---------------------------------------- The Quartz Key Chapter Seventy-Two by Lianne Burwell March 2004 ---------------------------------------- Nemir woke to a heavy weight on his chest and the sun bright in his eyes. He could hear the sounds of battle all around and wondered if his father's killers had found them. Except his father had been murdered at night. Many nights ago, he thought, although strangely he could not remember how many nights. He vaguely remembered travel. Travel and loss and rage. And yet, it was all covered in a haze that he had difficulty penetrating. "Nemir! How badly are you hurt?" Nemir blinked up at his friend. "Dansen?" he said, his voice cracking. He felt parched, as if he'd been lost in the desert for days. "What happened to me?" He tried to move, but the weight was still there, as was the confusion. He wanted to remember, but he felt an unreasoning fear of those memories. You were betrayed. Why do you lie there? Are you not a warrior? "What do you remember?" Nemir was confused. There had been two distinct responses. As well, Dansen's expression was difficult to read. "I don't know," he said to both the voices. Markus was there as well, carrying a large sword with fresh blood on the blade. He set the blade on the ground and lifted the weight from Nemir. It had been Judas lying across him, he realized. A silent, still Judas. "Is he...?" He hesitated, not wanting to voice his fears. If we are fortunate, the silent voice snarled. "No, but he may be soon if we do not get to safety," Dansen said to Nemir's relief. "Can you stand?" Nemir took the offered hand and found to his surprise that he could. He looked around and discovered that they seemed to be in the middle of a battlefield. For as far as the eye could see, men were fighting and dying. Why, he had little idea. For us! Nemir shook his head, trying to ignore the strange voice speaking in his ear alone. Markus had reclaimed his sword, not bothered by the weight of the unconscious man in his arms. Dansen had picked up two unfamiliar swords from the ground as well, and was looking for a way for them to leave the field without being killed. It was looking to the south and east that he saw something very out of place in a battlefield: Two women. One was dead, lying on the ground in a pool of blood. She looked familiar, and after a moment he remembered her name. Nahanna. The name came with a flash of rage. She had stolen something from, he knew. Something very precious. The sight of her body inspired a feeling of satisfaction in him. The other woman, however, was very much alive. Her skirts were of midnight blue, embroidered with silver thread, and reminded him of the night sky. Her overdress was of the palest gray, like the moon. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid that fell down her back to her knees. The blood and gore that surrounded her seemed unable to even touch her. She nodded to Nemir, then turned and walked away. Don't follow! She will betray you. Stay and fight like a man. The voice was full of fury, but Nemir ignored it. There was something about this woman. Something about her pale eyes. They reminded him of Judas, and he felt the urge to trust her. "This way," he said, and stumbled after her. Both Markus and Dansen looked dubious, but they followed. Step by step they moved through the battle. Neither army seemed to have any direction that Nemir could see. They simply fought. And died. But in the midst of the chaos and confusion, no one seemed to notice the small party moving among them. From time to time they had to duck or block the wild swing of a sword, but no one from either army attacked them deliberately. The sun was setting and the moon just starting to rise as they reached the edge of the battlefield. In the distance the mountains stretched the full length of the horizon, and Nemir wondered if the strange woman intended for them to walk all the way to those distant peaks. Or even beyond. But she stopped just beyond the edge of the battle and was waiting for them. Nemir, stopped, grateful for the rest. He could not remember feeling so exhausted. His shoulder, especially, ached deeply, all the way down to the bone. As Markus and Dansen caught up with them, he started to unbuckle the gilded armor he was wearing but did not recognize. The straps that went over the left shoulder looked as though it had been cut through, and both it and the tunic underneath were stained with blood. And yet, despite the ache, the skin underneath was unbroken, without a mark. "What now?" Markus asked, carefully laying Judas down on the ground. Both he and Dansen had deep lines of fatigue and sun-darkened skin that was at odds with what Nemir remembered. As for Judas, he was dressed in the robes of the southern clans, which made no sense. And though those robes were liberally splattered with blood, the only wound Nemir could find on him was a shallow slice in his side that looked to already be half-healed. But he did not move and did not wake. "I don't know," Nemir admitted. He remembered traveling east after his father's death, but could not understand how they had gone from that to being far to the south. Still, some flashes of memory were returning. He remembered the winter in a valley. He remembered the decision to travel to the trade towns. Beyond that, nothing. Nemir brushed the hair back from Judas's face and marveled. Even though