Even the wolves were starving that winter. The north wind cut with a knife's edge, and only desperate men made the journey to Breakheart. For the first time in the memory of even the oldest people at Brennan's rath, the great River Cador was a ribbon of black ice. Serpent-like, it wound down from Spelling High Water, in the cleft of the Osrand Mountains, and the ice did not begin to break up until it reached right to the city of Moorkind, which was once my home. In spring the gentle lowlands would surely flood, one did not need to be a member of the Scryers' Guild to know that.

I had been at Brennan's rath--or Breakheart, as all who lived there soon came to know it--for a month under two years, and I would be there five years more. That time stretched before me like a field of desolation and I had begun to feel the weight of the fetters that bound me. Not physical fetters, but shackles nonetheless. I was bound to Breakheart as surely as if I were chained like a bear. Only fools tried to leave alone, and no one would take me out.

The afternoon sky was a pall of grey as I turned back toward the rath. I let my horse pick her own way, since the trail was fetlock-deep in snow and strewn with stones. On either side the mountains reared, forbidding as fortress walls, and the trees, dense thickets of blackpines, were like the hackles of a great animal slumbering in the earth.

As I reached the ancient stone circle on the shoulder of the hill above the rath I heard the wolves, and I touched my heels to the mare's sides. There was no game left in the woods now, so deep in winter, and if those wolves were hunting, they were about to set upon a traveller. Over my shoulder I carried a shortbow and a quiver of barb-tipped arrows. I was the lowest form of life at Breakheart, yet even I was not permitted to ride out unarmed on an errand.

The sky was black as a funeral shroud, but a shaft of sunlight somehow probed through the overcast and picked out the standing stones, the Nine Sisters, like a finger of gold from heaven. The wolves were beyond the Sisters, marching a perimeter, intent upon their quarry. I reined back, nocked an arrow and swore quietly as I saw what they were after.

Crouched against one of the stones was the figure of a man. He was cloaked and hooded against the striking cold, and across his knees was a naked sword. The blade was already red, and two of the wolves were limping. I had no chance to wonder how he came to be on foot, or what kind of man would tempt fate in these mountains at this time of year. The wolves were coming in again, and at a glance I knew the man was exhausted and hurt.

He was half way to his feet, and I raised my voice over the rush of the wind in the trees. "Get down!" His head turned, he saw me, saw my weapon, and bobbed back behind the stone. I released that arrow and several more. I have always been impressed by the intelligence of wolves. I never knew if it was an animal cunning or a genuine cleverness to rival Man's, but these creatures needed only one warning before they were slinking back into the woods. Breathing heavily, I slung my bow over my shoulder and took my horse into the circle, where I slid to the ground.

The traveller stood, cleaned his sword with a handful of snow, dried it on the hem of his cloak and sheathed it. He leaned heavily on the stone and studied me from beneath the cowl of that cloak. His garments were sapphire blue, embroidered in silver and trimmed in white fox. Perhaps I should have realised then that he was no common traveller, but I was cold and tired, and if I am honest, I was so dazzled by the beauty I saw as he shook back his hood that my thoughts were muddled.

He was as fair skinned as the Patai, that tribe from west Sakand, but his eyes were so blue, they seemed luminous. The last of his summer brown made his skin the same pale tan as my horse, like the fairest of fallow deer, and though he was smudged with weariness, I was beguiled. He held out one gauntleted hand and without thinking I took it.

"Is Brennan's rath near here?" he asked, in the accent of Moorkind. He was born there, or had lived there long enough to pick up their way of speaking. "Do you know the way?"

"I should," I said bitterly. "I work at Breakheart. Let me help you, you're hurt. What happened to your horse?"

He gestured eastwards, toward distant Vilhaven. "Bandits came at me last evening. I was lucky to escape with my life. They took the horse and everything I had, save one or two things of little value they missed. Since then I've walked, but you're right." He slapped his leg. "I fell heavily on this, and I'm half frozen. Is there a healer at the rath?"

"There's a farrier," I said dubiously as I gave him my shoulder to lean on. "You'd fare better if I treated you myself!"

"You know the healing arts?" His face was pinched with cold and pain as he looked down at me. He was somewhat taller than I, broader, and the weight across my shoulders was heavy. Close to him, I smelt fur and leathers, sandalwood and the musky male scent that was all his own. "If you've the healing touch," he said, "you can care for this leg. I've no desire to trust myself to the farrier!"

My horse was standing with her head down and her nostrils flared as she scented the wind. No doubt she could smell the wolves, probably also the snow that was threatening to fall again. Animals can always sense a storm's approach, and even I had seen the soft yellow woolliness of the sky. I caught the reins and tugged her toward me.

"You'd better ride. The rath isn't far but if you try to walk it'll be dark before we're there. The wolves will shadow us every step of the way, and it'll snow again soon." I could have added that I would be fortunate to escape a whipping, since I had been sent on a morning's errand and had taken all day. Brennan's temper was notorious, and I often felt the sting of the strap. But many times I chose to take a whipping in exchange for a day's freedom. "Let me help you," I offered.

I cupped my gloved hands for his boot and he hauled himself into the saddle with a grimace, a grunt of discomfort. I took the mare's bridle and gave her a tug, out of the stone circle and southward, along the bank of the stream.

From spring to autumn the foothills of the Osrand Mountains can be beautiful, but in winter they are simply dangerous. The passes are narrow, the trails are confusing. It is easy even for one who knows the way well to miss a turn. The wind picked up, blowing a plume of snow off the crown of Mount Emris, and I hurried the mare as my feet began to freeze.

The trail led down steeply from the Nine Sisters, curled around a great granite outcropping, ducked through the trees and approached the rath from the rear. I smelt hearthsmoke and heard the dogs barking before we left the woods, and I frowned at the stranger.

"Do you have money?" I asked dubiously. "Brennan won't extend his hospitality if you can't pay."

His brows arched. "I'd be tossed out into the snow?"

"No. But you'd work for your supper," I warned. "Brennan isn't a generous man. The bandits stole your purse?"

"Yes, but not these." He pulled off his left gauntlet and turned his hand to show me several rings. "The stones are very fine, the gold thick and heavy. Will he trade one of these for food and lodgings?"

