Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There is a Warrior at the Gate-House. He is asking for you.” Mir Janiel’s tone was accusatory over the intercom, as if Branmer had personally invited the Great Enemy into their midst.

“Did he give you his name?” Branmer summoned all his reserves of patience. After nearly a full valshai in the Temple of Thenval they were very nearly spent.

“I didn’t ask.” Janiel sniffed.

Of course you didn’t. And you probably haven’t made the proper gestures of hospitality and welcome either. Branmer gritted his teeth and swallowed his irritation. “I will be with you both momentarily.”

The Gate-House was only a short walk from his cell, via the temple’s busiest thoroughfare. There was little activity now - most of the inhabitants were sequestered in their cells meditating as dusk cooled and deepened into night, and the only sound was an acolyte driving their broom along the mosaic flagstones. Branmer buttoned up a thick outer coat as he walked - Thenval rested in the Skathen mountain range, far from any other settlement and high above the permanent snow line. There was little here to interest a Warrior, unless they were religiously inclined, so Branmer had to assume that it was some urgent business that required him to return to Yedor. Perhaps the Shai Alyt had some problem that required a more delicate touch than her Warrior counsel were capable of - some dispute with Branmer’s caste, perhaps. But as far as he knew the Shai Alyt was off-world, overseeing war games in protectorate space. So what else could it be? A cold sliver of fear dripped down his spine - his father?

He doubled his pace and by the time he reached the dark bulk of the gatehouse his breath was steaming the air in ragged puffs. The main body of the interior gate was closed except for a little wicket gate which was always left open by custom, and he ducked through that and into the archway passage. Ahead the reinforced exterior door was shut firmly, as he had expected, but between the two great doors was another, smaller door to the side that leaked warm light into the vestibule. Branmer pushed it open without knocking and looked around, frowning. “Where is this Warrior?”

It was Faveer and Tolshel on duty. They had a pashan set between them and were clearly mid-game. Faveer put a piece down slowly. “Outside. Where else would he be?”

“You left him outside?” If it was a messenger from the Shai Alyt - the insult would be clear and incalculable. “And where is Janiel?”

“He retired to bed,” Tolshel said. “H-he told the Warrior to wait outside. Was that wrong?”

Branmer bit down on the inside of his cheek to hold back a vicious rebuke. As it was, the words still tumbled out sharp. “It is below freezing outside the walls.”

“He was well dressed for the weather,” Faveer said, “and he is a Warrior. Surely he can endure a little cold.”

“That is not the point.” Branmer replied stiffly, and reached past Faveer to snatch the hearth-flask from its place hanging over the mantle. “Is the main gate unlocked?”

Tolshel reached for the door controls with an apologetic air. “I will unlock the wicket.”

“Thank you, shai’mir.” Branmer shot Faveer a pointed look and returned to the vestibule, rehearsing rites of apology as he approached the exterior wicket and shoved it open. The cold air hit him immediately, a thousand little pinpricks chasing over his hands and face.

The gate exited onto an exposed ledge, overlooking the mountainside. It was eerily light despite the black sky, the light of the moons and the stars reflected in the snow and illuminating the frozen range. The warrior was silhouetted against that blue-white backdrop, angled away from the door and peering up at the multitude of stars with his hands tucked nonchalantly into his pockets. There was no mistaking that bold profile, he would know it anywhere.

"Nhe'Nheroon? What do you do here?" He dropped into Vhik without thinking, the flask and its welcoming rites forgotten as the warmth of familiarity thrilled through him, accompanied though it was by an anticipatory buzz of nerves.

Neroon turned, his demeanour remaining casual. He was dressed neatly in traditional Star Rider winter gear, the hood pulled down but still framing his face with fine black fur. He smiled. "What else, priest? I came to see you."

His voice, his tone, woke a coil of heat inside Branmer, but he did his best to ignore it. "My father?"

"He is well," Neroon said. "Disappointed to miss you in Yedor, but yet well."

Branmer felt a pang of guilt amidst his relief. "Then what brings you here? Does Alyt Verann have some business with me?”

Which would by extension make it business with the Shai Alyt. At least Neroon didn’t seem insulted by his lack of a proper welcome, perhaps he wouldn’t mention it to his superiors.