he was lying in direct sunlight, the skin was only lightly burned. Nothing like the time Judas had had demonstrated his weakness by thrusting his hand into a beam of light. "What happened?" he asked, so many questions held in the two worlds. He turned to the mysterious woman. "We were fleeing the God-King's soldiers..." Dansen glanced at Markus, then back towards the battlefield. "Nemir..." There was a slight hesitation, and Nemir turned to the man. "You *were* the God-King." Nemir shook his head. That made no sense. "The God-King has been around for centuries. Long before I was born," he said, stroking Judas's shoulder. Dansen shrugged. "That is true. But after Nahanna and the clansmen took Judas, we rode south after them until we were stopped by the God-King's personal guard. They took us to the capital. There, you disappeared into the temple, and a time later, a man was carried out, dead with a knife through his heart. After that, we saw you rarely, and only from a distance, while everyone hailed you as the God- King." He paused, glancing to Markus. "The armies were raised, and you led them south to this place. This is the second battle of the war, but the first time that we have seen you act as Nemir of Ajantha, not the God-King." Nemir shook his head again. He could not bring himself to call Dansen a liar, but it seemed so ludicrous. And yet, it also seemed familiar. "How can this be?" he whispered, turning to the woman. He was not sure why, but he was certain that she could answer all his questions. "Interfering bitch! He is *mine*." The sun's glow suddenly intensified, and a brightly shining man was standing next to the woman, although neither Dansen nor Markus reacted to the appearance. His handsome face was twisted into an expression of almost feral rage. Instinctively, Nemir reached for his sword to protect her, but it was not within reach, and Nemir could not bring himself to release Judas to look for it. But the woman did not seem concerned. She reached out to the man, but he flinched away. "They are ours," she said softly, "and they are supposed to be together. Like us." "I do not need you, and my avatar needs no one!" Nemir recognized the voice now. It was the one that had been speaking in his ear when he had first woke, and it seemed that he could remember hearing it in the past as well. The woman's expression was so sad that Nemir wanted to comfort her. "Sun and moon, night and day, north and south. We are forever linked, no matter how you resist." She held out her hand. "We are so much less when we are alone." The sun god -- for what else could he be? -- struck her hand away. "I do not need you," he repeated. "You are soft and weak. Look at what I have accomplished without you," he said, sweeping his hand to the north. The goddess's eyes turned to Nemir. "Death and pain," she said, looking past them to the field where the battle still raged. "But your avatar will chose for himself. Once the power has been granted, it cannot be taken back. Those are the laws." The god smiled. "He will make the right choice. The God- King brings peace and stability. Without him, everything will fall into petty squabbling, city against city. He will not turn his back on them." "And Judas?" the goddess asked. The glance towards the man still cradled in Nemir's arms was cool and dismissive. "Your avatar is dying. We do not need him." "No," Nemir whispered, clutching Judas even closer to his chest. The goddess moved to stand over him. "He made his choice. To save your life, he gave all that he is. But now you must make your own choice: Power or lover, control or balance, the kingdom or Judas." "You were meant to be king," the god hissed. "It was why I called you to me. Take the throne and crush all that stand in your way. The god's eyes glowed an intense blue, like the heart of a flame, and it seemed to Nemir that his words had merit. After all, he had been raised to rule. Was ruling a kingdom so different than ruling a city? His father... But his father was dead at the orders of the God-King, and, it seemed, the God. And now Judas was dying as well. He would lose all that he cared for and gain what in return? "Power," the god whispered in his ear. "The fate of cities hanging on your word. You would be able to direct the kingdom in the direction *you* want it to go. Without you it will descend into chaos." Again he was tempted. Truly, before the God-King cities had fought over thin strips of land, while the tribes raided at will. The coming of the God-King had brought order to the lands under his rule. But he would be alone. "The God-King needs no one. There would be no shortage of willing bodies to slake your lusts on. But to share your power? That is folly." Lusts, yes, but he could remember evenings spent sitting with Judas, discussing the day's lessons. Going through his thoughts and receiving considered advice in return. Judas had never pressed his own views on Judas, but that advice had been invaluable in helping him put his own thoughts into words and actions. "You did not want him. You were furious at your father for forcing him on you." Perhaps. And yet, in the end he had come to realize how right his father had been. Once he had opened himself up, Judas had become as necessary to him as breathing. And in the end, there could only be one choice. "I chose Judas." END CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO