9

"We need to look the part of traveling bards," Dalibor told Sara the next morning while they were getting ready to leave the house. "Road-stained, threadbare tunics aren't going to get us any jobs as performers."

"I'm not wearing a stola," Sara said, arms crossed.

Dalibor flicked his ears. "I didn't even suggest that," he said.

"You were thinking it, though," she said.

"I wasn't, any more than I would suggest that I should wear a toga," he said.

"Isn't that what performers wear, though?" Sara asked. "A long, flowing stola on the woman, a bright, perfectly-draped toga on the man." She fanned her arms out in what Dalibor assumed was supposed to be a very elegant pose.

Dalibor's ears slowly folded back as she spoke. "I get the feeling," he said, "that you've mostly seen performers at very formal events."

"Well," Sara admitted. "I am a princess."

"Yes, I remember," Dalibor told her. "Now do you remember when we were at the House of Julius?"

"I do, yes."

"And do you remember what that Behi woman we saw performing was wearing?"

"The cow? I do, and it was not much," Sara said. Dalibor raised his eyebrows and waited until he saw understanding sink into Sara's widening eyes. "Wait. You want me to wear that?"

"That is more in line with what I had in mind, yes," he said.

She clasped her hands over her midsection. "That vest she was wearing left her entire belly uncovered," she whined.

"And most of her cleavage, yes," Dalibor agreed.

Sara raised her hands to cover her breasts. "I don't have cleavage like that, Dalibor!" she squeaked.

"That's what the vest is for. It—" He reached out to demonstrate what the vest did and barely stopped himself before he'd grabbed her by her breasts. He jerked his hands back, still cupped with their intended targets. He froze briefly before wordlessly demonstrating anyway, bringing his empty hands together and lifting them slightly. He then clapped both cupped hands over his eyes. "Why do I know more about this than you do?"

"Maybe because you spend too much time inspecting how well women's clothes show off their cleavage," Sara spat.

"I don't," Dalibor whimpered.

"Oh, you just reach out and feel for yourself then?" she asked.

Dalibor squeezed his ears with his hands, leaving his face covered by his forearms. "I'm sorry, okay?" he said. "And I stopped myself. There's just not a lot of people I'm comfortable around other than Papa, and the two of us tend to be really touchy with each other, and I forgot that…" He took a deep breath and lowered his hands. He felt his lip get caught on his fang, and reflexively used his tongue to fix it. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

The anger fell from Sara's face, and she took him by the hand. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she said. "Because I want you to feel comfortable around me and I don't want you to feel like you can never touch me either. Just maybe not there, okay? At least not without warning me first."

"Got it," Dalibor said with a nod. He wanted to pull his hand away from her but didn't feel like this was the time.

"I still don't think I'm…" She gestured in front of her chest. "You know. Big enough to be able to wear anything like what that cow was wearing," she said.

"Sara," Dalibor said, squeezing her hand. "You should not be worried about being smaller than that cow was, because no women are as big as the cows are."

Sara frowned. "Is it rude to say things like that?" she asked. "That feels rude."

Dalibor sighed and stared at the ceiling. "It is, a little, yes," he admitted. "I would apologize if there were any Behiak around to hear me."

"Oh, they would laugh," Rasha said from where he leaned against the doorframe. "They like those curves. Bulls and cows both."

Dalibor glared at the bear from the corner of his eye, his muzzle still pointed at the ceiling. "How long have you been standing there?" he asked.

"Since just before you tried to fondle me," Sara said.

"We should go," Dalibor said.

"Would you like my opinion?" Rasha asked.

"No," Dalibor said.

"Yes, please," said Sara.

"A vest and skirt in the Behi style is a good choice for you, Sara," Rasha said. "Find a long skirt with a full tail slit and wear it sideways, with the slit on your hip instead. You will get much attention."

Dalibor frowned at Sara's backside. She noticed and turned to show him. "I honestly hadn't thought about the tail," he said. "It shouldn't be hard to find Homin clothing, though. We're still in Illyricum."

"That is true," Rasha said with a nod. "You should not have trouble finding a skirt with a full tail slit either."

"Yes, sir, Papa Bear," she said with a mock Legion salute.

Rasha laughed and turned to Dalibor. "You should find Aegyptian skirt and blouse."

