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R for language.  (Always R for language.)  No sex yet, Steve - sorry <g>.  This is the frustration and soap opera chapter.  To embarrass you further, I dedicate this chapter to you.  You may thank me at your leisure. (( )) Equals a change in point of view.  I don't do this often within a section, and I don't do it smoothly.  But it was required here, and I shamelessly don't care if I suck at it, as long as it's understandable. The Waiting/Part 2 Even though the Riders are a nomadic crew and prefer their unashamedly luxurious tents for living in even when not on the road, at this base camp there were a few actual, solid, stone buildings.  The barracks and the enclosed training ground was one such.            Actually, I think it had been built by a different culture altogether and the vulgar bandits who were now my family had liked the look of it, kicked shit out of its rightful owners, and built their base camp around it after stealing it.  There was something about the Greek theatre look of the seating arrangements, the arena aspect of the training area itself, that seemed a bit too civilized for the Riders to have actually designed and built.  Not to mention the baths created from an existing hot springs inside; too damn civilized for the Riders to think of doing, although Lord  knows they took advantage of it now.  After leading me to the building, Do'nar chose to stay outside and guard the door.  Although his face had lost the alarming puce tone it had taken on when I explained my theories about who'd shot Carson, there was a grim and closed look to him now.  I could only honor his desire to be alone for a bit, to think about whom within that group of Riders might be a traitor  an assassin.  Worse, to their way of thinking - to go against your tribal brothers was the ultimate crime, unforgivable.  To try and  kill your High King?  Well, I'd be guessing whoever it was better not be found out if they wanted a full set of toe and fingernails before being boiled in oil. Before I entered, though, he called me back and gave me one more thing to think about, the bastard. "Hawk.  You will place this idea of yours before him, of keeping Irenea and her father within the tribe." "Damn right," I agreed, bracing for an argument. He leaned against the dark stone of the practice building, eyeing me with the look of a man who knows what he has to say next will be unpopular.  "It is a good idea.  Some might consider them weak for being so easily fooled.  Yet in the last two minutes, you have managed to teach me that we of the Tribes are no less easily gulled." I shifted feet uneasily.  "Do'nar - " "No.  I would have blamed you if you did not share your thoughts with me.  And so now I will share with you.  Tell him about Foxmoon's cub - about Jalin." "Say what!" His gaze was steely.  "No, I won't betray you, if you wish to keep it hidden.  But keep in mind, Hawk.  I trained this boy.  He is shy and diffident, he has no warrior skills." I snorted.  "I've seen him with knives, you're cracked.  The kid is beyond good." "No warrior skills," Do'nar repeated flatly.  "But stubbornness?  Unquestionable.  It took him twice as long to master the knives as it would a child half his age.  But he would not give up."  He snorted.  I recognized the disparaging pride of a successful teacher, and had to smile a bit.  "But what I am telling you is, well, harrumph.  Because of his looks, he isn't inexperienced.  Yet before this others always have come to him, and he's yielded.  Not caring overmuch.  A pliant boy.  For him to so blatantly seek you out, caress you where anyone could see, stake his claim in such a way - it is out of his character.  He wants you badly, and he will NOT give up in this battle either.  Even if he must face down the Wolf himself.  He will have you."  A slight grin touched his lips as he processed my probably horrified expression.  "So tell the Wolf, dammit.  This is your betrothal time.  Strange things happen between the twin moons, and no blame for it later.  Yet one thing you do not wish to do in this time is to be dishonest.   And it is an honor to him, for his Chosen to be desired by others."  Do'nar cocked an eyebrow curiously.  "Although I am told that your world is mightily different in these thoughts?" "To say the least," I muttered.  "Oh, Christ.  I just kinda wonder which world Carson's brain is in, right now?" The last part should have been a thought, not grumbled aloud.  Yet I couldn't help feeling kind of, well, grateful for Do'nar's keenly sympathetic glance. All he said, though, was "Tell him."  And then he leaned back against the wall of the barracks with one hand on his axe and schooled his expression to a forbidding scowl. And so I went into the barracks, to find Carson and hope he still wanted me. (("You can cease lurking now," Do'nar said dryly.  "Hunter you may be, but I at least can feel you quivering behind that wall.  Dammit, boy!  Do you think me an idiot, your teacher in arms?" There was a pause, a hesitation it seemed in the very air.  And then Jalin slipped around the corner of the arena, a slim and silent figure in leathers paler than the Rider norm, a creamy grey color almost.  Matching soft boots.  The whole package just emphasizing the frost-colored hair and cool grey eyes.  "Do'nar," he greeted, softly.  His gaze flickered to the door of the building. "As you guess," Do'nar stated dryly, "he is with the Wolf.  You will have to wait to fondle him again, youngling." Jalin shot Do'nar a look both dark and cryptic.  Then he sighed lightly, and brushed a hand through his pale hair.  It was long in back, yet cut in the front to chin length, emphasizing the angelic face.  His gesture laid bare one small ear, pierced with at least five silver and jeweled rings.  "Do'nar," he said in a beseeching tone.  "Tell me of him, all that you know of him.  