem's arms were shaking, trying to hold him up. "Nine."

"He's had enough." Saliman stopped, looking furiously at the Nameless One. "Just stop this."

"You just prolong the pain, Saliman," the Nameless One laughed. "Look at him, trembling on his knees. He can't take much more of this. Finish it!"

"Ten!" Hem's voice cracked and he tried to look away. "Eleven! Eleven!" A strange noise Hem didn't recognize escaped him: a wet, high-pitched gasp. "Please, eleven!"

"Please? Did you finally say please?" the Nameless One asked in equal parts excitement and surprise. "Have you finally learned some manners?"

Hem felt hot tears on his face but he couldn't look away from the Nameless One. "Please, stop."

"Are you crying?" The Nameless One laughed. "Saliman, come see this! He's crying."

Saliman's arm dropped to his side, grateful for the opportunity to stop. He came around and joined the Nameless One, looking down on Hem. His eyes were bright with tears and Saliman could see the tracks running down his face. He looked painfully young.

"Not such a man after all, are you, Cai? You're just a little boy, aren't you? A scared, little boy?" The Nameless One glanced to Saliman, his face alight with pleasure. "Say it, Cai, say you're not a man."

Hem's lower lip quivered and Saliman wanted to turn the belt on the Nameless One. "I'm not a man."

"You're a little boy."

"I'm a boy."

"Yes! Yes, and that's why we hit you with a belt, not a whip. Because it's not right to whip a boy." The Nameless One spun away laughing.

"Can I please stand up?" Hem asked, his voice shaking.

"Listen to him!" crowed the Nameless One, pointing at Hem like he was an animal in a zoo. "Listen to his manners, Saliman. We've finally made a well-behaved Bard of him."

Saliman knelt and took Hem's face in his hands, brushing the tearing away with his thumbs. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"It hurts," Hem whispered.

"I know. I'll get you away from him and we'll patch you up, okay?" Saliman placed a hand on his shoulder to steady his shaking. "You're stronger than this."

A shadow fell on them. "You want to stand? You think you deserve to stand instead of crawl on your hands and knees like a little cur?"

"I'm not a cur," Hem growled.

"But you're not a man," the Nameless One pressed. Hem looked up at him and tried to maintain eye contact. "You have some nerve, though, I'll give you that. If you can, you may stand." Saliman tried to take Hem's elbow, but the Nameless One kicked him aside. "Alone."

Hem bit his lip, but managed to shift his weight back without inflaming the wounds. He stumbled to his feet and stood stiffly before them both. "Can we leave?"

"Oh, you're tired of being around me?" the Nameless One asked, amusement clear in his voice. He shook his head, shoving the folded shirt in Hem's hands. "Yes, Cai, you may go, and you too Saliman. But I want you to remember this, both of you. Remember what happened when you failed me, and remember how quickly I destroyed you."

Saliman took Hem under his arm to support his weight. "We will remember," Saliman assured him, then turned Hem away.

Hem walked stiffly under Saliman's gentle guidance and felt Sharma's eyes on him until they left the courtyard. Once they were inside, he took a deep shuddering breath. "It hurts so much, Saliman. I need to-to lay down. It…you'll have to clean the cuts."

"I know, Hem, it'll be alright."

"The stairs," Hem groaned when they approached them.

"Just lean on me and breathe." Saliman felt Hem's body weight pressing on his side, but he managed to support him up the stairs. Eventually, they reached the hall where their rooms were, and Hem nodded to Maerad and Cadvan's place.

Upon throwing open the door, Maerad's startled voice came to them. "Where did you two go? I have a bath for thirty minutes, and I come back and you're…" Maerad's voice trailed off when she saw the state Hem was in. "What happened?"

"I need needle and gut," Saliman said sharply. "Hem has cuts. We need to clean them and close them."

She rushed forward, taking her brother's other arm. "What happened?"

"A belt," Saliman said.

"By the Light!" Cadvan had apparently risen from bed, but he was draped in a heavy robe and looked like he was recovering from a bad cold. He came forward, but Maerad held up her hand. "Is that blood?"

"Cadvan, the bath is empty, yes? We need to put Hem in there to clean his cuts." Maerad was already dragging them toward the bathroom and Cadvan stumbled ahead.

In the bathroom, Saliman directed Hem to lean against a wall. "Hem, you need to get out of your pants and underclothes so we can wash the wounds. Cadvan, can you help me with this, Maerad, can you go get needle and gut and water?" Maerad looked ready to argue, but Saliman caught her gaze and pointed firmly to the door.

