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Prologue

A Pilgrim Train on the Ancient Road, Kingdom of Hebrun, Summer 4760, Year of the Goddess:

He awoke to the sound of screaming. He rushed to the edge of the copse to see horsemen with hooded faces in rough clothing chasing after the pilgrims. He could see their broadswords and clubs as they attacked the unarmed men and dragged off the wives of the lay pilgrims. To his horror he could hear the women scream as they were savagely raped. There was blood everywhere.

It was his nightmare come to life. Instinctively he reached across his body to his left hip for his sword, but he had none. He hadn't worn a sword in over ten years.

Quickly, he glanced around the copse and found a large fallen branch. Brandishing it, he ran out into the fray, just as one of the hooded men slit the throat of poor, dying Votee Johanis.

He roared in anger as he swung his makeshift club at the horseman, knocking the sword from his hand. It clattered to the earth as the brigand yanked the branch out of his hand. But as he reached down to grab the fallen weapon, the horseman took the branch and clubbed his adversary over the head. There were stars and then everything went black as he fell and rolled away, ending up on his back.

He was just regaining consciousness when he became aware of new sounds. He could hear the brigands laughing as they pawed through the pilgrims' possessions. He could hear those who were left alive and wounded gasping for breath.

Then he heard it. A loud, piercing cry like the shrieks of predatory birds, followed by the rumble of horses.

Through slitted eyes he saw a troop of horsemen galloping in behind two battleflags, swords drawn and ready. Through the dust raised he could see the soldiers chasing down the brigands and killing them where they were caught. They wore helmets of steel and leather covering their crowns and noses, leather and metal cuirasses and knee-length hip protectors made of leather slashed up to wide girdles and tipped at the bottom of each pointed slash with metal coverings.

And yet, the sounds he heard seemed too high-pitched to be those of men.

It was a nightmare gone absurd. He'd dreamed of bloody battles and he'd dreamed of women. Now he was dreaming of bloody battles involving women. He closed his eyes and said a final prayer to his Goddess thanking her for letting him die before he completely lost his sanity.

He realized he was not dying, but if he lay quietly and unmoving, maybe he could pretend he was dead and when these terrifying avengers rode off, he could get up and run away. He could steal clothing from one of the dead men, either the lay pilgrims or the brigands. He could travel south until he came to a village of some sort. He could find work of any sort and let his hair grow out. If he kept to himself, he would be free. Maybe never free to marry and have a family, but free from starvation and humbling punishment and filthy clothes. And possibly, some day, he could find work as a scribe or teacher where he could use his skills as a calligrapher and illuminator again. Or he could work on reacquiring his skills with sword and horse and become part of a village watch...

* * *

Crown Princess Roxana of Hebrun, her brother, Prince Pavlek and the remainder of the Rose and Hart battalions pulled their horses up back at the scene of the massacre. Before everyone dismounted, she raised her crossed fingers above her head for everyone to see and echo. This was the signal that no names or titles of nobility were to be used, only their military ranks, until it was safe to do otherwise.

"Fan out," she called out in a husky, no-nonsense voice. "Look for survivors. Surgeons, make ready. The Rose Battalion will collect any corpses and bring them to the far side of the road. The Hart Battalion will gather firewood for a pyre."

The well-trained warriors immediately went into action. The two battalion surgeons circulated, trying to identify wounded survivors.

* * *

He lay very still, doing his best to disguise his breathing and ignore the pain in his head from the blow he had received. Then he detected the presence of someone standing beside him and the strange, unmistakable scent of roses.

He felt the figure crouch beside him and place a gentle hand on the pulse point on his neck. He was caught! His eyes popped open. Staring at him behind a helmet which obscured the crown of the head and nose was a leather and metal-armor-clad warrior. The warrior had dark, intense brown eyes that burned with concern and a long braid of black hair that had fallen forward over one shoulder to reveal a ribbon of golden blond hair woven through the plait. The metal plates on the cuirass were engraved with vines of roses. At the soldier's right hip was sheathed a long broadsword with a practical, plain hilt. Its position indicated a left-handed swordsman. This warrior must be very young since he could not detect any evidence of a beard on the dirt and blood-spattered lower half of the face.

"Please," he whispered, "for Goddess sake, sir, tell them I'm dead."

Chapter One

The Kingdom of Zarbaria on the Northern Plain:

Late Winter, Last of the eleventh month, Year of the Goddess, 4749 since the first revealed visions:

She brushed a work-reddened hand gently through the long, thick, sandy blond hair of the young warrior whose head lay pillowed on her ample bosom.

Yes, Prince Darius's reputation was completely founded. For a youth not even seventeen, he was skilled in giving and receiving pleasure in the sex act. He also seemed to have a rip-roaring good time at it as well. True, the tavern wench knew the prince had never asked her name, would not ask, did not really care. True, she was unlikely ever to feel him inside her again, but for now until he woke up, she could imagine this tall and beautiful young man was wholly hers. He had made her feel that way, young and firm and completely desirable instead of the worn out drab who stared back at her in her wavy, polished metal mirror. She could pretend she was a lover instead of a serving girl and sometimes whore spreading her legs for a few spare coins.

Her reverie was interrupted by a loud banging on the door of her tiny room.

"Darius," sounded the voice behind the door, "we're all on the move. Pull that cock of yours out of the wench and let's be gone from here."

"My lord," the girl said quietly.

Prince Darius of Zarbaria opened eyes of startling crystal blue and, with a playful kiss on the woman's mouth, levered himself out of the bed.

The nameless wench took a deep breath at the sight of his magnificent nakedness. Fully six feet tall, and young enough to still be growing, he had broad shoulders, chest and arms muscled like a warrior from wielding swords and protective cuirasses and helmets. His waist and hips were slim, his buttocks firm. A light scattering of brown hair dusted the expanse of his chest between his flat male nipples. A thick thatch crowned his resting manhood as he pulled on his hose and braies to conceal it as well as a horseman's well-muscled thighs.

Darius pulled his tunic and leather cuirass over his torso, then reached his hands behind his neck and pulled out his waist-length hair to fall down his back. No Zarbarian warrior worth his sword would be caught dead with his hair bound or cut short!

Finally, the prince pulled on leather boots, buckled his sword belt and tucked his helmet under his arm. He reached into a money pouch on his belt and withdrew a few coins.

"A more delightful partner I've never experienced. Thank you for the pleasure you gave me," he said with a heart-melting grin. It almost made being a sometime whore worthwhile to receive such a compliment, even if it was not truly sincere. It was no secret that to Prince Darius, the woman he had had most recently was always the most delightful he had yet experienced. And no customer thanked a whore. Why, the thanks were better than the money, even for the most jaded courtesans.

He stretched his arms luxuriously over his head before reaching for the door latch to exit the room. Waiting for him was another warrior of similar height, build and age, with waist-length dark brown hair and a small, trimmed brown beard.

"Barris, you do have a way of crippling a man's mood." His deep baritone voice was quiet but commanding. He had learned to keep his tone quiet because he had earned his spurs while his voice was still changing. Noticing others his age had trouble with command because their cracking altos inspired laughter, he gave his orders in a soft tone, which inspired others to listen. He soon became so used to speaking quietly that even as his voice reached a man's register he kept the habit.

"My Prince," his friend Barris responded with a joke in his voice, "you love all the women too much. They're just tavern wenches and whores..."

"The difference between a lady and a whore," Darius responded seriously, "is not how she's born, but how she's treated. Treating a whore like a convenience lowers both of us. Treating her like a cherished lover makes it a lot more fun for both of us."

"You don't even know their names half the time..."

Darius shrugged. "When I take a wife, believe me, I'll remember her name because I won't want anyone else."

The two young men strode out of the inn where three more youths of similar age were waiting by their horses.

"Maxim, Karolys, Patrus," Darius greeted them with a nod as they mounted their war horses. "Let's away."

Among these friends, with whom he had fostered and trained as a warrior, there was little ceremony, little lauding of rank except in jest. These men, young as they were, had earned their spurs as warriors at the ages of thirteen and had led battalions of soldiers capturing and securing much in the way of new land and chattels, both for their own aggrandizement and to fill the coffers of King Isham's treasury.

They rode from the inn through the lush forests of this part of Zarbaria on their way to Pliko, the capital. In a week would start the round of festivals culminating in the first full moon of spring and the start of the new year. Darius, as a prince of the realm, would need to make appearances on the balconies along with his father, his older brother, Crown Prince Elweir, two years his senior at nineteen, and his two younger brothers, the eleven-year-old, fanatically-pious Phanis and the playful nine-year-old Volney. Their mother, Queen Arletta, had died two summers ago.

