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Cages

Dear Readers:

When I first posted this story, I was unable to represent it to my satisfaction on Yiffstar. Certain idiosyncracies of formatting could not be reproduced, and so I determined that, rather than sacrifice my vision of this story, I would humbly ask the reader to view another version that could do so. With the launch of http://www.sofurry.com, I discovered that limitation was gone. I felt I owed a reworking and reposting of this story, in its entirety, to the site.

Thank you,

Onyx Tao

Cages

a story by Onyx Tao

This document is licensed under the

Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States license

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/

© 2009 by Onyx Tao

All Other Rights Reserved

The entire world was a set of twenty-two rooms. Here and there a stone wall sported a door that never opened, but ... no orc had ever been outside them, or even seen them opened. They whispered to one another, when their half-elf overseers weren't watching as closely - because the overseers were always watching - that maybe the orcs who disappeared had been unlucky enough to see the doors open. That, rumor held, could be enough to get an orc dragged off to some fate worse than death.

Death, they'd seen. The punishment room was large, very large, so that young orcs could see what happened to orcs who defied their masters, and sometimes those punishments were severe enough to turn into death - or their trainers decided that it wasn't worth the effort or time to save an orc after a particularly heavy beating. It wasn't as if there were any shortage of orcs, after all.

The heavy iron collar around his neck identified him as orc 831, and 831 tried to eat the thick pasty porridge in the dining room, trying to ignore the screams of - 121, he thought, as two half-elves were taking him. 121 was old enough that he should have known not to hurt his sparring partner, especially when they were getting advanced combat training. But he'd broken 442's arm, and he'd been told to report not to the meal room, but to punishment. He shouldn't have been here. Part of their training, after all, was learning to obey, no matter what the order was. Obey. Obey. Obey. Anything else was error.

And error was punished.

831 also knew better than to watch. A good obedient orc ate his meal, a good obedient orc licked his bowl clean, a good obedient orc washed his bowl, and then a good obedient orc went to his next assignment. If the trainers wanted him to watch a punishment, he'd be told to -

"831!"

He stood quickly, coming to attention. He knew the voice, of course, there were fifty trainers for the nine hundred and ninety-nine orcs in the complex, and he even knew that one's name - Maeg. Not that he was supposed to know. A trainer, any trainer, was simply 'Sir!'

"Sir!"

"Pick that trash up and follow me."

He took that as implicit permission to turn around. Two tables over, a small cleared area surrounded two trainers and orc 121 - now unconscious on the floor. Maeg and Huel were standing with the silvery rods that could deal anything from a mild shock to excruciating agony - 831 guessed they'd used them on 121. He sat up - leaving his bowl half-finished, to his passing regret, but this wasn't the first meal he'd missed, and he doubted it would be the last. Unless he managed to disobey as spectacularly as 121 had.

As he picked up the heavy orc body - still alive, he noted, although he wondered if that was about to change - 831 caught sight of Huel's expression, and managed not to shudder. Fortunately, he'd had plenty of practice. Some orc was going to suffer, and 831 just hoped it wasn't him. He hefted 121 into the air, and stood, waiting for Maeg's command ... and yet ...

The half-elf had an unusual look on her face - for a half-elf. 831 knew it well, even so. Maeg was terrified. Orcs, 831 was used to orcs being terrified, but that was always at the hands of trainers. Exactly what a trainer had to fear 831 couldn't guess. He didn't want to think about what a trainer might fear.

831 had expected them to head for the punishment room, but they went past it, into the Trainer's chamber, one of the rooms with a mysterious door ...

A sick feeling crept through him when he saw the door open.

Huel closed the door behind them, and carefully got down on both knees - that was an orc position! And so was Maeg! Why ...

"Great Lady," Heul said. "We obey. As you commanded, the two best fighters close to finishing."

The voice that answered was female, like Maeg's, but purer, clearer, like the punishment bell. "I take it the superior is carrying the inferior?"

"No, Great Lady. That one chose ... chose to be disobedient. I would not present him to you except that your command was clear. Two, and only two, the best, oldest fighters. Were it not for your command, Great Lady, collar 121 would be put down."

"I may have a better use for it," the voice said with a cruel amusement. The voice was so lovely that it took 831 a minute to actually make out the words. "And the other one? Is it fully trained?"

"Yes, Great Lady," Maeg said.

"But the one it carries would best it?"

"I believe so, Great Lady," Huel answered. "We judge them very close, so close that, although 121 should prevail, a small accident or moment of luck could favor 831."

The air shimmered, split in two, an unpleasant thing to watch, unnatural, something that should not happen. A delicate, lovely half-elf sat demurely within a chair, wearing red-gold threads holding delicate jewels. Against her midnight skin they glimmered with an unearthly perfection that made 831 want to weep. Even in the dim light of the chamber, they glowed and winked with a thousand hints of light. White hair, tinged with the same gold-red as the fine net she wore.

"Put that there," she said, gesturing from the unconscious body of 121 to the floor at her feet. 831 did so, and then prostrated himself on the floor in front of the - it could only be - an elf.

831 had often been berated - as all orcs were berated - as dumb, bestial, clumsy, stupid, hulking brutes, good for nothing but servitude. And as he'd slowly been trained by the graceful half-elves into that unthinking, instant, and absolute obedience, he'd come to see himself that way, as an ugly, foul, stinking monster schooled by the beautiful and untouchable creatures that were his half-elven trainers. Only ...

Only ... his trainers were as crude and unformed and ugly, compared to the vision of perfection sitting before them, as he was, compared to them. Even on the cold floor, eyes properly cast down before his ultimate Mistress, he could still feel the cold perfection of her beating at his senses, knives against the thick, lumpen thing on the floor before her. 831 realized he was shaking, and whether it was fear or exaltation or some other emotion he did not know.

If the elf noticed the collared orc laying before her, she gave no sign, merely extended her legs until her gold-and-black boots rested on top of orc 121. "Marvelous," she said, and however beautiful her voice, this time the sheer malice penetrated to his confused mind. 831 began to understand why the two half-elves were so scared. "It doesn't actually matter. How damaged is this one?"

"Overwhelmed by pain, Great Lady. He'll recover shortly. Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes."

"I see," she mused. "Then I shall take them both. You, on the floor."

Somehow 831 managed to choke out, "Yes, Great Lady?" and he hoped - desperately - it was the proper address.

"You'll need a name, I think ... Loss. Yes. You will respond to Loss."

"Yes, Great Lady," 831 said, acknowledging the command.

"Well?" she said to the two trainers kneeling before her. "Get their collars off. And then have yourselves punished - ten lashes for each minute I was here, kept waiting for you."

"Yes, Great Lady," they said in unison, leaping forwards to obey.

He'd known the collars came off, he'd seen orcs replaced, an old orc 296 vanish, and the next day, a yearling with that collar. And he'd even known that someday, it would happen to him - either he'd put a foot wrong, and be put down in the punishment room, or more likely, finish, and be sent out to ... to wherever it was the things he'd been trained to do would be used. Even if 831 couldn't imagine what that would be. He'd known that, but he hadn't been ready for the moment the collar came off - snapped off, with a heavy _ click _ that left him feeling naked. He was even less ready for the tearing sound as Maeg ripped his loincloth off, revealing his shameful parts. He was ...

He was ...

He just stared at the collar laying on the ground stupidly, not knowing who he was, not without the collar that had defined his existence for as long as he could remember.

The crushingly beautiful voice spoke again. "Loss. Get up, pick up ... thing there, yes, and follow me.

He did; he picked up 121 - the orc who had been 121, his collar had been removed as well - and almost mechanically followed her. When in doubt, obey.

The word thundered in his mind. _ Obey _ .

He obeyed.

The corridor outside was quiet, and Huel closed it after he'd gotten out. He followed the elven witch - she had to be a witch, he thought - down the corridor, into a ... a ... he didn't know what it was. It was like a huge corridor, with elves, and orcs, and half-elves. Even keeping his eyes on the elf, though, he still saw enough to start to sort it out. Orcs drew carts, carried burdens, followed half-elves and other elves ... the half-elves scurried on errands, deferring carefully to the elves. He - he didn't like thinking of himself as Loss, but 831 wasn't right either. Had it really ever been right, he wondered, slowly.

When in doubt, obey. His training kept him moving, following the elf as she approached a palanquin borne by six huge orcs. Any one of them was easily twice his size. They wore only leather loincloths, and each one had an elaborate tattoo of green and gold on their back: an icicle penetrating a ring. He couldn't read the motto on the ring, of course, but he knew what writing was. His trainers had been clear on what it was - talking in pictures - and what it wasn't: for orcs.

What surprised, him, though, were the six orc boars. They were large, and their size was the first thing he noticed. The complicated tattoo was next but then - then he realized they weren't just similar, but they were, as far as he could tell, identical. And ... he'd been told, over and over and over, that orcs were ugly, foul, filthy - trained animals at their best, beasts at the worst. And he'd believed it, and worked hard, hard, hard to be good, to learn, to not be ... a beast, to make up for his ugliness, for the dirt he couldn't escape, to be like the clean beautiful and oh so remote half-elves. He'd never dreamed ... never imagined ... he just stopped, stunned.

Orcs could be beautiful, too. They were shaved, hairless, a healthy green-gray luminance in the faint light of the deeps. Gleaming, perfect smooth skin lay tightly over bunched muscle; he could see the corded strength of their arms, their legs, even just standing, waiting. Where he was dirty - filthy, from the sweat and dust and grime of the pens, these were immaculate, almost idealized sculptures of flesh. The hard lines and strong features that he'd been taught were beastlike, the degraded marks of orcish inferiority were ... right. Ultimately, completely, right.

She turned to him, and she apparently took his halt for proper deference, as she nodded approvingly. "Do keep up with us, Loss."

"Yes, Great Lady," he said, his eyes still full of her bearers. Their quiet - silent - presence cut through the elf's aura of majesty like ...

Like another lie. The effect of her voice, her movements, her look fell away. She was small; smaller than even his trainers, her form rounded, weak. She was not ugly, no, the deep soot of her skin, as flawless as that of the orcs who waited before her was perfection itself. But she lacked the distinction of form, the size, ... even her voice, bereft of her glamour, was flat and commanding, no longer mesmerizing.