Hem's eyes followed Maerad, but he didn't move for fear of aggravating the wounds. "Ok, Hem. Cadvan is going to support you and I'm going to get the trousers off, then we're going to help you into the tub. We'll wash the wounds then stitch them."

"The belt buckle should have left shallow wounds, it'll be fast," Hem said to distract himself. He leaned against Cadvan. "Quick, small stitches."

"That's absolutely right," Saliman said, and tugged his trousers and under clothes off in quick succession. "Now, we'll help you into the tub, and I want you to lean against the rim to keep your back straight."

Cadvan and Saliman helped Hem step into the tub and clutched his arms around his torso. "Thank you," he whispered, and looked between the two older Bards. "Do you have anything for pain?"

"I think so," Cadvan said. "At least enough to cloud your thoughts, but you'll be drowsy the rest of the day."

"If I can sleep at all, I'll be grateful," Hem spat out.

Saliman was filling a small bowl with warm water, submerging a sponge in it. "This is going to hurt, Hem. The cuts are shallow, but there are quite a few, and I'm going to clean them thoroughly."

"Lucky me," Hem managed to bite out. They waited for Cadvan to return with some leaves for Hem to chew to dull the pain.

Saliman drizzled warm water over Hem's back, and a small pool of red water gathered around his feet. A whine escaped him despite the drug, and he flushed in embarrassment. "There's no shame in this, Hem," Saliman said firmly.

He looked sharply at Saliman then Cadvan, but all he could think of was the Nameless One calling him a boy while he cried at his feet. He felt terribly inferior to those two, and looked down, utterly ashamed.

"I sound like a mouse being stepped on," Hem grumbled.

"Well, you don't look like one," Cadvan said mildly. Hem's back was more bruised than bloody, and Cadvan wondered how long he had held out against the Nameless One.

"You shouldn't take praise from Cadvan lightly," Saliman said distractedly, inspecting the wounds. "He is rare to give it. Even to friends!"

Cadvan had sat down on a low stool and huddled his robes around him. "That's not true. I can appreciate someone's work-assuming it actually was work."

Hem felt a smile crease his face. It was a habit of most Bards to create laughter from poor materials, a pleasant distraction from an otherwise painful reality. "This seems like an old argument between you two."

"Cadvan is a curmudgeon," Saliman said, patting Hem's back dry. "How your sister persisted under his tutelage is beyond my knowing. She must have left every lesson in tears."

"I never made Maerad cry!" Cadvan protested, but Hem was chuckling weakly as the drug took effect and his mind became cloudy. "She loved my lessons."

"Love may be a bit strong of word," Maerad interjected, returning with needle and gut. "Perhaps endured for the sake of bettering myself is more to the point."

Saliman helped Hem clamber up from the tub and draped a towel around his shoulders. Hem smiled lazily. "Can I sleep soon?"

Saliman glanced at Cadvan. "How much did you give him?"

Cadvan shrugged. "I don't know. Enough to take the pain away?"

"For two grown men?" he asked in mock outrage. He direct Hem out of the bathroom toward the couch. "Come, Hem, lay here. Maerad, perhaps you will hold his hand? And Cadvan, find a spoon or something for him to bite while I do the stitches. Even if he is out of his mind, I don't want him biting his tongue off."

Hem sank awkwardly onto the couch and lay on his belly. He saw with surprise that Iris was still there, gawking at him. He winked despite himself and she smiled behind her hand. Saliman saw the entire exchange and rolled his eyes. We'll have to discuss your courting, Hem, he warned him sternly.

I'm not courting, I'm flirting, Hem replied, but closed his eyes.

"Will it take long?" Maerad asked Saliman as he threaded a needle.

"I'll be fast," Saliman promised. "So long as Cadvan stops toying around in that room and brings me something for Hem to bite!"

"I'm not toying," Cadvan groused, arriving with the wooden spoon from his soup wrapped in cloth.

Hem bit down, but his mouth didn't seem to want to work right, and his jaws couldn't clench hard enough. Maerad snorted when the spoon almost fell out. Saliman tapped his shoulder and Hem opened one eye lazily.

"These are small cuts, it should be quick. If it starts to hurt too much, let me know and I'll give you a break."

Saliman set to work with a surprising efficiency. Maerad rarely thought of Saliman as a healer, but seeing him now, she wondered how she could ever have thought of him as anything else. His long fingers weaved the needle in and out so quickly the needle flashed at a steady rhythm in the light. Hem barely twitched while Saliman worked and in quick succession, he had closed three of the cuts. She breathed out, impressed.

