So damned fickle. So blindly judgmental. So unmitigat- ediy cruel.

And as his fingertips brushed the sable hair at her tem- ples and her own breathing quickened, he thought of those stained sheets and the charges soon to be leveled officially against him. Charges Rhyys was certain to use to destroy Temorii as well.

And he wondered would this crowd, who so quickly em- braced and forgot, forget again as quickly in order to de- stroy? Would they, whose lives were so narrowly defined and self-consumed, who condemned him so freely for seek- ing that which they all took for granted in their lives, de- stroy her at a madman's whim?

He thought of that mindless, practicing mob who had attacked her the day they met, and knew his answer.

And he thought of the lover he'd never have, and her daring trip through the maze, a trip they'd shared, and the caress of the swinging rings and the caress of her callused fingertips.

And he thought of Nikki attacking him for kissing Mirym, and of Deymorin, whose infatuation with Kiyrstin would surround him the rest of his life . . .

A life destined for solitude, even if he survived the up- coming hours. Without his brothers, whose thoughts drove him mad, without Temorii, whose laughter and fears and determination had restored his humanity, far more than anything he'd done for her.

And he thought of Mother, whose aid was whimsical and on her own schedule. And he thought of the impending shutdown and the suspicion and of Kirish'lan angry in the south and Mauritum and Garetti, and all the web- spanning politics...

And damning them all, he kissed her.

Silence.

When he would have released her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. And in the under- neath sense, it was last night all over again, and her trip through the maze and the rings, and the mountains, and his salvation from the brink of death, and hers from the brink of despair.

A low hiss, spotted throughout the stands, and growing.

Anger from her subjects. Anger toward the one destroying the dancer they'd adopted. He heard it, she did, and knew their moment ended. With a final mental caress they stepped apart.

Rhyys called, in outraged tones, for his arrest. Leather gauntleted hands seized his arms, and pulled him away from Temorii, who, in response to his mental request, stepped quietly toward the back. The guards, finding passiv- ity where they obviously expected resistance, seemed con- fused, uncertain, but Rhyys, grandly sweeping to his coveted center stage, and in a gesture meant for the upper tiers, drew back his heavily beringed hand and struck Mik- hyel across the face.

The crowd roared their approval of a scene increasingly reminiscent of some melodramatic play, which abhorrent realization made Mikhyel doubly grateful for the guards holding him. He'd hate to give the crowd the satisfaction of seeing him sprawled at Rhyys' feet.

"Remove him!" Rhyys bellowed, and Temorii started forward; Mikhyel begged her back, wishing her silent and quiet. For now, she was innocence defiled. In time, Khora- tum would embrace her as their radical.

(Not after this!) Her thought followed him down the steps. And: {I don't want them. Not any more.} Wry laughter filled him. Rather late to decide that.

{Just dance again for them, Temorii. They'll be entranced all over.) {How can I? I didn't dance for them in the first place.} The guards were escorting him into the tunnel beneath the stands, he paused at last, unable to resist a final glance, never minding it simply added to the crowd's sense of melodrama.

{For me, then? Please, Tern, I want to feel you dancing inside me again.} And he wanted her to stop thinking about him, to think about saving herself. The various officials were leaving the podium, pointedly ignoring her, ready to leave her to the citizens she'd so completely betrayed.

Excitement flowed from her, a sense of possibility And in one smooth action, she whirled and leaped for the ring poised quietly beside the podium. Her weight started it moving. A guard moved to stop her, but she leaped for the next ring, and the next, and the next.

Once they were spinning to her satisfaction, she began to dance, to a music everyone watching had to hear within them. It was a challenge she made; daring those unbeliev- ers to consider her gift compromised. Daring them to expect more of anyone than she had been willing and able to give.

Mikhyel ached for her, knowing to his own joints how tired she was, and he wished her the strength to convince them. He sent, along that invisible line between them, all the help she'd refused before. And he felt her willing ab- sorption of it now, draining him, making his head spin as with a sudden loss of blood.

And he sent her more, flinging it down that line: Strength, confidence . . . love.

It was love her dance offered to every individual watch- ing. Love of self, of life, of beauty, of others; it was last night, and all the nights before, the bitter-sweet of self- restraint, the ecstasy of fulfillment, the fear of loss, the joy of having had.

Mikhyel couldn't move. Tears burned his eyes and he couldn't so much as lift a hand to wipe them clear. She'd burn herself out, convincing them. She meant to die on the rings, rather than at the hands of the audience, or Rhyys'

planted assassins.

And she meant them to know, before she died, exactly what they'd lost.

"For the love of my sacred mother's womb. Suds, .do you expect the poor kid to keep it going forever? Wake the fuck up!"

Ganfrion. Jerking on his elbow, drawing his stumbling feet past guards lying motionless on the ground, pulling him down the dark tunnel. He was numb, near mindless with exhaustion and impending loss.

"Tern?"

"Is saving your ass. Shut up and say thank you, and move!"

"Wait!" He jerked free, swaying, and closed his eyes.

{Mother!} He made the call a demand. Mother was the only one who could save Temorii. And he reached deep into those caverns and screamed for acknowledgment. For aid that, dammitall, he and Temorii had earned.

Nothing. Cold, dark, uncaring silence.

{Mother! Damn you!} Still, it was silent. And he knew, beyond doubt, he'd destroyed them all. He'd gambled senselessly with his own life and Temorii's.

Ganfrion was pulling him, blindly, down the tunnel. He jerked free again, and staggered back toward the stadium.

