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Life After Death

Sidro was limp, pitched forward on the floor, a marionette whose strings were cut. Beneath him, the puddles of their seed were mingling, not much from either of them, but enough. Rhys nudged him on to his back and cleaned him with the edge of the blanket he had been sick on. Sidro issued a quiet groan, but did not wake. It was good to hear him make a sound, though. The gray-green had been afraid, for the second time that night, that he had died.

Rhys shook Nace's blanket over the exhausted dragon. After a moment's consideration, he retrieved the bottle of cider and tipped the last inch down Sidro's throat to warm him. He contemplated the empty flask. Well, it had served its purpose, for good or ill. He restrained a mad impulse to chuck it into the trench.

The pain of what he had done had begun to creep into his mind, even before the pleasure of it had completely left him. Too drunk to cope, he had wept and hidden beneath his wings. But he was sobering up and he couldn't hide from it anymore. He wasn't hung over, a minor miracle, but he still felt like he might be sick.

He had . . . He had defiled himself. He had betrayed his people, friends and family, and everything he had ever promised himself he would not do. And what had it taken? A few ounces of liquor and the mere opportunity. He had never thought himself so weak. Even after the dreams the Draught had given him, he had told himself he wasn't so perverse. Well, he knew differently now, didn't he? And only hours after what had happened to Achar. He might as well have had sex on a freshly-dug grave. And enjoyed it. Gods, gods . . .

And he hadn't even been in these cells, in this prison, for a day. He had been unconscious as long, he guessed, but awake and aware of his situation? He couldn't lay this at the feet of extraordinary circumstances, being driven beyond the limits of his endurance. He wasn't in season, he wasn't crazed with loneliness, he was only drunk! Why had he let the Pythian touch him? On top of all the other things, why had he let the Pythian touch him?

It was a trick, he thought desperately. It had been too perfect. The Pythians had sent one of their number to break him, had bidden him to act as pathetic and harmless as possible, to get Rhys to let his guard down, to get him drunk, to get him to do just this thing so he would hate himself. It was a trick and he would strangle the Pythian for trying it, for playing his sympathies and manipulating him . . .

He closed his eyes and caught his breath in his throat. No. Stop that.

Sidro trembled even in sleep. Beneath the rumpled blanket he wasn't just skinny, Rhys had seen the stark outline of his ribs; he was far too thin, and truly, chronically ill. If it was a trick it had been planned for ages, at the price of the Pythian's health and sanity, and executed flawlessly. It wasn't a trick, the blame for this was on his shoulders, but it was too heavy, he couldn't stand it.

I'll kill myself.

But he wouldn't, couldn't. What would it do to Achar, to wake and find his only protector in a puddle of blood, throat torn out? What would it do to Nace, who had only known him a few hours but already clung to him like a drowning creature to a scrap of timber?

Sola wouldn't do it, he thought, and that was so, even if she wouldn't have ruined herself this way to begin with. Sola would take her responsibility, all of it, and manage, somehow. For the others if not herself. Sola would . . .

"Rh-Rhys?"

"Gah!" Reverie shattered, Rhys hid the empty bottle behind him and shrank from the sound. Stupid. It was Achar, only Achar, and what good was hiding a bottle when he had a passed-out male dragon in his cell? Achar wasn't awake enough to notice, anyway, and couldn't have made the connection if he had.

"Wh . . . What happened?" the gold whispered. "Where are we?"

Rhys slipped the flask back into the satchel and leaned through the bars to pet the bewildered young dragon. "It doesn't matter, Achar. You can go back to sleep."

"Yes . . . " he murmured, eyes closing. "Think . . . I think I had a bad dream."

"I think I did, too."

Achar snuggled against him, as near as the bars would allow. On the edge of sleep, he lifted his head again, brow creased, frowning slightly. "Felt nice," he said.

Rhys nodded, welling tears. "Yes," he confessed, though the gold was sleeping. "Yes, it did. It did."

---

Some time later, Nace awoke with a languid stretch and a yawn. He blinked at the gray-green, who had somehow developed the thousand-yard stare of the broken blue-collars over night. That couldn't have happened, not with Sidro, not so fast. "Rhys?" he whispered.

The gray-green shook his muzzle and rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. He stretched a little and met Nace's worried gaze sheepishly.

"Are you okay?" the yellow-green asked. "Did . . . Did you sleep?"

"Sleep?" Rhys spoke the word like an alien concept. "Slept a long time before. I'll sleep again later."

"Yeah . . . Okay." Nace searched for the silver-blue and found him passed-out under a blanket at the back of the cell. Something wrong with this new batch of cider, maybe? Hung over? Nace wasn't, but he couldn't tell from Sidro, back there. Rhys didn't look to be in any pain, not physical pain. "Hey," he tried, hoping for a more normal reaction, "it's morning meal soon. You hungry?"

The dragon shrugged.

Nace chewed his lower lip. Ought to be hungry, ought to at least be interested. "It's a girl that brings the food, you know."

Rhys sighed. "A slave like that witch with the Draught?"

"Nope," Nace replied, somewhat smug. "A Pythian girl."

The gray-green stared and sat forward. "There isn't any such thing!"

That was much more like it. Nace picked up the topic with enthusiasm. "You'll see the crest when she comes, if you don't believe me. It's growing in, but it's there."

"But, wait, if they have females of their own . . . ?"

"Not enough," Nace said. "They're very rare. I've only seen, oh, two or three since I've been down here. It's hard to tell with little kids, you know. But she's grown up some, definitely a girl. They get apprenticed out early, to keep them away from the boys. I guess the kitchen's the most likely place, that's why you see them down here."

Rhys considered the implications. "Do they, do the males, do they use them?" Doing that to a captured slave was bad enough, but to one of your own daughters, your own kind . . . It was sickening, but where else could a female in a Pythian fortress go, when she was old enough?

The yellow-green shrugged. "I don't think so. The others act kind of afraid of them. I've never seen one all grown up, but it wouldn't make sense to send them to battle. Maybe a bigger fortress, I don't know. Maybe they just stay in the kitchen . . . "

There was a clatter at the end of the hallway that had Achar instantly awake and sobbing.

"No!" Rhys scolded. "No, no, no, Achar. It's food." He looked to Nace for confirmation and the yellow-green nodded quickly. "Don't cry now, it's food."

The gold nodded, clinging to the bars between them. "O-okay."

Rhys scented the air, confirming things for himself. The smell of salted meat brought his saliva running. His stomach gurgled and he folded his arms over it. How long since he had eaten? A quick meal before the fight, something he hadn't had much stomach for, and since then? It must have been days! At the end of the hall, almost at the very end, was he to be the last one fed? He didn't think he could stand it.

"Patient," the yellow-green advised. "Be patient. It doesn't take her long."

Rhys nodded and closed his eyes, the better to catch the smell. Meat, she was bringing them meat. What kind? Not bird meat, something cured . . . He was so engaged in tracking the approaching aroma that he didn't remember to look at the female until she was almost at his door.

