It was some time before the caravan moved again. Everyone in camp came to look at Stevan and see the miracle for themselves. Most had seen him after yesterday’s battle, an enemy warrior reaching the last of his years, beaten and bruised. Now they saw him tall and healthy, his body and face in its prime. Even after they started out again, she could hear their whispering murmurs behind her. Neila swelled with pride in having given them a taste of awe for being in her presence.

  As they headed out, Gregor tried to return to his former place beside Neila. This time he rode a bay mare he had taken from another of the soldiers. One hard look from Neila, however, drove him back again to fester his resentment in silence.

  As a gift, Stevan kept Gregor’s original mount and was provided with clean clothing as befitted Neila’s consort. She had brought the additional riding gear from Lavignal on a whim, though they had been far too large for her. For Stevan they were perfect. The black died leather breeches and crimson silk shirt with silver embroidery gave a regal touch that Neila liked.

  Stevan’s mare trotted along beside her, the reins now in his hands. She kept a steady eye on him to make sure he did not try and bolt, not entirely confident the power of her blood would keep him close. He was the strongest willed and most stubborn person she had ever met. Even as they had dressed, he had fluttered between sarcasm and submission, unwilling to give in entirely to her control. She would not have wanted him any other way. In fact it peaked her desire all the more, but it never hurt to be watchful.

  This day brought clouds and the threat of rain, though the morning remained dry. Neila enjoyed days like this. It reminded her of the city, with its narrow roads overarched by tall buildings that seemed to lean on each other for support. It made the streets dark and moody yet comforting like her mother’s arms.

  The column of men and women wound their way across the dry land, the dust billowing beneath the horse’s hooves as if reaching out for water. Neither the intermittent trees nor the sound of the increasingly distant river could take away from the arid desolation that permeated the landscape.

  The land here was not used to drought. It showed in browning bushes and dying pines. Rain would help, though it would also make for miserable travel, certain to make the road muddy. She prayed to Kurn that it would stay dry until they reached Nassir.

  "What about Brien? What will you do with her?" Stevan asked after riding quietly for awhile. Even now he had a difficult time looking directly at Neila when they talked.

  "You mean the other prisoner, the woman?" she asked in return. Stevan nodded. "What of her? I be thinking of the blooding after we soften her a bit. But you be thinking of something else, is that it? What would you like me to do, my sweet?"

  "I wish you wouldn’t call me that." He said back testily.

  "Why not, my sweet?" she retorted, trying for an innocent tone but unable to keep out the mockery. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he glanced in her direction. She noted that without the lines around his face, his eyes looked particularly golden against the grey sky.

  "I would have her free," he finally ventured. "That rabid dog of yours gave her quite a beating. I’m worried he would see her dead before letting you have her. She doesn’t deserve to die that way."

  Neila considered the request. "I could do the blooding now."

  Stevan finally looked at her directly. "Please, no,” he said. “That wouldn’t stop Gregor. An Elahner woman who defied him? He would have her killed when your back is turned." He stopped short of pleading, but she could hear the desperation in his voice.

  Neila doubted that was the real reason behind his request, but decided to let it go. She had already broken her word to him once. She did not feel inclined to do so again.

  "If you wish it, I’ll be doing it. But no horse, my sweet. My people don’t have enough as it is.

  His eyebrows rose up in surprise. "Nothing else? You will let her go?"

  "Of course." She was amused by his astonishment. "I be having you, don’t I? I don’t need her. I could be giving her the blooding, but it might be as you say. Gregor might kill her. I’d be upset with him, but I think you’d be more upset with me. Then I might need to kill you as well, I think."

  Stevan became thoughtful at her response. Then he nodded to himself as if making some decision about her in his mind. "Thank you, Neila."

  His tone bothered her more than anything he could have said. Something about it made her uncomfortable. She called a man over and gave instructions to have the female Elahner be released on the side of the road and left behind. Then she turned to Stevan again.

  "Don’t be thinking I’ll go soft with you sharing my bed. I’ve had others before you killed with not another thought for it, and I be doing the same with you if needed. You be mine and I’ll not have you forget it. Understand?"

  "Yes, of course I do, Neila." His eyes strained at the answer, but his words were conciliatory.

  "And I’ve changed my mind. I’ll not be having you calling me by my name any longer. Call me my Lady, like you did when we met."