“I am not on any official business, priest,” Neroon replied, “only my own.”

It dawned on Branmer, finally. "All the way from Yedor is a long way to come, just to visit me."

"Ah, well," a certain smugness entered Neroon's smile, "it is not so far when you are a good pilot."

“I am surprised they could spare you.”

Neroon tilted his head to one side like he was contemplating prey. “I had some time that was due, and I was curious to see what is so special about this little temple that it has you scurrying across half of Minbar to see it.”

Despite his casual tone there was something in his bearing that told Branmer there was more to this visit. That heat flickered to life inside him again, resisting all his attempts to extinguish it, steaming in the air between them. If he invited Neroon inside there could only be one end. He held out the flask. “Then drink and be welcome, friend.”

✦

Three Months Earlier

Message from Eikha-ni Neroon of the Star Riders to Mir-te Branmer of the Star Seers:
Honoured Priest, as per earlier discussions with your father I have made arrangements for travel to Tinarel from Yedor for you and your companions on the 5th, departing at 0830 from the Hyacuret Dock. Given the last minute nature of your plans, and the increase in traffic due to the festival, I was unable to arrange the private transport you requested. You will therefore be travelling with a party of Moon Shields for the majority of your journey until Kelstikar, where they intend to depart to make the traditional pilgrimage into Tinarel. I have been assured that you will be more than capable of enduring the indignity of their presence. Your itinerary is attached.

Branmer:
Are you my father’s new aide?

Neroon:
Obviously. I see the Religious Caste reputation for deductive reasoning has not been exaggerated. Is there anything else you need of me?

Branmer:
Oh no, I am quite satisfied. Thank you.

✦

"Father! Father! Over here!" Branmer squeezed between two Warriors, keeping a firm hold on Delenn's hand, pulling her and Mayan through the gap after him.

The dock was a crush of bodies - thousands of Warriors disembarking - and the only way through was with a judicious application of elbows. He could see his father beyond the chaos, a singular point of unruffled calm, tall and upright, as he scanned the crowd. Branmer lunged forward, waving and yelling again, and with one last shove, they spilled out of the bottleneck.

"Branmer!" Delenn gasped, clinging close to him. They were still being carried forward by the flow of footfall, but there was room to breath again. "That was so rude! We could have waited."

"Trust me, Delenn, they won't even have noticed us."

Mayan, the last link in their fragile chain, smiled rather slyly. "Oh, I hope they did. I spent a good minute crushed up against a very handsome specimen back there."

"The Warrior Caste better watch out for you," Branmer said dryly, "or we'll be seeing the streets littered with broken hearts by the month’s end."

His father had spotted them and was parting the crowd as he approached. Even in a packed crowd Warriors had a natural instinct for accommodating a superior officer. Not so a superior priest though, Branmer thought, as he was shunted into Delenn by a stray elbow. Delenn squeaked indignantly, and in a display of remarkable adaptability to circumstance forgot any religious notions of politeness in favour of leaning around Branmer and smacking her fist on the offending arm. The Warrior it belonged to turned, saw the little priestess glaring up at her, and laughed. The laugh faded when Kedrunn appeared beside Delenn, smiling benignly. “Careful now, Resek, we don’t want our religious friends thinking we are unwelcoming to guests, do we?”

Resek blanched, glancing between Branmer and Kedrunn in horrified recognition before alighting again on Delenn’s indignant face. “My apologies, I was in a rush and I didn’t see you there.”

“Apology accepted,” Delenn said primly, “though I’m surprised that a Warrior should have so little awareness of her surroundings.”

Resek looked like she wished a Vorlon would burst into being and smite her down right there and then. “Evidently I will have to review that aspect of my training.”

“Alright, we’ve tortured you enough. Run along now. No doubt I’ll see you round the fire at some point during the festival,” Kedrunn said, dryly. Resek saluted gratefully, plunging back into the crowd, and Kedrunn turned to Delenn with an amused expression. “Congratulations on your first victory over the Warrior Caste, priestess. You must be Delenn.”

Delenn beamed at him. “It’s an honour to finally meet you, Sech Kedrunn.”

“The honour is mine,” Kedrunn said, saluting her with a little bow. “Why don’t I take your bags? It’s not far and the walk is quite pleasant, but we could easily take a skimmer if you like.”