She was Pythian. Her crest was short, more bone than webbing, but discernible, a frill of pale green. Her scales were verdigris, green over copper, and she was definitely a female. A young one, true, but she had a curve to her hip and an extra wiggle in her step. She was pushing a two-tiered cart, now nearly empty, holding metal dishes and one covered tray. She guided the cart with one hand, the other knuckled into her lower back. She didn't look like she knew she was a special, impossible creature, the daughter of a male race. She looked like she thought she was put-upon.

She had a dish in her hand for Nace and was bending to slid it through the space under his door, when she gave a sudden cry and straightened up, as if pained. She lost about half of the food, a featureless gray mash, in a splatter on the floor. "Sidro!"

Rhys had almost forgotten he was back there. He glanced behind him, but none of the noises this morning seemed to have had any effect on the male's peaceful slumber. Carefully, just to make sure the silver-blue got the attention he needed, Rhys stretched out a claw and poked him in the ribs until he lifted his head.

"What are you doing in there?" the girl demanded.

Sidro considered her blearily for a few moments, looking around him but never quite managing to focus. "In where?" he slurred.

"You must be out of your mind," she said. She left the cart where it was, turned on her heel and flounced back down the hall, with Nace's dish still in her hand.

Sidro swayed from side to side a couple of times before finally electing to to fall on his stomach and start snoring.

"Maybe a little too much to drink last night," Nace opined delicately.

Rhys thought it looked more like total exhaustion than a hangover, but voicing that idea might raise some questions he didn't want asked. Oh, he didn't think he could keep what he had done a secret forever, certainly not, but just a little while longer, until he got used to it himself. Then he would take whatever scorn he had earned, but please, not now.

The girl returned a few minutes later, leading a tall, adult male by the hand. "There! You see?"

The male began to laugh. It was not jolly laughter, it showed his teeth, and his eyes remained cool. The key in his hand jingled merrily. "I see it. I see it, but I don't believe it!" He fit the key in the lock, entered the gray-green's cell, and hauled the groggy Pythian to his feet. "Finally, after all these years! You finally gave in, eh? A momentous occasion! Pity you're not awake to celebrate it!"

Rhys snarled softly, but before he could think to attack, the door had clattered shut between them.

The male turned back to taunt him, shaking Sidro like a puppet. "Was he very gentle with you, slave? Or was he merciless? Did you enjoy him, eh? Did you?" The guard brought his muzzle down close to the bars and frowned in mock concern. "What's the matter? Did he take your tongue when he took the rest of y--"

He never finished. Rhys didn't let him. He launched himself at the iron bars and shoved his claws and muzzle through as far as they would go, snarling, wanting to see blood.

"Fuck!" the guard cried, staggering away. "A red-collar!" His eyes were wide and terrified. He looked from Sidro to the slave without blinking, trying to reconcile the living Pythian in his arms with the murderous dragon.

The girl rolled her eyes, both hands on her hips. "Ardo, you're gonna forget to read the records one of these days and you're gonna die. He came in yesterday. Why'd you go in there?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" the guard protested.

She smiled at him. "Someone's gotta teach you if your master didn't."

He drew back his hand to smack her, claws out, but he didn't. "Shitling," he said weakly. He adjusted Sidro's dead weight and dragged him out of the kennel.

Snickering a little, pleased with her disobedient self, she knelt and slid Nace's half-spilt dish beneath his door. The yellow-green nodded to her politely before he began to eat but she took no notice, taking instead a moment to wipe up the spilled porridge with a damp rag. This she threw into the lower compartment of the cart, where soapy water slopped. She slipped a folded bit of parchment out from the covered tray and considered it, one hand kneading her chronically aching back. Ink didn't stay clear for long in the kitchen, surrounded by steam, smoke and grease, and she might actually get in trouble for messing this one up.

"Are you the one Oraz had last night?" she asked the gold.

Achar shuddered and went pale. His mouth worked mutely. "N-no," he finally managed, and then he shrieked, "NO!"

"It's not going to do you any good to lie about it, you stupid thing," she scolded, turning to the cart and hefting the covered tray. "This is yours." She placed it on the floor, and since it was too big to go under the door, she brought out a tagged key to open the cell, just enough, and slid it inside with her foot. She rubbed her back. Damned special orders, they were heavy and took too much room. If they loved their little pets so much, why didn't they deliver the food in person?

Achar backed away from the tray as if it were alive and might bite him. "No," he insisted. "No, no . . . "

Rhys felt a trickle of drool come running out of his mouth before he could stop it. Absently, he rubbed it away. The meat, the smell of meat, was there. It was in there! Lots of it. Browned, curling, seasoned . . . If the tray were an animal he would have snatched and slaughtered it.

Then, before he could protest, before he could cry out, before he could even think, he saw the young one slide his slender claws beneath the plate and fling it against the far wall of his cell. It tilted in mid air, spilling slightly, something red . . . Then there was a crash, a wink of silver, and the plate tumbled into the ditch, landing some time later with a faraway and dismal clink.

Rhys gaped. He wanted to cry. If he could have brought himself to believe it had really happened, he probably would have. But he couldn't believe it, so he gaped.

The girl snorted. "Your loss," she said. She bent a slid a tray beneath the gray-green's door before leaving. Someone would have to fish the silver off the sewer grate, but that wasn't her lookout, thank God.

The gold gazed after her and whined quietly for a few minutes, then he broke down completely, throwing himself on the floor of his cell and raking his claws across it, crying.

"Oh, Achar! For love of the gods, stop it!" Chewing his tail was one thing, but this was a full-blown tantrum. Rhys reached through the bars and tried to soothe him by hand. "You're going to make yourself sick . . . "

But he only cried all the harder.

"What's the matter with you?" the gray-green demanded.

Snuffling and gasping, the young one replied, "I'm s-s-so hungry! But I . . . I-I couldn't!" He howled and buried his muzzle in the floor.

"No," Rhys told him. "No, of course you couldn't." He wiped his mouth. He was still hungry himself, and if the covered dish had been within his reach, he might have gone after it. But it was gone, and he could be sensible. Need makes fools of us all, he thought.

He knew it was stupid, what he wanted to do, but he also knew, like most stupid things he had done lately, that he was going to do it anyway. "Here."

Achar lifted his head and found Rhys's dish sitting against the bars before him. "I can't--"

"Yes you can," Rhys cut him off. "I didn't want any," he peeked at the dish, "porridge anyway." He swallowed the saliva that was rushing over his tongue. "It's gray, it's disgusting. Just get rid of it before it sets up."

Achar nodded and began to eat.

Nace pushed his own dish towards the door, then pulled it back. It was empty, useless. He looked at Rhys plaintively and shook his head.

"Mind your own business," the dragon snapped. "I said I don't like it."

Nace eeped nervously, but still protested, "If you don't eat something--"

"Be quiet!"

He eeped again and then was silent.