This, Loss realized, was magic. The orcs whispered of it in the pen fearfully; the powers commanded by the Great Ones, the Great Ladies, power to sear flesh from bone, to crack the ribs and hearts of an army of orcs. That was why orcs served elves; not their beastliness, not their ugliness, not any of the lies he'd been fed in the pens. That, too, he thought, had to be magic. Quieter and sneakier than bursts of naked flame or bolts of power - the ability to impress one's will on an orc. To bespell his mind, until it obeyed because it literally couldn't do anything else, that was why elves ruled orc. To ensnare his heart, until it beat only for her, that was why elves ruled orcs.

But ... but it hadn't worked on him. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head so she couldn't see his expression - he didn't trust it. So often, even a hint of disrespect or disobedience would alert a trainer to his lack of discipline, and he could not imagine this elf being less cruel or even less observant than his trainers. Her stance, her postures, no longer disguised by a magical lie, were not stately, nor calm, not the movements of majesty at all. They were simply malice, endless hatred for all that was not them.

Compared to the beauty he saw now, it was nothing, and less than nothing. He wanted that grace, he wanted that perfection of form, and more ... he wanted it more than anything.

A voice whispered to him. Who ... who calls Me? Ah ... I see you now, orc without a name.

"I have a name!" he said, quiet, under his breath, but even as he said it, he knew he didn't.

My time is precious; I have no time for liars, and the voice was cold, almost angry. Do not waste My time, nameless orc.

"I ... don't," mean to he started to say, confused. "But ..."

The tenor of the voice changed from angry to surprised. You are young. And you do not know who I am, nor what I am. There was a short pause. You have nothing to fear from Me. Your mistress, Tangeline of House Nokirt, she you should fear ... but you do not, I know. Here. A feeling of warmth settled over him, and then the knowledge of House Nokirt, its place among the hundred high-born families of the elves, the magics they used to maintain their power gently settled into his mind. The knowledge that he, himself, was simply the product of one of hundreds of stockyards where the elves bred their specialized orcish and half-elf slaves - yes, his trainers, too, had come from such places, overseen not by half-elves but by orcs who taught them not that they were ugly filthy unsightly beasts but weakling incompetent impotent toys for their masters - orc and elf alike. Half-elves and orcs who did not learn their lessons were culled, removed before anything like strength could emerge.

Her magic can no longer touch your mind, the voice said calmly. You have thrown it off. He would have screamed, howled, charged her in that moment, overcome by the knowledge, and release of the knowledge, but ... he didn't. His own control was reinforced; his own discipline strengthened, not from outside, but silently from within, and he knew the voice was simply part of that.

"What are you - who are you?"

I am Blue. You have called yourself to My attention, invited Me into your heart, and I ... I can help you achieve your heart's desire. Yes, I know what it is.

"I don't ..." He had a heart's desire? Him?

Few do, the voice said lightly. But the language of the heart is My language. I know what you want, nameless orc, I know what you long for, even if you do not yet see it. And ... perhaps you may have it. Perhaps. But you must pledge to Me, make yourself my tool and hand and instrument.

"For my heart's desire?"

For the chance to have it. The voice was cool. I do not promise beyond what I can provide. It is possible, no more. I am one God among hundreds. Tangeline serves a God of smallness and malice. She calls Him 'The Black Queen.' I call Him Boojum, God of night terrors. And she has served her God long, and well, and is a proper tool and hand and instrument to Him. So I promise ... My help. Success or failure is not Mine to decree. But it is not Boojum's, either.

"But if the God is small ..."

The God is not small, He is a God of smallness, the voice said patiently. To serve Him, Tangeline seeks to make others small, so that she - and He - are greater thereby. Boojum is a great and mighty power, easily and often underestimated. Many think Him a God of childhood, a minor power, a pathetic grasping miserable God. And He is, all of those things, except minor_._

His eyes shifted ahead; the she-elf - Tangeline, his mind supplied - had entered the palanquin, and now the orcs lifted it, and as they moved, his own heart lifted, too. He'd thought they were beautiful when they were still, but as strong as they'd been, at rest, it was nothing to the smooth explosive power as they lifted the poles of the palanquin smoothly up to their shoulders. It was a practiced motion, done in a synchronization that spoke to him of harsh training, and true dedication. _ That _ was what he wanted ... he wanted that beauty, to have it, to possess it ... it was almost a burning need. And to see it used so - squandered, wasted ...

Not wasted. Tangeline's show of matched flesh enlarges her House's prestige and hers even as it diminishes those who cannot match it. Thus she serves her God, one form of worship among many. And there are other reasons, nameless orc, other ways she serves her God here. Do you see it?.

He did. They might move like visions of power and perfection, but ... she had reduced them to animals. Smallness. He followed the bearers, glad to keep them in sight, but aching for their enforced ... smallness. Were they, too, bound to this God of smallness?

No, and the voice held a slight note of regret. Their hearts are broken, empty ... Any desire other than that of obedience has been wrung from them. They serve - if that can be said to be the right term - the Slave. That God has no other name. They have accepted the Slave; they exist to serve, to avoid punishment, to receive rewards from the hand of their Master. To crave that notice as ... as a hungry orc craves food. Nothing else exists for them.

"But .." he started to ask.

Most of your fellow orcs accept the Slave. As do most half-elves. The next answer came before he could even voice the question. And the next.

I know your heart, the answer came lovingly. We treasure our worshipers. Be Mine, nameless orc, and I will open doors, and close them for you. I will guide you, protect you, watch you ...

"As the slave-god watches them?"

Yes, but to a different end. The Slave does, but ... they are not aware of Him, as you are of Me. I do not think any of His worshipers know Him so. Nor does He offer what I offer, not submission and docility and the chance to shine in another's light, but the greatness you seek. There is a path to your desire, nameless orc, and I can - will - set you on it.

"So what do I have to do?"

What you must. And from time to time I may call on you for other tasks. Yours is not the only heart's desire I move towards. Others may help you, even as I call on you to help others.

He thought for a moment. "Yes." The decision was easy.

Then the first thing you must do, beloved, is to lose your next fight.

Lose the next fight? But he was bred for combat, trained to win, trained to succeed. "How can I do that?" he asked, shocked, but only silence answered him, silence and the surprisingly loud echo of footsteps on the increasingly hard floor of the tunnel. They'd turned off the larger, busier tunnel while he'd been talking - dreaming? - of something called Blue , and they were seeing no other elves, and only one or two half-elves - just big sweating orcs, hauling heavy carts covered with thick canvas or metal lids.

The orc he was carrying - not a heavy load, not for him, anyway - had started to regain consciousness. He'd just whispered to "Stay quiet, or you'll get us into more trouble," and surprisingly, he had. After a few more turns, they ended up in a quiet cul-de-sac and the elf emerged from her palanquin.

Although the bearers paused, he continued following her through a door and into a short passage. They ended up in a workshop of some kind. Thin swords of elven-steel hung from the walls, and a huge horn of iron, flat on the top, shaped strangely.

That is an anvil; it is used to buffer blows from a metalworking hammer. This is a forge; a weapons-forge. Some artistry is beyond the permitted grasp of slaves. More information seeped in around the single comment, the hammers used, the purpose of the jutting point - the horn, tongs to handle hot metal, bellows to control the heat and a hundred other terms and things, but the God - if it were truly a God - was gone again.

Two other elves were waiting for her; one Loss easily identified as the weaponsmith - she wore soft suede, and wore a tremendous apron of hard leather. The other, like Tangeline, was dressed more imaginatively in layers and layers of multicolored gauze that floated in the air around her, as if the elf herself were too ethereally light for the dull room.

The elf he'd followed - Tangeline - stopped, turned around, and nodded approvingly at him. "Is he awake yet?"

"Yes, Great Lady."

"Drop it," she said, with a hint of the enthralling magic in her voice. It was surprisingly easy to ignore, Loss found, but he obeyed her, dropping the other orc to the forge floor.

The weaponsmith looked at both of them critically. "Which one?"

Tangeline smiled. "I thought we'd let them sort that out. They're both combat-trained."

"How fun," breathed the the one in the filmy gauzes. "Yes; a contest. Delicious!" She stretched, sending layers of bright silk floating in the air around them in shimmering cloud of color. "But it should be an equal fight ..."

"Yes," the weaponsmith agreed, almost dourly, as if she disliked agreeing with the gauze-clad elf. "It has to be."

Tangeline laid her hand on Loss, and a rush of strength flowed through him. Even the slight fatigue from walking was gone. He felt ... wonderful. Ready. Fight!

Fight!

Tangeline brushed the other one, too, and a moment later he jumped up - and eyed Loss carefully, but Loss could see the calculation in his eye. He'd heard what their elven masters had said, and this was why Tangeline had wanted closely-matched fighters, young, in their prime.

Blue's words came back to him. Lose your next fight, he'd been told.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the insistent voice. He wanted ... he wanted that severe beauty so badly but ... at the same time ... it seemed wrong, wrong not to do one's best, wrong not to obey as best you can, wrong, wrong, wrong. Wasn't that betraying himself? Betraying everything? He'd be punished, of course, if they found out, he'd be ...

That is the Slave talking, and you can listen to It - _ or to Me _. The voice was conversational, but it carried with it a deadly certainty.

He glanced into the orc's eyes - Tangeline hadn't even bothered to rename him, but he could see the readiness to serve, to obey, to do ... to do whatever his Master wanted, and then to accept whatever he was given, whatever shreds and tatters that came his way, to be grateful for them, more than grateful, to gaze up at ...

The softly smiling elven woman, dainty, wrapped in her mesmerizing aura, delighting in ... in seeing the two of them fight for her preference and favor - favor that could only lead into becoming - how had Blue put it? Smaller, and smaller, and smaller so that she seemed larger and larger. So many orcs had come not merely to obey their trainers, but to worship them, he realized, and beyond them, the elves they served. Winning the fight, winning their favor, winning any scrap from them, he realized, was losing - and inch by lash by word by threat, he - and every orc - would do it to himself.

The only way to win, was to lose. The name she'd given him, Loss, seemed ... like a better fit.

It's not what she intended, but yes, it is.

He brought himself to the simplest stance possible, and just waited.

"So, my two little orclings, I have a task for one of you," Tangeline said, and Loss could feel the subtle influence of her words, trying and failing to ease their way into his mind, to make him her devoted, her tool, her slave. He could see the other's eye catch fire, though, inspired with the sweet music of her voice. To Loss, though, they were words and nothing more.