“Oh no, let’s walk!” Mayan decided for them. “I’ve been going mad just sitting around. It’s the worst part of travelling. Come along, Delenn, I know the way.” She hooked her arm through Delenn’s and started dragging her away, waving cheerily at Branmer over her shoulder. It was extremely obvious that she was trying to give him a minute alone with his father.

"That one trails chaos in her wake," Kedrunn said fondly, and smiled lopsidedely at Branmer. "Much like someone else I know."

Branmer fell happily into his father's open arms, tucking his chin into his shoulder and breathing in the scents of home: shaibartiri petals, sweet incense and polish. "What are they feeding you in temple?” his father said, very disgruntled. “You’re getting skinnier every time I see you. Or is it all that fasting your lot do?”

Branmer gave a little squeeze in return. His father was thinner too these days, turning to bone rather than fat as he approached his final quarter. "Once a month they let us have a single piece of flarn. Uncooked and unseasoned.”

His father laughed. “I’ll just have to fatten you up while you’re here.”

“Don’t spoil me too much, father. I won’t be sufficiently grateful for my unseasoned flarn if you do.” Branmer leant back in Kedrunn’s arms, glancing around. "Where’s your aide then? I thought he’d be with you. I was hoping to see if he would be as rude in person as he is in a message."

“Neroon’s rather too busy to humble himself with greeting itinerant priests.”

“Oh, is he now?” Branmer chuckled. “What are you doing with a new aide anyway? Having second thoughts about stepping down?"

“Not at all,” Kedrunn said, releasing Branmer with a shrug. “But I need someone to help me handle the transfer of responsibilities and tie up loose ends. Really it’s a favour for Verann, he’s in need of one and I'm trying Neroon out for him.”

“Ah, I see,” Branmer said, feeling victorious at having wriggled a secret loose, “so he’s one of your wounded gokklings in need of saving. What dark disgrace is holding this one back from the wheels of Warrior Caste patronage and promotion?”

His father could come over remarkably stony when he wanted to. “Branmer, I thought you were past this kind of jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous,” Branmer bristled, rather contradicting himself, “I think it’s very clever of you having all these young Warriors indebted to you for their careers. I should follow your example in my own caste.”

Kedrunn shouldered Mayan’s bag and picked up Delenn’s by the strap. His mouth was a tight line of disapproval. “That’s not why I do it, Branmer. I should think you, of all people, would understand being overlooked by circumstances beyond your control.”

It was astounding, really, his father’s gift for censure. He didn’t have to raise his voice or add an edge to his tone - all he needed was that world weary disappointment. “Father, I’m sorry, you know I don’t mean to make fun of anyone’s misfortune.”

“Just be careful not to be so glib about these things. I know you don’t mean it badly, but others don’t know you as well as I do.” His father sighed and switched Delenn’s bag to his other hand so he could pat Branmer’s shoulder in passing. “He’s staying with us, by the way, so it’ll be a bit of a squeeze once your cousins arrive. I’ve put Mayan and Delenn together in the spare bedroom and your cousins can have my old office. You’ll have to share the training annex with Neroon I’m afraid, either that or sleep out in the parlour. I’d put someone in the prayer room but it’s so small I can’t imagine even your friend Delenn would be able to stretch out comfortably in there.”

“Oh, I’m sharing with him?”

“You can always sleep down at the temple if it bothers you. You do have quarters there.”

Very true. But a Warrior caste festival wasn’t quite the same if you weren’t crammed in beside family with barely any space to breathe. Maybe one day when he was a High priest he’d have to forgo the indignity for the sake of his station, but as long as he was a mere jobbing priest then he was going to celebrate Durzsha’hana in Warrior Caste style. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t mind. I’ll do my best not to interfere with his work.”

His father looked amused. “You will be working too, Bran. You are officiating a courtship, remember?”

“Oh.” Branmer waved a hand dismissively. “I could do that in my sleep, and the problems with this one are more easily resolved if I’m somewhere I can easily pick up Star Rider gossip. Speaking of, I don’t suppose you-”

“I know better than to meddle in affairs of the heart,” his father said quickly. “My own courtship was enough trouble for an entire lifetime.”

