"Well?" A booted toe found him through the folds, nudged him, pressed deeper into his gut when he ignored it, and gave a vicious jab before leaving him. "Ungrateful bastard."

Thyerri raised his head. The man's face, what he could see past the tangle of his own hair and the near-full mask the man wore, was as deeply scarred as his hands.

"Which should I do, scarface?" he croaked, his voice rough and sore. "Snort, whinny, or stomp?"

An audible gasp: anticipation of the scarred man's re- sponse. And indeed, he did scowl for a long moment, but then, his mouth stretched in what must have been a pain- ful smile.

"Where did you come from, dancer?"

Thyerri winced. But it was a cavalier jibe, the velvet voice was not native, could have no idea what being a dancer meant here in the Khoramali heights.

But then, neither had Bharlori known. Zeiin had said no one truly knew. No one, except the dancers themselves.

"I arose from the ley," he hissed bitterly.

Scarred laughter sounded as pained as the smile. "Is that how the local whores explain their accidents?"

"You'd have to ask them."

"Oh, leave the sewage be," Rhyys snarled impatiently.

"Stand up, ley-child. You're out of place down there."

Thyerri tried again, and discovering cloak-warmed mus- cles more inclined to obey, even managed to rise with some grace.

"Join me." Without looking to see if his command was obeyed, the scarred man returned to his shadowed niche.

Thyerri, in defiance of Rhyys, followed, and sank onto the pillow a wave of scarred hand vacated for him.

Rhyys glowered, and threw himself back into a nest of pillows and snarled at the musicians, who, after a false start or two, settled into a standard court set piece.

Scarface lifted a finger toward the food. "Help yourself, dancer." And when Thyerri hesitated: "Renewyourself."

Which was far more order than invitation. "I would see more of your talent before I leave."

He tried a handful of the strange foods, but found few to his liking. His mouth was miserably dry, but he rarely drank wine, and the heavy drink being served tonight clung to his tongue like the ocarshi clung to velvet.

A goblet appeared over his shoulder, pewter, cool to the touch, its contents fresh to nose and palate: his favorite fruit juice. He twisted and found, as he'd thought he would, Sakhithe.

"I'm sorry," he began, but she stopped him with a fin- gertip on his lips and an eager smile. "Didn't Mishthi say they'd like you, Thyerri?"

He caught her hand. "Dance with me? Later, when my legs are back?"

"Any time," she whispered back. "Any time at all, with or without legs."

Angry demands from further down the table called her away, eliminating the need to answer.

"Your lover?" the velvet voice asked.

"No!"

"Why so shocked? You're a handsome lad. I'd think you had a dozen such awaiting your pleasure."

"Because we're both" Except they weren't. And he supposed, if he were to have a lover, Sakhithe might be his first choice. The thought shocked him anew with the pleas- ant feelings the thought of her, skin against skin, aroused.

He was too raw tonight, the insidious dreams become too frequent, the horror of his dance too fresh in his mind.

"Your interests lie, perhaps, in other directions?"

"You might say that."

"And is your affection rewarded?"

Thyerri thought of the rings and the stadium, vaguely aware they spoke at cross-purposes, but the pain of inacces- sibility was real either way, and he shook his head.

"The one who rejects you is a fool, lad." That velvet voice stripped him more effectively than Rhyys' insidious hands. "Were you willing, man, woman, or beast would find you, I think, a memorable partner."

Thyerri twitched, concentrated only on keeping the cup in his hands steady.

"PerhapH unwilling would be even better." This time, the velvet was so deep, so soft, Thyerri doubted anyone heard but himself. He swallowed hard, suspecting bait, but deep in a game for which he had no rules.

"You overreact," Rhyys snarled. "He's adequate, I'll grant you that, but for real dancing, wait until you see Tabinth dance the rings. She'll have your loins in an uproar, I grant you."

"And when will that be, Khoratum?" a voice rang out.

"When will the rings once again dance the Khoratum skies?"

"Soon, Orenum, very soon. We await only the arrival of our guest of honor."

"The Rhomandi?"

"Mikhyel dunMheric," the moth said. "We would do well not to mistake the level of the honor we are being granted."

"His may be the lesser power," the Giephaetumin said, "but Mikhyel dunMheric is the more insightful individual.

We must be cautious."

"The celebration will keep him distracted," Rhyys de- clared loftily. "And when it is done, we'll have a new radi- cal dancer, and you'll see I'm right: Tabinth will take the vote. But you can't touch her." Rhyys gave a theatrical sigh and inhaled deeply on his pipe, blew the smoke out across his wine, and drank with exaggerated pleasure. "Can't touch any of the ringdancers. No one can. Not even Khora- tum's master." Another sip. "Sometimes I truly hate the traditions."

Thyerri added one more count against Rhyys.

"I should think," the scarred man murmured, "that the inaccessibility would be half her charm. Absent that, what is she but simply another body with clever moves?"

But he was looking at Thyerri, not Rhyys, as he spoke, and the bread in Thyerri's mouth turned to sawdust. He choked, blindly sought relief, felt his goblet pressed into his hand, and gulped Only to discover not the fruit juice he'd expected, but the cloying spiced wine.

He cast the goblet away, not caring where it landed, found his own cup, and finished the juice. His head cleared to another shocked silence.

