Sultan Azhar Nurani, the Light of Namar?n, Protector of the Eastern wastes, the Crown of Baradon, bustled down the long, dark hallway, almost, but not quite, running.

  His form was not naturally made for bustling; he was suited for lounging, or engaging in a rolling amble. But right now all his focus, all his thought, and all his effort was bent to a single purpose. He rushed down the halls of the great temple of Baradon, aimed at a single intent.

  Two of the temple acolytes followed, calling out to him.

  "Please, honorable Sultan! You must not enter the temple now!" one of them cried. They reached out to him, but did not dare to so much as brush his garment. Even in the best of times, it was forbidden, and now the Sultan's normally sunny face was stormy. It was the face of a man determined to burn the world to a cinder.

  The Sultan ignored the acolytes and swept down the hall, ignoring the long, meticulously carved bas-relief murals on the walls to either side. He passed story after story of catastrophe, evil, and destruction, all his focus on his destination.

  He arrived at a heavy wooden door. He hammered it with his fist hard enough to rattle it in its frame. The acolytes caught up to him, but stood by, uncertain what to do.

  "Where is my daughter?" he yelled raggedly. He hammered the door some more, making the thick wood flex. "Bring me my daughter!"

  The door opened and Zamiran the priest stepped out. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes haggard.

  "Batavayzu, darozer eh Shah," the priest intoned, bowing. He glanced at the acolytes and dismissed them with a wave. They happily withdrew, leaving Zamiran to deal with the Sultan.

  The Sultan laid hands on the priest.

  "Where is she? Where is Fortney?"

  "Please, your majesty, she is within, but we--"

  "Then let me see her!" He pushed Zamiran aside.

  The priest risked his very life by putting himself back between the Sultan and the door. He bowed low.

  "Please, most honorable Sultan, you--you would not want to see her right now."

  "It is my right!" he cried. His voice was hoarse, raw, on the outermost edge of control.

  The priest bowed lower.

  "We are doing everything we can, your majesty. Every priest, Power and reagent in the temple is bent to this one purpose, to save the life of the Shazedah."

  The Sultan's face crumpled.

  "I have to see her," he said, his voice uneven.

  "We are healing her with all we have, Light of Namar?n," he said. "But the rituals are delicate, balanced." He bowed reflexively. "Your presence could disrupt our efforts."

  The Sultan sagged, his joints as loose as a dead man's.

  "Does she yet live? Will she live?"

  "She lives for now. If she will live--I am sorry, your majesty, it is unclear. She has been poisoned and grieviously wounded. Every one of us will accept execution if we fail. But please, your majesty, I must return to the rituals."

  "No," the Sultan said, his voice warbling on the edge of tears. "No. If you fail, you will all live, live with the shame and dishonor of what you have done."

  From within the room came a long shriek of pain. The sound of his daughter's suffering broke something within the Sultan. The agony was more than his spirit could bear. He crumbled.

  Zamiran preemptively put his hands on the Sultan's shoulders to hold him back, but Sultan stared slackly at the wooden door.

  "Please, your majesty," Zamiran said. "We will accept any punishment. But I must return to help with the healing."

  The Sultan's mouth locked open. He wanted to--he had to see his daughter while she yet lived. But his presence might cost him his most precious treasure under the sun and all the starry sky.

  His heart tore within him.

  "Save her," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Please--anything--all my kingdom--please save my daughter."

  Zamiran bowed deeply and silently darted back through the door.

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  The Sultan backed up slowly until he bumped into the wall on the other side of the hall. He slid down onto his rump, sliding across the bas-relief.

  The image of the Catastrophe of the Fallen Star towered over him, with crowds fleeing the choking gas and three years of winter starving and freezing them. The long hallway was dark and quiet, pierced only occasionally by the muffled cry of pain from within.

  "My daughter, my daughter!" he said. He put his face in his knees and sobbed unreservedly. "My daughter, my daughter!"

  Elsewhere in the temple, Kadir writhed on a table. His flesh was as hot as a brick oven. Four of the sanat-magi surrounded him, one holding each limb to keep him from thrashing in his delirium. One priest had already had his arm broken, and was elsewhere, waiting to be tended.

  "Hakim!" Kadir cried, his eyes open yet unseeing. "Take your men around the east flank! Tear into these Damasarian dogs!" Foamy spittle flew from his mouth. "I'll handle these here! Darvash, pull back! Darvash! It's a trap! Darvash!"

  "Honorable Kadir, please!" cried the Healer. "You do yourself graver injury! Calm yourself! We must treat the poison!"

  "I'll bathe in the blood of Damasar!" he howled. "These are no soldiers! They are flies that gather and feed on fetor, like their mothers! They're spawned of the midden! Give me my saber, give me my spear!"

  "Honorable Kadir, please!" The priests struggled to hold him as he tried to fight long-ago battles.

  Another priest rushed into the room.

  "He's here!"

  He was followed by an old, old man.

  "This is foolishness," said another priest.

