Chapter Twenty-Three

The rebellion had been quashed by the power of the Dark, and the Bards suspected of engineering it, gathered and kept apart to await their punishment. In the wake of the insurgence, strict order had been put into place. Bards were forced into their dormitories, and the doors and windows charmed against departure: stick so much as a finger out the door and a flash of black fast as a guillotine would separate it from the hand. At first, a few skeptical Bards throughout the ghettos had tried their luck and parted with a finger or toe, which were swiftly collected by the death crows. The Hulls went district by district, taking obscene pleasure in selecting one dormitory in each quarter, then setting it on fire. For three days, the smell of burnt hair and flesh drifted through the ghettos, the waves of black nausea rolled through the bellies of the Bards. The Hulls laughingly likened it to the great festivals that common folk had around the seasonal reaping and proclaimed the event a Harvest. The Bards watched with dark eyes and expressionless faces, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for surely, the Nameless One would not ignore such dissention.

Two more days passed before the Bards were awakened harshly by soldiers marching down the street, pounding on doors. They were herded slowly down the streets, a massive thoroughfare forming on the main avenue that led to the entrance. They did not scream or weep, merely moved down the road in quiet, terrified obedience. Before they reached the gates, though, they came equal to the Hull's main guard house, where they interrogated new prisoners or took unruly Bards to be punished. A stage had been raised there, and Likud scampered up and down it energetically, gesturing between the assembling prisoners and the line of First Bards and their Circles on the stage.

It was a shocking image for the Bards filing in before the stage. It had been months since they had word of their First Bards and Circles, months since they had seen hide or hair of them. Most of their people had assumed the First Bards and Circles had been killed after questioning. But here they were, standing on the stage, staring back at them. They were shockingly ragged and strangely timid, watching Likud like nervous children. The breeze rustled their stained tunics and loose shifts, their bare feet were dirty and their hands were clenched tightly. None of them seemed particularly keen to draw attention to themselves, and Likud seemed frustrated with their lack of responsiveness.

"Your people are a miserable looking lot," Likud said casually to Vaclal.

Vaclal looked swiftly at the Hull then out to the people. "They seem tired."

"That's certainly a surprise, seeing as five days ago they were rioting in the streets." Likud leaned close to Vaclal. "I suppose that disappoints you, doesn't it? You wanted them to succeed."

"I want nothing," Vaclal said emptily, his gaze carefully averted from the pale face.

"Do not lie to me, Bard."

"Light's sake, are you deaf as well as dumb?" Cadvan asked loudly.

Likud flicked around like a snake, hand clenched into a tight fist. But he didn't strike Cadvan, not with the Bards watching. Rumors were rife in the ghettos, some saying Cadvan had turned Hull, that he'd offered his Name for immortality, there was even a rather romantic rumor he had traded his Name to the Nameless One in exchange for the return of his dead lover, Ceredin. Whatever the rumors, if the Bards saw a Hull lashing out at Cadvan, they would sympathize with him.

"I am merely curious as to Vaclal's learned opinion. He is, after all, an expert of his own people." Likud breathed in slowly, scanning Cadvan's face. "He would know how they were doing."

Cadvan looked away huffily. He didn't have the energy to argue with the Hull. His eyes moved out to the crowd that milled around and felt a deep confusion. What had happened to his proud and bold people? How had they come to this? He didn't offer them a grim, encouraging smile because they were long past encouragement. He stared out at them with a profound sadness.

"Makes you feel like a void, doesn't it?" Saliman asked softly. He was looking out at his people, refusing to ignore their suffering. "You think that something in you would respond after seeing a person, something in you would acknowledge that another human was looking at you. But you don't." Saliman was thoughtful a moment. "Does this mean the Bards aren't people anymore? Or is it us?"

Cadvan grimaced. "I don't know if it bears thinking about."

Saliman smirked. "I'm beginning to think I'm not much of a philosopher," he admitted, turning his attention on Likud who was standing toward the crowd, hands clasped behind his back.

"Hello, my good Bards. How now, on this fine day?" Likud looked around, smiling widely. A breeze drifted the smell of burnt corpses into the courtyard. "Have you taken this time to relax?"

The Bards looked between Likud and the First Bards, shocked into silence.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you must be quite surprised to find your fellows here. Perhaps you thought them dead? Worse?" Likud gestured to the First Bards. "Fear not, they have been in safe keeping."

This seemed a bit of an exaggeration, but the Bards chose to ignore it.

"In fact, they have all agreed to attend this demonstration because they are in agreement with our master, and they come to show their approval of this exhibition." Likud spun around to face the First Bards. "Don't you?"

Silvia's mouth dropped open and she seemed on the verge of arguing, but Malgorn tugged sharply at her wrist and silenced her. Among the those on the stage, the First Bards were unusually silent, for they too had been subjected to some of the same interrogation as Malgorn. They were keen to be away from Hulls and torture. Some of the First Circles, though, looked outraged.

"I suppose that depends on the nature of the demonstration," Indik said stiffly.

"Indeed," echoed Selmana. "I was unaware there would be a show."

Likud chuckled. "And if you are not pleased with it, what would you do?" The Bards bit back whatever replies they had. They knew they would make no complaints. "As I thought."

