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As they walked, a strange, sourceless susurrus of murmurs and whispers faded in and out of Idisio's hearing: he shivered, a prickling chill racing over his whole body. The tunnel didn't feel comfortable any longer. Once the voices began, traveling the ha'rethe's underground ways had swiftly become an experience as eerie and creepy for Idisio as the tunnels beneath Bright Bay.

Scratha, too, seemed to be listening at times, but Idisio found himself afraid to ask if his master heard the voices. The desert lord's expression held a worrying sourness, and the grey strain hadn't faded from his face yet. Riss didn't seem to be hearing anything; she trudged along, sullen and withdrawn in another of her confusing mood shifts.

“My lord,” Idisio said at last, hoping to take his mind off the whispers echoing in the back of his head, “you said you'd be teaching me. When are you going to start?”

Scratha glanced at Riss. “I'd intended. . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Well, Riss may as well hear. It will help her to understand what you're going through, and you'll need that.”

Scratha stopped, turned, and gave the girl a ferocious glare that actually made her flinch.
She dropped her gaze. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.
Scratha resumed walking, his face grim. “Obligations. Every ha'ra'ha has certain obligations. I've been . . . instructed on what to tell you.” His lips pressed together and a twitch passed across his face. “I'll start with the one you won't like most, and get it out of the way. You have to father at least one child.”
Idisio stopped cold, his legs refusing to move another step. As if he'd expected the pause, Scratha shot a hand out, grabbed Idisio's elbow, and jerked him roughly into motion again.
“I don't make the rules,” the desert lord said without looking at Idisio. “It's part of a very old agreement between the ha'reye and humans. Anyone with even a trace of the blood has to father or bear at least one child if they're able. Quite a few of mixed blood are sterile; they can't reproduce. So the burden falls on those who can, to give at least one and preferably more.”
He didn't loose his iron grip on Idisio's arm as he spoke, and Idisio gave up on the idea of stopping to catch his breath after that incredible statement.
“You can let me go, my lord,” he said. “I swear I won't run.”
Scratha stumbled a half-step and shot Idisio a dark stare. Idisio forced a smile, and after a moment Scratha released his grip and offered a wry smile of his own.
“It's a long way from the gardens of the Bright Bay palace, isn't it?” Scratha said.
Idisio nodded, relieved that the desert lord had picked up on the reminder and allowed the mood to lighten a bit. “It is.”
“Who does he—?” Riss started.
“Let me finish explaining, Riss,” Scratha said sharply. “Hold your peace for a moment.”
Riss fell silent. Idisio glanced back at her and saw an odd expression on her face. She seemed badly rattled. He didn't get a chance to ask her about it; Scratha started talking again.
“It's best,” the desert lord said, eyes straight ahead and a pronounced strain in his voice, “if you have a child with a full human. If you choose another ha'ra'ha, there's a greater chance the child will be sterile, or . . . deformed.” He seemed to force the last word out. “And you'll have to take full responsibility for the child. It's
your
child, not the mother's. That reverses, of course,” he added, “for a female ha'ra'ha.” A pained expression crossed his face.
Idisio just kept walking, alternating between staring at his feet and staring straight ahead. He felt overwhelmed and almost numb with disbelief.
“You don't have to marry the woman you choose,” Scratha went on after a moment of thick silence. “I'd advise telling her the truth beforehand, though, or she'll get upset when you come to take the child.” His tone returned to dry neutrality.
“Really?” Riss said from behind them, heavily sarcastic.
Scratha ignored her. “You'll be expected to bring the child to your sworn ha'rethe for a . . . well, call it a blessing. That's close enough. It's more of an examination, to find out if the child is, ah. . . .” He cleared his throat again. “True blood, true bred. The ha'rethe will determine if you're really the father and whether the child has inherited any of the blood traits.”
“Gods, you're cold!” Riss said. She sounded really angry. “We're not talking about some . . . some foal and its bloodline here! This is a child! What's the matter with you?”
“I don't make the rules,” Scratha repeated.
“That's a dodge,” Riss said.
Scratha sighed. “Trust me,” he said, “the ha'reye are far from indifferent to their children. I don't have the skill to explain it more gently, that's all.”
“You mean you don't have the stomach to mask what's ugly with pretty words,” Riss said.
“My lord,” Idisio said before the man could speak, “have you had to give a child?”
Complete silence followed that question for several moments. Idisio noticed, almost absently, that the passage had started to widen.