Please." "I know not overmuch," Do'nar said cautiously, warningly.  He liked this boy.  He did not like the fanatical, blazing look of his eyes.  "My main knowledge of him is that he is the Wolf's Chosen.  And that seems all that I, or you, need to know, youngling." "Do'nar, you do not understand.  I will - " He hesitated, then risked a passionate look up into the forbidding scowl.  "I will die if he refuses me!" Good gods and mercy on us, Do'nar thought.  Was I ever that young?  Yes, I was.  But never faced with a thing like the Wolf's Chosen. "Be at peace, Jalin.  I doubt he will refuse you.  Think of larger things, your naming for one.  And even if he does say you nay - which I indeed doubt - ." Do'nar hesitated, gestured towards the earrings the boy's nervous motion had revealed.  "You still have admirers in the Tribe who will not ignore you." Jalin snorted.  "What do I care, if some old fools find me pleasing?  It is not the same.  Him I want for myself.  Myself, Do'nar!  I have never felt this before."  He looked up at the Rider passionately.  "I would pay him every jewel I had ever earned for an hour with him!" Do'nar juggled his axe uncomfortably.  This is very bad, he thought. "He - he doesn't even know how beautiful he is, Do'nar." "A thing in his favor, to my mind."  Damn, I should be discouraging him from this.  Do'nar gripped his axe distractedly, tried to focus on enemies within the tribe, the gist of what that strange wizard-boy had told him. Instead, he thought of the wizard-boy's looks. Good gods above, he had known they were in for trouble the minute he'd sighted on the Wolf's latest fancy.  Those tip-tilted green eyes shot with sparks of gold, strangely magnified behind the thin lenses of glass he chose to place upon them.  Did he think this peculiar device would hide the color and fire of them, the long sweeping lashes?  It did not.  That those eyes were filled with life and humor, a dozen types of emotion passing through them in as many minutes, only added to their charm.  Darker lashes and brows than his hair, to frame and set off their beauty. Ah, yes. The hair.  Variegated waves of a dozen shades of red, bronze, orange-blond; the very soul of flame.  Looking soft as an angel's kiss, begging for touch, and yet you knew your fingers would burn as you stroked it.  Perhaps worth the risk.  And why did the fool cover that soft expressive mouth with a mustache that would make he, Do'nar, jealous? Add a face hauntingly lovely without being the least innocent.  Pointed, mischievous.  A faun's face, a minor demon.  An exotic and mythical creature.  The few redheads that Do'nar had seen before this had unfortunately freckled complexions.  Of course, not this boy.  Skin like the lightly tan cream one mixed with Blue Death liquor to lighten its potency.  Although the effect in this case was the opposite. And he wouldn't linger on the slim, graceful, yet sweetly muscular body.  Not unless he intended to go off women forever. And to top it off, the bastard had a personality.  An arresting one, not gentle at all, yet intriguing.  Exotic spice.  Dammitall, he was beginning to sound like HE wanted the Wolf's Chosen! And by God, he didn't.  He was not suicidal.  He already knew that anyone attempting to separate the Wolf from this fancy would be courting danger if not outright death.  He was happy, indeed, that the Wolf had finally found the one to keep his deep and terrible loneliness at bay.  But why couldn't his lifemate have come in a plainer package? "I want him," Jalin said, flatly.  "Wolf or no Wolf.  This is the time of Waiting.  He cannot stop me.  Unless - " His eyes fastened on Do'nar, huge grey pools of despair. "Do you think - Do'nar - he actually loves the Nightwolf?"  And he answered himself with all the passion of youth.  "He cannot!  The Wolf is a beast!" Do'nar sighed faintly, and leaned the back of his aching head against the cool wall of the practice building.  He did not intend to debate the matter with this besotted young fool.  He allowed himself, though, to feel sorry for Jalin, whose life had truly been almost as lonely as the Wolf's. Despite his sympathy, it was going to be a long and boring watch for him. Because Jalin dropped to a sitting position against the wall and began to rattle along about all the reasons he would be a better love for that damned wizard than the Wolf could ever hope to be.  By Thor, he was bored already!!)) And so I passed beneath the high stone arch into cool darkness.  I must have gotten too used to living in tents, within heavy fabric walls that nonetheless let some degree of air, of light, flow around and through.  Because going into this building was like entering a crypt.  Even though most of my previous life had been spent within houses, apartments, similar shelters, I felt suddenly claustrophobic.  Even though this was a huge freaking structure, the too-solid walls seemed to crouch above me, close in.  Eyes still dazzled by the sun, clearing a bit now - where is he? Not at sword practice.   No clash of arms here, only cool dark silence - ah ha. Must have already kicked the snot out of the Swordmaster in the time it took me to find him.  Because he was sitting on the lowest of the arena seats, one long leg on either side of the stone bench, calmly polishing the dark blue-shot blade of the bastard sword he wielded.  Quite alone.  Good. I held back in the doorway of the arena, to study him.  To marvel at what I had? No.  What I couldn't have, dammit. Always, in my relationship with Carson, has been the certainty of touch.  Even when he was half a child, flinching away from me because of the brutality learned from the thing that pretended to be his father - even then, we had known.   Felt.  We could hold each other.  Comfort each other. Without that possibility of physical contact, I looked at him as a stranger.  