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_ Dear Reader: This is Part Two of Three in the Nightmares sequence, and I have chosen not to repeat certain expository devices. This story may be confusing without first reading Part One, which may be found here._

Nightmares II: The Road to Hell

a story by Onyx Tao

This document is licensed under the

Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States license

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/

© 2009 by Onyx Tao

All Other Rights Reserved

Minos Station, also known as Dead Wolf Pass, is high in the mountains - it's actually in Minos. The Morden-Minos border is right at the base of the mountains, rather than the crest. When Morden built a tubeline to Minos, the minotaurs pointed out that there were nearly eighty miles of pretty much uninhabited mountains, and it would make more sense to extend the tubeline up the pass to the high plateaus of Minos proper. They offered to let Morden keep legal jurisdiction over the tubeline and put customs at the station itself, rather than right at the border. There's a buyout clause, I understand, under which Minos can pay Morden some fee, and reclaim all sovereignty, but according to White Bull, it's really there just to make clear in the treaty that the land belongs to Minos, not Morden.

He should know, since he negotiated it. I'm sure it was clear to everyone else that White Bull was not an ordinary minotaur shaman - he's the first shaman of Minos, and that's why there were Elevator Police and Mordenguard commando teams all over the place when we went to see him. Our tubecar was preceded and followed by tubecars full of more commandos, in addition to the three stationed in our car. I finally thought to ask him why the commandos were there when I woke up. On the other hand, I've been pretty out of it from sleep deprivation for the last few months.

"It seems excessive to me," he admitted, as we passed the border into Minos and started up the pass. "But it's a sign of respect, really, and I've gotten use to gawking."

"Have you been first shaman long?"

Rocking Hammer burst out laughing, and White Bull smiled.

"Apparently that was funny," I said. "I'm sorry if Morden doesn't spend much time on Minosian politics in school."

"No, Brad, that's not it," Rocking Hammer said, and then he grinned. "But I really think White Bull should tell you."

"Yes, I'm sure you'll find this amusing," he sighed. "For reasons that I won't go into, Brad, the birth of a white minotaur is considered a significant event."

"He's holy," supplied Rocking Hammer. "His mere presence is a blessing."

"So I'm told," said White Bull dryly. "I spent a lot of time blessing things when I was younger."

"His parents were somewhat mercenary about it," Rocking Hammer said mischievously. "They sold his nappies."

"Yes," said White Bull. "You'd think that would convince them just how holy I wasn't. Occasionally I still run into 'taur who have the things," he said ruefully.

"Really," said Rocking Hammer in a theatrical voice. "Well, what do you say to someone who's saved your dirty diapers from ninety years ago?"

White Bull just stared at Rocking Hammer, and then said, "How do you do? "

"Uh, are you really that old?"

"No," said White Bull, as Rocking Hammer said "Yes." White Bull shook his head at Rocking Hammer for a minute. "I'm eighty-seven."

"Ah. Silly me," Rocking Hammer responded.

"Oh," I said. I'd gotten use to the feeling that I was missing something, after talking with these two. "That would be pretty old for a wolven."

"It's pretty old for a minotaur," said Rocking Hammer.

"Decrepit little old me," said White Bull dryly. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Do you?"

"You're eager to spill all our secrets, aren't you," White Bull said after a moment, and then turned to me. "Rocking Hammer is teasing me for being a conservative old bull. And I am. I didn't approve of his going to Morden, and he's been rubbing my face in my being wrong about that just respectfully enough to prevent insulting me. But, your being here shows he is right, and I was wrong.

"Is that better, Rocking Hammer?" White Bull asked.

The other shaman looked thoughtful. "I suppose I imagined hearing you say it would feel better."

"Then we've both suffered from illusions today, haven't we?"

"Cow." The cryptic comment from Rocking Hammer left me confused, and I supposed it showed.

White Bull shook his head. "Enough, please."

"Sorry. It's hard to resist."

"Try harder," White Bull advised bluntly.

"Yes, White Bull," Rocking Hammer said.

The remaining minutes before we arrived were spent silently; I wasn't sure what to say, the shamans kept an uncomfortable silence. It didn't help that I kept have daydreams about Rock, Trask, and Sledge. Especially Trask. He was a little more muscular than Sledge, and my eyes kept drifting over to him. The two minotaur guards hadn't said anything for the entire trip, either, and I wondered if Rocking Hammer had put them into the same trance he'd put the wolven commandos into. "Sledge and ... uh ... Trask, are they still on-duty?"

"Yes," said Rocking Hammer.

The gentle vibrating hum of the tubecar stopped, announcing that we were at the station. Rocking Hammer looked over at White Bull curiously. "Are you planning on ..."

"Yes."

"Do you want me to ..."

"Yes, please."

"Certainly. You should warn Brad to ..."

"Yes," White Bull agreed, and then turned to me. "The Morden border authority isn't going to notice you, so ... don't be surprised when they don't. The Minos guard will notice you, but ... they'll play along."

"That seems like a lot of trouble," I said.

White Bull actually had the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Minos entrance policies are very strict," he said. "We require either survival certificates, or proof-of-enrollment in a survival course taught by a Minos instructor. It's not an easy course. It's approximately the same as the Mordenguard wilderness survival training Morden gives their rangers and elite units."

"The two courses are strangely similar," Trask agreed, after stepping out of the tubecar.

"Uncanny resemblance," boomed Sledge, in a much deeper voice than I'd expected.

Rocking Hammer smiled at me. "They're both qualified instructors, and the two courses are actually the same."

"No," rumbled Sledge. "We don't cover tanning or permanent structures in the military course, or long-term food preparation and storage."

"Well, we don't cover them in detail," Trask said, tilting his head in consideration. "We discuss them."

"Discuss them later, please" said White Bull, heading out onto the passenger platform, and then up the stairs. I realized that the platform was covered with Mordenguard, and so I didn't say anything. Rocking Hammer and I followed Sledge and Trask after White Bull up the stairs, and into the station.

Minos Station looked primitive; the walls built of heavy logs, the floor paved with polished stone blocks. A huge fireplace blazed the end of the building. The plaschain fencing between the station and Minos-Morden Border Control, however, looked fully modern. White Bull led the group to the Morden Exit, presented a passport, and walked around the metal detector, as did Sledge. Rocking Hammer tapped me gently on the shoulder, and I followed him - again around the metal detector. Rocking Hammer presented his passport, had it duly stamped, and ...

... And they didn't notice me or ask any questions at all. It was as if I didn't exist. It was a little disturbing, actually.

Minos customs was even simpler. I was taken into a small room - and White Bull came along with me - by a leather-clad minotaur who introduced himself as Riled Waters. He looked suspiciously at White Bull, but ignored him while he frisked me. He pulled out my pocket interface and my wrist interface, and sealed them into a plastic bag. "We'll return these to Morden," he said. "Strictly speaking, they're contraband."

"My fault," said White Bull.

"Yes, I watched you sneak the boy out of Minos," Riled said disapprovingly. "Brad Bon Urlo, you have the right to remain in Morden if you wish. Not even White Bull can just kidnap someone into Minos against his will."

"I've never kidnapped anyone," White Bull protested gently.

"No, I wanted to come," I said.

"Is that so," Riled said, looking suspiciously at the white minotaur shaman.

White Bull just shrugged.

"He can't come in until I'm convinced he's coming in of his own free will, and not because of some shaman hocus-pocus," he said finally. He continued to stare at White Bull suspiciously.

"I commend you for your attention to your duties," White Bull said with a smile. "Please. Continue. Convince yourself." His eyes twinkled. "Be diligent."

Riled Waters's eyes narrowed, and his tail twitched. "What about the implants?"

White Bull waved his hand. "Waived."

"Implants?" I asked.

Riled shot White Bull a glare. "You didn't tell him."

"I'm just observing," he said, in an amused way. "Strictly speaking, he should be talking to you, not me."

"Implants?" I repeated, trying to regain Riled's attention.

"As a Morden citizen," Riled said, "you have a number of technological implants. Identification, medical history, tracking chip, criminal record ... that sort of thing."

"No criminal history," White Bull volunteered.

"All of these implants are contraband," the lanky minotaur continued, apparently ignoring White Bull.

"Waived," said White Bull, more emphatically.

"The tracking chip?" said Riled. "If he's going to Labyrinth?"

"You're quite right," acknowledged White Bull. "Can you shut it down?"

"I could if I had the keys," Riled said with a smile. "Which I would if he'd come in through Morden customs."

White Bull smiled. "Nice try. Where's the chip?"

"At the base of the skull," said Riled. "But ..."

I felt a tug on my neck, a slight sharp pulling, and then White Bull handed a small metal capsule to Riled. "Here. Satisfied?"

The rangy minotaur inspected it grimly. "No blood, I see."

"Thank you," White Bull said, modestly.

"Hush. I'm trying to talk the boy out of whatever crazy scheme you've tangled him in." Riled said, and then turned back to me. "Brad, are you certain you want to go on to Labyrinth? It's not a place for a Morden-bred wolf," Riled said carefully. "It's a totem camp, where shamans take their students - advanced students - to teach them all sorts of shaman-tricks. Like walking out naked in sub-zero weather. Like that hypnotic thing they do. Dreamwork. It's tricky, Labyrinth is dangerous, and shamans always take the long view of things, which means the short-term can get pretty sticky."

White Bull just sat quietly, smiling - I'm not sure if he was smiling at me, or at the lanky minotaur questioning me, or maybe just to himself. In any case, it was clear I had to answer the question.

"Yes," I said. "I ... kind of have to." How much could I tell him? "I have ... a shaman kind of problem."

"A dream problem." Riled said, after a moment. "Well, it must be pretty bad if you need to go to Labyrinth."

"It is," I said.

"You could die in Labyrinth."

"I could die here. Sir." I felt sorry for him, all of a sudden, trying to protect me from - from - well, I'm not sure what it was from.

Riled shook his head. "I suppose."

"That seems sufficient." White Bull said quietly. "Are you satisfied, Border Inspector Riled of the Crashing Waters clan?"

"I suppose," the minotaur grumbled. "Here." He handed me a backpack.

"Thank you," I said, a little puzzled.

"Hold on," he said, and got up. I looked at White Bull quizzically, but the minotaur shaman didn't say anything, and in fact the faint smile on his face never wavered. I untied the cording that kept the pack closed, and started to open it as Riled came back into the room, holding a set of boots and a heavy coat.

"Here. Put these on. Should be about your size. Seeing as how White Bull there didn't bring anything along for you."

"These ... these are Morden clothes," I said.

"Yes, but they're they legitimate in Minos," Riled said defensively. "You saw the cording on the backpack, the boots fasten the same way, and the coat is ... well, just a coat."

"The material is Morden thermacloth," I said. "I can have that?"

"Legal," sniffed Riled. "It's categorized as 'cloth'. No matter what I say."

"Enough, please," White Bull said again, with the faintest hint of irritation. "We disagree. This is a theocracy, not a democracy. If you don't like that, I suggest you emigrate to Morden."

"Just leave my family and clan?" said Riled.

"If you feel that strongly about it, yes," said White Bull calmly.

"I can't," Riled said after a moment.

White Bull sighed. It was almost too low to be heard; I only heard it because I was sitting next to him. But it sounded - tired. Exhausted. "White Bull? Sir?"

"Yes, Brad?" There was no hint of it in his reply to me, though.

"How..." but then I realized I couldn't ask what I really wanted. "How far is Labyrinth?"

A grimace, and then, "Perhaps twenty miles as the crow flies. It will take us ... some days to reach it. Or more. Or less."

Riled shook his head. "You should tell him."

White Bull sighed again. "I'd like to, but I can't. Riled, you're not helping me, or Brad at this point. I thank you for the thermacloth - that was a good idea, and if you have any other such suggestions, I would be happy to adopt them."

"Borrow a commando's training gear for him," Riled said, after a moment.

"Yes," White Bull said, getting up. "Please get one for us. We'll leave ... tomorrow morning, I think."

"White Bull?" I asked as we walked out.

"Yes, Brad?"

I paused while we went into another part of the lodge - one furnished with low-slung leather chairs and huge furry blankets. "I'm not sure how to ask this."

"Labyrinth is built partly in and of dreams," White Bull said, after a moment. "And the way there is through dream. I didn't want to say that, because ... because you don't - you can't - know what that means. Those are just words."

"Pretty scary words," I said, thinking about it.

"Yes," said White Bull. "Somewhat. It's not really a concern, although I understand why you might think so."

"But that wasn't what I wanted to ask," I said.

"Oh," said White Bull, sounding surprised. "Well." He smiled, a mischievous grin that lit his face for a moment. "That's different. I like being wrong once in a while." Almost impishly, he added, "Just as long as it doesn't happen too often."

"Are you ... are you OK?" I said, in a rush.

White Bull stopped, and stared at me for a moment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you ..."

"I'm not offended," White Bull said after a moment, the humor entirely gone from his manner. "I was surprised. Truly surprised. Not many things surprise me anymore. How ... how did you come to ask that question?"

"You sounded ... well, tired. Talking to Riled."

The white minotaur nodded slowly. "I see. Well, Brad, to answer honestly, no. I'm not OK. I don't know if I'd admit that to anyone else, but ... I want you to develop and trust your insight, and that won't happen if I'm not truthful."