Now Likud peered around the crowd and his face turned very dark. "You have all been treacherous, unforgivably so. And, I admit, I am confused. Do we not provide for you here? You are given food and water and place to sleep. We give you purpose by allowing you to work. Is this so very different from a School?"

Clearly no answer was needed.

"We've given you the fruits of our kingdom! And you turn on us, with your blades and your White fire. Why have you done this terrible thing?" No one answered and Likud had to take a moment to gather itself. "Our master is hurt, and he has declared there must be punishment."

Likud clasped his hands tightly in front his chest. "First, there will be a moratorium on reading and writing. All writing utensils will be surrendered and destroyed. You should know, as we speak, your dormitories are being searched and all paraphernalia collected and burned." The Bards looks momentarily startled at the announcement their homes were being ransacked. "This is to include paper, pencils, charcoal pens, reading glasses, books, scrolls."

"Are the reading glasses necessary?" Cadvan asked in the low voice.

Likud ignored him and continued. "This is because those among you who plotted this rebellion did so with notes. From now on, any Bard caught reading or writing will lose a hand."

Cadvan and Saliman glanced at each other. Was Cadvan to lose his hand for studying under the Nameless One?

"Second," Likud said with a glimmer of amusement, "there will be no more music. All instruments are being confiscated and destroyed. Musical notation, obviously, is being burned. You will not sing, you will not make music. Any Bard found music-making will have a hole burned in their tongue."

This seemed for no reason except to be cruel, but still the Bards on the stage wondered: would Maerad still be made to sing?

"It has been decided, as well, in an effort to maintain order in the future, that some Bards will be sent away to other locations for other services. In due course, those of you selected will be sent to Grin plantations or the remains of destroyed Schools."

"And finally, the perpetrators of this awful uprising are to be executed. Here. And now." He made a wide, sweeping movement with his arms. "And you are all going to watch, and learn, and understand that this can never happen again."

Now the crowds did look at the First Bards imploringly. Surely, they would say something, anything? But their leaders merely watched Likud balefully as he stepped to the side and a line of Bards was dragged forward. For the First Circles, they didn't immediately recognize anyone, for many of these were simply senior Bards, moderately Gifted, but not prominent in the Schools. However, Saliman gave a sharp cry when one old man was pulled forward.

"Oslar." He stepped forward with his hand outstretched to take the older Bard by the arm.

Likud whipped about like a snake. "Oh, no, Saliman. I think not." He stepped between the two Bards, breaking off their meagre eye-contact. "This one engineered the entire revolt. He'll have to be punished."

Saliman shook his head. "You can't. He was a member of the Second Circle. Surely, there is use for one as Gifted-"

"And what use does our master have for some old oaf from the Second Circle?" he sneered. "Look at him! He's just this side of death, anyway."

"Please."

Likud laughed harshly. "Save your begging for our master." He glowered impressively. "Get back in line."

Saliman mouthed wordlessly, but Cadvan caught him and took him back. "Not this fight, Saliman." Saliman allowed himself to be led back, but he gripped Cadvan's arm as tightly as he could when the Hull turned back to the crowd.

"Look upon these traitors and know they are deserving of this," Likud snarled. The Bards obligingly looked. "They are traitors, say it!"

Now the crowd seemed angered. They would not reject the executions, but they would not support them either. Likud showed his pointed teeth. "I said, say it!" the Hull ordered harshly.

Nelac glanced swiftly at Gahal and Vaclal. The Bards will not speak, not without our urging.

I do not think they are traitors, Vaclal hesitated. He did not know the Bards before him, but he did not think they were traitors. And he certainly didn't think they deserved death.

The longer we draw this out, the worse it will be. You know this. Nelac saw one of the Bards shivering so violently he thought they might be sick.

"They are traitors again the Dark Lord," Nelac stated in a clear, but monotone voice. Likud spun about, looking utterly shocked that Nelac had spoken. Nelac blinked back calmly. "They are, as you said, traitors against the Dark Lord."

As if his words had been a release, the other Bards began to repeat it. It was a low, dull rumble, but it carried around the square. And the perpetrators of the rebellion had to clench their hands tightly to stop the vibrations. If Likud was perturbed that the Bards weren't repeating exactly what he said, he did not make comment of it, and instead unsheathed a curved blade with jagged, rusted teeth. Likud inspected it while the Bards continued to chant then came up behind the first Bard in line and forced him to his knees.

Likud bent at the waist to whisper in the kneeling Bard's ear. "Did you think you could really get away with it? Did you think your pathetic Light was truly mightier than the Dark?" He swept the blade through the air, bringing it around the man to rest at his throat. From a distance, it almost seemed the Hull was embracing the Bard. "Before you die, know this: it was useless, utterly, useless. Your life, your death, you, were nothing. And long after you're gone, your people will still be here, toiling away in the dust and shadow of our master. Ages after even the memory of you is gone my master will still be here. All of this was for nothing."

The Bard swallowed, feeling the blade against his throat. "I'd rather die like this than live under Sharma's yoke."

"What a coincidence. I'd rather you die like this too." Likud jerked the blade across the Bards throat and blood gushed out of the gaping wound. Likud pulled his head back by the hair and wound at his throat opened up wider. The Bards fell silent as the man's body convulsed before them and Likud threw him forward on the stage.