"But I need an orc - a strong orc, a male orc, a powerful orc," she continued. "Do you two think that you can do what I need?"

Loss started to answer, but something seized his tongue. "Yes, Great Lady!" and the words held a growling intensity that Loss could not have put there himself.

"Yes, Great Lady!" 121 - or so Loss still thought of him - replied instantly, fervently.

"Good," she said. "Good. I know orcs; you're always lustful. So let us make the contest one that has its own reward. Fuck your opponent, hard, and you win. Fail, and ... you lose." She bestowed an enchanting smile on both of them. 121's eyes widened a bit as he inhaled sharply, but Loss shook off the enchantment. "You may begin when I say." She got up, moved back, considered, and seated herself - apparently - in midair to watch. The other two, likewise, drew back to the edges of the room.

" I know that in the arena, there are these tedious rules about what you're allowed to do, or not do, and a limit to hurting your opponent, my little orclings, but I don't want that to handicap you," she observed in that same magically captivating tone. "Don't fret over snapped bones, a little blood ... fight to win, my orclings, fight to _ win _."

121's eyes snapped to Loss, and a slight grin leaked onto his face, the lips curling a little to show his tusks more fully. Loss himself was holding himself ready, somehow trying to prepare himself. He needed both to put on a good show, and somehow keep himself from being hurt too badly ...

You will live. The tone was almost indifferent, as if the matter were barely worth attention.

And Blue might be right, Loss thought, reconsidering. It still might hurt, but he'd been hurt before, in other fights, under the whip ... mainly from his trainers, he thought, realizing it for the first time. Almost all of the times he'd been really, really hurt were from the half-elves. He'd lived through that; he'd live through this. Whatever happened.

" Begin!" she said, infusing the single word with enough magic that Loss could feel it tug on him like a wave of malign distraction.

Loss braced himself; ready for the instant opener - but 121 was too careful for that. He, too, had hoped to be struck, rather than strike, in that moment. Off balance was vulnerable in hand-to-hand fighting. To come too openly at your opponent would be to lose, and Loss felt he needed to make some attempt at a good showing. He shifted his weight from leg to leg, a subtle invitation that was declined, and Loss himself watched 121's attention seemingly shift without taking the bait.

It was Tangeline's irritated breath caused 121 to move, finally. Loss' eyes had flickered over to Tangeline, and when they flicked back, 121 was in motion.

As Loss had known he would be. But he didn't know how 121 would come for him; which hand - a kick would be too risky - he had readied for a left-hand strike combination, knowing that 121 would have decided beforehand how to start - and he was right; but just a fraction slow, and the follow-up strike in the combination hit chest. His own skills were good, though, and instead of fighting it, he moved with it, robbing the strike of its force. There would be nothing but a bruise.

The disengage was easy - too easy. 121 had been expecting a feint, Loss realized, and with that he tore into 121 with a complex hand-elbow-hand strike combination; 121 stepped into the attack and countered aggressively, finally taking Loss off-balance, slamming him into the hard stone floor. Pain bloomed in his nose, his jaw, and he realized that something had cracked - snapped? - as he had hit the floor. The pain stunned him for a moment, and that was all 121 needed to complete the pin he needed, rolling the stunned orc over, wedging himself between Loss's legs -

Loss simply spread his legs, unnoticeable to any but 121. He'd put up enough a fight, he thought, and with the pain in his face - a broken nose, he thought, from the bright pulsing pain - and his mouth - his tongue discovered his left tusk was gone, snapped at the gum, and then a new pain tore through him; 121 was taking his 'reward' - with no preparation, no lubrication, no consideration of anything, of either 121's own pleasure or his - just the almost mindless obedience to the gloating, hating elf-bitch. He'd been hurt worse in the course of training, and been fucked more painfully by his trainers (who had larger and less forgiving things with which to do the raping with than even the hardest and thickest male shaft).

This was humiliating, however. He might not be able to see them, but he could feel the gaze of the three elves as a heavy weight on him, and occasionally a soft magic-laden voice making some degrading comment in a knowing, critical tone of voice. The worst thing was how he himself was responding - exactly as he'd been trained, his own shaft hard and dripping from the pain - and it was pain, there was no pleasure here, none at all, but so often this had happened before the pleasure that ... he couldn't keep himself from reacting.

" Not much of a pit-fighter that just rolls over to be fucked," a disappointed, voice pointed out in ethereally gentle tones. "I was expecting a real fight. This was just ... sad. I'm so disappointed, Tangie."

" Idiot," another cold female voice responded. "The pit-rules aren't there to protect the fighters, they're there to keep the fight interesting. If they're allowed to use lethal or maiming combinations, the fights generally are over this fast. If you want a long, drawn-out affair, that's when you put padded gloves on them. You're testing for endurance, not speed. And we want fast and lethal, not tough and lethal. Frankly, this fight lasted longer than I expected; they were well-matched."

" You could have warned me it would be boring," the other voice complained petulantly.

"I did. I told you this wouldn't be like in the arena." Somehow, without even trying, the voice mixed an icy indifference with frigid contempt. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see it was the smith talking, as much to shut the other up as to answer her question.

"I though you meant it would be more exciting," the gauze-clad elf said, her soft voice sending a shiver of submissive lust down Loss's spine. Merely listening to her, he thought, was a pleasure. It was certainly a welcome distraction from the hot panting from above him. "This is just ..."

"Shut up," the smith finally said. "I don't know why Tangeline invited you, and I wish she hadn't. I'm not doing this for your amusement."

"I suggest," and the voice, without losing its delicious, chiming tones, incorporated a sense of malice as cold as the smith's own, "you remember who you're speaking to."

" Whom," sneered the smith. "And I do. Please. Threaten me. Please ."

" Ladies!" snapped Tangeline. "You're both here for different reasons. Raude, stop complaining, it's unbecoming. Imyrys, you're doing this because I want it done. Don't either of you forget it."

A silence punctuated only by 121's grunts answered her. Loss bit his lip, willing the other to finish, just get it over with ...

A deep growl and a harder thrust, and then a long moment of motionless while 121 made a low noise that wasn't a growl or a yell but something between, and Loss just lay there under the contemptuous stare of the three elves, wondering why he'd been so stupid as to listen to the voice. He hadn't had to endure this, he could have beaten 121. There was no reason he should be laying on the floor. in the pool of blood from his broken nose, and the humiliating seed of his opponent.

"Done?" cooed Tangeline.

"Yes, Great Lady," the panting orc said.

"Excellent," she said, in that glowingly magical voice. "Kneel. Here." 121 moved, knelt, gazing at the elf with adoration. "Bend your head back. Yes, like that. Stare at the ceiling."

What? wondered Loss, turning his head to look.

And then he saw the smith, carrying a ... what was it? It was bright, so bright it hurt his eyes, and he could feel the heat from it, glowing bright red ...

It is a sword, forged and ready for its tempering.

And even as the information flowed into him, just what forging and tempering meant, he realized what was about to happen; how the elf-smith was about to temper the blade she'd made. Oh Blue he could have won after all and he knew he'd be kneeling there unaware - mercifully unaware, unlike Loss, who wanted to shout, warn him - of what was about -

It happened. Imyrys, holding the glowing metal in a heavy gauntlet plunged it lengthwise into 121. The orc convulsed, tried to scream as the burning metal charred the path of its entry into black soot. Not a drop of blood; the horrible wound cauterized instantly as the ferocious heat of the metal cooked the orc from the inside out. 121 jerked, a look of pain on his face and his body contorted in an attempt to scream with burned, cooked lungs and then a failed attempt to stand, and he fell over, the metal now deep in him. Cooling quickly. Tempering in the dying orc.

The blade is imbibing soul and mortality, the blue voice commented coolly. Obeisance to its mistress, violence to her foes, and the whole empowered by the essence of what was a nameless almost unmourned orc.

Almost unmourned?

You mourn him, and the voice, for the first time, had a touch of pity, but Loss couldn't tell if the pity was for him or 121, and he was afraid to ask. The voice did not volunteer a clarification.

Death came quickly, merely a few heartbeats later, announced by a high-pitched giggle. "I'm sorry Imyrys," the voice squealed. "This was worth coming out for."

"I'm so glad you approve," the smith said in a voice that made it clear that the sentiment, if it was there at all, was vastly exaggerated.

"Please don't squabble," Tangeline said warningly. "It won't do."

"Sorry, dear," Raude said quickly.

"Forgive me, My Lady," came from the smith, a moment later, with at least some attempt at sincerity.

"Lovely," said Tangeline. "Imyrys, how long until my blade is ready?"

"It will take a full day to cool, and then a day to finish, and two to clean and sharpen. It will take an additional day if Your Ladyship still wants the bone hilt; I can't pull a femur out until the blade cools. There will be leather for a belt and sheathe, but that's not part of the blade itself, and those will take a week or two to cure."

"Yes to all of that. And, I don't think we need to stand on such formality," Tangeline said silkily. "Just as long as we all understand ... what we understand."

Understand? What ... Loss wondered.

Almost instantly information about the hundred houses and their favored daughters came burning into his mind, the relative rankings of House status, and status within the House, and thousands of schemes to change that status, more to one, and less to another and from that melange he extracted that Imyrys was of common stock, bound to serve House Nokirt, whereas Raude was a friend - inasmuch as any of these backbiting treacherous elves had friends - of the much lower-ranked House Undine. More; the thin tentative threads of plot that Raude was weaving to lift herself over Tangeline, and Tangeline's own awareness of them and her own gloating scheme for crushing Ruade and then a sudden emptiness. No more; this information endangers you, the voice said with a faint hint of surprise. It is not safe for you to know this. Nor do you need it.

The conversation had continued while this had been streaming into his mind. "Tedious, but there's no help for it. I do want the bones used for the hilt, it adds sympathy," finished Tangeline.