"Oh." I said. "I'm sorry. Is ... is there anything I can do to help?"

White Bull smiled again, the hint of soft humor back in his face. "Thank you, Brad. I don't think so, but I'll certainly keep an open mind." After a moment, he added, "Thank you for offering. Oh. One thing, you can do. That I'm ... not well ... is not widely known. Rock knows. You know. I know." And no one else, he didn't say, but I heard it anyway.

"I won't tell anyone," I said.

"Thank you," he said gravely.

We spent the night in the lodge. It seemed pretty primitive to me, but from comments Rocking Hammer made me realize that White Bull wasn't used to stoves, or indoor ovens, or even a cooler - all of which the lodge had. How primitive was Minos? Sledge made a simple stew, and then Riled jumped in, and produced pie crust. I know it sounds weird, but he pulled out some stone - not stoneware, actual polished stone - bowls, draped crust over them, ladled the stew in, folded the crust over and sealed it, and put it in the ovens. When he brought them out, the crust had crisped to a golden brown.

The stew pies were delicious.

I was a little nervous about trying to sleep, especially sandwiched between White Bull and Rocking Hammer, but once I got use to their breathing, I fell asleep pretty fast. I was a little surprised, I'd wanted to - and I mean really wanted to - get closer to Rock, but I was just too exhausted. Or maybe they did something, because I didn't dream at all, at least not that I remember, because I woke up, feeling rested. And I might add that that was the first time in months. I felt rested. Alert. Good. Like life might be worth living. I think ... yes, this is when I realized just how depressed I'd been.

I was certain that coming to Minos, however sudden and spur of the moment the decision was, had been the right choice.

I almost changed my mind about that, after breakfast. Breakfast was normal, or maybe I should say, Morden. Lamb cereal softened in warm milk, coffee, and eggs. I was hungry, too. I should paid attention - more attention - to what White Bull was eating: apples, bread, cheese. He did drink some milk, and he did look thoughtfully at an egg. Riled ate what I ate; Rocking Hammer did too, only he skipped the cereal. Sledge and Trask had had the same. Breakfast cereal is a Morden import; you can get it at the station, but ... not inside Minos. Not unless you bring it with you. It's the thing I miss most, actually. White Bull says food and eating are the most primal of all ritual activities, especially if done in a group. And by group, he means my family. We did eat breakfast together, and dinner, and ... it's interesting. Breakfast was almost always cereal and milk, maybe eggs, coffee. Dinner varied. And it's the breakfast that I miss the most. I don't even like cereal anymore; and I still miss it.

After breakfast was my first surprise. Riled produced - and I'm not sure how - a full commando outfit, minus the electronics. Waterproof boots, winter camouflage. Double underskins, trousers with boot-seal, full shirt, full coat, faceskin, and a full face mask over that. I'd never worn an underskin before; they're a semisilk that goes over the pelt, and traps air, effectively tripling the insulation of one's pelt. Or more, depending on the pelt. They were a little confining - like a subtle pressure on me - but not restraining. The trousers and shirt were heavy thermacloth; the boots a breathable synthetic. They felt scratchy on my footpads, but at least I felt like I had traction - a lot of footwear leaves me feeling, well, disconnected, I guess, from the ground. I could feel the ground through these.

"It's cold out there, huh?" I asked Riled.

"Yes," the lanky minotaur said, almost disapprovingly. He handed me the coat - it was big, it came almost down to the boots. "Put that on when you get outside," and he stepped back. "I still think you're making a mistake," he said.

Rock and White Bull were discussing something when I came out, but they stopped. I wondered if they were talking about me, but ... I think they were just talking about the route. There's all sort of ways to reach Labyrinth, and some of them are easier than others. The problem is, Labyrinth isn't really a place so much as a destination. If I'd been a shaman, then we could have gotten there in a few hours. But if I were a shaman, I wouldn't have needed to go. It's hard to explain, but as Trask told me once, "Labyrinth is where you find it."

So our trip would take longer, and ... because I was the one who had to travel, they couldn't even really know how long it would take (not that they told me that then). White Bull told me once that shamans knew everything, but that's not the case. You just trade one set of baffling questions for a second set of even more baffling questions. The trick is to transform a hard question into an easy one, and ... sometimes that's even harder than answering the hard question.

We set off after breakfast, leaving Minos Station. There was a trail - or at least White Bull and Rocking Hammer said there was a trail. Everything I could see was covered with snow. But they seemed to know their way. And ... I was in the arctic commando outfit. The two shamans were wearing the same sandals and leather outfit they'd worn in Elevator City. They'd supplemented it with a backpack each. A leather backpack, that adjusted with leather braiding and closed with a leather tie and a bone clasp. They looked heavy. I looked at the four of them, all kitted out in Minosian hiking gear and backpacks, and me - in a Morden cold-weather outfit. At least Trask and Sledge were wearing warmer clothing - slightly warmer clothing - along with their backpacks.

"Should I be carrying a backpack, too?"

"No," Rocking Hammer said. "We've got it. Thank you, Brad. But really, this is going to be a lot harder for you than us."

The hike wasn't straight up, but it seemed that way. We were going directly into the high mountains, and after about an hour, I was really really glad Riled had found me the clothes he had. I was feeling the cold even through the suit. Interestingly, though, I wasn't feeling cold myself; the exertion of the hike was keeping me nicely warm - maybe even a little too warm at points.

Lunch was Minosian travel bars. Hah. You know all those jokes about Morden field rations? The self-heating packages, easy-open cans with engineered protein and taste? How awful they are? Well, that's bullshit. You want awful, try the compressed meat-and-fruit bars the minotaurs use. They come in waxed paper wrappings. Opened carefully, so the paper can be reused (they coat it with beeswax). Fortunately, if you have a pot, a fire, and some snow, you can turn them into a sort of thick chowder that tastes just as bad as the travel bars, but at least you don't have to chew it to swallow. I'll trade travel bars for those unjustly maligned field rations any day.

Lunch was followed by yet more hiking, and still up. About an hour after lunch, we stopped for tea; which was just as well. I was really starting to pant from the thin air, and I needed a break. And that's probably why we stopped, because now that I stop to think about it, Rock made tea with some dried moss - and I'm sure it was whitemoss, because an infusion of it is useful for elevation sickness. I must have been showing symptoms. But neither of them mentioned it, so I didn't know it at the time. I'm sure White Bull decided I didn't need to know.

We camped in a cave, and ... it was cold. Nor was there any running water, and Rock took me aside to explain how to manage the consequences of metabolism, as he put it. I'll skip them, other to say it's not a lot of fun when it's that cold. If you want to know about it, take a Minosian survival course, and you can see just what happens when your piss freezes mid-air - and that's all I have to say about it.

Once we stopped moving, I got cold very quickly, and taking care of consequences made me even colder, as I had to get out of some of my clothing. Fortunately, there was a considerable pile of wood deeper in the cave, along with sealed jars and fur blankets and even a couple of feather-mattress-things. Rock called it a mattress, but it wasn't, really. It was more like a really tightly stuffed feather comforter that we used as a mattress. And there was another one to go on top of us.

By the time Rock and I had set up our sleeping arrangements, Trask had finished dinner. It was a real stew, from one of the jars, with pan-bread and honey. It tasted fantastic, partly because of how hungry I was (whitemoss is good for nausea too), and partly just because it was good. Morden food is very processed - so processed that most food companies actually add taste back in to the food. The real stuff is ... well, it's different. Some folks like it, some have trouble coping. I like it, myself. Morden food tastes off to me now. Neither Rocking nor White Bull stopped me from taking seconds, and thirds. I don't think I noticed if they ate - they did, I'm sure, but as they'd said, the cold just didn't bother them.

White Bull and Rock exchanged a look - I'm not sure what it was, but Sledge started cleaning up, and banked the fire by carefully covering the hot coals with a layer of ash. Rock pulled me over to the mattress, and insisted that I get out of my commando suit.

Everything.

"It has to dry," Rocking Hammer explained to me. "You'll be warm tonight, don't worry. But your clothes are damp from the day's exertions, and they need to be dry for tomorrow. They'll air out overnight."

"But ..." I started.

"Just jump into the bed," Rock said. "It will warm up. The cave's not actually as cold as it is outside.

I did. Rock hung my clothes up, took his own off, and joined me. That was weird, but not as weird as when White Bull came and did the same thing, on the other side of me. So, there I was, between two minotaurs, fur-naked. White Bull was laying on his side, away from me.

Rocking Hammer was laying on his back.

Trask and Sledge hung up their clothes, too, and piled onto the second mattress. Only ... they weren't sleeping. It was dark, and the angle wasn't good, and I couldn't exactly prop myself up to watch - but I could hear them.

They definitely weren't sleeping.

White Bull, on the other hand, was. Rock ... Rock was laying awake, and ... oh God ... he was watching Sledge and Trask, too. And ...

I was hard. Really hard. The really really hard you get after a long exhausting day and you're so tired that all you really want to do is beat off so you can get to sleep. I looked over at Rock.

"They're partners," he said, not whispering but so quiet only I would be able to hear him. It's actually another shaman-trick, but it's all about voice pitch and how you breathe. It's pretty simple, once you know the trick. I didn't know it, not yet.

"I ..."

"Yeah," he said. "Is White Bull asleep, or just pretending?"

Just pretending? Oh. I looked over at the apparently sleeping minotaur. "How can I tell?"

"Ask him."

"Uh, are you ... are you pretending to be asleep?" I felt stupid asking.

No answer.

"He ..."

"He's asleep. If he were awake, he would have said 'no,'" Rock said.

For a moment, I felt even stupider, and then I realized that Rock was ... not quite making a joke, but making the joke White Bull would have made, if he had been awake. Shamans.

Although I'm like that, now, too. Shaman-training does that.

Rock and I waited until Sledge and Trask had finished - it seemed like a long time, but it probably wasn't more than five or ten minutes, and then once they'd quieted down, I glanced over at Rock. He looked asleep, but ...

"Are you asleep?"

"Yes," Rock said, in that same utterly quiet voice. "Completely. Why do you ask?"

"Just ... just wondering."

Rock rolled over to face me, with a bovine grin. "They're asleep. Trust me. White Bull ... well, unless he's fooling me - which he might be, he's got fifty-odd years of tricks I don't - he's asleep too. So it's just ... you and me."

"Uh huh," I said.

"And you're having trouble sleeping."

"Yes."

"And you're worried about getting our blankets wet."

I couldn't help it; my ears went down. "No!" I said, but then, with Rock staring at me, I said, "Yes." Mentally, at least. He stared at me a little longer, until I finally said, "A little." Mentally, at least.

"S'okay, Brad. Really." He smiled at me. "You've had a long day. And ... you're a little worked up."

A little worked up? I was a horny teenager, and watching - well, listening, really - to Sledge and Trask, I mean, I wasn't sure exactly what which had done to whom, but ... I had all these images chasing around in my head. Sledge wrapping his muzzle around Trask's big heavy ... mmm. It didn't help that I'd gotten a good look at them as they got ready for bed. Or Rock, for that matter. And ...

I think I mentioned before that, in Morden, we use neutralizer? So we don't ... smell? I mean, it's not a big deal if you smell a little like wolf or fox or sheep, but you don't exactly want to advertise the last time you had sex ... or that you wanted it now. I could smell myself.

There's got to be a better word than embarrassing. It just doesn't have the right sound to carry the utter and complete humiliating experience of watching a fantasy play out in front of you, and knowing that the male next to you ... knows it's your fantasy. And probably even knows he's part of your fantasy. And ... I just wanted to die.

"Hey," Rock said.

Anything but sympathy, oh please, anything.

"Do you know what I hated most about Morden?"

"No," I said, grateful for the change of subject.

"Neutralizer," Rock said. Change of subject! Shamans! Ha! Rock gave me a moment to think about that, and then continued. "It's hard to lie about something like whether or not you're attracted to someone else.

"No, that's the wrong word," Rock said. "Not lie. Dissemble. Pretend to like something - or someone - you don't, or worse, pretend you don't like something you do."

It was sympathy. I almost wanted the demon back.

"You can't really do that if you can't hide your scent," Rock continued.

"Please," I said. "Look. I know. I ... I just need time. Could ... could we have this discussion some other time?"

"Yes," said Rock. "If I can leave you with three thoughts."

"What, you're not content with the last word? You want three of them?"

"I think they're all worthy of your consideration before sleep, yes," Rocking Hammer said.

"All right," I said. Anything if I could just get out of this conversation!

"First. Would you rather be having this conversation with White Bull?"

The answer to that was a very definite _ no _ . I didn't want to have this conversation with anyone.

"Second. You're not using your nose."

I wasn't using my nose? What did that mean? I knew I smelled like horny wolf. I could smell that plainly. I wasn't using my nose? I wished that were true ...

"Good night, Brad," Rock said.

Except ... "Rock?"

"Yes, Brad?"

"You said three things,"

"I did," Rock said. "If you don't do something about it, you're going to have a wet dream."

"Thanks," I said, not very thankfully.

"Good night, Brad."

I lay there for a few minutes, thinking about what he'd said. He was right, I was sure, of what would happen if ... if I didn't do something. Only ... he was right next to me! And so was White Bull! Although ... although that hadn't stopped Trask and Sledge. Oh, why did I have to go and think about that! Them. Together. I groaned, and there was a soft snort from Rock.

