herself sharply. Trying to muster up some respect for Zendrak, Fasilla said, «I forget who he be sometimes. We had breakfast every morning for the past three months—along with the rest of them misfits at the 'K.' When you see someone pick his teeth with a fork, you don't always remember he be a Mayanabi master.» Himayat entered the conversation now. «And so you see the human side of a First Rank Mayanabi master. How wonderful. And what a challenge.» «I beg your pardon?» said Fasilla, not sure she had understood Himayat correctly. Himayat chuckled. «Those of us in the room have it easy. We can imagine Master Zendrak being anything and everything. We can create him in our own image. Our own fantasy. But you, Fasilla—you know the reality of the man. You know his bad habits. And his good. You have the opportunity to accept the reality. Not just the fantasy. The legend.» He paused. «Do you see my meaning?» Fasilla took a deep breath. «I suppose. I mean, I suppose it could be like that.» She shrugged. «Only, he doon't be very nice sometimes. Sometimes he loses his temper fierce bad.» «So much the better,» said Himayat, starting to laugh in earnest now. «The better for what?» asked Fasilla crossly. Himayat grinned. «Don't you realize he's teaching you when he does that? Don't you realize he's asking you to learn flexibility?» Fasilla said nothing, her face coloring pink. Flexibility wasn't one of her strong suits. *7* Ever since the Ritual of Akindo, Kelandris had slept fitfully, her dreams
often turning into nightmares. These night terrors were a grim legacy of the trauma Kelandris had experienced in Suxonli. For three nights now, she had cried in her sleep. Private and Tammirring by draw, this was a side to her personality that Kelandris let no one but Zendrak see. And it was only in sleep, when her body relaxed, that she showed him the pain she lived with. Their bed was full of secrets. The man in green gently woke Kelandris again. She gasped for air as she came out of the dream, her forehead damp with a cold sweat, her unveiled eyes nervous and unfocused. Kelandris sat up. Pressing her back against the wall, she hunched against her knees, pulling the blankets around her tightly. Zendrak said nothing, watching. Among other things, Zendrak was a healer. And among other things, Kelandris had been in his care for the past
year. Zendrak rarely spoke of this portion of their relationship to Kelandris. Kel knew she needed his help, but she was also proud and would not ask for such help unless she were close to death and certain she could not help herself. Zendrak respected her pride, although admittedly Kel's pride made his healing of her much more difficult. Zendrak continued to watch
Kelandris, waiting for her to speak. Finally Kel said, «She's coming for you this time.» «Who?» «Elder Hennin,» she said hoarsely. Zendrak shrugged. «Let her.» «You're not invulnerable,» Kelandris snapped, her green eyes angry.
«I never said I was,» he replied, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. «Elder Hennin is nothing more than a great nuisance—» Kelandris said nothing. Hennin had proved herself to be a formidable adversary to her in Suxonli, certainly more than a simple «nuisance.» Of course, Kel reasoned in silence, Zendrak did not have to go through that. I did. Kelandris sat up in bed, her shoulders hunched with the weight of her memories. Finally she said, «You're a fool, Zendrak, if you think she can't hurt you. You've lived too long. You've forgotten what it's like to hurt.
