“No matter, he left hung over and satisfied. At that point, it was as good an outcome as I could hope for.”

Thyatis bowed her head as well, in contrition and to hide her relief that she would not be forced to undergo the awful prospect of trying to seduce a young man of high station in front of twenty or thirty of his peers and acquaintances. Only the evident discomfiture of the Prince and the timely intervention of Krista with an artfully spilled tray of fresh-cut fruit had saved her from fleeing the dining hall in shame and utter embarrassment.

Anastasia sighed, leaning back in the divan, her eyes narrowed in thought. Krista, still prostrate, slowly crept back out of sight of her mistress. The Duchess twirled one of her long dark curls around an elegant finger for a moment, then tucked it back into place. By her face, Thyatis saw that she had come to some decision.

“Today,” Anastasia began in a businesslike voice, “the Emperor summoned me to the Offices and laid out before me his… requests… for me and those who serve me. He is undertaking a daring campaign to assist the Emperor of the East. He has requested that I provide him with persons of certain abilities to serve on his staff during this expedition. Among them, I believe that I shall send you, Thyatis, along with your faithful Nikos, as… hmm… couriers would suit you best. I expect that you will be rather out of place in precincts that are usually the domain of men, but I believe that you will prosper.”

Thyatis was slowly overcome by a sense of giddy relief and anticipation. She was going to resume her previous work, and with Nikos at her side, no less.‘ The prospect of having a well-wrapped sword-hilt in her hand and boots on her feet washed over her like an exquisite wine. No more wretched perfumes or troublesome garments! No more house servants fluttering around her like distraught moths when she did not sit properly…

Anastasia shook her head, smiling, at the joy apparent in her young ward. She wagged an admonishing finger at the seventeen-year-old. “Calm yourself, my dear. You will be in Constantinople soon enough.”

THE WINE-DARK SEA, NORTH OF ALEXANDRIA

H

The creaking of a sail and the slap of bare feet on planking woke Dwyrin from part of his fever dream. Darkness and a terrible fetid smell surrounded him. He was very thirsty. The storm of colors that had clouded his vision for so long had begun to recede from his sight. Distantly he knew that the privations his body had been subjected to were beginning to focus his mind as the body failed. Weakly he tried to sit up. There was the clink of chains and he caught his throat on a stiff metal band. He fell back, hitting his head on rough wooden planks. Around him, there was a murmur of sleeping men. He raised a hand gingerly to his neck and found that there was a collar around it. A heavy chain ran through a ring welded to the outside of the collar. Above, in the darkness, there was the shouting of men, and beyond that, the rush of the sea. An incredibly foul miasma assaulted his nose. Macha save me! His mind wailed. This is a slave ship! The lights began to creep back into the edges of his vision, and the darkness in the hold around him assumed strange and fantastic shapes. The sleeping men slowly became outlined first in gold, then deep blue, and finally a shimmering red. So too did the chain and the links of it.

Dwyrin struggled to clear his sight, focusing on the meditations and the rituals that Nephet had taught him. For a moment, it worked, and he could suddenly see with the “clear sight” that the teachers at the school had drilled into them over and over. The links of the chain in his hands became completely clear, perfectly distinct. His thin fingers ran over them, suddenly catching on a discolored link.

// is not in harmony with the others, he thought. He pressed against the iron of the link with his thought and the ragged purple scar that ran across it in his clear sight sparked, then flared up for a moment. The iron splintered in his hand. Suddenly fearful of discovery, Dwyrin slowly passed the chain through the ring on the neck collar one link at a time. In a moment it was gone.

Free, he stood up. Hundreds of other captives lay all around him, sleeping tightly packed together. Ten or fifteen feet away, a raised walkway ran down the center of the hold. There was a carpet of bodies between him and the walkway. Behind him, the hull was solid oak planking. Above, however, were the timbers of the main deck. A series of tie-hooks were screwed into the beams.

Gauging his spring, he leapt up and snatched at the first one. One hand laid hold, the other scrabbled at the splintery planks. For a moment he swung there, his arm trembling with effort. Then his other hand caught the next tie-hook. His feet he drew up in a curl. Panting with the effort, he let go of the first hook and swung out, grabbing for the next. By luck he caught it on the first try and immediately let go of the previous one. The momentum carried him to the fourth and then he dropped lightly onto the walkway. The ship creaked as it rode over a swell, groaning along its full length.

Dwyrin panted, crouched on the walkway in the darkness. His arms trembled and he felt light-headed. Regardless, after a moment, he stood up and quickly ran to the end of the hold. A ladder led up to the deck, and now he could spy an edge of stars through the hatchway and past the square sails that caught the wind to send the ship northward. He crept up the stairs.

Cautiously, he raised his head above the hatchway and looked about. The rear of the ship rose up in front of him, a high stern castle with two great steering oars mounted on either side. On the steering deck, a lantern guttered in a green-glass holder. Low voices drifted down on the night wind. Dwyrin looked back up the main deck, seeing little, only great piles of goods, tied down with netting. As quietly as he could manage, he crept out of the hold stair and to the near edge of the ship. Beyond it the sea rushed past, a vast depth shot with blue flames and violet clouds. The wavetops glittered with pale-blue fire. Colors began to spill out of the corners of his eyes, blinding him.

Unsteady, he climbed up onto the gunnel, gripping one of the ropes that ran from the edge of the ship to the nearest mast. Below him an abyss of light and shadow convulsed as he stared down into the infinite depths. Vast sea creatures writhed in the void, intricate and complex beyond all imagining. A sensation of falling gripped him and he clung tight to the rope. Distantly, like an echo in a dream, he heard someone shouting. At last he managed to relax his hand enough to let go of the rope.

Hands seized him, rough and callused, dragging Him back onto the deck. Sounds rushed past, but he could not understand them. He struggled, striking out with weak fists. Something fast smashed into the side of his face and the pain cleared his vision again. The faces of brutal men crowded above him. One held more chains, another a sack whose dark opening yawned like a hungry mouth. Dwyrin cried out in fear, and focussed his thought against the hands holding him down. There was another bright flash and then a horrid wailing. The man who had been holding him down leapt back, his head wreathed in bright white flame. Soundlessly he tried to scream, but the flame burrowing into his chest consumed all of the air in his lungs. The other sailors scattered in horror. The burning man fell backward against the gunnel, his limbs thrashing in extreme pain.

Dwyrin scuttled to one side, seeking safety in one of the great bales tied to the decking. An iron hand suddenly gripped his throat. Still weak, he struggled to tear the talon-like fingers from his windpipe. It was no use, and after an endless passage of trying to breathe a giddy darkness swallowed his mind.