He'd been supplied with warrior-drab coveralls, complete with his arms on the breast--not too different from his uniform, and more practical than the civvies he'd worn at first.

And after the first couple of days, Ryan had ordered him exempted from the ch.o.r.es the entire warrior caste shared--cooking, clean-up, laundry and the like--because of the toll his training exacted even that early.

Medart was grateful, though he'd felt guilty about it at first; by now, guilt had been swallowed by the chronic pain.

It amused him that he'd been more or less adopted by the lady Kelly and her son Haley, one of the young warriors in training. Like the rest of the clan, Haley had been aloofly superior at first--the typical Sandeman reaction Medart expected from those who hadn't been around Imperials much--but his stubborn determination to learn in spite of what the lessons did to him had broken down that reserve. The clan accepted him, and those two had practically become mother hens. As usual one--Kelly, this time--met him at the dining hall door, then brought him a tray and joined him.

"Thanks, Kelly." Medart picked up his fork and stared at the food for several seconds, trying to ignore his stomach. That didn't work any better than usual; at last he gave up the effort and started eating in spite of the queasiness.

"No improvement?" Kelly asked, after a few minutes' silence.

"No. I've given up expecting any, but I can't help hoping." Medart took a few more bites, then shook his head and put the fork down.

"Who'm I going up against today?" He'd learned the necessary spells for a duel the first week, both offensive and defensive; he'd been practicing them ever since, trying to learn control, but that was frustratingly elusive. One day he'd barely be able to make his opponent feel his efforts or protect himself, the next it would take the monitors to erect fast barriers to keep him from injuring the other, while his own defenses were at peak.

"The warrior Loren of Clan Raynor," Kelly told him. "I think Chief Ryan is trying to force a breakthrough, finding you strong opponents who won't pull their punches the way we've started doing because we don't want to add to your problems."

"Um." Medart frowned at that. "I hadn't noticed--but then my control's so erratic I probably couldn't. Whoever I fight the duel with d.a.m.nsure won't pull his punches, though, so I have to go along with Ryan--best I train with someone who's going all-out, too."

"That part no one can argue," Kelly said. "But . . . James, can you tolerate the added stress? Watching you is like watching a warrior in constant need, with no hope of being able to give you release."

Medart winced, aware of how much that would distress any warriors'-woman.

"I'm not in that bad a shape--I've seen some who were, remember? What I'm going through is no fun, but I think I can hold out long enough."

"I pray to all the G.o.ds you're right."

By the end of the next week, Medart was praying too, to all the G.o.ds he could recall from his childhood. He'd been brought up Omnist, so there were quite a number of them, and he added a pair the Sandemans in Alpha Prime said should be favorably inclined to him: the two warriors he'd given Last Gift to, Leigh DarVader and Keith DarLewies.

It didn't seem to help. Despite Ryan's instructions, his opponents'

best efforts, and his own increasingly urgent attempts over the next month, his control remained erratic. Unfortunately his physical condition didn't remain as stable; it worsened steadily. By the end of that time, Medart had lost close to twenty kilos, and the constant pain allowed him only the sleep his body absolutely had to have.

He'd given up even trying to eat breakfast, beyond the hot chocolate that contained the caffeine he needed as a stimulant; he ate only after his afternoon practice sessions, when he was too tired to gag.

And he'd wondered how long Ryan would keep supporting him, so he wasn't surprised when the clan-chief joined him, Kelly, and Haley--both of whom had taken to remaining close except when Haley was at his own training sessions--at the evening meal.

Medart endured the clan-chief's scrutiny, certain he knew what was coming, so he wasn't surprised when Ryan spoke. "Prince James, will you admit I have done my best to teach you as you asked?"

"You have, Clan-chief," Medart replied. "My inability to benefit by more than the most basic instruction cannot be laid to your lack of effort." He took a deep breath, rubbed his aching eyes. "You've done your best; I can't hold you to a repayment I'm incapable of absorbing.

As far as I'm concerned, that part of Clan Vader's life-debt has been discharged."

"I thank you for your generosity, James. I will have you returned to the Empire; perhaps they can heal you where we cannot."