The first full moon of the New Year also marked Darius's seventeenth birthday. When he was a small child, he used to think the ceremonies and celebrations were all in his honor, until Elweir beat him up one birthday to prove to him it was not the case. There had been bad blood between them ever since.

"Darius," said Barris, "do you really think you will be willing to give up having sex with anyone you choose when you get married."

The prince stiffened in the saddle. "I look at it this way. I don't plan to get married until I'm, say, twenty-five or so. By then I'll have had a chance to sample all the pleasures and learn the best of them from the worst. When I get to be that age..."

"Which is so very old," Maxim cut in.

"Which is old enough to settle down, I'll look for an intelligent girl, pretty, with a good dowry and I'll marry her. Then I'll teach her the things I've learned until then so we can give each other all the pleasures without needing anyone else." He grinned. "So, until then I play, but when it's time to be serious, you won't see me stray. I may not be religious like my brother Phanis, but I believe marriage vows are to be kept. Until I'm ready to keep them, I won't get married."

Karolys commented, "Rumors abound that His Majesty is trying to arrange a marriage for your brother."

"Elweir? By the Goddess, I pity the poor girl. I doubt he could pleasure himself, much less a wife."

"Too bad he's the heir and not you," said Patrus.

"Who wants to be King? Elweir can have it! He's had no freedom. He wears his hair long, but he's not been permitted to be a warrior. He's a petty tyrant like my father. He takes his victories at the expense of other's pride. Even when we take a keep, we've always allowed our conquered to surrender with dignity. I'm a happy man. I'm wealthy, free, in good health..."

"Handsome beyond justice for the rest of us," Karolys said.

Darius laughed. "And I get to do the things I love best. I ride, I fight, I draw and make maps and I get to make love whenever I want."

"Saving the best for last," said Barris.

He laughed again. "When I first began to study religion when I was four or five, I asked the Devotee why She Who Has No Name was characterized as female. ‘Why isn't the Goddess male?' I asked. The poor devotee was dumbfounded. I don't think he'd ever considered the question. As I recall, he answered me, ‘Because She is.' But I figured it out finally."

"The great religious scholar speaks," intoned Maxim, fluttering his hand in a respectful bow.

"No, seriously. I've been thinking about this ever since, but it wasn't until I started having sex that I figured it out. Look at us," he continued, gesturing to his friends, "men are all basically the same. We eat, we sleep, we fight, we fuck. Our physical differences are mostly cosmetic. The Goddess created man first--it says so in the Book of Beginnings, but then She figured out what She did wrong. Women are wonderful! They're as changeable as the weather, unpredictable. Even the plainest of them is beautiful somewhere. Their very existence is a form of worship. And the best part is they are the ones of us who fulfill the Goddess's greatest miracle. They can have children. They bear them, they nourish them from their own bodies. We can't do that. They're much easier for us to love than it is for them to love us. And when you treat them like the treasures they are, by the Goddess, you get such pleasure in return for the pleasure you give."

"And will you put this philosophy down on paper so it can be added to the Canons of Worship and the Holy Writ?" Karolys mocked.

"Maybe I will. And then I'll illuminate the pages with drawings of beautiful women and their babies."

"Do you want children, Darius?" asked Patrus seriously. "Most second sons might find it difficult."

"When I marry, I'll want as many children as Her Nameless Self sees fit to grant my wife and me. I want to prove I can do a better job of raising them than my father did with the four of us."

It was near nightfall when the fivesome reached Barris's townhouse in Pliko. Darius's friends would spend their time quartering there during the festivities, while the Prince himself would be required to stay in the castle of his father, King Isham. After the first full moon of the new year, they would set out for the East looking for conquest.

* * *

Darius never enjoyed his required returns home. He had grown up largely ignored by his father, King Isham, who expended most of his time and energy in the raising and training of Elweir, his oldest son and heir. The two youngest boys might have well not existed at all as best as he could tell.

He had seen little of Phanis and Volney since he had been sent to be fostered with Barris's father, Lord Donel, just about the time Phanis was born. It was always a surprise to see the contrast between the two younger boys. Phanis was so grave, a little man even at eleven, his nose buried in some religious tract when he was not praying in the family chapel. Volney, on the other hand, became his shadow. The older prince could barely take a step that the slight little boy, his shaggy hair golden blond rather than the dark blond of the older boys, was not right behind him, trying to emulate everything he did. Volney was always asking questions about being a warrior and about places Darius had been and things he had seen. Darius never understood why neither younger boy had been sent out to be fostered, although in Phanis's case it seemed unlikely the boy would ever seek a warrior's life. He seemed born for the Church.

Darius settled in the apartments that had been his as long as he remembered. A bath was waiting, steaming hot with plenty of soap. The only thing missing was a nice, warm maid to scrub his back and maybe to engage in some mutual pleasure.

He knew why. He saw the banner of the Highman of the Goddess flying from one of the flagpoles as he entered. His Uncle Severn was Highman of the Church of Zarbaria, its highest ranking cleric and spiritual leader of Zarbaria. It seemed everyone was on his boringly best behavior when Highman Severn was in residence.

It was, however, highly unusual. The last month celebrations were generally considered too pagan and uncontrolled for the spare and humorless Archvotee. He usually stayed very close to his quarters in the Order of the Administratia during Last Month.

He quickly undressed and lowered himself into the steaming water, allowing the heat to permeate muscles worn from hours in the saddle. He soaped himself and washed his hair, but then lay back in the tub and allowed himself to drift off into a half sleep filled with beautiful women. He was feeling mellow and relaxed despite the erection his daydreaming was bringing and did not hear the door to his room open.

He opened his eyes to stare into the pale blue glare of Prince Elweir. At nineteen, the Crown Prince was already beginning to blur around the jawline and thicken about the waistline. His hair was long, but it was limp and lank as though he did not wash it enough.

"And I was having such a nice dream," Darius said in quietly ironic annoyance.

Elweir looked down at his brother through slitted eyelids and saw his arousal. "Obviously," he said with clear distaste.

"What do you want, Elweir? What's so important you had to barge in here while I was bathing? I can't believe you've missed me."

"Not much belief in brotherly love?"

Darius raised an eyebrow, but otherwise did not move. "Not between us, brother. If you were Volney, maybe so."

Elweir walked over to a carved wooden-armed chair and sat down. He was clearly not leaving and the bath water was getting cold, so, satisfied his erection had dissipated, Darius rose and stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped himself in a large linen towel while he used a smaller towel to dry his hair.

"Will you please say what you came to say and leave me alone to dress? I'm really not in the mood to give you a free show."

Elweir crossed his arms over his chest. "No, I'm sure you'd much rather parade yourself before one of your ladies."

Darius looked hard at his brother. "You have feathers hanging out of your mouth."

"Huh?"

"You look like the cat who swallowed the sparrow. Out with it."

The older youth smiled. It was only a half smile, but it was ominous to say the least. "You really like having sex, don't you?"

Darius grabbed a brush, plopped down on his thick, feather-filled mattress and began to brush out the tangles in his hair. "Yes, brother, I do. There's nothing more delightful in the world than waking up in the morning with a soft and beautiful woman in your arms. Even if all you've done is sleep it's the most marvelous sensation the Goddess in Her Wisdom ever created. You ought to try it some day."

The color drained from Elweir's face. "What makes you think I haven't?" he blurted out.

He shrugged. He loved to get Elweir's hackles up. They were both little boys again, when Elweir was stronger and Darius smarter. Now Darius was stronger and smarter. Elweir's only edge was that he was the heir. "I'm sure you have. I just don't know if either you or the lady enjoyed it much. Maybe you'll do a better job of it when it's time for you to look for a consort. You know, they say there are rare books from the lands to the East that tell you every way it can be done. Some of them are even illuminated with illustrations. You might consider getting one of them and studying."

The crown prince smiled with an evil knowing. "I just might do that. After all, you'll have no use for such a book."

Darius fell back on his bed, his fist over his heart as if shot with an arrow. "Ouch, that hurt. I guess I'll just keep learning the way I always have, by empirical practice. Now, get out of my room so I can get dressed. Goddess forbid I'm late for dinner tonight. His Majesty would be very displeased, especially with Uncle Severn in residence."

Elweir rose and walked to the door. "By all means, you should be on time tonight of all nights. With Uncle Severn here, things promise to be very interesting."

* * *

Darius dressed with special care. His hose were of the finest, most fragile black yarn and showed the well-muscled shape of his legs. His tunic was of the richest burgundy-colored velvet and ended just above his knees. A black velvet capelet was held at his shoulders with jeweled brooches. He wore a jeweled ceremonial sword belt although his regular broadsword sat in the scabbard instead of a false sword with a jeweled hilt and wooden blade. His black leather boots rose to about halfway up his calves.