  "Yes, Neila."

  She reached out between the horses and slapped him across the cheek. The force snapped Stevan’s head aside, but unlike Gregor, he remained in the saddle. He glared at her as he rubbed at the red handprint she left behind.

  She did not stay to watch his reaction. She kicked her horse into action and trotted ahead, leaving Stevan and the others to trail behind.

  Stevan made no attempt at keeping up with her, which managed to make her even more upset. Rather than dwell on her feelings, she focused instead on the road, hoping to catch sight of Nassir around every bend.

  Morning turned into afternoon when they came upon a split in the road. One way ran north toward the river, the other turning uphill into greener countryside. Nassir was fed by a spring, with the entire hillside lush from hidden water. The forest was alive with pine, ash and the occasional dogwood, green and leafy.

  The air was cooler as well as they headed uphill. Neila could hear the men behind growing more restless as they came out of their heat induced stupors. She slowed to allow the line to catch up with her, dropping back next to Stevan again. Though she noticed no lingering harm from her earlier tantrum, neither said a word to each other as their horses came together.

  "My Lady," said Gregor as he trotted up to the left of her, voice tempered with subservience. Neila nodded to show her approval of his improved attitude.

  "Nassir comes soon,” he continued. “There is a back gate we should watch. It leads to the southern road heading toward Surof. Otherwise the wall runs around the entire crest of the hill. There are only the two entrances that I know of."

  "Thank you, Gregor." She said back politely, smiling. She dispatched a quarter of her soldiers to split off and find their way to that back gate. There was no path around the city leading there, but the shade beneath the trees kept the land clear of underbrush. Their horses had little trouble weaving their way into the forest. Neila stopped the rest of the caravan and watched until they were well out of sight before continuing.

  Gregor stayed with her as they rode. Neila could see him glance across her at Stevan with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Stevan did not appear to notice or care. Neila made it a point to ignore them both, though she found the ride boring without some conversation to pass the time.

  It was not long, however, before the white walls of Nassir shown through the trees. Veined marble rose some five times her height, wrapping around the hill to curve out of sight to either side. The walls came together at the gate where iron bound oaken doors stood open beneath a bridge of stonework. The hard packed dirt of the road turned to light brick before the entrance, and guards stood three to a side, watching but not stopping the few travelers who came and went.

  From what she could see, Nassir was not a large city, looking more like a well fortified town. Still, she could already see its wealth was beyond that of many large cities in the Empire. She was used to seeing wooden walls of logs, assuming they had any fortifications at all. The stonework here, though smaller in scale, was more grand than what surrounded the Empire’s capital city of Orphir.

  Seeing such a large contingent riding up to the gate, a single soldier in gleaming breastplate strode forward, helmet tucked under one arm and a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His comrades walked forward a couple paces and stood shoulder to shoulder to block the way.

  Sunlight flashed from the polished metal of their commander’s armor, making Neila squint in irritation. The armor was the same style as in Orphir, all metal and articulated joints with chain skirts. The helmet was plumed with purple dyed horsehair that over the top in a crest. Even his choice of weapon, the short sword, reflected the straight lines and bluntness of the Empire.

  "Welcome to the holy city of Nassir," he droned on reflex. "What is your business?" His voice was deep and had the tone of an educated man given a menial task. The skin of his face was too smooth for a career soldier, making him an armored bureaucrat rather than a military officer.

  She made sure to look down at him imperiously from her saddle. The gelding made up nicely for her lack of height. Even so his head still came to her hip. He was a very tall man. "I’m here to be making an offering if you be wanting to know. Same for everybody behind me. That be a problem?"

  "No, not at all, my Lady." He glanced down the line, determining the numbers in her contingent. "However, we prefer not to have large armed forces in our city. There is space to camp if you follow the wall to the right. You will see a clearing just beyond those trees. Feel welcome to set camp for the evening. Your people may enter in groups of twenty at a time, but no more. May I ask where you hail from?"

  Neila realized her raids worked against her here. No doubt they had already heard stories of raiders from the west, making them cautious. If they discovered where she was from it might make things difficult for her.