Yeah, he was still awake.

Was he really expecting me to beat off with him there?

And ...

I'm not using my nose, he said. What ... oh. I drew in a deep breath.

Minotaur. The overwhelming scent was minotaur. Alfalfa and a bovine musk, with the not-sour taste that separates a pred from an herb (if you're a herb, then it's just 'sour' but if you're a pred, then ... well, you know what I mean). Minotaur might resemble cattle, but they were pred, no doubt about that. Another breath. I could distinguish White Bull from Rock. White Bull was ... well, old. In school we're taught that 'old' is really a kind of protein breakdown - but it still smells old, and White Bull has a sort of dark-coffee scent to him. Rocking Hammer ... I'm not sure how to describe him. He certainly didn't have that old smell to him, he smelled of bay and -

He smelled -

Oh.

"Rock?" I asked.

"Yes, Brad?" came the answer, surprisingly quickly, or maybe not so surprisingly.

"I'm using my nose," I said.

"Good," he said, and then, "I was wondering how long it would take you."

He smelled as horny as I did. How did I tell him that? "Uh," I said, hoping he'd say something. Just to let you know - don't bother trying that with a shaman. It never works. It didn't work this time either; I could tell he was waiting, it was a subtle tension. I'm not sure how I felt it; he was holding himself still, and he wasn't touching me, and I don't think it was something in the way he smelled - and now that I thought about it, the way he smelled was affecting me. Had been affecting me, ever since I'd laid down next to him.

I felt so stupid, ignorant, dumb, and self-absorbed.

"I ..." I started, and stopped again. I just couldn't.

Maybe he took pity on me, I don't know. I probably needed some at that point. "Brad," he said. "We're not in Morden. It's okay to say it. Here. Brad, you smell really good to me."

I did? I turned back, and Rock was smiling at me. "I've been enjoying your scent ever since dinner," he said, in that quiet voice again. "It's delicious."

"It's that obvious," I said, trying not to scream.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Rock said. "It's not. Really. Sledge and Trask like it."

Could this get worse? Obviously it could, if he'd been discussing the way I smelled with Sledge and Trask. I really, really, really didn't want to know if he had. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about. I didn't want to think about it.

Which of course only made me think about it that much harder. Hard. Ouch.

"We had an argument over where you were going to sleep," he said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "If it weren't for the demon, you might be over there, cuddled up with Sledge."

Just the thought of that sent a pulse through me.

"Or Trask," he said.

I'd thought about that, too. I very consciously did not grab myself, but it was a near thing. Just thinking about it - and now that Rock had said it, I couldn't not think about that, either.

"Or me," he said.

Oh, yes, I pictured that - me, my nose pressed against his chest, smelling the clean alfalfa-musk with the hint of bay, the smell of rut, oh my yes that would be wonderful.

Except I was already smelling that. Was ...

"I could be," I whispered.

"Why aren't you?" he whispered back.

I was on him in a flash, trying to pull him - I just managed to pull myself. Minotaurs are bigger, much bigger, than wolven. He just let me cling for a moment, and ... oh, putting my nose next to him was bliss. He smelled good - male, a little sweaty, and cutting through that minotaur with just the right amount of lust. Good? It was the best thing I'd smelled in days. Weeks. Ever. I know my dick was leaving a trail of clear precum on him - and I could feel his dick, hard - and slick with minotaur precum as well.

"Shhhh," he whispered. "Not that they'd mind, but ... they need their sleep."

I nodded. I would have said practically anything at that point. Rock twisted, bent a little, and suddenly I could feel the tip of his tongue touch the tip of my shaft. "Mmmm," he said, and then his tongue - rough, wiped down my length, and I nearly lost it, right there.

I did lose it, entirely, when he just engulfed me. My whole shaft, tip to base, caught in his warm hot mouth, pressed tightly against me, his tongue caressing me -

I couldn't help it. I howled in sheer pleasure as I pumped wolf cum into him. And Rock held my hips as I thrashed, swallowing my essence, until I was limp and panting.

"Delicious," he said, moving back up to my muzzle, and then his tongue was licking my lips, and I cold smell my own seed on his breath. I opened my mouth, and welcomed his tongue with mine. I don't remember exactly what happened then - Rock says I pretty much just passed out. I'm not sure why the others didn't wake up when I howled - a wolf howl is loud. But they slept through it, or they pretended to sleep through it, and nobody said anything in the morning. I certainly didn't.

I woke up entangled with Rock, face to face, him holding me, and me holding him. It was a nice way to wake up. Breakfast was more pan-bread, and hot tea. Sledge and I cleaned up - to leave the shelter ready for the next travelers. Trask and White Bull were discussing the trail ahead.

And Sledge explained to me how to find the trail-shelters. And he explained the trail-markers, and that he'd point them out until I could recognize them on my own.

"So is this what you teach the commandos?"

"Oh, no," he said, in that deep basso profundo voice of his. "We don't tell anyone about these. And we train the commando at a lower altitude - the whole area is criss-crossed with trails, and shelters, so when something goes wrong, we can get them to shelter. But we don't tell the trainees how to find them. We don't want them roaming Minos on their own. You'll get that training, though, don't worry. It will be easy for you."

"Then why are you telling me?"

Sledge pointed to White Bull. "He says you're an apprentice shaman. That means ... you need to learn. Everything. A shaman has to know everything. How to cook, camp, clean, kill, hunt, butcher, ... everything. Including trail making. And that, you start by learning how to see the trails that are there."

I suddenly felt like an idiot again. "I'm sorry. You and Trask are shamans, too, aren't you."

Sledge smiled approvingly. "Good boy! You're almost right. We've got shaman-training, but we're warriors - spirit warriors. And ... you might be a spirit-warrior, too. It's a different calling than shaman." He gave me a look. "I think you're going to be one of us, not them."

"Can you tell me? The difference?"

Sledge shrugged. "A shaman passively manages change. A spirit-warrior actively manages change."

"And White Bull should have asked?"

"Maybe," said Sledge. "A spirit warrior would have asked. A shaman would wait until the thing became clear. It depends on whether you - and your demon - need active or passive management. The thing isn't clear yet. And there's at least one difference - here I am, explaining something, and White Bull is just waiting."

"Oh," I said.

"Excuse me," White Bull said. "Much as I approve of this, I need Brad. And I need you and Trask to ... do something else while we talk to Rock."

Sledge just nodded, and walked off.

"Please come with me. Rock's waiting," said White Bull. He sounded as courteous and pleasant as ever - and yet I knew he was mad.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said.

"Whatever for," and the irritation increased, I could tell.

"Whatever it is you're mad about."

White Bull shook his head. "None of that is caused or directed at you. I am a little out of sorts with Rocking Hammer." He was leading me outside, and a chill wind cut into me the moment I stepped out of the cave. Rocking Hammer was sitting on an ice-covered boulder, staring down at the tree line. He looked up at us, and shook his head when he saw us heading towards him.

"Are you sure Brad should be here for this, Master?"

"Is there some reason he shouldn't?" White Bull said, and then a suspicious look crossed his face. "Oh. So it was deliberate, then."

Rocking Hammer winced. "I thought you'd guessed ..."

"No, I hadn't," he said, with a wintry smile. "But ... it just shows me you're right."

"I'm sorry, Master."

"Yes, well ..." White Bull was silent for a moment. "I'm not sorry. Not at all. Except maybe for you. It's time, and past time. I'll make the announcement when we get back."

"Good," said Rocking Hammer, with real relief.

I was standing there in the cold, figuratively and literally. If we were moving, it would be better but just standing here in the wind was freezing. "You needed me for this? Whatever it was?"

White Bull shrugged. "Your part is now. I'd planned to ... ask Rocking Hammer to be your mentor, which he knew. And he made that impossible, last night. I'll be teaching you, myself, instead." White Bull paused. "If that's all right with you, Brad."

"Yes," I said. "That would be fine."

White Bull looked at Rock for a moment, and then smiled. "You'll be staying with Rocking Hammer, at first, though, unless ... unless you decide otherwise."

Oh. I swallowed and looked right back at White Bull. "That will be good. Sir." I sneaked a look at Rock, and he winked at me.

"I think Sledge promised to teach you trail finding, didn't he?" White Bull asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, why don't you tell him that White Bull and I are waiting for him," Rock said. "They should be about finished up in there, anyway."

"OK," I said. Anything to get out of the wind. Rock and White Bull might not feel it, but I sure did, so I was pretty happy to get back into the cave - out of the wind, it felt ten degrees warmer. I walked in, and found Sledge and Trask talking - they'd already finished. Oh well, we'd have to go out sooner or later.

Only then Trask put his hands to his mouth, and mimed howling.

Well, it was pretty obvious what they were talking about. I stopped, and tried to decide what to do. Being swallowed up by the earth didn't seem like an option. Unfortunately. I thought about going back outside, but that didn't seem very good either. That left walking up to them, and that sounded ...

About five seconds later, Sledge saw me standing by the entrance, said something to Trask, and came over to me. "Brad! We ..."

"Thought I was outside?" I said.

"That too," Sledge said. "Look," he started.

"No," I said. "Really. Leave it. It's fine. White Bull says we're ready to go."

"Yes." He turned around, and made a hand gesture to Trask, and then turned back to me, with an uncertain look. "I said I'd show you the trail and shelter markers, didn't I?"

"Yes," I said, grateful to move to some other - any other - topic.

We were pretty much able to keep to that for the morning. The trail markers are actually pretty clever - you'd never notice them if you weren't looking for them, and even if you did notice, you'd never know what it meant. The same goes for the shelter markers. That's because we Minosians - and I'm Minosian, just as much as I'm Morden - don't really want anyone wandering around our mountains unless they belong there.

It wasn't until after lunch that Sledge broached the subject again, and he didn't give me a chance to get away. I didn't really want to talk to Trask, and the two shamans had spent the entire time talking over something. They didn't exactly ask me to go away, but they were definitely working on something that didn't involve me.

"Brad, I want to explain something," Sledge started.

This again. "No, really, you don't ..."

"Yes, I do," Sledge said. "Look. You're from Morden. We ... we don't think of sex the way a Mordenite ... Mordinian? What do you call yourself, anyway?"

"Morden," I said. "I'm Morden, we're Morden."

"Right. The same way Morden do."

"Thanks," I said. "Can we let this go?"

"No," said Sledge, seriously. "We don't think of sex quite the same way. You wanted Rock, Rock wanted you - that's fine. That's the way it should be. And you had a good time. Didn't you?"

"I really don't want to talk about this," I said, in my latest entry for understatement of the year award.

The short minotaur just shook his head. "We - Trask and I - were admiring you. Okay? You've been, I hate to say sulking, but I'm not sure what other word I should use, all morning, when, dammit, you should be proud of yourself. That was beautiful last night. I thought it was beautiful. Trask thought it was beautiful. Okay?"

"Okay," I said firmly. "Thanks." Please, please, please, I thought- _ let this conversation be over _.

"Good," said Sledge. "Because, well, Trask and I would love you to come sleep with us. Tonight." A nervous smile fluttered across his muzzle. "If you'd like. That's - that's what we were discussing, really. Trask was ... was hoping he could be as enthusiastic as you were. You set a pretty high bar, you know?"

"That you ... were going to invite me?" I couldn't help it, my voice squeaked at the end.

"Yes," Sledge said, nodding emphatically.

And then the conversation was over. Sledge went back to pointing out trail markers - I was supposed to spot them first - and now I wondered if I really wanted the conversation over. And if that was really what Trask had been saying.

Our second night's shelter was in a stone hut. From the outside, it just looked like a jumble of boulders, but the boulders concealed a tiny four-room space, formed from the boulders. The spaces between were sealed with smaller stones and mortar, so that after Trask lit a fire, the entire space warmed up. Again, there was food there, and we had a pretty good dinner.

And after dinner was bedtime. Again, there were two of those thick feather-pads, and blankets and ... Rock, Sledge, and Trask all glancing at me.

I finally managed to draw White Bull aside for a quick conversation. "I'm wondering ..."

"'Wonder on, 'til Truth makes all plain,'" White Bull said, and then laughed. "Rock and I have a lot of logistics to hammer out. I'd made some assumptions about his teaching you ... and since I'm doing that, I have to transfer some things over to him. That's all we're talking about, really."

"No," I said. "It's more ... well, Rock. And Sledge."

"Oh," said White Bull. He shook his head. "I see. Well, that's certainly a legitimate subject to come to a teacher - or shaman - about. And since I'm both, now, go ahead."

How could I put this? "How do I turn them down? I mean, last night was weird enough, but ... I feel like they've all been ... well, looking at me. Since this morning."

White Bull blinked. "They have been. I mean, that was ... impressive."

I could feel my tail fluffing up. "Not you, too," I groaned.

The old shaman sighed. "All right, Brad. I should start this by asking you to remember that I didn't really choose to be a shaman. I was born white - I'm a shaman. Not much more to it than that. So far so good?"

"Yes," I said.

"Relatively few minotaurs - pretty much like relatively few wolven, are primarily attracted to their own sex. Gay, although strictly speaking that implies a sociological role and identity which, strictly speaking, are separate from same-sense attraction." White Bull paused. "This is too complex, I think."