He had brushed his hair dry until it shone. Like most warriors, he was vain about his hair. Warriors might ignore blood and pain, they might wear clothing so dirty it stood up without their being in it, but if a warrior had to choose between washing his clothes and washing his hair, his hair would win. Servants brought his jewel chest upstairs from the castle storeroom. Darius opened it and pulled out several rings his rank required he wear, a jeweled garter--also a badge of station--and the coronet of a secondary prince, which he settled on his head.

He glared at himself in the full-length mirror of polished bronze. He was much more bejeweled than he liked, but it was only for these ceremonial functions.

There was a low knock at the door.

"Come," he called.

"I can't reach the latch," came the small voice on the other side.

Smiling, he strode over to the door and opened the latch. There stood Volney in a tunic of fine dark blue wool, black hose and ankle-high shoes with pointed toes. He held his coronet, a miniature version of Darius's, and several rings in his little hands.

"That's because your hands are full," Darius chuckled.

Volney stuck out his lower lip. "I can't figure these out."

He picked the little boy up and carried him to the feather bed. He took the rings and the coronet. "Here, hold out your hands."

The boy did.

Lovingly, he slipped the rings on the correct fingers. Then he took his brush and ran it through Volney's shaggy blond hair and carefully placed the little crown on his brother's head. Taking his hand, he led the boy over to the mirror.

"See," he said, stooping beside his brother, "you make a fine prince. Mama would be proud of you."

Volney's eyes widened with uncertainty. "You think so?"

Darius grinned. "I'm sure of it. You're smart and handsome and kind to people."

Volney leaned against his brother's side. "Do you miss Mama?"

"All the time."

"What do you think happens after we die? I asked Phanis once, and he said it wasn't for us to understand the will of the Goddess. That's not an answer, I think."

Darius raised one eyebrow. "It's a difficult question. I think when you die, you get called up by the Goddess to worship her with joy in Her Holy Realm. But you make yourself worthy of being called by being nice to people and doing good works."

"Did Mama do good works?"

Darius nodded. "Of course. She brought you into the world, didn't she?"

Volney frowned, as if he had not considered himself so good a work--at least compared with this handsome, older brother he adored.

"Do you?"

"By the Goddess, I don't know. I suppose I don't do half enough...Well, my little Prince, shall we go in to dinner?"

* * *

The main hall of the castle was ablaze with the light of every torch sconce. Huge fires in hearths at either end of the hall were decked out with pine boughs and sizzled with the dripping fat of roasting meats.

The stone walls were hung with ancient shields and banners bearing the symbols of the warriors and kings of Zarbaria going back generations. There was no softness here, no tapestries--hardly a hint women had ever graced these halls. Even when she was alive, it always seemed to Darius his mother failed to exist in this chamber. So beneath contempt did King Isham treat Queen Arletta that Darius often wondered how he had managed to breed four children of her, let alone one.

He felt a nervous grasping of the hand in his. It seemed Volney clung closer to him than ever, as if Darius could shield him from the noise and ado. He reassuringly squeezed the little hand. In that moment, he decided to ask his father to let him foster his brother on his own estates. Volney was too much alone. The only child near his age in King Isham's castle was Phanis, who treated his little brother like an intrusion on his study of the Holy Writ rather than a friend and playmate. The little one was shy and retiring because he had never been given an opportunity to be bold. A few years of sunshine, training, page and squire's duty and the company of his friends' pages and sons would bring out the joyous side of the boy.

He looked at the raised dais where the head table sat. In the center sat King Isham, resplendent in his long purple velvet robe, jeweled neck chains and a jeweled crown on his graying brown hair. Deep lines etched the King's brow and between his nose and frowning mouth. Darius could not remember ever seeing his father smile, even on the most joyous of occasions.

To the King's right sat Prince Elweir. Cream-colored velvet was definitely a mistake, Darius thought with amusement. It made his older brother look pudgier than usual so even his coronet, fancier than those worn by his younger brothers, could not make him look regal.

To the King's left, in what would normally have been reserved for the Queen when she lived, sat Highman Severn. He wore his ceremonial vestments, a long robe of the finest woven red wool with a surplice of white embroidered with religious symbols. The gold chain around his neck bore the symbol of the sun, used to symbolize the Goddess, although She Who Has No Name was said to have no form.

Prince Phanis sat next to Prince Elweir, looking glum and out of place in the gold rings and coronet. He wore a tunic of black wool which made his pale complexion almost ghostly. Other high government officials occupied seats near the ends of the table.

There were two empty seats at the table. One was next to Phanis, the other next to Severn. By pure protocol, Darius should sit next to the Highman, Volney next to Phanis.

Darius heard a stifled sob and felt pressure against his leg.

Protocol be damned! "Come, Volney, why don't you sit on my lap and share my trencher with me?"

Big blue eyes as intense as his own stared up at him. "Do you mean it?"

"Of course. You don't eat much."

Volney smiled. "I love you, Darius."

"And I love you. How would you like to come to Estritch when I leave after New Year's and learn the warrior's trade from my vassals and me?"

"Could I really?"

"I have to ask Father, but I'm sure I can get him to agree. I bring him enough revenues to sway him, I'm sure."

Darius mounted the steps to the dais still leading Volney by the hand. He plopped down on the cushioned seat of his chair and lifted his brother onto his lap.

"Your Grace," he greeted Highman Severn with a nod, "how pleasant to see you on such a festive occasion." It was a courteous greeting, not especially personal, but delivered with a pleasant smile. He had no conflict with his uncle.

The older man looked at the tableau of his two nephews with some displeasure playing across his face. "Challenging protocol, nephew?"

Darius looked from Severn to Volney and back. "He's just a child. Phanis ignores him, so he doesn't enjoy these state dinners. Anyway, this is a festive occasion. I'm sure I'm not going to encourage a revolution by sharing a trencher with my baby brother."

"I'm not a baby."

Darius bent his head and kissed Volney on top of his golden one. "I know you're not."

Darius glanced briefly at his uncle's trencher. The pewter plate was nearly empty except for some slices of dark bread. Severn's chalice contained only water. Darius knew Devotees lived an ascetic life. Severn's angular, fleshless face and nearly unadorned, clawlike hands would bear truth to that. His own trencher was well laden with meat, fruits, tubers and bread, more than enough to feed himself and Volney.

He used his dinner knife, a dagger laid beside his trencher, to cut some meat he handed to Volney. Since Severn seemed inclined only to observe rather than converse, he let Volney draw him into conversations about his adventures. Carefully editing out his sexual conquests, he entertained the boy with lively stories of soldiering. He greatly enjoyed the easy banter between them. He would not mind in the least having children of his own when the time came.

While dinner progressed, musicians, jugglers and acrobats entertained. He took joy in Volney's pleasure, even though the bouncing on his lap when the boy got excited was a little bit painful after a while.

Instead of watching the motley crew, he glanced down the table. Near the far end Phanis looked like he would rather be in chapel, Elweir looked smug, the King looked serious.

As the servants cleared away the trenchers, King Isham rose. The room noise died almost immediately. Those at the lower tables began to rise in respect, but the King gestured them to remain seated.

"My subjects, tonight marks the start of the festivities of Last Month, marking the end of winter and leading us to the glorious Spring of the New Year 4750."

There was a small, spontaneous cheer. When it died down, the King continued.

"We are honored tonight by the presence of our most Holy Highman, my brother Severn. For eight generations it has been the honor of the Kings of Zarbaria that our younger brothers have served their country by entering Holy Service to our beloved Goddess..."

Darius glanced down the table to where Phanis sat, looking pious and humble. What a fine Churchman he would make when he grew up!

"...As my beloved younger brother has served his Goddess and King, so it shall continue into the next generation when my eldest son, Crown Prince Elweir, succeeds me..."

Darius picked up his chalice of wine to take a sip.

"...At the full moon of the New Year, my second son, Prince Darius, shall enter the Cloister of the Holy Goddess to begin his novitiate as a devotee of She Who Has No Name. It is our fond hope he will rise to succeed his uncle as Highman of our faith."

Chapter Two

The chalice slipped from Darius's suddenly numb fingers, clattering on the table as its contents spread across the cloth-covered wooden surface. All color drained from his face, leaving him ghostly pale.

He had not heard right. His father must have meant Phanis, not him.

Then he glanced down the table. The smug look on the Crown Prince's face said it all. If Elweir was the cat who swallowed the sparrow, Darius now knew who the sparrow was.

He was.

Like a somnambulist, he lifted Volney off his lap and rose from his chair. Completely oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, who thought he had risen to acknowledge his father's announcement, he walked down the steps of the dais and exited the hall.

