She has to die

Tila kumukhasi nawenya khuchila kumusecha

Tila omukhasi nawenya omusecha

(Turn left if you want to go right.

Take the wife if you want the husband/ Take a woman if you want a man/ Use a woman to attract a man.)

- This goldmine of double, triple, and quadruple entendres is exhaustively dissected in 'An Explanation Of The Most Confounding Lines In Bhaandini Epic Poems From The First Age' by Nicanor Leonus Bungbhurg, court chronicler to HRH Caedmyr Daeganus Aemlilonus Rhexbhurg, Prince of The Tides.

"Ahhh," Allara sighed with pleasure when she finally spotted Rainbow Rock, The Restorer's palace.

She had little else to be happy about. Sylvia was next to her, all but dead in her saddle. Allara's entire body ached. She wanted to jump off the horse and run until she dropped dead but moving itself was painful. Her saddle sores were on fire and she fought a losing battle resisting the urge to scratch them, an act that soothed her for a minute and inflamed them worse. If someone chopped off her legs she might just thank him.

The march from Luche Bend to Caedmyria had been a brutal slog. Eight days of continuous riding with no more than a few hours of rest each night. It had rained almost continuously but the soldiers didn't seem to notice. The march continued.

But they were finally in Caedmyria, the second capital. Bogdyr had already said his goodbyes and gone to start his military training.

The column had split into as many detachments as the dozens of channels the mighty Luche split into when it poured into the sea. Allara's detachment was small, no more than twenty. They had peeled off the column earlier that morning. Their master wanted them at Rainbow Rock. An armorer, a priest, a couple of scribes, two painters, Amran's tutor, Sylvia, her, and a couple of other people she hadn't bothered to know. All servants of The Thunderbolt. Allara and Sylvia were the only females. 'I should have taken the barge', she scolded herself for the thousandth time. 'I could have gotten here days ago and wouldn't nearly be this stiff and saddlesore.'

They crossed a bridge and got waved through a checkpoint on the other side before arriving at the gates of Rainbow Rock. Nicanor Bungbhurg, Amran's tutor, presented a letter to a guard. "State your business," the guard barked at a pair of men behind them while one of his companions checked their credentials.

"We fishermen, m'lord," the older of the two men said. "Caught a blue lobster. Came to present it to His Highness." He took the cloth covering off the bucket he was carrying and everyone present fawned over the magnificent bright blue shellfish swimming sedately in the water.

The guard waved the fishermen in. "Lucky bastards are going to be rich today," he said enviously to his partner as the men walked away.

The document checker instructed Allara and her party to wait by the guardhouse while he sent one of his men went to enquire after their accommodations.

Allara dismounted from her horse and stretched out on the grass. Sylvia tumbled onto the ground, lay flat, and gave a deep sigh of contentment without ever bothering to look up.

Rainbow Rock was a giant rock, 500 feet high, 1000 feet across, and half a mile long. It sat beside the Khars Sea. The rock was sandwiched between two lesser branches of The Luche and formed part of Caedmyria's northern wall.

The rock face was completely flat, rising straight like a wall. The rock face had once been jagged but it had been smoothed over the years, making it impossible to climb. Two dozen winch cages lined the base, raising and lowering people to the summit.

The rock got its name from the springs at its apex. Springs which spurted water a hundred feet into the air and formed rainbows on sunny days. According to legend, the springs had been created by Caedmyr II, called The Conqueror, the third Rhexbhurg king. He was camped on the summit of the rock with his men during a campaign. They were all thirsty but too lazy to climb down and drink from the river below.

The Conqueror stabbed the rock with Sunsliver, the flaming sword of the Rhexbhurgs, and ordered Ameia to deliver water to him and his men. Unable to resist the power of Sunsliver, a tiny shard torn off the sun itself, Aemeia complied and sweet water squirted forth from the hole the sword had made in the rock, quenching the men's thirst.

Aemeia was incensed, however. Caedmyr II had the temerity to command a goddess instead of begging like any other mortal. The moon turned the color of blood with Aemeia's rage as she cursed him for his insolence. The Conqueror died in battle the very next day.

A city had sprung up at the site and was named Caedmyria in The Conqueror's honor. During The Lost Millennium, Caedmyria would come to be settled, dominated by, and eventually broken away from the Kingdom of Rhexia by Reendeni merchants from across the Khars Sea. These foreigners changed the city's name to Deltopolis, a moniker it bore for 500 years.

A thousand years later, Caedmyr The Restorer restored royal authority, reconquered all the lost domains of his ancestors, and ended The Lost Millenium. The Restorer also restored Deltopolis' original name and made the city his new capital. Whether Caedmyr XIII renamed Caedmyria after his fabled ancestor Caedmyr II or after himself had become a subject of intense debate ever since.

The Restorer built his royal castle atop Rainbow Rock, a castle that would serve as the primary royal residence for the better part of seven decades until his grandson Pharas The Builder moved the capital south to a new city he had just built: Pharasandria.

Over the last 200 years, Pharasandria had grown from a tiny town on the banks of a canal to the greatest city in the known world. Caedmyria hadn't grown as spectacularly but it remained an important city, sweeping up all the wealth that flowed down The Luche. Caedmyria was the third city of the A Hundred Realms after Namantown in the far south, a city Allara had only seen from a distance as a captive on a slave ship.

The jewel of Caedmyria was Rainbow Rock, itself as grand as only a Rhexbhurg castle could be. The castle glittering at the top of the rock was built entirely out of white marble, more palace than castle with its stepped shimmering pools and columns, elegant towers, fountains, and lush gardens. It was the most beautiful building Allara had ever seen. The White Palace, commoners called it. It looked like how Allara imagined heaven would look.

On cloudy days like this one, the castle looked like it was being lowered down from the heavens rather than built upon a rock on the ground. It was ethereal and painfully beautiful. On sunny days, rainbows danced upon its white walls. Allara had nearly wept the first time she saw Rainbow Rock in passing when traveling to Confluencia with Lady Varinia and the effect hadn't lessened with time.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Nicanor Bungbhurg, Amran's tutor, asked in Allara's ear. She turned to favor him with a smile and a nod. He lowered himself onto the grass next to her. Nicanor was a slim beautiful man with elegant mannerisms who always dressed in extravagant robes and managed to look like he had just stepped out of a bath even on the march. He was easy to talk to and even easier to look at.

Allara was infatuated with Nicanor. Sylvia was convinced he was in love with her and Allara wished it was true but that was a foolish wish. Nicanor was the scion of a lordly family and Allara a mere slave. He was also prettier than her, despite being a man. Allara had never thought such a thing was possible but looking at Nicanor made it painfully clear just how wrong her thoughts were.

