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damn
you to—”
    A hand clapped over his mouth. “The gods do not exist,” the
priest reminded him with poisonous sweetness.
    He choked and gasped and twisted, and found the edge of that
quelling hand, and bit hard.
    He won all he could have wished for. Sarevan’s breath left
him in a rush; his hand snapped back.
    Hirel stared. The priest’s skin was not opaque at all. It
was like black glass; and a corpse-light burned ghastly beneath. His lips were
grey as ash.
    But Hirel had not even drawn blood.
    Sarevan withdrew as far as he might, which was only a step
or two. His hand trembled; he thrust it behind him.
    It was his right hand. Hirel committed that to memory. This
man of limitless strength and overweening arrogance had a weakness, and it was
enormous and it was utterly inexplicable, and it was worth bearing in mind. It
evened the score, somewhat.
    “Cubling,” Sarevan said, and his voice did not come easily,
“did your teachers never instruct you in proper and honorable combat?”
    “With proper and honorable opponents,” Hirel answered,
“yes.”
    Sarevan tilted his head. Considered. Bared his white teeth
and saluted left-handed, as a swordsman would concede a match.
    “And I am not your servant,” Hirel said.
    “So then, you are my catamite.”
    Hirel hissed at him. He shook out his hair, laughing almost
freely, and availed himself of the cooling bath.

THREE
    Hirel slept a little. When he woke, Sarevan was gone.
    He knew a moment’s panic; then he saw the worn leather of
the priest’s scrip hanging from a peg by the bed. Everything was in it, even
the small but surprisingly heavy purse. He had not gone far.
    Hirel relieved himself, nibbled the remains of a seedcake,
poured a cupful of wine and peered out of the window. Nothing below but an
alleyway.
    He wandered back to his cushions, sipping the sweet strong
vintage. It was not one he knew; not nearly fine enough for a high prince in
his palace. But in this place it was pleasant.
    He settled more comfortably. The room was warm but not
unbearable.
    One of his scars itched within where he could not scratch
it: one of the deep furrows in his hip and thigh. The guardhound had caught him
there, terrifying him for his manhood; he had found strength he had never known
he had, and broken the beast’s neck. The hound had paid the proper price, but
Hirel would bear the marks until he died, livid and unlovely against his skin.
    He was changing. He was thinner, with ribs to count. His
child-softness was sharpening into planes and angles. A fleece of down was
coming between his legs, and he was not the same beneath it. He was becoming a
man.
    Perhaps he would call for a woman. That would wipe the leer
from the innkeeper’s face. Sarevan, poor maiden priest, would wilt with envy.
    Hirel frowned. He could not imagine Sarevan wilting. More
likely the creature would stand by the door and fold his arms and smile his
most supercilious smile, and make of manly virtue a creeping shame.
    “Damn him,” Hirel said. His voice lacked conviction. “I will
go. I will go now and find my own way home. My brothers will fall down in
terror when they see me; and I will have my vengeance.”
    He clasped his knees and rocked. His eyes blurred; he could
not stop them.
    Alone, all alone, with only a demon-worshipping madman to
defend him. No one in the empire even knew he lived; and those who cared could
care only that he was not safely dead. His mother who had loved him, and yes,
spoiled him shamefully, his mother was two years dead by her own hand, and his
father was a golden mask on a golden throne, and his brothers would have sold
him a eunuch into the south.
    And he was going home. Home to hate and fear and at best
indifference; to the nets of courtiers and the chains of royalty, and never a
moment without the dread of another betrayal.
    A shudder racked him. He must go back. What else was left to
him?
    He knew what he must do. Dress. Gather the last of the food.
Take a handful