Temorii had never stopped dancing. She was weakening.

A near miss that made the enthralled audience gasp as one.

Again, he poured himself out to her. Everything he had, while screaming for Mother's help, for Mother to leythiate her Dancer to safety.

His vision faded. Hearing did. His only senses were those he shared with her as she soared from one ring to the next, so exhausted, her only thought was for the next jump.

And then, suddenly, painfully, his own body returned to him. He was in the tunnel, with Ganfrion's broad shoulder biting into his stomach and Ganfrion's sword hilt bouncing in front of his nose.

He gasped. Ganfrion swung him down and panted, "Run, damn you!"

At the far end of the tunnel, a figure was waiting.

"Thyerri?" Mikhyel whispered, disbelieving. "Alive?"

And mocking laughter, unmistakable. "What do rijhili know? Come. Come!"

"But" Even Ganfrion, for once, sounded stunned. He glanced back down the tunnel, and then to the cloaked figure, who gestured them again to hurry, shook his head as if to clear it, and hauled on Mikhyel's elbow, moving him in the young man's wake, down alleyways and between buildings, a circuitous route heading generally downhill.

A bell pealed. Others, all about the city, picked up the alarm.

"They're after us now, Rhomandi. Thyerri-lad, look sharp!"

And Thyerri, at the far side of a building, raised an ac- knowledging arm, but didn't look back, and a moment later, waved them forward again.

Their luck ran out just short of the gate. A handful of guards spotted them down an alley and began closing. Cau- tiously, as if expecting more than the three of them.

"Give up, Rhomandi," one called. "It's over. The danc- er's dead."

His heart stopped . . .

Ganfrion drew his sword.

"Get him out of here, boy."

. . . and started.

"Ganfrion..."

"Of all the times in your life, Rhomandi, don't be a fool now."

Without taking his eyes from the approaching guards, Ganfrion transferred his sword to his left hand, reached back with the right. Mikhyel clasped it reflexively, speech- less, even while he knew this was, ultimately, Ganfrion's job.

"You're a good man, Rhomandi. If I've got to die for someone. I'm glad Rakshi chose you."

But he didn't want it to be Ganfrion's job. He didn't want good people dying to save him.

"Gan"

"Just don't waste it."

Waste it. Ganfrion had committed himself to the Rho- mandi cause . . . to Mikhyel's cause, without reservation.

Was dying, never knowing . . .

"Dammitall! Get him out of here, boy! Get him to his brother!"

Ganfrion pushed him away, into Thyerri's arms. Mikhyel jerked free and pulled the Rhomandi ring free of his mid- dle finger.

"Ganfrion!"

Angry dark eyes glared at him over a broad shoulder.

Mikhyel tossed the ring, a flash of silver and gold in the band of sunlight between them.

Ganfrion's quick reflexes intercepted it.

"Damn you, Rhomandi." His deep whisper was more vibration than tone.

"Get out if you can, my friend," Mikhyel said, and by that ring, made that statement Ganfrion's primary directive.

Then he followed Thyerri's impatient pull at last. Around one corner, and a secondinto a blind alley.

Thyerri jerked him to a halt.

"The game is over, dunMheric," Thyerri said. "The pat- tern is set."

Riddles. When a man was dying.

"Are you mad?" Mikhyel tried to push past, but an iron- fingered hand caught his arm and thrust him against the nearest building. "Not necessary, pretty Khy."

"Damn you" He tried to pull free, to get back to Gan- frion, where the sounds of metal clashing evidenced the fury of the encounter.

Stone-hard arms clamped him tight.

"Ganfrion!" Mikhyel shouted; and Thyerri hissed, "Don't fight me, child."

Child?

He stopped struggling and stared into that hood-shadow.

"Don't worry about him, Khy. He's not the one they want."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who loves you, Mikhyel-child." And within the hood-shadow, light glinted. A faint green glow. And hands clasped his face, freezing him to the marrow as lips closed on his. Lethargy filled him through that kiss, the immobility that had gripped him in his room so many long weeks ago.

Anheliaa, his mind made the connection, and remote panic threatened, though in truth, he knew better.

{Anheliaa! Hardly. Farewell, sweet Khy.} And as Mother's spring green essence consumed him {Tell your brothers: the demonstration is scheduled for midnight tonight. . . .) He opened his eyes inches from Deymorin's startled face.

Chapter Fifteen.

Midnight. A time for ghosts and goblins, for Tamshi tales and falling stars, for love-making and . . .

. . . Certainly not for political grandstanding.

"If Rhyys wanted to make a point," Nikki said, his ten- sion finding outlet in irritation, "why didn't he do it during the day when he could cause meaningful chaos?"

"Obviously," Kiyrstin said dryly, "Rhyys' point is not to cause maximum chaos, but to frighten whoever he expects to be in charge of Rhomatum and the Southern Crescent.

He means to startle and frighten, not destroy. He still needs Rhomatum."

They waited in the Tower: himself, Lidye, Kiyrstin, Ne- thaalye, and Mirym. For what, no one truly knew. Lidye had said, after that test, that she could feel the nodes through Nethaalye and Mirym, but wasn't certain what she felt through Kiyrstin.

They'd know soon enough, he supposed.

His brothers had contacted him just hours ago. Mikhyel, according to Deymorin, had appeared on Deymorin's lap in the middle of his supper. Mother's doing, Mikhyel had said, and refused to answer questions, and his mind was darker and more closed than ever to Nikki's tentative probeto which Mikhyel had snarled at him to mind his own fucking business.