Nicanor's eyes glazed over as he gazed at the palace. "I want to make love to it," he said. Allara blushed and swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. Nicanor was as oblivious to the effect his words had on her as he was to her rising heart rate. "How Pharas The Builder could abandon such a magnificent abode is beyond me. I would spend all my days admiring it if I lived here."

"Isn't the palace in Pharasandria just as magnificent?"

"The House of Purple is plenty grand but it lacks a certain something. Rainbow Rock has it."

"What is that something?" Allara asked.

"I can't say. It's one of those you know it when you see it things. Maybe it's the way it sits under the clouds or the glimmer of the marble when it catches the sun, the way those springs and fountains squirt water into the air, the vibrancy of the gardens, the rainbows, a touch of the divine. I don't know. Whatever it is, The Restorer had it. Pharas may have built more but The Restorer built better. He was truly divine."

"Aren't all kings divine?"

"They are but The Restorer was a far more impactful king. Pharas The Builder built a bunch of cities and roads in a largely peaceful time. But it was his grandfather, The Restorer, who forged that peace. The Restorer revitalized the dynasty after a thousand years of decline. When he was born, the chancellors ruled and the lords warred. Kings were powerless figureheads that didn't even control half of Rhexia, their motherland. Now they rule over all the twenty-seven kingdoms south of The Drapes. The Restorer conquered in two decades what had taken his ancestors centuries in The First Age. He is the most consequential king since The Smith himself. He ended a thousand years of petty wars and built this." Nicanor waved expansively at The White Palace. "All the progress of the last 300 years is because of The Restorer. "

"But Pharas The Builder built a lot of things. Pharasandria, the canal, The Conqueror's Path, The Long Bridge, countless cities, roads, and temples," Allara protested weakly. She knew that she had lost the argument but didn't want to give in just yet. She desperately wanted to impress this man. But he was far more learned than her. Arguing history with him was pointless.

"Sure. The canal, Pharasandria, roads, and all that are impressive. And Pharas The Builder was a great king. I don't deny it. But do tell me, Allara Stefanus, what is the date today?"

"The 19th of Baeonum."

"What year?"

"308."

"Three hundred and eight years since when?"

"The Restorer's coronation," Allara admitted reluctantly.

"Did you know that King Daegan has built more than Pharas The Builder?" Nicanor asked with a triumphant smile.

That can't be right, Allara thought. Pharas the Builder has "Builder" right next to his name. But she wasn't going to lose another argument to Nicanor. She didn't want him to think of her as just some bumpkin. "Really?" she asked noncommittally.

"Yes," Nicanor said. "He has built more miles of road, more bridges, more aqueducts, more temples, more amphitheaters, more harbors, and fortified more towns than Pharas the Builder. His fortifications are the reason The Thunderbolt managed to get north and crush the barbarians before they killed everyone. If you add in the conquests of Khwhefia and Trevantum, Daegan The Good has conquered more territory than any king since The Restorer himself."

"But The Thunderbolt conquered Khwhefia and Trevantum," Allara said.

"Daegan is king. The Thunderbolt is just a general. Both conquests happened in the king's name. His generals will get mentioned in the history books but the monuments will only bear the king's name. He will get most of the glory."

"That doesn't seem fair," Allara protested.

"Fair?" Nicanor scoffed. "What does fairness have to do with anything? Do you know the names of any of The Conqueror's companions? The Restorer's foot soldiers? Or The Thunderbolt's soldiers for that matter? Do you know the names of any of the thousands of nameless men who dug the canal and built everything else Pharas The Builder gets credit for?"

Allara slowly shook her head. Nicanor continued, "It is the man who pays the temple builders that gets to put his name on the inscription for posterity, not the laborer who stacks one stone on top of another."

"That is very a gloomy take on life," Allara grumbled.

"Do you disagree with my summation?" Nicanor asked.

"I don't disagree," Allara said. "I just don't like having to accept it."

"Don't be so morose," Nicanor advised. "Only a handful of men in each generation live on forever in story and song. The rest of us are destined for eternal obscurity."

"Even you?" Alara asked.

"Even me," Nicanor said with a hand on his chest. "I don't have the right stuff."

"What do you mean by the right stuff?"

"When we were in Trevantum, The Thunderbolt refused to massacre Trevantene prisoners after the Battle of The Causeway. He didn't want to kill other Aeduiana so he disarmed them and sent them home. Six weeks later, King Audemar turned up with another army. He was defeated again and fled the field. The Thunderbolt pardoned all the captive Trevantene soldiers again and the Baenarites mutinied. Many believed the Trevantenes had bribed the barbarians to attack us. They refused to follow orders to spare the prisoners and tried killing them all. Do you know what I would have done in that situation?"

Allara shook her head. "No."

"I would have let the soldiers have their way. Why enrage thousands of hardened killers? But The Thunderbolt stood between the Baenarites and the prisoners. Then he dared them to kill him first. When nobody moved, he dropped his sword, stripped off his armor, pushed into the ranks, and started calling out the men by name, urging them to kill him if they were so dissatisfied with his leadership. What kind of madman does that? All I could think of was, Gods no. Who will pay my wages now?"

"But they didn't kill him."

"No. They banged their spears against their shields, knelt, bowed their heads in shame, and begged for his forgiveness."

"You must have been relieved."

"Relieved and envious."

"Envious? Why?"

"Because no one has ever shown me that much respect. In fact, no one ever will."

"But you are a lord."

Nicanor chuckled. "My father is a lord. I am a fourth son. All my brothers have sons of their own. The eldest even has a grandson. Bungbhurgs may be lords but we're not Vaechbhurgs or Mekhbhurgs or Nambhurgs. To other lords, mine is a house of peasants."

"Why?" Allara couldn't understand. In her mind, a lord was a lord.

"Because we are poor and have no distinguished ancestors. Respectable lords make all their money from land. We make ours from selling wool and honey."

"Is that bad?"

"Very, very, bad. Commerce is a pursuit for commoners, not aristocrats. Coin counters is the term they use for noblemen like us. Proper noblemen don't associate with coin counters lest we contaminate them with our peasant ways."

"Why don't you just stop then?" Allara asked.

"Because we can't," Nicanor said. "We would starve. Our lands are too thin and poor for farming so we keep sheep and bees. Half our tenants pay their rent in bales of wool and casks of honey instead of silver and gold. The Thunderbolt pays me more to tutor his squires than my father collects in rents from his tenants. If my grandfather hadn't had the foresight to set up fulling mills on our land, I would be herding sheep right now. Our family name should be Fuller. Making and selling cloth is how we make our money. And we don't even make that much. A moderately prosperous merchant even here in Caedmyria could buy and sell my father ten times over."

"How did you become lords then?"

