Perkar took out his sword, lay with it across his chest.

"What is your name?" he asked it.

"I'm not sure I remember," the sword responded.

"I have a question for you, no-name sword."

"Yes."

"Will you permit me to die? Cut my own heartstrings, here, now?"

"No, I cannot do that. I know you desire it, but that is not how I am made."

"What if I throw you in the River, as you suggested?"

"That was hypothetical. I would never let you do that."

"You are cruel, then, nameless. It would be best for us all."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps you are called to do something wonderful."

"I don't believe that," he countered. "I don't believe that there is anything wonderful to do."

The sword didn't answer right away. Above, a cloud drifted across the stars. Ya'ned, sighed the dream in his head. Cloud.

"Harka," said the sword.

"What?"

"That was my name, long ago. I have been called many things, as a sword. Jade, Sliver, Fang. But my name was Harka. I was a very young god… I barely remember it. I went out into the world clothed as an eagle, and was killed. The people who killed me were kind enough; they sent me back to be reborn on the mountain. The Forest Lord caught me, and 1 was born as this sword."

"Harka. A fine name. Harka, please let me die. I'm tired of being dragged this way and that, of having no will of my own."

If a sword could snort in contempt, it did. "You know nothing of that," it replied.

He lapsed back into silence, wondering if he would ever learn not to shame himself.

He closed his eyes only briefly but dreamed much. Dawn opened his lids back up. Harka was still across his chest.

"You wake just in time," the sword informed him. "Someone wants to speak to you."

Puzzled, Perkar sat up. The sun was a mountain of red light directly before their bow. He blinked at it. Ngangata was still asleep. What could the sword mean?

Something on the bank caught in the sunlight, pulled his eyes that way. The Riverbank was thick with reeds and bamboo, a virtual forest denser than any he had seen in many days. They were just passing the mouth of a small river; a bar of sand extended toward them like a tongue, deposited there by the incoming stream.

A woman stood on the bar, watching them. It was she, of course, slim, beautiful, shining in the morning. She was weeping, her eyes fixed on him. As he watched, she walked toward him. He could see her reluctance, see the muscles in her legs bunching, as if she were being dragged by some force he could not discern. Her foot stepped off the bar, touched the water, and she melted. When that happened he heard, as clearly as a silver bell, a little gasp of pain, of horror, and even worse, of submission.

She appeared again, stepping from the mouth of the stream, stepping Riverward.

"I told you," he heard her say, her voice just audible. "I warned you, my love! But you can escape him, as I cannot…" Then she was gone again, eaten by the River.

Always, he thought. Every moment. He had known that she was in pain. Only now was he beginning to understand it. He had promised to rid her of this pain as if she were a young girl with a cruel father or a nagging aunt. How she must have hated him for promising that, for mocking her agony with his youthful stupidity.

Far behind now, she appeared again, still watching him, replaying her ancient fate.

Live, Perkar, he thought she called, but her voice was very faint.

II

Dread and the Living

Hezhi stretched back on the bench, let sunlight drench her, seep through her skin and down into her bones. A breeze sighed through the ancient cottonwood in the center of the courtyard, stirred the white yarrow, and enfolded her in its fragrance. Her face felt transparent, the fine little bones beneath her dark skin like brittle glass. Here, in the courtyard, she could close her eyes and yet the light shone through; there was no darkness to be found even if one sought it. Her eyes were weary from avoiding darkness, and closing them was an extravagant luxury.

"Too much sun can burn you, Princess," Tsem's great voice informed her gently.

"I'll stay here awhile longer, I think," she told him.

"Princess, what of Ghan? You don't want to anger him, do you?"

"I don't care," she said. "I don't care if he is angry. I want to be out here." Away from the darkness, away from the image of D'en that darkness always awoke.

"Princess, you haven't been to the library in days. This isn't like you."

"It doesn't matter, Tsem," she said. "It doesn't matter anymore, don't you see? I found him. I found D'en. D'enata." Her voice trembled on his name; she had never said it aloud as a ghost name, ever. But she said it now and knew it for the truth, though his body—or what it had become—was yet living.

"You and Qey, you were right all along. It was better that I didn't know."

"You would have learned eventually," Tsem pointed out.

"Eventually, when it's all over, when I either join them or join my father. And I wouldn't have had to see him, then. You don't know, Tsem."

"I know I don't, Princess."

"I would have been happier, Tsem, if I had never tried to find out."

"Really?" Tsem said. "What's the point of that sort of speculation? I might have been happier if I'd been born free, among my mother's people. But I might not have. I'll never know."

"It's not the same thing," she snapped.

"You am right," Tsem pronounced thickly. "Tsem not understand what Princess feel."

She fought to be angry at that. Tsem only used his stupid voice with her when he was questioning her perceptiveness. She couldn't find her anger, though. She found sadness instead, and fear, fear of what she would do without her huge friend.

"You're always good to me, Tsem. I'm sorry. Maybe our situations are similar, in that way."

Tsem stroked her head. "No," he said. "I think you're right about that. I only meant that wondering what might have been is not as productive as planning what might be."

"Where does a slave learn this kind of wisdom, Tsem?"

Tsem coughed out a short, humorless laugh. "It is the kind of wisdom slaves have, Princess, if they have any at all."

She pushed thoughtfully at her dress. "I wish I knew when the priests will test me again."

"What good would that do?"

She lifted one hand in an I-don't-know sort of gesture. "In the meantime…" she began.

"Yes, Princess?"

"In the meantime I want you to deliver a message for me."

Tsem raised his eyebrows. "A message?"

"Yes. Please inform Wezh Yehd Nu that I would like to meet him in the Onyx Courtyard this evening, if it is to his liking."

"Princess?"

Hezhi sighed. "I have to go on as if I will have a life," she told him. "Else I will go mad."

Tsem nodded solemnly. "If you will be safe here, I will go inform him at once."

"I think I will sit here a bit longer, but then I will go to the library. You can meet me there this afternoon to escort me to meet Wezh."

"Very good, Princess."

"And thanks, Tsem," she said earnestly.

"You are quite welcome, Princess." He heaved to his feet and lumbered off. She watched him go, let the sun saturate her a bit more. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt, she pulled forth the little statuette, the horse-woman, turned it over and over in her hand. Did the strange, pale man in her dreams ride a horse? She decided that he probably did. Lately, she had come to welcome the dreams of forest and the strange man—they kept away the nightmares about D'en and L'ekezh. Ironically, those dreams of faraway had become less frequent, less forceful. The forest was almost faded entirely, though the man, when she dreamed of him, was more vivid than ever. Reluctantly she rose and set her feet in the direction of the library.