And for probably the first time, saw why everyone feared him. Lean for all that height, beautifully proportioned.  Yet still and all, he was one big, powerful motherfucker and no denying it.  Not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley.  Oh, and he just had to change out of the ceremonial leathers into the lighter hunting leathers, didn't he?  And then leave the top off, displaying that damnably sexy chest.  Tie his hair back into a long loose ponytail.  Be polishing that sword with a bit of cloth, that long heavy sword I'd seen through the tracking spell.  A nasty weapon, the blade chased with silver runes, the edges also gleaming faintly silver-black.  A beautiful and brutal killing tool. Much like the creature that used it with such efficiency. Well - seeing it hack into the shoulder and then right through the breastbone of some gigantic creep who attacked him - that hadn't upset me much.  After all, the guy tried to brain him with a big honking battleaxe and so he deserved to die.  I've learned what life is worth in this reality. Though I can't say I've ever carved halfway through a guy as easily as slicing a sandwich in two, I've killed my share of people myself here.  But always in hot blood, never cold.  What had really stunned me was the casual way he pulled that sword OUT of the guy he killed.  A businesslike gesture, as was the manner in which he snapped the sword lightly to rid it of excess blood.  Which flew in a crimson shower as he twirled like a graceful dancer to take his next attacker right in the throat with the other, lighter sword. A bastard sword is a heavy thing, a pummeling weapon that happens to have an edge.  Most warriors wield it two-handed.  Carse used it one-handed.  A long sword in the left hand, for the faster more subtle work.  He was a magician of death, my Carson. Mine?  Maybe. Christ, but knowing you can't boink your lover does make you think.  Makes you look at him, see him as a splendid but deadly alien.  I was so used to the tattooing on his face - and it was light, more a webbing of darkened silver than some Hell's Angel pictograph - that I hardly noticed it anymore. Now, I'm noticing.  Noticing the tattoos, the grim cold face, the size of him.  Christ. He HAS gone totally native. I mean, despite all the wizard shit, I'm still a loudmouth rocker boy from Berkeley.  Throw me back into that environment, I may get myself some contacts to tone down this green-eyed  thing.  And I'll make sure that my hair always covers my pointy-ass ears.  But I think basically, I'd fit in.  Might even become a local hero - I have PLANS for blasting the ass of the next meter maid who dares to ticket my car. Carson?  No way.  Not in Berkeley, not even if I explained him away as the member of a death rock band who'd gone a little loony with all the sex, drugs, rock and roll.  Maybe the tattoos and the height could be explained away, but his attitude was no longer remotely Californian.  Shit, I didn't know if he could pass as a bad-ass New Yorker, he was so beyond out there.  I could imagine him calmly beheading some guy who happened to tread on his foot in the subway. And then for some reason I finally thought it.  The first time I've admitted to myself that, well, I'm never going home.  Back to Earth. Never. He picked this time to look up, as I was reeling from the shock of it.  Those dark azure eyes nailing me in place with the intensity of their expression.  His face could be withdrawn, remote.  And it was.  Carved in ice, robotic as all hell. But his eyes had rarely lied to me. Only at first, when he thought he had to protect himself.  And they didn't lie now. "Carse," I heard myself choke out, "I'm sorry."  We're stuck here for good, can never go back, you're okay with it -  aren't you? Me too.  If you're with me, I don't care.  Say it Keith, damn you!  Tell him that, you cowardly bastard. "I'm sorry, Sensei," he was giving me in the same breath.  Voice detached and remote, but I wasn't fooled.  Not with those eyes, the way they were touching me.  Stripping me, damn near fucking me.  I relaxed.  Not a stranger anymore.  Thank you, still mine. Had to laugh.  "Okay, we're both sorry.  You first." He studied me, and that harsh mouth seemed to soften.  Wanna see more of that.  Even if I can't taste it. "Your - I mean, the Southern Prince - was not part of the battle.  I could not kill him for you." Oh.  Was that all?  I waved my hand negligently.  "Oh, well.  Didn't really expect him to be at the forefront of the war effort.  Politician type.  Do well in California, probably."  I really didn't know what I was gabbling about.  Prince Golard?  Screw him.  Oh good lord, Carson, look at you.  How the hell can I stand this for two fuckin' weeks? "So.  And now you too were - sorry?"  He'd stopped with the sword polishing.  Stopped with everything except looking at me. It did me in.  I'd forgotten what I'd planned to apologize for anyway.  All I could do was blurt, "I'm sorry I can't just nail you right on that damn bench there." He choked, and actually dropped the sword.  I was obscurely proud of myself as it hit the floor with a ringing clang.  Then his gaze swept back up to me and for a hot second I thought my God, he's gonna go for it and be damned with tradition. Then his eyes changed, frosted over.  He reached down and retrieved the sword, a bit stiffly, as if his body were somehow fighting him.  "You are NOT helping," he said, quietly. "I'm good at that," I admitted, just to see if he would smile or not. He did.  Faintly.  Went back to polishing the stupid sword. I dropped to a seat on the bench.  At least fifteen feet away from him.  Still, that line of fire was between us.  A hard, hot, utterly sexual thing that frankly almost scared me to death. "Carse.  I don't know if I can do this.   I never thought of myself as a slave to my dick - but DAMN." "Keith." "All I can think of is - " "Shhh.  We will survive.  We will do this."  