"No. My job's not done, and you still owe me one thing--I have a duel to fight, as soon as you can arrange a meeting."

"In your condition, I cannot permit that."

"You don't have any choice, Clan-chief." Medart pulled himself together as well as he could, reminding himself that these peoples'

origin made them Imperial citizens whether they knew--or liked--it or not. He didn't have any enforceable authority over them, true, but sometimes that wasn't essential. "You issued the challenge on my behalf and implicitly agreed to arrange the duel, without specifying my physical condition. The only criterion was that I be trained to use Sandeman magic as well as I could, which has been done."

"It has, and I did issue challenge for you--but I did not agree to send you to certain death."

"It isn't--I'm running about fifty-fifty minimum power and maximum.

That gives me a reasonable chance, better than the Empire'd have if I don't even try." Medart felt himself weakening, summoned his remaining resources. "You'd do the same if it were the Sandeman race at risk; I know that from personal experience. Even if you knew it'd cost you your life."

"That is true," Ryan replied slowly. "Very well, Highness, I will make the arrangements. But you should rest until then, doing no magic--and you must try to eat. In your present condition, even winning a duel would be fatal; to have a chance of surviving, you need to build yourself back up."

"I will," Medart promised. "I don't want to die; I've got too many interesting things to do first. And--" he looked from Kelly to her son--"I have a couple of guardians who wouldn't let me overdo even if I wanted to."

Medart kept his promise. It took Ryan six days to finalize arrangements for the duel, including what Clan Miklos needed to broadcast it to Sandemans and Empire alike; Medart spent the time resting as well as he could, nibbling on the food either Kelly or Haley kept him supplied with, and talking to the two of them.

He regained some strength, but the pain didn't ease in spite of Kelly's healing spells, so finally, the evening before the duel, he decided to ask her for a prognosis.

When he did, she frowned. "There's been no relief at all?"

"None that I've been able to notice."

"That is bad." Kelly paused. "As Ryan told you, we've had little experience with training adults to use magic, and you are our only experience teaching our system to a Terran. This makes it difficult for me to give you an accurate evaluation; I have almost nothing to base it on."

"I understand that."

"With that caution, then," Kelly said slowly, "I'm afraid our efforts to teach you have caused permanent damage. Either your age or your Terran physical characteristics--or possibly your extra-universe origin--have made it impossible to clear what Ryan called your magical-energy channels. Since my healing spells have no effect, I would say the attempts to train you have been . . . the best a.n.a.logy I can think of is burning . . . them out."

Medart leaned back, sighing. "That's what I was afraid of. Is my opponent going to be battleprepped?"

"Of course."

"Will I be allowed a similar form of preparation?"

"Of course, if you have it."

"I do. Not built in, the way yours is, but I had a special medikit set up just in case; I have drugs that'll boost my strength and speed. And to block the pain, now that the duel's close--unless you think the painkiller'd interfere with what little control I do have."

"I can see no reason it should," Kelly said. "It should help, in fact, by allowing you to concentrate better. Why didn't you mention it before?"

"Because I don't have much, and wanted to save it for when I'd need it most." Medart opened one of the pouches on his belt and took out a small injector. "As you can see, my medikit's not that big, and I d.a.m.nsure didn't think I'd need enough quidine for two months plus.

I've got four doses, which is enough for about thirty hours." He felt for his carotid, triggered the painkiller into the artery, and seconds later sighed in relief. "Whew--that's a lot better."

"You look better, even so soon," Kelly agreed. "That quidine appears to be extremely strong--is it dangerous?"

"No." Medart shook his head, smiling as much at the relief from pain as at the question. "It is strong, but it's the safest a.n.a.lgesic ever discovered. It doesn't affect your reflexes or thinking, and it's not addictive--all it does is kill pain for about eight hours. The worst it does is numb you if you take an overdose."

"Doing that tonight might be wise. You haven't slept properly in that same two months plus, and you will need to be rested tomorrow."

"Recommendation accepted," Medart said promptly.

"Good." Kelly smiled. "I believe it would also help if you think of something besides the duel, so may I take advantage of your respite to ask you some things?"