“Yes,” Scratha said at last. “It's part of becoming a desert lord.” His expression became closed and fierce. Idisio wished he hadn't asked, but Riss, heartless, jumped into the moment:
“Where are your children, then, my lord?” she said. “Do
you
have responsibility for them?”
Another long silence. Finally, Scratha let out a long, hard breath, and said, “Dead.”
Idisio heard a faint, startled intake of breath from behind him, and knew Riss regretted her harsh questioning.
“I'm sorry, my lord,” she said quietly.
“Done is done,” Scratha said. After another pause, he went on, his voice steadying as he spoke: “Idisio, I'm not saying you have to do this right away. But when you do, choose a partner with care, and make sure she understands what she's bedding. And . . . before you do . . . you're going to have to learn from another ha'ra'ha or ha'rethe; there's . . . it's not as simple for you as just taking a woman to bed. I don't know . . . how to explain what's involved.”
“So he can't get some girl pregnant accidentally?” Riss asked in pragmatic tones. “That ought to be a relief.”
Scratha half snorted, half sighed, and said nothing. Idisio, feeling a hot flush spreading across his face, kept his gaze firmly ahead and his teeth in his tongue.
Ahead, the passageway spread further and ended in an opening that ten men could have marched through with ease. Scratha's steps slowed as they moved forward into the room beyond, and for a long moment they all stood on the threshold and simply stared.
Idisio had never seen such an enormous enclosure; the sloping floor of the vast cavern before them leveled out, towards the center, into an area large enough for a thousand men to camp on. Many openings of varying size punctuated the rim of the gigantic bowl, and ramps had been cut— no,
worn
, Idisio realized after another look—from the cavern floor up to wide ledges in front of each opening.
The same steady light that illuminated the passage filled the entire cavern, as though the ha'rethe had reached ahead in anticipation of their arrival and poured out its strange magic to prepare the scene. Idisio shivered again, wanting nothing more than to turn and run; but once again the only way out lay ahead, not behind.
As they stood staring, a sense of
presence
filled Idisio's throat with wool, thickening his breath in his chest. Scratha glanced at him, frowning, then tilted his head as though listening to something Idisio couldn't hear.
“We need to rest, I think,” he said after a moment.
Scratha led them back into the tunnel a hefty stone's throw; the muzzy feeling left Idisio's throat, and he drew in a deep, grateful breath. Riss slid her pack off her shoulders and sat. They all followed her lead, Idisio between Riss and Scratha, resting their shoulders against the sloping walls. In spite of the abundance of space, they huddled together, shoulders almost touching, as if they all shared a need in this strange place for human contact.
Scratha passed around chunks of dried fruit, cheese, and trail jerky. They ate in silence, sipping sparingly from their water skins.
“How much further do we have to go?” Riss finally asked.
“I'm not entirely sure myself,” Scratha admitted. “My sense of time is a bit odd down here.” He looked as if he intended to say more, then shot Riss a sharp glance and shook his head instead. “A day or two, maybe three.”
Idisio grimaced, not liking the thought of traveling these passages any longer than necessary. Scratha caught his expression and grinned, although it held no humor.
“Walking the desert above us,” he said, “we'd take seven or eight days to reach Scratha Fortress, at best; the desert's not a flat plain. Hills, valleys, rough terrain, sandy patches all slow travel down. This way is a straight line and an easy walk in comparison. And taking this path means we don't have to stop for political games.” He took a swig from his water skin.
“Political games?” Riss said.
Scratha ate a piece of dried fruit, seeming to consider. “The major Families are like little kings,” he said. “They each claim jurisdiction over a certain amount of land, and they all have ancient, huge fortresses as the center of their power. The minor Families don't have as much land, as many people, and so they don't have as much political power. The more desert lords sworn to a Family, the more power it holds.” He paused to take a bite of jerky and chewed steadily.
“Boundaries shift,” he went on finally. “Sessin Family, for example, used to be a fairly minor Family, hundreds of years ago. When they figured out the secret to clear, flat glass, they gained more power, more wealth, and expanded their holdings to match. Last I heard they're supporting seven full desert lords. Tereph is a fairly new Family in terms of centuries. They've been established for about two, three hundred years at best. They were granted some land at the edge of Sessin's southern boundary, and support three full lords.”
“Granted by who?” Idisio asked, proud that he'd snuck a question in ahead of Riss.