Sympathy? Again, information came flooding into his mind, the strictures of magic, the nature of alloys, the way certain metals took to certain spells, secrets of metalforging, some elven, some kobold, and others. Necromancy of the foulest sort - the binding of a tormented soul to inflict its own torment on a victim, forging its agony into a metal blade. And then the spells themselves flowed into him, words, thoughts, patterns that somehow didn't fit properly into his mind, burned somehow in their not-fitting - Loss felt like he was going to burst, a bladder filled with fire and ice and pressure, when an angry _ No more! You should not be able ..._ interrupted him. He trembled with the strange, almost unbearable pulse of pain in the moment that followed. Pain he was used to; this was strange because it wasn't his body that was hurting, it wasn't a physical sort of hurt. This was an agony deep within himself, not physical, not mental, and worse than either of those could be.I would say that you are unusual, but then, I have so few orc supplicants that any are unusual. You are preternaturally apt at being the channel for a God, My Loss. It pains Me - and I mean that more literally than you can imagine, beloved - to restrict what I offer you, but somehow you are able to accept things that you should not hold. Here. Give those back to Me - and the painful things flowed back, as fast as he could thrust them back into the hands of the God they came from -and I will watch you from a greater distance. You need My absence, not My presence, but I shall return when that changes. Do not fear, beloved. All will be well.

With that, the presence was gone; not just quiet, but gone. He hadn't realized just how he'd known it was there, but there was an emptiness now, a profound silence.

The voice that interrupted that silence was Tangeline's, and it had a cold heaviness to it, as if she wasn't even bothering to pretend. "I'll expect the sword in fifteen days, then, Imyrys."

"It will be ready," the smith promised. "My Lady."

"Good," Tangeline said, and turned to leave. The gauze-clad Raude drifted after her.

Like sharp-edged lightning, something flickered through him, too fast to catch, too fast to understand, a hint of blue that was gone almost before it was perceived, and the smith paused, turned, regarded Loss for a moment. "Lady Tangeline," Imyrys called. "I believe you left this bleeding on my floor. Did you want it?"

"Oh," she said. "It's not dead?"

"No," the smith said. "Injured, but not dead. And no, before you ask, I don't need it. I can dispose of it for you, though."

"No," said Tangeline after a moment. She walked back, and touched Loss carefully. A searing burn spread through him, and his injuries burned like salt in a cut. But the burn subsided after a moment, and the pain of his injuries had gone with it.

"Get up," Tangeline said, appraisingly.

Loss followed Tangeline's palanquin, with Ruade aboard, through the corridors and road, this time with a thick iron chain leading from his collar to the palanquin. Imyrys had welded a new collar - of the same black iron as the one he'd worn in the training pens - around his neck. It didn't have a number on it, of course, much less his new name. He hadn't been able to keep from looking at the body that had been orc trainee 121 while the smith had closed the heavy iron band around his neck. The elves ignored the corpse, as if it had become nothing more than so much meat, slowly cooking from the inside out from the heated metal. He wondered if 121 had ever been anything more to the elves than that.

Or if he was.

During the long trudge to House Nokirt, he thought about that, and other things that he'd never thought about; things that somehow he'd never even considered when he'd lived in the twenty-two rooms of the training pen, that had seemed so large to him and according to Blue it was one of nearly seventy for orcs alone that belonged to House Nokirt. And every house had its own breeding stock, and breeding pens, and training pens and ...

There were more pens alone, he thought, than he'd even seen orcs. And half-elves. Put together. Hundreds. Thousands. All of them turning out broken, shattered things without even the ability to see the damage, just accepting it, turning - no, turning themselves into property. Things. To use as their masters saw fit - or even just for a cruel, momentary amusement. Loss had never really thought about it before; never really considered if his life would be good, or bad, because it just was. But that wasn't right, he realized, as he slowly considered the things Blue had ... not told him, precisely, and not taught him, but ... the things that had somehow just seeped in along with the God's thoughts.

And one of the things that had seeped in, he thought, was Blue's understanding. Loss wondered briefly at Blue's comment that he was somehow preternaturally apt in any way. All the God had done was to talk to him, and of course all the things that the elves and half-elves had carefully concealed from him was laid plain because it was plain to Blue; the truth, rendingly painful, lay behind every word, phrase, sentence. Without that truth, Blue's words would have been robbed of meaning. It wasn't that he was apt, Loss thought. It was that he was so empty, and he hadn't known, as if he'd been hungry so long that he didn't know what it was to be sated. Or so broken that he didn't know what it was to be whole. And that Blue, somehow, had started him healing.

And thinking. Blue had promised him ... the chance, at least, for his heart's desire. That seemed realer to him, somehow, than just promising him his heart's desire. Whatever that was. Blue had seemed to know, though. Loss couldn't think what it might be, but then again, this morning, licking his bowl clean, he hadn't known he had a heart. He'd known he did, though, when the smith had killed 121. Maybe his heart's desire would be like that; he'd find it in something he'd never expect. Loss hoped it wouldn't hurt as much, and wondered about 121 - what he'd thought, when he'd won. Had he hoped for something beyond Tangeline's poisoned smile?

Tangeline abandoned him in the stables; she and Raude stepped down from the palanquin and vanished down a marble-tile hall. The orc bearers took the palanquin to its stand, and abandoned it - and Loss, still chained to the thing.

He stood there for quite some time until a half-elf, come to clean the thing, saw him. The half-elf was dressed, partially, at least, with half-trousers and sandals and a tray of rags and brushes. Now that he'd actually seen full elves, the difference was obvious. They might share the dark-black skin and the pale, almost luminous, hair, but a half-elf was a crude muscle-bound creature compared to an elf; almost the way an orc was crude next to a half-elf. Or so he'd been told, back in the pens, taught to compare his massive strength and endless endurance and ferocious stamina and reliable solidity against the evanescent lithe grace of a half-elf, and taught to find it wanting. Taught that red was bad, because it wasn't blue.

"A new orc," the half-elf sighed. "Her Splendor might have mentioned it ..." and he came around, inspecting the chain and the heavy lock with another unhappy sigh. "Sorry. I'll have to get an overseer to unlock it," he said, and left - at a run.

Loss was still trying to comprehend why a half-elf would apologize to an orc when the half-elf returned, with an orc - an orc in Nokirt livery - the icicle and dagger embroidered in light gray on his dark gray shirt. Full trousers, and boots, not the shorts and sandals of the half-elf who led him.

"See?"

"Yes," grunted the orc, pulling out a keychain, and sorting through the keys. "So. You got a name? Number?"

"Loss. 831."

"Loss-831, okay," the orc said, still sorting through keys. He tried one, but it didn't turn the lock. "Did Her Splendor say why she got you? As in, what I'm s'posed to do with you? As in, if I don't have to bother her, s'good thing. For you. For me. For Her Splendor, too, I suppose." He tried another, and it, too failed to turn in the lock. "You look like a fighter-line."

"Yes," Loss said. "She got me to ... fight. Once. I did that, already."

"So you survived the fight, and now I gotta find somewhere t'put you," the orc said, selecting yet another key, and putting it into the lock experimentally. This one turned, and the lock clicked open. "What style of fighter, infantry? Commando? Ya know the name of the pen where you trained?"

Were trained, not trained, Loss thought to himself. "No."

"Yah, 'sokay," the other said, with a sigh that suggested otherwise. "Did you train ... one-on-one, or with a team?"

"One-on-one," said Loss.

"Gladiator, then, prob'ly," the other orc said, after a moment. "Hand-to-hand, gloves, net, whip?"

"Yes," said Loss.

"Gladiator training," the orc said again. "Soldiers train with a blade and shield, never a net. But ... no," he said. "Can't put you on guard duty without some kind of team-training."

Loss couldn't imagine why it mattered, but he just shrugged. He'd certainly learned, in the pens, that saying nothing was almost always better than saying something.

"Oh," said the orc. "You see this badge?" He pointed to a bronze imprint of the circle-and-stalactite symbol of House Nokirt.

Loss nodded.

"Anyone with a badge like that," the orc said, unwinding the chains, "is an overseer. He's Sir. Some orcs. Some elves. But Sir."

"Yes, Sir," Loss said, quickly.

"Good boy," said the orc. "I'm Tsant-253, I run the house guards." He sighed. "I was hopin' I could use you, but you're not trained proper for what I want. So ... I guess I'll have to bother Her Splendor." Another sigh.

Loss simply stood, waiting patiently, as he'd been trained. He hadn't intended to do anything, and it happened quickly; so quickly that there wasn't even time for it to hurt. Something blossomed in his mind, one of those things that had hurt him, earlier, he thought, but this time, instead of holding onto it, it simply flowed through him, his mouth opening and forming words he'd never heard before, words that somehow held the thing that had come into him, releasing it into the world.

"????? ??? ? ???????."

Tsant didn't even seem to notice. "I suppose I could just give you to the stable," he said thoughtfully. "It's a waste, if you're gladiator-trained, but ... it's not as if I need any gladiators, and ..." the orc thought for a moment, and shrugged. "Stables it is."

"Yes, Sir," Loss said, and followed as Tsant led him deeper into the complex.

Working in the stables was hard and boring, but it did keep him away from elves. The house slaves, he discovered, were half-elves, with orc overseers. Elsewhere, orcs were the working slaves, and they were overseen by half-elves - such as here, in the stables, where the various palanquin bearers and message-runners and other necessities of life in an elven enclave were stabled - a complex far larger than the twenty-two rooms of the training complex. The house, where the elves lived, was simply the center of the business and military power that was House Nokirt, and he was now just a simple drudge, cleaning stables, grooming the orcs selected for palanquin duty - trust an elf to make something so beautiful ugly - carting boxes to waresheds, back to carts, and he hadn't been trained to do any of it.

Tsant had taken him to Risel, a half-elven overseer, and dumped him there. Risel had just looked annoyed, as the half-elf asked if Loss could do this, or if Loss could do that, and the mild annoyance quickly grew into serious annoyance as Loss said, over and over, "I would be happy to if I were shown how, Sir." Fortunately, that annoyance did not translate into the punishment Loss had expected, just a starting task of mucking out stalls with the dismissive comment of, "You can't do that wrong."

Nor did he; it might not be as fun as weapons training, but it kept him moving, and he had something to do, and the only drawback seemed to be the unappreciative looks of his fellow drudges when they discovered he was working about three times faster than they were. And the pissing blue had worried him, but it only happened once, right after he'd done his first few stalls. It had concerned him, since it had stained the straw blue, but after that it had returned to a more normal bright yellow.

The surly glares diminished - even if they didn't completely vanish - when he didn't take any claim for the work, and Risel simply commended all of them with an indecipherable expression. Food turned out to be pretty much the same gray stew that he'd had day after day during training - only more of it, followed by sleep in a barracks. Some of the orcs slept alone, Loss noted, unlike in the training center, and none of them offered to sleep with him. Certainly, none of the ones he'd been working with, still giving him disapproving glares.