  Rather than answer, she decided to reevaluate this man, wondering how much trouble he would be. Despite any stories he may have heard, he seemed quite bored, looking up innocently at her as if bringing an army to his doorstep was a daily occurrence. It was possible it was. She had been told that the Emperor himself came before every campaign. She imagined many of the Lords from nearby lands did as well. It was also likely that those wishing to patronize the temples were rarely troublesome. This was a holy city after all. No one here expected problems from visitors wishing to commune with their gods. Gregor’s request the day before confirmed that.

  She knew she could make this easy and do what he suggested. Their group was small enough to be mistaken for the outing of a small Lord. It would be all too easy to sneak her men inside one group at a time and do what was needed. It might even be possible to do as Gregor wished and prevent unnecessary bloodshed. Neila, however, was feeling irked and too impatient to bide her time.

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  One kick to the man’s chin sent him stumbling backward. He lost his footing and fell on his rump, blood streaming from his mouth. He looked shocked, almost indignant at the assault. The other guards, probably similar to him and there mostly for show, were slow to react. She could see eyes their bulging behind their face guards as they looked at their commander in surprise.

  "My dearest Lord," she said, hopping out of her saddle. Paying little attention to the quiver of pleasure that ran through her legs as she hit the ground, she pulled her dagger from its scabbard and walked up to the man. He was still too shocked at what she had done to actually get up as she approached. "I not be needing your say to enter the city, I think. We’ll be doing as we wish. You be having a problem with that?"

  "Who do you think…" he said as he struggled to rise. His bitten tongue made him sound as if his mouth was filled with cloth. A boot on his chest sent him down again, and this time she followed it with her dagger. She thrust it upward into his throat, pinning his jaw shut. The shock on his face froze in place as his limbs twitched. In moments he was still, eyes blank and unseeing.

  "No, I don’t think there be a problem at all." She looked up at the remaining guards, only one of whom had stepped forward to protect his commander. He had stopped, however, upon seeing the men behind her dismounting en masse.

  "Neila, what was that for?" Stevan asked as he strode up beside her. His face was furrowed in fury.

  She looked up at him defiantly.

  "You be having a choice, Stevan. I’m not your Lord Defender. I’ll not be asking for what I need. I won’t be having any man telling me what I should be doing or where I be going. If you don’t like it, then you can be joining him," she kicked the body next to her for emphasis, "or you can be with me, sharing my bed and the blooding. Choose."

  His indignation gave way to hardness, which in turn faded to resignation. Stevan watched the blade held negligently in her hand as it dripped blood onto the bricks of the road. The rough stone soaked the blood as if thirsty for more. After a moment he bent to one knee beside the body and pulled the man’s sword from its scabbard. He held it at his side as he stood to face her.

  "I hate you, Neila. I hate you for that dying boy, and my men, and Tristan. And I hate you most for what you’ve done to me." He brought the blade up quickly, slashing in the air. At first Neila thought he was attacking her. She was disappointed when she realized the blade had come up to cut his own throat, slicing it open to reveal a gaping second mouth. The blood sprayed out, catching her face as he fell to both knees before her. She looked him in the eyes as he bled out and saw the hope written there, his desire for escape overriding his desire to live.

  She had seen many people die, many of them by her own hand. She never felt anything but pleasure at their agony as their lives slipped away into nothingness. Yet with Stevan there was nothing. At first she wondered if this was what sadness felt like. Normally death was like a caress passing over and through her, but she could not feel Stevan’s pain. There was no anguish to fill her senses, only an undefined stillness.

  Though it seemed impossible, Neila could see that life still flickered in his eyes. His bleeding slowed, then stopped. Even Stevan realized that something was amiss when he did not fall over dead at her feet. In fact he smiled as bliss washed over and through him, a shiver of ecstasy reflected in his face as he looked upwards toward the clouds above. With his head tilted back, Neila could see his wound closing. Not so quickly as it would on herself, but it healed none the less. The ragged edges came together until only a thin line remained. Then that too faded and was gone.

  She kneeled before him and cupped his chin in her hands. His skin was slick from his own blood, but she gripped his face tightly to tilt his eyes down to her own. "I think, my sweet, that you not be escaping me that easily. You be a part of me now. Come with me. Please."

  She held him there, examining his eyes to see the thoughts that passed behind them. The anger was still there but also joy, as if he just now had come to know what it was to be alive. She could see him trying to hate her, to cling to his desire to escape. But he was grasping at straws. His resistance faded until finally he nodded. She kissed him lightly on the lips and rose, bringing him with her.