“A Conclave.”
“What's a Conclave?” Riss asked, frowning.
Scratha looked at her, eyes distant, for a moment, as if still lost in thought, then he shook himself sharply and said, “A gathering of desert lords. Any time ten full lords representing at least seven different Families are gathered, it can be considered a Conclave. Decisions made in Conclave are binding on all of the southlands. Every desert Family has to be notified and given a chance to attend.”
“Wait,” Riss said, squinting at him. “Ten lords, but only seven Families? Doesn't that slant things a bit?”
Scratha smiled. “It can,” he admitted. “There used to be more Families, so having fifteen or even thirty lords show up to a Conclave wasn't uncommon. These days, it's a little trickier, and that's where the betweenConclave political games come in. Deals and alliances made out of Conclave are starting to affect votes within Conclave.”
His tone became musing. “Pieas threatened to call a Conclave. He can't—only a full lord can, and his own Family wouldn't back such a notion—but he's developed allies in odd places, and one of them might just be fool enough to try it.”
“Why would Pieas want to call a Conclave?” Idisio said, bewildered. “To challenge you over his sister? That seems a bit extreme.”
Scratha blinked and seemed mildly startled, as if just realizing he had said that aloud.
“No,” he said. “I don't think I have anything to do with that, actually. I think he wanted to challenge Oruen's appointment of Lady Alyea to hold my lands while I'm gone. I don't think it's a bad reason, at that. She's too young, and doesn't have the faintest idea what she's walking into. If I'd realized what a botch he'd make of the grant, I wouldn't have done it.” He glared at the far wall as though it held the blame.
“So
do
you think Pieas is going to try to call a Conclave?” Riss said.
“He can't,” Scratha said, and smiled unpleasantly. “I already did. Guests should be setting up camp outside the walls of Scratha Fortress as we speak.”

Voices and a scratchy feeling of tension jerked Alyea from a dream in which yellow-eyed creatures glared at her from pools of deep shadow. Deiq crouched at the entrance to the
shall
, looking out.

“Trouble,” he said. “Get yourself all the way awake.” He went back to studying the uproar.
“What's going on?” She ran her hands through her hair, trying to rake out the worst of the tangles.
“Company,” he said without turning. “Pieas Sessin, and others. Sounds like someone called a Conclave, and the first guests just arrived.”
Alyea's stomach rolled and rumbled. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to decide if the sensation came from hunger or fear.
“Eat,” Deiq said. “Bread next to you.”
“Thanks,” she said absently, reaching for the bread. She hardly noticed taste or texture as she bolted the food, her thoughts even more agitated than her stomach.
Pieas! Why? Had he convinced his Family to call a Conclave, as he'd threatened? If Sessin Family had decided to back Pieas, and stand against her, what would that do to their relationship with Oruen? Or did those two issues have no relation?
“Whatever the reason for this Conclave,” Deiq said, as if sensing her thoughts, “it seems to involve you.”
Alyea wiped her mouth free of crumbs. “I'm ready.”
Deiq half-turned and looked at her critically. “Remember you're more than halfway to being a desert lord already. Don't let anyone push you around. You'll lose credibility.”
She swallowed hard and nodded. He rose from his crouch, moving out of the
shall
as he did so, and pulled the flap aside for her. Outside, she swept the scene with a rapid, assessing glance. Several teyanain stood in a rough circle around her
shall
; she saw the small man with the blue tattoos standing to one side. Seeing her step out of his
shall
, he nodded neutral greeting, then looked towards Chac as though to direct Alyea's own gaze in that direction.
Chac seemed to be arguing with a tall, dark man whose face was marked with a sinuous white line from the corner of his left eye to the left corner of his mouth. Chac looked furious, the stranger uninterested. As Alyea watched, the tall man made a dismissive gesture, his numerous wide bracelets jingling with the motion, then turned his back on the sputtering old man and walked away, passing Micru, Gria, and Sela without a glance.
Alyea realized that her two slaves and the Hidden all sat together as they had been last night: even in the same spot. That worried her. She thought about walking over to them, but decided against it. Not understanding the situation meant not knowing what message her attending to them might send to watchers; safer to stay clear for now.
Altogether, the number of people in front of Scratha Fortress had easily doubled, and the tension had quadrupled. Chac, denied his argument with the tall man, turned, spotted Alyea and started towards her, scowling. The teyanain stiffened, looking to the tattooed one as though for directions; he nodded, and they allowed Chac though their line without protest.