I grinned. "He'd be glad to, because he'd be robbing you. He's always pleased to cheat someone. In spring the jewel merchants pass through on their way to Old Valdenheim. Just one of those rings would fill Brennan's pantry, and his wine cellar, till summer."

We had reached the rear wall of the rath by now, and old Elbrin, the gateman, opened the posterngate for us. Breakheart is a town held captive by a stockade. The wall is three times the height of a man, and built of whole trees. Brennan liked to say the stronghold was built by his grandfather, and perhaps it was, but to me the rath looked much older. The thatched rooves were heavy with snow, but in spring they would be repaired with fresh heather, and the blue and scarlet banners of the Epidai would flutter at the gate.

A boy called Jedda, bonded like myself, ran from the stable to take my horse as I helped the stranger dismount. The cloaked man leaned on me again and I turned him toward the nearest of the three taverns, The Wayfarer, which was Brennan's own. The chieftain's house stood to one side, with his stable at the rear, and before the tavern were the forecourt and main gate. It was all grey and white with slush and snow, but I heard gay music and riotous laughter from within the tavern, and urged my companion inside.

Eyes turned toward us as the door closed. Weighted deerskins swept into place to hold out the worst of the draughts and the minstrels paused to glance at us. The traveller took his weight on both feet and pushed back his hood. I had not realised how tall he was until then, nor that his hair was so dark as to be almost black, and uncut and smooth as silk. It was like a cape on his shoulders, and as he stood straight in the yellow lamplight and hearthlight I saw the bright glitter of silver on his breast.

He wore the hawk's head emblem, and I was taken aback, for I knew what it meant. Anyone from Moorkind knew.

Brennan saw all this as he left the hearth. Though he challenged most strangers who limped into the rath, he inclined his head before this one. Brennan was long past his youth, big bellied and thickly bearded, but even now he was still strong, still commanding. Intimidating. His bondsmen feared him--and so did I. He dressed like a chieftain in velvets and fur, tunic and leggings, but his manners would never have passed muster in Moorkind where, sadly, a rich man is measured by his guile. Brennan dismissed me without a glance, hooked his hands into the broad leather belt at his massive waist and cocked his head at my companion.

"Well met, stranger," he offered. "You came to grief on the road? Was it bandits or wolves?"

"Both." The newcomer's blue eyes flickered to me. "If this lad hadn't found me, I'd be done for." He offered his hand and Brennan had the grace to take it. "I am Bodie Leon...and I need lodgings, a meal, a horse."

For a time Brennan studied him, thoughtful or suspicious, which was his way, and then all at once he gave me a rough shove, a kick in the backside that sent me sprawling toward the hearth. "You heard what he said--a meal, a room! Why are you standing there?"

I was used to the treatment and merely hurried to obey. My cloak, boots and gauntlets, I dumped by the door, out of the way, where they would dry in the tavern's warm, smoky air. I heaped a platter with bread and cheese, filled a bowl with broth from the cauldron over the fire, and a mug with mead, which I quickly mulled with a hot iron. Bodie Leon stood in the warmth of the hearth, watching curiously until I ushered him into the shadows, away from the light and noise.

He sank gratefully into an enormous chair. I set the laden wood tray into his lap and sat at his feet. I was tired, cold and hungry, but so long as he wanted me I would be comfortable for the night. If he was warm, so was I, and for a change I would enjoy the best bed in the house.

My eyes were on his food and I licked my lips, wondering when he would favour me. I had set out far more than he could eat, my own meal as well as his, but he was new to the rath and I realised belatedly, he may not know our ways. I could not prompt him of course--if Brennan heard me do that I'd be whipped within an inch of my hide.

Bodie had been eating swiftly for some time when he asked, "Are you not hungry, then, boy?"

"Famished," I confessed, and wondered if he heard my belly rumble.

"Get something to eat." He gestured at the hearth.

My face flushed. "My lord, I can't." Why was I still ashamed? Two years I had been here, and shame still prickled me with heat. "I'm a bondsman."

For a moment his face was blank, then his brows rose. "They don't feed you, you earn your meal?"

"Yes." I looked longingly at his plate. "If you want me for the night, I belong to you. 'Tis you who feeds me."

"And if I don't want you?" he asked, but he laid one fingertip on my nose, which stripped the anxiousness from me.

I nodded at the other men at the hearth. Most were trapliners, miners, passing through and imprisoned here by the weather. Others were risking the mountains on their way to Moorkind on business. "Then I go with one of them," I said softly, "though I'd be happiest with you." That was no lie, no exaggeration. I had served all kinds of men and had learned the truth of the saying, that all cats are grey in the dark. But Bodie Leon was the kind I dreamed about, and gods knew when I would taste another like him.

His hand cupped my cheek. "What in the names of all the gods are you doing in this place?"

"As I said, I'm a bondsman," I said with that old flush of shame.

"But, why?" He split a piece of bread, filled it with mutton and barley from his dish and thrust it at me. "Eat!"

That command, I was pleased to obey. Through a welcome mouthful of food I said, "If you get hungry enough, you steal. And if you steal often enough, you surely get caught."

"And for your sins they sent you here," he concluded, looking around the dim, smoky tavern. "What do you do?"

"'What I'm told." I licked my fingers and looked at his cup and the cheese. "In the mornings I work in the stable. Afternoons, in the kitchen. Evenings, you'll find me here in the tavern until a man chooses me, then he'll take me to bed." My belly shivered. It was a long time since I had seen a man and genuinely wanted him for myself. Coupling, mating, was just something that happened, a duty I performed to earn my bed and breakfast.

"Poor tyke," he murmured, and held his cup to my lips. "You're from Moorkind. I know the look of you. Those green eyes...pretty eyes, lad. There are many like you in Moorkind."

I drank deeply and he gave me a generous piece of cheese. "I can go back to the city when my time is done."

"What's your name, boy?" He stroked my cheek as I ate, and I turned my face to his hand.

"At home they called me Raymond. Here, I've no name." I rubbed my face over his wrist, loving its strength, the broadness of its bones, the ropes of its sinews. "I'll see to your leg, unless you want the farrier."

He snorted at the suggestion and shared the mead with me. "Show me to the rooms, let me get out of these damned leathers. I don't have much time, Raymond. Have you eaten enough?"

In fact I was still hungry but I had learned long ago, when that question was asked my own needs must be set aside. I chewed a hasty last mouthful as I threw the debris of his meal into the fire and gave him my shoulders again, to help him up the narrow, creaking stairs.

