Toroca said nothing about how he, too, had wondered about the culling of the bloodpriest, how he had suspected that he would have not been allowed to live. He felt closer to Babnol ever.

"But you’re special," he said again. And then, bolder, "Special to me."

She looked up, perplexed.

"I like you, Babnol."

"And I like you, Toroca."

"I mean I like you a lot. I was hoping we could spend more together."

"We already spend a good tenth of each day together, Toroca. That’s more than I spend with anyone, and, to be honest, as much as I can take. We need our privacy."

Toroca shook his head. "Others need their privacy. I don’t."

Her inner eyelids fluttered in puzzlement. "I don’t understand."

He shrugged. "I don’t feel oppressed when others are around. I don’t feel claustrophobic, trapped." He indicated the space between them. "I don’t feel territoriality."

Babnol tipped her head to the side. "You don’t?"

"Nope. Never have."

"But that’s — forgive me — that’s sick."

"I feel fine."

"No territoriality, you say?"

"None."

"What’s it like?" she said.

"I have nothing to compare it with."

"No, I guess not. But, then, how do you react if other people are around you?"

"If they are people I like, I want them to be closer."

"But they move away."

Wistful: "Yes."

"How does that feel?"

"It hurts," he said softly.

"I can’t imagine that," Babnol said.

"No. I don’t suppose anyone else can."

"And you want to be close to me?"

"Especially to you." He took a step toward her. "There are perhaps seven paces between us now." He took another step. "And now six." Another. "Five."

Babnol stood up straight, taking her weight off her tail. "I could come even closer," he said. "How close?"

He stepped again, and then, boldly, once more. "Very close." Only three paces between them now. Toroca felt his heart racing. Three paces: much greater proximity than protocol would normally allow, and yet, still a tremendous gulf. He lifted his left foot, moved another pace nearer.

Babnol’s claws popped out. "No closer," she said, an edge in her voice. She shook her head. "What you’re saying is alien to me. Alien to all of us."

Toroca spoke softly. "I know."

Babnol looked uncomfortable. She backed off two paces. "I have to go."

"No," said Toroca. "Stay."

"Soon," she said, "my body will be crying for a mate. I to be alone when that happens. I have to go."

"There’s nothing wrong with you," said Toroca "A horn on your face? What significance does that have?" He spread his arms. "And there’s nothing wrong with me. I see what territoriality has done to our people. We’d be better off if more were free of it."

Babnol said nothing.

"Stay. When it comes time for you to call for a mate, call for me." He looked directly at her. "I would be honored."

More silence from Babnol.

"The bloodpriests are currently in disrepute, so I hear, but even if they are reinstated and only one eggling gets to live from our clutch, I’m sure it would be special. Perhaps it would have a horn throughout life. Perhaps it would be less territorial than most. Those are wonderful things, not things to be avoided."

Babnol’s tail swished slightly. "Your words are tempting," she said at last.

"Then stay! Stay here. Stay with me."

There was a long, long moment between them. The sun slid behind a silvery cloud.

"I’m sorry," she said at last. "I have to do what I think is right." She turned and walked away.

Toroca kept her in his sight until she was lost among the folds of the landscape.

For the first time in his life, he felt the urge to go out and hunt.

Capital City

Afsan lay on the grass outside of the palace, the sun warming his back. Next to him lay Gork, its thick tail touching Afsan’s own. Afsan tried to conjure up a picture of the grounds, but it had been so long. Grass: green, of course. And the sun, brilliant white. The sky, mauve, most likely, and cloudless, judging by how warm the sun felt. Daytime moons? Surely. This was noon on the 590th day of this kiloday. He calculated. The Big One would be high in the sky and waxing. Swift Runner would be much lower and almost full.

Still, it had been so long since he had seen any of these things. The picture still came when he willed it, but how true the colors were, how accurate the details, he could no longer say.

Sound was more real, as was smell, and touch. He could hear the buzzing of insects — a small swarm above his head, larger chirpers over in that direction, the smell of pollens, of grass shorn by domesticated plant-eaters that had been tethered near here. And the hard ground beneath his belly, the roughness of the grass blades, a pebble under his thigh, not exactly comfortable, but not irritating enough to warrant changing his position.

And now the ground vibrating slightly. Someone walking toward him. Afsan lifted his head.

"Who’s there?"

"It’s me, Dybo."

"Dybo." Afsan relaxed again, letting his long jaw rest against the ground. "Your step is lighter than it used to be."

"Yes," said the Emperor, who, judging by the way his voice had changed location, was crouching a few paces to Afsan’s right. "How do you feel?" asked Afsan.

"To my considerable surprise," said Dybo, "I feel better than I’ve ever felt before. But I’ll tell you: when all this is over, I I eat an entire hornface as a reward." Dybo paused. "That is, of course, if I win."

Afsan’s tail was sticking up in the air. He flicked it absently to disperse insects. "Think positively, my friend. And, by all means, Keep thinking of that hornface, if it motivates you."

There was quiet between them. The comfortable quiet of two old friends, a quiet that neither felt a need to fill. The bugs in the distance continued to chirp.

"Afsan?"

"Yes, Dybo?"

"How do you assess me, compared to Rodlox?"

Afsan reached over to Gork, and slid his hand soothingly over the beast’s leathery hide. "I have never seen Rodlox."

"No, of course not. But you must have an opinion." Cork’s hide had warmed mightily in the sunlight. If the lizard had been alone, Afsan was sure it would have shuttled into the shade, but Gork was always reluctant to leave its master. Afsan pushed himself up onto his feet and followed the slight swelling of the ground caused by distended roots in toward the trunk of a nearby tree. Gork padded along next to him, hissing contentedly. The shade was cool. "Rodlox is loud and belligerent," Afsan said at last.

"And I am not," said Dybo, as if it were a failing to not be those things.

"You are peaceful and, well, pleasant."

"He’s stronger than me, Afsan. Even after all of this training, sure he’s still stronger."

Gork nuzzled against Afsan’s legs. "Physically, yes."

"And, Afsan, I have lived in awe of your intellect since we first met. I know I’m not the brightest person in the world."

Afsan said nothing.

"If I’m not the strongest, and I’m not the brightest, then perhaps Rodlox is right. Perhaps I should not be the leader."

"There is something else to consider."

"What else can there be, besides intellectual and physical prowess?"

"There’s goodness, Dybo. There’s moral rectitude. There’s doing the right thing when the wrong thing would be easier. Those are your strengths, Dybo. And those, more than anything else, are what a good ruler needs."

Dybo was silent for a time. "Thank you," he said, and then: "But those traits sound flimsy against muscle and brains. Do I really have a hope of winning against the blackdeath?"

"If there’s a god in heaven, you’ll win."

Dybo answered wistfully. "Coming from the person who took God out of the heavens, that does little to comfort me."