Dalibor wrinkled his nose. "Aegyptian shendyts are so short, though," he said. "It's like just wearing a subligar. And aren't a lot of their blouses see-through?"

"You are a Sabwa in Homin lands," Rasha said. "Play the part."

Dalibor groaned. His father wasn't wrong. It would definitely get them plenty of attention. He still didn't like it. "It's not like I can even speak Sabwan," he said. He tossed up a hand. "And I'm not from Aegyptus, I'm from—" He stopped and clenched his fist. Rasha's breath caught. Sara said nothing. His current namesake was from Armenia, not his actual homeland of Mauritania. He changed topics. "Remind me, Papa. What does Ursi clothing look like? I can't remember the last time we went to Mtskheta."

"Traditionally?" Rasha asked, and Dalibor thanked every god individually and by each of their names that Rasha had the sense not to point out they'd never been to Mtskheta together. "Heavy. Concealing. Lots of fur. Very colorful, though. Many more colors and patterns than people wear in the Ring. But that is from before Fall of the Star when we did not have this much fur. Most Urstae now do not wear much more than the Aegyptians."

"Do you think I could find anything like that around here?" Dalibor asked.

"Why would you want patterned or colored clothing?" Sara asked. "Solid white looks so much cleaner."

"What do you have against patterns?" Dalibor asked. He knew full well he looked fantastic in colorful patterned clothes, because that's what he had worn his entire childhood amongst the horses in Mauritania. He still found Homin-style tunics terribly bland. "Some of your togas get pretty wild."

"Those are for special occasions," Sara insisted.

"Sara," Dalibor said. "We're looking for outfits to perform in. We're going to be the special occasion."

"If you are set on an Ursi outfit, you would have to wear trousers," Rasha said.

"I'd sooner perform naked in the town square than wear trousers," Dalibor growled.

"I'd pay to see that," Sara said.

"So would I," Rasha agreed.

"Ugh, you two are awful for each other," Dalibor groaned. "Let's go, Sara, before he corrupts you any more than he already has."

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They wandered through the town looking for tailors. "Maybe you should just perform naked," Sara told him after they'd failed to find anything on yet another street. "It'd certainly attract a crowd."

"Brave words for somebody so reluctant to show off what she herself has got," Dalibor jabbed back.

She gasped. "That's a low blow, Dalya," she said.

"Low blow?" he said indignantly, trying desperately to maintain his deadpan composure. He could not, however, stop the wagging of his tail. He never could. "You're the one looking below the belt. I'm over here just trying to lift you up." He repeated his lifting gesture from before, this time exaggerating the cup size of his hands.

She snorted and giggled, and Dalibor lost his battle against his own laughter. He could spend all day with her like this. Two friends out and about the town, laughing and chatting with each other about nothing at all, which to them was everything important in the world. Why did the thought of being something more than that repulse him so violently? He would gladly stay with her like this forever.

But forever would never come. Not for him. Never for him. Dalibor knew well enough by this point that his life was somehow cursed, as if all the gods in council had decided that true, lasting happiness would never be his. So when he was there, meandering the streets of Cibalae with his newest true friend, finally happy in the companionship between them, it felt almost right and proper that a Homin man with poxed skin, few teeth, and even fewer patches of hair, clad in the tattered and moth-eaten brown robes of the Star Cult, emerged wide-eyed from the press of people to point at Sara and intone, "You! You have come at last!"

Dalibor bit his tongue to stop from swearing, but he pushed Sara behind him all the same. He instinctively reached for his sword, but it was not at his waist. He hadn't thought he needed to wear it. They were supposed to be safe, and going armed through town would only attract unwanted attention. His mind raced, trying to find the best path forward. The cultist couldn't know who Sara was. He couldn't possibly recognize her. "I think you've mistaken us for someone else," he said in a tone of perfectly executed casual confusion.

"I can hear your melody, Bearer of the Song!" the radiance-cursed cultist cried out. He fell to his knees and raised his hands. The crowds began to part around him, staring at the cultist and Dalibor and Sara in turn. "The Star Itself rejoices at your arrival! The temple is prepared! The altar awaits! The Song of the Star shall be heard at long last!"

"No…" Sara whispered. She clutched Dalibor's arm, and he could feel her trembling.