Achar picked every lump of hot cereal out of the dish, then pushed his muzzle through the bars and licked up the remainders. Finally satisfied, he leaned back and smiled at Rhys. "That's better. So much better."

Rhys nodded weak acknowledgment and retrieved the dish. Achar had missed a little crust of milk and sugar at the farthest edge, and Rhys lapped this away for his meal.

"He'll be sick!" Nace shrieked across at the gold.

"No he won't," the gold answered matter-of-factly. "He's strong."

The gray-green didn't have the energy to deal with compliments. Instead he curled up on the floor, once again folding his arms over his belly to keep the gnawing hunger in. He hadn't felt hungry last night; he would go back to not feeling hungry again soon, surely.

Pancakes . . . he thought to himself, stomach overriding his mind. Yeah. Warm pancakes with butter melting all over and on to the plate. And jam, too . . .

Dizzied and more than a little weak, his eyes dropped shut of their own volition, and his consciousness ebbed away.

_Fresh, warm milk. Rich. A fire . . . A warm fire.

Sola . . ._

And before his thoughts drifted away completely, he smiled.

---

"Damn it, Rhys!" BANG!

He flinched away from the blow and curled up tighter, hiding in sleep and beneath the fabric of his wings.

"She's going to take it away soon! Don't you care?"

No, he didn't. Not a bit. He didn't have to, he didn't want to. In his dreams he was warm and full, loved and comforted. No questions to answer, no demands to be met, no memory and no pain. He would sleep forever, and he would be happy . . .

"Please! Please, you have to . . . " The sentence died away in quiet sobbing. "You have to wake up . . . Who will I talk to if you don't wake up? Please . . . "

Reluctantly, he blinked open an eye. The first thing he saw was a bowl of stew resting beneath his cell door. The second was Nace's muzzle, forced into the hallway as far as it would go and damp from tears. The third was a dinged, empty dish, still rattling in circles on the floor. Rhys reached out and stilled it. His eyes felt swollen, and the noise was no good for his head.

"You throw this at me?" he asked Nace muzzily.

The yellow-green shivered and hugged his shoulders. "Please eat something."

Rhys nodded, "Yes," and pulled the dish toward him. It was stone cold, but beyond that he didn't notice much. It was edible, and he ate it as if he had never known utensils or table manners in his life. Upon reflection, sucking the strings of boiled meat from his teeth, it had probably been a rabbit stew.

He picked up Nace's warped dish and turned it in his hands. "I can't believe you did that."

The yellow-green choked, curling his hands to his chest. "I'm sorry, I--D-didn't know what else to do, you wouldn't . . . " He flinched his eyes shut. "I just wanted you to wake up!"

"No," Rhys told him. He smiled a touch. "I mean, I don't know how you aimed it through the bars and still hit me from over there."

"Oh. That." Nace snickered faintly and wiped his eyes. "We used to throw things at each other all the time, when we were kids. There was this stupid game where you throw a stick through a hoop . . . Excuse me a minute." He walked to the back of his cell and unceremoniously stuck his head under the tap.

Rhys appreciated the effort. He'd had enough crying out of Achar to last him quite some time. "We used to throw things, too!" he replied over the noise of the water. "But I don't think I could've done that. Hey, what tribe are you? You never . . . "

Nace choked under the stream of water and banged the flat of his palm on the wall, causing an answering thud from the cantankerous pipes. He turned to Rhys, dripping, shuddering. His eyes displayed a species of terror even his reaction to Oraz had been lacking. It was as if he were afraid Rhys would hit him, or hate him. "I don't know. Please don't ask me, I don't know."

Rhys opened his mouth, closed it. Neither the reaction nor the words made any sense. If Nace could recall games from his childhood, his mind certainly hadn't rotted enough in this place for him to forget what tribe he was. Could he think Rhys would disapprove? They were all prisoners here, Rhys would never be so petty as to hold the distinction of a tribe against him, against anyone.

He wanted to ask: why, how and what was the matter? But Nace had asked him, begged him not to. He looked like another question would kill him.

"Okay," the gray-green said. "Okay, don't worry about it. I don't care, honestly." Nace's very expression made him care, but he wouldn't push. They had time here, an eternity of time. If it was of any consequence, it would come out. And even if it didn't, the yellow-green was too valuable a companion to lose this way.

"Thank you." Nace turned back to the wall and finished washing his face.

When he was ready to speak again, he was still a little shaky, and Rhys had no idea what to say to him. He glanced at Achar for assistance, or maybe just some input, but the gold was sound asleep. Evidently he had made no objection to his lunch, or if he had the guards had given him more alcohol to silence it. A tray was resting near his cell door, the cover askew, picked clean.

Rhys tapped an uncertain little beat with his fingers on the floor, but it made far too much noise in the silence, so he quit it.

"What do you do around here?" he offered at last, perhaps too brightly. "I mean, what is there to keep from being bored?"

"Oh! Um . . . " Nace rubbed his muzzle. "Well, you know, a lot of them just stare," but that reminded too much of the way he had found Rhys that morning, so he searched his mind for something better. "I guess there are other things . . . I dream a lot." He smiled a little.

Rhys found that encouraging. "What about?"

"Oh. Um. I don't know."

"Promise I won't tell." Rhys prodded gently.

"A good master," the yellow-green answered after a pause. He rested his head atop his knees and closed his eyes, dreaming now. "One who cares for me."

Rhys didn't express much surprise this time. If you looked at it from Nace's point of view, he guessed it made sense. "Is there such a thing?" he asked.

"I think so," Nace replied. And now he prodded, just as gently, "Sidro would be one."

The gray-green paled and dropped his gaze, probably enough reaction for Nace to draw the right conclusion. The dragon only smiled at him, though. Strange, but Rhys was grateful.

"What else is there to do?" Rhys squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried to keep nudging the conversation away from the obvious, "What else, I mean, besides . . . "

The girl came for the plates then. In the spirit of all good service people, she ignored them, but effectively halted their conversation. She gestured at Rhys when she collected his dish. "Give me that." He glanced beside him and handed over Nace's dented bowl. She didn't move to take it until he had retreated from the cell door, and then she took it very quickly. She left them.

"There's a lot they won't let you have," Nace said. "I mean, with a red collar, you're not allowed anything dangerous. A lot of red-collars make weapons. I don't think you can even have paper now. There was one, a few years ago, he shredded an entire book, folded it up. I don't know if it was spit or glue, but he made a spear out of it. He put out a guard's eye from across the hall."

The gray-green snickered and touched his collar, a little proud of it. The idea might never have occurred to him, but he was glad one of his kind had taken such revenge. A pity the guard had lived, though.

Nace touched his own collar and swallowed. He had to come up with something better for Rhys than hurting the guards, that would only get him in trouble. He didn't want to mention what had happened to that clever red-collar. "You can, erm, you can probably get drunk, if you can get the guards to bring you something besides water. No glass bottles, but they'd bring a wooden cup. Or, or sometimes someone will send something down, food or drink." He nodded to Achar. "Or something else, but you might not like that."