His eyes lifted to my face, stalled there.  "And - beloved.  That you feel this way.   That it is so hard for you.  For us both.  Is one more proof." "One more proof of what?  That we're incredibly horny bastards?" Another faint smile.  "That too. But - " He hesitated, went on.  "Gods are real here.  And luck is not a digit that you roll up with dice.  If we fail in this, things will happen, that will hurt my people."  He drew in a light breath.  "I can only ask you to forgive me, for putting you through this.  I did not ask you to - to be my Bonded before I made you my Betrothed.  I, I, took advantage of you.  I knew what I wanted but I feared your refusal, and tricked you into it, and - " "Shut up." "What?"  God help the boy, he'd had a totally noble speech all prepared and I screwed him up. "I'd say 'shut up and kiss me' but we can't do that right now.  It's okay, dammit.  I was planning to stick around as long as you'll have me.  What, after missing you every day for three fuckin' years you think I'm just gonna bang you a few times and mosey on down the road?  It's just, shit, what's the point of this no touching crap?  It's bogus as all hell!" This time the breath he drew in was the opposite of light.  "It - there is a reason behind it.  To make certain that the two involved are truly serious in wanting to take this step.  It is a heavy one, filled with ceremony and magic.  Another reason I should have asked your will first."  He glanced up at me then down, flushing slightly.  "Among the Riders, sex is most easily come by, and not necessarily tied to love or commitment.  To be Life-bonded, it is different.  It is forever.  A thing one must be sure of.  Thus the waiting, and the, the tradition of, of having others.  To make certain that when you come out the other side, you both will still be sure." I was tapping my foot impatiently by the time he floundered to the end of this speech.  "Well, I don't know about you," I snapped.  "But damned if I need all this folderol to be SURE of it!" His eyes jerked up and pinned me, and he drew a quick, startled breath.  I played back over what I said, how it sounded.  Bit my lip and looked uneasily away from those searching eyes.  Damn, I'd just accidentally sort of said something really mushy, in a roundabout way.  "What I mean is - " I kind of mumbled to my lap.  "That is, Carse, I - " "You don't have to say it."  I risked a glance up at him, and - wow.  That look was on his face again.  The one that better be mine alone.  A combination of wonder and hunger, kinda like a starving knight who's found the Holy Grail and a bacon cheeseburger all in one package.  "In fact at this point," he added, a twist of humor to his mouth, "it perhaps would be safer not to." "Okay," I agreed quietly, and I must admit with a bit of relief.  "Later, then.  After all this crap is over." "I shall hold you to it," he told me gravely.  And damned if he wouldn't, the prick.  But I really didn't care.  Because his eyes were all alight and he was struggling so unsuccessfully not to smile at me and man, if this was the result then maybe romantic dribble wasn't so useless after all.    Of course, though, this reaction of his wasn't exactly "helping" either.   I yanked my gaze from his.  Looked down at the bench - nice cool marble bench, dark stone with swirls of some cool greenish rock.  Cool was the operative word.  Chill, Keith, chill. Burn, my body kept insisting.  Hot as sun, liquid fire, scorching, melting.  I cast frantically around in my mind for something to ice off the now molten part of me that insisted I should answer the promise of his look right here and now and screw any consequences. Oh, yeah.  I'd forgotten I had some things to ask him.  "Uh, Carse?" "Yes?"  Damn, why couldn't he have some nasal squeaky Pee Wee Herman voice?  Not looking at him wasn't helping.  Not with a voice like velvet midnight nailing me right in the groin. "I - uh!  Have a favor to ask you." "Yes." "You, ah, haven't heard it yet.  Don't approve of it until you hear it.  That's stupid." A pause.  Then softly, "All right.  Ask me." "Ah - right.  Irenea and her father.  Want to stay here, join the tribe.  I, ah, told her I'd ask for your okay." The silence was long enough that I looked up at him again.  He was back to polishing his stupid sword, with longer and harder swipes this time, staring at what he was doing as if totally absorbed.  Face back to expressionless mode, except for the slightest gather of a beginning frown between the heavy brows.  Shit. Things didn't look so good here.  I mustered my arguments, such as they were, and waited nervously.  I couldn't believe he would be petty enough to hold their being Southern against them, but it was more than possible that he couldn't forgive the betrayal even if they had been dupes.  Carson tended to be somewhat impatient of fools. But when he finally spoke - icy-voiced, sort of aiming his remark at the blade he was working - my arguments shattered.  And I was left staring at him speechlessly before sputtering "WHAT! The hell!  Did you SAY?" His eyes came up, as cold as his voice.  He repeated himself, flatly.  "Do you ask this because you want the woman?" "Christ on a crumpet!  Are you crazy?  That stuck-up harpy?  Hell, no!  You couldn't pay me enough to - "  Rage flared up, then, to banish the total horror in my immediate response.  "What the fuck kind of question was that to ask me?   In case you've forgotten, I owe her one.  The woman saved my life!"  I leaped to my feet, nearly tripping over the stupid bench since I'd mirrored his position of one leg on either side - a difficult seating to jump up from gracefully.  "Or maybe you just don't give a damn about that!" "Keith!"  He'd leaped up as well, far more adroitly than I since the bastard had way longer legs.  The sword clashed to the floor again.  "You will NOT storm off when I cannot stop you!" "Sounds like the premium time to do it, to me!" I snarled.  