"Shit," Dalibor swore, scanning the crowds. He didn't see any other cultists, but who knew how many of the Homines here ascribed to the Star Cult's beliefs? Any number of them could decide to help the cultist if he asked, and there were plenty of Homines in the crowd. He couldn't count on any of the other Aspects to help him either. The Star Cult may be virulently pro-Homin, but they were powerful all the same, and Illyricum was still part of the New Roman Empire. Nobody was going to go against Emperor Poplicolus's favored cult. He couldn't just attack the man, either. That was absolutely assault, and in a very public place as well. His warlord's intuition returned to him with only one option. He had to protect Sara, and there was no way to do that in the middle of this street. He grabbed Sara by the hand and sprinted away from the cultist. "Run!" And again they ran together through streets neither of them knew.

"Stop them!" the cultist wailed from behind them. "The child must be brought to the Temple! She must stand before the Star Itself or humanity is doomed!"

Sara jerked her hand free from Dalibor's and kept pace behind him as they darted through a narrow space between two buildings. "I can't go with them," she panted as they raced down the next street over.

"I know," Dalibor replied. "We have to get back to the house without leading them there."

"Out the west gate and back along the shore?" she asked. There were cries from behind them, but they were distant. No guards seemed to have been alerted.

"Too busy," Dalibor said. "Too far." They rounded another corner and Dalibor slowed to a stop.

"What are you doing?" Sara asked, still running.

"Slow down," he said, forcing himself to laugh. "What's the rush?" He gestured her back to his side and took her arm in his. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, keeping a smirk on his face. "Nobody from that crowd saw us make the last couple turns, and sprinting through the streets draws attention. Now smile and slap me like I just made another joke about your breasts."

Sara did a marvelous job of pantomiming the feigned indignation of a lover on the receiving end of a crude innuendo. "Dalya!" she gasped, backhanding him gently in the stomach. "We are in public!"

"Perhaps we should not be then," he said, still smirking.

She smirked back. Whatever acting training she'd received during her time as a princess was certainly paying off. "Perhaps so."

They promenaded along the length of the street, each casting sideways glances at the other. Despite the turmoil in his head as he ran through all the worst outcomes and possible opponents and available routes home, what captured his attention was the roiling of his stomach. This was the exact sort of situation he had not wanted to be in with Sara. He did not want her as a lover. He wanted her as a friend. Was she acting? Or was this what she actually wanted from their relationship? He didn't know and he couldn't ask, because if he did ask and this was indeed what she wanted, he would have to refuse her. Would he be able to hurt her the way he'd had to hurt Timora when she'd been desperately pursuing a union with him, not to claim his ranch but his heart? Timora had stayed angry for years. He did not want Sara angry or hurt because of him. And what if it hurt badly enough that she turned on him the way Jadia had? Would he be able to hurt Sara the way he'd hurt Jadia?

He forced the thoughts down. Now was very much not the time. He had his ears turned back to try and listen for the sounds of pursuit, but none seemed to be coming. That, of course, made him even more nervous. How had they managed to slip away so easily? But in the end, it didn't matter. They had, and now was the time to capitalize on that. With a laugh, he swung Sara about in a full circle on the street corner. She laughed with him, but he wasn't looking at her. He was scanning the street for silent pursuers, spies trying to track them home. He saw nobody react to his sudden spin, nobody who tried to dart into hiding when he was suddenly looking back at them. "Let's head home, dear," he told Sara.

She giggled, but it was too precise and pretty to not be forced. There was no snort in this giggle. "I thought you'd never ask."

They didn't rush, but it was still before midday when they returned to the house they shared with the others. Rasha was outdoors, chatting with the horses in Ursi, and smiled broadly when he saw the two of them returning, arm in arm. "I do not see new clothing," he said, "but it looks like the two of you had a good time."

"Papa," Dalibor said evenly, patting Sara on the arm. "I don't mean to alarm you, but we have to flee the city."

Rasha opened his mouth, shut it again, and breathed in deeply through his nose. "Come inside," he said. "We will talk over wine."

Dalibor and Sara took turns telling the old bear what had happened in town. Rasha remained quiet the entire time. "We need to pack up and go, Papa," Dalibor said at the end. "You heard Myrddin's stories about the Star Cult's luminaries last night. We can't afford to stay here. They may be able to track us even now."

"Yes," Rasha said. He stared into his wine glass and took a shaky breath. "Yes, you must go."