He walked down the corridor and up the spiral stairs to his quarters. He must speak to the King to correct the mistake.

He sat down at the writing desk in the room adjoining his bedchamber. How many times had he sat at this table, or others like it, sketching maps of newly-captured estates, embellishing them with illuminations in ink or paint, writing in the landmarks in his calligraphic script? Now he took a piece of parchment and placed it in front of him. Dipping a sharpened quill in the inkwell, he wrote a brief note.

My lord Father,

There has been a grave error made this night. I ask leave to speak with you as soon as possible.

Darius.

He sanded the ink and summoned a servant to deliver the missive to his father's solar.

Now, he waited.

* * *

After several long hours, a servant summoned Darius to the King's solar. The Prince was still dressed, but had discarded his coronet and rings. He followed the servant to the King's quarters, his heart pounding as if it would burst in his chest.

King Isham was not alone. Prince Elweir and Highman Severn were with him. Elweir leaned against the wall by a window, his arms folded across his chest. He, too, had shed his coronet, but the rings he habitually wore still glittered on his fingers.

Darius made proper obeisance to his father and uncle. His brother he acknowledged with only a curt look. He waited for his father to give him leave to speak.

"You speak of an error, my son," the King began, gesturing with the note he held in his hand. "Exactly what error do you mean?"

Darius's eyes widened. "Your announcement this evening, my lord Father. I have no plans to accept Holy Orders. Surely you meant Phanis. Of your three younger sons, he seems most inclined toward the religious life. I'm a soldier, a warrior."

"Phanis will take Orders in due time," said the King, "and Volney as well, but no error was made this evening. You will be entering the cloister in a month's time."

A freezing blade shot its way through Darius's soul. "Father, I don't understand. I have properties, vassals, a battalion of warriors. I've enriched this kingdom both in territories and revenues. Surely I can better serve you as a warrior than a devotee."

Severn looked up at his nephew. "If you do not understand, then I must explain it to you so you will. Ten, eleven generations ago and longer, this country was torn apart by brutal civil wars of succession when the younger sons of the departed King fought the heir for control of his birthright. It was thought the way to eliminate the turmoil was for the King to bring only one male offspring into the world. But men are weak. Only the Goddess controls the sex of children, sons die young on occasion and there is no way to stop conceiving children other than to refrain from relations. Therefore, it was decreed eight generations ago that upon the majority of the heir, his younger brother would enter the Church and be appointed Highman, which is a position of great spiritual and religious power befitting a Prince."

"But Holy Orders, Uncle Severn? The Cloister of the Holy Goddess is a celibate order. All devotees of our faith are celibate..."

"Exactly. Eliminate potential claimants to the throne and civil wars are averted."

"But I have no vocation, no calling to the religious life. I am a warrior."

"A mistake I regret making," said the King. "You should never have been fostered and spurred. It has obviously made you derelict in recognizing your duty to your Goddess and your King."

Despite his fear and anger, Darius's voice rose only a notch in volume. "My duty? Your treasury is richer many times over for my conquests. I believe I have more than fulfilled my duty. Phanis is the pious one. He will make an excellent Highman some day. Not me. Let me serve the Goddess as I always have--on the battlefield."

"It shall not be," the King declared.

"Father," he pleaded, "if you desire, I will sign an abdication renouncing any claim to the throne for myself and my heirs."

"Not sufficient."

The Prince dropped to his knees. "I will go into exile and never return."

"Time passes and exiles return."

"Then delay it a while, I beg you. The New Year I will be only seventeen. I'm not ready for this kind of decision."

"You should have joined the Order a year ago," said Severn. "Your skill in the field has already delayed your entrance by a year. There is no more delay possible."

"And if I refuse?"

"You have only one alternative," said the King, "and that is death."

Darius sank to his haunches. "You'd have me killed?"

The King rose from his chair and stood towering over his cowed son. "Hear my words and obey them. You will do your duty. On the first full moon of the New Year, you will present yourself at the Cloister of the Holy Goddess and take your vows as a devotee. Whatever property and revenues you possess will be transferred to the Crown. If you are found outside the Cloister walls after moonrise that night without leave of the Abbot, the watch will have orders to execute you on sight. If you attempt to flee across the borders, I will send assassins to hunt you down and carry out the sentence of death.

"Once inside the walls, you will apply yourself to devotion and study and when Severn declares you fit for elevation, you will be allowed to leave the cloister and transfer to the Administratia as an Archvotee, there to receive instruction to prepare you to succeed as Highman when the Goddess has called Severn to her bosom."

"Father," his voice thick with emotion, "you would do this to me, knowing it's against my will? You would do this to Volney as well?"

"All my sons will do their duty, or they will die in the failure. There is nothing more to say. You will do your duty. You are excused."

* * *

Darius walked slowly back to his quarters, emotions raw. His bedchamber seemed small, closed in.

He threw himself on the bed and gave way to the emotion choking him. For all his bravery on the field, despite his strength, he was still a sixteen-year-old boy whose world was falling apart around him. Loud, wracking sobs were only barely muffled in the thick feather pillows of his bed. The last time he cried was when his mother died, and that had been in private as well.

"Goddess in Heaven, I can just imagine you weeping like a woman on your straw pallet in your cell."

Red-faced and red-eyed, he looked up to see Elweir standing next to his bed.

"Go fuck yourself," he growled.

The Crown Prince laughed brutally. "I think I'll try to locate one of those exotic books on sex positions. I, at least, might have some use for it in the future."

"Bastard!"

"No, but I'll wager you wish you were one right about now."

"You knew about this before tonight."

Elweir plopped into a chair and lounged his leg over the arm. "I've known for years now. It's been interesting, hearing about your reputation, knowing the great cocksman was destined for a celibate life."

Darius rolled off the bed and pulled him out of the chair by the pleats in his tunic. He was taller than his older brother by at least two inches. Elweir's eyes went wide.

"How will you stand it? I'll be Highman. Can you bear to have so much power invested in a man who hates you as much as I do?"

Through gritted teeth, Elweir growled, "Unhand me right now, brother, or you won't live long enough to use the garderobe, much less succeed to Highman."

Darius relaxed his hands and stepped back. Elweir brushed the wrinkles from his tunic absently. He started to leave, then turned around as he reached the door. "I've been thinking."

"A dangerous pastime..."

"Enough. You have a fine estate at Estritch. I think I may ask Father to grant that one to me when you enter the cloister."

He shut the door behind him, leaving Darius to deal with impotent fury.

* * *

"So what do you plan to do?" Barris asked him the next morning after the Prince related the events of the previous evening to his four compeers.

He sighed. "What can I do? If I resist, he'll have me killed. I'm not ready to die yet--at least not that way. I'll do my duty."

"I can't imagine you a celibate," said Maxim.

Darius laughed bitterly. "You can't? That's not the worst of it. I won't even see a woman for years...I just wish there was some revenge I could take. The idea of turning everything I fought for so hard since I won my spurs to the Crown...the thought of Elweir laying claim to Estritch, eating fruit from my orchards. I'd sooner sow the fields with salt, burn the trees and the keeps, give them away..."

"Give them away," mused Barris, "that's not a bad idea."

Darius sat up straight. "Come again?"

"Didn't you say you had to turn over whatever you own on the day of the full moon to the Crown?"

He nodded.

"Then give away everything. Walk up to the cloister owning nothing but the clothes on your back. If the transfers are legally deeded, there will be nothing your father or brother can do about it."

For the first time in hours, he felt alive again. By the end of the day, the plan was hatched.

In his best and most beautiful hand, he issued deeds dividing all his holdings equally among his four friends. In return, Barris, Maxim, Karolys and Patrus agreed to pay all of his expenses for the next month, but to return the estates in full if the King relented and released him from his obligation within the next year. In exchange for the deed to Estritch, Barris agreed to offer to foster Volney to be raised away from Court until he was required to enter the cloister. The transfers were to be kept secret until Darius entered the cloister to prevent recission of the deeds by royal decree.

The contracts and deeds were drawn up by the end of the day. A notary was contacted to witness the signatures on the transfers, which made them legal. By moonrise that night, Prince Darius of Zarbaria was a completely impoverished man. In theory, he didn't even own the clothes on his back.

"So what now, my Prince?" Barris asked.

"Now I try to fit thirty years of living into fewer than thirty days."

* * *

The next weeks were a debauched blur for Darius. He drank whatever spirits were available until his head was spinning. He ate as much as he could hold of whatever delicacies suited his fancy. He rode his war-horse, Vermilion, until the poor beast's sides were blowing. He wore the softest, most colorful garments he had possessed.

But mostly, it seemed he spent his time trying to have sex with every willing woman he could. Sometimes he had a half dozen encounters in a day. His manhood was chafed nearly raw from overuse.

