Not only that, but Merlin knew he was running another kind of risk in telling Tremayne what had happened to Roxanne. In most primitive (and many so-called advanced) cultures, the woman was blamed for the crime committed against her, and was almost always afterward considered "spoiled" and completely unacceptable by other men. If Tremayne felt that way, he would certainly turn away from Roxanne, no matter how much he had wanted her.

Merlin had to weigh the possible benefit of Tremayne's knowing what had happened (influencing how he would likely approach a woman who had been so terribly hurt by males) against the risk of his blaming and rejecting her because of what had been done to her. Merlin's instincts told him Tremayne was not stupid, irrational, or insensitive enough to do that, but he couldn't be sure he was right about it.

Christ, he couldn't be sure about any of it-and the future was at stake. How much could he risk when there was no way to be certain whether he was right? And if he did take the risk of interfering, was it even possible for him to advocate something that made his own deepest instincts cry out in alarm?

How can you convince him we can coexist peacefully when you don't really believe it yourself?

Because he had to. For the sake of the future, he had to. And for the sake of the terrifyingly fragile bond still connecting him and Serena. These days away from her had convinced him of one thing beyond doubt-that she occupied a place in his life and in himself nothing else would ever be able to fill. He felt half alive without her, incomplete, and their awkward leave-taking had left him with an aching sense of loss.

Lose Serena? The possibility of that stirred in him emotions even stronger and fiercer than those created by an ancient taboo. No, he couldn't lose her. He had to find a way. Not to merely coexist with her, but to tear down the wall primitive fears and mistrusts had raised between them and build a true and lasting bond with her. He needed that, though until this moment he hadn't realized it.

His hesitation lasted only an instant, though it seemed much longer. Turning his thoughts with difficulty away from Serena and obeying his instincts about the other man, Merlin quietly told Tremayne about how he and Serena had found Roxanne that first morning. He didn't go into detail about her condition, but what little he said made it very clear what she had gone through at the hands of powerless rapists.

"I tried to heal more than her body, setting the pain and trauma at a distance for her, but it isn't something she's ever going to forget," he told Tremayne. "Even if she doesn't blame you personally for the situation the male wizards here have created, I doubt that she'll feel very… agreeable toward any man."

Tremayne didn't say a word. He was utterly still, apparently gazing out over the valley below as if the view interested him. He didn't even appear to notice when Merlin eased away from him.

With half the length of the terrace between them, Merlin stopped and watched the younger wizard with the wary gaze of a bomb expert handed a ticking package. He saw Tremayne's aura become visible, a shimmering halo that was at first different colors but quickly turned an angry red.

What he was seeing was anger, rage. And Merlin knew better than to intrude while the powerful emotions ran their course. Though Master wizards never displayed their auras, simply because they had learned to control all aspects of their inborn power, lesser wizards sometimes allowed their emotions to overwhelm them. Tremayne's fury over what had happened to Roxanne was perfectly understandable, and Merlin sympathized, but there was nothing he could do to make it easier for the younger man.

He stood by silently, waiting, and when white-hot threads of energy escaped Tremayne's aura like a shower of sparks and rained down on the garden below the terrace, Merlin instantly doused the tiny flames ignited. He was careful not to allow his own energy to touch the younger wizard's, saving them both a nasty jolt, and kept a wary eye turned toward the house because he hoped he wouldn't have to explain this to his host.

After what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than half an hour or so, Tremayne's aura gradually lessened in intensity, the colors fading, until finally it was no longer visible. As silently as he had drawn away, Merlin rejoined Tremayne at the balustrade.

"No wonder she told me I was mad." Tremayne's voice was drained.

Neutral himself, Merlin asked, "Does it change the way you feel about her?"

Tremayne's head snapped around. "If you're asking me if I consider her less than she was-I may be mad, but I'm not a fool. She was a victim of this place and can't be blamed for what happened to her."

"I agree," Merlin said quietly. "But it certainly won't make your task any easier. If, that is, you mean to try and persuade her to go with you when you leave Atlantis."

Tremayne looked shocked for an instant, but then an unsteady laugh escaped him. "I… think that is what I was hoping."

"Is it such a startling possibility?"

"Yes-you must know it is. Oh, we don't fight the way wizards here do, but I don't know of a single mated pair of wizards in all of Europa. Not one pair. We mate with powerless; it's always been that way."

Merlin nodded toward the Curtain spread out over the valley. "The way it has been here. And look what's happened. Maybe the blame for all this lies there, in our belief that we can't allow ourselves to be vulnerable- especially to the female of our kind."

"Because they can damage us, even kill us," Tremayne reminded him.

"You and I could kill each other." Merlin turned his head and looked at the younger wizard steadily. "If we became angry enough to use our powers against each other, the likelihood is that we'd both die. But that doesn't stop us from being friends. We're willing to take the risk among males-why not with females? What are we really afraid of?"

Tremayne frowned and spoke slowly. "Because… the friendship between male wizards is a fairly casual, unemotional kind of relationship. The one thing we all are, almost by definition, is alone. Wizards have always been separate, unique beings. So much of what we are is inside us, and we study and practice all our lives to harness and control the powers we were born with, including our emotions. We may marry, but when we do, we never give much, if anything, of ourselves. And our children leave their parents at a very young age, just as we did."

"Christ," Merlin muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're right, of course." And why the hell didn't I see it before now? We are solitary creatures, doing our best to control our powers-and our lives. We're closed, guarded, and to reach for intimacy with a woman means more to us than mere vulnerability; it means a loss of the command with which we center our lives. We learn at an early age to use what's inside us, to contain and control, to gaze always inward, not even suspecting that we can never achieve the perfection we seek simply because we've locked ourselves away from the ultimate test of our own humanity…

Tremayne shrugged wearily. "In that sense what's happening here isn't so different from the rest of our world. The wizards here are alone, even if they're surrounded by others. Varian, so frantically begetting sons, doesn't give anything but his seed. The number of his sons makes him more powerful, but gather twenty of them together in one room, and I'll bet he couldn't name them all. They're no part of him, merely… tools."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Merlin said. "Perhaps it is against our very nature to allow anyone to get dose to us, but we can overcome that. We have to. How can we call ourselves Masters otherwise?"

Tremayne smiled slightly. "You're the Master-I'm Advanced. But I suppose that's hardly the point. You're saying we can't be complete as wizards until we can allow someone to get close, because the fear of being vulnerable is… the final flaw in all of us."