"Next?"

It was a grim procession, but thankfully fast. Likud moved smoothly down the line, drawing the blade across their throats, letting their blood wash the stage. When he was done, the Hull lifted the blade and let the blood dribbled down its face. When he turned to face the Bards on the stage, his face was streaked with red.

"Do you see what comes of such futile struggle?" The Hull's smile was demonic, lit by the strange red light of Dagra and pale but for its red eyes and blood stains. "There is no escape."

The First Bards and their Circles watched the Hull in mute horror, and wished fervently to be returned to their cells. Better to be locked in the cold and dark away from such nightmare creatures. Saliman, though, was staring intensely at Oslar's corpse, breathing shallowly and gripping Cadvan's arm so tightly the other Bard's arm ached.

"There's a lesson in this," Likud mused. "You must remember this the next time you think to raise yourself up above your station. You are Bards, this," he said, waving out at the ghettos, "is where you belong."

Ir-Ytan felt a nervous flutter in his belly as he looked down on the ghettos. The rebellion had been crushed and order restored, now punishment would be meted out to the instigators, and according to the soldiers, those instigators were Turbanskian. He toyed with a loose string on his jacket, wondering how this would impact his rule. The Nameless One had agreed to his entreaty to free his people after they rebuilt the Turbansk, but would he take it back now that the Bards had turned against him? It-Ytan couldn't be angry with the Bards, not when he saw how they lived, but he wished they had waited until he had left the city.

"Come away from the window. You can't see anything." Hema was sitting on a low couch, enjoying a spiced tea and sweet cakes while a servant girl busied herself heating up a blanket for Hema's feet.

Ir-Ytan had to pressed down a rude reply, and reminded himself that Hema didn't understand what was even now happening in the city. "I am the Ernani. Those Bards may be slaves, but they are men and women of the Suderain and so my charge."

The chill in his voice caught Hema's attention. She waited for the servant to tuck in the blanket, then shooed the young girl away. Once they were alone, Hema straightened up. "Yes, husband, but pressing your nose against the window will do nothing."

She spoke gently, and Ir-Ytan glanced back to see that she was watching him attentively, her face softened with worry for him. He looked down ruefully. "You are probably right but…it's difficult."

"Being helpless usually is," Hema said thoughtfully, gesturing to the seat opposite her. Ir-Ytan spared another look for the city, then joined her uncomfortably. She pointed imperiously to the tray where his own cup of tea was steaming through a lid, and did not speak until Ir-Ytan had taken a sip and visibly relaxed. "Perhaps you may bring your concerns to our Lord? Explain clearly and earnestly that these are the actions of a few discontents and do not reflect the qualities of our people?"

Ir-Ytan raised an eyebrow sardonically. "I am not so sure he will believe me."

"Give him reason to," she suggested simply. "Write a proclamation declaiming the actions of the witches. Be firm in your wording that this is not the sort of kingdom you will rule over. Reaffirm that loyalty to the throne is the most important virtue among your people."

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "but I'm not sure even that will sway the Nameless One."

Hema pressed her lips together. "Have my father draft it."

Ir-Ytan looked up sharply. "He would condemn them!"

"That's somewhat the point, yes?" Hema waved her hands. "Think about it. A proclamation is an ideal solution, you do not have to act on it, merely express yourself."

"Your father's expression may be different than mine."

Hema thought again a moment. "I could write it?"

Ir-Ytan stared at her. "I did not know that you were permitted to write."

"It is not common that women write, but I am able. Besides, I am the queen consort, is it not my duty?"

"It is, but I did not think you would be inclined to do so." Ir-Ytan studied her. "It would have to sound appropriately repentant, but not approving of this slaughter."

"I know how to write," Hema said simply. "I can draft it, you may read it. If I write it, my father will be less likely to care, he trusts me to support our family ambition."

Ir-Ytan looked at her curiously. Her father trusted her for a reason: because she was loyal to the family. Would she betray him in this? His hesitation spoke volumes and Hema looked away. It hurt that he didn't trust her, but her general obedience to men-folk kept her from expressing any true discontent.

"Who was the woman at the feast? The one brought from abroad?"

Ir-Ytan stirred. "That was Nerili of Busk. She is First Bard there."

Hema frowned. "First Bard? You mean to say she is their leader? They permit women to lead their counsels?"

Ir-Ytan barked a very ungracious laugh. "Is it such a strange thought? My mother ruled the Suderain without a king."

"I know." Hema looked down at the tea in her cup, thinking of her mother's words that the Bards had reached above their station. Her last sight of the Bard woman had not been a flattering one. "It is not customary among my people. Women do better service being wives and mothers." She said this last thing with special significance, eyes moving surreptitiously to Ir-Ytan and back.

"A woman can be both wise queen and gentle mother," Ir-Ytan said uncomfortably. "Surely you wanted to be more than that?"

Hema turned to him with a bright smile for his benefit, banishing the discomfort she felt growing between them. "Of course. Truth be told, I wanted to be a dancer."

"Could you not have been? Certainly your family had the means to get you lessons."

Hema flushed. "The type of dancing I wanted to do was not…ladylike."

This intrigued Ir-Ytan and he smiled teasingly. "Oh?"