The best bedchambers were at the front of the tavern. Brennan saved them for wealthy merchants from Valdenheim or priests on their way to the shrines in the riverland, across the mountains. Seldom did we see a man in Breakheart who had the right to wear the silver hawk's head on his breast.

The hearth was already bright. Every night fires were lit in each room, even if they were unoccupied, else they became damp and mouldy. I bolted the door securely against thieves, which are to be found in every and any tavern, lit the lamps and turned my attention to Bodie Leon and the bed.

He swung off his cloak, hung it over a chair and sat on the bedside to heel off his boots. His swords were on the chair and I noticed he never allowed them out of reach. I knelt to help with his boots, and saw how scuffed they were, as if he had not been attended by a servant in far too long.

In the light of four hissing lamps I saw how his tunic was frayed at the cuffs, growing threadbare at the collar, but it was not my place to speak. That silver hawk was the emblem of the House of Ragnarson, and if Bodie Leon still wore it, he was in Ragnarson's pay. If he was frayed and threadbare, this meant that he had been on the road a long time, perhaps living rough, and would likely be cherished as a long-lost son when he returned.

He groaned as I unbuckled his harness, unlaced the leathers. I lifted them off, stripped him to the skin, but when I removed his linen shirt I forgot my place and murmured aloud. On his left breast, over his heart, was a tattoo I had heard described but never seen.

His skin was smooth, the colour of pale, pale honey; his body was leanly muscled, like a man who had been running hard for months or years, and the tattoo was striking. It was an eye, with the aureole of his nipple as the pupil. The symbol was very ancient, the tattoo itself was years old. I recoiled, then laid the pad of my finger on his nipple and whispered, as if afraid to speak,

"You're a Seer."

He cupped his hand over his chest, holding my own hand against him. "I was. And if the gods grace me, shall be again. It frightens you?"

"No," I began, but it was too obviously a lie.

He tousled my hair, which is curly and unruly, and chestnut red. "It does, a little. And why not? It still frightens me, and I was trained for it when I was much younger than you! Earn your bed and breakfast then, Raymond. I'm aching, the leg is twisted. It needs rubbing, and even so I'll be stiff as a plank tomorrow."

His face darkened as he spoke. As I pushed him down on the bed I asked, "What troubles you about the morning? 'Tis a day, like any other."

Naked, he tugged a sheepskin pillow under his head and sprawled back, open to me but not flaunting himself. He was well made, head to foot, with long legs, wide shoulders and the round muscles of youth. He was hairless, save for the dark flares beneath his arms and below his belly, where his genitals were heavy and inviting. But as I oiled my hands with the salve intended for my own comfort when he mounted me, I could not overlook his scars.

I counted six. The newest was still livid, though the skin was closed. All were sword nicks, anyone who has shared a bed with warriors recognises them. But a Seer was not a warrior, he was too precious to be risked in battle. What had Ragnarson's Seer been doing, fighting and growing threadbare on the road?

Questions taunted me as I rubbed him, and I almost found the temerity to ask. I explored his right leg, high up at the hip, and discovered the bruise where he had fallen. He had wrenched the joint, if I was any judge, but the injury was slight. He would limp for a few days but from this misadventure at least there would be no new scar.

As I worked he began to make small pleasured sounds, and I watched his cock rise up and thicken, ready for another kind of massage, or another kind of duel. I leaned over, kissed the crown of him, petted his rich, ripe balls as they stirred and anointed the whole, generous length of him with the salve. He smelt of the sea, I thought, where the canals met the estuary. Acrid, earthy, companionable. He wore a bemused expression as I dropped my clothes at the bedside and lifted myself astride him.

"You were a thief before you came here?" he asked breathlessly as I settled on him. "Not a man's favourite bedboy?"

"I was hungry, so I stole, and to you I confess it," I said against his mouth, gasping because he was so big in me. Pain lanced me, peaked and dwindled into pleasure that made me groan.

"How old are you?" He stoked me, discovered the rough skin on my back and buttocks, left from so many healed welts, but he knew the plight of bondsmen and said nothing.

"Twenty summers, twenty winters," I said, losing my coherence as I began to work.

He rested his weary body and held me as I showed him what pleasures I knew. And, oh, I knew so many! I kept him on the edge and panting, finally gasping for release, and then I gave him what he wanted, when he had begun to despair of ever being granted that gift. But no matter what gentle trickery I played on him, not once did he make a move to force me. This, to me, was paradise, and I would have given him anything he asked for, anything at all. At last he bucked and heaved like a wild horse under me, and then was still, and I permitted myself my own quiet coming. Softened, dwindled, he slipped out of me and I sprawled in a boneless, exhausted heap of limbs at his side.

When we were lying quietly, a long time afterward, he turned me over and fingered my own scars. To my surprise I felt his lips on my back, moist and tickling, and I clutched his arms. I could scarcely make out his words, and did not dare ask him to repeat them, but I would have sworn he said, "I would flog the man who abused my lad. Aye, flog him bloody for his sins." Then he pulled up the quilted counterpane and swathed us both. "Lie against me, keep me warm and go to sleep," he told me, rough-gentle.

That was easier said than done. Since I came to Breakheart I had known so many men, but very few had I wanted for myself. Bodie Leon would be gone soon, but I would dream about him for years. The memories of this one night would sweeten a thousand others. Sleeping, missing one moment of this time with him, was the last thing on my mind. I wriggled closer and murmured in delight as he embraced me. Ragnarson's Seer! I might have been in the arms of a Valdenheim princeling, even a cardinal from the riverland shrines.

But I had been working since dawn and I did sleep, so that his threshing jerked me awake. By the water clock in the comer it was midnight, and at first I thought my bedmate was dreaming, but his eyes were wide open. He sat up, chest heaving, gazing into the distance as if he could see through the fabric of our world and into some other. Perhaps he could.

Much is said of the Scryers' Guild, some of it impossible, some magical. The Sorcerers' Guild is closely associated with the Seers. Some men are so uncommonly gifted, they belong to both, and every Seer receives his scrying stone from the Sorcerers, even I knew that much.

"My lord," I began, forcing myself awake.