"No, you're saying that liking other males is different than, well, buying into the whole gay thing."

The white shaman just stared for a moment before nodding. "Yes, that's essentially right. Now, in Morden, it's frowned on. In Minos, such males - and females - tend to become shaman. Not always. But usually."

Oh. "So Rock and Sledge and Trask ..."

"Sledge and Trask are married," White Bull said calmly. "Yes, to each other. Yes, I know that's not a thing that happens in Morden. They are each branded, on the upper right arm, with the other's mark. Yes, branded. Marriages are formalized with brands, in Minos.

"Rock is not partnered, but were he to do so, I would expect, given his previous attractions and interests, to wed a male." White Bull continued. "Is this helping?"

"It's ... it's a little much," I said.

The white head just nodded agreeingly. Whether or not he actually agreed, I couldn't tell, and in retrospect, I suspect he was just nodding to show he was listening. "Physical experimentation is a little more common in Minos," he went on. "And ... there's nothing wrong with a stable couple - like Sledge and Trask - taking someone less experienced into their relationship for a while. Or longer."

"But nothing and nobody says you have to go with them." White Bull looked me right in the eye. "If you like, I'll tell them - all of them - that you are hands-off until I say otherwise." He smiled. "I don't have to explain myself, all I have to do is say, hands off, and so it will be."

"Oh," I said. "Thank you."

"Do you want me to to do that, Brad?" White Bull said, a little concerned. "If they're pressuring you, they don't intend to."

"No," I said. "I ... I was just wondering ... maybe I shouldn't discuss this with you."

"You can discuss anything with me_,"_ White Bull said softly. "Otherwise, what's the point of having me?"

I hadn't really thought of it like that, but ... I guess he was right.

"I would like to ... well, you know."

"Pretend I don't," White Bull said.

"Well, sleep with one of them."

White Bull nodded. "But?"

"But ... I don't ... I don't want to seem like, well, a slut." I couldn't believe I was telling him this, but somehow ... somehow it wasn't as hard as it seemed. "I mean, I look at Sledge, and I get, well, all ... bothered. Hot. And then I look at Trask. And ... and it's the same. And then I get all worked up over Rock. I ... I mean, I've had crushes before, but ..."

"But they seem to be hitting you very hard now," White Bull said.

"Yes."

"There are a number of reasons this could be. First, you're now aware that your desires are reciprocated. Next, you're in a place where ... those actions are permissible, and even socially desirable, in a way they weren't previously. Also, there's the hiking. It's pretty strenuous."

"It is," I agreed. "But what does that ... that has something to do with this?"

"Yes," he said. "Physical exertion can have a ... stimulating effect."

"Oh."

White Bull smiled. "Do you want my advice? Or would you rather figure it out on your own?"

Did I want his advice? "Yes," I said. "Please."

"Our minds fill with black and white," White Bull said. "But the world is painted in gray." That's actually a shamanic maxim, one of the many phrases we shamans learn, and there's a tremendous amount of truth buried in it. There are answers that are better than others, and worse than some, but ultimately, Brad, there is almost never a right answer. Unfortunately, the converse doesn't hold. There are often wrong answers."

"That seems harsh," I said.

White Bull just smiled. "It sounds unfair?"

"That too," I answered. "No. It just sounds hard."

"It is hard," the shaman acknowledged. "But it's not as hard as it sounds. The question before you, Brad, is how do you apply this to your situation?"

What? I think he must have seen my confusion, because he kept talking. "There are many things you could do. What are some of them? What are the advantages? What are the disadvantages? For example, you could tell Rock, Sledge, and Trask that they revolt you, and you'd rather sleep outside in the snow than with them."

"That would be one of the bad ones," I said.

"I'd agree with that," said White Bull. "It would deprive you of shelter, and alienate your friends. And temperatures drop in the night. One of the reasons you slept between me and Rock was to keep you as warm as possible. You're not well suited to this, and you won't be, until we get further into your training."

I thought about that. Friends. Warmth. "I could just ask to ... well, be with them, but not, do anything. Couldn't I?"

White Bull nodded. "You could. But isn't that what you intended to do last night?"

It was, actually, and ... it hadn't worked out that way.

"Yeah," I said. "So I guess ... that isn't a good answer either."

"Oh, I don't know," said White Bull. "I'd say it's a better answer than where we started. There might be room for improvement. But I'd point out that a good answer addresses the central question. Maybe part of the problem here is that you don't really know what your question is. What are you really trying to solve?"

White Bull was making my head hurt. He was right, I don't know what I wanted, or what I wanted to do about it, or ... or anything, really. I just wanted to go to sleep! Except I knew once I got beside one of those minotaurs, I was going to want more contact. Why did they all have to be so damned hot and available, anyway?

I asked White Bull that, and he just grinned. "Available, because they like you, and they perceive you as hot. And that should answer the other part of your question."

I'd meant it as a rhetorical question. But ... what question was I really trying to answer? "I guess so," I said. "White Bull? Could we go back to the reason I'm having a problem with the answer is that I'm not asking the right question?"

"Yes!" said White Bull. "Excellent! I see I'm not wasting my time!" He paused, apparently to say something else - but he just gave the smallest shake of his head, and waited for me.

"What question? What should I ask? What am I trying to solve."

"My problem is," White Bull said slowly - very slowly - "that I'm not sure if you already know the answer or not. Were you taught moral psychology in Morden?"

"No," I said. "I wasn't. I mean, they teach us morality, how to ..." and I stopped as White Bull grimaced.

"Ah. That," he said, and a moment later he said, "Pretty useless, isn't it."

"What?"

"I mean, your moral decision - apparently - says that what you and Rock did was wrong, yes?"

"Well, sort of," I said, and watched something else shadow his gaze.

"And the same logic says that doing something with Sledge and Trask would be equally wrong, yes?"

"Yeah." I had a feeling he was going somewhere I wouldn't like.

"Elephants," he sighed. I didn't understand it then - I do know, of course, but it would take to long to explain it. Go read a book on moral psychology if you really want to know. If you can find one, in Morden.

"It means you've been brought up without clear moral teaching, that's what it means," White Bull said finally.

"I have not!"

"Then why are you here arguing with me about whether or not having sex with Rock, Sledge or Hammer is morally permissible or not? If you had the benefit of clear moral instruction - you wouldn't need to have this discussion. You'd know, and you wouldn't have any qualms about doing the right thing."

White Bull stood up. "So. Answer me yes or no, Brad Bon Urlo. Are you a decent person?"

"Yes," I said.

"Are you a good person?"

"Yes."

"Are you a moral person?"

I paused, and White Bull repeated the question - much louder. "Answer me! Yes or no?"

"No?"

The minotaur just sunk back onto the rock, looking defeated for a moment, but just for a moment. "Bullshit," he pronounced, and it sounded really really weird coming from him. "Bull-fucking-shit," he said slowly. "_ Complete and utter bullshit! _ Immoral persons, Brad Bon Urlo, do not spend time worrying about whether or not they are doing a - not the, we had that discussion, but a - right thing. The problem is not that you're immoral, but that you don't clearly understand your morals. Your crappy useless how-to Morden morality is colliding with your real morality."

"Oh," I said. I wish I could say I understood it then, but I didn't. Like White Bull said, though, it wasn't really something that I could expect of myself.

"I am a moral person," I said.

"Yes," White Bull said. "Say it again."

"I am a moral person," I said.

"Good. Are you a moral person?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to have sex - to be intimate - with Sledge and Trask?"

"Yes," I said, owning up to it.

"Now," he said. "Forget what you want to want, forget what you'd like to do - what do you think you're going to do?"

"Sleep with them," I said. "Er. Be intimate, I mean."

"Have sex."

"Yes."

"Fuck."

It took me a moment to realize that was a further clarification, not an interjection, but I still managed to stammer out a "Yes."

"Then let me give you some insight on this. No matter what you do tonight, it is not Rock or Sledge or Trask - or even me - who will consider you a 'slut,'" White Bull said calmly. "It's what you might think. Don't misunderstand me - there are things you might do that would lead them to think that, but simply taking them up on a perfectly normal - from a Minosian standpoint - offer of friendship and intimacy is not one of them. The real issue is that you are carrying around your own definition of 'slut,' and it's derived from your Morden experiences. The only person who can decide whether you can set that aside is you." He smiled, in a not very comforting kind of way. "Now you've got enough to make your decision, whatever it is. So shoo."

What he'd said was very much on my mind as I shooed over to our sleeping-room, the one buried the farthest in the rock (and not coincidentally, the warmest). The two minotaurs were talking softly - too softly for me to hear, anyway, and they looked up with - yes! - a very welcoming smile and maybe even slightly nervous smile. It's not just me! I smiled back. "Hi, guys!"

"Brad!" said Trask, looking uncomfortable for a moment. "Look, I really want to apologize if ..."

"Sledge explained it to me," I said. "And it's fine. Really." I think I even meant it.

"Thank you," Trask said, looking a little relieved. "We were ... well. We were hoping you'd join us."

"I was saying it wouldn't happen," Sledge admitted sheepishly. "But I'd love to be wrong."

"Well, I think I was being a little self-centered. Which .. well. I'm sorry. I'm really honored and ... and I'd love to spend the night with you two." I held out my hand.

Trask took my hand in his, cautiously, the larger minotaur hands completely engulfing my hand, and feeling wonderfully warm in the chill of the room. "Thank you, Brad," he said. He turned to Sledge. "Well?"

Sledge took Trask's hands - Trask still holding mine. "Thank you, Brad," Sledge said. "We were just getting ready for bed, actually."

I swallowed. I mean, I'd been all ready to do this just a second earlier. Why was I getting metaphorical cold paws now? Maybe I should just say 'thanks, but no thanks?' Before I could, though, Trask picked me up - and I mean, he just reached out, and picked me up, like you'd pick up a sack of flour. Well, not like that, he was careful about it, and he just folded me into his arms like I belonged there.

And it felt good, like I did belong there, and for a moment I forgot about the demon, forgot about the bizarre conversation I'd just had with White Bull, the embarrassment of this morning, the boring food, the freezing climate, the endless hiking through snow - all of that. The only thing was the alfalfa-musk-sweat smell of Trask, very male, very strong, and under that, much fainter, I could smell Sledge, adding a deep hint of tobacco to the strong alfalfa of Trask. I didn't so much go limp as melt into the ferocious heat of his body - and he was hot - almost burning. Was he -

"Trask? Are you OK? You're really hot."

"Thank you," he said.

"No, I mean you're burning up. Like a fever. Are you ..."

He chuckled, a deep low sound. "No, you're just cold, Brad. Here. Let -" and Sledge was behind me, carefully lifting off my clothes. "Sledge will set them out so they're dry for tomorrow. And you won't get too cold. I can do this for a while."

"You're doing that on purpose?" Well, duh!

"He said he's fatter than I am," Sledge said as he pulled my trousers down and off, along with my boots. "Here. Let me just -" and I was down to my pelt. Trask - and I'm not sure how he did this, had somehow taken his shirt off while he was holding me. I still, to this day, don't know how he did that. I've asked him, and he just laughs. I mean, it should be impossible. Sledge got Trask's pants and boots off in the normal way, and as he stepped out of them, I could at least feel that he hadn't been kidding when he said he was attracted to me. I could smell him - especially radiating heat like that - and his musk smelled so good that I was squirming in his grip, trying (and failing) to keep my own dick from showing.

"Mmmm," said Trask, nuzzling my ear - OH that felt GOOD. The stiff, short fur of his pelt let me feel the firm muscle underneath - I don't know why Sledge said Trask was fat, he was leaner than I was, not quite to the legendary washboard abs (not that even Minos uses washboards anymore), but I could definitely feel the ridges underneath his stomach. At this point, I was hard and straining, and leaving a sticky trail of pre against Trask's chest.

"That's nice," said Sledge, appreciatively, reaching around my back to grasp Trask and not so accidentally trap me between the two of them. He ran his hands down Trask's side - and mine, since Trask was holding me - and between the pressure, the heat radiating off Trask, and my own horniness, I was afraid I was going to lose it right there and then before we even got into bed. "Guys?"

"Yes?" purred Sledge, running a hand down my back - not hard, just smoothing the fur down, all the way to my ass, and I could feel myself twitching. "Could we ... uh. Oh," I moaned. Sledge's finger was rubbing circles around my ass, hard, into the glutes, and well it was incredible and intense and I could feel the knot emerging from my sheath - forcing its way out, and if it didn't feel so damn good it would have hurt like hell. I hate it when that happens. I managed to gasp out, "Guys, slow down, ... I ..." but was already too late, I was spurting white seed across Trask, one, two, and then Trask's mouth found my shaft, and Sledge was supporting me mid-air. Trask was still hot, and his mouth on my shaft, and his hands closing around my knot added Trask's fiery warmth to the incredible feel of another male's paws on me. I almost bucked out Sledge's grasp - I nearly slammed Trask in the face - the sensation went way beyond pleasure into intensity that was unbelievable. I'm sure I was howling, but I don't remember it; all I remember now is the burn of pleasure. Or more correctly, I remember hearing myself howling, I don't remember doing it. All I remember is that incredible burn, that felt so good it hurt.