"Stop," said Hema warmly, smiling despite herself. "It was nothing improper. It's the sort of dancing traveling performers do, but my mother said it was far too sensual a thing for a lady to learn."

Ir-Ytan was thinking of the performing troupes that entertained the palace on festival days. He imaged the low, hypnotic beat of tambourines and women in flowing silk, swaying seductively to the music. His mother had found it highly enjoyable, always keeping the performers back to share a glass of wine with her and congratulate them on their prowess. Ir-Ytan suspected this was the type of dancing Hema dreamed of and understood why her parents had forbidden it. It was far too erotic a form of expression for a proper daughter from a conservative Den Raven house.

"When you come to Turbansk, we can call for troupers to come entertain our court every night. We shall have dancing aplenty."

Hema's eyes sparkled with pleasure. "That would be delightful!"

Her childish pleasure at something so simple amused him, and Ir-Ytan felt a true smile pull at his lips. "It is your court, after all."

"Our court," she amended softly.

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Hema's eyes darted there and back. "My mother," she said blankly. "I forgot, she wished to speak to me."

Hema went to greet her stern looking mother at the door and returned to find Ir-Ytan slouched carelessly on his couch. He did not stand to greet Sonja, which would have been respectful, and instead raised an eyebrow at her, inspecting her dress as if he would comment on it. Hema felt the fragile warmth between them flicker out like a weak candle.

"Perhaps, my lord, you would give us the room? It will only be an hour."

Ir-Ytan shrugged. "As you'll have it." He turned on his heel and left without a word for his mother-in-law.

The snub was not lost on Sonja. "He's rude," she said stiffly, sinking into an empty space.

Hema served her mother tea herself. "He is just overtired. He worries about how this rebellion will affect his people."

"As well he should," Sonja said icily. "Such impertinence is not to go unnoticed by our lord. Already you father has asked for an audience to try and appeal to his better judgment." When Hema stared, confused, her mother sighed. "It's a ridiculous notion, freeing the Suderain slaves. Hopefully your father can convince our lord to place power of the people in his hands."

Hema thought fleetingly of the court and the troupers Ir-Ytan had promised her. "Surely, Ir-Ytan is Ernani and his word is still law?"

"Ir-Ytan is a figurehead." She saw her daughter's startled expression and shook herself. "Listen to me, girl. Do not worry yourself with ruling a country, leading a court, or even the wellbeing of the people. Your only duty is to get yourself with child, do you understand?"

"I know, lady mother."

Sonja studied her closely. "And have you lain with your husband again? Are you pregnant?"

"No, of course not." Hema glanced to the door of their bedroom, slightly ajar. She saw movement of Ir-Ytan's shadow. "We have had little time-"

"Little time? You've been married almost a month! What does he do? Sit in bed and juggle torches for your amusement?"

"No," said Hema, her voice softer from her embarrassment. "But he is distracted."

"You're not trying hard enough," her mother said flatly. "Does he come to your bed?"

Hema lowered her head. Since their wedding night, he had not come to her. "He stays up late thinking, and I go to bed long before he retires."

"You mean to say he ignores you." She shook her head, annoyed at her daughter's impertinence. "Perhaps you are not beautiful enough, or skilled enough, to seduce him. I shall speak to Jarla and see if she can't teach you these things."

Hema's brow furrowed. While Jarla was her friend, Hema had grown up with the understanding that Jarla was a whore and her mother was a lady. Why would her mother send a whore to teach her how to seduce her husband? "Can you not explain?"

"No, I cannot, because I never had such trouble getting your father to do his duty by me." Her expression was distasteful and Hema felt the sting of her accusation. "You hear this, daughter: you must get yourself with child. Everything your father and I are planning for you hinges on this. Until you have a prince, none of us is safe, do you understand?"

"Yes," Hema said softly.

"Look at me." Hema looked up and saw with shock that her mother's eyes held a glimmer of fear. "Our family is balanced on the edge of a knife. If we fail in this, our lord, the Nameless One, will see us all hang. He'll pluck you right out of that marriage bed and mount your pretty, little head on a pike."

Hema shook her head wordlessly, too scared to speak.

"You must give him a prince." Hema didn't know if her mother meant Ir-Ytan or the Nameless One. "And you must do it soon. Already our enemies whisper that you are barren, that it is only a matter of time before you are set aside."

"I'm not barren," Hema said firmly.

"Then prove it." Sonja sat back, her eyes flashing mercilessly, and Hema bowed her head, feeling very small, indeed.

In the bedroom, leaning against the wall beside the cracked door, the weight on Sonja's words bowed Ir-Ytan's head.

Saliman meant to return to his room, drink a bottle of wine, collapse in his bed and try to forget Oslar's execution, but when he stormed in, he found Hekibel comforting Hem. She looked up swiftly when he entered, and Saliman saw the relief in her eyes. He swallowed tightly, pressed down his sorrow and came into the room proper.

"What's happened?" Saliman took a seat opposite the two.

Hem was sitting on the couch, with his face in his hands. Saliman could see that his shoulders were shaking with the effort of keeping tears back. Hekibel was seated beside him, rubbing his back like a worrisome mother. She looked up imploringly at Saliman.

"I think it was the Nameless One."

"Hem, tell me what happened." When Hem didn't offer an explanation, Saliman grimaced. "Hekibel, perhaps you could go fetch us some food? I've worked up an appetite."