But I stopped grudgingly on my furious trek to the doorway.  Pouting a bit, because frankly the thought of leaving him in a temper when he really couldn't physically stop me did kind of seemed like cheating, though damn if I knew why.  Plus, if I left him now, how in hell could I work my way back with any kind of dignity? I wouldn't look at him, though.  He'd insulted me thoroughly.  Stared at my feet, at the soft brushed deerskin boots, interesting rusty color.  Wondered if I could get one of the tribal women who specialized in such things to make me up some fringed knee moccasins? "Hawk?  I'm sorry.  It was a question I should not have asked." Always wanted some knee mocs.  Never could afford 'em.  Of course I hadn't seen any fringe on anybody yet, but maybe I could describe it. "But it was one I needed the answer to, inside myself, for reasons I  I don't understand.  I think I am a great fool, perhaps."  Stubbornly, I didn't turn around, although I'd forgiven him on the instant.  The times when Carson admits he's been an idiot are rare enough to be precious.  "I will do what you ask.  Whatever your reasons, I trust them.  Trust you." Of course now that he didn't want an explanation I got fired up to give him one.  "For your information - " I turned around quickly, and lost the thread of my remarks.  He'd stepped closer to me in his agitation.  Way TOO close. Nearly touching close.  We gaped at each other with drowning eyes, then took a couple of hasty backsteps almost at the same time.  I nearly tripped over another damn bench. That was it.  I groaned dramatically, then shook my head hard and started laughing.  "Carson, we are SO fucked." "The opposite, I would say," he observed dryly, but with a small, rueful smile that did my heart good. "Smartass." His smile grew.  "Prick tease." I had to groan again.  "SO not helping here." "I learn from the best," he responded, softly. "You might want to know Irenea swore she'd never try to seduce me."  Trying to cheer him up further, I guess. "What?"  To my amazement, he actually looked offended at this piece of news.  "How dare she?"  His shook his head in a flare of temper.  "I always knew the woman was an imbecile." "Er - right."  His shifting attitude made no sense at the moment, so I ignored it and forged ahead.  "Well, and I, the reason I wanted to help, Carse, is, dammit!  It's just not right, to send them back South to get killed because they got fucked over.  She's half tribal and a helluva healer.  And Severn's, well, a nice old coot.  Probably still a good warrior.  And - and a musician!" I added the killing argument, inspired.  "I'd have somebody to jam with at last - well, what?" His outraged expression had melted during my spiel into another lopsided smile, and finally an actual chuckle.  "I love you," he said quietly, still laughing. "I - uh.  Where the hell did that come from?" His eyes were steady on me, sparkling like moonlight on deep lake water.  "From who and what you are." I shifted my feet uneasily.  I knew I was blushing.  "Now you're DEFINITELY not helping." "Ah."  He glanced down at his feet, then back up to make eye contact.  We both seemed to be doing a lot of this.  "It should be little problem, to accept Irenea into the tribe," he continued, in a carefully serious tone.  "Half her blood is ours, and as you say she has the healing skills.  And she saved the life of not only the High King's beloved, but a tribal hero." "Oh, c'mon now Carse!" He continued on, ignoring me totally.  "Her father, he may have to prove himself still to be fully accepted, either as a warrior or in other ways.  But it shall be done.  It's but one more ceremony to be added to all the others tonight." We were silent for a moment, studying each other almost shyly.   I reseated myself on the bench.  Carson did the same.  The requisite fifteen feet apart.  Son of a bitch. "There is another thing," he said quietly, after a few moments of silence in which just being in the same room looking at each other almost seemed enough. "Isn't there always." "You will not like it." I sighed in resignation.  "Kinda getting used to that.  Been a whole coupla days fulla THAT." He drew a small sip of breath.  "We cannot share a tent during this time.  It is why  I, I spent the night in the arena.  I knew if I went to you, after being angry, and then regretting it - " Oh, yeah.  Make-up sex.  And if Carson could've resisted, I sure the hell couldn't of. God damn my luck anyway. Well.  It made a kind of sense, whether I liked it or not.  Keep my hands off Carson while sharing digs with him?   Hell, it was all I could do to be in this gigantic bloody auditorium with him and not jump his bones. I couldn't resist being snotty about it, though.  "So I'm not only getting cut off, I'm getting evicted.  This is starting to remind me of home, all right."  The real distress in the look he gave me, though, made me add quickly, "Well, no biggie.  It makes sense.  So what do I do, bunk somewheres else?  As in 'where'?  I'm certainly not impressed with the thought of staying in this drafty-ass arena, not with WWF practice all hours of the day.  And sweaty barbarians skinny-dipping in the baths." He laughed, as I'd hoped.  Then frowned, thinking about it.  "Another tent could be erected - " I grinned.  Couldn't resist.  "Erected.  SO not helping, Warchief." He stared at me uncomprehendingly.  Then groaned and actually buried his face in his hands for a moment.  From the soft sounds he made, I really couldn't tell if he were laughing, crying or simply swearing. Finally, he recovered.  Placed his hands to either side of him on the hard stone seat, staring straight across at me with a carefully controlled expression.  "Another tent could be PREPARED." "Only marginally better, but I'll let it pass." He ignored me with determination.  "Either for you or for me, depending on if you wish to - " "Boot the High King out of his own tent?  Not terribly PC.  Besides," I added hastily as he opened his mouth to tell me how much of a shit he gave for political correctness, "no offense, but that joint of yours is too freakin' big for one person.  If I gotta be alone I'd prefer something smaller." He was silent for a moment, face thoughtful.  "Alone.  Hawk, if you would prefer it, perhaps -   I don't want you lonely.  Perhaps you could stay with Foxmoon?  I know she is fond of you.  And her dwelling, while a bit swarming with family, is a friendly place.  You might be  happier - there." I jumped.  Sixteen shades of guilty painted their way across my face, and he frowned at me curiously. "Ah.  Probably not a good idea, Carse.  To stay with Foxmoon, I mean.  Nope.  Definitely a no-can-do.  Alone is better.  Alone is good!"  I was babbling and I knew it. So did he.  His curious gaze had narrowed to an extremely interested, needle-sharp point.  He didn't say a word, ask a question.  Yet there was no doubt I'd never get away with it. I heaved a big, put-upon sigh.  Looking for sympathy but not too sure of getting any.  "Ah, the thing is, dammit.  One of Fox's kids kinda, well, has the hots for me." He focused on me, eyebrows lifting.  "Really?"  I swear to God, his voice was curious and interested.  Like some old maid hanging over the back fence with her neighbor exchanging gossip.  No trace of the harsh jealousy he been so unable to hide when I mentioned Irenea.  Weird.  "Not her eldest surely.  Windflower is bladesworn; 'twould be impossible." "Windflower?  You're kidding, right?  That big tough battle bunny who eyed me like I was a Third Street prostitute is named Windflower?  And what the hell does 'bladesworn' mean?" "Did she really?"  He started to laugh, and I didn't appreciate it; he noticed and stopped, but still with a curl of mirth somewhere around the corner of his mouth.  "Bladesworn - it is, ah, a tribe within a tribe, almost.  Those who forswear sex, thinking it a weakening thing that drains one of battle-energy." I eyed him suspiciously until I was convinced he was serious and not just bullshitting me.  "Oh, well then; that explains her attitude," I said nastily.  "Idiots like that must always be in a high state of piss-off at the whole freakin' world.  Stands to reason they'd be hellacious warriors." "Truly," he agreed, eyes dancing.  "But if not Windflower, then whom?  All other of Fox's girls are too tied to their own mates to think of - " He paused, and the laughter slowly drained from his face.  "Ah."  "I want you to know," I gabbled hurriedly, "that half your damned tribe seems to be hot for me all of a sudden.  I mean, Fox's kid was the only one who, er, but every third person I looked at was giving me the come-hither eye and what kind of people are these anyway?" "Honest people." "What?" "If they see something they want, they will not pretend they do not want it.  What does 'er' mean?" "I was a damned Southern wizard four days ago.  Seems like a mighty quick turnaround to me.  And what does 'ah' mean if it comes to that?" He gave me an amused, insufferable look.  "The tribe deals in deeds, not words.  You have done much in four days, Firehawk.  You saved the life of the tribal king and warchief.  You have proven your courage by overcoming a fear to do this, no matter it was something as small as riding horseback.  And even better - you screamed at their Warchief like a harpy in full hearing of the clan, delighting and entertaining them even while proving your courage yet again." "What the hell?"  Was he being sarcastic here?  No, he was totally serious. "And they know now you are NOT Southern.  That you are my Chosen, that I wish you for my Bonded.  And you are as beautiful as the very fire of sunset.  I knew they would want you - few of my people are fools."  He laid a slight bite on this comment.  I fleetingly remembered Do'nar's remark: "It is an honor to him, for his Chosen to be desired." This whole culture was nutty as the proverbial fruitcake.  And Carson was right in there among them; hell, he was the boss nutball for Chrissake. "'Er?'" the head pistachio remarked now, softly. "'Ah?'" I shot back at him.  Maybe I could get away with this.  Maybe. "Jalin," he stated calmly.  He stared into my eyes and waited, face totally unreadable. "Er.  Expressed an interest," I admitted.  Hell, I could FEEL how much I was blushing.  Then, as he continued to stare at me with an unchanging expression, I got pissed off and hopped off the bench.   Started pacing.  Elaborated. "Okay!  He got personal. Felt me up.  Grabbed my dick, not to put too fine a point on it.  Suggested a meeting after the show tonight, I guess to see if he felt the same way about it after screwing Smitty.  Gawd, but this world is cracked!" If there's one thing Carson has learned, damn him, it's how to cut through all my loud camouflage bullshit and get to the heart of the matter.  Quietly, he asked, "Do you want him?"  Almost the same question he'd asked about Irenea, but expressed in a far different manner, a far more complex tone. I stopped pacing.  Stared at him, and considered lying.  Decided against it.  "Yeah."  I drew a deep miserable breath,  "Yeah, I think I do.  I mean, I'm so damned horny after all that mana burn I'm considering humping one of your goddamn warhorses.  And you're the person I really want, and WANT to want.  If that makes sense.  But hell, he's a gorgeous kid and I like him and yeah I guess you'd have to say speaking in strictly sexual terms the thought of doing him gives me one hell of a boner.  Is that what you were all about asking?!"  Why the heck was I shouting at him?  Did I want to die?  I was going as kookoo as everyone else in this reality! He didn't react to my sudden violence.  Studied me quite calmly, with a hint of a smile that almost bordered on - pleased. And then asked, very softly, "So.  