He was not even enjoying it. The man who loved women of all shapes, ages and sizes, the man who thought women were the Goddess's greatest creation, was taking no joy and little pleasure in the sex act. He rationalized he was trying to get the need out of his system, but it was a lie.

Darius had never been lonely. The camaraderie of warriors, the pleasuring of women, the time he spent with Volney, filled his time too much. He had always been counted a likable man, despite his fierceness on the battlefront. But as the old year breathed its last gasps, Darius discovered what it was to be lonely, even in a crowd.

He took a few days respite from his spree to take Volney for a last visit to Estritch. Riding double on Vermilion, he took the boy to all the places he loved on the beautiful agricultural estate.

They spent an afternoon in the apple orchard. The trees were bare, but hints of budding were seen as Spring approached.

Darius leaned against a large tree with Volney on his lap while Vermilion grazed nearly.

"Will you miss me?" Volney asked as he rested his golden head against his brother's chest.

"You know I will, but I'll see you again soon. Father will send you and Phanis along after me."

"I don't want to go. It isn't fair."

Darius sighed. "You're right. It isn't fair. I was brought up to believe we should worship the Goddess in joy, not under the threat of death."

"If Mama was alive, Father wouldn't make you do it."

He hugged Volney to him. "Mama might have delayed it, but she couldn't have stopped it. Father is still the King."

For a while, the two brothers sat holding each other, both of them wanting to cry, neither of them giving way to tears.

"Volney?"

"Huh?"

"You remember my friend Barris Donelson? I've asked him to petition Father to let him foster you. He can't give you warrior training..."

Volney suddenly scampered off Darius's lap and reached for a low-hanging branch of the apple tree. "I don't want to be a warrior. Do you think he would let me go somewhere where there are trees?" He swung up his legs and climbed into the tree, sitting on the branch. Darius stood up and leaned against the branch Volney sat on. "I like trees. These trees will have flowers on them soon, won't they?"

"Yes. Apple blossoms. The whole orchard will smell of apples."

"And then, in the fall, you pick the apples and you eat them."

Darius laughed. "Don't eat too many apples, Volney. You'll get a belly ache."

Volney laughed, too, then got serious. "Do you think Lord Barris would let me be with trees?"

"If Father lets him foster you, you just ask him and I'm sure he will."

Volney frowned. "It won't be the same as if it was you. On Last Month Moon, when you told me you'd ask Father if you could foster me..."

"I meant it when I said it. I didn't know what Father planned for me. That's why I asked Barris to take care of you. He's my greatest friend in all the world..."

"More than me?"

Darius laughed. "Well, second only to you, little brother. If he's able, he'll make sure you have as full a life as you want before you have to join me in the cloister."

Volney stood up on the branch and jumped off into Darius's arms. Their day over, Darius lifted his brother onto Vermilion and mounted behind him for the ride back to the keep at Estritch. Tomorrow, they would leave the estate to return to Pliko. With any luck, Volney would be back. Darius would never see his beloved estate again. It was not even his now. It belonged to Barris Donelson.

"Darius..."

"Yes, Volney."

"Why are you and I so much like each other and Elweir and Phanis are so different?"

Darius sighed. "Elweir is a Crown Prince. Crown Princes need to act like Kings, since they will be one day. Kings have to be a bit apart from the people or they won't be respected..."

It was a lie. Elweir was an arrogant bastard because it was his nature.

"...As for Phanis, well, he's just very serious about worshipping the Goddess. Some boys and men are just plain religious. For Phanis, going into the cloister will be something he wants to do. He was born to be a devotee. Once he's made his vows he'll be exactly where he belongs."

"Not like us, huh?"

"No, not like us. We'll have to learn to make the best of it, I suppose."

* * *

The tavern was crowded and raucous. The serving wench surveyed the scene. New Year's Eve was always good for her. The tips were good and the men were friendly. If she played her cards right, she might just snag one of those handsome warriors who commandeered a table near the back and ordered the best food and wine.

By the Goddess, they were a sight! Five most outstanding young men, dressed in their best tunics and hose. Their waist-length locks shone clean and proud. Four of them were laughing and joking as they drank and ate.

The fifth one--he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His hair was the color of dark honey. His skin was tanned golden. His eyes were the clearest crystal blue as he surveyed everything around him with a slightly wistful glance. The wench noticed he was not drinking or eating as much as his fellows, even though they were buying.

She brought another tray of tankards to their table. Her eyes met those of the quiet one. Her breath caught in her throat. There was such a look of melancholy in those startling eyes, in the straight line of his full mouth, in the set of his square jaw. Her breasts ached to want to comfort his melancholy, even though she did not understand why anyone would be sad on New Year's Eve.

She set the tankards on the table and removed the empty ones. She noticed his eyes never left her. She smiled at him, suddenly shy.

He smiled back. A shudder of arousal crashed through her. She had known her first man when she was twelve. She'd been a whore on and off since then, but in the years since her fall never had the look in a man's eyes make her feel like a shy virgin. Whoever this quiet man was, he made her feel reborn.

She blushed, which embarrassed her. Begging pardon, she quickly trotted away and walked outside in the nearly spring night. Once outside, she leaned against the tavern wall and tried to catch her breath.

"Are you all right?" asked a low-pitched baritone voice just beside her.

She looked up to see him. He was tall and muscular, every inch a warrior.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"What's your name?"

"Kyra."

"Kyra," he repeated. "Kyra, have you a room?"

She felt a large hand fall gently on her shoulder. "Yes, sir, all to myself with a feather bed."

"A feather bed and a beautiful woman. What more could a man ask for?"

He called her beautiful. Nobody had ever done that, not like they meant it, anyway.

"Kyra, I am going away in the morning to a place where there are no beautiful women. I would be greatly honored if you would let me share your feather bed tonight."

* * *

Dawn was just lighting the sky when there was a knock at the door.

"It's us," said Barris through the door.

"A moment," Darius said. "You'd better dress now."

Kyra quickly pulled on the clothes she had worn the night before. "What about you?" she asked, gesturing to his neatly folded garments.

When Kyra was dressed, Darius opened the door, standing behind it so his nudity was not visible in the hall. The four warriors came in, their presence filling the room.

"Are you ready?" Barris asked.

Darius shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Patrus walked over to the trunk and picked up the garments Darius had worn the night before. The boots he laid on top. Karolys handed him a linen-wrapped bundle.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, gesturing with the bundle as he released it.

Darius nodded. "Nothing worth confiscating," he said grimly.

He unwrapped the bundle. A ragged pair of hose, many times darned until they were almost more darns than original yarn, and a threadbare tunic of rough-woven wool, almost too mean for the lowest villein, and finally, a pair of ankle high leather shoes, the soles worn parchment thin.

The four warriors and the wide-eyed tavern wench watched as Darius slowly dressed himself in the ragged vestments, then pulled his long hair out to fall down his back to his waist. He borrowed Kyra's hairbrush and drew it through his hair until it shone like dark honey.

He smiled sadly. "How do I look?"

The men looked at him. Despite the decrepit garments, his regal bearing could not be completely disguised. He was still every inch a Prince.

"Not nearly as bad as you want to look, my friend," said Maxim. "Shall we go?"

"A moment." He walked over to Kyra. Gently, he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her mouth and then her forehead. "Good bye, Kyra. Thank you for the pleasure you gave me. I shall never forget it."

Barris draped a warm cloak over Darius's ragged shoulders, then draped his arm over his friend's shoulders as the four warriors formed a sort of honor guard to accompany their friend from the tavern. The cloister was a little over a mile from the village. Barris, Maxim, Karolys and Patrus walked with Darius all the way to the cloister door. Then Darius removed the cloak and handed it back to Barris.

He looked at his friends. He had grown up with these young men, trained with them, fought beside them and in front of them. He would have trusted any of them with his life. They might live long lives or die young in battle. They might marry and have children. They might conquer the entire known world.

Prince Darius of Zarbaria would never see any of them again.

He felt his eyes fill with tears.

"Please go now," he begged with a choked voice.

Each warrior knelt before him in turn and kissed his hand, saying "My Prince." It was the first and last time they would so honor him. The last was Barris, who then rose and clasped Darius in his embrace.

Finally, the warriors turned and departed down the road. Darius stood at the door to the cloister and watched them walk away as tears flowed copiously down his cheeks and he shivered in the early Spring morning in his ragged clothes.

When they were no more than specks on the horizon, Darius wiped his eyes on his sleeve and pulled the iron triangle that rang the announcing bell.

After a while, a small view window opened and a wrinkled old man peeked out.

"Who's there?" he said in a crackled voice.