Hekibel glanced at Hem uncertainly, stood and brushed the wrinkles from her gown. "Of course. Maybe they have leftovers from that awful feast the Nameless One called for."

Saliman waited for Hekibel to quietly shut the door before returning his attention Hem. He saw the strain in Hem's shoulders and his fingers that grasped at his hair threatening to tear it out at the roots. Gently, Saliman managed to loosen Hem's fingers and disentangle them from his hair. He held Hem's hands tightly in his, rubbing them gently. Hem was still looking down, but Saliman could see how stricken his face was.

"Hem, please, tell me what happened." Hem's lip trembled and Saliman sighed. "Is this about Iris?"

Something in Hem flinched and Saliman saw a tear fall from his eyes. "It's not Iris."

"Zelika?" Saliman guessed. Hem gasped at the name and Saliman nodded his head. "Hem, you can't blame yourself for her. You know what she like. How could you have stopped her? How could you have stopped the Hulls?"

Hem bit his lips. "She didn't need to die."

Saliman didn't know if Hem was talking about Zelika or Iris at that point. "No, she didn't. It was careless and it was pointless. But so are all the deaths that came from this war. Are you responsible for those?"

"I could have stopped it." Hem finally looked up and Saliman saw that his face was haggard.

"How?" Saliman asked with quiet understanding. "Could you have stopped the Nameless One?"

"Wasn't I supposed to?" Hem demanded suddenly. "Wasn't I the music?"

Saliman drew a sharp breath. For months, they had been trapped in Dagra, but never had they discussed how Maerad and Hem had failed to fulfil the prophecy. It was like a wound, far too delicate to touch, best left to heal under bandages and away from watching eyes. Now, Hem looked up at Saliman in an interrogatory fashion, asking simply: did Saliman resent him for failing?

"Hem." A thousand emotions stormed through Saliman. He had just watched one of his oldest and closest friends die and that hurt him deeply. He was repulsed by his captivity. His people were slaves and it broke his heart. But were these the fault of Hem, a young man with a horribly shattered past? "It is not a question of supposed to. You tried, that you could no stop the Nameless One is does not mean you are a failure. You could not stop him, but neither could anyone else. Am I failure for not stopping him? For not teaching you well enough? For not fighting more?"

"It was supposed to be me." Hem looked at him flatly. "Everyone knows I was supposed to stop him and I failed. I allowed the Dark to win."

"You did not allow the Nameless One to win. You did everything you could." Saliman sensed the growing dread in Hem and tugged him sharply to draw him into the present. "No one blames you for what happened."

"They should. This is all my fault, mine and Maerad's." Hem pulled his hands free of Saliman. "Everything we touch turns to nothing."

"Everything?" Saliman took Hem firmly by the shoulder and turned him. "Is our friendship nothing?"

"You came to this end because of me," Hem said passionately. "If you had not taken me in, Sharma would never have looked for you!"

"You think not?" Saliman laughed harshly. "I flatter myself, I am a great Bard, Hem. Even if I had not been your guardian, I was still on the First Circle. Where is the First Circle now?"

Hem swallowed. "Perhaps they are slaves, but they are not Sharma's playthings."

"Little difference, it seems to me." Saliman searched Hem's face. "What happened? Who told you these things?"

"Are they not true?"

"The Nameless One?" Saliman shook his head. "Hem, you know better than to listen to him. He seeks to destroy you. You and Maerad are the only Bards left that can oppose him, and because he cannot kill you, he must find other means to undo you. Do not listen to his lies."

"But is he wrong?" Hem tried to pull away but this time Saliman held him firmly. "I let Iris die. I begged him not to kill her, but he still did! He wouldn't have done had I not-"

Hem bit off the end of the statement, but Saliman knew what Hem meant. "Had you not loved her?" He shrugged helplessly. "Love is selfish sometimes, Hem. I loved Hekibel, I brought her here. That was certainly not prudent, but I did it all the same. You loved Iris, and that brought her into danger. But you didn't kill her."

"It is not safe to love me." Hem felt a great void opening up in him. Would he be forever alone?

"No, perhaps not." Saliman tried to smile. "But that does not mean you are unlovable, or even undeserving of love. You must simply seek out the love of a woman in the same shadow."

"My love would be a curse to her," Hem said, echoing Sharma's words.

"No. Your love is not a curse, the Nameless One is. Don't ever forget that." Saliman pitied Hem the life he had led. He had so few opportunities to understand that he was loved so deeply and so dearly by his friends. "Iris loved you because of who you are, despite who you are. So did Zelika. I am sorry you were robbed of the opportunity to be loved as you deserve, but know that doesn't rob you of your Light."

Hem wanted to flee, but Saliman's gentle understanding drew him forward. He had spent so long thinking he was alone and painfully different from his friends, and to have Saliman's simple assurance that he was wanted was enough to hold him still. He finally met Saliman's eye levelly. "He said I wasn't."

"And you trust him?" Saliman laughed. "Nay, Hem, you are too much a child of the Light for a creature as mean and Dark as the Nameless One to understand. Even now your Light is like beacon in this place and as desperate as he is to quash it, the Nameless One cannot. You're too bright."

