He quickly kenneled that dark thought with the others baying somewhere in the back of his mind.

They burned two candles to stumps before Micum threw down his cards. "Well, I guess that's enough losing for one night. All that riding's finally caught up with me."

"I'd put you up in here, but—" Seregil began.

Micum dismissed his apology with a knowing look. "It's a clear night and we have good tents. See you in the morning."

Seregil watched from the doorway until Beka and Micum had disappeared among the tents, then turned to Alec, belly already tight with dread.

Alec sat idly shuffling the cards, and the flickering light of the fire made him look older than his years. "Now?" he asked, gentle but implacable.

Seregil sat down and rested his elbows on the table. "Of course I want to go back to Aurenen. But not this way. Nothing's been forgiven."

"Tell me everything, Seregil. This time I want it all."

All? Never that, tali.

Memories surged again like a dirty spring flood bursting its banks. What to pluck out first from the debris of his broken past?

"My father, Korit i Solun, was a very powerful man, one of the most influential members of the Iia'sidra." A dull ache gripped his heart as he pictured his father's face, so thin and stern, eyes cold as sea smoke. They hadn't been like that before his wife's death, or so Seregil had been told.

"My clan, the Bokthersa, is one of the oldest and most highly respected. Our fai'thast lies on the western border, close to the Zengati tribal lands."

" 'Fade as'?"

"Fai'thast. It means 'folk lands'; 'home. It's the territory each clan owns." Seregil spelled the word out for him, a comfortingly familiar ritual. They'd done it so often that they scarcely noticed the interruption. Only later did it strike him that of all the words he'd poured out in his native tongue over the past two years, that one had not been among them.

"The western clans always had more dealings with the Zengati— raids out of the mountains, pirates along the coast, that sort of thing," he continued. "But the Zengati are clannish, too, and some tribes are friendlier than others. The Bokthersa and a few other clans traded with some of them over the years; my grandfather, Solun i Meringil, wanted to go further and establish a treaty between our two countries. He passed the dream on to my father, who finally convinced the Iia'sidra to meet with a Zengati delegation to discuss possibilities. The gathering took place the summer I was twenty-two; by Aurenfaie reckoning that made me younger than you are now."

Alec nodded. There was no exact correlation between human and Aurenfaie ages. Some stages of life lasted longer than others, some less. Being only half 'faie himself, he was maturing more rapidly than an Aurenfaie would, yet he would probably live as long.

"Many Aurenfaie were against a treaty," Seregil went on. "For time out of mind the Zengati have raided our shores—taking slaves, burning towns. Every house along the southern coast has a few battle trophies. It's a testament to the influence of our clan that my father got as far with his plan as he did.

"The gathering took place beside a river on the western edge of our fai'thast, and at least half the clans there had come to make sure he failed. For some, it was hatred of the Zengati, but there were others, like the Viresse and Ra'basi, who disliked the prospect of western clans allying with the Zengati. Looking back now, I suppose it was a justifiable concern.

"You recall me saying that Aurenen has no king or queen? Each clan is governed by a khirnari—"

" 'And the khirnari of the eleven principal clans form the Iia'sidra Council, which acts as a meeting place for the making of alliances and the settling of grievances and feuds, " Alec finished, rattling it off like a lesson.

Seregil chuckled; you seldom had to teach him anything twice, especially if it had to do with Aurenen. "My father was the khirnari for Bokthersa, just as my sister Adzriel is now. The khirnari of all the principal clans and many of the lesser ones came together with the Zengati. The tents covered acres, a whole town sprung up like a patch of summer mushrooms." He smiled wistfully, remembering kinder days. "Entire families came, as if it were a festival. The adults went off and growled at each other all day, but for the rest of us, it was fun."

He rose to pour fresh wine, then stood by the hearth, swirling the untasted contents of his cup. The closer he came to the heart of the story, the harder it was to tell.

"I don't suppose I've ever said much about my childhood?" "Not a lot," Alec allowed, and Seregil sensed the lingering resentment behind the bland words. "I know that, like me, you never knew your mother. You once let slip that you have three sisters besides Adzriel. Let's see: Shalar, Mydri, and—who's the youngest?" "Ilina."

"Ilina, yes, and that Adzriel raised you." "Well, she did her best. I was rather wild as a boy." Alec smirked. "I'd be more surprised to hear that you weren't." "Really?" Seregil was grateful or this brief, bantering respite. "Still, it didn't much please my father. In fact, I don't remember much about me that did, except my skill at music and swordplay, and those weren't enough most days. By the time I'm speaking of, I mostly just stayed out of his way.

"This gathering threw us back together again, and at first I did my best to behave. Then I met a young man named Ilar." Just speaking the name made his chest tighten. "Ilar i Sontir. He was a Chyptaulos, one of the eastern clans my father hoped to sway to our side. My father was delighted—at first.

"Ilar was …" The next part came hard. Just speaking the man's name aloud brought him back like a summoned spirit. "He was handsome, impetuous, and always had plenty of time to go hunting or swimming with my friends and me. He was nearly man grown, and we were all terribly flattered by his attention. I was his favorite from the start, and after a few weeks the two of us began to go off on our own whenever we could."

He took a long sip from his cup and saw that his hand was trembling. For years he'd buried these memories, but with a single telling the old feelings surfaced, raw as they'd been that long ago summer.

"I'd had a few flirtations—friends, girl cousins, and the like—but nothing like this. I suppose you could say he seduced me, though as I recall it didn't take much effort on his part."

"You loved him."

"No!" Seregil snapped, as memories of silken lips and callused hands against his skin taunted him. "No, not love. I was passion-blind, though. Adzriel and my friends tried to warn me about him, but by then I was so infatuated I'd have done anything for him. And in the end, I did.

"Ironically, Ilar was the first to recognize and encourage my less noble talents. Even untrained, I had clever hands and a knack for skulking. He'd devise little challenges to test me—innocent at first, then less so. I lived for his praise." He glanced guiltily at Alec. "Rather like you and me, back when we first met. It's one of the things that made me keep you at arm's length for so long; the fear of corrupting you the way he did me."

Alec shook his head. "It was different with us. Go on, finish this and be done with it. What happened?"

Older than his years, Seregil thought again. "Very well, then. One of my father's most vociferous opponents was Nazien i Hari, khirnari of Haman clan. Ilar convinced me that certain papers in Nazien's tent would aid my father's cause, that I alone had the skill to sneak in and 'borrow' them." He grimaced, disgusted at the green fool he'd been. "So I went. Everyone else was off at some ritual that night, but one of Nazien's kinsmen came back and caught me at it. It was dark; he must not have seen that it was a boy he was drawing his dagger against. There was just enough light for me to see the flash of his blade and the angry glint in his eyes. Terrified, I drew my own and struck out. I didn't mean to kill him, but I did." He let out a bitter laugh. "I don't suppose even Ilar expected that when he sent the Haman back."