Rhys frowned. "What, like the Draught?"

"Yee-ah." Nace rubbed the back of his neck. There wasn't much way to paint that as a good thing. "Usually something else, but . . . But, I mean, no one would expect you to just . . . You wouldn't take something if they brought it to you and told you to, no one would try that with you."

"Would they try that with you?" the gray-green asked him.

"Well," Nace said. "Uh. A couple times. It's no big deal," he added quickly.

Rhys didn't much care whether Nace thought it was a big deal or not. "No, I wouldn't like that," he said acidly.

"No," the yellow-green nodded. He swallowed. "The floor . . . The floor marks up pretty easily. You can draw, or write. It won't last, you could rub it out with your hand, but it's something. There are some games, I know some word games," he offered. "Or you can always masturbate."

The gray-green had been nodding but he choked on that last one. "You wh--You wha--You what?"

"You know, you can--"

"Yes, I know!" Rhys cut him off. "I know how to do that! You don't have to explain it!"

Nace flinched back from the sharpness of his words. Rhys briefly considered a trip back to stick his own head under the tap, but in the end he managed to collect himself unaided. "I'm sorry," he said. "In my tribe, where I come from, we don't talk about that stuff. Not right out in the open, not like that."

Nace nodded, and then spoke more quietly, "I won't mention it again. It's only . . . It does get very boring and there's not much that isn't out in the open. There isn't much, period."

Rhys indicated understanding and tried to smile. "I guess it's more fun than drawing on the floor."

"Yes," the yellow-green snickered. "You could say that. It--"

There was a rattle at the end of the hallway. It couldn't be food, the girl had gone, and as for what it could be, Nace had already begun to rock himself.

"Doesn't he have to work?" Rhys hissed at him.

Nace tittered. "Dunno. Maybe he took the day off after noon meal. Privilege of high rank!" He forced his muzzle shut on a hysterical grin. "He's not here for us, I'm sure of it!"

If he was sure of it, Rhys didn't think he would look that way. The gray-green was willing to take his turn, if it meant sparing Achar, but Nace didn't look like he could bear it.

The noise of Oraz's plates was clearly discernible. The gold had awakened with a mewl and was clutching his blanket in clawed hands. "Rhys . . . Rhys!"

"Achar, come here." The gray-green moved swiftly to the back of his cell, to the bars that separated them. He crouched at the edge of the latrine and extended both arms through the barrier. "Achar," he commanded, "come here right now!"

The young gold dropped his blanket and obeyed. He knelt and pushed into the offered embrace.

"No." Rhys grabbed a golden arm and placed it on his shoulder. "You hold me, too. You don't let go, Achar, you understand? You don't let go, and I won't let him take you. He'll have to come here to get at you, and I will kill him. Understand me, Achar? He will have to drag you away from me if he wants you, and I will kill him. Achar, tell me you understand!"

The gold nodded quickly. "I understand, I understand. Oh, gods, Rhys, I'm scared!"

Nace was up on his feet and pacing the length of his cell. "Rhys, you can't!" he cried. "You mustn't do this again! You can't stop him. You can't stop him, he'll only hurt you more!"

"Nace, damn it, if you're going to be useless just shut up!"

The yellow-green mewled and hid beneath his wings.

Achar increased his grip on the gray-green until his scales were white at the joints. He hid his face against Rhys, hid from the approaching sound, and trickled hot tears. "Oh, gods, please, gods, please, gods, Rhys, don't let him, don't let him hurt me . . . "

"Just hold tight, Achar," Rhys whispered as he watched the corner.

Oraz came around, as inevitably he would, clanking like a sack of scrap metal, eyes alight with lust and hate. "This is new," he said conversationally. He toyed with the lock of Achar's door as if it were something else entirely. "And just what did you hope to accomplish with this, slave?" He spoke to Rhys, ignoring the gold. The gray-green returned his cheapening gaze with a silent, steady stare.

"Ye gods, don't stare him down!" Nace yelped.

Oraz swung his bulk with impossible swiftness and jammed his muzzle between the bars of Nace's cell. "What was that?"

The yellow-green mewled.

Oraz withdrew and became conciliatory. "If you have something to add to this conversation, why not just say it? I'm very interested. Your opinion on the matter is terribly important to me."

Nace shook his head.

"SPEAK UP!"

"N-n-no!" the dragon sobbed out. "No, Master, please, Master . . . D-d-don't deserve to speak in your presence!"

"No, you d-d-don't!" the dark male sneered. "But you d-d-did, didn't you? And you didn't stammer a word of it. What was it?"

"Nothing, Master! Nothing! I was t-talking--talking to myself!" the word ended in an almost inaudible squeak.

"I didn't ask what you were doing, I asked you what you said!"

"I . . . I . . . "

"SPEAK!"

"I am a fool, Master!" the yellow-green shrieked, throwing himself to his stomach with a sickening thud. "I'm a fool, a fool . . . A blithering fool! Nothing I could say could ever matter to you! Nothing I could say is of any consequence to my Master!"

Oraz watched this display coldly. "You are disobedient," he suggested.

"Yes, disobedient!"

"You are a bad slave," the male pronounced, crouching to be better understood.

Nace shivered. "Please . . . "

"You wanted to speak, now we're speaking! Say it!"

"A bad slave." And somehow this seemed to fall on him harder than any of the rest.

Oraz caressed the yellow-green's muzzle, forcing him to meet his eyes as he spoke. "You were too weak to ever want anything else from your life, and you can't manage even this. Never mistake me, Nace. You are a bad slave, and a bad dragon. You are nothing, and you will never be anything more." He set the dragon's muzzle down again, before the tears could stain his scales. "Now that we're clear on that, be silent."

Nace closed his eyes and nodded. It was the same endless nod that Achar had effected. Yes. Yes. Anything. Everything. Just stop hurting me. Please.

"Little slut," Oraz pronounced him.

The yellow-green curled into a ball, choking on tears. From the ball there came one last, quiet appeasement, "Thank you, Master."

The Pythian accepted this with a careless nod and turned his attention back to his original concern.

Rhys bristled and snarled softly. His toes had clawed rents in the floor and his fingers were lifted from Achar's scales, keeping their curled claws away from his flesh. Still, he would dig them in if he had to, somewhere. He was ready.

Oraz still ignored the young gold. His focus was narrow, and all of it was on the red-collar. "I've been told Sidro took the trouble to break you in before I had a chance," he said. "That's a foolish lie, isn't it? Spread by foolish people."

Rhys felt Achar move against him, he had tried to pull back, to look at him, maybe to ask what the Pythian was talking about. Rhys kept him close and answered in a low voice, "Of course it's a lie. It's a stupid lie and only someone as stupid as you would believe it."

Nace moaned.

Oraz grinned. "Oh, I am going to enjoy breaking you. Yes, I believe I am."