Hem snuffled, suddenly feeling utterly foolish. "I was a bit dramatic," he admitted sheepishly.

"No, Hem. Despite what your life has been and is now, it is not commonplace to watch your friends die. I would be more worried if you had ben indifferent." Saliman sat back, watching Hem shift uncomfortable and run his hands through his hair. "I am sorry about Iris, Hem. I knew how deeply you cared for her, and how fond she was of you. In a different place and time, perhaps you two could have been quite close."

Hem tried to shrug off his regret, but it stung. "Perhaps, but at least now she's not in pain. She's not afraid anymore."

"No, she is not."

Saliman and Hem sat in thoughtful silence, neither quite sure what else to say. Saliman remembered the rascally, temperamental child Hem had been, but now, Saliman thought, he was growing into a reserved and withdrawn man. There was a quiet resignation about him, and the youth and mischief had been wiped away. Saliman mourned that version Hem, the clever and happy man he would have been, like he would mourn the death of his own child. Hem, for his part, wanted nothing more to do with the conversation. He hated his tears, for they made him feel childish.

This is no place for children, Hem reminded himself bitterly. You know better than to weep.

Hem straightened. "You saw the Bards, then? How are they?"

Saliman closed his eyes. "The Nameless One has indeed restored order. There will be no more reading or writing or music-making. They killed the leaders." He hesitated, wondering whether he could tell Hem the truth. "Oslar was one."

Hem stared blankly. "Oslar?"

Saliman nodded grimly. "I'm afraid so. Oslar was leading it." He paused. "He died quickly, if it's any consolation."

"It's not," said Hem vehemently. His hands clamped into fists and he felt bile rise up in throat.

"No, I suppose it's not." Saliman looked around, noticed wine on a table in the corner and fetched it. He took a long draught from the bottle. "This might be." He offered the bottle to Hem.

Hem barely waited a moment before snatching the bottle and taking a long drink. "How are the others?"

Saliman scowled, took the bottle. "Bad. Seems the First Bards were interrogated while the Hulls were bringing order to the ghettos." Hem's mind, oddly enough, moved to Nerili. He worried about what had happened to her in the wake of the rebellion. "They were not crippled, but none of them seemed keen to be out."

"And Cadvan was well?"

Saliman glanced at him, amused. "Your brother-in-law?"

Hem took more wine and considered Maerad and Cadvan. He had always considered Cadvan a rather foreboding figure, but now he felt a strange sense of kinship to the man. "He rarely seems in good condition."

"He was in a foul mood, but that probably had more to do with Likud than anything else."

"No new injuries I'll be forced to treat?"

Saliman chuckled. "No. Likud managed to keep his temper in front of the eyes of the Bards."

Hem and Saliman took a few more longs draws of wine and noticed with shock that they had drank off at least half the bottle. Hem felt a pleasant heat in his cheeks and felt his body thrumming with warmth for the first time in days. He closed his eyes and saw a flash of Iris, red hair pushed out of her eyes, which stared up at him from across the table.

"I'll miss Iris," he admitted. "She was…sweet."

"We'll have to do something about your word-work, boy," Saliman said lazily. "You can't woo women with that poor prose."

Hem glowered. "I'm not wooing anyone."

"Clearly not," Saliman said dryly. "You need to read poetry."

"I'll be sure to make a request of the Nameless One next time I am attending him." Hem made a face. "I'm sure he has something to offer me."

Saliman considered it. "Imagine what books he might have. He lived for a time in Afinil. He, alone, has seen the wonders of that city."

"Ask him about it sometime," Hem suggested, not feeling in the mood to speak to the Nameless One.

The door creaked open and Hekibel slipped in, carrying a tray with leftovers from the feast. "I see we have moved from the maudlin portion of the evening to the-" she eyed the wine bottle with mild amusement "-well, the maudlin portion of the evening."

"We are no sad drunkards," Saliman said, sitting up straight and eyeing what appeared to be roast pheasant. "Come, join us."

Hekibel was grateful to see that Hem was no longer crying. She didn't mind his tears, but, like most Bards, his emotions could manifest as an almost physical force. His pain became hers too easily. "I've fallen in with the low folk of this place."

"Better than falling in with the high folk," Hem groused.

Nerili walked the length of her cell, running her fingers along the wall. It was shockingly cold to the touch, and she knew that nights in Dagra would be bitter. She came to the break in the wall, the entrance to the cell, and stared at the gaping hole that opened onto darkness. When her fingers brushed the empty air, a shock raced down her spine and she jerked her had back. No need for walls, or doors or bars here, the Nameless One kept them prisoner by his will alone. She wondered vaguely if she could cast her own consciousness against it and break through.

"Don't bother wasting energy on that." Elenxi was watching his niece closely, guessing her thoughts. "Even if you could escape, where would you go? Right into the waiting arms of Hulls."

Nerili turned back to her First Circle, seated around a white and gold fire. It popped and crackled merrily, creating a shocking warmth that filled the room with golden light. Despite their captivity, they seemed in relatively better spirits than the other First Circles. Of course, they had not spent much time in the Nameless One's company, they did not have to contend with his dark will bearing down on them.

"It seems a betrayal of everything we stand for to simply sit and wait for him to come for us." Nerili sank down by the fire, balancing carefully on a fallen stone. "Should we not throw ourselves against his evil?"