Would you consider sharing him with me?" Very carefully, I seated myself again, so as to stare at him from a spot closer to the ground.  I mean, if he said any more weird shit that I wasn't ready for, I might just pass out and I didn't want to hurt myself too bad.  That had NOT been the response I had expected my confession to provoke. In fact, I have to admit it, every time I thought I knew him well, he managed to surprise me.  No room for complacency here.  It was like handling a live firecracker that might just turn into dynamite if your attention slipped. "Carson, where did that idea just come from?  I mean, are you serious?  You're the last guy in the world - any world - I'd think would be up for a threesome."  This was a more or less polite way of telling him I knew how psychotically possessive he could be.  Shit, he'd even been jealous of George, my landlord, back in Berkeley.  And George, although admittedly gay and an unrepentant flirt, bore such a mind-numbing resemblance to Danny de Vito he could've been the guy's stunt double.  Can we say "not my type" here? Still, Carse had been jealous of him to the point of frenzy.  If he could've written "Property of C. Ravenstreet!" across my forehead in big block letters and then hand-and-foot cuffed me to his side every time that five foot four inch loudmouth had pounded on my door with some lame excuse, he would've done so.  And even that wouldn't have made him more secure.  The crazy thing was, all George's extra visits weren't really about me; he'd wanted to ogle Carson. His response to my "interest" in Irenea had been more typical than this, this request, suggestion, whatever it was. Share Jalin.  That creamy silken, silver-blond boy.  With him. Almost becoming redundant to say he wasn't helping again.  I mean, I've always been one goddamn liberal bastard, but these tribal ways were beginning to make me feel a bit Republican.  Yet - sharing.  It was a thought.  Shit, who was I kidding?  It was a thought that  grabbed me right in the crotch - as if THAT area needed any more stimulation at all.  Me and Carson couldn't touch, but we could touch someone else between us - "Not a threesome," Carson said softly, in English, the evil prick.  Knew what that accent did to me.  "I have no interest in the boy, pretty though he is."  He drew a quick breath, marshalling arguments he didn't really need.  I was so hard now it fucking HURT.  There was nothing he could do or say to make the pictures churning through my mind any more explicit.  Or sensual.  "I can't touch you directly.  But I could touch him.  As you take him.  The pleasure you give him will be mine also." Wrong again, Keith.  Oh, gawd.  I was about to die here! "Please?" He was going for the "please".  And I couldn't even form a reply just yet, I was too busy trying not to moan at these damn pictures he was putting in my warped, frazzled and horny brain, the bastard.  The hot evil sexy bastard. Mine. "For some reason," I managed to croak out, "I thought you'd be after me to stay celibate for two weeks.  I certainly didn't expect you to be encouraging depravity and, er, whatnot." He glared at me, offended.  "Do you think I wish you to suffer?  In any case, 'tis the tradition.  You will be hounded daily if you choose no one other during this time. And there would also be doubts as to your sanity."  His mouth quirked a trifle.  "And I, I was not so faithful to you.  Before this.  I had not even the excuse of betrothal.  I just gave up the thought of finding you." "Carson, if you're thinking some kind of pay-back type thing here, you don't really need to." "Please do not regale me again with your lack of jealousy," he suggested, but in a dry tone that sounded pretty healthy, neither angry nor upset.  "It does not excuse my lack of - trust."  His eyes glimmered.  "And you have not really said what you think of this idea." Evil prick.  If he had sense enough to eyeball my crotch - and the boy had plenty enough sense to do that every time he had even a remote excuse - he certainly knew damn well what I thought of his "idea."   If he said three more words on the subject, I would probably just come like a hurricane right here on this cold, hard bench and have to be waiting for my pants to dry off before venturing outside again. "I'm, uh, sold," I finally managed faintly.  "I'll just check with Jalin, see what he thinks of, of the concept." Carson stared at me uncomprehendingly.  "Why bother?" "What?" He shrugged indifferently.  "He is a boy of the Riders.  Not even a man yet.  He will do as he is told to do." Shit.  Oh, shit.  I should have KNOWN it wouldn't be this easy.  Not as easy as want, have, gimmee gimmee.  No fucking way that easy.  Not even blatant raw sex could be easy with this crazy fuck! "Uh, Carson," I said carefully.  I didn't want to upset him.  I was getting upset, but that was a different thing entirely.  "Jalin is gonna be named tonight, as I understood it.  He'll be a man of the Riders, as you put it, in less than ten fucking hours."  My subtext was, why are you being such a damn arrogant snot?  As if being a kid in your jackass tribe gives him no rights?  What was this? His eyes locked on mine.  Getting hotter here.  Getting - jealous? "Even better.  As a Rider, he is mine.  I don't think you need to worry about what his choice will be.  He has none." I was beginning to stop worrying about upsetting him.  Oh God, I so didn't want to do this.  Be this.  Feel this.  Dammitall.  Why had I thought I was miserable just because I was a bit horny? "The hell you say," I told him, softly.  "Who made you Hitler?  You're Warchief.  That means you can order his ass around in battle.  Doesn't mean you can tell him who, when and where to screw."  Oh, dammit, I was jumping up again.  Yelling at him.  "I thought we got away from all THAT crap when we left Earth!" He was staring at me.  