  They found themselves surrounded by her men, all on their knees and mumbling prayers. Each and every face but one expressed adoration. Only Gregor did not. He stood just beyond the ring of men, teeth grinding in agitation.

  Neila noticed that his anger was not focused on her, however. Following his gaze, it was plainly aimed at Stevan. Only then did she realize the extent of his jealousy.

  It never occurred to her that Gregor might be attracted to her. Issir had never said anything, but she conceded that his religious fervor may have stopped Gregor from making advances. With Issir gone, however, Gregor’s recent attitude made sense. In light of how Elahner men treated their women, he must think of her as his property. He was furious that a newcomer could step in and take what he believed to be rightfully his.

  Gregor’s feelings and the problems they raised, however, had to be put aside. The sound of alarm bells ringing was a reminder of where they were.

  Taking advantage of Stevan’s distraction, the guards had fled into the city. The gates were slowly closing behind them. The large doors groaned against many seasons of rust, the hinges crying out in metallic agony.

  It had been so long since Nassir had been threatened that it was a wonder the gates could move at all. She signaled to her followers. They jumped up and as a group ran to the massive doors, several making it inside before they clanged shut.

  Within moment she heard fighting. Several screams later the gates opened again, and the rest of her soldiers streamed through the widening gap to the streets beyond.

  Stevan waited with Neila. Gregor hesitated as if expecting something, but then shook his head and rushed off to join the fray. Casually striding back to her horse, Neila took her sword from the sheath hanging from the saddle. It was a new short sword she had taken from Lavignal. This one looked clean and sharp in the afternoon air.

  An old man approached her, one of her followers either too unskilled or frail to join in the carnage. Likely both, by his appearance. He walked with an arthritic limp, and as he got close he grinned at Neila with brown stained teeth.

  “I’ll see to the horses, mi’Lady,” he said. He took up the reins to her gelding, then moved to gather those of the other horses left behind. Despite his feebleness, he moved with purpose, his wispy white hair waving about his head as he went.

  Leaving the old man in charge of the convoy, Neila took Stevan by the hand and walked into the city.

  Nassir was beautiful and bright, with marble and crafted stonework everywhere. Buildings sported fluted columns, and every arched niche and flowing fountain was presided over by ornate statuary. Carvings of people and animals in scenes of postures of hunting or war covered every flat surface. Everywhere Neila looked was art. Most of the marble had been painted, making the statues come alive, and colorful friezes banded the city’s roofline. Only the oldest of buildings went undecorated, their paint having washed away with age to leave stark white against the rainbow backdrop of newer architecture. Between the splendor ran people fleeing as guards clashed with her men, the color of crimson adding to the décor.

  Neila could feel the conflict around her. She bathed in it, allowing the warmth to flow around and through her. Rather than join in, she strolled along the central avenue, ignoring the fighting and fleeing people. A few guards tried to block their way, but Stevan stepped forward to intercept. He deflecting their blows with grace, then followed with precise and economical cuts, dispatching them with little effort. She could see that he too was affected by the slaughter. He appeared rejuvenated, becoming more alive with every death.

  They passed into the merchant district, walking by inns and stores decorated with ornate signs selling their wares and services. Each edifice was more beautiful than the next. Glancing down side streets, Neila could see buildings far less impressive in appearance. Every city had its poorer areas, and this one was no exception. It managed to hide it better than most, however. It distracted the eye through opulence, allowing visitors to see only the fa?ade presented to them.

  The wealth along the main road increased as they advanced. The shops make way to banks and city offices, placards and banners swinging in the afternoon breeze, then imposing temples to lesser gods.

  At the end of the path was a fountain followed by an amphitheater. Rows of stone pews faced a massive half dome which arched overheard, shadowing a platform where a statue of the god Vor sat on a giant throne. Made of black granite, his face was framed by a golden crown, his ivory eyes looking sternly down upon the pews to pass judgement on would be worshippers.

  To the right and left of the fountain were the temples of Kurn and Hir, both open air structures consisting of rows of columns topped by an ornate roof. Each edifice stretched back to reveal enormous statues, both easily visible from the street. Unlike Vor, both figures stood upright, forcing the eyes to gaze upward to see their faces.