He was not listening to me. "I see thee," he hissed, snake-like, dragging in great panted breaths, and I realised he was not awake, nor asleep, but tranced. "I see thee through the veil of smoke," he gasped, "I see ashes...blood in the snow. Cruach! The snow eagle. I see thy talons, Koval Nah, I see thy thieving claws! Thou art here, and then, and then--"

His hands clutched the air, making fists, and all at once he wrenched himself awake. The fire had burned down to a grate full of glowing embers, the room was not especially warm, but sweat drenched him. I smelt its sharp tang, and when he turned toward me I caught him. I was frightened. Strange magic--any magic--has always frightened me. I was dry mouthed as Ragnarson's Seer lay trembling in my arms. I tangled my hands in his hair, pulling gently to fetch him back to the present.

"You were tranced," I stammered.

"I know." Even his voice shook. "What did I say? Did you hear?"

"A few words only." I helped him sit against the pillows. "Did you not hear yourself?"

His dark head shook, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Cruach help me, I can never hear what I say in the trance. Tell me what I said. Tell me!"

"You're a Seer!" I touched his breast, fingered his nipple.

He took my hand away, his fingers like an iron band around my wrist. "I am a Seer without a scrying stone, do you know what that means?"

"No." I winced as his fingers dug among the bones of my wrist, but he did not notice. "I know the priests watch children, looking for gifted ones, and such children are taken away and trained," I said, a rush of words as he hurt me without realising it. "When your training is done you're given the tattoo, you become a Guildsman, you're given a scrying stone of your own."

He seemed to come back to himself and let go my wrist. I rubbed it gratefully as he slumped against the pillow and raked both hands through the glossy cape of his hair. "Not a scrying stone, Raymond. Not any stone. One stone, do you understand? One great crystal, a lens made especially, one stone for one Seer. It's not the source of our gift, but the focus for it. Without it, I don't command the gift, it commands me. I'm no more than a slave to forces that blaze through me." His face was bloodless. "Without the stone I cannot See, yet when I sleep the visions bum through my mind. They'll kill me one day, Raymond." His voice had fallen away to a hoarse whisper and his shoulders slumped. He pressed his hand over his breast, the tattoo. "What did I say?"

I understood little more than before, but I was caught in the web with him. "You spoke of someone called Koval, a veil of smoke, ashes. Then you said, an eagle, blood in the snow." I licked my lips and looked into his face. His jaw was stubbled, his eyes fever bright. "What does it mean?"

"That I'll fight." He gestured tiredly at his swords. "That the old woman was right, and Koval is coming...likely, that I'll die. "

My belly churned with terrible foreboding. "What old woman? My lord--"

"Don't call me that." He seized me, and with a sudden burst of strength that astonished and thrilled me at one time, dumped me across his lap. I looked up at him, wide eyed. "I'm no one's lord," he rasped. "You may as well know the truth, since you'll bury me tomorrow. Then do me one service. Send to Ragnarson in Moorkind, tell him..." He looked away. "Tell him what became of Bodie Leon."

Icewater lapped through every vein in me. "I can't leave the rath. If I try to leave alone, the mountains or the wolves or the winter will kill me. Even if I got through alive, I'd be flogged and gelded and sent back to finish my bond contract. You know the penalty for running away. I can't leave."

He blinked blindly at me. "Poor tyke. Raymond. Lovely Raymond, of the green eyes and red hair...how long before you can go?"

"Five years, my..." I whispered.

"Use my name." He laid his mouth on mine, and for the first time I tasted the velvet of his tongue.

No one had kissed me since I came to Breakheart. There had been so much mating, too much, often I was sore and stiff in the hips, but no affection for me. I had not realised how I was starved for affection, for the simple pleasure of a kiss, and I drank thirstily, all he would give. At last he fended me off and regarded me with a little wry humour.

"What were you, before you became a thief?"

"A man's son." I licked my bruised lips. "My father was a canal bargeman. I never knew my mother. My father died in the fevers four years ago. The barge was taken to pay his death taxes, there was no work for me in that trade, and I'm not trained for any other. I had a choice. Would I be a marketplace thief, or was it the whore house for me? At the time I chose the market--and see where I ended?"

"Yes." He looked into the fire. "Can you write?" I shook my head and he tousled my hair, as if he liked its curls. Perhaps they seduced his fingers; I hoped so. "No matter," he went on. "I'll write a letter for Ragnarson tomorrow. Make sure it's delivered when the roads open in spring."

"Deliver it yourself," I urged.

"No." He looked hauntedly at me. "Blood in the snow, you said. That was my blood, boy. Koval will kill me. He was once a mercenary, and I...I took up the sword when I was damned to hell for my sins, at around the same time they damned you to Breakheart for yours."

His web spun tighter around me. I pressed against his side. "What sins, my--Bodie?" In two years, I had never addressed a man by name.

He toyed pleasantly with my hair, taking a great pleasure in this. "One Seer, one stone, you know? When the gifted children are grown, when their training is finished, we are invited into the Guild and granted the scrying stone, presented to us by the Sorcerers' Guild. To us it's the ultimate prize, a tribute, given just once."

"But your stone," I began. "It was broken or lost?"

"Stolen." He mocked himself with a bitter half smile. "I was a fool. I took Koval Nah into my affections, took him as my lover and trusted him, and I was duped. I was a fool. It was never me Koval wanted. He wanted a Seer's stone."

I recoiled. "He's a Guildsman?"

To my surprise Bodie laughed, but the sound was humourless. "He has no gift! Like most idiots, he believes the power is in the stone, not in the man. In his worthless hands, it is a piece of crystal. In my hands..." He closed his eyes and shook his dark head slowly. "Surely, Koval knows by now, he can't use it. It's just a jewel."

"Perhaps he no longer has it," I suggested. "If it's valuable he would sell it. He stole it, so he clearly hasn't a scruple."

Bodie angled a look at me. "You were a thief."

"I stole food, shoes, a coin for herbs when I was sick," I retorted. "My worst crime was to be a clumsy, careless thief who got himself caught! Koval may not have your stone any longer."

But Bodie was sure. "He has it. This is what brings me to this gods forsaken place in mid-winter. I begged a favour, and though I should by rights have been spurned the old woman gave me what I needed. I said, 'Scry for me, tell me where he'll be, let me hunt the cur down and have it over, even if it's the death of me!' She did what I asked, and sent me here." He glared at the room, its dim comers and oak-beamed ceiling, the stone hearth and shuttered window, draped in tapestries till spring's arrival. "Merella was a great beauty in her youth. They said, even now she'll do favours for a handsome man."

