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Alyea remembered that she always had interrupted her nurse at that point, asking, “What did the Lord of Winter say? What did he say?”
Her nurse had shaken her head and said, “That part of the story cannot be told, child. Nobody knows.” And no matter how often Alyea pestered her, the nurse gave the same answer.

Alyea had started to interrupt again; her nurse had covered her mouth gently and said, “That answer cannot be told either, child. Nobody knows. Perhaps one day you will find out for yourself, and bring the rest of the tale to your children.”

The Lord of Winter smiled, and took her away; and she was never again seen in that village, and nobody ever dared climb to the highest peak of the Scarpane Mountains to seek her out. But when the wild winds screamed down the mountain, the worst of them passed around and over the village of Alonir; and the village was blessed with great harvest in fall and healthy newborn animals in spring, and a calm summer every year. And the villagers prospered, and set the two remaining diamonds in a carefully guarded glass case, and never touched them for their own profit. And they banished all the s'iopes from their village, and lived in great peace for many years.

Alyea had
really
liked that part. Even now it brought a wide grin to her face to say that line, although those words had probably been what sealed her nurse's grim fate.

Alyea hadn't even tried to interrupt at that point. She knew what her nurse would say. The ending wound through a series of thoroughly blasphemous statements that she'd loved hearing and even now enjoyed repeating:

So there are those in the north who quietly pray to Lord Krilla, and roadside shrines are dedicated to her. The priests seek to tear them down, but the shrines reappear within days or weeks. The wiser priests simply hold their notice aside and say nothing, while the foolish ones grow angry, blustering, and wear themselves out on a thing that will never change. There are no shrines to Krilla in the south, for she loves only the snowy lands, and will never stray from the Scarpane Mountains. But in the north, if one prays to the Lord Krilla with an honest heart and the desire to help others, one may find help when it is least expected.

Alyea drew a deep breath and opened her eyes. The darkness had lifted. She stood in a simple, pleasant sitting room; a man sat in an easy chair, facing her. A wide fireplace had a blaze laid in, and the warmth wrapped around her like a gentle blanket. Another comfortable chair stood a step to her right.

“Not exactly accurate,” said the man in the chair, frowning, and she trembled at the expression. “Please sit. There's a throw if you're cold.”
She found herself in the chair, drawing a thick blanket around her, with no clear memory of having moved.
“I admit you tell a story well, even if it was poorly chosen,” the man said. “I accept the gift.”
She stared at him blankly, unable to think of anything to say. His features wouldn't stay fixed in her mind; he looked thin and hard, one moment, gentle and soft the next. A desert lord, a northern noble, a comfortably padded well-off merchant; she couldn't quite pin what he looked like from moment to moment. Somehow it didn't matter.
“That was an unfortunate choice of story,” he said. “Too many inaccuracies, for one thing.”
Remembering the shape outlined to her vision for a heartrending moment, she licked her lips, tested her voice with a slight cough, and said, “Are you . . . dragons?”
“No,” the man said, his expression flickering into something distinctly ugly. “You have no word, no concept that describes us well. We don't care for that story. As I said, an unfortunate choice of gift. But it's accepted. Not all gifts are . . . pleasant.” He drew a breath, let it out, then stood and held out a hand. “Come here. Time for
my
. . . gift. I'll give you those answers you wanted so badly.”
She was on her feet again, and standing close to him, before she knew she had moved. His hands wrapped gently around her upper arms. After a moment of looking at her intently, he slid one hand up to her shoulder and back down to cup her elbow lightly. The touch raised gooseflesh on her arm and a deep shivering heat throughout her body.
His voice lowered to a compelling whisper, barely audible, speaking words in a strange language. Her vision dimmed, or maybe the air hazed. She could see his eyes, dark and intense: and then that faded and she felt the heat of his body pressing close. Darkness folded around them, and heat rose and spread through her, wide and deep and wild.
There came pain, and joy, and then an infinite, eternal tenderness that at last overwhelmed her and pulled her completely into oblivion. She heard voices in the darkness, echoes of herself long ago, asking:
What did Krilla say, nurse? What did she say that was so wise?
Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows.
But then another voice spoke, a young, sad voice, and it said:
Because, my lord, my family and the villagers are not evil. Some are innocent, and follow wherever they are led, without thought of their own; they do not deserve to be punished for simple foolishness. And some in the village do nothing but lead where they want to go and give no thought to the well-being of those who follow, and those people will earn their own end. But you led only where I asked to go, and rescued me only when I asked. You have used no trickery, and asked only that I decide my way for myself. You have more honor than any human I have ever met, and I will follow you for that until the end of my days.
And there came a blinding, howling pain and a searing rush of ecstasy, tumbling on and around and through each other; then the darkness came back and took it all away again.