“No matter.” He’d already arranged a meeting with them tomorrow. He could worry about whatever obstacles where complicating their courtship then. There was something more pressing on his mind. “Father, are you really sure about stepping down?”

Kedrunn made an exasperated noise. “For the last time, yes.”

“But-”

His father was already anticipating his strike and moving to block. “Is it really so hard to understand that after a lifetime of service in high command that I might feel that it is time for me to step aside for someone younger and more energetic?”

“Alyt Haikat is hardly young.”

“Younger I said,” his father snorted, a self-decrepatory smile teasing at the edges of his mouth, “and certainly more energetic. Look, I am not giving up service to Minbar. I am not going away to sea. I am simply moving on to a different kind of service. I’m tired of command. I have always enjoyed teaching and mentoring young Warriors more than giving them orders. Why do you think I always preferred the title Sech to Alyt?”

“I thought that was a matter of propriety and security,” Branmer said, a touch snide. Warrior Caste custom or no, his father’s habit of treating rank like a costume to be changed depending on company had always struck him as riding a little too close to deception. If his father caught the jab, he made no indication. Branmer continued cautiously, “the timing, though, coming so soon after your last health check… I only wondered if perhaps-”

“In Valen’s name!” His father laughed. “I’m not sick, nhe’Bhran! Is this what’s been bothering you? I’m afraid you’ve some time yet to wait before you get to light my funeral pyre, ier’ma.”

And to think Kedrunn had been scolding him for being too glib a moment ago. But Branmer’s irritation was overwhelmed with relief. He had been worried. And his father was getting so thin lately. “I am glad you think my concern is amusing, at least.”

Kedrunn gave him a gentle, apologetic look, and said a little more softly, “If anything were wrong I would tell you, but you needn’t worry. I’m in full health and fit for any service I choose. Now, is that enough for you or must I endure further interrogation?”

“Very well, father.” Branmer said. “I’m not entirely convinced there isn’t something else at play, but I suppose I shall just have to accept it as one of the universe’s many indescipherable mysteries.”

That had his father laughing. They settled into an easy silence, now clear of the docks and with a fine view out over the lower city to enjoy. It was afternoon now, and the city was more than usually busy, with a constant whir of transports overhead and crowds of festival goers arriving in droves by inter-rail or, for those who were traditionalists or just wanted to test themselves, arriving on foot.

For the next month the city would double, no, triple in population; the vast majority all Warrior Caste, packed together and sleeping anywhere they could to fit. Some, mostly Night Walkers, would even camp out in the woods and parks; forming temporary villages in the midst of the city. It was the kind of chaos that would be deemed unacceptable by the Religious Caste, and simply impractical and rather silly by the Worker Caste.

“What about you?” Kedrunn said, breaking their silence with a sidelong, almost sly, glance. “Are you sure you want to be a high priest?”

“Nothing about that is certain,” Branmer said. “I can hardly worry too much about a hypothetical possibility.”

His father made a small, sceptical noise and said, “Another priest from your order could have overseen the end of this courtship. That you concern yourself with it means one of two things-”

“Father, you speculate a great deal too much-”

“-that you’re here on some errand of your caste, or that you’re running away from them,” Kedrunn finished, determinedly paternal. “I’ve always taken it as something as a compliment that when you seek comfort from the pressures of priesthood you find respite with us. Makes me wonder what qualities we possess that your caste lacks.”

“It couldn’t just be that I wanted to see you and mother, could it?” Branmer said. “I do miss you sometimes.”

“Ah, only sometimes.” Kedrunn smiled and then turned serious. “Branmer, if you’re truly ambivalent about being ordained, you can always refuse. They can’t force you to be a high priest.”

Branmer shook his head and looked away, out over the tumble of Tinarel towards the sea, gleaming silver in the afternoon sun. “It’s not that."

“What then?” His father slowed his pace. “If you’d rather not say, I understand. Whether you’ll be successful in holding off your mother’s interrogatory skills is another matter-”

“I do want it, that’s the problem!” Branmer blurted out. “If I knew whether or not it was a certainty it would be one thing, but I don’t even know if I’ll be called for examination and I can’t stand waiting around in Yedor for them to summon me; everyone whispering behind their hands and making little bets on who it will be. It’s driving me mad.”

“Ah,” Kedrunn nudged their shoulders together gently, “that must bring back bad memories too.”