  To the right stood Hir, her white marble glittering with veins of quartz. Shining silver hair cascaded in a braid over one shoulder. Her expression was soft, looking down with compassion and understanding. Kurn was to the left, all red marble with dark veins, his gleaming copper eyes aflame in the overcast light. He carried a large metal sword laid flat over outstretched hands, his muscular arms straining with the weight of his offering.

  In this place the sounds of fighting was distant, yet Neila was surrounded by the murmurs of men, women, and children huddling before the statues in prayer. Dozens crowded in the pews before Vor in the hopes their god would ward against the oncoming violence. Though some were dressed in the finery of merchants, most were of poorer stock. They were likely the servants of the wealthy caught outside on errands, unable to go how because their masters had locked themselves away behind fancy gates and high walls. Visiting pilgrims had nowhere else to go. It was bad luck that death had followed them to the holy city.

  Seeing her splattered in Stevan’s blood, everyone who saw her shrunk away from her in fright. She ignored them all. She turned instead tot he temple of Kurn. It seemed fitting to honor the god of War as she took the city. Kurn knew both anger and delight at the thought of conflict. What better offering could she give than that of spilled blood?

  The people surrounding the god’s statue scattered as she strolled forward. Stevan followed dutifully behind. As she approached, only a few remained to huddle behind Kurn, using the giant figure for protection. The statue was three times the height of a normal man, dwarfing Neila considerably. She tried to recall the prayers she learned as a child, but only half remembered stanzas came to mind. A whore’s life was normally dedicated to Hir, the patron goddess of Love, though she had always thought those chants ironic coming from lowly prostitutes.

  Kurn’s features looked menacing as she faced him up close. His mouth had been carved with teeth bared, his gaze looking over the offered sword. The metal reflected light that came down through a hole in the ceiling, making the marble features shift maniacally.

  Neila motioned for Stevan to give her space. He held his place behind her, allowing her to step closer to the statue.

  She cleared her throat before speaking. "To Vor I give… oh, to the underworld with Vor and Hir and all the bleeding rest. I be here to see you, Kurn. I’ll not be kneeling to anyone, and I’ll not be giving you anything."

  Her voice rang clearly among the columns, drowning out the simpering of those behind the statue. At her words they stopped their prayers to listen, perhaps believing that as long as she spoke they were safe. They were right in a way. They were beneath her notice.

  "If I be a god, I be wanting to know it. I’ll hear it from you, if I can. I think you’re the only one who might tell me true, so if you have anything to say on it, do it now."

  "You have everything you desire, can be anything you desire," came a voice in response. The words resonated from nowhere to fill the temple with deep echoes. She could feel the sound in her bones, and the floor vibrated with it. Neila had to resist the instinct to step back in surprise. Those hidden behind Kurn, however, retreated to the temple’s back wall, now more afraid of the statue than her. They did their best to make themselves small and unthreatening.

  Neila held her place, staring upward at the statue defiantly. "Then I be a god?" she asked.

  “You have desire,” it answered. She could see the lips move, rock shifting like brackish water. “What you do not have is yours for the taking. It is what you are. Know your desire and you will know yourself.” With that the entire statue moved, marbled veins flowing beneath the surface as if blood pumped through them.

  Now she did hop back as the statue knelt on its base, going down on one knee before her. As that knee hit the floor, the stone tiles cracked beneath its weight. Its hands stretched, the statue held the sword out to her.

  As quickly as the movement began, it stopped. Kurn’s limbs became firm, unmoving rock once more. Yet it remained kneeling. The god’s copper eyes, now out of the afternoon light, no longer flickered with flame. His gaze had become cold and unfeeling.

  The offered sword, now at eye height to Neila, was much smaller than it had seemed from below. She dropped the sword she still held, allowing it to clatter onto the temple’s tiled floor. Then Neila reached out and took hold of the wire wrapped hilt.

  It was slightly larger than the dropped blade, but felt much lighter to hold. The cross-guard was the red of burnished copper, the blade the bright silver of polished steel. Her palm fit comfortably around the grip as she gave it a few experimental swings.

  Pleased with her gift, she looked back at Stevan. He was kneeling on the floor behind her, forehead pressed to the stone. So was everyone else about her. Every person in sight, from the temple to the fountain, were bowing in her direction.

  Leaving Stevan behind, she walked out to where the late day sun had broken out through the clouds. She lifted the sword to show it to the crowd of worshipers around and near the fountain. Their old gods forgotten, all eyes looked to her.