Dalibor's breath caught. "What do you mean, 'you'?" he asked. "You mean us, Papa."

"No, my son," Rasha said. He still did not look at Dalibor, and the jackal could hear the tears threatening to break loose. "I can't. I am so sorry, but I can't."

"Why not?" Dalibor asked, his fur bristling. Sara too looked confused. "What's wrong?"

"I am too old for this, Dalya," Rasha said, crying at last. "I have tried to hide it, and I am sorry for that too. But I have not recovered from crossing the Sunken Sentinels. I can barely walk some mornings. I cannot climb stairs without pain. I cannot possibly travel like that again. I cannot. I cannot ride all day and hike up and down mountains and sleep on the ground. Winter is coming, and the cold already bites to my bones even here by the fire. All my old injuries from my time fighting in arenas and guarding caravans ache every day. I am too old and too broken to travel now, and you cannot afford to wait on me every day. I am slow now. They would catch you for certain."

Dalibor got up from his seat at the table, rushed to Rasha's side, and wrapped his arms around the bear before he could get up from his own seat. "Then why are you sleeping on the floor in the kitchen?" Dalibor asked. He tried to hold his anger. He could not afford despair at this point.

"I sleep on sofa," Rasha said, his face pressed into Dalibor's chest. "And I just told you I cannot climb the stairs to the bedrooms."

"And you're not that old," Dalibor said. "You're, what, mid-forties now? You've got plenty of time left."

"I did not say I was dying," Rasha said. He pushed Dalibor away. "I said I am not in my twenties now."

"And you're still strong and capable and fully able to take care of yourself," Dalibor said.

He wanted to pull the words back immediately, because he knew as soon as he said them that Rasha would turn them against him. And the bear did. "Which is why I will be fine staying here by myself while you find safety elsewhere," he said.

"No," Dalibor said. He shook his head. He refused. He forced himself to be furious, because he knew the fire of his rage was the only thing that could keep the creeping despair at bay. This was not how they were going to go about their escape. He could plan around everything Rasha had complained about. He could outflank the cold. He could outwit time. "Papa, no. We'll find a ship and go that way instead. We'll just leave the house. And the horses. And…"

Rasha stood and wrapped his arms around his son, interrupting the jackal's tirade. "You too are strong and capable and fully able to take care of yourself, my son," he rumbled. He gestured to Sara, and she too came to share the embrace. Dalibor found it comforting, somehow, to have all three of them together like that. "You both are. I know that you will be fine. That you will outrun or outthink or outfight anybody who tries to catch you. But you will not be able to do that if you have to worry about this old bear too. Because I am not able to do that anymore."

Rasha's sorrow smothered Dalibor's fleeting anger. "It's not fair," he whispered.

"No," Rasha agreed. "It is not."

They stood there for some time, until Dalibor was sure he was not going to cry. Then he pulled away. "Can you go pack our things, Sara?" he asked. "I'll go ready our horses."

Soon, far too soon, they were ready to leave. No Star Cultists or angry mobs had found their home. It was silent as they stood at the gate of the house, Rasha and Dalibor staring at each other, trying to find a reason to stay together, knowing they must part at last. Dalibor walked up to the bear and buried his face in his adoptive father's chest. "I don't want to leave you," he whimpered.

"I don't want you to go," Rasha whispered back. He scratched the jackal between the ears. "But you cannot stay, and I cannot go with you."

"I hate it."

"So do I." Rasha pushed his son away. "Go. If you are right, they are coming, and you must be gone."

Dalibor rubbed his eyes and mounted his horse. He looked back at Rasha one last time. He saw the gray in the bear's muzzle. Saw how much rounder he had gotten since they fled Mauritania so many years ago. Saw the limp he'd ignored every morning. Saw the delays in standing up. Saw the idle massaging of joints. But more than anything, he saw the man who had saved him, who had fashioned a new life for him, who had sworn he would never abandon him. And he prepared to leave him behind. "Goodbye, Papa," he said.

"Goodbye, my dearest Dalya," Rasha said. "I will be here waiting for the day you come home to me. And I know that you will come home because I cannot lose my son twice."

Dalibor turned his horse away and began to ride. Rasha's certainty had broken him because his papa was wrong. Never once had Dalibor gone back to a home he'd left behind. He couldn't…

He couldn't…!