You've forgotten what it's like when every nerve is alive with pain and every emotion is stirred into anguish.» «I've outgrown those things, Kel. At my age, emotions— all of them—lose their edge. They become almost boring.» Kelandris sat bolt upright. «My pain bores you?» She felt outraged, the desires of her heart made insignificant by the dispassionate sweep of his longevity. She glared at him. «You have outlived your dreams, Zendrak. And so mine become, like Hennin, a nuisance to endure—but not indulge?» Zendrak said nothing for a few moments. «I do not like to see your pain, Kel,» he admitted. «In seeing yours, I have to remember my own.» Kelandris swore and got out of bed. She pulled on a black bathrobe, her motions angry. Turning to look at him, she said, «If you're what I am to
become, then I refuse it. I refuse to live five hundred years like you. Life is feeling. If you don't feel, you're dead.» Zendrak smiled. Then seeing Kelandris stare at him, he sobered. «You find me funny now?» she cried. Zendrak shook his head. «No—I just—well, I've waited a long time to hear you give me that lecture.» Kelandris advanced on him. «Don't you play your Mayanabi games on me, mister. I pack a pretty good punch,» she said, making a fist with her left hand. Kelandris had proved her mastery of fisticuffs on more than one occasion in Zendrak's presence. Even Podiddley had been at the wrong end of Kel's arm once. Zendrak eyed Kelandris cautiously. Then he said, «Do you truly believe I have no feelings, Kel?» She hesitated. Lowering her head slightly, she said, «I don't know.» «Do you want to know?» «I don't know.» Zendrak shrugged. «I have more than enough passion still left in me, Kelandris. And I have a desire for you that the years have not subdued.» Kel's eyes widened a little bit. She took a step backward. Although she and Zendrak slept next to each other in bed, theirs was a purely platonic
relationship at this point. It was all that Kelandris could handle, although she would never have admitted this to anyone—including Zendrak. Now it appeared that Zendrak wanted to change their relationship, perhaps be her lover again, as he had been once in Suxonli, seventeen years ago. Kelandris stiffened involuntarily. She did not know what to do. Her own indecision and vulnerability angered her. Biting her lower lip, she whirled away from Zendrak, announcing over her shoulder, «I'm going to take a shower.» Opening the door to her room, she quickly scanned the hallway to see if she could get to the bathroom without running into anyone else from the Kaleidicopia. At three in the morning, the wide hallway was empty. Kelandris gathered her black bathrobe against her otherwise naked body and ran toward the third-floor bathroom. She ducked inside and shut the door, her heart pounding, her emotions extreme. She leaned against the door, her head bowed and her green eyes closed. Her mind flooded with questions. Would Zendrak still be in their bedroom when she returned? What would he say to her? What would he expect of her? Kelandris gritted her teeth. She didn't want to think about these kinds of questions. She
didn't want to feel these feelings. Despite her brave lecture on the benefits of feeling life deeply, ever since the Ritual of Akindo Kelandris had disciplined herself to feel nothing. It was a survival technique more than anything else. To feel anything was to open a veritable box of emotional trouble. Experience had taught her that passion of any kind put you at the mercy of other people. So to remain in control of her life—such as it was—Kelandris had used her formidable will to numb her emotions. She had promised herself she would never feel deeply again about anything. Or anyone. It was a matter of survival.
«Damn you, Zendrak,» she swore, tears filling her eyes. «Everything was fine between us and then you just had to go and spoil it.» Continuing to swear, Kelandris turned on the water in the shower. She waited for it to warm up. When the room became steamy, Kelandris dropped her black bathrobe. It fell to the floor revealing a muscular but surprisingly feminine body. Her bones were long to support her weight, but they were also delicate. Her belly was slightly rounded, her breasts soft and inviting. She stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat her senses into forgetfulness. Moments later, she felt a draft. She poked her head out of the shower, her long blue-black hair clinging to her face and neck and breasts. Zendrak stood inside the room, closing the door as she stared at him in astonished indignation. «I locked that door!» «And I opened it,» he said. He too dropped his bathrobe. Around his neck hung a necklace of black stones. The necklace was made of obsidian, and it had been forged in Soaringsea. Like Kel, his body was muscular; his chest was covered with fine dark hair. Although his body was considerably older than hers, it was a mirror image except that it was harsher and male. Without asking permission, he climbed into the shower with Kelandris. Kel reacted like a cornered animal. She pulled away from him, cowering against the wall. Zendrak ignored her fear of him and his sex and reached for her. Water streaming down his scarred face, he pulled Kelandris toward him and held her in silence. He kept his hands free of the erogenous places, touching her only as a friend might. Trembling, she made fists with her hands but she did not strike him. She could not. In her heart, she knew he meant her no harm. And had never meant her any harm. He had been ensnared by the events in Suxonli as much as she had. And yet, she could not accept this—not entirely. He had made love with her and left her just before the revel began. And when the night turned from a festival into a trial, Zendrak was nowhere to be found. Kelandris had never found a way to