The next few days proceeded similarly; the work changed, but it was still mostly moving stuff from one place to another; soiled straw to the middens; boxes from wagons and carts into storerooms, and other boxes from still more storerooms back to the wagons. It wasn't what he was trained for, but ... how much training did it really need? Risel told them what to do, and they did it. Short of learning what rooms were what, and Risel didn't even seem to mind explaining what he wanted when Loss lacked some piece of information. And after two or three weeks, Loss discovered that Risel was giving him different assignments - still moving stuff, but by himself. It didn't really matter to Loss, although some of the surly glances returned. He wasn't really sure why; it was still just moving stuff, no more interesting or challenging than anything else he'd done.

The surly glances might have led to something else, but Loss had dealt with that on his fifth day, when a bigger orc, Vistak, attacked him - or tried to. It wasn't even a serious attack, it was meant to trip him, not hurt him, although, Loss supposed, hurting might have come afterwards. The problem with tripping someone, as Loss's trainers had relentlessly drilled into him, was that an alert gladiator would always be able to trip you, first. Loss might have been moving boxes, but moving boxes made him not one whit less alert. The discipline he'd learned so painfully in the training pits was too harsh to fade after a mere five days, or five weeks, or five months, or even five years.

When the larger orc had crept up behind him and started to move - Loss spun around, smashing into Vistak with not only his weight, but that of the box he was carrying. The impact flung the orc directly into a wall, and Loss just kept going, ignoring the questioning moan behind him. That kind of foolishness would have earned Loss a hundred lashes - at least - from his trainers. Apparently, Vistak only got twenty lashes from Risel, eventually, but there weren't any more confrontations. His one worry was that he would get out of his combat training, and he considered asking Risel about it as he scraped the straw of his bed together. His single bed.

No. You might well convince Risel to move you - he likes you. Or at least appreciates you, in the sense that you do what you told quickly and intelligently. That's a quality he doesn't see very often. Nevertheless, this is where I need you to be, and Risel might move you somewhere else. You're not going to be here longer than six months. You will not lose much in that time. And I could keep you in condition, but ... that would mean more blue piss. I want to avoid that.

"Oh," said Loss, "Uh ... why?"

Your present position is valuable.

"Oh," said Loss. "That's good to know, I suppose, but I meant, why ...."

When a God touches the world, it leaves a mark. If there were no mark, then there would be no touch. When I reach into the world, there is blue.

"I don't think I understand," Loss said, after a moment. "Why ... why would blue piss be a problem? It doesn't hurt."

For those who can see, such a mark reveals you as Mine. And I do not wish it known that you are Mine.

"Oh," said Loss.

It is not important to you to understand, Blue said. And that was true, Loss reflected. What he wanted wasn't understanding, it was that ... that fleeting moment of glory he'd had, when he'd seen the beauty of the orcs carrying Tangeline's palanquin. Only ... they were handsome, he had to admit, but they were handsome works of an evil art. He'd seen it, seen how they were treated. They were conditioned, no less harshly than a gladiator, and allowed far less freedom. When they weren't undergoing conditioning, or being groomed, they were locked into stalls. He hadn't heard them speak, and he wasn't sure if they could. He hadn't asked, hadn't thought it wise to ask.

Perceptive of you, beloved. They cannot speak, said Blue, almost tiredly. Nor do you want to know all that has been done to them. The knowledge seeped in anyway. Cauterizing needles used to destroy aggression and higher thought functions - literally turning them into unthinking, domesticated animals. Drugs, to keep them docile, to make them grow larger, to keep their skin from showing its age. Control. Smallness, always smallness.

"Elves are really awful," Loss said, trying to somehow shut out the images.

Some of them are, yes. Not all. There are orcs, and half-elves you would find equally horrendous. And elves you would like.

"I don't think there are any elves I would like," Loss said quietly, laying down on the straw. By himself, he tried not to think. Still. He glanced around the room, saw most of the others paired, temporarily or more long term. At least Vistak was by himself, he thought. Who would want to be with a bully?

That's a more insightful question than I have given you credit for, beloved, and the words were tinged with a humorous sense of respect. Most insightful.

"But you're not going to tell me?"

You may find out, later. I am only a God; the future is no more clear to me than it is to you. I simply bring a greater perspective to interpreting the present.

And the blue presence was gone.

Blue didn't return for several weeks, and when He did, it was the middle of the night. Loss simply woke, amid the sounds of other sleeping orcs. Rise, said Blue. We have work to do.

"But everyone's asleep," whispered Loss.

Yes. Exactly. Get up. Go to warehouse twelve.

"It will be locked," said Loss, dubiously.

Did you agree to be my hand and tool and servant, or did you not?

"I did." Loss got up, quietly making his way around the other sleepers. The door to the corridor - as he'd expected - was locked, but a word forced its way out of him, "???????," and the door clicked open. He walked out, trying to be quiet.

No, don't sneak. Walk deliberately, as if you were ordered to the warehouse. A sense of amusement pervaded Loss for a moment. As, indeed, you are.

He did, although he couldn't help but feel nervous about it. It, too, was locked, but " ??????? " caused another click, and the doors opened. There. The desk. Look at the papers ... and Loss had a sudden feeling that someone else was staring through his eyes. Perfect, and Blue sounded very satisfied. I wish to use your hands. You do not possess the skill to do what I need, beloved.

"I suppose ..." said Loss, and no sooner had he said that than ... something ... nudged into his mind. He reached down - only, it wasn't him, it was the something, and then he - or it - began neatly paging through the papers.

Ah . Loss's hands opened an inkwell, delicately dipped a metal inkpen into the dark black ink, and began ... adding to the marks on the paper, on this other paper, carefully, methodically. One paper was copied, carefully, although Loss noted a number of changes. The old sheet vanished halfway into a stack of other pages, the new one, after the glistening ink had dried, joined the rest as Loss's hands skillfully reassembled them.

"What .." he started to ask.

It doesn't concern you, Blue said absently. This is for another. You are unlikely to meet her. Do you begrudge her your assistance? Or Mine?

"No," Loss said, carefully. "But ... I'm not supposed to be here ..."

Not so. _ I _ intended you to be here. Blue continued. With a minimal amount of intervention on my part, I have access to the center of Nokirt's commercial activity. You have been my eyes, my ears. Without you, beloved, I would not know of this opportunity, nor have a way to grasp it. With you, I have not only seized it, but done so invisibly.

"Invisibly?"

Had I altered those documents Myself - without using your hands - they would have borne My mark. I cannot know how; perhaps the paper would have turned blue. Perhaps the ink. Perhaps something else. I cannot see how my touch will change the world, not completely, no God can. But ... using your hands, beloved, your hands that you gifted me, you stand between Me and the world.

"I'm not going to piss blue?"

Ah. Yes. Yes you will. And ... not merely blue, but a blue so strong it will stain. Indelibly. The God seemed to ponder for a moment.

"But I thought you said that might be seen. That ... that would be bad."

Just so.

"So ... what am I supposed to do?"

An interesting question. Blue's sense of amusement had returned. I am a God, and you My servant. Perhaps we should grant someone his desire. It isn't his heart's desire, nor does he worship me, but even so, it seems appropriate. Does that sound good to you, beloved?

"I ... I guess so, yes, but ... won't ... I mean, wouldn't that make me piss ... well, more blue?"

Not necessarily. Only if I have to reach into the world. I will not have to, not for this.

"Fine. What do I do?"

Return to the barracks. We are finished here.

Loss nodded, and turned. He walked quietly out of the office, into the empty hall. "???????," and the door locked. "That's more blue, isn't it?"

Yes, came the amused thought. And I will need to relock the barracks door, as well.

"Then how ..."

Didn't I already say we were going to grant someone a wish?

"A wish? I don't understand."

Patience. It's a small wish, a little thing, but ... charming in its sincerity. Blue said nothing more, until they he was back in the barracks, and the door relocked with "???????. " Loss started walking, quietly, towards his bed.

No. Turn right. Past these two. Here.

Loss looked at the large sleeping orc with a sense of distaste. "This is Vistak."

So it is. And you are going to grant his wish.

"Why ... why him?"

Because he has a wish that is convenient for us to grant.

Loss paused. "Then ... my heart's desire is ... convenient for you to ... help me with?"

Beloved, you miss the point. There is a vast difference between one's heart's desire, and the notion that it would be pleasing to have diced mushrooms at breakfast. Vistak has a desire, and we - you - will fulfill it, but it is not the core of his being, not a secret yearning that defines him. It is convenient for me to assist you in the same way it is convenient for you to breathe. I am your secret yearning. I am your heart's desire - and it is only in your having that desire that I exist. How, then, could I do anything other than help you or any of my worshipers?

"Oh," said Loss. "Fine." He stared at the sleeping orc for a moment. "So what do ..."

This. In a single movement, Loss was straddling Vistak - and then he grabbed the close-shaven head and pulled Vistak up and to the left - a very dangerous hold. The orc moved from sleep to stunned wakefulness almost instantly, and with a hiss, Loss heard himself speak in a quiet but intimidating voice. " Did you think I'd forgotten about the corridor? "

"I ... nuh ..." the orc stuttered.

"I can snap your neck like a pipestone," Loss heard himself say. " Is that what you want?"

"... uh ... nah ..."

"No? Then stay quiet." Vistak nodded, convulsively. "I suppose you're sorry." It didn't sound to Loss like he - Blue? - thought Vistak was sorry.

Vistak nodded - or tried to, still restrained by Loss. "I'm ... look, I didn't mean anything ..."

"It was a joke. Just a friendly hello for the new slave," Loss's voice hissed in an unfriendly manner.

"Yah ... yeah ... just ..."

"I'm glad I had a chance to talk to you, then," Blue continued, talking through Loss. "I'm glad to hear you want to be my friend," and the voice still had a dangerous menace to it. The words might be innocuous, but the tone was nothing other than threatening. "That's right, isn't it? You want to be my friend?"

Vistak gave a gurgled sound that might have been "Yes!"

"Good," Loss's voice continued, in a tone that, while still threatening, had a softer undertone. "Then be my friend, Vistak." One hand curled more tightly around the soft-prickly stubble of Vistak's gray-green scalp, and the other relaxed, loosened its grip, trailed down Vistak's neck along the pulse of his carotid, and then up to Loss's own loincloth. A jerk, and the cloth came off, revealing Loss's heavy shaft.