I'm not even sure how long it lasted - how long my knot was hard - but by the time I'd stopped dribbling seed into Trask, I was shivering with cold, and grateful to be folded back into the intense heat that Trask was generating. Sledge leaned down and over, and licked up the first few spurts from Trask's chest and face. "Mmm," he said softly in my ear, "that should take the edge off, eh?"

I was still dazed when Sledge lifted the bedding and Trask - still carrying me - slid in, followed quickly by Sledge. "He's cold now," Sledge said. "And you're ..."

"I'm letting go," said Trask. "It should be fine now. But you can do it next time."

"Fair enough," Sledge said.

I found myself recovered enough to ask, "Do what?"

"I guess you'd call it speeding up your metabolism to generate heat," Sledge said. "It's - well, it's not hard, exactly, but it is tiring - like sprinting at full speed. Trask is going to need some time to recover."

"Unlike me," I said.

That got a laugh out of both of them. "Yeah," said Trask. "And since I was doing all the work ..."

"Nothing better," said Sledge, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "Brad? How are you feeling?"

"A little ... well, pretty beat," I said, honestly. "But ..." I swallowed. "That was really ... intense. I mean, really intense."

"Well," said Sledge, softly ruffling my fur, "I hope you liked it. I can guarantee Trask did."

"He did?"

"I know what he likes," Sledge said wryly, "and he loves someone as ... enthusiastic as you are; this is exactly what he was hoping he could do this morning. Believe me - here," and Sledge took my hand down Trask's chest - lower, until it bumped Trask's shaft - at least as hard as I had been, and if the rest of Trask was still radiating heat, then his shaft was on fire - almost too hot to hold.

Almost. The soft, almost inaudible moan as I gripped him was delicious. I could feel the shiver of his body through the feather-mattress, the riffle of his pelt against my own fur. He wasn't saying anything, but there was a quiet noise - not quite breathing, not quite moaning, but the sound made me grin; it reminded me of - well, me a minute or two ago. Trask had made me feel so damn good - he and Sledge - and I was seized by the desire to show him just how good I could make him feel. I guess Sledge must have picked up on that, somehow, or maybe I was obvious about it, but when Sledge whispered to me that Trask liked to have someone bite his nipples, gently, I rolled over a little, and took the little nubbin of flesh into my muzzle, licking it gently, feeling it harden, stiffen, lengthen, almost like it were another little cock - certainly the reaction I was getting from Trask, a soft panting kind of sound, and then he reached around, and pulled me into his chest. He smelled so good - minotaur alfalfa-musk, with his own individual flavor, spicy, like a mix of nutmeg with a hint of peppercorns - and he tasted of salt, herbaceous with that elusive hit of spice. I don't know if he tasted better, or just the total pleasure he was in was better for me, but when I switched over to the other side of his chest, crawling up on top of him, he grunted and helped pull me onto him.

Sledge wasn't just watching, his hands were teasing Trask just liked they'd teased me earlier, if with less drastic results, and Trask was running his hands through my fur as I licked at him, running the roughness of my tongue over the small hairless circles and the hard little nipple. I could feel his shaft behind me, and I slapped it - deliberately - with my tail, back and forth, back and forth, as I licked him, slapping not only his shaft, but Sledge's arm, too. Damn if I wasn't getting hard again - but it wasn't the insane boiling lust I'd felt the first time. This just felt good, really good, a warm urgency that wasn't overpowering.

Yet.

Trask seemed to be getting closer to the edge, and Sledge tapped my shoulder, guided me up from Trask despite his groan of protest, for a kiss. A kiss! He licked my lips, and I could taste the very faint salt/bitter/metallic of my own seed - and there was just something so damned hot about that - I pushed back against his tongue, licked his teeth and tasted his mouth. I was hard again, my shaft was rubbing on Trask's belly, and I could feel hints of slipperiness as I realized I was leaking again. Sledge pulled back, grinned, and whispered into my ear, "Do you want Trask? He's really close, I can tell."

I didn't understand what he was asking at first, and then I felt a blush ts my own naivety - Sledge was offering me what Trask had had from me. I'd never ... but it just sounded so good, to feel Trask's pleasure as he shot, to take his essence like he'd taken mine - at that moment, wanted to make both of them as deliriously blissfully ecstatic as they'd made me earlier; I wanted to show my appreciation for these two beautiful minotaur males who'd welcomed me to their bed.

I positioned myself gingerly between Trask's legs - well muscled, firm, meaty legs, I might add, and lowered my head to his crotch. The aroma of aroused male was intoxicating, and as I tentatively reached out my tongue to Trask's shaft, I could actually feel it pulsing with his heartbeat. Trask didn't have that ferocious heat he'd had earlier, but he was still warm - warmer than I was, and as I suckled on him, I wondered how it felt, to have a coolness there. He tasted wonderful, his slickness slightly sweet and salty, viscous and slippery, forming a lubricated layer between my tongue and his shaft. It was a wonderful connection with this male, especially since I'd lusted after him since I'd seen him, standing by White Bull all muscled and tough and male and now I wasn't just touching that same male, he'd taken me, taken my seed, and I was going to do it to him -

Hands, pulling me down onto him, a repressed groan, his shaft filling my muzzle, tickling my throat, my lips up against the very base of his sheath - fortunately, minotaurs didn't have knots, but Trask was thicker and longer than I was. I wasn't entirely sure how -

The first jet of seed hit the back of my throat; I felt it as a hotness and wetness, rather than tasting it - I pulled back, or at least I tried to, against Trask's grip on me. I wanted to taste him as he came in me, the tantalizing metallic-salt smell of seed, the hint of minotaur musk, even the faint hint of nutmeg/mace filled my senses as the thick liquid essence was thrust into me, spurting into my throat, filling my throat and nose with the scent of aroused and fulfilled male - I struggled to get up, take his fluids in my mouth - savor them, but Trask held me fast, my muzzle pressed against his shaft as it pulsed, sending his seed into me as he sighed with his own pleasure.

After a moment, though, he relented, and I was able to just hold the tip, and suckle out the last few spurts, catching them on my tongue, finally tasting him! His seed tasted ... like it smelled, only better, richer, with a glorious thickness that coated the inside of my muzzle with his taste. I just lay on him, catching the last pulses of his fluid, and then he pulled me up to his face - I was staring directly into his huge brown eyes, and I couldn't help noticing - and I don't know why it seemed so important at that moment - but he had the thickest eyelashes, like dark black lace. And then his tongue was lashing my lips, forcing its way into my mouth, just as his embrace was crushing me into him. We fenced with our tongues, but his size gave him a massive advantage - Sledge had only shown me the very tip of his tongue, but Trask extended his tongue into my muzzle. The rough feeling of him against the roof of my mouth was strange, but exhilarating, The only thing I regretted was that his saliva hastened the dissolution of his seed, it was as if it were losing its thickness, liquefying, and I gulped at the mixture, curiously unwilling to let even a drop of him go.

But of course it did, and finally Trask pulled back, pulled his tongue out of me, ruffling the fur on my head. "Marvelous," he said, so quietly that I'm not even Sledge, laying next to us, heard me, although a deep chuckle made me think he did.

And then I was on top of Sledge, my shaft trapped between us, and his - his was between my legs, and as hard as his partner's had been, nudging up against the base of my tail - "I don't think I'm ready ..." I said.

"No," said Sledge, although I heard some regret in his voice. "We really shouldn't do that here."

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. "Later, maybe."

"Maybe," Sledge said, with an amused tone. "But for now ... would you do for me what you just did for Trask?"

Would I? Would I? "Yes," I said, slowly lowering myself down. I gave Sledge's chest a lick or two, but he pushed me down, very softly, and I took the hint. He smelled very much like Trask - alfalfa, musk, and spicy hints of - peppercorns, and a dash of nutmeg - no, I realized, Trask smelled of nutmeg, and Sledge of pepper - I was just smelling the other on them. It didn't matter. I was hardly in a mood to argue the fine points of aroma with anyone, much less myself. I was feeling drunk, lightheaded, elated - completely fantastic. Sledge's shaft, like Sledge himself, was a little smaller and more compact than Trask's but it still exercised a compelling fascination. Between the heavy covers and the dim room, there was no light. I couldn't see it, any more than I'd seen Trask, but I could feel it - hard, heavy, I could - and did - trace the veins lightly with a claw while Sledge moaned. It was a wonderful sound, like a deep happy moan, and I wanted to hear more.

Fortunately for me, Sledge wasn't quite so aggressive - he was happy to let me explore him with my tongue and nose - licking the lovely soft skin of his sack, tasting the musk of his thighs, the base of his shaft - up the sheath and around it, the sweet/salt slipperiness, all leading up to moment I took him completely into my muzzle - but not all at once; I wanted to play with him, I wanted to make him want it, the way I wanted him, I wanted to tease him, nibbling every so lightly at the head, then taking the firm flesh deeper into my muzzle, blowing my hot breath around his shaft, picking up the aroma of arousal that was making me crazy, mellow, but crazy, I knew what would happen, I was looking forward to it but in a relaxed way. With Trask, I'd wanted it now. With Sledge, I was having such a good time playing with him, letting myself taste and feel and enjoy the sheer maleness of him, that when his thighs tightened and his sac twitched in preparation for his release, I was almost disappointed. At the same time, the deep moaning of total pleasure that I - I!- had coaxed out of this wonderful male was so wonderful, so rewarding that it made me happy just to listen to him. And this time, I wrapped my paw around his shaft; I could take his seed directly in my mouth - I could feel the viscous warmth on my tongue and lips, smell the metallic saltiness, the underlying minotaur and pepper, feel the force behind the spray, over and over and over, until I felt I was drowning in copious minotaur seed. I'd drown happy!

Sledge was panting by the time he'd finished, and then he reached down to give my own shaft a caress - I was hard again, maybe not quite as hard as I'd been when Trask started, but the double dose of minotaur semen was like a double hit of espresso. However long I'd hiked today, as bitterly cold as it has been, I was warm now, and despite being in bed, not the least ready for sleep.

Sledge pulled me up, on top of him, and engulfed my shaft. Trask hadn't had a chance to do anything, since I'd already been coming when he took me, but I was quite far from that point when Sledge started. I thought I'd been teasing him, but now Sledge was teasing me - really teasing me. He had an advantage, since a minotaur's tongue is longer than a wolven's, and he really knew how to use it - I can't describe half of what he did, wrapping his tongue around my shaft, practically masturbating me with his tongue, and then doing the same to my balls - I was writhing; trying desperately to hump his mouth, but it didn't work. Sledge had me just where he wanted me - and I have to admit it was a pretty marvelous place to be. All I remember is that by the time I came, I was practically begging him to let me finish.

And I slept well that night.

In the morning, we woke to discover that Rocking Hammer was gone; he had taken only travel-bars and left in the night. White Bull insisted that we, too, take travel-bars and leave.

"There's a storm coming. We need to travel further than I expected."

"Will Rock meet us there?" I asked.

"If he does," White Bull said slowly, "It will be because he was trapped by the storm. He's headed on into Labyrinth. We'll shelter at High Lodge."

"We will?" asked Sledge, with a sort of incredulous expression. "Really? We're going to be stormbound at High Lodge? Fantastic!" Trask had a smile, too.

"We were headed there anyway," White Bull said, almost apologetically. "I ... I have something to tell you. You should know, we're going there on Rocking Hammer's sufferance."

The expression on the faces of the two warriors became blank, then almost sad, before returning to a neutral expression.

"We've been wondering if you would step down," Trask said.

The old white minotaur sighed. "I've wanted to ... Rocking Hammer convinced me, yesterday. He's..." he turned to me. "Brad; Rocking Hammer is now First Shaman of Minos. High Lodge is the First Shaman's private retreat. It was my retreat, until yesterday. Rocking Hammer has kindly allowed us to use it."

"Kindly?" said Sledge. "It's the least he can do!"

"Ah," said White Bull. "Well." He looked around, picked up his backpack, and headed out of the boulder-shelter. "Yes and no. There aren't many places the First Shaman can actually relax. High Lodge is one of them just because it's isolated. Rocking Hammer is going to learn just what a difference there is between being a senior shaman and being First." The white minotaur sighed.

"White Bull?" asked Trask. "He's been ready for the last three years, at least - and ..." he paused, and looked at Sledge. "And we know."

"Know? Know what?"

"What you and he were hiding," Trask said. "We don't know the details, of course. But we know."

White Bull looked up at the sky; heavy with clouds, and the promise of snow.

More snow.

"I ... had wondered," White Bull said, and then glanced at me. "Brad knows, too. So, just to get it out, it's a form of lymphatic cancer. Morden bioengineering would probably extend my life a little, but ... there are shamanic techniques that are almost as good, and certainly better as far as lucidity goes, and I value that over time. And now that I've brought up time ..." he paused, and grinned. "I have time, still. Any questions?"

"Yes," said Sledge bluntly. "I know those practices, and they burn years."

"It's not as if I'd have them anyway," the older shaman said.

"No," replied Trask. "That's not what he meant. They also impact endurance. You shouldn't be making this hike."

The minotaur snorted. "That's good of you!" His eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me how or where to spend my time - either of you. Since it will make you happy, for whatever reason, I'm planning nothing strenuous after we reach High Lodge. This trip ... I had to make it."

"Why?" asked Sledge, not quite challenging, but clearly not convinced.

