"So I'll see Beka get old, and Luthas, and Illia and—"

"That's right." Seregil's arm tightened around him. "And that wouldn't be any less true if you were Tirfaie. It's not a curse."

"You always talk like it is."

"Loneliness is a curse, Alec, and being an outsider. I don't have a clue why the two of us ended up in the same dungeon cell that night, but I've thanked Illior every day since that we did. The greatest fear I've had is losing you. The second greatest is that when I finally did tell you the truth, you'd think it was the only reason I'd taken you on in the first place. That isn't so, you know. It never was, not even in the beginning."

The last of the shock and anger drained away, leaving Alec exhausted beyond measure. Reaching down, he retrieved the wine flash and drained what was left in it. "It's a lot to take in, you know? It changes so much."

For the first time in hours Seregil chuckled, a warm, healing sound in the darkness. "You should talk to Nysander, or Thero. Wizards must go through these same feelings when they learn they have magic in them."

"What does it mean, though, with me being only half?" asked

Alec as a hundred questions and comparisons flooded in. "How long will I live? How old am I, really?"

One arm still around Alec, Seregil found his own flask again and took a sip. "Well, when the faie blood comes from the mother it's generally stronger. I don't know why that is, but it's always the case and all those I know of lived as long as the rest of us, four centuries or so. They mature a bit faster, so you're about as old as you thought. There's also a good chance you'd inherit any magic she had, although it seems like that would have shown itself—"

He trailed off suddenly and Alec felt him shiver. "Damn it, I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. The longer I waited, the harder it got."

Without giving himself time to evaluate the impulse, Alec turned and put both arms around Seregil, hugging him tightly. "It's all right, tali" he whispered hoarsely. "It's all right now."

Taken by surprise, Seregil hesitated a moment, then returned the embrace, heart beating strong and fast against Alec's. A weary peacefulness came over Alec at the feel of it, and with it a whisper of pleasure at their closeness. From where they sat, Alec could see the glimmer of a few lanterns shining through the bare trees from the Street of Lights beyond. Seregil's fingers were twined in his hair at the nape of his neck, he realized with a guilty start, the same way he'd touched the young man at Azarin's a few short weeks ago.

First that strange, perception-altering night, he thought wearily, and now this. Illior's Hands, if things kept up in this manner, he'd end up not knowing who he was at all!

Releasing him at last, Seregil looked up at the moon, half-hidden in the tangled treetops.

"I don't know about you, but I've had about all the excitement I can deal with for one night," he said with a hint of his crooked smile.

"What about Rythel?"

"I guess Tym can keep an eye on things one more night. We'll track him down in the morning."

As they mounted for the ride home, it was Alec's turn to chuckle.

"What's so funny?"

"It could have been worse, I guess," Alec told him. "In the old ballads, orphans turn out to be the long-lost heir to some kingdom, which means they end up either cooped up in the family castle learning royal manners, or get sent off to slay some monster for a bunch of total strangers. At least I get to keep my old job."

"I don't think anyone will get much of a ballad out of that."

Alec swung up into the saddle and grinned over at him. "That's fine by me!"

"Where are we?" Zir shouted over the jingle of harness.

"We're in Mycena!" someone else called back. Beka grinned in spite of herself.

They'd worn the joke threadbare weeks ago, but every once in a while someone trotted it out again just to break the monotony.

Sergeant Mercalle's riders were in high spirits this morning. Beka had received orders to take a decuria and ride to a nearby market town to buy supplies for the troop. Mercalle had won the toss.

For weeks they'd ridden through rolling, snow-covered hills, oak forest, and empty fields; past thatch-roof steadings and small country towns where soldiers of any sort were regarded with guarded resentment. Mycena was a country of fanners and tradesmen. Wars interrupted commerce.

It had taken the regiment nearly a month to reach the port city of Keston—a month of cold camps and thrown-together billets in garrisons and courtyards, and slow-march riding over frozen roads. At night, the green new officers sat around the fire and listened to the veterans' war tales, hoping to pick up some of the things they hadn't had time to learn during their brief six weeks of training.

The more Beka listened, the more she realized that despite all their drilling and individual prowess with horse, sword, and bow, it would take a battle or two to sort out how well the turma worked together and trusted one another.

And how much they trusted her.

She'd noticed that many of her riders still looked more often to her sergeants for guidance than to her. That stung a bit, but then, they were the turma's only seasoned veterans. To their credit, they all showed the strictest respect for her rank, even Braknil, who was old enough to be her father.

In return, Beka was mindful of the fact that without Seregil's patronage and the commission it had won her, sergeant would have been the highest rank she could've hoped for in such a regiment. Some of the other squadrons' new lieutenants—the sons and daughters of Rhiminee lords—seemed to keep this in mind, too, and let her know with the occasional sneer or condescending remark. Fortunately, her brother officers in Myrhini's troop were not among these.

At Keston the regimental commander, Prince Korathan, had taken Commander Perris' Wolf Squadron and split off to follow the coastline.

Commander Klia's squadron headed inland toward the Folcwine Valley. The Folcwine River was the southern leg of the great trade route that ran north all the way to the Ironheart range in the distant northlands. The river was the first prize the Plenimarans were expected to reach for.

That had been two weeks ago; it would be another two before they came to the river.

Turning in the saddle, Beka looked back at the column snaking darkly over the hills behind her: nearly four hundred horsemen and officers of Lion Squadron, the sledges of the sutlers and armorers, provision wains, livestock and drivers.

It was like traveling with a small town in tow. Scouting trips, vanguard duty, even mundane provision runs like this offered a welcome break.

Catching Mercalle's eye, Beka said, "Sergeant, I think the horses could do with a run."

"You're right, Lieutenant," Mercalle answered with the hint of a smile; they both knew it was the restless young riders who needed it more.

Beka scanned the rolling terrain ahead of them and spied a dark line of trees a mile or so off. "Pass the word, Sergeant. At my signal, race for the trees. The first one who gets there has first chance at the taverns."

Mercalle's riders fanned out smoothly, catcalling back and forth to each other. At Beka's signal, they spurred their mounts forward, galloping for the trees.

Beka's Wyvern could easily have outdistanced most of the other horses, but she held back, letting Kaylah and Zir end the race in a tie.

"I hear they always finish together," Marten grumbled as the rest of the riders reined in around the winners. A few of the others smirked at this.

Sexual relations in the ranks were frowned on, and a careless pregnancy got both parties cashiered, but it happened, nonetheless. Still celibate herself, Beka chose to turn a blind eye to who was sharing blankets with who. A number of her riders had come into the regiment already paired, including Kaylah and Zir. Others, like Mirn and Steb, had formed bonds during the march.