"I ..."

"Don't tell me how friendly you are," Blue whispered, so low that Loss could barely hear, even though the words were coming from his mouth but the orc's eyes just got wider. "Show me."

Vistak swallowed, and then moved - hunching himself forward, glancing between Loss's legs and then up at his face. Was Blue looking out of his eyes? What ... what did he look like, in that moment, to Vistak? What was Blue doing? And why ... why was Blue using him to do it?

All of those thoughts vanished as a tongue slipped out of Vistak's mouth, briefly licking his shaft, a warm touch that sent a shiver through him - he hadn't been with another since he'd arrived in Tangeline's wake, weeks ago, and that touch felt so good. "Mmmm," he said, not even noticing that he'd said it, but Vistak took that brief moan as encouragement, and took more of Loss's hardening shaft into his mouth.

"Wait," Blue whispered, and Loss's hands moved of Blue's accord, gripping the orc's close-shaved head, holding the orc still. "Don't lose a drop." Vistak looked up with puzzlement, and Loss was equally confused - all he wanted was to ram himself home in the warmth of ...

No!

Yes. Deep inside Loss, something relaxed; he wasn't quite sure what even as his hands tightened their grip. Piss - undoubtedly bright, staining blue piss - began flowing and Vistak's eyes widened in humilation as the supine orc realized what Loss was doing. Vistak twitched, preparatory to moving, and Blue - Blue, not Loss - leaned forward to say in less than a whisper, "Do you want your neck broken?"

The gentle pleasure of relieving himself spread through Loss, a soft relaxation subtly like and unlike the sharper, more intense sensation of orgasm. What are you doing? Loss thought, unable to say it.

Exactly what I said. Fulfilling a desire.

He desires ... this? Loss asked.

His training was as severe as yours, beloved, Blue said with a sigh. And unlike yours, it was not interrupted at a critical point. Vistak knows - craves - the lash. Metaphorically. The exact meaning came through to Loss. He'd been taught to be a victim, to be happy only as a victim, to want that victimhood - and that had been the desire Blue had referred to. Yes.

Oh, thought Loss, sadly. But ...

For him, this is surcease, Blue said gently.Nor is it unpleasant to you. It answers your desires as well.

"Yes," said Loss, suddenly aware that he was hard - almost painfully so, and the cathartic pleasure of urination had been replaced by the more teasing pleasure a tongue could provide, with more enthusiasm that Loss would have predicted - he turned his attention back to the pinned Vistak. The larger orc's eyes were half-closed, and suckling gently on Loss. The sound made Vistak look up, almost hesitantly.

"That's right," said Loss, caressing Vistak's head gently.

Too gentle, beloved, Blue said. He cannot enjoy what is not forced.

Loss took the back of Vistak's head, and pulled him forward - not hard, but firmly, giving the other orc a moment to adjust to the deepening intrusion, pulling back with his hips, and then pushing forward again, slowly, the first time, and then repeating the motion, faster, and faster. He moaned quietly as he fucked Vistak's face, feeling the pleasure build, a tantalizing process - however good it felt at the moment, it would feel better a moment later, a little harder, a little deeper ...

Loss managed to stifle his outcry as he exploded in Vistak's throat. He stopped moving, panting quietly, and Vistak licked him clean. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding," Loss told Vistak quietly. The other orc nodded, and Loss got up slowly, expecting Vistak to take advantage of the moment, but no attack happened. Loss simply walked quietly back to his nest of straw. Huh. Well, at least nobody ...

Oh, we woke several of Vistak's neighbors, Blue said. They might pretend to sleep, but ... Vistak is disliked by almost everyone.

Loss blushed.

Keep an eye on him tomorrow, Blue advised as Loss snuggled down into the straw.

"Why?"

But the God had gone.

The next day started as every other one had; breakfast was the same thick porridge as always. As Blue had told him, Loss kept an eye on Vistak, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary in the larger orc's behavior. Work assignments followed shortly, and Risel again had Loss working in a small group with two others. Vistak was working directly under Risel, receiving and sorting the endless crates that came into the warehouses and getting them ready to go back out again. Loss glanced at the larger orc, but he seemed quiet, almost subdued, although that could just as easily have been Loss's imagination. How much can one tell from watching someone haul crates?

At the end of the work shift, they ate, and Vistak, as usual, ate by himself, or as by himself as one can get in a crowded mess. Loss didn't sit by him, but he did glance at him from time to time. Nothing was out of the ordinary; why had Blue asked him to watch Vistak?

Because others watch you watching him. The words brushed him gently. He is hated.

"So?"

The others are wary of you, beloved. They watch you, watching him. They do not fear you, but they fear giveing you cause to make them fear you. If you are not finished with this orc, then ... they will wait.

"Wait for what?"

To act on their hatred and anger, Blue said.

"What would they do?"

There was a short pause, and a sense of consideration. Their intent is unformed. It would go badly. A mob easily reverts to base impulse; all of the anger and resentment and fear would be taken out on him. Whether he lives or dies - and he would most likely die - there would then be punishment and culling, and the resulting anger and shame would be turned inward, against themselves, making the elvish hold on them that much stronger. But a riot, beloved, would impede My goals, and yours.

"But it will happen eventually? Over him?"

Very little is truly inevitable. A riot over Vistak can be averted. But other causes of riots can occur. The elves provoke them.

"Why? That doesn't make any sense,"

If the elves provoke the violence, Blue said calmly, they can channel it, and ensure that nothing they value is damaged, and they bleed off significant resentment. It allows them to act as punitively as they wish, further intimidating their slaves. And it amuses them.

"I hate elves," Loss muttered.

No, you don't, Blue corrected calmly. You distrust them, and you dislike some of them, but you do not hate. Trust Me on this, beloved - you do not hate.

"I will," Loss said quietly. "But if there's a riot ..."

Do not concern yourself. The situation is moving towards a favorable resolution.

"All right," Loss said, and busied himself with finishing his meal.

When Loss reached his bed, however, he was more than a little surprised to see Vistak waiting for him. The larger orc had removed his loincloth and sandals, and was simply - waiting. Not in the straw, but, next to it. Loss shucked off his clothing, and just rolled down into the straw - fresh straw, he noticed. "You changed it?"

"Yes," Vistak said. "I ... I thought ..."

"Good," Loss said, before the other could finish. "You joining me?"

"I ..."

"Then come here," Loss reached out and put his hand around the other's arm, intending to pull him over, but there was no need - Vistak crumpled into Loss's embrace. "Vistak?" Loss asked quietly, knowing that a hundred other eyes were on them but that his words, at least would be private, lost amid the rustle of the others.

"Just ... just fuck me," the orc growled, low.

Loss moved to do that -

No. Put him in a submission hold and then fuck him.

Why, asked Loss, hesitating.

For one thing, he'll actually enjoy it more. Or, to be more accurate, he will derive more pleasure from that.

"When I'm ready," the smaller orc said coolly, flipping Vistak over and wedging his arm against his shoulder.

"Hey!" Vistak started, but Loss cut him off.

"And now I'm ready," Loss finished, slamming into Vistak. The other orc flinched, gasped, and then pushed back against Loss, his muscles set in tense determination. Loss begain moving against him, slowly, then picking up speed as Vistak began panting.

"Hurts ..." gasped Vistak, "hurts good. Oh ... don't stop ... please ..."

Loss had no intention of stopping; he'd missed sex for too long, and Vistak's soft hurting noises of enjoyment made him all the more ready. Loss reached his climax quickly, and then, half expecting Blue to stop him, moved down to grasp Vistak's shaft in his own hand. The other orc said nothing, just became still - very still - as Loss carefully moved the warm sack of flesh aside, taking Vistak's hardness in his hand. The other orc was close, very close, to a climax of his own, and a few moments of manipulation had Vistak spewing his seed into the warm straw. The larger orc didn't say anything. Even his breathing went quiet - almost silent, as he tensed into his orgasm, Loss could feel the thick spurts launch from Vistak's length. Even after the flow stopped, the larger orc relaxed slowly, as if the pleasure were something he could hold onto by sheer determination.

Vistak said nothing, but pushed himself - not away, but down, and began licking Loss clean, with long, slow, quiet strokes of his tongue, his tusks resting gently on either side of Loss's thighs. Loss just stroked the other's head, and when Vistak was done, the orc cuddled up to him. Loss was about to put his own hand around Vistak.

May I use your arm?

Of course, Loss said.

Thank you, Blue said gravely. Loss felt himself reach into the straw bedding, grope for a moment, and then pulled out something knotted out of straw, very small, that fit in his hand, and his arm reached over Vistak, put the thing into Vistak's hand. Vistak took it, hesitantly, and then, as he seemed to recognize it, grabbed at it eagerly with something like a hushed sob, and then Loss's arm was his own again.

What ...

The image of a crude straw doll came into his head, nothing more than a thin sheaf of straw with a knotted head, and bunched at the bottom to form simple legs. A thinner sheaf formed stumpy, unbending arms. And with the image came the long painful process where Vistak had figured out, feature by feature, how to make it, hidden in his bed, curled around it in the hostile dark.

Vistak became Loss's permanent bedpartner, and although, again, there were a few angry or jealous glares, nothing came of them. The next incident of note was nearly eight days later, when three elves appeared in Risel's office, and went through the papers there. They seemed ... unhappy, and Loss wondered if ...

Oh yes.

But won't Risel get in trouble?

Perhaps, Blue said, seemingly unconcerned. The elves were gone the next time Loss came through office, though, and Loss brooded on it for the remainder of the day. Risel looked worried, but he was still there.

And he was still there the next day, and Blue judged that Risel was no longer in any immediate danger. He wasn't involved, after all. Their magic tells them that he was not involved in the forgeries.

"They can tell that?"

Oh, yes. And Risel is not, strictly speaking, theirs. There is a fine argument over just whose fault the diversion was. Allanise blames Tangeline, Tangeline blames Xexcurisa, Xexcurisa is certain that Meil was involved, while Miel blames Allanise and Shas. Quite a baffling tangle for them. Tangeline has gone so far as to order Raude to get to the bottom of it. There was a hint of chagrined amusement. Which I did not anticipate, but ... it will play into our hands nicely.