White Bull started walking up the trail. "I don't ..."

"Yes you do," interrupted Sledge. "Don't pretend otherwise. It's our time, too."

"True," acknowledged White Bull. "You're right. And the factors ..." he glanced at me again. "Well. No matter. I needed to see the demon for myself. And I needed to give Rocking Hammer the opportunity to convince himself he was ready. I couldn't just order him to take over, after all."

Trask snorted. "Yes you could have."

"No," said White Bull calmly. "The First Shaman has to be ready to take an active role, he has to step in when the time comes. And sometimes, he has to engineer the moment to step in."

"It was a test?"

"Everything is a test," White Bull shot back. "Just like everything is an opportunity. He had it. He saw the need. He made the moment - and when it came, he accepted it. Don't think he's the first one I gave the moment to - I still think he's too young, and far too ready to embrace change for the sake of change! But ... Slide didn't take his chance. Dance refused - deliberately, I might add." An unhappy look crossed his face. "Temblor missed the moment. Rocking Hammer has the seniority and ..." he sighed.

"You didn't want him as First Shaman?" I asked.

"I'm a conservative old bull," White Bull said, almost bitterly. "Part of my job - a very big part of my job - was to prevent the technological degradation of Morden from rooting itself in Minos."

"Degradation?"

"Soulessness - well, not that, but the lack of caring about a soul. Caring about soul. About tradition, about your ancestors, about your family, about your friends and community," White Bull said. "Don't misunderstand, I'm not saying technology is inherently immoral, but it seems to lead inevitably to immorality."

"How so?"

"Can you name your ancestors even three generations back?" said White Bull.

"No," I said.

"Who are the three greatest artists of Morden? And which three are your personal favorites?"

"Uh ..." I mean, there were so many. The greatest? My favorites?

White Bull shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Brad," he said with a sigh. "I don't expect you to agree with me, even after I've shown you what Morden has given up in its rush towards technological dystopia." He smiled, grimly. "Maybe you'll think it's worth it."

"Riled does, doesn't he?"

"Maybe," grunted White Bull. "I'd like him to go to Morden for a year, two, three - leave Minos. See if that's really what he wants. I'd lay money that he'll come back to his clan, in a year, maybe two at the outside, with his technological itch finally scratched. But that won't happen until he goes." The shaman was silent for a moment. "Maybe he wouldn't come back. But ... ha. Having him there, not happy with one, not happy with the other, has long been an itch of mine."

"Oh," I said. I mean, what else could I say?

"So I sent him to Minos Station, where he could meet Morden, make contacts, maybe even find a way to move there ..." White Bull sighed. "It's Rocking Hammer's problem now. I only have one thing left."

"What's that?" I asked, interested, and then, a moment later, I realized. "Me, you mean."

"Yes," said White Bull grimly, and then with effort, he said, "Yes," again, in a much lighter tone. "I'm sorry, Brad. For almost fifty years I've worried about Minos and Morden and Sarre and Deicia and the Elevator traffic and ... and somehow keeping the soul of Minos alive in the midst of it all." His eyes focused on the far horizon. "It's hard to just ... just surrender that, when I've been carrying it for so long, no matter how great the soul that's picked it up."

"You think Rocking Hammer has a great soul?" Sledge asked.

"Oh yes," said White Bull, in an offhanded way that was somehow more convincing of his sincerity than a solemn oath might have been. "I just worry that ..." he trailed off, unwilling or unready to finish.

"Yes?" prompted Sledge. "If that's true, what's to worry about?"

The old shaman just trudged through the snow almost forlornly, before answering, finally, "Small souls."

The storm had broken by the time we reached High Lodge. I had, foolishly, thought I understood just how cold the high plateaus could be. I was wrong. The howling wind that accompanied the snow pulled the heat right out of thermacloth, right through the coat and out of the silks. At least it wasn't wet, that would have been a disaster, but there was no chance of that - anything even remotely wet would freeze solid instantly.

I expected we'd try to find some shelter from the blizzard - but after a few shouts of consultation, White Bull and Trask decided to continue on. About a minute into it, Sledge just picked me up and carried me - I protested, but he just said if he didn't, I'd get lost. Or rather, he shouted it. Even with his head a few inches away, it was hard to hear him over the storm. I have to admit that I don't think I would made it if he'd put me down - and maybe even the extra weight helped him against the wind. More likely it didn't. I'm not sure how long he carried me, but he and Trask switched off three times before we finally reached the shelter of High Lodge. Being carried - ah, who am I kidding? I was nearly asleep from hypothermia when we reached the tunnel that led into the lodge.

Getting out of the wind helped, a little - the thermacloth was doing the best it could, but out in that wind, the heat just got sucked right out of it. I revived a little in the tunnel - enough that Trask set me down, and I managed to stumble past the doors - and past the next set of doors - into the lodge. There were two minotaurs waiting for us, and they were talking with White Bull and Sledge and Trask, and I have no idea what they were saying. I know they got me out of my clothes, and into a hot pool - so hot it hurt, but White Bull got in with me, and that's all I remember.

When I woke up, I was in another one of those feather-mattress bed things, between Sledge and Trask - which I liked - and Trask was asleep. Sledge was up, though, and he just looked at me. The room itself was stone, small, with no windows, but there were rugs on the floor, and tapestries on the walls, and it was actually warm - warm enough that all we had was the feather-mattress and a fairly light sheet. It was nice to breathe air that didn't sting from the cold, I realized, and then it dawned on me just how cold it must have been. Wolven were designed for cold weather.

"What happened?" I asked, and Sledge pretty much explained the hypothermia, the hot immersion to bring my temperature back up, and that White Bull was feeling pretty bad about taking me out in this weather - but he'd had to be here to meet another couple of shaman - and confirm Rocking Hammer as the new First. If he hadn't been here, ... well, there could have been troubles.

"Trask and I feel ... pretty bad, too," Sledge admitted. "We should have told White Bull it was too far; we knew the storm would catch us out in the open. But the cold really ... well, we can ignore it, if we're ready for it. White Bull promised that would be the very first thing he teaches you."

"Well, as long as there's no frostbite ..." I paused. "How cold was it out there, anyway?"

"About fifty below," Sledge said, and then paused. "That's in Fahrenheit. I don't remember what the Celsius would be ... that's what you use in Morden, isn't it?" He moved just a little closer to me, and that's when I realized we were both fur-naked. Trask was, too, but he was asleep. Maybe.

"Yeah," I said. "I can't believe you still use that old system ..."

Sledge just sighed. "The First Shaman have always said that those old systems are better because they came about as people needed them; they were adapted to persons, not immutable principles of science. And I see the point, especially in distances - a meter is pretty clumsy unit - but I'm not so convinced about temperature."

"A liter isn't that bad," I said.

"Ah," said Sledge. "No, but you can't keep chopping it in half. A gallon, on the other hand, is four quarts, which are four cups."

I just stared at him. "And that's supposed to be easier?"

Sledge gave me a puzzled look. "Well, maybe not," he said. "But that's the idea." He paused. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"A little thirsty ..."

He helped me drink, and then I was just tired again, and fell asleep.

I felt a lot better the next day, and White Bull showed me around High Lodge, and even showed me the various grand windows that looked out on the lowlands of Minos - at the moment, they showed only a dark gray and white vista of snow and clouds. White Bull had a suite next to mine, and Sledge and Trask shared one across the hall. There were also three caretakers, an elderly couple (Basil and Temiania) who served as cook and handyman, and a horse, Ludvig, a young stallion - who did pretty much everything else.

High Lodge is actually named after Mount High, the second-tallest mountain in the Minosian Gnostic Mountains (the tallest is Mount Spire, and it's only about twenty feet taller than Mount High). The lodge is about a third of the way up the mountain, and it's pretty nice, in a low-tech kind of way. It's not very conveniently located, but it does have hot springs that provide plenty of hot water, and there are hot pools in the lower sections - nine of them. It also has performance rooms, a library (really three rooms stuffed with scrolls, no console access - no console! - and no lights, no gas lights, nothing. There are quadruple-paned windows (yes, four panes) that let in sunlight, and after that, we have wax candles. There are no fireplaces - White Bull says it's just too cold. He tried to explain how the ventilation system worked, and it has to to with the hot spring, but there's pretty much no direct connection between outside and in. Too damn cold outside.

Inside, it's pretty nice. The hot pools are great, of course. The rugs and blankets are all hand-woven, and works of art, or at least, they would be works of art in Morden. Here, they're rugs and blankets, which have more to do with insulating us from the stone walls and floors (which are chill) than keeping us warm - that ventilation system I mentioned keeps the air warm.

We had a day to recover, and then - White Bull, Trask, and Sledge began training me. I'd spend the morning doing dreamworking with White Bull, and then the afternoon with Trask learning ... well, it's hard to describe. You might think of it as a martial art, but it's not, really, it just looks like one. And at night, I'd cuddle up with Trask and Sledge and ... well, we'd get to sleep whenever we got to sleep. Sometimes we'd take a candle down to hot pools and ... well, we wouldn't get to sleep at all. White Bull generally excused me from dreamwork the next day, although he made it clear it wasn't to happen more than 'now and then.' A month into my training, when White Bull was quizzing me over what I'd learned - and was asking about things I'd done with Sledge and Trask I finally realized that the sex was training, too.

"Oh."

White Bull had just smiled, and gone on to other things, and I went with him - even after a month, he had me practicing presence. They all did, really. I thought it was silly, of course, at first, but with the concentrated attention of White Bull and Trask (not that Sledge was less qualified, but generally he was my sparring partner). From time to time, though, he and Trask would trade places, and I realized that Sledge was a total perfectionist. Trask would show me a technique, or a move, or a practice, and I'd practice with Sledge, until I was pretty good. And then Trask and Sledge would trade places, and Sledge would make me - and Trask, too - do it perfectly. I learned a tremendous amount, most of it - almost all of it, things I can't write down, because they wouldn't make sense.

And nobody ever mentioned the demon. I slept, every night, with Sledge and Trask - and that was wonderful - and I studied every morning and every night with White Bull, and he was trying to cram a year - more, I think - of instruction into that time. I slept fine, and when I didn't, it was because of dreamwork I was doing with White Bull. I didn't have a single nightmare. That alone was enough to convince me I was doing the right thing, and in the erratic mail to and from my parents, I told them. They responded they were happy that it was working, and that they missed me.

I missed them, too.

It wasn't until Rocking Hammer pulled Sledge and Trask out that I realized just how attached to them I'd become. He needed them to run a Mordenguard cold-weather survival course, so they were gone for nearly two months. Of course, White Bull wasn't left without bodyguards. Dance and Lode came - Dance, as it turned out, was both a shaman and a spirit warrior - one of three. She was as remorseless a taskmaster as Sledge. Lode was a lot of fun, though - yes, they were partners.

I learned a lot from Dance, both warrior technique and shaman lore - and things I couldn't learn from White Bull. I was really embarrassed when she started going into all the details of ... well, I'll spare you, other than to say she gave me a thorough and complete lesson in intimate female anatomy.

"Something you've never picked up, I imagine," she said.

"No."

"Well, minotaur parts are pretty much the same as wolven parts," she said, and she'd gone on to explain the differences, and how both differed from a mare's anatomy and I managed to get through it without too much embarrassment, except for when she was demonstrating something to me on herself. And, after I got over the 'ick' factor, some of the stuff on child-bearing and other female-specific concerns was interesting. I hope I'll never need it, but as she pointed out, there aren't a lot of female shamans and females need care, too, and sometimes someone needs to explain these details to a male. Besides, a shaman should know a little about everything. I may not be an obstetrician, or even a midwife - but I can deliver fox, wolven, minotaur, horse, elk, sheep, goat babies. In theory, anyway, and so far, that's all been theory. I've had to explain how to make love to a female a number of times, though, so ... those lessons were really useful.

No, I've never used them personally, but I don't have to say that to someone I'm counseling, do I?

As time passed, and I started learning more advanced shamanic practices - non-presence, for example, and dreamwalking, and some of the imposition work that involves involuntarily shifting someone else into a dreamtime, I began to understand why White Bull and Rocking Hammer were keeping me here, at High Lodge. High Lodge was in a quiet dream itself, and those who came here were practiced shamans or spirit warriors or even just practiced laypersons who were quiet dreamers. It's complicated to explain, but the result is that the demon couldn't reach me here, not unless I reached out to it. And White Bull was making sure that didn't happen.

Yet.

It would happen, and everything that Trask and Dance had taught me, and White Bull, I would need. I was going to go demon-hunting.

I knew the time was getting close when White Bull finally started talking about demons, what they were, where they came from, what creates them - he'd explain them to a Morden as Manichean residue of the Jungian consciousness, and that's probably a better explanation than I could manage in similar circumstances. The real problem was that White Bull didn't want to destroy the demon (and there are some very sound reasons for that. Mucking about with dreamtime phenomena always causes more trouble than it solves ), but he did want to know how a dreamtime menace could afflict someone with a Morden scientific mindset (only he didn't quite put it like that). To do that, I'd need to do more than drive off or disperse the demon. I'd need to trap it, and that's difficult. A dreamtime creature is as ephemeral as dreamtime itself; trapping a demon is like trapping a wisp of smoke with iron bars, or sealing a moonbeam in a wooden casket. White Bull needed me to catch the meow of Schrödinger's cat.