"Prince Darius of Zarbaria reporting as commanded."

The ancient devotee scanned the ragged man disdainfully.

"Don't look much like a prince."

"Believe me, Votee, if I were not who I've stated I am, I swear by the Goddess I would not be standing before you now at all. Since I have no desire to die today, I suggest you open this door and let me in."

Chapter Three

The first thing Darius noticed when the large wooden door swung open was how thick the walls were. The stone walls surrounding Pliko were thicker, but they were battlements. Yet these walls were over three feet thick. To keep the world out--or the devotees in? he wondered in passing.

The walls surrounded a green belt with dirt paths leading to the large stone building the gatekeeper identified as the cloister itself. Other paths, Votee Antin commented tersely, led to the fields and orchard, weaving room and rendering plant. The cloister, Antin informed Darius, produced its own leather, parchment, woolen cloth, soap and candles. They also grew their own wheat and fruit.

"It's so quiet," Darius commented.

"We don't converse idly amongst ourselves. It encourages gossip and worldliness. Most of the votees are at their devotions now, either in the public sanctuary or in the private chapels.

"Public? Private?"

Antin nodded. "Public is a relative term. By it we mean the place where we gather as a community for worship. We also have small chapels where some of us pray in private. Those chapels are slightly larger than our sleeping cells."

The word cells caused Darius to shudder. It reminded him that his presence here was tantamount to life imprisonment. Sullenly he followed the stoop-shouldered old man toward the main building.

"How long have you been here, Votee Antin?"

The old man smiled, which caused his eyes to shine with a youthful glow in his wrinkled face. "I came here as a boy of fourteen. It has been my privilege to serve our Goddess these fifty-five years."

The look of pure joy in Antin's face actually gave Darius some hope he might come to accept his duty. "Have you always been the gatekeeper?"

"No." A brief cloud darkened the old man's features. He held up trembling hands. "Until five years ago I was a master copyist and illuminator. Then the shaking palsy attacked my hands and I could no longer write or draw well enough to continue. Every day in my devotions I pray to the Goddess to send us a pair of new hands to continue the work of preserving Her Holy Word for coming generations."

Darius looked at the old monk's hands, then to his own. His battalion mates often taunted him for drawing dragons, his oak tree standard and abstract designs on his maps and missives. Unlikely, he thought. My father has more grandiose plans for me, will I or not.

Antin and Darius approached the main door to the cloister building. Darius reached around Antin and opened the door, holding it open for his elder to precede him. He then followed the old man down a darkly lit, icy cold and stark corridor to a large door of heavy oak with iron hinges and hardware. Antin rapped on the door, then nodded to Darius and silently walked away, leaving the Prince standing there.

"Come," said a harsh voice within.

Darius unlatched the door and entered. The chamber was a musty, sparsely furnished office. There was a wall of shelves containing a few precious books and ledgers, a large wooden table and two armless wooden chairs. Sitting in another chair behind the table was a man in his middle forties. He wore a long gray woolen robe with a chain about his neck bearing the sun symbol of the Goddess. His salt and pepper hair was cut very short in a fringe surrounding a bald crown. Darius saw hard eyes so pale gray as to appear practically without color. A small stack of parchments sat on the table before him. He gestured for Darius to be seated.

"I am Archvotee Gaius, Abbot of this cloister. We were not expecting you so early this morning, Darius."

He stiffened. "Prince Darius," he said through clenched teeth.

The abbot glared at the shabbily-dressed young man. "There are no princes here. All are equal in the Goddess's eyes."

"There seemed no reason to tarry longer, Excellency."

"Reverend Abbot is the proper form of address here," Gaius corrected. He glanced down at the papers in front of him. "I have had reports of you, Darius. It seems there are high expectations for your progress."

"So it seems."

The abbot looked up, his eyes cold. "But it also states you are arrogant and willful and steeped in worldliness and the weaknesses of the flesh. We shall, through study, hard work, sacrifice and devotion, aid you in ridding yourself of those failings to elevate your spirit and make you worthy of the great charge our Most Holy Highman has set for you."

"Do your reports also tell you I am here against my will and only presented myself on threat of death?"

The abbot looked down and then returned his eyes to Darius. "I am aware you have misgivings."

Darius laughed harshly. "Misgivings is a mild word for how I feel."

The abbot smiled, but his smile did not quite reach his eyes. "I believe we can remedy your hesitation." He rose. "You will accompany me now."

"Where to?"

Gaius turned. "Your first lesson, Darius. You do not question instructions. You comply."

For a young nobleman accustomed to command, it was a slap in the face. He bit back a retort and followed the abbot sullenly. They walked down a dark stone-floored corridor past a number of identical wooden doors. Darius heard only the sound of the worn leather soles of his shoes. The abbot, he noted, was barefoot. He recalled that Devotee Antin had also been barefooted.

Before he had an opportunity to contemplate this discovery, they reached a door at the extreme end of the corridor. Abbot Gaius turned an iron key and unlocked the door. He gestured for Darius to precede him inside.

The room was perhaps ten feet square. Except for a bare altar table and a stone sun at the far end of the room, there was no furniture--nothing to relieve the flagged stone floor and hewn stone walls except for some empty torch sconces along the walls.

"What is this room?" Darius breathed.

"This is the Chapel of Initiation. This is where new devotees make their preparations for taking of their vows...You will remove your garments."

"I will what?"

Sternly the abbot repeated, "You will remove your garments and give them to me."

He glanced around the bare room. "Will I be putting something else on?"

"In due time. Now!"

Darius, who had never been shy about his body in the presence of man or woman, suddenly found his face flaming with embarrassment as he pulled his ragged tunic over his head, slipped off his shoes and unlaced the points on his hose to slide them down his legs. He neatly folded the clothes, placed the shoes on top and handed them to the abbot. Nervously he combed his fingers through his waist-length hair to brush errant locks back from his face.

"Now, Darius, you will lie face down on the floor with your arms extended away from your body."

The prince's blue eyes widened. "But..."

"You will learn obedience," the harsh voice interrupted. "Down."

Slowly, he sank to his knees. The floor was chill beneath him as he stretched out as ordered, head towards the altar, feet towards the exit, arms outstretched toward the side walls. The cold floor shocked his manhood into uncomfortable erection. He prayed it had gone unnoticed.

"You will lie in that position. You will not move from this spot for any reason until you are instructed otherwise. You will contemplate your new station. You will offer prayers to the Goddess to remove your willfulness and arrogance and make you humble and respectful. You will pray to the Goddess to relieve you of your worldliness and bodily desires and make you worthy of Holy Service in Her Nameless Name."

Darius began to shiver as the cold floor drained the heat from his naked body. "How long, Reverend Abbot, must I remain here?"

"Until you no longer have need to ask such questions," the abbot said, then stepped out of the chapel. He shut the heavy door behind him, plunging the chapel into tomblike darkness, cold and silent. Darius's heart froze when he heard the key turn in the lock, imprisoning him.

From the age of six, Darius of Zarbaria had trained to be a warrior, strong and stoic. He was considered to the world at large a man when he won his spurs at the age of thirteen and had fallen naturally into the role of leader of men, both by virtue of his birth and his strength of character. Now he lay face down and naked on a cold stone floor, stripped of every shred of eleven years of hard work and risk of life and limb. Gone were his lands, his sword, his destrier, his armor and fine clothes, his oak tree battle flag; even the royal title that had been his birthright. The only symbol of his former life remaining to him now was the dark blond hair that caped about his naked shoulders and back. As the cold permeated his organs, he felt like a frightened boy.

"Blessed Goddess," he whispered, "when I was a warrior, I worshipped You in joy. I dedicated my victories to Your Grace. I proudly carried my Oak Tree standard into battle for the sake of Your Nameless Name. I never asked anything in return. Now I ask, pray, for only one thing of You. I only want my freedom. That is all I beg of You. If being free means to be poor and obscure I would still embrace it gladly. Nothing else I ever seem to ask of You will be more than rote mouthing. I will endeavor always to do Your Will if You will only set me free."

* * *

"He is everything you stated to me in your missives, Your Grace," Abbot Gaius said to Highman Severn later that night. "Proud, worldly, rebellious. I fear he will never make a Highman. He will barely make a votee."

"His mother, the late Queen, insisted he be fostered and trained as a warrior. Until the day she died she maintained the belief she could convince His Majesty not to encloister the younger sons. I heard her beg it of him last on her death bed. To give her rest, Isham agreed not to do it, but he never seriously considered doing anything else. The boy is in the far chapel?"

"Yes, since early this morning. By now he is in considerable discomfort."

"You must punish his body to secure his soul, Gaius."

"Understood, but I fear it will take time."

"This order was chosen because you have proven your success with recalcitrant novices in the past."