"Did you work as a tailor before you were a Bard?" Maerad asked playfully.

"I probably would have made more money that way," Saliman said in a low, even voice. His eyes never left his hands, and he sealed another cut. "The hours would have been better too."

"You'd work for a better manager as well," Cadvan pointed out.

Saliman shook his head and returned to his work. He had Hem stitched quickly, and let out a deep breath when he placed the needle down. "Hem, it's over. You did well."

Hem half dozing. One eye opened and Maread saw that the pupil was dilated and cloudy. "I think he's sleeping."

"Better that way," Saliman said. "Maerad, why don't you stay with him. If he moves around in his sleep, he might tear the stitches."

Maerad seated herself on the couch and Hem rested his head on her lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, humming softly to herself. Saliman put the tools in a bowl on the table and stood, gesturing to Cadvan to leave the two Pellinor Bards alone. Intrigued, Cadvan followed Saliman a little away to the table where he and Maerad had breakfast.

"The Nameless One found the Ernani," Saliman said without preamble. "The Suderain is his."

"It already was in practice, now it is in name." Cadvan was watching Maerad and Hem closely. "He's a young man, the Ernani?"

"Perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Too young for this."

Cadvan's face was dark when he turned to face Saliman. "I fear that many will face this Darkness before they have time to come into their own. I think it is our duty to see them through it."

Saliman glanced at Cadvan, a shivering, sickly mess. "I sometimes wonder if we too must come into our own first."

Mara had guessed right after all, and early the next day, a call went out to the Bards that all healers were to make their way to the Gent Quarter. Camphis trudged along with Mara and another Bard from their dormitory, Feja, an older, stern woman who didn't speak much but glared angrily at any Hull or creature of the Dark she passed. They reached a crowd of Bards, waiting sullenly at an iron gate in the pre-dawn dark.

When the ghetto had first been erected in preparation for the slaves Sharma would claim from war, it had been small and suitable for perhaps three Schools. The rapid and successful campaign in the north had resulted in a steady flow of Bards coming south, and the expansion of the ghettos had come in waves, resulting in a mosaic-like neighborhood where Schools intermingled, and Bards could meet with each other in quiet, dark alleys. The Hulls quickly noticed a sort of camaraderie growing between the enslaved Bards: when new Schools arrived, Bards already living in the ghettos met them, offered them saved bits of food, water, small comforts like blankets and spares clothes. The Schools formed a single, insolvable entity, and there was a sense of relief and hope that emanated from the prisoners.

The Hulls couldn't abide such optimism. They dealt a swift blow: forcing the Schools to house together, and building checkpoints and gates between each district. Now when the Bards arrived, they were met only with dogsoldiers and slave masters. When they were scared, no one was there to tell them it would get better. When they were hungry or injured, there was no remediation, not until the Hulls allowed it. Each School was effectively isolated, communication was forbidden, any help offered had to be approved by the forces of the Dark.

"Good morning." To Camphis's displeasure, Chilo was set before the gate, grinning widely at the Bards. The Hull was dressed in rich black robes and black leather boots that gleamed in the flicking oil lamps. "I trust you are all refreshed from your day of leisure and ready to greet the new day with vigor?"

The Bards knew better than to leave a Hull's question unanswered. There was a dull yes that came from the group.

"Your fellow Bards from Gent have arrived. Many are in need of a healer. You will each be assigned to a dormitory, you will not leave until the Bards in your care are set to rights. They must be ready to begin service to the Dark Lord."

Mara's eyebrows twitched together in a frown. "Depending on their condition, it could take days."

"That depends what they give us to heal them."

"You will not leave the dormitory, you will not speak to any other Bards, you will stay where we put you." Chilo seemed to pulsate with energy. "Remember that failure isn't an option, these are valuable assets. If any Bards die on your account, there will be severe consequences. You understand?"

"Yes," the Bards said bleakly.

Camphis felt his face grow hot with anger. Part of being a healer was knowing when to stop and simply let the patient…go. Forcing a person to live when they would die soon after your ministrations was a cruel fate. The fact the Hulls demanded the Bards did it was a joke.

Chilo pouted. "That didn't sound very enthusiastic."

"Yes!" the Bards called back.

"Very good," Chilo said approvingly. The Hull waved and the gates that separated the two quarters opened. "Move."