"But?"

It is sooner than I had expected, admitted Blue. I had thought ... I could make use of you here again. But the tide of events runs more swiftly than I had anticipated, and our chance will come soon. Ah. Yes. If you see Raude, take no notice of her.

"I wasn't planning to," Loss said, grimacing.

No, that's not what I mean. She ... will be about. Lurking. Unnoticed by most. You, however, will probably see her.

"Why?"

You are unusual among My adherents, beloved. Most of them are mages; I teach them magics, and they draw strength from Me. You have no such aptitude; instead, you seem to draw on my knowledge and perception and even my power directly, if I am uncareful. Since mortal skill and magic is unlikely to deceive Me, it is therefore unlikely to deceive you.

"Oh," said Loss. "So we just have to wait."

Yes. Can you be patient a while longer, beloved? I know it must be hard on you, not seeing how things are moving, not seeming to do anything to move forward, but ... all you can do is done. You are ready to seize the moment when it happens.

"Fighting is exactly like that," Loss said. "I can wait."

You have no idea how few of my followers could say that, sighed Blue. Would that I could gift them with a tenth of your patience.

That struck Loss as funny, and he kept chuckling through the remainder of the day's work.

Over the next couple of weeks, he did catch sight of Ruade, once in a while, standing motionless against a wall, or seated inconspicuously along a rock balcony, but he ignored her, and she took no notice of him, either. Blue was silent, too, although Loss could sense the God's presence from time to time. Risel vanished for two days, replaced by another half-elf, and then reappeared even as his replacement, Janique, vanished. The half-elf looked a little haggard, but he said nothing, simply directed the flow of goods and crates as he had previously - if more tersely.

Elves themselves occasionally wandered the warehouse complex, but never any he recognized, other than Raude. Magic sizzled through the complex every now and then, Loss feeling it like a chill along his spine, washing around him for a brief moment, and then gone. Something, Loss thought, was happening, even if no one was explaining it to the backs and arms and legs that actually did the work. Whatever it was, didn't seem to touch them - any of them. All of the orcs sensed it, and they grew quieter, trying a little harder not to draw attention, but whatever storm roiled House Nokirt, they seemed underneath it, too low to be caught up in the tempest.

It was almost four weeks after the warehouse break-in when Blue broke into Loss's day. It's time.

"What do I do?"

Take that bushel of oats, and head towards the stables.

"But I'm supposed to be ..."

Beloved. Blue said, whispering quietly into Loss's mind. Take the bushel of oats. Head toward the stables. Now.

"I'm going," Loss said, putting down the box and picking up the oats. "It's just ..."

Yes. It's not important, though, said Blue. Just go.

Hurrying down the corridor with his burden, Loss, going just a little bit faster, tripped. "No!" said Loss, as the bag split, and smaller bags of oats went spilling across the corridor. "No!"

It's fine, Blue soothed. In fact, I tripped you.

"But I spilled ..."

Then clean it up. A moment later, as Loss set about efficiently gathering up the smaller bags, slowly. Generally, beloved, I find your industry charming. But ... slowly, please.

"Fine," muttered Loss, resuming the work. Slowly.

He'd gathered most of them back together, and was trying to figure out how to carry them, now that the larger sack had split, when a beautiful, furious voice behind him made freeze.

" What is this? You - turn around!"

Loss did. He had just enough time to recognize Raude before he crouched into the proper kneeling position, head to floor. "Yes, Great Lady Raude. " The name slipped out; he hadn't meant to say it, and then he realized just why he'd used it.

" What? How ..." she paused, and then actually looked at him. "You - you were the losing orc in that little fight at Imyrys' forge, weren't you?"

"Yes, Great Lady Raude," Loss said humbly, staring at the floor, wondering just why Blue wanted him here.

" So ... you have gladiator training, yes?" She didn't coo quite the way Loss recalled her speaking at the Forge, but her voice was still clear and sweet.

"Yes, Great Lady Raude."

The elf said nothing for a moment, but her foot tapped, gracefully, as layers of rainbow gauze shimmered around her. "You were pathetic, you know," she informed him, in a sorrowing sort of voice with a shimmering chime.

"Yes, Great Lady Raude."

"But funny," she said musingly. "Funny ... yes. Excellent. Leave this ... whatever it is," she said, in a bright almost anticipating tone. "Stand."

Loss did, slowly rising to a full standing position, forcing his eyes to stay focused, straight ahead of him as Raude took delicate steps around him.

She said nothing, inspecting him, just gave a short, almost inaudible puff of breath that might have meant anything, dissatisfaction, resignation, mild surprise - anything. A tiny, perfect elven hand brushed his loincloth, and the knot came undone. "Oh," she said, with a distinct lack of excitement. "Well. Nothing defective, I suppose. Compact, for an orc. Muscular, although that's to be expected. Not a defect, even if it is ... unsightly." she said, her voice not inviting response. "Still. You'll do. Come."

"Yes, Great Lady Raude," he said, and followed after her, leaving the cloth and scattered bags in the hall, deeper into the complex. Five minutes of walking sufficed to bring them to a door he'd never been through, although he had glanced into the corridor as he passed it. Two elves stood guard - not orcs, not half-elves, elves, in their shimmery gray armor and long, thin curved swords. The two females stared at Raude impassively, and then turned the blank and impersonal stare of their consideration onto Loss - and then back to Raude. In unison they stepped into the corridor, blocking the path, bringing the dull gray swords up and across the path - not quite pointing them at Raude, but ready to deploy.

"I'm bringing him in," Raude said, irritation tainting the otherwise sweet perfection of her voice. "Stand aside. Now."

The guards stepped aside like dancers, pulling themselves against the wall. Ruade strode in, and Loss followed. Another turn, and the cobbled floor turned to a complex mosaic of tile - interlocking circles and daggers, the symbol of House Nokirt. The ceiling stretched up, and up, and Loss could see heavy stalactites pointing down into the huge open space. Water trickled down one heavy stalactite, and a thin stream of opaque water splashed down into a wildly ornamented brass catch-pool, and more mineral-heavy water trickled out. Heavy bronze door stood at regular intervals around the cavern. Some of the doors, Loss realized, were twenty or thirty feet off the ground. He glanced around, but there was no obvious way of reaching them, and he wondered briefly what they were for. And then he wondered why Blue hadn't commented.

Raude gave him no further time for thought; she made directly for one of the ground-level doors and it simply swung aside as she approached, and this time, she paused for a moment, to be certain Loss had followed her through the portal, before continuing. The hallway beyond the door was ... amazing, Loss thought. The brilliantly colored tiles on the floor curved at the edges, and continued up the wall, and over the arched ceiling. It seemed random; gold and dark purple and bright pale blue and a thousand other colors and shades but ... something seeemed to call to him, drag at his attention ...

This. For a moment, just a moment, a thousand shades of blue tile stood out against the other colors, revealing coiling glyphs that surged with power - complex writing camoflauged between the other tiles - and then the moment was over, the staggering array of blue magic once again disguised amid the kalidiascope of color. The momentary glimpse staggered Loss even as he recognized it, and he was equally certain that, somehow, it had recognized him, too.

It's blue. It's yours, isn't it?

Yes, but not ... not quite as you mean. The words came reluctantly. It is not important, the God repeated, more firmly, and then the presence was gone.

Ruade noticed nothing, walking quickly ahead. Loss wondered for a moment if she even knew of the magic hidden in the walls, watching and testing, waiting for ... what? And then he was certain she wasn't. It was hidden, secret, a deep concealed protection. But then ... why did he see it? And then he knew; with the same certainty as if the God himself had told him. It was, in some way, Blue's power and he, Loss ... he was a channel for that power. A preternaturally apt channel. He. Him. Loss would have smiled, if a lifetime of training hadn't taught him not to. When the masters were there, you didn't exist. There was only obedience. And the masters were always there.

Only, now, there was something more. Loss did smile, then, a huge smile that would have lit up his face, if he'd let it show. If he dared to let it show. He didn't. Not yet. But at that moment, even if he didn't know anything other than not yet, he knew someday. Not today, but ... someday.

He followed Raude down the hallway with something approaching a good mood. Even the massive door at the end didn't dispel it. The door was round, almost a circle, and had no lock, or keyhole, or anything that looked like it might open it - if Raude hadn't stepped up to it expectantly, Loss might have taken it for ... for ... for a door, he thought. It was a huge slab of metal set into the stone - it was a door, even if there was no sensible way to open it. There should be writing on the door, he thought, even if an orc wasn't permitted to read it, but he didn't see any. Was reading that useful, anyway? The elf tapped a gong to one side, and a clear note sang through Loss's bones.

No answer came, instead, blue eyes opened in the door and surrounding walls - Loss almost jumped back as tens - hundreds? - of eyes opened in the stone, an uncountable number of blue-white orbs each holding an azure iris around a midnight-blue pupil. They peered, some focusing on Ruade, some on him, and others swiveling to scrutinize the remainder of the corridor. The elf waited, either used to the eyes or oblivious - although Loss wasn't sure how she could be oblivious to those uncanny stares.

The door rolled upwards, revealing another door, this one of black metal with a fine tracery of lines - writing, Loss wondered, but before he could decide it rolled to the left. Another door, silvery and glowing with a faint blue slid to the right, revealing a short corridor and yet another elf, if clad less fantastically than the others. This one wore clothing more like the overseers had - white tunic and pants, although the heavy shoes were replaced with soft white slippers. Of course, the overseers would never have worn white, and certainly not the gleamingly pristine cloth this ... and Loss took another breath of surprise. This was a male elf. He'd never seen one; to the best of his knowledge, nobody had ever seen one. He looked like, well, what one would expect a male elf to look like. Lithe, with all the grace and elegance of an elf, but lacking ... no, not lacking, he wasn't lacking femininity - it wasn't something he should have, any more than he should have antennae or pedipalps. Instead, there was a lean and watchful sense to him, without the threatening beauty of a female. His hair, pale blue against midnight skin, was short, cut to fall away from his face. Deep blue eyes ... Loss felt them on him for just a moment, although otherwise he might have been carved from polished coal.

"Here," Raude said, and gestured Loss forward.

The elf's gaze flickered for the briefest moment from Raude to Loss. "This?"

"Yes."

"Weapon? Armor?" The briefest of pauses followed, and he added, "Clothes?"