Chac didn't even seem to notice the brief exchange, his attention—and his anger—focused on Alyea alone.
“Chac,” she said as soon as he came within earshot. She straightened her back and did her best to look imposing instead of terrified.
You're more than halfway . . .
She felt her fear dissolving. Chac couldn't possibly do anything more dreadful than the events she'd already lived through.
The tattooed teyanin moved to stand nearby. He now displayed his own set of bracelets; small, flattened beads of semiprecious stones interspersed with even tinier silver and gold squares. She had no idea what that meant, but Chac's gaze fastened on them and stuck as though in horrified fascination.
“Lady,” the tattooed man said, smiling. “
Teth hanaa silayha
; you grace us.”
Chac, still staring at the bracelets, shivered as though abruptly terrified; a moment later his scowl reappeared and he seemed to regain control of himself.
“The grace is in your presence,” Alyea said after a moment, and stared hard at Chac. “You seem unhappy about something, Chacerly.”
“I'm not happy about
that
one being here,” Chac snapped, pointing at Deiq. The ha'ra'ha stood slightly behind her, at her right shoulder. “Send him away!”
About to say:
I can't
, she stopped herself.
“No,” she said instead. “He's my advisor now, Chacerly. He stays.”
“You can't trust him!” Chac said.
“I trust him more than I trust you at the moment,” she said. “You have a lot to explain, old man, and I have a feeling I won't be believing any of it.” Chac had been more rattled by the teyanin's bracelets than by Deiq's presence; once again, Alyea wished she understood the secret language which seemed to be passing to all sides of her.
Smiling, the tattooed man bowed slightly and drifted away as though to allow them relative privacy for their quarrel.
“Deiq's just using you,” Chac said. “You'll find that out. That's all he does, use people for his own aims. He lies, Alyea, he
lies
.”
Those
words held truth, an undeniable passion, and pain; but Alyea knew better than to ask for the history behind that. Not only would Chac probably lie again, it would divert the conversation from the most important point: his own betrayal of her.
“You haven't been honest, yourself,” Alyea said.
“I've done what was needed,” he said. “What I was ordered to do.”
“I won't believe Oruen ordered me kidnapped.”
“You weren't kidnapped!” Chac protested. “Not by my orders, certainly. I left instructions for you to be brought here while I diverted the teyanain from your trail. They want you dead! I was trying to save your life.” He pointed at Deiq again, his hand shaking. “He's the one who interfered and had you taken to the Qisani. That's the most dangerous—”
“And the most respected,” Deiq interrupted. “The Qisani produces the strongest lords.”
Before Chac could answer, the tall man with the white line on his face approached and bowed to her. His bracelets, mainly thin strands of silver and gold twisted into narrow braids, glittered and jingled; none seemed to hold any beads, of any material.
Alyea despaired of ever understanding what any of it meant.
“Lady,” he said. “
Teth hanaa silayha
.” The words held a flat, broad accent that she had never heard before.
“The grace is in your presence,” Alyea responded automatically.
“Let me introduce myself,” the tall man went on. “I'm Lord Irrio Darden. My grandfather is the Head of Darden. And you would be Lady Alyea.” He smiled. “Quite a fuss you have started, my lady.”
Alyea grinned at him, knowing the expression held little true humor. “You give me far too much credit, my lord.”
He studied her for a moment, his own smile widening. “I rather doubt that.”
“My lord,” Chac started.
The tall man looked down at him and said curtly, “There is nothing from your mouth that I want to hear at this moment.”
Alyea clamped her jaw tight to avoid gaping like an idiot. Chac's eyes seemed to glitter with a cold fury she'd never seen in him before.
“She's under blood trial law, my lord,” Chac said. “I've agreed to test her under the auspices of the sun-lord. That gives me rights—”
“As I've already told you, that gives you nothing,” Lord Irrio said, “until your status is determined. That's been made a matter for the Conclave; her blood trial will have to wait until then.”
Deiq made a soft humming sound of amusement. Chac turned a murderous glare on the ha'ra'ha, received nothing but a faint smile in response, and stormed away, muttering to himself.
“He's a fool,” Deiq said amiably, “and a dangerous one, Lord Irrio.”
“He's a snake with one tooth, and that about to be broken,” the desert lord answered, and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “My lady, will you join us in a morning meal? I think we may have a great deal to discuss.”