The Bards streamed in and as they passed dorms, were corralled by Hulls to different buildings. Mara shifted closer to Camphis so when he and four other Bards were directed to a dormitory, it was natural for her to follow. A Hull threw open the door to the lower room and jerked a hand to the corner where an empty hearth sat. There were overturned buckets, a kettle for boiling water, coarse bandages and gut and needles.

"They were told to organize themselves into rooms to depending on the severity of their injuries." The Hull inspected the five Bards and pointed to Camphis and Faja. "You two will handle the worst, you other three, start with the healthiest and work your way down."

Camphis cursed under his breath. The worst.

Faja was in her element. "Mara, take Timbre and get water, Elena, get the fire going and then the three of you start soaking bandages and sanitizing the needles. Camphis, come with me, we can take stock of the injured."

Camphis set his face into a firm line and followed Faja upstairs. There was a single oil lamp flickering at the top of the stairs. Faja entered the first room, Camphis right behind her, and was greeted by a dark, dank, foul-smelling room. Camphis allowed his eyes to adjust, and, had he not had the practice from previous experience, would have fled the room. There were perhaps ten Bards here who were indeed those with the severest injuries: burns, open, festering wounds, broken bones that pressed against their skin. They breathed heavily, and aside from the occasional gasp, were eerily silent. These Bards felt beyond hope.

Faja moved along the beds with a professional curiosity. "This will take time. Bones need to be set, these wounds need to be cleaned and closed." She paused, looking over a middle-aged woman whose knee was twisted at an odd angle. "We're going to help you," she said gently. The woman looked up, wordlessly pleading for relief.

"They need food," Camphis said. "Something more than those mashed oats."

"We'll focus on the injuries first," Faja said

They left, heading for the next room. This one only had five Bards, and though they were sporting injures that ranged from broken bones to mild burns, they seemed in strangely good spirits. Camphis suspected that, in a perverse way, finally arriving at their destination was a relief and they were giddy with it. Faja moved between them. Seeing her, they smiled faintly, waved at her in greeting. Seeing a kind face after weeks of nothing but Hulls and child soldiers and slaves was a welcome reprieve.

Finally, they entered a room packed to the walls with Bards who had sustained minor injuries. Camphis noted bruises, shallow cuts, swelling from twisted ankles and wrists, but these would heal with a few, gentle words. Faja asked a few Bards how they did, whether the Hulls had been civil, had they slept well that night now that they were finally under a roof.

Faja and Camphis headed back down the stairs and found the three other Bards had gotten a fire going and were cleaning the bandages. They had managed to beg herbs with healing properties from the Hulls-a rare supplement. "Our work is cut out for us," Faja confirmed. "The faster you three can work through the Bards, the better. Camphis and I will be struggling with those Bards with the worst injuries."

Mara shot a look at Camphis. "We'll move quickly."

"No," Faja said sharply. "Remember that the Hulls hold you accountable for their speedy recovery. If you're careless and they don't make it, the Hulls will come down on you."

It was a slow process. Camphis and Faja split the room and went to the worst Bards first. Camphis was treating a man called Brant. He had been hobbled, his knees twisted at odd angles, and he'd sustained first degree burns from a dogsoldier on half his face and left shoulder. Someone had covered his face with a stripe of cloth and he couldn't see. When Camphis touched his arm, Brant jumped.

"Please, don't panic. I'm here to help you." Camphis took Brant's hand and squeezed. "My name is Camphis, I'm a healer."

"Camphis," the Bard said, tightening his grip. "My legs are hurt, Camphis."

"It's okay, I will set them, and give you something for the pain." Camphis switched his attention to the hobbled legs, and passed his hands over them. Brant groaned in relief. "Your burns will need new bandages, when was the last time they were cleaned."

"I-I don't remember."

"It's okay." Camphis was more focused now on the wounds and how to treat them. He carefully inspected the bandage and then lifted the corners. Brant shivered at the touch but didn't move as Camphis lifted the fabric strip off his face.

The burn was extensive and Camphis thought Brant would most likely lose sight in one eye. He soaked a rag in the herbed water and began to dab at the red, puckered skin. As he went, he spoke low in the Speech, weaving a healing charm. Brant's undamaged eye watched him warily. It had been made abundantly clear to the Bards that using the Speech or their Gift was punishable. Camphis intercepted his gaze and smiled ironically as he worked.

"Have no fear, Brant. Our great master has ordered us to heal you, I use my Gift at his request only."

"I am surprised he cares that much."

Camphis was now laying fresh, clean bandages on the wounds. "He needs his slaves to live. We are valuable to him."