And the stare turned into that flat, evil look I could've done without for the rest of my life.  The look that meant the fifteen-year-old boy was back, the one who hated everyone, trusted nothing.  Except me, and I'd betrayed him.  "So," he breathed.  "You would prefer him - without me." "I didn't say that, damn you!" "But you meant it." "What I MEANT was exactly what I SAID.  That he deserves to be asked for his opinion first." His eyes were blazing on me now.  Not in the way I liked, not that hot sweet sexy way at all.  This was a fire as cold as a glacier, as dark as a moonless night.  I remembered he had a sword right by his side, and I tensed, pulling fire-mana into me.  It was that close.  The look he was bending on me was that horrible.  I was sure I'd have to protect myself. "You care about him."  His voice was just as awful as his face. And I finally had a clue as to where his possessiveness came from. If it was just sex - cool.  He could live with that.  He'd even asked to share it. But if I showed even a glimmer of friendship, of affection, of  caring - for someone else - Oh, Carse.  How the hell can you believe you can be replaced?  How the hell can you think so little of yourself even now, with all that bloody arrogance? Arrogance isn't the same as self-esteem.  Never has been, never will be. I couldn't gather up all the thoughts roaring through my brain into anything useful before he was storming out past me.  In just the damn way he'd forbidden me to do. "Carson, wait!" "Fuck you!" he snarled.  "Do as you like, as you were born to do, slut and whore that you are, and be damned to you!" And then he was gone and I was reeling from the shock of it, of what he'd called me and wondering dazedly if he really meant it.  And if it was really true. Then, I shook myself hard, jumped up, and went after him.  I wasn't gonna wonder if he'd meant what he said or not.  Already knew he could be a cruel bastard when in a rage.  The main thing was to catch him, stop him, let him know how much I cared about him before he had a chance to escape. Believe it or not, I've learned a bit about grace and movement and how to fall when you can't avoid being knocked on your ass by a big tough monster.  I could see in the dark, and in general I'm not particularly clumsy.  So I don't know how the fuck I managed to step on the sword that Carson had thrown to the floor when he took off in fury.  Even more do I not know why I totally lost my footing on the damn thing, fell hard like a total geezer, and managed to crash into one of those damned benches that surely had been following me around waiting for this to happen. I hit the corner of that stupid bench face-first.  You know the stars they put over the heads of cartoon characters when they get smacked with a blow that would kill a real person?  Oh boy, are those stars intense.  I don't know if I lay there clinging to that bench for five seconds or five minutes.  I know I was muttering "Oh you fuck you fuck you stupid clumsy fuck!" over and over again as the blinding pain gradually dulled to an ache and I actually knew who I was talking to.  Oh.  That would be myself.  Myself would be - McIntyre.  And McIntyre had been busy doing what?  Before he tried to mingle his brains with a solid piece of marble? Carson. I staggered up and went for the door.  I could feel my face swelling up, was gonna have one bastard of a black eye until the healing stuff that followed me around kicked in.  I'd bashed my lip too; I could taste blood just pouring out of the split.  None of it mattered.  Had to catch him - there. For some reason, he'd paused at the door to the arena.  I could see his silhouette there, tall and solid, backlit against the bright summer sun.  I'd forgotten all about the no touching crap.  I was going for it, I was going for the monster hug, the repentant kiss, all of it.  Nothing mattered except making up, getting him back, letting him know how much I cared about him. I guess he felt me, or maybe heard me, coming up behind him like a blundering whirlwind.  With a startled gasp, he dodged me.  Saving the luck of the Tribe, no doubt, but pushing our relationship into another realm of being. Because I staggered out the door into the bright sunlight, first focusing on Do'nar.  He was leaning against the practice building, and his expression was one of total boredom.  When he first spotted me, he glared as if it was, well, my fault he was bored. Then his look changed.  "Gods above and below, wizard, who smacked you upside the head?" he boomed, pushing away from the wall to, I guess, offer me his support. I was swaying, a little blinded.  And then I noticed who else was there.  Who was leaping from the side of the building, knives in hand.  Hissing. "Bastard!  Don't you dare TOUCH him!" As he got between Carson and me.  Damn fool, to get between Carson and me. Carson's eyes were on me, startled and, yes, apologetic.  He'd stepped from the practice arena, and I think if Jalin hadn't been crouched in front of me, knives at the ready, snarling at him in cold fury, he would've come up to me and said sorry and it would've all been okay.  He was staring at my face in mild horror, mouth opening to ask me what the hell had happened - "You bastard!  If you touch him again I'll - I'll kill you!  How dare you hurt him!" What?  Huh?  Jesus Christ!  I tried to push past Jalin towards Carson, who was now staring at both of us.  But I still wasn't tracking too well, was still feeling a little nauseous.  And the kid was quicker than me at this point.  He caught one arm around my waist, holding me as he threatened Carson with the knife in his other hand.  "Jalin, shit, I hit my head on a bench fer Chrissake!" Jalin glanced at me, grey eyes softening a bit from the bitter ice they had become.  "Firehawk.  You don't need to protect this vicious bastard.  He's already abandoned his claim to you.  King or no, there isn't an excuse for this."