"Favours? She might have sent you here to die!"

"I'll die anyway, rather sooner than later." He leaned into the pillows and pulled me back across his lap. I pressed my face to his chest and breathed the scents of his body. "Without the stone, every time I sleep my mind is burned by visions I neither control nor remember. In the end, I know it'll kill me. That alone would have been punishment enough, but the Guild excised me for the crime of stupidity, and even Ragnarson, who is my friend, held me responsible.

"He paid for my training, twenty years with the Guildsmen teachers! He could have flogged me bloody, or sold me just as you were sold, into a terrible bondage. Instead he put a sword into my hand. 'Find the dog,' he charged me. 'Get back your stone, and if you return to Moorkind whole and healed, there is still a place for you here.' Ragnarson has the power, he can make the elder Guildsmen reinstate me. He has their ear, and the influence."

I digested this as I stroked him, but one question remained unanswered. We settled again, knowing we would not sleep. My hand was between his thighs, soothing and playing with him, which he liked. If I could arouse him once more I would slip him into me for his comfort. "How did Koval steal it?" I said softly against his shoulder, half afraid to ask.

He sighed and pulled up the quilt. "He passed himself off as a Valdenheirn merchant, wooed me one summer, and said he loved me, and like a complete fool I believed him. In matters of the heart, even scryers are blind. When you see him, you'll understand. One night I took him to my private apartments in Ragnarson's house. He wined me until I was insensible, bedded me for his own pleasure, and while I slept he took my stone and simply walked away. I should have Seen all this, I should have known what he was about, but he dazzled me until I wanted to leave Ragnarson's house and go away with him..." He turned his head on the pillow, looked at me. "I don't know why I'm telling you."

"Perhaps because I share purgatory with you," I whispered, still stroking him. "Go to sleep."

"If I do, it'll happen again," he warned.

"And I'll be here." I kissed his mouth longingly and he pulled the counterpane over our heads.

Snow fell thickly overnight and the morning was hushed. Even Breakheart is pretty when it wears a pelt of fresh white under a brilliant blue sky, but I had hoped that sky would be storm-black over the mountains. Foul weather would have closed the roads, kept Koval Nah miles from Brennan's rath. Kept Bodie Leon here, and safe, for days or weeks longer, while he could rest and recover his strength. The clear sky and gentle wind gave him the opportunity to travel, though the trail was difficult.

At mid-winter the dawn was late. It was full daylight when I cracked open a shutter. Bodie was half-awake, half-asleep, as I rebuilt the fire. I scrambled into my tunic and leggings and ran down to the kitchen for his breakfast.

The kitchen was a dim, smoky cavern at the back. The three bug hunting dogs lay panting before the cooking hearth, the ovens were baking bread, a pig was turning on the spit over the fire. A little boy, ten years younger than me, turned it, toasting his toes, while the women made broth and pickles.

I had loaded a tray when movement behind me alerted me to Brennan's presence, and I was not surprised when he caught a handful of my hair. I smelt ale on his breath as he leaned closer. "Who is he, boy?"

"He is the Seer from Chancellor Ragnarson's house, my lord," I winced. The day I was sold, this was the way Brennan fetched me down off the auction block. I was naked and cold; he took me by the hair, thrust me at his lieutenant, and I started work at once, right there in the market, harnessing horses.

"'What would Ragnarson's Seer be doing here?"

"Personal business, my lord. He came to meet a man." That at least was no lie. "He'll stay until the man arrives."

"You know this man's name?"

Now, I lied. "I'm sorry, my lord, I don't." If Brennan knew the name of Koval Nah, the scene would be the end of Bodie. Brennan would take Koval's part for a share in the price of the stone, and Bodie would surely die.

"Hmm." He gave my hair a tug and let me go. "You pleased him last night? He mated you?" To him, I was just a mare. He used me himself in the early days, and knew what I was worth.

"I tried to please, and he coupled me." I picked up the tray and edged toward the door. "He's hungry." So was I. My own food was on the tray, but it would never be called mine. I ate off anther man's plate, at his pleasure. I had grown so accustomed to this, I barely noticed the shame any longer, yet that morning I felt a sharp pang of humiliation. Bodie had treated me like a freeman. I had forgotten how that felt, and the prospect of the five years' bondage before me was a knife between my ribs.

"Find out the Seer's business," Brennan called as I made my escape. He liked to know everything about everyone under his roof.

I promised I would tell him all I learned, but it was another lie. I would tell him nothing. The stairs creaked as I climbed back to the room, and when I had bolted the door I discovered Bodie wrapped in the counterpane, shaving with a lethal blade. The kettle sang on the hearth hob, but he was shaving with oil, as the highbom of Moorkind do. Beneath the quilt he was still naked, and I glimpsed his body as he turned to me.

The tray clattered onto the table by the bed and I opened the shutter a little. "Blue sky, good travelling weather," I said in regretful tones.

"Koval will be here." He sounded resigned, as if he was ready to die. He patted his face with a swatch of the sheet and inspected the food before he bothered to dress. I was laying out his clothes, absently noticing where they needed mending before he would be considered presentable in Moorkind or Valdenheim, when he said to me, "Raymond, what are you worth?" The question took me unawares, I blinked stupidly. He smiled, leaned over the bed and tongued my mouth. "The day you were sold on a bond contract, what was the price asked for you?"

"Three hundred shel," I said haltingly. "My contract would be worth less now, since I've served two years. It would change hands as a five-year contract...and also, I'm two years older, they would say, two years less comely for this work." I swallowed hard. I knew what I hoped. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm allowing myself to dream," he said self-mockingly. "If I live out this day--Cruach knows, it's late morning already!--and if it's Koval's blood in the snow, I can go home."

"To Ragnarson's house in Moorkind," I said hoarsely as memories of the city haunted me. I could smell the river and the canals, hear the cries of hawkers and tradesmen in the market, feel the fierce heat of the summer sun on my face, as it never warmed Breakheart. Tears stung my eyes and I turned away before Bodie saw the ridiculous emotion. Feeling was my enemy. If I let myself feel I would never survive until my bondage was worked out. Brennan could sell my contract, I could end anywhere. I could go to places so bad that this rath seemed paradise by comparison. All bondsmen know this.