"There is a time and place for such efforts, but this is not it." Elenxi stretched. "Better to gather yourself in preparation for our next audience."

Nerili eyed her uncle with slight annoyance. How could he be so blasé? She rubbed her arms trying to bring some warmth to herself. "The other Bards did not seem well prepared for that last audience."

Elenxi glanced up swiftly, but Kebeka snorted. "Did you see Norrowen? Her teeth were missing."

Nerili pressed her lips into a thin line. "Gahal's daughter was there as well. She is not a Bard, no?"

"She is the daughter of one," Arnamil said. "Not even our children will escape his wrath."

"There will be no more children," came Kebeka's soft voice. "What child could be made in this place? This is the end of our people."

Nerili nodded absently, thinking of the Busk children, wondering what had happened to them. "I wonder what he wants with the other children?" she mused, thinking of the Nameless One's obfuscation. "What activities could possibly be left?"

"He spoke of running a kingdom, perhaps he will need an army of Gifted soldiers," Elenxi said darkly after a long moment. "I don't like the thought, but it seems that must be his idea."

The First Circle flinched away from the thought. "Perhaps," said Intatha after a protected silence, "the rebellion has worked and even now our people are storming the city?"

"I would not hope for that," Nerili murmured, reflecting on the moment the Nameless One had frozen them all. It was her first glimpse at the completeness of his power, and it terrified her in a way no other force had. He was unbearable, unshakeable. "Even if his Hulls are killed, I do not think the Nameless One will be so easily defeated."

It was a grim prediction, and, when hours had passed at length and a Hull came to greet them, they knew the rebellion had indeed failed. "Nerili, our master commands you join him."

Nerili fixed the Hull with a hard look. "Does he?" she asked dryly.

"Yes," it hissed, "so get up and come here. Or shall I drag you all the way?"

She went, but took her time getting to it. Nerili stood up in a dignified manner, dusting her tunic of dirt, and brushed her fingers through her hair. The Hull shivered with impatience and bared its teeth when she made a curt bow to her First Circle. It practically pulled her from the room in its desire to complete its task.

"You will be pleased to learn our master quashed the rebellion."

"I would be pleased?" Nerili asked, surprised.

"You are his servant. His desires are your desires." The Hull gleamed at her, daring her to defy him. But she merely shrugged. "Many had to be executed, to make a point. Your own people have paid the price in their blood."

"I imagine they knew that would be cost," Nerili said stiffly. There was no point rising to the Hull's taunts, not when the Nameless One was waiting for her.

The Hull growled at her indifference. "You seem not to care for the safety of your people. Perhaps I should go back a find a Bard on your Circle that does. Your uncle might prove a more passionate leader."

Nerili smiled tightly. "I am the First Bard, and it is me who you will deal with despite your desire." When she continued to refuse to rise to the Hull's threats, it fell to silence and led her the rest of the way.

They arrived at a set of large doors made of heavy black stone. They had no decoration, no carvings or marks, save a line of runes along the mantle in a language Nerili didn't recognize. The doors did, however, put off a chill that raised gooseflesh on Nerili's bare arms. The Hull didn't knock, but after a moment the doors opened on their own accord. A whisper of cool air escaped the cracked door and Nerili smelled metal. The Hull pushed her and she stumbled in.

It was a poorly lit room, a meagre fire flickered in the grate of a monstrous hearth. From its fragile light Nerili could see a low couch and two chairs set up on a thick rug. The walls were too far away to make out their details, but she could tell they were uneven, as if carved by haphazard hands. Opposite her, she could make out grilled windows. It was night, but the fires in the city below glanced off the grates. Nerili saw they were worked into intricate patterns: geometric swirls, concentric circles that tapered so delicately she thought they would break. The floor was cold under her bare feet and Nerili saw that it was smooth, black stone, the same as the doors. She trembled in the cold, empty space and automatically moved to the fire.

"It is a bit brisk in here, isn't it?"

Nerili snapped around. Lounging on the low couch was the Nameless One. In the gloom of the weak fire, his eyes were like black pits staring out at her. She drew a step back. "I didn't hear your arrival, Sharma."

His eyebrows twitched together at his name. "Would it have mattered if you had?" His eyes raked her form, drumming is fingers on his thigh. "Please, join me." He gestured to the chair opposite him and when Nerili didn't move, he sighed. "Come, let us speak as civilly."

Nerili swallowed and moved to the chair carefully, feeling for the edge with her hand so as not to take her eyes away from the Nameless One. He noticed her grasping and smiled sympathetically. The fire in the grate burst into the life, throwing a bright, yellow glow over the room. Lamps along the wall flickered and Nerili gasped as the room was thrown into sharp relief.

Nerili momentarily forgot the Nameless One as the details of the room came into view. The furniture was made of a strange, dark wood and carved into a beautiful design of swirls and slopes that made her think of desert sand dunes. The cushions were lush and thick, dyed dark red and gold. The walls that had appeared roughly hewn were in fact not walls at all, but bookshelves. Floor to ceiling, the walls were covered in books. Nerili stared openly. Here and there, scatted among the books were strange objects: paintings, sculptures, globes, jewels and trinkets. Her eyes moved up and she saw the ceiling was decorated in the same geometric pattern as the grilles on the windows. The room was beautiful and reminded her of a School.