"I'd like to see you try it, you dumb shit. Betcha can't even get it up for an adult. You like weak little boys, don't you? Why don't you go fuck a female? Can't they stand the smell of you? A Siwan girl would rip your balls off, and they're half my size. Why don't you come in here and try me?"

The male's grin became a little strained as he ground his teeth together behind the curve of his lips. "Unfortunately, I only have the evening. Not nearly enough for you." He ran his talons down one metal bar, making it shriek. Finished, he returned to Achar's door and popped it open. "But I have plenty of time for you, little one. Aren't you glad."

"No." Achar's voice was inaudible against the gray-green's chest. "No, no . . . "

Rhys cradled him. "Shhhh."

"I don't think you want to do that, little one," Oraz said. "If you think about it, I believe you'll find you don't want to do that at all. Do you think he will protect you? Have you forgotten what I showed you?"

Achar shuddered. He had not.

"I can do things for you, little one." The dark male played with the door, opening and closing, back and forth. "I have a bed, and wine. Wouldn't it be nice to be in a bed?"

Achar did not think that would be nice at all. He tightened his grip.

"The wine is very sweet. We could drink together, I could be kind to you." Oraz lowered his voice. "But if you continue with this foolishness, I am going to be quite annoyed. You know what happens when I am annoyed, your wing hasn't healed yet. If I must go back to my room alone this afternoon, I will be very annoyed indeed, and I will be back later. Later, slave. You will have to sleep sometime, and your friend will have to sleep sometime. You can't stay like that forever."

Achar whined and looked back over his shoulder at the male.

Rhys squeezed him, "I won't let him," he whispered, but Achar continued to look.

"Your friend wants to believe he can protect you," Oraz said, picking at the lock with his claws. "He wants to believe that because it's the last thing he can do, the last thing he thinks he can do. But you and I know better, don't we, little one? Do you really believe I cannot have him drugged, or killed, and take you at my leisure? I will not be happy if you make me do that, little one, but I will do it if I have to."

"He's lying," Rhys hissed in Achar's ear. Nace had told him enough about the kennel that Rhys suspected he was, but even he wasn't sure, and he could tell by the loosening of Achar's grip that the gold believed the Pythian.

Oraz pulled at the door, half-closing it. "I am going to leave now, little one, but I am never going to leave you alone. Never. No one can stop that, and your friend there only makes it worse. I will strike you, little one, because you have misbehaved, but if you come with me now, that will be the end of it. I will please you again, you liked that, and we will drink together, because I know this wasn't your idea. I can be kind. But if you persist in this nonsense I will make you scream. I will get you alone, no one will help you, and I will make you wish you had never been born."

Achar, trembling, was trying to go to him. He had released his grip on Rhys and was pulling away.

"Achar, don't! Don't do that!"

The gold shrieked at him and twisted in his grasp, tearing with all his claws. "Let go! Let go! Let go! Haven't you hurt me enough? Haven't you made him hurt me enough? Let me go!" Rhys didn't have to. In that final cry he tore himself free. The young dragon scuttled backwards over the floor until he hit the bars on the other side of his cage. He looked over at Oraz, cringing.

The male opened the door and opened both arms to him. "Come here, little one. It's all right."

Achar went to him. He crawled, because his legs were shaking too hard, and when he was near enough Oraz pulled him to his feet. "That's a good boy," the dark dragon said.

"Achar!" Rhys cried. "Achar, for love of the gods!"

The gold looked at him, not seeing him, and gazed back up at the larger male. "Please don't hurt me," he whispered.

Oraz patted him. "Oh, there. Only very little, and you know why. It wasn't your fault."

Achar sniffled and nodded.

Oraz wrapped him in one great, gray wing and guided him into the hall.

Rhys snarled at the Pythian, at the Pythian and the gold, but nothing he could say or do would make them come back. Nothing could convince Achar he was safe here, and nothing could make the dark dragon change his mind and take Rhys instead. He cried after them and rattled the bars of his cage helplessly. Eventually he sank down to his knees and hid his face in his hands.

Nace was rocking himself again, now shaking his head in mute denial of what he had seen and heard. "Rhys, Rhys, he will hurt you so bad. Why did you do that? Why did you do it?"

"I should have killed him the first time," Rhys murmured, his mind elsewhere. It would have been difficult, with claws alone and from behind, to tear a throat so thickly plated. By no means a certain thing, or even likely. But in failing to go for the throat that one time, Rhys might have missed the only chance he would ever have. "Why did I speak to him?" he wondered aloud. "I could have torn him open, instead of speaking. He would never have come back here." He covered his face again.

"He will break you," Nace said. "If he can't break you, he will kill you."

"I don't care."

The yellow-green wrapped himself in his wings and just sobbed.

---

Nace was still weeping silently half an hour later when the sound of another visitor began to echo down the hallway. He wiped his reddened eyes and informed Rhys as a courtesy, "Sidro."

The gray-green nodded with more reticence than he felt. Sidro, again? So soon? Whatever the Pythian wanted with him, he wanted nothing to do with the Pythian. There would certainly be no repeat performance, no matter how pathetic his state. Rhys didn't want to see him, nor speak with him about what had passed. He didn't even want to make eye contact, and see that Sidro knew what he was, and what he had done.

Rhys heard him nearing. He took a breath, preparing to cut off any words, to say something stern and reasonable that would shut the Pythian up and make him go.

Sidro worked his way around the corner, holding the bars on the left, hand over hand. He ignored the gray-green completely.

"N-Nace . . . "

"Master?" Nace stood and caught him under the arms. "Let's sit, okay? Can we sit?"

Sidro nodded and sank to the floor with the dragon's aid.

"Master, your eye . . . Did . . . Did someone, another . . . ?" He couldn't name Oraz, not in front of another Pythian, but perhaps they had crossed paths this afternoon. The larger male would not scruple to hurt Sidro, not if he saw him.

The silver-blue shook his head, eyes wide and watering. He touched the bruise and a tear spilled over his fingers. "I think I deserve it. When I woke up . . . " He shivered. "Nace, I don't remember what I did last night, I tried . . . It doesn't matter, I know I did something bad. Nace, I am so sorry." He wasn't crying, not outright, but there was such anguish in his words, "I think . . . I think I took a slave."

"But that's all right!" Nace exclaimed. "If you're allowed, you should."

"No . . . " And then he did begin to cry. "I never wanted to!"

"Oh, no. No. Shhh . . . " Nace brought him close and murmured soft comfort in his ear. Sidro's reply was muffled against the yellow-green's shoulder.

Rhys let them have their privacy, and was glad to. Sidro was speaking as if no one would overhear him, or at least not overhear and understand. There was something deeply important between Nace and Sidro, if they would speak and touch each other like that. Friendship, maybe, a very old one. Or perhaps, and this was uncomfortable to consider, they had been lovers. Certainly they weren't now, or Sidro would go to the yellow-green for the kind of attention he needed.