"Raymond." Bodie's arms closed about me from behind and I felt his lips against my ear. "'Tis only a dream. But there's a ring on my hand that would buy you. Those rings are all I have left. Ragnarson gave them to me, though no one knew it. He did not think I would live this long. I'm no warrior, and without my scrying stone there's a fire in my mind that burns me to ashes."

I turned into his arms and hunted for his mouth. He was still naked, and I felt his cock come up hard as the hilt of a sword, as we kissed. I knelt at his feet and slipped him between my lips to enjoy the salt-sweet taste and musk-rich scent of him. His hands cradled my head, held me to the task, yet where others forced me he was most gentle. If he bought my contract he would own me, body and soul. And I would be glad.

We ate and I rubbed his leg before I helped him dress. The shutters were wide to let in daylight and air, and he sat with a view of the gateway, while he wrote his letter to Ragnarson. I could not read a word of it, I never learned the skill, but he folded it, sealed it with scarlet wax and gave it into my keeping. I hid it in my clothes, determined that no one would see it. I could hide it in the cellars, where no one went, until spring. Bodie was satisfied, and turned his attention to his weapons now. His swords were across his knees and he worked methodically with the whetstones, honing them to an edge of perfection.

Like any warrior of the Patai tribe, he had three swords. One was a two-handed weapon, worn in a baldric over his shoulder, to be drawn in a great arc overhead. I thought it would split a man in halves. The second was shorter, one-handed and single edged, its blade thick and slightly curved with a big, flared knuckle-guard. The third was much shorter, a stabbing sword, double-edged. Their harness was scuffed and patched, and suspended from it was a small but heavy pack I had not noticed before.

Inside, I found a light mail shirt, enough to turn aside a glancing blow. I held it in my hands and looked up at Bodie as he finished with his swords. He cleaned his hands of oil, wrapped the whetstones, and nodded.

"It's noon," he said tersely. "The sun sets in four hours. Koval won't travel after dark, with the bandits and the wolves hunting. Help me dress."

I buckled and laced him into the leathers, harness and mail and stood back to watch as he settled the weight of his swords. The two-handed blade was so heavy, I could lift it but I could never have fought with it. He handled it as he handled a lover. The way he handled me. If he lived to see the night, it would be the tool of his survival.

"Can't you See?" My heart beat painfully. "You had the gift when you were a child, before you were trained. You must be able to See!"

He touched my face. "I can See a little. A jumble of images that confuse me. With the stone, it's often like looking through an open window. Without it, I'm only guessing and I do more harm than good. The stone is a kind of magic. Without it, all is chaos. You understand?"

"No," I confessed, "but I believe."

Blood in the snow, ashes, an eagle. I shivered and knelt by the hearth, following Bodie with my eyes as he returned to the window to watch the gate.

It was an hour later when his whole body tensed, his hand clenched on the shutter until his knuckles were white as bone. I hurried to him, leaned out, and below us we saw three fine horses, three cloaked figures coming under the gate lintel and heading for the stable.

A dappled grey warhorse, a big black beast with a white blaze on his face, and a brown coated cob, so heavily muscled that his rider could hardly straddle him. "Koval?" I murmured as the nags pushed through the new snow.

"In the lead, that is Koval Nah mounted on the grey," Bodie told me. "The others are Endoven Ron and a woman. Endoven's property, bonded like yourself. She is nothing, don't concern yourself for her, but Endoven is dangerous."

"A thief, like Koval?"

"He is a gambler, a mercenary, an assassin," Bodie said grimly. "He and Koval are first cousins."

So he was not fighting one man, but two. I touched his arm as he closed the shutter. "Bodie--"

"Hush." He took my face between his hands. "Make me the promise. The letter. See Ragnarson gets it. Promise me!"

"My oath on it," I swore. "But there are two of them!"

He made some sound of bitter humour. "Koval never rides alone. He has my property. I can feel the stone, even from here."

"Let me steal it," I begged. "I am a thief by trade."

He reproached me with a look. "Last time you stole, you were caught and sold. What will Brennan do if you're caught stealing from his guests?"

I knew exactly what he would do. My face flushed and my belly sickened. "I wouldn't be caught," I protested.

"You would, the moment Koval checked his pack and found the stone gone." Bodie kissed my lips. "Stay out of the way." He drew one of his swords. "I was never a warrior before, but in two years I've learned a great deal. I've watched, practised with fine swordsmen, and won several fights already."

"I saw your scars," I said miserably.

"Trivial wounds, each one the price of a victory," he said sharply, and fended me off. At the door he paused and turned back. "Thank you, Raymond."

"For what?" I had the letter in my hands, turning it over and over and wishing I could read.

He smiled. "It doesn't matter. Just get that to Chancellor Ragnarson. All will be as it must be. No doubt this is what the gods have always intended, and I was born to end my life here."

The door closed behind him and I stared blindly at it for a full half minute. Years of bondage will dull the wits of any man, but give him something to fight for and those wits sharpen again in moments. Anger was an emotion grown so alien to me that I barely knew it when it began to seethe. But as it boiled up I recognised it well enough. I dragged open that door and ran.

I could hear the commotion in the stableyard as the boys ran out for the horses: raised voices, the clipped, spat-out accent of Vilhaven spoken by a man who treated servants badly and abused bondsmen. Bodie did not know the tavern well enough to be aware of the side door that led out by the shed where the ale barrels, firewood and lamp oil were kept. He was on his way to the front door and would go around the side of the building to reach the stable. If he was quick he would cut off Koval and Endoven before they could get out of the yard, and this was to his advantage, though he did not know it yet.

My bow and quiver were with my cloak and leathers, by the door. In the deeps of winter Brennan hardly troubled to leave his fireside and when messages must be delivered I was most often sent out. I was young, as worthless as any cheap bondsman, but I knew how to handle a bow and a horse. Those skills were my father's only real legacy to me, and I blessed him again as I snatched up the weapon and ducked into the shed.

The door was snow-drifted, but Jedda and I had dug it out just days before, so I could get it open. I sweated in darkness that smelt of ale and pine logs, unjamming the door with an enormous effort. The wind had dwindled, the sky was so blue it hurt my eyes to look up. I wedged myself inside the door and nocked an arrow before I looked out. In the quiver were twenty more shafts, but I would never need so many.