Brant thought about this a moment. "What comes next?"

Camphis shrugged. "It depends what you are. Are you a Maker, a Reader or Tender? Myself, I am a lowly Bard of the Tending, and so my skills are least valuable. I heal the sick, and when there are no more sick, I tend beasts and crops. Bards Gifted in the Making have some value. Many of them go to the forgeries to craft cruel weapons and such."

"And the Readers?"

Camphis paused painfully. "Readers." He glanced to the window that gave a small view of the dirty street beyond. He spoke softly. "They have great value to the Nameless One. They weave the charms that the Hulls cannot: summon horrible creatures from the Abyss, breathe life into the dogsoldiers, charm the weather. All sorts of Dark things."

"My son is a Reader," Brant said simply. "We were separated after the battle."

"I'm not sure whether it brings you peace or not, but Readers are most prized. The Hulls will make sure he lives."

"Small mercies," Brant sighed and fell silent.

Camphis continued his work for another hour before he fetched food for Brant. He thought the Bard would live, but with disfiguring scars and a white, unseeing eye. As he fed him, Brant paused, gripping Camphis by the wrist.

"Camphis of where?" Brant asked weakly. "You are Camphis, but where do you call home?"

"Of-" Camphis paused, his throat going to dry at a bitter memory.

"You're from here," Chilo said, holding Camphis by the scruff of his neck and making him look at the blank, grey dormitory in front of him. "There is no Innail, there is no School. That place is gone. You are from Dagra, from this ghetto. This is home now. You would do well to remember that." When Camphis tried to wrest himself away from Chilo, the Hull kicked him. "Say it, say this is your home."

"This is home," Camphis repeated.

"It does not do to dwell on the past," he said at last. "This is our home now."

Dinner was an extravagant affair. It seemed Enkir and his Hull colleague were used to only the best. Nerili felt her mouth watering despite her herself when someone brought out fresh roast duck, warm loaves of bread with garlic butter, tender vegetables and boiled, spiced potatoes. There were three different wines, water with mint and lemon, and even juice. Nerili watched with morbid fascination as Enkir devoured goods like a starving man.

"War is hungry work," Arnamil said dryly, watching Enkir fill his plate a second time.

"Perhaps," Enkir responded, "but building an empire, more so."

"Or, tearing one down," Elenxi said stiffly.

Now Enkir looked up and his eyes gleamed. "Hardly an empire."

Nerili sensed Elenxi's anger and met his gaze with a sharp look. "Tiring work, no doubt. But tell me, Enkir, how did you come to be here of all places? I thought you would remain in Norloch to oversee your budding kingdom."

Enkir watched Nerili over the rim of his wine glass. "I wanted to make sure things were going according to plan. I find a personal touch is best."

"Your plan?" Nerili asked casually.

Enkir was silent a moment, as if deciding whether or not it was worth it to answer her. "I thought that was rather obvious. To bring the justice of the White Flame to Annar and the seven kingdoms."

Kebeka snorted into her glass of water. "Justice? Is that the delusion you labor under?"

Enkir shot a piercing look at her, but it was the Hull who spoke on Enkir's behalf. "It is not you place to comment on the ethical dilemmas of your betters."

"Perhaps not, but I've yet to see one." She maintained eye contact with Enkir until his face darkened.

"You should be careful young lady," he said in a low voice. "You have been found guilty by the highest authority in the land and your fate rests in my hands."

Kebeka didn't even blink. "The Light will take you, Enkir! You are a fowl, loathsome, cowardly man and you should have been lucky to be a Bard, let alone First Bard." Her face was flushed and her hands clenched.

Before Enkir could respond, the Hull slammed its hand down and Kebeka was thrown with surprising force against the wall. Her head made a resounding thump when it struck, and she slumped on the floor, unconscious. Nerili was terrified to see a small dribble of blood leaking down the side of her face. She spun about, a snarl pulling her lips back.

"She should learn to hold her tongue," the Hull said simply. "If she does not, I think, my lord, that you should cut it out."

"An excellent suggestion," Enkir said, his attention returned to the roast duck.

Arnamil was still staring at Kebeka's slumped body. "What Darkness have you let into our ranks?" he asked simply.

"You cannot possibly understand," Enkir said coolly. "You are an inferior servant of the Light, and do not see the truth. There is Darkness in the heart of our order, and we must burn away the weak and the unworthy. It may be painful, but it is the only way to save our people."

Arnamil stared. "You are insane."

Enkir merely laughed turned to the Hull. "They do not understand."