Rhys did not feel nearly so close to him, especially after what he'd done. And the Pythian didn't even remember him. That was but a tiny comfort, small and cold. Nace knew, even if the Pythian didn't, and Rhys knew. He even felt a vague offense. If he had thrown his life away on one moment of shallow pleasure, the least Sidro could do was remember it.

The gray-green went back to drink from the tap and tried to busy himself in his cell. They didn't want him here, and he didn't want to be here. If he was quiet, and kept the water running, they could pretend. He would ask no questions once the Pythian was gone, and they could . . .

"Did you hit him?" came the sudden cry.

What?

He shut off the tap and turned to reply. Nace was up on his knees and glaring at him over the silver-blue's shoulder. Sidro was puddled on the floor, portrait of a dragon hit by a ton of quarried stone. With bones in his body, that position should be impossible. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, looking at Rhys, shocked and uncomprehending.

The pipes banged at him and the gray-green waited until they stopped, reconsidering his initial reaction. "What?" he said, regardless.

"Did you hit him?" Nace demanded. "He was in with you all night. It was either you or the guard, and the guard wouldn't have any reason to stop."

Rhys looked from Nace's indignant expression, to Sidro's bewildered one, and back again. "No, I didn't hit him!" he said. "I didn't hit you, all right? I'm not lying. You were . . . You were talking about something and you got upset and hit your head on the bars. It was only the once, I made sure you didn't do it again."

"Should've kept an eye on him," Nace muttered, satisfied. "One of us should have."

Sidro twisted the rest of his body around to go with his head and stared at the gray-green. "I remember you," he squeaked.

"You remember the part where I didn't hit you?" Rhys asked hopefully.

"I forced you . . ."

Rhys shut his eyes. "No, you didn't."

The silver-blue shook his head and pushed himself to his knees. For one horrific instant, Rhys thought he was going to try crawling across the hallway, but he decided against that and just leaned back against Nace's door. He was very pale. Rhys remembered looking like that after eating a basket of green apples. Back when he was young and stupid. Stupider. He'd had to crawl out of bed a few times, after that.

"You're a red-collar," Sidro reasoned miserably. "I must have forced you."

"No." The gray-green rubbed his temples. He didn't want to talk about this. He hated himself for what he had done last night, and now Sidro was making him defend it. "Look, you were locked in my cell and you had cider and we got really drunk. Unless you pitched out the key and got us drunk on purpose, there's nothing to blame yourself for."

Rhys wasn't sure who ought to be blamed for the unnatural sex act, but Sidro surely wouldn't feel bad about that. For one he had needed it, and for another Pythians did that kind of thing all the time.

Sidro hugged his shoulders and broke down again. "I don't know," he sobbed. "I don't know. I could've done. If I could do that, I could've done anything. I don't know."

"I know," Nace told him, a hand on his shoulder. "You wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have done anything wrong."

"But I--"

"No. Nothing really wrong," the yellow-green insisted. "I trust you. Now you trust me, okay?"

Sidro just stared across the hall and shook his head.

"Look, for what it's worth I don't think it was on purpose either," Rhys muttered. "You were too screwed up last night to do anything that clever. But you don't have any reason to trust me, so I don't see that it makes any difference."

"You didn't kill me," Sidro said.

"Oh. That you remember?" The gray-green rolled his eyes. "Okay, you're right, I didn't kill you. Now can't we stop talking about this?"

The silver-blue covered his face and rubbed it dry. "Yes. Okay. I'm sorry. You don't have to . . . "

"Master, you should keep him!" Nace chimed in from his own little world.

"He should do what?" cried Rhys.

"No!" the Pythian overrode him, horrified. "Nobody's keeping anyone."

"But you could be happy," the yellow-green protested. "And you would be safe. Nobody else could touch you."

Oh. Nace was only trying to protect him from Oraz. At least, Rhys hoped that was all Nace was trying to do. He shook his head. "Nace, there isn't anything you can do about that. It's between me and him, and it's not your fault."

"What's not?" Sidro said. "Who?"

"--And this is enough of a mess as it is, don't you dare drag him into it!" Rhys added.

Nace ducked his head. "Not my business," he mumbled.

Sidro sighed. He looked back at the gray-green. "I don't even remember your name," he said.

"I'm not even sure I told you what it was," the dragon replied. "But it's Rhys. Nothing difficult."

The silver-blue nodded and pulled a flask from his satchel. Rhys noticed he had left the buckle undone since last time, and the flask had been refilled . . . And perhaps re-emptied a quarter of the way.

"Did you eat yet?" Nace prodded gently.

The Pythian shook his head. He was able to get the cork out on his own this time, and he had a tiny sip. "Too sick today."

"Isn't that going to make you sicker?" Rhys prodded, not so gently.

Sidro glanced from side to side and pulled in on himself defensively. "Now, look. Maybe I'm screwed up, but I'm not stupid. Did either of you get sick from it?" He glanced at Nace, "Ever?"

"No," the yellow-green admitted. "But you've got to put some food on top of it. What about a little toast with cinnamon? You always . . . "

The Pythian retched and warded him away.

"Crackers!" Rhys offered suddenly, and Nace looked at him as if he were. "I mean, they're mostly flour and water, they don't taste like much. If you have crackers here," he added, self-conscious.

Nace nodded a little. "That could work."

Beset on both sides, Sidro gave in with a sigh. "Okay. I'll try to find . . . something." He seemed most unhappy about this. "Not supposed to be hanging around down here anyway, work to do." He corked the bottle and staggered back to his feet. He smiled then, mischievous little smile, though his eyes were still red from tears. The bottle probably had been full to the top that morning. "Here. Well, wait, it's glass." He turned to Nace instead and gave the bottle over. "Sure as hell nobody would take anything from you."

"I guess not," the yellow-green agreed.

"Good," he nodded. "Share it." Hand over hand, he worked his way back down the hall.

"At least he'll have to quit drinking for today," Rhys said softly, not quite sure if the Pythian was out of earshot.

Nace shook his head. "He makes it, he can have it whenever he needs." He stood the bottle between the bars near the back of his cell and picked up the train of his thought, "He can have it whenever he wants."

Rhys thought those two things might be very different indeed, but kept it to himself.

"It is my fault," Nace told him, apropos of nothing.

"Huh?"

Nace etched a tiny spiral on the floor. "Oraz. He wants to hurt me, he's wanted to for a long time. If he can't hurt me, he'll hurt the people close to me. That means Sidro, that means you. And he'll hurt you with Achar, because he can." The yellow-green looked up at him, his expression sick. "That you're a red-collar just makes it worse, he likes to break red-collars. He might forget about you, if Achar pleases him and you leave him alone. But I don't think you will," his voice narrowed to a whisper, "and I don't think he will either."

"That's not your fault," Rhys answered sternly. He acknowledged a certain inevitability about Oraz coming after him, but Nace shouldn't blame himself. That wouldn't change anything, only make matters worse. "Nace, you didn't make Oraz. And it's not your fault if he's . . . he's fixed on you. He likes hurting people, I can tell that and I've barely met the bastard. If you take the blame, you're just letting him hurt you more, and I'm sure that's what he's trying to do." The yellow-green's expression was disconcertingly blank. Rhys could no longer bring himself to be reasonable, "It's his own fault, damn it, not yours!"