"That's a funny story," Nicanor said. "My ancestor came across King Elmarn II of Kamia lying unconscious in some grass. The king had been thrown by his horse. My ancestor thought the man was just a passed-out drunk. He shook King Elmarn and when he didn't wake, slapped him a few times out of frustration. When the king came to, he thought my ancestor had saved his life. My ancestor decided to go along with it. In gratitude, the king gave my ancestor some land, a stone watchtower, and 500 sheep. It was a pretty good deal for a fisherman returning home with a disappointing catch. Have you ever heard of Bungman's Bay?"

"No."

"Bungman's Bay where our land is. Don't worry, I always ask and nobody seems to know or care. Even fellow Kamians. Twenty years after my ancestor's land grant, Elmarn II died and his son succeeded him as Elmarn III. That same year, The Restorer crossed The Wasp's Waist and crushed the allied kings of Kamia, Kantaria, and Cuena at the Battle of Mistpass. King Elmarn and his brothers died in that battle and my ancestor's sons got captured. The Restorer offered to release all his prisoners without ransom as long as their kinsmen came in person to swear oaths of fealty. When my ancestor went to collect his sons, one of The Restorer's knights mistook him for a lord because of how well he was dressed. My ancestor didn't correct him. That same knight married Elmarn III's sister and became the new king of Kamia. When The Restorer issued The Surname Regularization Edict, we applied for a permit to call ourselves Bungbhurg and the new king allowed it. After that, we started styling ourselves as lords of Bungman's Bay. That is how we became lords."

"You became lords because of misunderstanding?" Allara gasped.

"Pretty much. Two misunderstandings in fact. Just don't go spreading the tale," Nicanor said with a wink. "I don't want to be demoted back to the commoner I am."

Allara blushed. "I won't. It's such an insane story. Don't you want to outdo your ancestor and do something grander?"

"Not all men can blunder their way into nobility like my ancestor or have songs composed about them like our master The Thunderbolt. Some of us have to be content with tutoring The Thunderbolt's squires, then his daughter, and pray that he has more children so we can remain employed."

Allara chuckled at that. "Really? Is that the sum of your ambitions?"

"We live in a world ruled by warriors, Allara Stefanus. I will never be a great warrior, therefore I will never be great. It's as simple as that. I have to be content with what I am."

"You can train."

"It is not a matter of training or the lack of it. I just don't have the stomach for bloodshed. No amount of training can change that fact. I could never stand my ground against a charging horde of bloodthirsty barbarians. Never! I would shit my breeches and pass out before they got within 100 feet of me."

Allara laughed. "Really?"

"Yes. When we were at Luche Bend I picked up a chick. It was so cute. Yellow and soft and fluffy. The mother hen wasn't impressed. It chased me around until I dropped the chick then chased me some more while some Baenarites watched and laughed."

"How did you survive in the north then?"

"By staying in camp. You think you could pay me enough to set foot on a battlefield with all those arrows flying around?" Nicanor asked.

"So you never set foot on a battlefield?"

"Only after the fighting was done and the dead were buried. They aren't pleasant places, battlefields. Corpses of men and horses stacked as high as hills, stinking of death, shit, and rot. Why can't people just get along?"

"Maybe it isn't in our nature."

"Maybe," Nicanor agreed.

Amran approached Allara and Nicanor with three servants in tow. "Nicanor Leonus," he greeted his tutor. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Not at all," Nicanor said. It's a beautiful afternoon and the view is heavenly." He waved at the castle on the rock. "Allara Stefanus here is a great conversationalist. I didn't feel like I was waiting at all."

Allara blushed at the compliment.

"I will show you to your chambers," Amran said.

"Are my chambers in the palace above or the rock below?" Nicanor asked.

"The palace above," Amran answered. He asked the priest, physician, and a couple of scribes to follow him too.

"So long, Allara Stefanus." Nicanor kissed her hand and Allara blushed red. She was too tongue-tied to speak and just smiled stupidly, hoping the hot flush she was feeling wasn't showing. She watched with growing sadness as Nicanor walked away.

Allara squealed suddenly as Sylvia made loud sucking noises in her ear. "Sylvia!" she cursed.

"Allaaara," Sylvia teased in an exaggeratedly sweet voice.

"Why did you do that?"

"I'm just imitating what you want to do with cute Nicanor."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I do."

"Gotcha!" Sylvia pounced. Allara blushed some more.

A servant from Amran's party led Allara and Sylvia to their quarters. These were in the rock itself. Allara was impressed by the large hallways and rooms carved out of solid stone. Her room was large and comfortable, if a little dark. A lantern on a stone sconce by the door did its best to banish the darkness. The furniture was simple. A bed, chair, and table, all carved out of the rock. The chair had a feather cushion and a feather mattress lay on the stone bed. Sylvia was next door.

I must be moving up in the world, Allara thought. It was the first time she had a room entirely to herself. The freedom was intoxicating. Even her saddle sores didn't itch as much. She danced and jumped and finally arranged her things neatly at the foot of the bed. But first, she needed a bath.

There was a bathhouse for servants and after some wandering she found it. "Afternoons are for men. Women use the bathhouse in the morning," an attendant at the door told her.

"But I just got here. Can't you make an exception?" Allara pleaded.

"I am not denying you use of the bathhouse," the young man said. "There are men in there. I can't kick them out for your sake and they won't go even if I tried. If you want to undress in front of them, go ahead. They wouldn't mind your company. Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind your company." He winked.

Allara left in a huff. After some wandering around the castle grounds, she saw water trickling down the rock face. She followed the tiny stream until it disappeared underground in a grove of orange trees. Allara followed the slope of the land and a couple of hundred feet later, the stream reemerged in a small clearing as a creek with sparkling water reaching up to her knees.

The clearing was quiet with no one about. Allara only had the breeze for company. She stripped naked and lowered herself into the cool water. She sighed with pleasure as it touched her skin. She scooped some in her hand and drank it. It was the best-tasting water to ever grace her tongue. "Thank you, Aemeia, Thank you, Mistress," Allara whispered.

After quenching her thirst, Allara turned her attention to her saddle sores. They were redder and angrier than ever before. Her eyes rolled back into her head with pleasure as she scratched them. She knew it would only make things worse later but scratching the itch felt so good in the moment. Finally, she lay back in the creek bed like she would in a bathtub. The bottom was sandy and soft. Allara submerged her entire body in the water, stretched out flat, and felt the weariness leave her as the cool water caressed every part of her.

When she could hold her breath no more, Allara sat up in the creek, placed her head against the bank, and napped. It was so peaceful here. When she woke up the sun had drifted across the sky. It was a dim autumn sun but it was warm enough. 'Probably an hour or two to sunset,' she thought.

She sat up and started washing. First, she washed her hair. It felt longer. She had been growing it for nearly a month. 'Two or three more months and it would reach my neck.' She used the sand from the creek bed to scour her hair, scalp, and body until she felt clean. Allara let the cool water wash away all the dirt and stresses of her 300-mile journey.

