The sister stepped back; anger, thwarted desire and more burned in her eyes, butSeylalha saw the fear in her movements and knew she had won. The man's fingerswove through her honey hair, closing on the neck brooch that held the cloth ather shoulder, ripping it from the soft silk.

'She's right, Cime. You can't lure me with His freedom; I've felt it for toolong already. We'll play Torchholder's little game to the end and let the Faceof Chaos laugh at us. The girl's won her child. so leave - or I'll let her usethe tent-peg on you.'

Cime's face was fury unbounded, but Seylalha no longer cared. The sword droppedfrom her fingers as soon as his arms lifted her a second time and carried her,without interruption, to the pillows. She grasped his tunic and tore it backfrom his shoulders with a determination equal to his own. The mute womengathered their instruments and found a compelling harmony with which to fill thetent.

Seylalha lost herself with him until there was nothing beyond the pillows andthe memory of the music. The torches were long since exhausted and in thedarkness her god-lover was neither awesome nor cruel. He might have intendedrape and pain, but her passion for a child and freedom consumed him and he layasleep across her breast. Her body curved against his and though she had notmeant it to happen, she fell asleep as well.

He grunted and jerked upright, leaving her puzzled and cold on the pillows.Wariness tightened the muscles of his leg. She raised herself up on one elbowwithout learning the source of his sudden concern.

'Cover yourself,' he instructed, thrusting his torn tunic at her.

'Why?'

'There'll be a fire here,' he spoke as if repeating words that swam in his headalready. 'By Wrigglies, Cime or what... we're betrayed.'

He gripped her arm and hauled her to her feet as the tent burst into flamesaround them. Clutching the tunic to her breast, Seylalha moulded herself againsthim. He was motionless for less than a second; the fire swept through the roofcloth and raced towards the carpet and pillows where they stood. Sparks jumpedtowards her long hair; she screamed and flailed at the flames until he put themout with his hands and hoisted her rudely in his arms.

The firelight leeched all gentleness from his face, replacing it with pain and aglint of vengeance. One of the beams that supported the tent cracked down beforethem, sending a blaze of fire up past his knees. He cursed names that meantnothing to her as he walked through the inferno.

They broke through the ring of flames into the predawn moist-ness of the portcity air. She coughed, realizing she had scarcely breathed since he had liftedher. With the gasps of cool air she caught the bitter scents of singed hair andcharred flesh.

'Your legs?' she whispered.

'They'll mend; they always do.'

'But you're hurt now,' she. protested. 'I can walk - there's no need to carryme.'

She twisted to be free of him but his grip grew tighter and unfriendly. Shebegan to fear him again as if their moments together in the tent had been adream. The pinching fingers holding her arms and thighs could never have beengentle.

'I have not hurt you,' he snarled. 'Of more women than I care to remember youalone had demands that would sate me. You've got your freedom and I've got restin a woman's arms. When it is safe I'll put you down, but not before.'

He carried her past the scattered stones of the unfinished temple and out intothe open land beyond the limits ofRankan Sanctuary towards the houses leftto ruins since Ilsig abandoned the town. She shivered and shed quiet tears, butclung tightly as he assaulted the uneven, overgrown fields in the greypredawn light. He stopped by a crumbling wall and set her down upon it.

'The Hounds patrol here at dawn; they'll find you and bring you safely to thePrince and Torchholder.'

She didn't ask to go with him, holding the request firmly within herself. TheOne for whom she had danced was gone, probably forever, and the one who remainedwas not the sort a dancer slave would be wise to follow. And there was the childto consider ... Still, she could not turn away from him as he glared at her. Hisface softened slightly, as if her lover might live somewhere behind that grimvisage.

'Tell me your name,' he demanded in a voice half-gentle, half-mocking.

'Seylalha.'

'A Northern name, isn't it? A pretty name to remember.'

And he was gone, striding back across the fallow gardens to the town. Shewrapped the torn, scorched tunic around her bare shoulders and waited.

7

Molin Torchholder hurried down the polished stone corridors of the palace; hisnew sandals slapped the soles of his feet and echoed in the empty hallways. Thesound reminded him of his slaves' leather-wrapped sticks and that reminded himof how few slaves were left in the temple since the mysterious fire had taken somany lives the night of the Ten-Slaying two weeks before.

He had sent a messenger to the capita] the next day with a full report of theevents as he understood them. He'd written and sealed it himself. The Princecould not have sent word faster; no post could have returned in that time. Therewas no reason to think that Kadakithis or the Emperor himself would be thinkingabout Vashanka today. But the Prince's summons had been preemptive. so Molinhiked the long, empty corridors with a worried look on his face.

The Ten-Slaying had convinced him to take his Prince more seriously. When thecharred tatters of cloth and wood had cooled enough to let the Houndsinvestigate the blaze, they had found a heap of blackened skulls in one placeand the bodies of the ten felons scattered throughout the burned wreckage. Forone who had expressed a distaste for bloodshed, Kadakithis had recreatedVashanka's vengeance to the final letter of the legends - a precision notrequired and which Molin could not even remember describing to the Prince.

Tempus stood beside the Prince's throne, back in town after another unexplainedabsence. The massive, cruel Hell Hound did not look happy - perhaps the strainsof the Sacred Brotherhood's loyalty were beginning to show. Molin wished, forthe last time. that he knew why he had been summoned, then nodded to the heraldand heard himself announced.

*Ah, Molin, there you are. We'd been wondering what was keeping you,' the Princesaid with his usual charm.

'My new quarters, while much appreciated, seem to be several leagues from here.I'd never thought there could be so much corridor in a small palace.'

'The rooms are adequate? The Lady Rosanda ...'

'The girl who danced Azyuna's Dance - what has become of her?' Tempusinterrupted and Molin turned his attention at once from the Prince to the HellHound.

'A few burns,' he responded cautiously, seeing displeasure in Tempus's eyes. TheHound had called this interview; Molin no longer doubted it. 'Minor ones,' headded. 'What little discomfort she may have experienced seems to have passedcompletely.'

'You've freed her, haven't you, Molin?' the Prince chimed in nervously.

'As a matter of course, though it's too soon to tell if she'll bear a child. Ithought it best to take her survival as a sign of the god's favour - in theabsence of any other information. You haven't remembered anything yourself,my Prince?' Molin faced the Prince but glanced at Tempus. There was somethingin the Hound's face whenever the Ten-Slaying was discussed, but Molin doubtedhe'd ever get to the bottom of it. Kadakithis claimed the god had so completelypossessed him that he remembered nothing from the moment the tent was sealeduntil sunrise when he found himself in his own bed.