A nightmare for some, for others a saviour I come, my hands cold and bleak, it's the warm hearts they seek. What am I? (Answer: death.) -- Unknown

In the end it was the crypt that gave Abihira an idea. Why should she go looking for corpses when she could find them by the dozen in graveyards?

Immortals were not truly immortal. They got their name through a series of misunderstandings, bad translations, and outright lies. They lived far longer than the mortals they encountered on other planets. But they could die. They could be killed. Every city, town and village had its own graveyard. Every building's foundation was laid among the dust of long-dead immortals. Dig deep enough in the ground beneath her feet and she knew she would find the bone fragments of forgotten people who had once thought they could never die.

Maybe one day I'll be able to bring them back, Abihira thought, idly scuffing the ground with her foot.

Irímé was supposed to arrive this afternoon. He was going to stay for the festival, Grandmother would make the formal announcement of the upcoming wedding afterwards, and then he would go home until shortly before the actual wedding. Abihira's parents were running around like headless chickens, making last-minute preparations and getting in each other's way. The chaos quickly got too much for her, so she brought some of her books -- the "harmless" ones, with no mention of necromancy -- out to the garden. Now she sat in one of the swings her oldest sister had built years ago, with a book open in her lap and her thoughts miles away.

At some point she would have to have a serious conversation with Irímé. Partly about the necromancy. She had no intentions of giving that up for anyone. But also about her feelings towards him. Or lack thereof.

She knew perfectly well that Irímé didn't love her any more than she loved him. He was only a friend, and not even her best friend. Perhaps he knew her feelings already. She had never made any attempt to hide her lack of romantic interest. Even so, it was only fair to tell him the truth now. It would be horribly awkward and embarrassing, but it would save so much trouble later.

For all she knew he might very well be the same as her. Never in their long acquaintance had he showed any hint of attraction to her or any other woman. Or to any man, for that matter.

The book slipped out of her hands and landed on the grass with a dull thump. The sound brought her thoughts back to reality and out of the rabbit trails they'd run down. For a minute she couldn't even remember what she'd been thinking of earlier.

Oh yes. Graveyards.

If it wasn't for that dratted festival she would have found no difficulty in leaving the palace for as long as she wanted to. Perhaps her parents would have insisted she take a maid or two with her. Even that wasn't certain; she was far enough down the line of succession that no assassin or kidnapper would find her a worthwhile target. And her years in Seroyawa had ensured most people didn't know what she looked like, probably didn't know she was back in Eldrin, and in any case they didn't particularly care.

But now her parents wouldn't leave her alone for an hour at a time. Unless they sent her off to visit her motley assortment of nearby relatives, every day was an eternal succession of, "Abihira! What do you think of this dress?" or "We have to plan the menu!" or something equally exasperating. Sometimes they even telepathically asked her questions while she was trying to have a conversation with whoever she was visiting.

If this was a real marriage, Abihira would have asked Irímé to elope with her by now.

Right on cue her mother's voice telepathically filled her head. Abihira! Come and have a look at wedding jewellery.

Abihira got up with a grimace. At this rate she'd need to run away to the mountains to get any peace.

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Trains and airships were a relatively new innovation. Which meant they'd existed for almost eighty years but most people still viewed them as unreliable. From a logical standpoint it was perfectly understandable; everyone except small children had been alive before they were invented.

Understandable or not, Irímé still thought those people were fools.

Of course that might be because his mother was one of them. All his life Irímé had heard about filial piety and respecting his elders. They were fine ideas in theory. They just were incredibly hard to put into practice. Especially when his mother insisted on dragging a collection of charms around with her.

What use would a few bits of rock be against a train accident? he thought, watching her place the charms around her chair.

"Here," Kumolnea said. She handed him several pieces of polished and painted stone. "Keep those with you all the time."

Irímé eyed them with distaste. They couldn't be more obviously just ordinary stone that a charlatan sold as "magic". The paint was flaking off most of them.

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Attempting to point this out would have started an argument, and he would rather avoid the inevitable unpleasantness that would bring. He took the rocks without a murmur and dropped them into his mother's suitcase when she wasn't looking.

Half-way through the train journey Kumolnea spotted an old acquaintance and wandered off to speak to her. Irímé waited until he was sure she'd leave him alone for a while. Then he took his notebook and pencil out of his pocket and began making notes for the next chapter of his novel.

His writing was the only thing he had that was something only he knew about. Well, Abihira knew. It was hard to keep her from finding out when he once accidentally sent her a partially-completed chapter instead of a letter. She had sent it back with a list of comments, not all of them quite to his liking, and they never mentioned it again. His family knew he wrote "scribbles". None of them cared enough to question him about it.

If he had the courage he would have sent his stories to one of the monthly serials. But the dread of their hard work being rejected -- or worse, published and mocked -- made cowards of all but the bravest writers. Irímé's writing was just a hobby. It could never be anything more.