I knew enough about demons at this point that I agreed with White Bull. In all the stories about demons, in all the collected dreamtime lore, there was no suggestion, no hint, nothing, as to how a demon could fasten itself onto an untouched innocent - and I was certainly innocent, and neither White Bull nor I found any hint that I had been touched by the kind of thing that might attract a demon. Now when a shaman - and although I wouldn't have called myself a shaman at that point, but ... I was an apprentice shaman, certainly, and when I say 'innocent', I don't mean without sin, or some state of perfected grace or any of that nonsense (well, there's some limited value to it, but I don't want to go into that here). I mean, without any crushing weight of guilt - because it's that guilt that can attract a demon. And by 'untouched', I mean nothing that might attract a demon has been placed on me - call it a kind of curse. Manichean residue is a good phrase - although here it means something a little different that when White Bull used it to describe demons, but it's still ... close enough.

I haven't talked much about the dreamtime, or more and less correctly, the dreamtime_s_, because there's really no way to talk about them that's accurate. The better I describe them, the worse your idea of what they are will be - and yes, I know how that sounds. It's as close as I can come. White Bull could have done better, I'm sure.

So I got the demon.

I know, it would sound better if there was a big fight, and a struggle, and I just barely managed to scrape by my wits, courage, and a little bit of luck at just the right moment - but, it wasn't. Demons are cunning, shrewd, and just smart enough to be predictable, once you know one's there. They have no chance against a fully trained shaman, and not much of a better one against even a half-trained one like me, and when it's up against one of the best dreamworkers in Minos, two spirit warriors, and even its prey is a well prepared apprentice shaman - it took us about an hour, no longer, and it even took us that long only because I was going to do something I don't recommend to anyone.

The problem wasn't the the demon. The problem was finding out how it came to me. And that meant I had to do to the demon what it wanted to do to me - swallow it. Go through its memories - which were in some sense my memories - to find the ones I didn't also have. Using those, I would need to figure out where it came from, and then ... and then ... well, I didn't know what then, and wouldn't, until we figured out the first part.

A demon picks up the vilest impulses from those around it, and expands on them, turning the smallest imagined fault into a crowbar to use against the psyche of its victims. In my case, my fantasies of male sex, and other faults and images that I acknowledge, but will never mention. The closest thing I can come to the experience is willingly submitting to a rapist, answering every and any question he asks completely honestly, and then engaging in any act he demands. I had thought I had night terrors before; now I truly had them. I would wake up screaming, and unlike before, I would remember the details. They still make me cringe.

Sledge, thank all things, Sledge got me through it. Trask helped, and White Bull helped too, but he mainly helped Sledge and Trask cope. Sledge and Trask helped me, but it was mainly Sledge. Trask helped Sledge, I know, but it was Sledge I leaned on the most. I confided the terrible things in my memory - mostly fictional except in the demon's dreams, but still lodged horribly in me. I don't know what he told Trask or White Bull; I never asked, and I don't want to know. All I know is without him, I would have gone suicidal, almost certainly I'd have killed myself to stop it. Sledge kept telling me - reminding me, really, of what White Bull had taught me and what I knew: eventually it would end. I would have dealt with the demon, and I would even be stronger for it.

And it did end; it took a month before the night terrors ended, and another month before the nightmares stopped, and another two months of 'observation,' as White Bull called it. Which was also another four months of shaman-training. The last two months I actually spent in Labyrinth, rather than at High Lodge. Until the demon was dealt with, the last thing White Bull wanted to do was bring it anywhere near Labyrinth - the city of dreams. The demon would have run amok there.

Labyrinth is where the shamans come to practice dreamwork; the dreamtime is closer there than in other places. White Bull says it's a place where the dreamtime spilled into chaos to create our world, but I suspect it's just because so many shamans have been there, and some little remnant of them and their dreams stays, like a tremendous ocean of dreams. I told Rocking Hammer that it seemed unlikely to me that the universe's center was actually the Grand Tortoise (it's a large, very sacred stone outcropping that, unless you're a shaman, you'll never see). He asked me why the dreamtime had to tip into this realm - his term for the universe - in only one place, and pointed out that perhaps it was the dreams of the shamans of today that had caused the spill then.

Labyrinth isn't that big, unless (or until) you count in the dreams there. It's very easy to step into someone's dream, or an old dream that's been slumbering. It's dangerous because the dreams can be dangerous, and the dreams can cover features of the terrain that are dangerous - dreams of bridges across real chasms, for example. A shaman quickly learns to understand what is dream and what is real and just how vanishingly thin the line between them is, and even, eventually, that there isn't really a line between them. At that point, a shaman can easily cross a dream of a bridge across a dream of a chasm to reach the dream of the other side.

Trask stayed with me the first week in Labyrinth, both to show me the sites - there are some wonders there. The butterfly tree - each butterfly is a dream crafted by a dreamworker, different, unique, beautiful. It's practically a rite of passage for an apprentice shaman to create a butterfly to add to the swarm, and I added several, some of them even drawn from what was left of the demon. Transforming the black gleam of menace, the bright red of a thin cut, the white of old bone into a memory, and then just a memory, and finally a thing of beauty, however severe and stark took me hours, but I felt better after I did. It was purifying, and when I walked forward to release my offering, the swarm fluttered around me, filling me with a thousand thousand glimpses of what others, before me, had offered.

There were also teaching dreams, constructed by older shamans and even a few spirit warriors, stories, combats, wonderful things, and Trask showed them to me, dreams of lovers and gifts, the memories of meetings, of brandings (as the Minosians count marriage), even dreams of funerals, dreams of dreams and dreams of dreams of dreams.

There's a good reason the minotaurs call it 'Labyrinth.' Not even White Bull nor Rocking Hammer knew everything about the dreams of Labyrinth, and I think every student found something, some place, some recollection, some aspect of dream that perhaps no other living person had seen or known. It might be that we create them ourselves, little private places we cherish in our hearts. Mine was in a cave, warm from a hot spring filled with warm white mineral water, a strong mineral smell and on the ceiling a galaxy of fine crystals, gleaming like stars in the candlelight. Just large enough for a wolven, on a short and heavy chain, were four heavy iron manacles. A dark black iron key rested on the ledge above, with the candle, and my heart beat a little faster when I saw them. I returned there several times during my stay, but alone. Always alone.

I had a number of trips with Sledge and Trask, as well. Sledge led us over a bridge into a series of ice canyons, carved from infrequent midsummer rains, high in the plateau - or maybe just a dream of them, it was hard to tell. The three of us made love there, Sledge taking me me his, and I taking Trask. We stained the walls with hoarfrost formed from our passion. Trask took us to an overlook - I knew this was deep in a dream, because from here you could see the world. All of it, stretched out before us, and we had a picnic on cold roast rabbit, fresh bread, and minotaur springwater - it's water cold-brewed with herbs. There are as many recipes as there are minotaurs, I think, and Trask's was wonderful, light, tasting like fresh-cut grass smells, perfect with the fresh bread and butter. We stayed there all afternoon, and Trask made slow love to me, me sitting in his lap, moving myself on him, and Sledge sat facing Trask, embracing both of us as we watched the world and took deep pleasure from each other.

Usually would-be shamans start out learning lore and craft and healing, and all the common, practical things that a shaman has to know. It's only toward the end of their apprenticeship that they start dreamwork. I was doing it backwards, and now, in Labyrinth, I understood why. The day to day stuff grounds you, it keeps you present like nothing else can, because ultimately, all of dream is a reflection of a reflection. I didn't want to stare at the reflection anymore, and I told White Bull that, nearly two months after we'd come to Labyrinth.

"Good," was all he said. "You leave tomorrow. Trask will take you."

"I want to the rest of the training. I need it."

"Yes," White Bull said. "And you will get part of what you need in Morden."

Family, he meant, although he hadn't bothered to say it.

"But I'll need to come back," I said.

"That ... that will take care of itself," he said with a smile. It was clear he knew something I didn't. I also knew better than to ask him directly. "I doubt my parents will be excited about that," I said.

White Bull shook his head. "The heart will call you back," he said, and something about the way he shook his head told me I'd get no more from him about that.

"Very well," I said, and then, because I couldn't bear not to ask, "Will you be there, Master?" I had never forgotten that his time here was limited - perhaps another year, maybe two, at this point. I'd come to the painful realization that no matter how fast I learned, I would have another Master at some point. I'd never mentioned it before, not since the night he first told me, and he hadn't mentioned it again either, but the moment seemed to need it.

"That," he said thoughtfully, sounding almost surprised. "Yes, that, you're right. You'll have ... well. I suppose I should ask someone. I'd have gotten to it, I promise. I didn't intend to leave you ... wondering." A pause while he marshaled his thoughts, and then he said, "I will take care of it, and let you know." Another heartbeat of a pause, and he added "Soon." For White Bull, that meant in the next month. It did nothing to reduce my concern for him. If anything, it increased it - he was as much as saying that his time would be soon.

"Thank you, Master," I said. Something of my thoughts must have shown - or he might have just known them. White Bull was an excellent shaman, full of tricks after practicing for seventy-odd years, and once in a while he shared one with me. Things only he knew, usually, things that I could not learn from anyone else. Dreamwork things, other things.

"I need to walk fully into the dreaming, Brad." White Bull said, softly. "This body is falling apart." He paused again. "That I am whole and well enough to walk, even to speak, is just a dream. Here in Labyrinth, I can make it so easily - more easily than back at the lodge, but even here it's harder and harder, because it's false."

"I know," I said, and I had known - I just hadn't wanted to admit it. I wasn't a shaman yet, after all, but ... yes, I'd known. He might be a little more than a ghost, but not much more at this point. And the dreaming waited for him, patiently, and ...

And he needed to go. "I'll talk to Rocking Hammer," I said. "If you want to ... to go, then ..."

"I have other goodbyes to make," he said, smiling. "I will introduce you to your next Master, Brad. But ... thank you."

That was not the last time I saw White Bull, but it was the last time I saw him in the flesh, and I think I knew that when I set out the next morning. I may be permitted to wander around Labryinth more or less by myself, but White Bull judged me ready for the dangers of dream and dreamtimes. I was not as good as White Bull, and I knew I lacked experience, but that was exactly what Labyrinth is for - a ground to teach aspiring shamans how to handle dreams. Most of those already knew how to survive in even the most inhospitable places of Minos. I didn't. I could follow the trails, find the havens, but I was not - and I knew I was not - prepared to survive on my own. And until I could, by the law of Minos and the word of Rocking Hammer, I would have to travel with someone who could not only survive on his own, but survive with a handicap like me.

Rocking Hammer sent Trask with me; Sledge came of his own accord, although it didn't surprise me. I'd lived with them - slept in their bed - for almost as long as I'd been in Minos. I mean that; not merely have sex with, but slept in their bed. At first, they'd been shielding me, just as White Bull and Rocking Hammer had, that first night, but even after we'd finished with the demon, I'd kept on there. I'd made some desultory noises about my own room, but then Sledge had looked at Trask, and Trask had nodded, and they'd asked me to stay with them.

Who could turn down an offer like that? I was guiltily happy that they'd be with me on my way back to Morden, that I would have an extra week or so with them. It turned out to be only a single night, though. Labyrinth is a hub of Minos, and roads start there that go almost everywhere, dreams of roads, and I think that if I'd looked hard enough, I might have found a road to take me directly into Morden. But that would upset the Morden authorities, and I'd soon be at their border anyway, with a Morden passport that had no Morden exit-stamp, and only the scrawled signature of White Bull for an entrance stamp.

The trouble over the passport, though, was nothing compared to the ID chip. Riled - still on duty at Minos Station - had given it back to me, along with all the other technological items he'd confiscated. I'd sent the clothing I'd borrowed from him back months ago, when I no longer needed it - or anything - to protect me from the weather. That might have been part of the problem with the Morden border police, actually, that I had no warm clothing, that somehow, I'd sneaked into Minos from Minos Station, and now was wanting to get back in. White Bull's signature on my passport meant nothing more than it wasn't the official Minos stamp, and the ID chip that White Bull had pulled out of my neck was even worse - they opened it up, compared retinal prints, queried Morden records for the official copy of my ID records, confirmed everything again - it was almost funny.

Funny to me, it wasn't funny at all to them. It took them almost eight hours to convince themselves that I really was Bradimanthus Hostellion Bon Urlo, and by that time, I'd missed the evening tubecar from Minos to Morden. There were, fortunately, a number of tiny hostel rooms in Minos Station. I toyed with the idea of going back over to the Minos side, but only for a moment. Trask and Sledge would have already left, since Riled - grated on them. He grated on me, actually, more than when I'd first met him. His dislike of backwards, no-tech, stubborn Minos was a festering wound that wouldn't heal, and ... if there was nothing White Bull could do about it, I wasn't going to try. It certainly meant that being around him was uncomfortable.

And morning, and the morning tubecar, bearing three Mordenguard Master-Sergeants and a few civilians came, and departed - with me. I'd called my parents from Minos Station, of course, so they were there to pick me up when I got home. It was great to see them again. We talked about Minos, and I told them everything, which is to say what I'd learned and the lore and that yes, the nightmares were gone, and I told them nothing, which is to say that I didn't tell them I was going to be a shaman. I just told them that I'd made a lot of friends, and I was hoping I could go back at some point. My parents carefully didn't say anything to that, but after my training in Minos, they didn't have to. I could hear the reluctance in the way my dad's shoulders tightened just a bit, and the sudden reserve on my mom's part. We moved on, and talked about other things, neighbors who had moved, aunts and uncles, Thanksgiving, coming up, Solstice after that. Little things.

And all the while, I was trying to get used to Morden again. We lived in Shasta Beach, not a big city, and I'd ridden tubecars all the way there - from Minos Station to the Grand Hub in Elevator City, and then to Mountainsford, and then a local line to Shasta Beach, and from there it was just a few miles home, through suburban homes and I was already uncomfortable. Passenger tubes have piped-in music, which hadn't used to annoy me but it was annoying now. The air smelled not of stone and ice, but steel and cut wood, asphalt and sun, and nobody had a scent, nothing, Morden odor neutralizers worked amazingly well. After a year and a half in Minos, I'd found that I could learn so much about someone's mood, health, even intentions from scent alone, and in Morden, it was like I was talking to vids, even in person. It seemed so unreal, like a poorly constructed dream.

We reached our home - I hadn't seen it since I'd left to meet Rocking Hammer and Dr. Vimes, and I went in to find it hadn't changed. A new lounge sofa in the main den, but nothing major, and finally, finally, I felt home. My parents lived here, slept here, talked here, just as I had, that very long time ago, and the sense of disconnection that I'd had ever since leaving Minos began, at last, to fade.

We talked for a long time, about Morden, about Minos, what is was like, but I still didn't mention that I was going to be a shaman - I could tell they were anxious, even if I couldn't ... oh.

"I should go take a bath, shouldn't I? After Minos, I probably smell kinda feral." After all that time with White Bull, even that slight slur was hard, but I thought it would help put my parents at ease.

Mom nodded. "It's not bad, hon, but ..."

As I got up to leave, she called after me, "Dinner will be ready when you're out!" I'm sure she was being polite. I cast my recollections backwards - had people backed away from me? I'd tried to sit away from them, in the cars, and ... maybe they had. I'd been so concerned with keeping some distance that I hadn't really noticed if they were keeping it for me, but now I rather thought they had been.

Well, I thought as I lathered up with a neutralizer shampoo, that was easy to fix.

The next unpleasant surprise came at dinner, in the form a beautiful rabbit casserole that had been one of my favorite meals. It was one of the way my mom was welcoming me home, and when I'd dried myself - and was trying to get over the wierdness of not smelling myself anymore, I could smell the casserole. My mouth was watering long before I got to the table, and I took a smallish portion.

I threw up after the first bite, and it was only shamanic discipline that got me into the bathroom in time. Meat in Minos is wild-caught. This rabbit had been born, fattened, and slaughtered in a factory. It tasted of crowding and terror and a bland-to-the-point-of-boring diet eaten only because there wasn't anything else to do, and the long lead to the butchering line smelling blood and guts and hearing the wails of those in front, in a dumb frozen animal way that - after sober reflection - couldn't have meant as much to the rabbit as it had to me, eating it.

I couldn't eat it. There was no way in heaven or hell I could force that horror down my throat, and all I could think about was what was I going to tell my mother? In retrospect, that was probably because I didn't want to think about what else I wouldn't be able to eat in Morden. I only hoped that the vegan options would be palatable - and edible. I later discovered that dairy (including eggs!) are OK, and anything plant-derived is OK. Lamb is worse than rabbit - much worse. Beef is as bad as lamb. Poultry varies, but in general the better-grades (free ranging duck and chicken) are OK. Turkey is not OK, even the super expensive organic turkey. Fish and seafood are OK, thank goodness, even - especially - farmed.

And that brings me back to what am I going to tell my mother.

Understand that, while these thoughts are racing through my mind, both of my parents are watching me. Bolting from the dining table to the bathroom without so much as a word of explanation and then having a case of dry heaves over the toilet - bathroom door still open since I didn't have a chance to shut it - caused a great deal of alarm. Somehow, I managed to croak out that I'd be fine, just give me some time. I'm not sure my mother believed be, but my dad just shut the door with a this explanation better be good expression.

After brushing my teeth, I headed back downstairs, and the dining room was ... very quiet while I sat down. "I left something out when I was talking about Minos," I said finally.

"I knew it," growled my dad. "They had you on drugs, didn't they?"

"No, not really," I said, "although it might sound like it." I sighed, because my parents weren't even close to being prepared for what I was about to tell them. "First, I'd like to say that ... I don't understand the Morden explanation for what just happened. I'm sure there is one, and probably Rocking Hammer could tell you, but I don't know what it was. All I know is the Minos explanation, and it's ... going to sound really weird. Hard-to-believe weird."

"We'll try," my mom said. "Go on."

I told them; I didn't let them interrupt, but I told them. I told them about the demon, although not about being gay - one thing at a time - but somehow I managed to leave out just how Trask and Sledge had shielded me while I was sleeping. And then I told him about - how I couldn't eat the factory-farmed rabbit. Both of my parents were silent - stunned, I think. I mean, this isn't stuff that happens. Except, that it does.

"You know how crazy that sounds, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I know. I'm sure there's a scientific explanation, maybe it was hypnosis or something, I just don't know what it is. That's the way they talk about it in Minos, and ... believe it or not, most of our explanations sound just as strange to them." Which wasn't technically true, but it was close enough.

"Will it wear off?" asked my mom.

"I don't know," I said, which was just a lie. "I don't think so, though. It has to do with ... the mental training I got to ... to keep the nightmares down myself." Which was technically true, and still a lie. The demon was no more; its memories, such as they were, were mine, but they would not trouble my sleep, only my waking.

"Well," my dad said, trying for some level of normalcy. "I suppose I'll just have to have extra, then." He smiled at my mother, and she smiled back at him, but it wasn't, by any means, normal.

"I'm going to be a shaman, too," I said. There were better ways of saying it, and if I'd been a shaman, I would have found one, but I wasn't, not then.

"What?"

"The training I got is ... shaman training," I said. "I have to finish it. Complete it, that is. I'm ... I'm in control of myself," and that, at least, was totally true, "but there's more training and ... and I have to have it. Have to, it's not optional. It's ... it's a balancing piece to what I have now; without it .... without it, I'm not ..." Not what? Safe? Complete? Whole? What word would make sense - any sense - to my parents? "balanced," I said. "I know that sounds strange, but it's true. I can feel it."

"Then why did you come back?"

"I missed you," I said. "Not having my parents - my father, my mother - in my life was unbalancing me, too." I had a sudden flash of insight. "I haven't traded being your son for being a shaman, I'm a shaman on top of that," I said, more confidently. "Or, I'll be one, I'm not one yet. But I'm also your son."

My parents exchanged looks again, and this time it was my mother who spoke. "Dear, we've learned a little about Minos. We know that White Bull - the fellow with Rocking Hammer, was First Shaman when he visited."

"Yes," I said. "He stepped down ... the next day." I left out the exact why of it. "He appointed Rocking Hammer to replace him." Reluctantly, but ... Rocking Hammer had shown he could do it, after all.

"We know most shamans are ..." she paused, uncertain, but I had a sudden sinking feeling I knew where this part of the conversation was going. "Gay," she finished.

Yup. "Many are, yes. White Bull wasn't - isn't," I corrected myself. "Rocking Hammer is." I wondered if I should just leap ahead and answer the next question, and I had a sudden flashback to Trask lecturing me on the differences between a spirit warrior and a shaman - managing change actively or passively. What should I do here? What ...

Let my parents drive, I thought. Passive change. I'm glad I did, because the obvious next question to my parents wasn't the one I thought was the obvious next question.

"Nothing ... happened to you, in Minos, with ... with those shamans, did it?"

Happened? Where would I begin? How could I even begin to describe what had happened? They didn't really believe what I'd told them already, so I was pretty certain ... oh.

"You mean, did any of them molest me," I said. There, get it out in the open so we all know what we're talking about. Time to switch to active, I thought, I definitely did not want my parents directing this conversation. "The answer is no." My parents looked relieved, but still a little tense. Compromise.

"That doesn't look like it answers the question," I said. Not a question, not calling them on anything, but just giving them the opportunity to ask more. If they thought they were ready. But I was wondering if they were ready, or as ready as they thought they were. Not to mention wondering if I was as ready as I thought I was. I just slowed my breathing.

I could have cheated; looked into the dreams of my parents, brought out my own, but ... it seemed wrong, like a cheat, and one of the things White Bull had been clear about is that feelings like that mattered. To ignore that feeling was to ignore everything that made one a shaman, and even if I wasn't a shaman, I knew it would be wrong.

My dad backed down the intensity with, "We weren't planning to have this conversation just yet, son."

"We can postpone it," I said.

"No," my mother said. "We've discussed it. Thom." She blinked, and looked down at the cooling casserole, the bowl of napkin-wrapped rolls, the steaming carrots. Her eyes never left me as her head turned to my father, and asked him again. "Thom. I'll ask." She turned her head back to me, and just waited. After a moment, I wasn't sure if she was actually going to ask, or if she thought the question was well enough understood that I should just answer it.

"Are you ..."

"Brad ..."

We both started talking together, and stopped, and then I said. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Brad ... is ... is there something you want to tell us?" She halted, and maybe she was listening to herself say that, because she added, "Is there anything you want us to to know?"

There were so many things, but I knew what she meant, and ... I'd already decided to let my parents take the lead tonight on this issue, so this was the moment.

"If you're asking if I'm gay ..."

"Yes," my dad broke in, "and if you are, Brad, son, it's all right."

"Yes," I said. "The short answer is yes. The long answer is ... longer, but it's still basically yes."

"Long answer?"

"I'm attracted to males," I said. "Gay means something a little more than that here in Morden. I know what it means in Minos, now, and I'm definitely gay there. But I don't know, entirely, what it means here, so I don't know if gay is really the right description. Which is the long answer."

My parents just stared at me. Maybe I'd said too much?

What my dad finally said was, "You did get shaman training, didn't you."

I nodded, and then, to break the mood, took a carrot, and tried it, and then took a larger helping. "I can eat these," I said, and then I tried a roll, and discovered that I could eat it, too. With butter.

The next day was spent getting ready for school, catching up with where I was, and figuring out where I should be, and watching my mom argue with the principal about where I 'should' be . He wanted to put me back a year (of course) and she wanted me to be with my age-mates, and I ... I actually didn't care, really. After the focused instruction of White Bull and Trask and Sledge - especially perfectionist Sledge - I really didn't think that high school would be that challenging, and it wasn't. Math was as hard as it had been, although I think that I knew how to focus better helped, but everything else - history, exploratory literature, even physical recreation was just easy.

The hardest thing to get used to - and in fact the thing I didn't get back to - was the holoset and vidgames. I found I'd rather read a book than watch a show, and vidgames ... vidgames were just incredibly boring. They weren't so bad if I was playing directly against someone else, but otherwise, boring.

The biggest problem was soccer, believe it or not. After Sledge's martial training, I was good. And yes, I did the exercises, just as if Sledge himself was standing over me. Perfectly. The problem was, one of the exercises uses balls, and I was using soccer balls, and I made the mistake of doing them in the empty gymnasium - it's an exercise where you aren't quite juggling balls, because they're allowed to bounce, but you're controlling them. Sledge can control about ten; Trask can do ten on a good day. I can do four, which is considered good for a beginner. Part of the exercise is dreamwork, part of the exercise is real, and I should have known better than to do anything even vaguely connected to dreamwork where someone might see me, and not understand it.

I got exactly what I deserved for that kind of display; the soccer coach - Mr. Yves - saw me. I apologized for showing off, said I had no interest in soccer, and ... and ... and I still spent the next two years fighting off being on the soccer team. I finally had to join the swim team (something that actually came in very handy in Minos) to put him off.

And being gay was an issue, once or twice a year, but it wasn't as if I was scared of anyone at school. Maybe a couple of ferrets on the martial-arts team might have had a chance of actually hurting me, but the kind of discipline that that takes means they're not inclined to go around beating furs up, not if they're any good, and if they weren't good, I really wasn't worried. I'd never do it for anything less than a real combat, or practice, but I've had enough spirit warrior training that I'd easily overcome anyone other than full master, and even a master would find me difficult. True masters are tapping into the dreamtime, a little, unconsciously. I, on the other hand, can make that connection directly. But I think it would be cheating.

I did call on my training to deal with it, though. I just made myself spooky, the first time I was taunted as a faggot. I just said 'Yup,' and turned around, spooky enough that I made the jerk jump back - and then I laughed at him. And everyone else did, too, and then I didn't have to worry about it, even when it happened again. All I had to do was say, 'Boo!'.

And it wasn't enough. I practiced, exercised myself, studied all the things Rocking Hammer had studied when he'd come to Morden, and I hated it here.

I missed Trask and Sledge. When, at the end of the year, I got a hand-written letter asking if I'd consider coming on a three-month survival course they were teaching for new Mordenguard recruits - I couldn't believe how happy that made me; just the thought they were thinking - of me. Just me. And then I thought about how useful that kind of survival course would be.

The hardest part was getting my parents to agree, but it wasn't too hard.

Minos!

I was going back to Minos!