"Darius will recite his vows before the week is out, Your Grace. He will be carefully conditioned. Return in a year's time and you will not recognize the willful libertine who walked in here this morning." The abbot took a pile of clothing from the shelf behind him and handed it to the Highman. "He came here this morning dressed in these rags. I've seen the poorest novices better dressed."

Severn looked at the ratty pile and chuckled. "My nephew, it seems, tried to have the last laugh. My brother's retinue swooped down on Darius's properties this noon, only to discover he had legally transferred everything he owned to four friends nearly four weeks ago. There was nothing His Majesty could do about it. The transfers were legal and all the taxes were paid in full with the transfers of title. I ought to return these rags to Patrus of Tyne, since technically they belong to him."

Gaius nodded. "Perhaps I'm wrong, Your Grace. It seems the boy has a maneuvering skill that will serve him in good stead as your successor, provided he comes to accept authority and applies himself to his studies. Such an airtight revenge is a sign of brilliance."

Severn nodded and sighed. "It's a shame he's the second son. He would make a finer King than either my brother or his own. I suspect Prince Phanis will come into this cloister of his own accord far ahead of schedule. Had I a choice in this matter, he would be my choice as my successor."

"There's a fourth son as well."

"The little one, Volney. I suspect he will be more like Darius. Darius's friend Barris Donelson petitioned to foster the boy earlier this month with the proviso that the child not be raised to be a warrior and be made aware his future is within these walls. We may produce a more willing devotee if the boy has some limited liberty and strong religious training before coming here."

"These matters are in the future, Your Grace. Right now the issue is Darius."

"You and I have known each other since we were young votees ourselves thirty years ago. If anyone can make a devotee of Darius of Zarbaria, it is you."

The Abbot rose from his chair and knelt before the Highman, kissing the back of his hand. "Your Grace, I shall not fail."

* * *

How long had he been lying there, stiff and unmoving? No sound or light indicated night or day. Only the dull ache in his stomach and the sharper pain in his bladder told him many hours had passed. He was sure he had slept part of the time, waking up still shivering in the bone-deep cold of the stone floor.

After his initial prayer for his freedom, Darius tried to concentrate, first on his anger, then on any solution to his dilemma.

He did not want to understand a family tradition that made this severe a demand of him. The coldness he had always felt for his stern, unyielding father blossomed into a hatred deep in his soul. His father wanted only to assure peaceable succession. A peaceful homefront allowed his legions to make war and conquest on others.

He could almost forgive King Isham. Zarbaria itself had known generations of internal peace and had built itself into a great kingdom because of it. If the price to a monarch was the enforced celibacy of any younger sons than his heir, maybe it was a sane choice. He remembered hearing that in the Eastern Potentiaries, younger sons were murdered or castrated. He and his younger brothers would be left alive and whole with the possibility of some small contribution to the realm.

One of them would be Highman some day. It was a position of great religious and political power. It would be second only to the King in overall power.

Darius focused on his elder brother Elweir. While his relationship with his father had always been cold with indifference, his relationship with Elweir had been hot with hatred. The thought of being subject to his brother's reign ate at him. He had some small satisfaction to know Barris now owned Estritch so Elweir could not acquire it, but he made a vow, there on the cold stone floor, that he would use everything in whatever power he might be granted some day to make his brother's life a hell. He would wipe the smug grin off Elweir's puffy face. He would see him crawl, beg, lie on his belly in subjugation.

Elweir would lie on his belly...just as Darius was doing now.

The hunger and thirst was annoying, but not so terrible. He had fasted on campaigns when it was inconvenient to stop to eat. The gnawing pain in his bladder was far more agonizing. He tried to focus on the layout of the bare chapel, trying to remember if he saw a chamber pot anywhere. He couldn't remember.

He raised his head and tried to see. The room was so dark the walls could have been inches away--or miles away. With limbs stiff from disuse he creaked himself onto his hands and knees and then stretched his arms ahead of him in a waving motion, trying to find some recognizable object on the floor. But except for the altar, he found nothing.

Using the altar table as a support, he was levering himself into a standing position when the chapel door suddenly opened to reveal two robed figures, one of them holding a flaming torch. After hours in purest darkness, the torchlight was painful to his eyes. He blinked repeatedly trying to discern the identities of the figures, but could not make out their faces.

"You were instructed to remain on the floor," said the harsh voice of Abbot Gaius.

Darius tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Hoarsely he croaked out, "I needed to relieve myself."

"In due time. First you will learn to follow instructions. Return to the floor as you were."

"You don't understand..."

"No," declared the abbot, "it is you who do not understand. You will return to the floor at once."

Slowly and in a considerable amount of discomfort, Darius returned to the other end of the chapel and lowered himself to his knees. Whatever warming his body had lent to the stones was gone, leaving the floor as cold as when he had first lain upon it. He was about to lower himself to his stomach when the abbot stopped him and shut the chapel door. The other devotee placed the torch in the sconce nearest the door.

"You will learn obedience, Darius. You will also learn there is a price to be paid for rebelliousness."

While he remained on his knees on the stone floor, Gaius signaled to the other devotee. From within the folds of his robe, the man brought out a scourge made from the tail of a horse, bound at one end in a short handle.

Darius drew a sharp intake of breath as the horsehair strands made contact with his bare buttocks and thighs. The fibers sliced into his skin, raising a swath of welts and cuts. Again and again the votee struck him with the switch until the young man felt as if he had sat on a hornet's nest. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty times, he lost count. The pain was so brutal after a while he could not keep his eyes from watering, but he said nothing in complaint.

Finally, the punishment was done. The abbot instructed him to once again lie on his belly and pray to be relieved of his rebellious nature.

"How long will I have to remain here?" Darius croaked, trying to disguise the pain in his voice.

"Until you no longer have need to ask such a question."

The abbot and the other man took the torch and left him again locked in the dark.

* * *

The abbot left him alone in the chapel for another full turn of the planet.

Darius had known days of doing without food, hours without water. He had received minor wounds on the battlefield. Nothing rivaled this. He tried to ignore the pain in his bladder, the pain on his backside, the pain in his stomach, the pain in his throat. He wasn't successful. He tried to swallow, but he could not raise any saliva to relieve his dry lips or mouth.

This time he remained on the floor and waited and prayed for his freedom.

When the door swung open again, he saw the light through squinted eyes and heard the soft padding of bare feet.

"Have you come for me?" His voice was almost too quiet to be heard.

"You are still too bold. You will rise to your hands and knees."

He complied stiffly. The stinging horsetail switch re-opened the cuts and cut into the raised red welts as he bore another seemingly endless onslaught on his raw, aching body.

"You will pray for humility," he was instructed as he returned to his belly.

* * *

Two more days and nights the routine was the same. No food, no water, no relief to his aching, near-bursting bladder. Then the increasingly more painful torchlight and the stinging nettles of the whipping, followed by another day and night in the dark. Alone in the dark, Darius tried to pray for freedom, tried to pray for relief, but he was beginning to hallucinate. Scenes of battle flashed before his eyes, scenes more brutal than any he had actually experienced, bloody, gory, dismembering dreams of faceless men who dissolved into images of Abbot Gaius, King Isham and Prince Elweir. Through cracked, dry lips, he mumbled incoherent ramblings. His body grew numb in response to the endless pain and hunger.

Finally, on the fifth day, the door opened and Abbot Gaius came in, this time with three other devotees, one of whom bore a writing tray with parchment and ink. Another bore an empty iron pot. The third bore a pitcher of water.

The abbot stood before his lowered head. "Look at me," he ordered.

He slowly raised his head. His hair fell in sweat-greased hanks in front of his eyes. His eyes were rheumy and blurred with hunger. His mouth and skin were dry, his lips cracked. A trace of blood crusted his nose where it had bled from dry capillaries.

The abbot signaled for the water pitcher and stooped at Darius's head, holding the pitcher within sight.

He could almost smell the water. "Please," he begged in a voiceless breath. "I...beg...you."

"You will follow instruction?"

He nodded. At this point he was in such pain he would have agreed to anything.

"Yes, who?"

"Yes...Rev...erend...Abbot...Please..."

The abbot reached out and raised him against his chest. Darius curled up against him, his knees drawn up in a fetal position against the pain. Gaius dipped his fingers in the pitcher and anointed Darius's dry lips with moisture. The young man sighed in pained relief as his swollen tongue darted out to take what little wetness there was from his lips.

"You will repeat what I say. When we are finished you can take water and use the chamber pot. Do you understand?"

"Yes...Reverend Abbot," came the dry hoarse voice, barely audible.

"I, Darius of Zarbaria, of my own free will..."

"I, Darius of Zarbaria, of my own free will..."