What did the healer say, nurse? What did he say? Why did the diamonds break?
Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows.
Another voice spoke, an old, gentle, joyous voice, and it said:
A diamond born of tears is the hardest substance in the world. The first diamond, which broke when Krilla chose to leave with the Lord of Winter, was the tear of sacrifice; she reclaimed that piece of her spirit when she chose her path with full desire rather than from duty. The last two diamonds were born from tears of pain and anger, and were broken by the most powerful emotion in the world: love. She has come to love the Lord of Winter, to surrender her heart completely, and to utterly forgive those who sought to harm her.
Alyea felt new life pushing its first, tentative feelers into the space around her. Tenderness, gratitude, and love flowed through and around, inside and outside, weaving and wrapping and holding her, then rocked her down into a deep silence again.

What did the Lord of Winter say, nurse? What did he say, that made Krilla decide to go with him?
Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows. Perhaps one day you'll be the one to find out, and bring us all the answers.
Another voice spoke, rich and deep and loud and quiet all at once. It said:
If you stay with me to save your village, your life will be twice as long as the oldest of your kind. If you stay with me because you wish to be by my side, your life will be four times that long. And if you grow to love me with a true and open heart, your life will be as long as mine and you will be as a Lord yourself, and your children will be Lords of the world, and their children. But never seek to deceive me, for I know your heart more clearly and more surely than you do; and I ask of you only honesty, and will return you only truth.
Tenderness and gratitude swelled one more time; then regret and sadness wove into the silent song of emotion. She felt a searing pain beyond pain, a ripping that seemed as if it would go on forever.
This time darkness came as a merciful release.

Feeling came back in slow fragments. A deep, steady pain seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She felt a light cloth covering over her, a soft padding under her; warm air moved gently against her face. She could smell desert thyme and rosemary mixed with a soothing, rich floral fragrance she couldn't identify.

She lay with her eyes closed, with no particular impulse to do anything but rest. The pain sapped her energy and strength; she wasn't sure she could move even if she wanted to. She felt a pressure across her hips, stomach, and groin, as if a thick, weighted blanket were bound tightly around her; in that area alone the pain seemed muted.

After a while, the air moved in a different pattern, and the scent of herbs and flowers mixed wth the acrid tang of human skin and sweat. Almost human: the odors held a musky tinge which Alyea recognized now.

The woman said nothing, but Alyea sensed her settling nearby, within arm's reach to the left. The quiet steadiness of her presence seemed to ease the aches spiraling through Alyea's body.

Alyea felt no pressure to speak further, and simply rested a while more, until the red-edged waves of pain subsided to a deep discomfort.
“Ishrait,” she said finally, “why do I hurt?”
In a low, barely audible murmur, the woman answered: “You may call me Acana. You have earned the right to know my name and use it as you like.”
“Acana,” Alyea said, feeling only a weary sort of patience, “Why do I hurt? What happened?”
“What do you remember?”
Alyea sorted through fragments of memory.
“The pool,” she said at last. “You had me stand in the dark, in front of the pool, and asked me a lot of questions. And then . . . I think I must have fallen asleep, and had a dream. A nightmare, maybe. I can't recall what it was about, not really.”
She had a sense of almost unendurable loss at not being able to remember the dream clearly. There had been a girl, trudging up a mountain in the cold; and a great voice, speaking from an invisible source. At one point, Alyea remembered, her own hands had been cupped in front of her and filled to overflowing with crystal-clear rubies and diamonds. And something about that linked to a deep eroticism, and a deeper pain, but she couldn't recall clearly why.
Acana sighed. “No dream and no nightmare. But it may be a mercy you can't remember much of it.” Her voice sounded very sad. “You have passed the blood trial of Ishrai, and have been given the mark. Your only remaining obligation is to your ha'ra'ha, who will guide you through the following year.”
If you survive.
The last words sounded oddly blurred; Alyea had the distinct feeling she'd just overheard one of Acana's thoughts. She didn't bother dismissing that as impossible. She'd accept a bluebird reciting poetry and discussing philosophy right now, without a twitch.
She heard Acana rise, murmur something indistinct, and leave the room. Alyea kept her eyes closed, feeling nothing but an overwhelming lassitude that denied any emotion, squashed any thought or reaction or movement. Another scent, evocative of warm, cinnamon-laced sand, entered the room as Acana's faded away, and at last a distant jolt of shock reached deeply enough to prompt a response. She knew who had arrived, just by that smell; no doubt, no chance of mistake.
Random thoughts flashed through her head. Apparently, she'd completely failed at losing Deiq's interest after all. She didn't understand how he'd gotten from Stass to wherever the Qisani stood so quickly. Chac would be furious.
But none of that seemed to matter any more.
Alyea opened her eyes and managed to turn her head to the left, each tiny increment of movement feeling slow and creaky. In the dim light of the few small oil lamps, he seemed to loom high and tall, impossibly large, until she realized she lay on a low bed and the perspective was skewed.
“Greetings, my lady,” Deiq said as he knelt beside her, seeming to shrink back to normal size with the movement. He cupped her face in large, warm hands and smiled, his expression so gentle and tender that it wrenched at her heart. With that smile, some of the not-dream came back to her, and she began to cry. He smoothed the tears away with his thumbs and said nothing as she wept. When her breath evened out again, the weariness returned. She shut her eyes, and Deiq, seeming to understand, said, “Sleep, my lady. I'll stay with you.”
She let the darkness take her again, unable to fight the suasion of his voice this time. When she woke, the room had filled with daylight and the smell of fresh-cut oranges. Deiq's scent hovered near at hand, and she felt body heat to her left. She opened her eyes, looked at the sunlit rock overhead, and breathed in the scent of oranges and human
other
for a while before once again turning her head to look at him.
He sat beside her pallet, knees drawn up and arms looped around them, watching her. His face held lines of exhaustion, as if he hadn't slept for days, but he smiled when she met his dark gaze.
“Hungry?” he said, lifting a plate of sliced orange wedges.
Her stomach rumbled in response to the sharp-sweet scent. She ignored it. “Chac said you were dangerous.”
“He was right,” Deiq said after a moment. He set the plate down slowly, his smile fading. “And I would have told you the same about him, had you met me first.”
“I've known Chac for years,” Alyea said. “I've never seen him do an evil thing.”
“And by inference, you've seen me do evil?”
Alyea tried to recall what she actually
had
seen of Deiq. He'd stalked through the corridors of the palace with a look she'd interpreted as predatory; now, with more experience to temper her judgment, she thought perhaps it had simply been a look of assurance. Her perceptions could well have been colored by the gossip and chatter of the court and her own family.
“You were a favorite of Ninnic's,” she said at last, unable to form anything more damning in response to his question.
He made a small noise of disgust. “Favorite? No. I stayed out of Bright Bay while he was on that throne, whatever rumor may say. And I certainly didn't care for him.”
She said nothing, unable to respond this time. His tone had been edged with a long-simmering frustration.
“I told you,” Deiq said quietly, lifting the plate again, “I have far worse a name in the courts of Bright Bay than I deserve. Much of it is from that old man's spite, on a matter long past and unimportant.”
“His wife,” Alyea said, in a sudden moment of absolute clarity. “Micru said she ran away. But you took her, didn't you? That's the only thing he could possibly hate you so much over.”
Deiq picked a slice of orange from the plate and bit into it, wiping drops of juice from his chin. He chewed, swallowed, then held out the other half to Alyea. Her stomach demanded that she accept. The sight of the juice dripping down his chin ripped her willpower into splinters, and she let him place the fruit in her mouth. The small piece held the richest flavor she'd ever tasted. She found herself accepting and eating chunk after chunk. Deiq wiped her chin with a small cloth now and again.
When the plate had been emptied, he set it aside and cleaned his own hands with the cloth. Then he looked back at her, a mild, contented look on his face.
“No,” he said. “I did not
take
his wife. She chose to leave him, and I agreed to escort her to another place. She is still there, and still happy, and still has no desire to see him. And I have told no man or woman where she is, and I never will, and he will not forgive me for that.”
“Why did she leave him?”
“She found out the truth of who he is and what he is,” Deiq said. “And she lost all love for him. But right now, you don't need to worry about him, or her, or anything outside this room.” His contented expression grew more serious. He reached out and tucked her hair back around the curve of her ear. “You have a lot of healing to do in a very short time.”
She shut her eyes again, hearing things in his tone that he wasn't saying; and those things frightened her.
“What happened?” she asked, hearing her voice come out wobbly and nervous.
“You passed the blood trial of Ishrai,” he said. “In this case, it was more . . . literally . . . a blood trial than usual.”
She remembered the ripping feeling, the disconnection, and shuddered.
“There was a child, wasn't there?” she said, the words barely more than a whisper. “They took it.”
Deiq sighed. “Men have it easier,” he said. “They only provide seed. Women have to give more than that. That's why it takes a year; it's easier if the woman can at least carry to full term before they take the child. When. . . .” he paused, as if searching for words. “When there's as little time as you had, they have to take . . . more. To sustain the child. Do you understand?”
Alyea lay with her eyes closed for a while. A sense of panic lurked at the edges of warm, thick layers of weariness and the deep ache still permeating her body. “Am I . . . ruined? It felt like they ripped. . . .” She couldn't finish.
“No,” Deiq said. He took her left hand in both of his and spoke with slow deliberation, as if concentrating on holding his voice steady. “But it will take time for you to heal. And I don't . . . I don't know if you'll be able to have more children.”
“That's all right,” she said in disconnected idiot calm. “That's. . . .”
Raw panic abruptly slammed through the insulating layers, and her mumbling words turned into a long, trembling shriek. She was vaguely aware of movement, and smells changing, and someone holding her down as she convulsed; and then the searing pain came back and shredded her into unconsciousness again.