Freezing in mid-swallow, he scanned the immediate vicin- ity over the pewter rim of his cup, coming finally to scarred fingers swinging a bronze goblet by its base. Upside-down.

But again the obviously important man failed to provide the anticipated explosion. "I should have known better,"

was all he said, and the spell was broken. Sakhithe rushed over with towels, and when the worst of the wine had been blotted from his robes, the moth's scarred hand caught her wrist, keeping her at his side. "Well, boy, have your legs recovered?"

~ ,% 9.

Music flowed through him, lifting, caressing, as perfect.

in its way, as the ley in which his body drifted.

fYes-s-s, Mikhyel, son of Darius . . .} (Where?} he asked, in a dream that smelled of raspber- ries and cinnamon and fireblossom-tea.

{Feel the music, human spawn, dance the rings, fly with the rhythm of the ley . . .} {Who?} (All and none. Tell them, I love them. Come to me . . .) The voice faded. The music swelled.

And the dance began.

*gt 9 ~ This time, like the musicians, he and Sakhithe chose a safe course, a standard piece that told a simple tale of love lost and found. It was a choreography all the dancers, radi- cal or troupe, learned, and a piece he and Sakhithe had practiced for fun in the off-hours.

But if Thyerri no longer challenged his audience, his au- dience remembered their defeat. They sensed his weakened resolve, his lowered defenses, and as the final strains of the familiar music wove themselves around him, and Sakhithe "died" in his arms, a hand caught his ankle and a leg swept his feet from under him.

He crashed to the floor, angling his body to protect Sak- hithe. She squealed, and fought for balance and freedom, caught his face with her elbow, and his groin with her heel.

For a moment, the world blackened. By the time it cleared, he was adrift in a sea of mauling hands and glitter- ing robes. Shrill cries in every direction indicated others in similar jeopardy. Sticky hands roamed across him, leaving honey-saace in their passing. Laughter and lewd sugges- tions, and the heated potion dribbled over his stomach.

It was as if he were caught in that endless instant be- tween sleep and waking. He wanted to move. Wanted to run, to escape the sensations building inside him, and lacked the ability to twitch so much as an eyelid. The dreams chased him, swallowed him in green mist.

And he knew that if anything of himself was to survive this night, he had to conquer that lassitude. But the green mist rose, and the Tamshi eyes claimed him, and the hands were the hands of his dreams. . . - Then, a hand smeared the sauce across his flank and under his loincloth. The Tamshi eyes widened, and a voice screamed denial And the immobility vanished. Thyerri scrambled across the table, scattering plates and food, seeking freedom, not caring what he struck, kicked or ran over to find it. His fingers found and flung plates, closed on a knife, that bit into soft folds and stuck. He left it and sought other weap- ons, finding a rhythm like the dance, counterbalances to the various objects that became weapons in his hands.

His feet struck bare floor somewhere near the disguised door, and he staggered to a halt, a floor candelabra bal- anced in both hands. A man groaned and cried for help.

Red-face. A knife with a jeweled hilt rose and fell with his shuddering breaths; a pool of red spread beneath him.

The others backed away, Sakhithe and Mishthi held cap- tive, silent in their arms.

A guard took a crouched half-step toward him. Thyerri swung the base of the stand in a warding arc before him, and the man straightened, hands raised in surrender.

Then, all in a time-stopped moment, Rhyys' gaze looked beyond him; an angry voice growled: "What's going on"

and a hand gripped his elbow. Thyerri jerked, dodged and swept the iron stand in an arc around him.

With a halt that numbed his hands and elbows, the cast- iron legs encountered an obstacle at once hard and yielding.

The stand fell from his fingers. A shrill, female cry filled the room, and Bharlori, his face a barely recognizable mass of bloodied flesh, staggered and fell, his clutching hands seeking purchase, finding brocade draperies, carrying them down with him.

Drapes toppled, one after another, a cascade of brocades, velvets and filmy cotton gauze, scattering oil lamps, ocarshi stands and candles. Gauze flared, and in an instant, flames erupted throughout the room.

~ ~ *gt (Lightning arced.

(Flames consumed.

(Pain and darkness, fear and panic, horror and (Guilt.) Patricide.

Mikhyel jerked awake, shuddering, his throat sore.

"Khyel?" Raulind's voice, and Raulind's arms sur- rounded him, as they had all those years ago, when he'd awakened screaming, in pain, in fear, and with the certain knowledge that but for him, Mheric, his father, would still be alive.

And Mikhyel wondered, was it Barsitum, renowned for healing, that was sending him these reminders of his own culpability, or his own unforgiving nature. And he remem- bered those legends of this place, of the fate of those who took advantage of it, and wondered if he'd been judged . . .

And found lacking.

Chapter Nine.

("Murderer!"

(Bloffd and flames. Flaming blood. Face of blood and bone. Gttnt of gold. Spark of blue. Stone-set hilt rising, fall- ingkeeping time with labored breath.

("Murderer!"

(Flame flaring, wave upon obscuring wave.

(Face of blood and bone. Hands pulling, pushing.

("Murderer!"

(Face of blood and bone.

("I can't leave him!"

("He's dead, Thyerri."

("Murderer!"

(Flood of water.

(Protection. Panacea for the body . . .

(But nothing for the soul.

("Murderer!") "Murder..."

The accusation filled the air, a whisper whipped back to him in the roaring wind.