She turned an interrogatory look on Sharma who shrugged off her confusion. "This tower was once part of a great palace, where the ancient kings of Den Raven sat. I saw no reason to destroy what they had wrought."

"Why preserve that which is so beautiful?"

"Why would I destroy it?" When Nerili raised an eyebrow, he smiled wryly. "Ah, yes. Because I am a monster who craves only power. I think you will find that tales of my cruelty are greatly exaggerated."

"You destroyed Afinil."

"They deserved it." The Nameless One looked at the wall of books, considering something. "They were prideful men and women, and thought themselves above the natural order of things. There is an order to the world that we all must abide."

"And what order is that?"

The Nameless One blinked. "There are the strong and there are the weak, and the two should never be treated as equals. The Bards of Afinil sought to overturn the law of nature. I restored balance."

Nerili frowned. "You killed innocents. You did it then and you do it now."

"Your people are an affront to the harsh law of the world. Soon, you will see that things are better under me." The Nameless One waved a hand as if to silence any more complaints. "That is enough of that conversation for one day. In truth, unless I am speaking to Pellinor brats about it, I feel as if I am banging my head against a wall. Only those two understand."

"I did not think you considered Maerad and Hem your equals."

He gave her a sharp, unfriendly look. "I do not. But they have touched the power of the Song, and they alone know the inner turnings of the world like I do. It is merely something we have in common."

Nerili forced herself to look into his glowing eyes. "Then why have you brought me here?"

"To finish what we started." The Nameless One leaned back, stretching, and Nerili noticed that he was dressed casually, in a simple blue shirt, cut with a wide neck, loose, cotton trousers, bare feet. His hair was tied in a knot, the way men and women wore hair when they were going about household work. He'd divested himself of jewelry and adornment and seemed a plain man. It made her uncomfortable.

"You mean to break my mind." It wasn't a question.

The Nameless One blinked. "You know, Nerili, it's a funny thing. I had thought to do just that, but then I realized you were so much more than just a First Bard. You are the last, you know? The last First Bard to be brought to me, the last to oppose my power. I do not think it was a coincidence, do you?"

"I do not think I understand," she demurred. She felt as if the Nameless One was toying with her, playing some long game that ended in her destruction.

"I've had a similar conversation with others, and no one seems to appreciate what I say." He sounded frustrated. "I do not believe in coincidences, Nerili. If you only knew what I knew…you would see the pattern to the universe."

"And what do you see?"

The Nameless One sat up with a cat-like grace, eyes never leaving her face. "Busk successfully opposed me during my last conquest. Their ability to flout my authority is still recorded in your annals of history. This time," he said with a strange note in his voice, "they fall. And you, their leader, come before me now."

Nerili bit her lip. His hungry eyes were disturbing. "I see no pattern in this."

"What should have been will be. You will see." When Nerili remained silent, the Nameless One breathed out loudly through his nose. "You and I have a story to tell."

So, it will be torture. No fast breaking of my mind, but long hours of torment. "Why bring me here and not send me to your Hulls?"

When the Nameless One spoke next, Nerili jumped. His face was inches away from hers. "They are rash. They are skilled in causing pain, yes, but they are crude and obtuse." He lifted his hand, one finger pointed at her, he directed her gaze to him and she felt her head move outside her control. He forced her to stare into his eyes that burned was a terrible inner fire. "You need a delicate touch."

The Nameless One was so close it overwhelmed Nerili's senses. She could hear the wet slap as he swallowed, smell iron on his hair, feel the heat that radiated from his bare arms, and his eyes…they were hot, like two embers glowing in dark pits. She wanted to move away, she wanted to run, but he held her still.

She threw caution to the wind. "Release me, Sharma!"

Something in him flinched at her command and she saw his lip curl, revealing his bright, white teeth. She felt a heavy weight pressing down on her, his displeasure at her use of his name. Like a snake uncoiling itself, the Nameless One place his hands on either arm rest of her chair, his fingers wrapped around them and the wood groaned on protest under the strength of his grip. Nerili leaned back until she was pressed flat but the Nameless One closed the space between them so his face was in hers. His jaw worked and Nerili thought he was going to snarl or scream or even spit at her.

She gasped when instead he pressed his hot lips against hers and she stared wide eyed as is his kissed her. His mouth forced hers open and she felt his tongue like a whip, lashing the inside of her cheeks. She whined, and tried to pull away but his hand came up and gripped the back of her hair like a vice to hold her in place. It felt like he had claws, digging into her scalp. He bit her tongue with enough force to draw blood, his snake like tongue slithered to the back of her throat and she gagged. She jerked and he bit her lip, tearing the delicate flesh before he threw her back into her seat with unnecessary force. She sat back, staring and petrified, blood running over her chin and dribbling onto her tunic.

The Nameless One reached out and Nerili saw that, indeed, his nails had lengthened and sharpened into black, curved claws. He wiped a rivulet of blood from her lip with the pad of his thumb, held it up to his mouth, and then let his tongue slither out of his mouth, wrap around his thumb and lick the blood off, never taking his eyes off Nerili.

He smiled and she saw her own blood staining his white teeth. "Don't ever call me by that name again"