Here was the absurdity of my predicament: I could have killed Brennan on any day of my captivity, and his lieutenants and his seneschals with him. Often I swore I would do it, when my welts were hurting and between my legs I was sore. But when my welts had healed I would admit the truth. If a bondsman such as me raised a hand, let alone a weapon, he could die. I was a prisoner until my contract was up, or until someone bought it and took me out of Breakheart. The fear of who might buy me if I were put up for sale, and where he might take me, was so dreadful that I had endured. Until now.

If Bodie lived, he would take me out. If he died, part of me died with him. I had never felt love before. The madness came over me all at once, and it was like seeing a stranger in a crowd and knowing him like a brother.

I could be killed. For what I was doing, Brennan could beat me until I was dead, and no one would stop his hand. My heart hammered but I lifted the bow and looked into the sunglare.

Two men and a woman were waiting for Jedda to unstrap their baggage. The woman was small, so heavily cloaked that I could see neither her face nor her shape, to know if she was attractive. The men were tall, sparely built, dressed like highborn Vilhaveners. They wore the Sheeny clan colours, dusky red and creamy white. That clan had a reputation for the darkest forms of treachery. It was the foundation of their fortune. My pulse beat harder. Which was Koval?

As Jedda lifted down the bags the men turned toward me, and at a glance I knew which must be Koval. So this was the thief who seduced Bodie! His hair was yellow as wheat, his features fine and high-cheekboned, his lips full. It was a sensual face, but not a kind one. I saw fox-like cunning, and I was afraid.

"So, Koval Nah, my old love. What brings you to Breakheart when the roads are almost closed?"

Bodie's voice was deceptively pleasant. I leaned out to see him. He was in the arched gate that led out of the stableyard, standing foursquare, blocking the way. His cloak was thrown back, all three of his swords to hand, and the hilts of several knives also probed from his boots and sheaths in his sleeves. The sun gleamed on his hair, his breath plumed in the sharp cold, and the smile on his face was a frozen mask. He was poised like a dancer, and though he swore he was no warrior, he surely had the look of one. A man is what he makes of himself.

The thief spun, his eyes widened in the glare of sun on snow, and he spat a mouthful of Vilhaven crudity before he reined back his temper. "I heard you were outcast. I heard Ragnarson banished you and the Sorcerers' Guild stripped you of your rank."

"True." Bodie's chin lifted. "But you should know me, Koh. Did you think I'd he down and let you kick me?"

"Me?" Koval pretended surprise. "I don't understand what you mean. Step out of my way, Bodie. It's cold out here."

But Bodie stood firm. His voice was like slivers of broken glass. "Return my property, and I'll let you leave Breakheart alive. I've a blood score to settle with you, but that can wait for another day, a better place." He held out his hand. "Give the stone to me, Koval."

"Your property?" Koval's blond head tossed as he laughed. "You're mistaken. That stone was mine from the moment I took it from you. That's Vilhaven law. He who holds, possesses."

A wolfish smile creased Bodie's face. "Then by Vilhaven law, if I take it back it's mine." He nodded thoughtfully. "That seems fair."

As he spoke he drew the heavy sword in a great arc over his head and grasped it in both hands. There is a way a swordsman stands, something about the sureness of his limbs, that proclaims his skill. Though I was breathless with dread I saw all this about Bodie and my throat tightened.

Two years had he been on the road, and he wore the scars of many victories. Where had he been, who had taught him? My eyes flicked to Koval and I saw his surprise. When he had left Bodie in Ragnarson's house, he had left a young man in disgrace, suffering the pain of many losses at once. Bodie had lost his rank, Ragnarson had no choice but to cast him out him, his lover had betrayed him and the Scryers' Guild reviled him. Without the focusing power of his stone his terrible gift was uncontrollable, his sleep troubled, and his life would burn out like a runaway grassfire. Koval must have believed Bodie was dead already, or that he must be sick, ruined. To see him here with a sword in his hand, was the last thing the thief could have imagined.

Still, Koval recovered quickly. He stepped closer to his kinsman, and already Endoven had drawn his sword. After serving the mercenaries who passed constantly through Breakheart on their way between Moorkind and Valdenheim, I was a good judge of swords. Endoven's was a curved-bladed velchi, a fine weapon, but not the match of Bodie's.

With a serpentine slither, the sword was out of Koval's own scabbard and he dropped into the familiar fighter's crouch. "What use is the stone to you?" he demanded of Bodie. "The Guild Fathers won't take you back. Will you ply the Seer's trade for money, like a marketplace fortune teller, like a common whore? Better to die honourably. Come onto my sword, I'll do the job for you."

The provocation heated my blood but Bodie seemed oblivious. His boots crunched through the snow as he stepped into the yard, and Jedda scurried to fetch Brennan or the lieutenants. They would be at the hearth and reluctant to leave, but if they did come, who would they second? The Sheeny clan was notorious, while the name of Ragnarson carried some weight even here. But Brennan had kinsmen in Vilhaven, his loyalties could lie anywhere.

"Jedda!" I shouted from the doorway. The boy broke stride, turned toward me. "Not yet, Jedda, see nothing for a few minutes!"

"But, Raymond," he began. Something about my face must have warned him and he dove into the stables, where he could swear he was looking for the farrier or the groom.

Koval and Endoven were shoulder to shoulder and steel chimed with a sound like bells, clear and ringing in the sharp winter air. Bodie was good. Perhaps he was not born to the warrior caste, but he had found good teachers and his skills were sound. The heavy blade leaped like a bird in his hands, the sun split a rainbow from its edge and he drove Koval back, and back again. If Bodie had been pitted against Koval alone, it would have been an easy contest, but no sooner did Koval falter than Endoven took his place.

Crows cawed from the eaves and over the rath, hunting on outstretched wings, was a white eagle. The great bird dipped over Bodie's head, its shadow raced over the snow, touching Endoven as it went. Of a sudden I recalled the superstition. Mountain folk have always said, if the shadow of a hunting eagle touches you, your time is short.

A flurry of cuts made Endoven retreat, and Koval launched himself again. Only I knew how tired Bodie was. How poor were his chances against two. Endoven was resting while Koval wore down their rival, and I saw Bodie begin to falter. He was exhausting, his hip was slowing him as we had known it must. The torment of the last years haunted him. I marvelled that he had survived so long, and kept his strength. This match was so unequal, tears of rage stun my eyes and the madness consumed me again.