"What more can you expect," the Hull said, its eyes moving to Nerili, "they are led by a woman."

"They are flawed, but perhaps they can be saved." Enkir looked between them. "They will need to be re-educated."

Nerili shivered. "And you will do this?"

Enkir sat back. "No, I cannot be responsible for such trivial things. You must leave my kingdom, and not return until you are worthy. You must go through fire and be reborn." His eyes were bright and hard, and Nerili felt like he wasn't speaking to her, but to someone far away. "Until such a time, you must live among the exiles."

"And where is this place?"

"Far to the south," Enkir said carelessly.

Dagra, Nerili thought. "Enkir, you have been deceived by the Dark."

He turned on her like a snake. "What could you know of it, girl?"

"I know a traitor when I see one," Nerili hissed. "You think you are building a world without Dark, but you have invited it into your heart. You are a servant of the Nameless One."

For some reason, Enkir laughed, laughed so loud and so long that the Bards stopped eating. "You are so close, but so far, Neri."

The change in tenor in his voice caught their attention and Nerili narrowed her eyes. Though she could not say what, something in his demeanor was wrong. "What have you done, Enkir?"

"I was like you once, Neri. I lived in ignorance, but I have seen the light of reason," he said in a low voice. The Hull beside him turned sharply to look in his direction. "Perhaps your time in purgatory will not be wasted."

Nerili narrowed her eyes, the sense of wrong growing more and more with each passing moment. She saw his eyes growing darker and darker, like they were sinking into his face. His smile turned up on the corners, as if sensing her discomfort. Finally, she sat back and crossed her arms.

"Sharma."

The other Bards looked startled, looking between the two frantically. The Hull bared its teeth, but Enkir merely raised an eyebrow.

"By the Light, it took you idiots long enough to notice something was wrong," Enkir said in a guttural voice. "I don't understand how you lasted as long as you did. You're utterly incompetent."

Elenxi and Arnamil pressed back in their chairs in their hurry to get away from him. Nerili, though, leaned forward, determined not to show her fear. "I knew you were behind Enkir's betrayal, but I did not think you had so completely occupied him." Nerili drew her hands together. "But I am glad you're here and not hiding behind your Hulls."

"Now, now, Neri, there was never any hiding. I was with them at every stage of their attack on you. Watching your School burn was as entertaining as a play." He laughed and drank his wine. "Not nearly as entertaining as slipping into your dreams and tormenting you there, but fun enough."

Nerili ignored the other two Bard's concerned faces. "Your attempts to undo me were not as successful as you hoped."

"No? I'm sorry but I was under the impression that your School was burned to the ground and you were taken as slaves." Enkir sipped his wine. "Or, perhaps you think you will still defeat me?"

"I'm not foolish enough to think I will escape you, but I will not bow to your will so easily," Nerili said firmly. "We may have lost our island, but we have not lost our courage."

Enkir leaned forward and he smiled widely. "I would hope not. I believe we will have a very long and intimate relationship in the future. No use having it go to waste over fear."

Elenxi recovered himself finally, though it was still strangely disconcerting to speak to Enkir but hear the Nameless One's empty voice. "Why have you brought us here? Why have you spared us?"

Enkir's neck snapped when he turned to look at Elenxi. "Waste not, want not, Elenxi of Busk. I have use for powerful Bards yet."

This didn't sit well with any of the Bards at the table, and Elenxi bared his teeth. "We will not serve you, Sharma."

"Don't speak too quickly. You don't know what will become of you." Enkir's eyes moved back to Nerili, searching her hungrily. "There is so much life yet to live."

Nerili recalled her nightmares and the feeling of the Nameless One searching her, breathing on her neck, laughing in her ears. "You know nothing of life, not anymore. You haven't been a creature of living in millennia."

"I'm far more alive than you know," the Nameless One said derisively. "Now that I have the Song, I know the deep secrets of life. The truth you Bards could never understand." So, he has the Song, Nerili thought darkly. Something on her face must have showed her shock, because the Nameless One laughed. "Is that horror and fear for yourself or your friends?" he asked, grinning. "Because I have them, Nerili. Friends, family, lovers, they are mine now. Does that scare you?"

Nerili looked down, gathering herself. "I have known for a long time what our fate would be. Your threats are lost on us, Sharma, you cannot scare us now."

This seemed to perturb the Nameless One and Enkir frowned. "You say that now, Nerili of Busk, but you'll know differently soon. I'll show you how terrifying your life can be under my rule. I'll show you what fear really is."