Raude tilted her head insouciantly. "You would have replaced them. He's gladiator-trained, from the Nokirt-Parthank pit."

"I was ..." the elf started, angrily, and then he stopped. In an almost emotionlessly cold voice, he said "You have discharged your duty, Raude Ka'a Bavabas-Nokirt." he said. "Orc. Step inside, and come with me." A tiny smile creased his face. "Thank you, Raude."

Loss paused, uncertain, but then walked forward through the door. He felt a slight tingle as he passed

"I will ..." Raude started to say, but she was cut off as the three doors hissed shut, much more rapidly than they had opened, and the sound from the corridor was abruptly gone.

Loss looked around the new room, and then realized the elf was staring at him with a slightly puzzled expression. Loss kneeled down to the floor, put his palms just on the outside of his heels, and swung his body back into a fully prostrate position - as was appropriate for an orc meeting his new master, and ... which he should have done immediately.

A silent explosion of eye-watering blue light made Loss glad his head was down, against the cool tiled floor, and he blinked frantically, trying to clear his eyes.

"Well, that was unexpected," the elf said, still with that same calm. "I'm not sure I trust it, but ... hmmm. What is your designation, orc?"

"Loss-831, Master."

"I don't trust it," the elf said, after a moment. "Come this way, please."

Please? Loss wondered as he followed the male down the corridor, left and then into a large, empty room. When did an elf say please to an orc? The elf strode into the center of the room, and pointed to a spot about six feet away. "Stand there."

"Yes, Master."

The elf said something - words without sounds, Loss thought, and the orc felt a wave of something crash through him - he felt oddly stretched, somehow, as waves of something - magic? - washed through him.

That gets one's attention, Blue commented.

What was it? Loss asked silently, but there was no answer.

"There," said the elf. "That should take care of any traps."

"Traps, Master?" Loss asked daringly. He hadn't, after all, been directly addressed.

"Magical traps," the elf said, absently heading back up the stairs. "I didn't find any when I looked, but ... better safe than sorry." He stopped for a moment on the stair, and Loss paused, too, and then he started back up again. "In any case, I've acquired you as a bodyguard."

"Yes, Master."

"What I want you to do," the elf continued, "is stay out of my way. I imagine you have ... training. Or something."

"Yes," Loss said cautiously.

"You can use that room we just left," the elf continued, in the same calm voice. "I rarely need it. You'll accompany me when I leave my suite, of course. You know how to act like a bodyguard?"

"Yes, Master," Loss said. "That was part of my training."

"Good, good," the elf said, pausing before a heavy bronze door. "This leads to the suite. Do not touch the door; it is trapped. Lethally." He pushed on the plain door, and Loss smelled blue, somehow, although a moment later Loss couldn't quite remember what that smelled like, just that it was, somehow, blue. He shook off the lingering sensation and walked through into the room.

Uneven stones paved the room, and the walls looked at first like rough stone, but they were merely carved to resemble it. Heavy white furs were scattered around the room, and a leather-wrapped table stood in the middle of the room. On it was a strangely shaped stone, with four holes running down the center, looking more like three strips of stone woven together than a rock. The holes were all at different angles, offset from each other, and again Loss got a sense of blue from the oddly-shaped stone. Passages opened to the left and the right; shelves holding thin leather boxes - books, he recalled, from some of Blue's borrowed memories. There were no chairs, no benches, nothing to sit on, and Loss looked around perplexed for a moment. The elf simply walked past him, to the left, and Loss followed. These walls, too, were artfully carved to appear like rough stone - and Loss found that very strange. The books turned out to be on clear glass shelves that were set cunningly into the walls, and the walls were lined with them. Something like a chair made out of stiff blue cushions sat on a larger circular rug with a complicated six-sided figure worked in white against a pale blue background. The elf paused for a moment, and then set out through door into a slightly larger room. A large bed fit - barely - into the room, and the elf didn't pause, heading straight into a huge bathing chamber, and from there into some sort of sitting room - chairs lined the walls, and Loss could see the first room they'd entered, off to the left.

"That's the suite," the elf said.

Loss nodded.

"My workrooms are through there," and he waved a hand at the far wall.

Loss nodded again.

"Any questions?"

Loss blinked. That was a strange question. "Where will I stay, Master? Out ..."

"No," the elf said, as if the question was bizarre. "You'll be in here."

"Oh," said Loss. "I can sleep on the floor, that's ..."

The elf just looked at him. "Something's wrong with the bed?"

"Master?" Loss asked, confused.

The elf just shook his head, and went back through the bathing chamber, and then into the bedroom. He gestured at the bed. "The. Bed."

"That's mine?" asked Loss.

"Of course," the elf said. "Your bed, your bathing room, your sitting room, your library, although ... I'll move my books out. They're for show, mostly." The elf just gave Loss a look. "I don't suppose you read."

"No, Master," Loss said.

"My rooms are ..." and the elf paused. "I ..."

Loss just waited.

"Come with me," the elf finally said, going back to the sitting room. At his touch, the wall melted away into a haze - a blue haze, Loss noted - that cleared to reveal a short passage and another door - this one, of blue metal. The elf put his hands against it, said something, and the door shifted open, almost reluctantly. The elf went in, and Loss followed the elf into the hidden room. Loss wasn't surprised at the blue of the room - the floor was tiled with deep blue slate, and the walls with creamy blue ceramic hexagons. The room, though, was larger than it seemed on first impression. A thick blue carpet rested on the floor in front of a small alcove in the wall, which had a featureless ... something. Elf? Half-elf? The figure was too slim to be anything else, but it, too, was formed from the same creamy blue stuff as the tiles. Loss could feel this place, deep in his bones. Whatever tiny, immeasurable spark of Blue that Loss carried with him - there was another bit, here, too. He knew it.

And then the elf said something that shocked him. "Master!"

Master? thought Loss, as a flicker of blue light danced around the room.

"Master, I need to know if I can trust this bodyguard," the elf said, as the light strengthened. The floor was glowing, softly, flickering at the edges of the walls, making it seem almost like Loss was walking not on stone but solid light. "Everything seems right and yet ... Raude brought him. I don't trust her."

Hilarious, Blue said. Beloved, may I borrow your voice?

Yes, Loss said. Master - does he mean You_?_

He does, beloved. I'm afraid Herath has a few trust issues. Not surprising, really. He's miserable, even for an elf. What is surprising is that he knows he's miserable, and ... he's begged Me to help him. Quite unusual, but then, he's quite a bit smarter than most. " You may trust him, Herath Nokirt." Blue's voice boomed out of Loss's mouth, but it wasn't Loss's voice, not even close. It wasn't just words - Loss could feel himself vibrate to the sound of the God. The soft blue light blazed as the God's words echoed in the room, and the elf - Herath - turned to face Loss, with a look of amazement.

"How ..." he started, but Blue cut him off.

" You built Me a shrine in your home; this orc offered Me his heart," the voice said, with that reverbrating intensity that had nothing to do with sound or volume, and everything to do with the touch of a God in the world. " Do you look at him," Blue continued. " Look at My dwelling, and see him for what he is, and not through the fog and confusion of your fears."

I did? Loss thought. I don't remember doing that.

No, Blue admitted. I could not permit you to remember it. Beloved, your desire was a shining light that called to Me. But what I could see, others could, too, and it was not safe for you to blaze with My presence. The only way I could hide was to hide your desire from you.If I had let you see it, let the priestess of Boojum see it, let the devoted of Final Night see it, let Chaggrincrowl's Hand see it ... then it would never have been yours. I had to conceal it, darken your beloved light for a time or watch it be quenched forever.

Oh, thought Loss. I guess that's fine, then.

But now you stand in a place doubly protected by its consecration to Me, and by the occult expertise of My devotee, Harath.

Beloved. Know your own heart again. The God's words were less a suggestion than a command, or a permission of release. Memory bloomed, and for a moment, he was back in the street from where he'd emerged from the training pits. The road, Tangeline walking towards ...

The palanquin. Her palanquin. And ..

He remembered. They'd been standing there, so strong, so beautiful ... he'd wanted that beauty, that strength, that incredible power. He'd wanted it ... more than anything. More his training; more than he wanted to be the best warrior, more than he wanted the approval of his trainers and however briefly the elegant Tangeline, more than he wanted breath ... he wanted to be that beautiful, to be that strong, to have that power, and to see all those things reflected in the eyes around him.

Look, beloved.

And he still wanted it, wanted it that badly. Yes! This was why ...

Look, beloved, Blue repeated. Look.

What was there to look at? Loss looked, though, and saw Harath, staring at him, transfixed. What was he looking at?

You. The word held the God's amusement, like drops of cool water against his skin during a long training.

Why?

See for yourself. Look.

Loss stared at the still-transfixed elf. He was ... attractive, Loss admitted, after a moment, more than handsome - exactly what his trainers had taught was handsome. Perfect black skin taut over lithe muscle, pale blue hair laying in pale streaks across his shoulders, and even in his stunned conditioned, his face had ... something. Loss wasn't sure what, but something he didn't quite understand to ...

To your left, Blue sighed. Look to your left, Beloved.

Startled, Loss did. Right into the midnight blue eyes of a naked orc, who was standing, tensed, head turned toward him, so that he was in profile. Creamy gray-green skin and thick muscle forming hard clefts along the strong arms. Thick, powerful legs - feet splayed out, and as Loss turned to face the orc, the orc turned likewise, rotating towards him, with a look of surprise to match Loss's own. Yes, he thought. This! This orc was at least a match for any other he'd seen, and ... as the orc tilted his head forward towards Loss, Loss moved his own, as well, fearful that this magnificent orc would have the same dull - no, not dull, broken - expression, but the orc's expression was ... curious, not blank, not even the assumed blankness Loss himself had worn for ...

And then he realized. Somehow he was looking at himself.

It is called a mirror_, Beloved,_ Blue said. And it is not quite a perfect image of you, but yes, that is generally what you look like.

Then ... the elf. He's ... he's staring at me?

Yes. You are beautiful, Beloved, and now ... now he sees that. That was his desire.

"And mine," Loss whispered, stunned. The orc moved forward, held a tentative hand out to the elf. Harath closed his hand around Loss's, reverently.

"Blue ..." the elf whispered, the God's name a prayer and a thanks.

Be well, my beloveds, the God said, and somehow, Loss knew they'd both heard that blessing. Take your joy. We will have work, later.