My bow was already drawn but the decision to aim and loose the arrow was instinctive. I had done it before I was aware of the action, and after running the gauntlet of the wolfpack so often, I was a good shot. The shaft buried in the back of Endoven's thigh, he screamed and fell, clutching helplessly at his leg. The wound was painful, temporarily crippling, but he would live. Heart hammering, I dropped the bow, clambered over the drifted snow and darted across the yard.

Down and writhing, Endoven barely saw me. I came up behind him, seized the arrow and wrenched it out in one movement. The man screamed again as the barbs ripped through flesh and muscle. Then I was up, quick as a thief and diving back toward the door with one thought in my mind. I might get away with this. Endoven was in no condition to know who had torn out the arrow.

But a shape whirled by me, a cloak billowed, I saw a gleam of sunlight on the blade of a knife and before I could make it out of the yard I watched that steel plunge into the unprotected throat of Endoven as he lay cursing at my feet.

Blood gushed, hot as his insides, melting the snow into a thin, pink lake. Endoven's eyes bulged, he pawed at his ruined gullet but the finest healer in Moorkind could not have helped him now. He fell, lax and dead, and I spun toward his executioner, fearing for my own life.

My fear was wasted. The woman, Endoven's bondsman, had already turned the knife on herself. It was wedged beneath her ribs, its tip in her heart, and I watched her violet eyes glaze over, the light go out of them. I could only guess what she had suffered at his hands, how long she had waited for her chance to make an end of it. Perhaps she had suffered no more than I, but she was a lady, she was no brat from the canals, how could she survive and keep her mind?

I threw the arrow into the shed and pulled the door shut with seconds to spare. Brennan's voice thundered from the gateway, but Bodie and Koval ignored him. They were circling one another like prowling wolves, jabbing, attacking at any opportunity. Bodie had thrown aside the heavy sword and was working with the lighter blade now. He could taste victory, and I saw the feral joy in his face as he felt revenge in his grasp. Koval had hurt him in so many ways. Many times, Bodie must have wished himself dead.

But it was Koval who fell as the sword's point gashed his belly, laid him open, hip to hip. He went to his knees, pitched into the snow and his mouth opened to scream though he made no sound.

Brennan was roaring and for the first time Bodie seemed to hear. He panted, his face was flushed with effort, and gestured for me to pick up his swords. "All right, Brennan, I hear you." He touched the silver hawk on his breast. "You know Ragnarson's device?"

"I know it well enough," Brennan assured him.

"Then you know I'm Ragnarson's Seer." Bodie was getting his breath back rapidly. "This man--" he gave Koval's body a shove with one boot "--is a thief. Search his pack, you'll find a scrying stone. My scrying stone, without which I'm such useless baggage, the Guilds wouldn't have me to sweep their floor! I'm here on Ragnarson's business. I came for my stone, and I'll take it now. I am for home. Moorkind. As soon as the roads are travellable."

He could barely wait to get his hands on it. I felt his craving, and guessed it must be keen as lust or hunger, or the need for a drug. I dragged the saddlebags off Koval's horse and opened them at Bodie's feet. His hands trembled and grasped as I rummaged, finding every trinket but what he wanted.

Then, there it was. A crystal that winked like an enormous diamond. A lens, a focus, the tool of the scryer's ancient art. With this in his hands, his gift was so precious that Ragnarson, or any man, would take Bodie into his house and give him pride of place. Ragnarson would surely persuade the Guild to reinstate him. I lifted the stone, put it into his hands, and clambered to my feet. My knees were snow-wet and frozen, but I barely noticed.

He petted it like a kitten, held it to his breast where he wore the scryer's tattoo. For some time he seemed almost drunk, and then he blinked his eyes clear and looked at me. "Thank you. I saw what you did for me."

"You saw what?" Brennan rumbled.

Bodie ignored him. "The bondsman's contract is for sale?"

This took Brennan by surprise. "You want him? You'll be returning to Moorkind. He's a thief. Take a thief into Ragnarson's house, and you'll rue it."

"Ragnarson's house has had its share of thieves," Bodie said cryptically, with a glance at Koval. "I'll pay your price for this bondsman, have his contract made over to me. And I'll take the horses belonging to these men. If we leave now, Raymond, we can be in Gaelgate by nightfall. In three days it'll snow so hard, the passes won't open till spring. Ah...there will be a fire here. That chimney is about to split wide open. The thatch will blaze, because Brennan doesn't believe me and won't trouble himself to make repairs." He lifted the stone, let it catch the sun. "I have what is mine. And for that..." he held out his hand and I clasped it. "I'm in your debt."

What Brennan made of this I never knew, but within the hour I was mounted on the dappled grey horse Koval had ridden, while Bodie was on the black, leading the way south out of Breakheart. Behind us, funeral pyres were already smoking. The wind scattered ash across the forecourt, darkening the snow.

My contract had been made over in Bodie's name and was safe in his jacket. According to Moorkind law I belonged to him now as I had belonged to Brennan. I would be his property for five years, to keep or to sell, and if he killed me no real questions would be asked.

But Moorkind law was wrong. I did not belong to Bodie because of any bond contract, he was not about to kill me, and I would be with him much longer than five years. I would be with him until he told me to go, long after my freedom was restored. Love is more binding than any bond contract.

The setting sun was bloated in a sky so crimson, it made me think of blood, of Koval, Endoven, and the woman whose name I never knew. I touched my heels to the grey's sides to bring him up alongside Bodie, who had reined back on the shoulder of the hill. Below us were the snow-heavy, thatched rooves of Gaelgate. I could smell their hearthsmoke and I was hungry.

Bodie teased me with a smile. "I never owned a bondsman before. You'll eat from my plate, will you?"

"Tend your horses, sharpen your swords, clean your leathers," I added. "Then set your hearth, make your bed and share it with you, if you'll have me."

"Oh, I'll have you," he said, a growl that made me shiver. "Five years until you're free, Raymond. I expect I'll have you a great many times!"

"And many more thereafter," I added. The wind gusted and a flurry of snow brushed my face. "Let's get in before it starts."

He caught my hand and squeezed it tightly, a gesture of affection. Then he urged his horse down the sloping trail toward the town, and I was glad to follow.

-- THE END --