Apart from the saddle sores on her inner thighs, her skin looked good. It glowed golden as it reflected the dim sunlight just under the water. 'I need to buy olive oil,' she decided. She had been reluctant to spend any of her money but what good was gold if all she did was admire it?

After luxuriating a while longer, Allara stood up on the creek bed, droplets of water brilliantly scattering the sunlight into a thousand different colors as they dripped from her shoulders and breasts and rolled down her stomach and legs. After admiring herself for a while, Allara stretched extravagantly, shook herself suggestively, and stepped out of the creek.

The crack of a stick breaking underfoot shattered the quiet of the clearing as loudly as a scream. A man appeared a couple of paces in front of Allara. The Thunderbolt.

Allara desperately scrambled to cover everything that mattered all at once but realized that she didn't have enough hands. Covering her crotch just exposed her breasts and covering them just left everything else exposed. In an attempt to cover up everything at once, she ended up covering nothing at all, exposing all of her nakedness as her hands flailed from one body part to another. The Thunderbolt saved Allara extra embarrassment by turning his back to her.

I should just have squatted and crossed my arms, she thought bitterly as she scrambled into her linen shift. But this particular bit of wisdom came too late. 'And I forgot to bring a change of clean clothes too. How nice.'

Allara bunched up her smallclothes in one hand, having neglected to wash them earlier. She was now clearly out of time. Once properly dressed, Allara stood completely still, unsure of what to do or say next. Her heart had picked up again. The familiar terror took root in her stomach and she felt a tremor creeping up her right leg. If she stood here any longer she might just rattle and convulse herself to death with fear.

Luckily, The Thunderbolt broke the silence and ended her misery. "Are you decent?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Highness," Allara answered with a trembling voice, doing everything in her power to prevent her teeth from rattling.

He slowly turned around, checking first before making a full turn. He was simply dressed, ash gray linen tunic with purple borders, a leather belt around his waist, and open leather sandals. A sword and dagger hung from the belt. The Thunderbolt never went anywhere unarmed.

He turned the full force of his soul-stripping purple eyes onto her and made no effort to close the distance between them. Allara dropped her eyes. His first question wasn't the one Allara expected. "How did you find this place?"

"I followed a stream of water from the rock, Your Highness."

"That stream goes underground."

"I followed the lay of the land, Your Highness. It brought me here."

"Why?"

"I needed a bath, Your Highness. The attendant told me the bathhouse wasn't open to women in the afternoon."

He showed no discernible reaction to her explanation. He closed the distance between them in half a dozen long strides. Allara stiffened, uncertain of what was to come. But he just walked past her, kicked off his sandals, sat down by the creek, and dipped his feet in the water.

Allara stared everywhere but at him, not daring to move. She didn't know what the protocol was in a situation like this. "Sit with me, Allara Stefanus," he commanded.

It took a while for the command to register but even then Allara was uncertain of where to sit. Right-hand side or left-hand side? How far? Sitting too close would be overly familiar and sitting too far away might be construed as an insult. How far was far enough? Unable to make a choice, she stood still like a statue. Yet taking too long to obey wouldn't be good for her either.

Seeming to notice her predicament, The Thunderbolt tapped a spot around two feet to his right. Gingerly, and with trembling legs, Allara lowered her arse onto the exact spot his hand had been mere moments before. He watched the whole thing with his unblinking eyes. Allara looked at his feet, her feet, the water, and everywhere else but directly at him.

"I didn't expect to find anyone here. I have never found anyone here," he said.

After a long pause during which Allara deduced she was expected to speak, Allara asked, "Do you come here often, Your Highness?" He didn't answer. He just looked at her. Allara was certain she was feeling the beginnings of a headache from the strength of that stare. "Please forgive me, Your Highness. It was presumptuous of me to question you," she reversed herself.

"I grew up here. This was my favorite spot as a boy. I came here to be alone. I still do sometimes," he said. Allara thought she detected a hint of longing in his voice but she couldn't be certain.

"I am sorry for intruding, Your Highness," she apologized. Again, he just stared at her. And she stared at her feet, withering under that overpowering gaze.

"What's wrong with your legs?" he asked.

"Saddle sores, Your Highness," she answered.

He unstrapped a dagger from his belt and handed it to her. Devoid of choices, Allara accepted it with trembling hands. Was this it? Had she crossed some line by intruding on his favorite spot and now she was going to pay with her life?

The Thunderbolt's baritone cut through the storm of Allara's speculations. "Go see Albyrn."

"Your Highness?" Allara asked with a confused look. She didn't know any Albyrns.

"He's my physician. He's up at the palace. Go see him now."

"What about the dagger, Your Highness?" she asked fearfully.

He took it from her and turned it around. The hilt was made of a dark expensive-looking substance but Allara couldn't tell what it was. A thunderbolt was etched deep into the hilt with diamonds. He pulled the blade from its sheath. The whorls and sliver-gold glimmer of sichumradi were unmistakable.

"I don't have my seal on me. You can't go up to the summit of the rock without my permission and the guards won't take your word for it. Show them the dagger. And leave it with Albyrn. Go."

"Yes, Your Highness… Thank you, Your Highness," Allara stammered as she scrambled to her feet and ran out of the clearing. She didn't stop until she got to her room. Her heart thudded like drums at a parade. It took a long while before she calmed down.

She put on some smallclothes and changed into her best dress, the yellow linen one Clara had lent her. Clara had insisted that she keep it. "A parting gift," the widow had insisted the following morning. Allara had protested weakly but eventually acquiesced. She had precious few clothes as it was. She was in no position to reject such a generous gift.

'Why am I always so terrified of him?' Allara chided herself as she dressed. 'He has been nothing but kind to me.' But a few images came unbidden to her mind. The Baenarite he had beheaded so unceremoniously all those years ago, Rhatko chewing on his own penis while weeping like a little girl, 64 men falling on their swords, on his orders, the Criss-Cross Bandit, mountains of dead men, and what she could only imagine was the causeway of a million corpses. And those eyes. Those inhuman, all-seeing, headache-inducing, mind-reading, soul-stripping purple eyes. Those eyes probably terrified her more than all the people The Thunderbolt had killed.

Once dressed Allara sat on her bed and examined the dagger. It was gorgeously crafted. The fullers and sharpened edges made it look more like a small sword than a dagger. Allara idly wondered how many people The Thunderbolt had killed with it.

She passed her finger over the flat of the blade, over the glimmering whorls that were as smooth as glass. That surprised Allara. Allara had expected the whorls to be rough to the touch. She had never touched sichumradi before. As Allara held the dagger between her thumb and forefinger, watching the interplay of light from the lantern on the whorls, she was acutely aware that the dagger was worth more than anything any Vindeler had ever owned.