"...Do hereby make the following vows..."

"...Do hereby make the following vows..."

"...I offer myself in humble service to the Goddess...I pledge to serve Her...in perfect purity...in perfect chastity...in perfect obedience...in perfect sacrifice...in perfect humility...in perfect poverty...in perfect devotion...

"I do freely renounce the trappings of worldliness...I do freely renounce the weaknesses of the flesh...I renounce any titles, claims, honors...I renounce any familial ties...I will refrain forever from unnecessary touch...I will refrain forever from unnecessary talk...I will refrain forever from unnecessary hungers...I will devote and dedicate myself to serve the Goddess in complete joy and worship in Her Name...

"I make this declaration without reservation and of my own free will...for now and until the last day of my life...to all this I do most solemnly swear."

When Darius finished repeating the vows, the abbot signaled to the devotee with the writing tray. The votee brought the tray over to them and dipped a quill into a vial of ink. He handed the quill to Darius, who signed his name on the parchment where he was instructed, though he was too bleary-eyed to read the written affirmation of the verbal vows he had just made. The votee took the quill from Darius's numb fingers and withdrew.

Now the abbot signaled to the other two devotees. To one he handed the water pitcher and exchanged places with him so the devotee now held Darius by the shoulders.

"Welcome to our community, Votee Darius," said the abbot as he departed, "Votee Ellett and Votee Harbin will assist you in finding your place. I shall see you in morning devotions at first light."

Ellett helped him to his feet while Harbin held the chamber pot steady for him to take relief. He was still shaking with pain and weak with hunger and thirst, but in some ways this was the first kindness he had received. Then Ellett gave him water--slowly, slowly, so he would keep it down.

"Come with us now, Votee Darius," Ellett said gently. "You are home now."

Darius stared wordlessly, his strength and will sapped. Then he glanced down at his nakedness and felt his face flame.

"It is very late, Votee. The others are to bed, so you will not be seen."

The two devotees allowed Darius to lean on them as they guided him through the darkened corridors to a large storeroom. There was a stool in the room and a washstand as well as shelves of goods.

While Darius leaned on Ellett, Harbin walked to the shelves and took down a folded item. He unfolded it to reveal a rough gray woolen robe and a separate cowl that would cover the head and shoulders. The two older men helped him pull the ankle length robe over his head, then tied the loose garment at his waist with a length of rope.

At their instruction, he sat gingerly down on the stool, his flanks still very raw and sore from the scourging he had received over the preceding four days.

Harbin offered him a piece of bread and some more water to drink. Never had so mean a meal been so welcome to a man. He felt the trembling in his limbs finally leave him.

As he sat on the stool, Ellett took a hairbrush from the washstand. Starting from the top of Darius's crown, he brushed out the long sandy hair in all directions until it hung like a curtain, obscuring his face. He felt a band being tied just above his eyebrows and around above his ears to the nape of his neck. Then as he sat, weary and desolate, he could feel the cold blades of the shears inexorably cutting away everything below the band. As he saw each lock fall away toward the floor, silent tears poured down his face. He barely observed when Ellett began to shave the crown of his head until all that was left of his thick, proud mane was a fringe perhaps two inches wide.

He looked stupidly when Ellett put the razor in his hand. His eyes asked what his voice was afraid to.

Having answered the question before, Ellett responded, "We have no mirrors here, but we must shave our faces everyday. You have not shaved since you came to us, but tonight you must learn to do so without a mirror. You must also learn the feel of your head so you can maintain your tonsure yourself. Reverend Abbot said you brought no razor with you. He has instructed us to give this one to you for your use."

"He's not afraid I'll do away with myself?"

Ellett's eyes widened in surprise. "I don't know. But Votee Darius, you were a warrior in your past life. Men of your youth who become warriors are not the kind to take their own lives."

Darius brushed his hand against the remnants of his hair. "Nobody would imagine me a warrior now," he commented cynically.

"No," said Harbin, "but I think you have come to us for a higher purpose."

Darius nodded bitterly. "If only it were my purpose and not that of others."

The other two had no response. Carefully, touching him as little as possible, Ellett taught Darius how to shave himself without a mirror using his free hand to feel for the stubble on his face. Then he showed him how to use the free hand to determine the border of his hair in order to take care of himself. The cutting of his hair would be done by a barbering devotee once a month.

The lesson completed, Harbin helped Darius on with his hooded cowl and pushed it back to fall down his back. Finally, he handed Darius a chain bearing the sun symbol to wear around his neck.

"May I ask you questions?"

"Some."

"Do we wear no shoes?"

Harbin responded. "In the winter, those whose labors take them outside are given boots to protect their feet from snow. The rest of us remain unshod as a sign of humility. You will soon develop calluses to protect your feet."

"And no hose or undergarments?"

"We believe our robes are sufficiently modest coverings. Anything else would be considered worldly and remind us of the bodily desires we have renounced."

"Who decides what labors we perform?"

"The Reverend Abbot makes the decisions in conjunction with the needs of the community and the skills of the votee. At first you will need to learn the devotions and bells. You will also begin to study the Holy Writ and Canons. When you have learned our ways you will be put to work at the labor that best suits you. Votee Harbin and I have permission to instruct you and answer your questions while you are learning, but all talk must be kept to a minimum. During periods of silence you will speak to nobody, not even to us. Now, to bed. We must all be up at first light or be denounced and chastised. I believe you have experienced Votee Orgus first hand. Unfortunately, he enjoys bearing the scourge and the switch more than is healthy. You will learn to keep to your vows if only to avoid him."

Darius shuddered from the nagging pain in his backside. He rose, razor in hand as Votee Harbin put a folded blanket in his arms. He followed the two through a maze of corridors to a series of doors spread about eight feet apart. Ellett opened one door to reveal a room about six by eight feet in dimension. On the floor was a flat, straw-filled tick barely more than an inch thick. The room contained a washstand with a plain bowl and ewer and a small linen towel and some pegs to hang his robe, cowl and belt. There was also a wrought iron candle holder with a thick tallow candle and a flint. Finally, there was a covered chamber pot.

He was told that each morning upon rising and each night before retiring he was to lie flat on his stomach on the bare floor as he had in the chapel and make personal devotions to the Goddess. The pallet and single blanket constituted his bed. He could sleep clothed or naked at his preference, but was not to come out of his cell in any condition except fully dressed. There would be a knock on his door at first light. He would be expected to rise immediately, make his devotion, shave, dress and be to first public service within a quarter hour.

"Now you must sleep, Votee Darius. Your new life has begun. Worship the Goddess with joy and you will find this as rewarding as any life outside the walls," said Ellett.

"I hope so," Darius responded, but deep inside he doubted it.

His two mentors departed for their own cells. Darius pulled off his habit and hung it on the pegs. There was no mirror in the cell and it was pitch black. Knowing he would need to be asleep soon, he did not make any effort to light the candle. Instead he slowly lowered himself to sit gingerly on the floor.

Beginning with his head, he began to use his hands to explore his body. Gently he touched his now bald pate with its short fringe. He learned a lesson in the sin of pride by feeling the loss of his proud thick hair. He touched his face. Clean shaven now after five days of neglect and starvation, his face felt gaunt; skin stretched over bone. He explored his torso. He had lost weight. It was actually perceptible as he worked his way down his chest and ribs to his waist and hips.

His belly was still tender from the stress of lying on his full bladder for five days. As he continued to touch himself to assure himself he still existed, his hands brushed the thick hair at his groin. Immediately his manhood sprang to life.

He groaned. This was where his punishment lay. He should stop right now.

But he could not. He drew up his knees and spread his thighs as he leaned against the cold stone wall of his cell. He had never had to arouse himself before. Now he felt inexorably drawn to stroke the hardening length of his manhood, as if to assure himself he was still a man. The muscle leapt to attention as he chafed it in the circle of his fingers. Harder and harder he worked, perspiration dotting his brow as he welcomed the pain he was inflicting on himself. His breathing became ragged and desperate until he could not hold himself back any further. He spilled his seed into his hand, feeling the stickiness and the total sense of shame at his weakness.

He groped his way to the washstand and poured water on his hands to wash them, then used the towel to clean off his shaft. He dropped the towel and fell in misery to his belly on the stone flags.

"Blessed Goddess," he prayed, "please make me stop this while I'm still sane. Free me from this need."

I only want my freedom. That is all I beg of You. Nothing else I ever seem to ask of You will be more than rote mouthing.

His own words came back to mock him. The only thing he wanted was the only thing he was never to have.

* * *

On the fifth night of the first month of the year of the Goddess 4750, the hope and spirit of Prince Darius of Zarbaria died.

For a man without hope is a man without life.

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