He read over his summary of the last few chapters, only just stopped himself making a few important changes to them, and began work on the next one. For the rest of the journey he was happily occupied by the trials and tribulations of his unfortunate heroes.

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"So, Prince Ilaran is visiting again? Can't imagine why he bothers wasting his time here when he can find a larger audience for his spite in the Silver Palace. I'll tell the servants to bring over a dust-pan and broom. They'll need them to clear away the remains of shattered reputations when he's said his piece."

Haliran's tone was as mocking as usual, with even more barely-veiled cruelty than normal. Siarvin ignored her and continued brushing his hair. Shizuki had been brushing it for him before his wife decided to pay one of her infrequent visits. He had slipped away as soon as she was announced. For reasons they all knew only too well, it was best if Shizuki was never in the same room as Haliran.

She paced to and fro across Siarvin's bedroom. At least she wasn't angry enough to start destroying his belongings yet. He watched her every move in his mirror, relieved to note she hadn't brought her sword with her this time.

"Why does he keep coming here?" she demanded, turning to glare at Siarvin. "What are you telling him?"

Siarvin separated his hair into strands and began to braid it. "Stories about his mother, mostly. He has far too few memories of her."

The mention of Princess Aderthril stopped Haliran in her tracks. For the briefest of moments she looked genuinely regretful. Perhaps she was. Siarvin had once thought he was a good judge of character, but Haliran had fooled him too many times for him to believe anything she said or did.

The man he had been before would have tried to order her out by now. The man he had become knew her too well and was just too tired to try. It was easier to accept things as they were. Fighting would only hurt him.

"He tells me about Tananerl," he continued, tying his braid with a grey ribbon. "It's changed a great deal."

For a minute it looked like Haliran was about to say something more. Siarvin held her gaze through the mirror, silently daring her to object. His life was nothing but an endless procession of putting up with things. But even he had his limits. Heaven help her if she tried to cut him off from the one remaining relative who gave a damn about him.

Centuries of marriage had at least taught Haliran when to back down. She muttered something and turned to leave.

Shizuki's head popped around the doorframe as soon as the front door closed behind her. "Please let me poison her."

Siarvin smiled and shook his head at the familiar plea. He was never quite sure if Shizuki was joking. Deep in his heart of hearts he hoped he wasn't. "Now, now. She is your birth mother, after all. No one likes matricide."

His step-son pouted. It was a childish gesture so utterly out of place on the face of someone who was half snake spirit, with the unblinking yellow eyes to prove it.

"Announcing Prince Ilaran!" a guard shouted outside.

Siarvin got up and walked into the main room. Shizuki turned into his snake form and slithered after him. He coiled around one of the room's pillars and watched silently.

"Let him in," Siarvin called to the guard.

The door opened and Ilaran walked in. He hesitated mid-step at the sight of a large green snake staring at him. He recovered more quickly than most people did, and bowed as if nothing had happened.

"Hello, uncle," he said. He paused, then bowed again to the snake. "Hello, Lord[1] Shizuki. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

He sounded almost sincere. Siarvin and Shizuki exchanged a look. Most people reacted to Shizuki's snake form by running away. Even the ones who stayed couldn't hide their discomfort.

The snake slithered down the pillar and turned back into Shizuki's immortal form. This was the moment when almost everyone would look away in disgust. Siarvin watched Ilaran's reaction carefully. Apart from the faintest shiver, he showed no revulsion at Shizuki's eyes, or the way the light shining on his skin gave the slightest hint of scales, or his unnaturally smooth movements.

Shizuki and Ilaran stared at each other for a long time. At last Shizuki smiled -- an awkward smile, since he consciously tried not to reveal his fangs and forked tongue.

"I like you," he announced with the air of one revealing a great secret.

Potential crisis averted, Siarvin thought with relief. "Sit down, both of you. Have some tea."

Ilaran sat down in the chair opposite Siarvin. Shizuki sat cross-legged on the floor beside him. He watched every move Ilaran made with an intensity that would have been thoroughly alarming to people not used to him.

"No matter what you say, I'm going to make sure Haliran suffers," Ilaran began with all the tact and subtlety of a shaberos[2] in a well-stocked larder. He didn't even wait for Siarvin to hand him his tea. "If you want I'll try to keep Shizuki out of it. I assume that's why you introduced me to him now?"

Shizuki shook his head. He continued to stare at Ilaran like a cat watching a mouse. "I wanted to meet you. And I want everyone to know her sins. I want her to bleed."

"I've heard something more," Siarvin said quickly, before they could get into dangerous territory. There were many secrets in this house that he didn't want to reveal just yet. Shizuki's origins were among them. "Have you heard of Princess Abihira?"

"Which one?" Ilaran asked.

"Princess Hartanna's daughter."

Ilaran thought for a minute. "The one who tried to break into the forbidden archives and got arrested?"

"That's her." No one who had heard about that momentous occasion would ever forget it. "Haliran's got the idea she's a mage. I don't know if it's true. But if you have a chance, find her and warn her to stay away from Haliran at all costs."