Only a handful of sichumradi weapons were produced any given year and the priests of Aemlilon's Order of Crafting had to literally give up an arm and a leg to learn the secrets of forging the metal. This was in keeping with the roots of the order, founded by the first Rhexbhurg king, Caedmyr I, called The Smith.

When Aemlilon lay with a mortal woman, his jealous wife, Aemeia, cursed his seed, causing his son, Caedmyr, to be born with withered legs in an era when children with any deformities were tossed in the river.

The crippled demigod was duly tossed into the river but his mother, Bhai Andi, jumped in after her son and kept his head above the water. A repentant Aemeia ordered the current to seize them. Two days later, mother and son were deposited on an uninhabited island at the confluence of four rivers, the site of modern Confluencia.

Every day, discarded children would wash up on the island, miraculously alive. These discarded and deformed infants became the first followers of Caedmyr I. Bhai Andi tended to them while her son, imbued with all the secrets of the gods, taught them. He taught them metallurgy in an era when man could barely craft wood. He taught them to farm, tame horses, make glass, and build in stone. His followers dubbed him Mwiraanyi (the metal killer), a word that would be broadened over time and now applied to all smiths.

While other men warred and suffered outside, The Smith, his followers, and their offspring thrived. But they thrived too much, and drew the jealous eyes of able-bodied men who thought the island of cripples would make for easy pickings. It did.

Sneaking in with rafts one night, raiders dragged away as much loot and as many captives as they could. The Smith's 20-year-old son, Pharas, known to history as Pharas The Great, organized a defense from among the island's able-bodied population, all of whom were sons of the first-generation cripples, and chased off the invaders, but not before they had killed or captured a substantial portion of the settlement's people. Among the dead was The Smith himself, killed so his golden blood could be used in the casting of sorcerous spells.

A lot of the knowledge inside The Smith's head was lost with his death. Only a small fraction remained, the knowledge possessed by apprentices who had evaded death or capture. This debilitating loss of valuable knowledge drove Pharas The Great to invent a writing system to ensure such a thing would never happen again. The most skilled of The Smith's apprentices formed The Order of Crafting, the oldest priestly order in Aeduianism.

Among other idiosyncrasies, The Order of Crafting was the only Aeduianic priestly order that didn't demand that its members be celibate. But The Order of Crafting's best-known practice was the insistence that any able-bodied man wishing to learn The Smith's secrets had to cripple himself.

The itching of Allara's saddle sores interrupted her musings on how the Rhexbhurgs had gone from cripples to conquerors. She resisted the urge to scratch and left her room to go see the doctor.

The guards at the base of Rainbow Rock refused to let her up just as The Thunderbolt had predicted. Then she showed them the dagger and they fell over themselves trying to help her into a winch cage. That response improved Allara's mood greatly. She broke out into a smile. Allara had never felt as important as she did when a man whipped some oxen and as they moved the steel chains creaked and the cage started rising against the rock face. She felt like a goddess, soaring above mere mortals.

The summit of Rainbow Rock was even more magnificent up close than it looked from the ground. For starters, everything looked a lot larger. The white palace was set 200 feet away from the edge and it was massive. The ridged columns were 30 feet tall and the garden fronting the entrance had full-sized trees. The white marble glimmered brightly up close. It was almost blinding. A fountain in the middle of the garden spouted water 100 feet into the air. The water misted into small droplets that scattered the rays of the dimming sun into a thousand little rainbows.

Fronting the main entrance was a giant golden statue of Aemlilon astride Siiruch, his trusty double-headed eagle. A life-size statue of The Restorer stood below the eagle's two heads, his sword raised high.

Allara showed The Thunderbolt's dagger to some guards here and was again waved through the entrance with pomp and deference fit for a queen.

She found herself in a cloistered courtyard with dozens of doors and hallways fronting another magnificent garden dotted with fountains, statues, trees, and a thousand herbs and flowers. Allara wandered around, utterly lost. She looked for servants but saw none. Everyone she spotted appeared too highborn to entertain being asked for directions by a slave.

'I'll head back and ask the guards,' Allara thought, turned, and came face to face with Saurena Trevantbhurg. She quickly jumped out of the way to avoid colliding with her. "Good evening, Your Highness," Allara said with a small bow. The sour-faced princess never deigned to acknowledge her, sweeping by in a whoosh of skirts. Allara could easily have been a fly on the wall. All that remained was the lingering scent of Princess Saurena's exotic perfume. 'Beautiful as a statue. And just as cold.'

"Frigid little bitch, isn't she?" someone whispered in Allara's ear. Startled, she turned quickly. Too quickly. Her lips brushed past his and sparks flew.

"My lord Nicanor," she sputtered.

His blue eyes glimmered. "Please, Alla. All my friends call me Nick."

He was freshly bathed and in a fresh set of robes. Flowing blue silk that nearly touched the ground. The robes were bordered in purple and patterned with flowers and prancing horses in golden thread. The fastenings were made of beaten silver. Nicanor standing so close made Allara incapable of thinking straight. She found his smile extremely distracting. And the brush pass kiss. 'Oh.'

"Come on, say it," he encouraged.

"Say what, my lord?"

He put a finger on her lips. "Not my lord. Just Nick. Say Nick."

Slowly, uncertainly, Allara whispered, "Nick." He kept his index finger on her lip the whole time. All she could think of was whether she should lick it or not. The temptation was so strong. 'Why does he have to tease me so?'

He finally moved his finger but only to cradle her chin. He raised her head and stared deep into her eyes. Allara blushed all over. His head moved closer. This is it. He's going to kiss me, she thought. Allara completely forgot where she was. Her world narrowed to Nicanor. And his eyes. And his lips. Oh. His lips! She had felt them against hers ever so briefly. She wanted nothing else. She closed her eyes and braced for the kiss. It never came.

"What brings you up here, Alla?" he asked sweetly.

Allara opened her eyes in consternation. Her mouth was suddenly dry. "Um… uh…" she stammered. "I'm looking for Albyrn, my lord… uh… Nick."

"Ahh! The doctor," he said with a smile. "I will take you. What are you carrying over there?" He pointed at the little bundle in her hand as they walked down a hallway. She had wrapped The Thunderbolt's dagger in a strip of white linen. She unwrapped the bundle and showed him.

"Where did you get that?" he asked with an edge in his voice.

"His Highness gave it to me. Said the guards wouldn't let me up here otherwise. I am to leave it with the doctor."

"Oh," Nicanor sighed. "You talked to him?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Less than an hour ago."

"Our Princess of Ice must really regret ignoring you."

"Why?"

"She's looking for him. Well, everyone is looking for him but she most of all."

"Why is that?"

Nicanor flashed her a cheeky smile. "She saves up all her smiles for him. When he isn't around she gets very grumpy."

"I don't understand," Allara said.

"She's been trying to charm him with her feminine wiles. Do you understand now?" Nicanor asked.

"Yes." Allara nodded. "But he's married."

"And when has that ever stopped an ambitious woman?"

Allara had no counter to that.

"But she is doomed to fail," Nicanor added.

"Truly?" Allara asked hopefully. The princess was of the highest birth and exceedingly beautiful. That was a combination few men could resist. But Allara hated her and wished her all the failure in the world.

"He is not a lover of the ladies, our master," Nicanor said. "Or even men, for that matter. The charm of the vices the rest of us indulge in so passionately is utterly lost on him. No drink, no women, no gambling. He is dispassionate about everything except fruitcake."

"Fruitcake?" Allara asked, remembering her breakfast on Aedusia. Sylvia had been hired based solely on her fruitcake.

"Yes," Nicanor said with a nod. "He is very particular about it. Developed his own recipe, from the milling of the wheat to the filtration of the honey, the churning of the butter, the mixing of the ingredients, and even the construction of the oven and the type of fuel. Only coal, no firewood. When his baker got beaten senseless by a bunch of drunk Baenarites, he hanged them all."

"Wow!" Allara exclaimed.

Nicanor's face took on a serious look. "Never mess with The Thunderbolt's fruitcake. Which is all the worse for our Lady Saurena."

"How's that worse for her?"

"She appears genuinely taken with him. She even mastered his fruitcake recipe. Spent most of the day in the kitchens baking it herself. And yet The Thunderbolt possibly left the palace just to avoid her," Nicanor sucked in a breath through his teeth. "That must sting." He pointed at a large oaken door banded with iron. "We're here." An engraved bronze nameplate on the door read, "Sanatorium."

"I will see you around, Alla." Nicanor looked around before kissing her cheek. Allara blushed. She watched longingly as he walked away. She watched until he turned a corner, wiped the smile off her face, and turned to the doctor's door.

She banged the brass knocker and the door swung open as if of its own volition. That illusion was broken by the sight of a teenage boy standing behind the door. Beyond was a moderately large room lined with benches and two hallways heading in opposite directions. A young man of twenty-something years sat behind a desk, scribbling something with a quill. He looked up, glanced at Allara, and went back to his writing.

Behind him was a massive shelf lined with bottles and vials of glass, wood, and clay. The glass vials had all manner of liquids in them. Liquids of 100 different colors. Another man, slightly younger than the scribbler but older than the door opener, sat at a desk, pounding something with a mortar and pestle. He never looked away from his task.

"What can we do for you?" the boy behind the door asked. He couldn't have been older than Bogdyr. An apprentice, Allara thought.

"His Highness told me to come see Albyrn."

The boy gestured. "Come." Allara followed him through a door behind the scribbler. Beyond was a large room fronting a balcony. Caedmyria stretched out in the distance with all its canals and bridges. Allara saw countless roofs tiled with clay and the domes of half a hundred temples.

The many branches of The Luche had been diverted and shaped to conform to the grid layout of a proper Rhexian city. The canals ran in straight lines and intersected at evenly spaced open squares. Allara had never surveyed a city from above before. It was a heady feeling. She wondered how many kings had stood on the balconies of that very palace and looked upon all their subjects below.

By the balcony, a man with hair as white as the walls napped on a large comfortable couch. His robes were just as white but they were trimmed in gold and patterned with silver thread.

"Master Albyrn. Master Albyrn." The apprentice shook the old man awake.

The man sat up and rubbed his eyes. The boy pointed at her. Albyrn walked up to her. He had a lined face and looked at least seventy but was surprisingly spry. He walked without a stoop or a stick.

He lowered himself into a leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. "What ails you, child?" he asked in a kindly voice.

"I have saddle sores."

"Let's see," he prompted.

Allara hesitated. The doctor seemed used to this. "It could be saddle sores or it could be jiggers eating you inside out. I can't know until I see. Do you want to die over modesty?"

Allara slowly shook her head. "No." She glanced at the boy, still hesitant.

"He needs to learn," Albyrn said simply. He stood and sat on the desk.

Slowly, Allara hitched up her dress until the first sore showed. Her smallclothes were almost showing when Albyrn said, "That's far enough."

"Tell me what you see," he addressed the boy.

"They are indeed saddle sores. Five or six days old. Untreated and she had been scratching," the boy answered quickly. Allara was surprised at how accurate the diagnosis was.

"Don't scratch them again," Albyrn told her. She nodded. "How do we treat this?" Albyrn asked his apprentice.

"An unguent, Master Albyrn."

The old man narrowed his eyes. "What kind of unguent?"

"Aloe sap."

"Do you know how to prepare it?"

"Yes," the boy responded. The old man just eyed him quietly, waiting for him to say more. The boy continued, "Six parts aloe sap, one part honey, one part boiling water, and two parts ground-up bark from the white fig."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Albyrn asked.

The boy thought a little and immediately answered, "Half a part distilled wine."

"Go make it."

The apprentice left and Allara lowered her dress again. The doctor went back to his chair. Allara slid over the dagger. "His Highness said to leave this with you," she explained. Albyrn picked it up, glanced at it, and put it away without comment.

The boy returned almost immediately with a small clay jar. "So fast?" the old man asked.

"We prepared an extra batch. A lot of saddle sores among the new arrivals," he explained.

"And you put distilled wine in that?"

The apprentice nodded. "Yes."

Albyrn waved and the boy handed her the clay jar. "Clean the area and pat completely dry before applying the unguent," Albyrn instructed. "Pat, don't rub. And don't scratch."

She nodded. Albyrn continued, "Apply the unguent twice a day and wash your hands immediately after. Wash them well. It's not a very pleasant substance but it will dry out your sores by this time tomorrow. The scabs will take ten days or so to fall off and the discoloration will linger a while longer but it will disappear eventually. Do you have any other issue?"

"No, doctor."

"Then you can go."

"Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome, child."

Back in her chamber, Allara washed her angry red sores with a little water from a bowl. Some were already growing whiteheads. She removed the stopper from the jar and poured some unguent into her hand. It was a thick liquid with the color and consistency of heavy barley porridge.

She waited until a thick glob had accumulated on her hand then applied it onto the sores. She regretted it instantly. It stung. It stung like a thousand needles had been pushed into her thighs all at once with boiling oil poured on top for good measure. Her eyes watered. She wanted to scream. And she did. But only momentarily. The sound bounced off the rock and returned to mock her.

She applied the rest of the unguent less generously, dipping a finger into the jar and dabbing it on each individual sore, hissing all the while. But Albyrn was right. When she woke up the following morning, her red sores had shrunk and lost their angry coloring. The unguent didn't sting as much when she applied it. By evening, the sores were completely dried out and the unguent didn't sting at all when it met her skin.

Allara had little to do in the days she spent at Rainbow Rock. So she flirted with Nicanor and explored Caedmyria with Sylvia. They rode boats through Caedmyria's countless canals, visited the shrine at the site of The Conqueror's death, and prayed at many of the city's fabled temples. They even tried to visit Bogdyr at Baenaria, the Baenarites' garrison town just south of Caedmyria but were chased away. "This is an army camp, not a temple. Get lost before I have you flogged," a guard at the gate threatened. They didn't wait for him to make his threats real, giggling like little girls as they ran off.

But what Allara loved most was the time she spent with Nicanor. They graduated from flirting to stealing kisses by Allara's second day at Rainbow Rock. Nicanor told her they may not have as much freedom once they got to Pharasandria so they took advantage of any opportunity they could to be alone.

All this was insanely scandalous. It was improper for Allara, an unmarried woman, to spend any time with a man without a chaperone present. But it didn't matter as long as nobody saw them. And Allara didn't care anyway. She was in love.

One of the only advantages of being a slave was that nobody cared whom she consorted with. This made her virtually invisible to almost everyone. Everyone but Nicanor. They made copies of their room keys and exchanged them. Allara never went up to Nicanor's quarters at the palace above but Nicanor often snuck into her room in the rock. Sometimes it was late at night, sometimes early in the morning. Allara didn't care what hour it was. She was always happy to see him.

In the presence of others, they maintained a respectable distance but alone, they were inseparable. They didn't talk much when they were alone. They just kissed. They would kiss for hours. They would kiss until Allara ran out of breath and her lips bruised. Then they would kiss some more. They would kiss until Nicanor had to sneak away again.

Allara had only been in love once before but the object of her affection hadn't shared her passion. He only had eyes for another. It had hurt Allara more than she would ever admit but Nicanor healed that. He made her forget it. He only had eyes for her and she only for him. Allara had so much love to give and she gave it. She would have given all of herself to Nicanor if he didn't stop her for honor's sake.

"I don't want to dishonor you," Nicanor would say whenever Allara got too overzealous in her attempts to introduce his hands to every little part of her body.

All Allara could think of was: 'Dishonor me today. Dishonor me tomorrow. Dishonor me forever. Dishonor me every day until the end of my days. I will let you.' She thought it but she didn't say it. She tried to say it with her eyes but Nicanor couldn't read them.

Most afternoons, while Nicanor tutored his students, Allara ran errands for him. She didn't mind. She and Sylvia were going into Caedmyria every day anyway. And she would do anything for Nicanor. She enjoyed running errands for him. Nicanor always had a letter to be delivered or picked up, some rare book to be tracked down, or clothes to be repaired.

On her last day at Rainbow Rock, something Allara didn't know yet, she went into Caedmyria as usual with Sylvia in tow. Nicanor had a pair of boots that he needed resoled. The soles looked fine to Allara but Nicanor was very particular about his appearance. But luck conspired against her. The cobbler Nicanor insisted she use, the best cobbler in Caedmyria, hadn't opened his shop that day. While Allara thought of what to do next, it started raining. Heavily.

The rain didn't abate for two hours and by the time it did, the day was shot. It was still mid-afternoon but they resolved to return to Rainbow Rock. The rain brought a chill with it and as Allara and Sylvia hadn't brought any warm clothing, their shivering ruined any hopes of adventure.

Their first stop at the Rainbow Rock was the kitchens, where they warmed themselves in front of the fire. Once warm enough Allara left Sylvia and went back to her room.

'I must have forgotten to lock it,' Allara thought when she saw her unlocked door. She pushed it but stayed put. It stuck sometimes. She stepped back and dove into the door with her shoulder. Wood cracked and the door flew open.

First, she heard them, grunting and moaning. Then she saw them. Nicanor and the Purple Shield, Mukhlun Gregory. They were on her bed, humping like hogs in heat. They saw her at the same time.

Allara ran out and leaned against the wall, trying to regain her breath. 'Fool! Fool! Fool!' a voice in her head taunted. A strong hand grabbed Allara and dragged her back inside. The door slammed shut and she found herself face to face with the two half-naked men. The warrior priest's face was hard and unyielding, his bald dome glimmering threateningly in the lantern light.

Nicanor was all smiles as always. "Alla," he said sweetly. But Allara didn't find his smile endearing anymore. It was disgusting. It reminded her of the smile Smandan Salandbhurg had on when he offered her father a noose.

"I thought you were tutoring the squires," she said.

"I tutor them in the mornings," Nicanor responded. The smile was still plastered on his face. Allara suddenly understood what those errands were all about. It had sounded so romantic when Nicanor suggested they make copies of their keys and exchange them. Now…

"You used me," Allara said bitterly.

"Come on, Alla," he said with his disgusting smile again. "We're friends, no?"

"You used me."

"There is so little privacy up there with all those people. Down here, where you servants live, nobody monitors anything."

'You servants.' The phrase had a bitter edge to it. It was a greater insult than his betrayal. He had despised her from the start. His charm was all an act. There was so much she wanted to say to him. Yet all she could get out was, "You used me." Part of her thought if she repeated it enough times it would cease to be real.

Then Nicanor kissed her. Full on the lips with tongue and everything. He had never kissed her like that before. With so much passion. That kiss made Allara realize just how tepid all his previous kisses had been. The realization made her blood boil.

She bit down, hard. She missed his tongue by a hair's breadth but she still got his lower lip. She nearly tore it off. He screamed and she tasted his blood. A blow to the stomach knocked the wind out of Allara and slammed her against the door. As she gasped, her teeth released their grip on Nicanor's lip and he staggered back, still screaming as blood streamed out of his mouth.

"Cunt!" he cursed. She just spat out his blood and smiled with malevolence.

"She has to die," Mukhlun Gregory said. Allara's blood stopped. She tried to run but barely managed to move before the warrior priest slammed her against the door. Almost immediately, there was a sword at her throat. The sword dug into her skin and she said a silent prayer.

"Greg, what are you doing?" a fearful Nicanor gasped.

"What do you think? I told you not to go overboard with that romantic nonsense."

"They were getting suspicious of us. I had to throw them off the scent."

"And now she has seen us. She won't shut up. She has to die. You want to do the honors?"

"Greg!" Nicanor pleaded. "You can't kill her. Are you mad? What do you think he will do to us?"

"He's not going to question us about some random slave."

"Oh, I think he is. He is very fond of her. Have you forgotten those guards at The Roost? Do you think you can lie to his face? The man's a mind reader. I am certain of it." The warrior-priest paused at these words. The grim look on his face turned uncertain.

Nicanor walked up to Allara, his lip still bloody. He addressed her directly, "You know I still consider you a friend, Alla. Greg here wants you dead. I don't think it's necessary. You won't tell, will you?"

All Allara did was glare at them. This time, they read her eyes.

"You see," Mukhlun Gregory said. "First thing she will do when she gets out of here is blab about us and then you will be buried alive."