  "What else can we do?" He nodded at the the bright red stain covering Kadir's midsection. "Even now, he may be beyond saving!" He turned to the old man. "Al-Thabit, please, help us."

  The old man shuffled up to the thrashing Kadir.

  "Warrior!" the old man barked. His voice was thin and weak, but carried the unmistakable ring of authority.

  The word pierced the fog of delirium swirling in Kadir's mind. For the first time that afternoon, he stilled. His eyes still stared unseeing up into the darkness. Waves of heat rolled off of him.

  "My commander," he said. "Mo'abbi."

  "Are you prepared to hold your line?" the old man asked.

  "With all I have, mo'abbi!"

  The old man stepped closer.

  "What is the first enemy we must defeat?"

  "The first enemy is self, mo'abbi!" he cried.

  "Yes. Defeat self, and no other enemy can defeat you. And yet, your self is winning."

  "Help me, mo'abbi!" Kadir cried.

  "Warrior, you are wounded. A broken spear strikes no enemy."

  Tears poured from Kadir's eyes.

  "I am broken. I am broken!"

  "What is a wounded soldier's duty?"

  Kadir's muscles slowly unwound as the old warrior's words sank into him. The priests that had been holding him down were finally able to release his limbs. They stretched their sore muscles and hurried to fetch reagents and healing supplies.

  "A wounded soldier's duty is to heal," Kadir said. "To recover. To return to the field."

  "Then why do you not let the priests heal you?"

  "Forgive me, mo'abbi," Kadir said, his lucidity slowly returning. "Forgive me!"

  "Let the priests heal you," Al-Thabit said. He smiled thinly. "And report yourself for discipline once you are well."

  "I will, mo'abbi!"

  The priests bustled around the still form of the warrior. One of them bowed to the elderly soldier.

  "We thank you, Al-Thabit."

  His old eyes rested on the recumbent form of his former pupil.

  "Heal, Kadir," he said slowly. "I have already outlived more of my warriors than ever I wanted."

  "Sultan. Sultan?"

  The Sultan twitched, starting awake. He blinked, trying to remember where he was, why he was sleeping on cold stone. Memory rushed in, washing away the all-too-brief mercy of slumber. He surged to his feet.

  "My daughter!" he cried.

  "You may come see her, my Sultan," Zamiran said, bowing low.

  "Does she live?"

  "She lives, your majesty. But she is greviously wounded. She sleeps."

  The Sultan bustled after the pale priest.

  "I would ask you not to wake her, majesty," Zamiran said as they entered. "As we say, 'sleep is the healer that never sleeps.'"

  "Will she live? Tell me if my daughter will live."

  Zamiran quieted, filling the air with an ominous silence. It was all the Sultan could do to keep from screaming at the man, from striking him, from demanding an immediate answer.

  "We do not know, your majesty," Zamiran said finally. "We have used every Power, every scrap of wisdon the sanat-magi possess, to help her. It may be that she has the will to live." He paused thoughtfully. "It may be."

  They walked into the chamber. Many fine oil lamps burned straight and true, filling the room with their warm light. The scattered instruments and reagents of the healing priests lay on a circle of tables. In the center was a bed, a heavy wooden frame, criss-crossed with leather straps, holding a mattress of kapok fibers.

  Nestled in the mattress was Fortney. Even in sleep, her face was contorted with pain. A ghastly bruise covered one side of her face, and both eyes were blacked. All her fine silks were stiff with blood, and the mattress beneath her was soaked with more blood than it seemed one human could hold. Her right arm and shoulder were tightly bound with fine linen bandages. Her left arm was also bandaged, but the arm ended below the elbow.

  Her breathing was ragged, thin, and her eyes moved and twitched rapidly beneath their lids.

  The Sultan stepped forward, trembling.

  "What have they done to you?"

  His heart broke as he took in the scope of devastation. Of all that he had imagined, the ruination of her body was worse. For all her strength and power, she looked so vulnerable as she lay in this room deep in the temple of the sanat-magi.

  "My precious daughter," the Sultan croaked, his voice cracking. He sank to his knees next to the bed, his eyes flowing freely. "My beautiful flower. My heart." He reached out toward her mottled face, but did not lay a hand on her. "My Fortney." He gripped the side of the bed and bowed his head. "What have I done?"

  He sobbed quietly for a time.

  "The star has fallen," he said finally, his voice leaden. "The priests spoke true." He shook his head, his body heaving with trapped sobs. "The viper has struck, and the pain is beyond what I can bear!"

  He gently took her hand.

  "My Fortney, my strong babr-e mādeh," he said softly. "You have done so much, and you have made me so proud. But I am a greedy old man, and I will ask yet more of you." His voice cracked and wavered, thick with tears. "Please, please my daughter, please live. Fight for life. Come back to me. I beg you, with all that I have, with all that I am. Only come back to me."

  Gently, so gently that he could not even be completely sure that he felt it, her hand squeezed his. The tiny squeeze overflowed his heart with more hope than he knew it could possess.

  "I will protect you, jewel of my heart," he said quietly. "I will."