Nace wouldn't look at him, and refused to speak to him for a very long time.

---

Achar came back after evening meal. Judging from his footsteps, Oraz was no longer with him, but from the sharpness of his cries, he had been not long before.

"No, this way. This way! Keep walking."

Rhys snarled reflexively at the sound of the tall, insolent dragon who had collected Sidro from his cell.

"This way, you stupid sot!"

Achar staggered and fell around the blind corner, slamming his side against the nearest cage, hard enough to make it rattle, hard enough to make him yelp.

"Get up," tall male told him. "Go on. Get up!" He leaned against the bars and planted his foot where it would do some good, beneath the yellow-gold's tail.

Achar tipped back his head and shrieked with pain. He subsided to whimpering when the pressure ceased, but louder than before. "I wanna go home! Take me home!"

"I would if you'd get up and walk!" He sneered, "Did you think Oraz would carry your bruised little tail back here? He's had what he wants from it, slave!"

The young one sobbed and hauled back to his feet with the guard's aid. His tail curled up behind him, indicating a sadly specific pain. At least he wasn't bleeding. Claws had scraped his back, and a few bruises were darkening on his hide, but on the whole Nace had been right about the scars. None of those marks would be permanent, nothing physical. But what Oraz had done to him had to leave a scar, a deep one, somewhere.

"After you, young master," the guard teased, getting the door in mock deference. He bowed and indicated the opening with one hand. "You'd better rest up for the next time he wants you."

Achar hunched his back and covered his rear as he scurried past the male. He crawled under his blanket and curled up tight, tighter, until only the painful bulge of his tail was discernible. He shuddered when the door clanged shut, then let out a deep sob of relief.

Rhys couldn't reach him, not where he had secreted himself, but he could call out to him, "Achar . . . "

The sound was the scream of a female Siwan, just before she tore your eyes out. He flung his arms over his head in reflexive fear.

"Coward!" the gold cried triumphantly. He was sitting up, claws latched into his blanket and tearing holes in it. "Oh, you dirty, dirty coward! You h--You hid from him! He never wanted me, he had only come looking for you, and you coward, you hid!"

Rhys drew back from him, hand to his mouth and eyes wide in shock. "Achar, I . . . I'm sorry, I--"

"You could've saved me!" the young one overrode him. These words had been a long time coming, the feelings strong and bitter. They poured out of him like acid, and they hurt in the telling. "You let me fight. You called me brave! I never would have stayed without you. You could have let me go with the children, my mother . . . I shouldn't even be here! And you let him rape me. You sat there and watched him rape me. You let it happen!"

The gray-green bowed his head in shame. It was true, and it was indefensible. He would make no motion to deny it. He had hurt Achar, sat by and allowed him to be hurt. Now he would allow Achar to hurt him. It was only right, and there was nothing else he could do.

"He tried to help you," Nace protested.

Rhys looked up at him, blinking, surprised.

"Did you forget that?" Nace continued, with a brief glance at the gray-green's direction as well. "I suppose Oraz let you , even if he reminded you of everything else. He tried to help you, even though I told him not to. I knew he couldn't do any good, but he didn't know that, and he did the best he could. Oraz will hurt him badly for what he did, and there's no point your doing it too."

"You?" Achar whispered. His lips writhed over his teeth, not quite a snarl. He couldn't switch the focus of his rage so quickly. "You told him to hide? You?"

Nace spoke while the gold would still listen to him, "I never thought he would go after you, Achar. He breaks red-collars, kills them, he's done it before. I was afraid for Rhys. If I'd had time to tell you . . ."

"There was nothing you could do," Rhys broke in. He could not defend himself, but the yellow-green was another matter. "Nace, even if you'd known . . . Achar, you were awake, the guards knew. And you were too drunk to understand, even if he'd warned you."

"I didn't . . . " Achar began. He balled up his fists and screamed at them, "It's not my fault! It's not my fault! It's bad enough as it is, don't you dare say it was my fault!"

"No, Achar, it's my fault you even--"

"No," Nace said. He held a hand up to the gray-green. "Enough of that. It doesn't matter, and it's no help. Achar, he wants to cut you off. He wants you to blame us, because then he'll be the only one you have. He'll hurt you, and when you go to him for comfort, he'll hurt you again. You mustn't blame us, because we're all that you have."

"You're useless!" snarled the gold. "You can't stop him! You can't make him leave me alone! I hate you!"

Rhys shut his eyes and bowed his head again

Nace would not be so easily cowed, and could better intuit the knots Oraz had twisted in the young gold's mind. He had seen them before. "We can't stop him," he said, "but we can help you."

"You can't do anything!" Achar cried. "You can't do anything! Shut up and leave me alone!"

"You won't make it if you go it alone, Achar," Nace said softly. "I've seen it happen. The things he does will cut you inside if you hold them there."

"I don't want to talk about him! I don't want to talk about him, I don't want to talk about anything! You can't make me! You can't make me!" The gold struck the floor with his fists.

"I can't make you," the yellow-green sighed. "You're right about that."

"Nace, it's too much," Rhys protested. "You're hurting him. He's a child . . . "

Achar lifted his muzzle, mouth set in a shivery frown, vindicated.

Nace shook his head. "Not any more. He can't afford to be." He looked at the gold. "Not if you want to come out of this alive. You can pitch tantrums and blame others and sit there and sulk, but the only thing that's going to help you is to talk . . . "

"I don't want you," the young dragon said coldly. "I don't want anyone." He pulled his blanket over his head and curled up in the farthest corner of his cell.

"No," Nace admitted, defeated. "Not now. I guess you don't."

"It's too soon," Rhys insisted. "He's too hurt."

"Maybe," the yellow-green replied, but he did not hold out much hope. His head was bowed, his expression grim.

They were quiet, so the gold could sleep. Eventually Rhys bedded down himself, but even though both Achar and Nace were snoring, sleep would not come to him.

Hours later, Achar spoke. He made no effort to see if the gray-green was awake, perhaps he didn't care. "He put his tail in me."

Rhys lifted his head and turned to look at him. The gold was hooded in his blanket and did not look back. "He said we have to practice, so when he puts his thing in me it won't hurt." Now he looked up, and his eyes were dry and clear. "It did hurt. It did."

"Achar . . . " Rhys didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell the gold it was going to be all right; it wasn't. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want him to hurt me anymore," he whispered. He scrubbed away a tear with his fist. "I didn't do anything . . . Why does he have to hurt me? I didn't do anything wrong."

Rhys crawled closer to the bars that separated them. He shook his head. "I never should have let you stay to fight. None of this should have happened to you. I can only say I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish there was more I could do."

Achar's words were sharp and silent, "I wish he would hurt you instead."

Rhys nodded miserably. He could not meet the gold's gaze. "I do too."

The gold knee-walked the distance between them, still bundled in his blanket. He hugged his shoulders and leaned against the bars. Rhys reached through and held him. Achar didn't cry. Rhys did, silently, ashamed, but Achar didn't. He shook like a taut wire, ready to snap, but did not cry. He hid his muzzle between the gray-green's neck and shoulder.

"Do you hate me?" Rhys asked weakly. He moved one arm to wipe his muzzle dry.

Achar nodded against him.

He swallowed a sob and tightened his grip again. "Okay."

Achar uncoiled, tension dissipating with a sigh. He shed a pair of tears, no more. Rhys held him. Even after he was certain the gold slept again, he held him. It hurt, deep in his chest where his heart lay, deeper than bone and muscle. Knowing Achar's pain and his role in it hurt. Knowing Achar hated him for it. But it was no more than he should have expected, no more than he wished for himself. It was sharper than the guilt he felt over Sola and the others, because it was so near, but maybe that was good. He might forget, if he was allowed. Achar would never let him forget.

Maybe that was how it ought to be.

---

Rhys had taken a burden from the gold that night, and Oraz didn't return for a long time after. Without much coaxing, Achar spoke civilly to Nace again, and though their communication remained a little cold, Nace knew games to pass the time, and time badly needed passing. When not terrifying, the cells were interminably dull.

Mostly they played guessing games, and a rhyming game the yellow-green called Hink Pinks. The "Alphabet Game", which Nace kept trying to explain, was beyond both Rhys and the gold. Although the common language had spread quickly out of necessity, the written word was far less standardized, superfluous to trade and basic cooperation. The Siwa knew words as ideographs, all-inclusive shapes that could be ticked rapidly on a clay tablet with a flat stick. The concept of alphabet, organizing words by a beginning symbol that could be pronounced any number of ways, did not translate well. Rhys supposed they might get around to learning each other's writing, if they lived long enough to get so bored.

Of course, Nace wasn't always with them to play games, and Achar was more liable to talk freely when that happened, over simple games and pastimes etched in the floor. Rhys was always a little distracted, those times, knowing Nace was with someone and doing something, and probably enjoying it. The submissive yellow-green was popular with the Pythians. Sometimes they came down and got him, more often he was sent for and left with a guard. Not every day, but about every three days, and sometimes twice in a row. He held up well, never spoke about it, (except one night when he came back to the cells half-plowed, slurred out "Filio got promoted" and then slept twelve hours straight) and rarely came back with any injuries. Sometimes a bruise or two, or what Rhys saw with dismay were restraint marks. Once and only once, some over-enthused young dragon popped the yellow-green's shoulder out of its socket, and that brought Sidro down the hall with bandages and a bottle of syrupy medicine.

"You let them get too rough," the silver-blue scolded. "You're not as young as you used to be. Neither am I."

"You're being silly," Nace muttered, as Sidro secured the sling to his body with a second bandage. "It went right back in. It's fine."

"Don't move it," Sidro told him. "I'll make a note in the records. Light duty only--"

"Oh . . ."

"Yes. For a while. Drink this if it hurts, and I know it hurts now, so drink some."

Nace sighed and did so.

The silver-blue noticed Rhys with less prompting and less surprise this time. He waved uncertainly.

Rhys looked away, looked at Achar, looked back. He wasn't sure what to say with the gold there and awake. "Sick today?" he offered at last.

"Oh. Every day." The Pythian shrugged. "It's all right, I'm used to it. Make sure he takes that," he added, pointing to Nace, whose expression suggested he never wanted any medicine ever again, not even if his arm fell off.

The gray-green snickered a little. "Well, I'll try."

"Could you tell him I'm okay?" Nace asked, nodding down the hallway.

Sidro slumped. He nodded, "I guess so," and left them with slow, uncertain steps.

Not too long after that, Rhys had eaten breakfast, always a tasteless porridge that Nace said was made with bone meal, lay down for an unaccustomed nap . . . And awakened perhaps half an hour before dinner, muzzy, sore, and hysterical with suspicion. Achar had told him to stop being stupid, which he supposed he needed, and he had found the only thing he needed to cope with was a clean blanket.

He had turned on Nace, demanding an explanation, and berated the yellow-green until he tearfully swore to warn Rhys of any impending washdays, before someone saw fit to drug him and enter his cell. After that, Rhys refused breakfast on those mornings and stuffed his stupid blanket through the bars and into the hall.

Nace had asked Achar, told him really, to share his morning meal with Rhys on laundry day. It still came in a covered tray, despite the evil Pythian's absence, and was probably enough to split between them. Achar had reasoned that in that case the guards would just start drugging his food as well, and Rhys had to admit the logic of this. Breakfast was never much to miss anyway, at least lunch and dinner brought real meat.

Eventually Oraz returned, as the three of them knew he would. He had probably been patrolling or fighting, somewhere distant. He sent for the gold, and Achar accompanied the guard with only muted protest. There was nothing Rhys could do. He paced his cell until the young dragon was brought back, tearful and hurt, then tried to comfort him. Nace tried, too. But he wouldn't speak until late that night (Rhys had waited up for him, expecting it), and then the gray-green rocked him and said he was sorry, and Achar had not cried, but the hurt had gone out of him and he slept in the older dragon's arms.

Oraz sent for him again the next day. And then again, so soon it seemed the gold had barely time to sleep. After the third time, he wouldn't speak to anybody. When Rhys had approached him, after Nace was sleeping, Achar snarled and lashed out at him. His delicate claws scored the bars. He meant to hurt someone, maybe even to kill. Rhys left him alone, and worried.

Nace worried too, about both of them. Achar wouldn't talk, and that was bad, but as the weeks passed, no Pythian had come for Rhys, not even to look at him, and that was worse. Once, giddy with hope, Nace had posited that they were leaving him alone because he was a red-collar, that the Pythians were afraid of him. Rhys had only frowned. That wasn't it, they both knew that. Oraz had marked his prey, that was all. And what dragon would dare supplant him?

They didn't talk about it. They played stupid games halfheartedly, they tried to draw Achar out of his isolation, and they waited. Oraz tormented the gold, day after day, and took his time.

---

"Izzit," Rhys said, "izzit . . . ?"

He had eaten sloppily, porridge only half-gone, and some lumps of it scattered around the bowl. He leaned over his meal, one hand on the floor, head swaying, serpentine. He closed his eyes, but he still could feel the room doing half-circles around him.

"Laundry?" he asked, disconnected. "Izzit laundry? You promised . . . "

"Oh," Nace whispered, suddenly cold. "No." He brought one hand to his muzzle and bit it.

"You're so . . . " The gray-green lifted a hand to point at him, and he snickered. "You're so serious!"

"No," he repeated, a numb word. "No . . . "

Rhys snickered again, not comprehending the dragon's evident distress. How strange, that he would say such a thing. How peculiarly hollow his expression. How funny!

He laughed, and someone turned out all the lights.