"Don't you mean we?" Nicanor asked. "Both of us will be buried alive."

"Not me," the warrior priest said with a shake of his head. "I will dispatch myself before they ever get to me. I advise you to do the same."

Nicanor shuddered. "You don't want to see your friends buried alive, do you Alla?" he pleaded as he hugged Mukhlun Gregory from behind and started caressing his shoulders. She just glared at him. "We love each other, you know. Greg and I. We love each other very much. We have had so few opportunities to be together since the war broke out. I am sorry we had to use your room for our trysts. But you will keep our little secret, won't you?" Allara said nothing.

"We will owe you our very lives," Nicanor said. "And we can be very grateful."

'The carrot,' Allara thought. "Why don't you tell that to the sword at my throat?" she spat. Nicanor whispered something to the warrior priest. Mukhlun Gregory shook his head adamantly.

"Greg runs a little hot. He doesn't think we can count on your discretion." Allara kept glaring at him "What's the name of that brother of yours, the bull slayer?" Nicanor asked. Allara just stared back.

"Bogdyr," Mukhlun Gregory answered. "Bogdyr Stefanus Vindeler. 4th Regiment, First Thousand, Fourth Quarter. He is training at the barracks. I registered him myself." Allara's blood froze.

"We wouldn't want anything to happen to him, do we?" Nicanor asked pleasantly, his ruined lip making his smile look all the more grotesque.

'The stick.' Allara knew they had won. The threat was as clear as day. She had no doubt Mukhlun Gregory had a friend or two among the Baenarites who could arrange an accident for Bogdyr. Allara drew in a deep breath as her body slumped in defeat. Nicanor smiled triumphantly and Mukhlun Gregory withdrew his sword. Allara rubbed her neck and checked her thumb. It had a red smear.

A knock came on the door. "Allara Stefanus. Allara Stefanus," Amran called.

"Shhhh." Mukhlun Gregory put a finger to his lips and the sword back at Allara's throat. Nicanor wiped her mouth with a linen cloth and stepped behind the door.

"Allara Stafanus, your door is unlocked. I saw you come in a couple of minutes ago. Open up!" Amran raged.

With the tip of a sword digging into her back, Allara opened the door a crack and poked out her head. "Sorry. I was dressing," she lied.

Amran handed her a slip of parchment with The Thunderbolt's seal on it. "His Highness Prince Caedmyr commands your presence in his study. Bring your friend, Lyvia." The squire turned and walked away.

Mukhlun Gregory dragged Allara back in and slammed the door shut as soon as Amran was gone. He held his sword against her while whispering desperately with his lover. Allara only heard a few words. But she didn't need to hear everything to know what they were talking about.

Their predicament was clear. If she told The Thunderbolt, they would be dead before they could plan a hit on Bogdyr. She enjoyed the desperate looks on their faces.

Mukhlun Gregory finally withdrew the sword from Allara's neck. "I am taking a ride to the barracks," he explained as he got dressed. "Nicky will stay here. Keep him alive and The Bullslayer lives to see another sunrise. If anything happens to him, I will take your brother to the afterlife with me."

Mukhlun Gregory left first to get a headstart, leaving Allara alone with a trembling Nicanor. They had to count to 500 before Allara left the room. 'What a pathetic little man,' Allara thought as she watched Nicanor's skinny shoulders do a jig as if the room were made of ice. He didn't look as impressive out of his extravagant robes. Allara had seen ten-year-old girls more muscular than this wimpy beanstalk, a thought that left her wondering what she had ever seen in him in the first place.

"Five hundred," Nicanor said with a quivering voice, interrupting her thoughts. He had tears in his eyes and tried to say something but couldn't get it out. Allara turned her back to him and strode out. She fetched Sylvia and went up to the palace.

Allara and Sylvia waited outside a set of massive bronze doors while The Thunderbolt saw one person after another for the better part of an hour before Amran finally led them into the study. The room was massive. The walls were lined with bookshelves holding hundreds of leather-bound books. The balcony was open and the view of Caedmyria from this room was even more spectacular than the view from the doctor's office.

The Thunderbolt sat behind a massive desk of multicolored marble carved in the shape of Bhai Andium. On his lap was a girl of four. Princess Xaena. It could only be her. She had the bronze skin and the inhuman purple eyes of her father.

The Thunderbolt was listening intently to something his daughter was saying. It was only after the girl was done that he turned to them. "Have you healed?" he asked Allara.

"Yes, Your Highness," she answered.

"What happened to your neck?" the princess pounced.

"My neck, Your Highness?" Allara asked with a puzzled look.

Princess Xaena pointed. "It has blood."

"Oh. I must have nicked myself while shaving, Your Highness," Allara lied breathlessly.

"You have a beard? Like my father?" Princess Xaena asked while mangling The Thunderbolt's square jaw with a tiny hand. It had the faint beginnings of a 5 o'clock shadow.

"No, Your Highness," Allara said.

"Then what were you shaving?"

"It is impolite to pry, Xaena," The Thunderbolt scolded mildly, saving Allara from having to make up another half-baked explanation.

"Yes, father," the princess relented. "But, she was not shaving, right?"

"No," The Thunderbolt agreed. "She is not a good liar." For some reason, this made Xaena Rhexbhurg giggle and point a mocking finger at Allara.

The princess turned to her father. "Am I a good liar, father?"

The Thunderbolt gave her a stern look. "I would rather you were not a liar at all." The girl smiled at him and he smiled back. It was a brief flash of teeth and softening of his facial muscles yet Allara felt like it was something profound. The room got brighter. She had never thought the Thunderbolt capable of smiling.

He pulled a sheet of paper from a stack on his desk, rolled it up, sealed it with purple wax, and pressed his signet ring into it. "This is for the both of you." He waved the letter at Allara and Sylvia then held it out. Allara stretched out her hand and took it.

"You will give it to my chamberlain when you get to Landshield," he instructed.

"Your Highness," Allara said. "We don't know what Landshield is."

"It's my father's castle. In Pharasandria," Princess Xaena said proudly. "One of forty-two."

The Thunderbolt gave his daughter another stern look but she smiled at him and tickled his chin, something that made him smile back. He turned to them with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Amran will take you."

"Your Highness, I thought I will be marching in the Khwisakul," the squire protested weakly.

"You will," The Thunderbolt promised. "The victory parade will be on the first. You will join the army at the Siwanj Aesandrius when the day comes. But your mother misses you. I told her you were coming. Go spend the next few days with her. The Khwisakul isn't going anywhere. Pack your armor and everything else you need. You will take a sweet kiss in the morning."

Amran bowed and led them out.

"A sweet kiss," Sylvia giggled as soon as they were out of the door. "Is he going to kiss us?"

"'A Sweet Kiss' is a warship, Lyvia," Amran scolded her. "Get your mind out of the gutter."