“Oh, yes,” Branmer said, something of the sullenness of his youth returning. “The clumsy and provincial Warrior’s son stumbling about temple for the first time at sixteen.” It wasn’t that anyone had been hostile, but their helpful pity and restrained laughter had been so humiliating. And worse still, he’d reacted like a Warrior in response, becoming prickly and cross and proud, speaking Adronato like a Star Rider and answering back to his Sechs in Vik when he was feeling particularly mulish. He’d been lucky that Rekshival had taken him under her wing, spotting he needed more than ordinary support to make the adjustment to temple life after being raised aboard a Warrior Caste ship. Without her, and if he had chosen a less forgiving Order, he wasn’t sure he’d have survived.

“Things have changed since then, yes?” Kedrunn said. “You’re more your mother’s son than mine now.”

“Am I?” Branmer mumbled softly, thinking of his meeting with the Caste Elders a few days earlier. They certainly hadn’t seen him as anything other than Alyt Kedrunn’s useful son. It was just about the only use he was to them. Not that he would ever tell his father about all of that. The disappointment would break him. “I’m never sure they trust me. Oh, Rekshival of course, I don’t doubt her, or most of my order, but others? I’m not so sure,” he sighed huffily and tried to smooth his own brow into something passing as tranquil. “At any rate, I don’t like to be a source of speculation, so I removed myself. They can chatter about my chances all they like as long as I don’t have to hear it.”

“Well,” Kedrunn said, “let us hope the Festival proves enough distraction.”

✦

They didn’t catch up to Delenn and Mayan until they were approaching his father’s apartment. He’d moved away from the river a few years back and was now in the old southern quarter of Tinarel, which crowded against the cliffs and dug down into the rock and crystal in ascending and descending terraces. Delenn and Mayan had already crossed the communal garden with its firepit and alpine flora and were at the top of the stairs leading up to the entrance of his apartment, where they stood hovering mutely. Their noise and good cheer were gone, replaced by uneasy deference; Mayan sulky and defiant, Delenn with eyes cast down and hands folded neatly in perfect subservience.

“I think we have an unexpected guest,” Kedrunn remarked, lengthening his stride. He reached the top before Branmer, and without pausing dropped the bags beside Mayan and saluted the doorway in one, smooth motion. Branmer followed suit, and seeing who it was, bowed a little deeper than the norm.

“Alyt Beshaal,” he said, raising his head again. She was standing half in shadow, her face obscured somewhat, but the gleam of her studded pauldrons and breast plate were unmissable.

“I told your acolytes there was no need to stare at their feet, but Religious Caste manners won out,” Beshaal said dryly. “No doubt I startled them.” Mayan made an indignant noise that was quickly strangled into silence again when Delenn pressed down on her foot. “No need to offer tea either. I helped myself to some water, it’s a warm day to be in uniform.”

“I assume you’re here-”

“-to see your son, yes,” Beshaal interrupted, rude as her rank permitted. “Your prayer room will suit.”

Branmer, who had been expecting this, though perhaps not so soon, followed her without challenge, directing a quick calming gesture to his acolyte friends.

"Don't worry," he heard his father say as he pushed the prayer room door shut. "He's not in any trouble."

"Not yet anyway," Beshaal remarked, making a little subconscious obeisance to the little altar nook in the corner. "It's not what you've done, but what you may yet do."

Branmer allowed himself a little affront. "Have I ever given the Shai Alyt cause for concern?"

"Many times, as you know," said Beshaal. "You were not yet 16 cycles and already giving her trouble. You've a gift for it. Inherited from your mother, I've no doubt, but made worse for the fact that you have some of your father's diplomatic charm. I'm only grateful they just had one child."

"Now that's going too far," Branmer said, secretly rather proud. "You're giving me far too much credit. You're perfectly capable of sowing your own troubles without me."

"That I know," Beshaal replied, "which is another reason why we don't need any more trouble from you. I'll be blunt. What does your caste want?"

“I’m just here to officiate a wedding,” Branmer replied cheerfully, well prepared for this line of questioning and in the mood to be playful. “Surely you do not think my caste are worried that a union between Moon Shield and Star Rider will issue forth another Sharlin to conquer the world?”

Beshaal smiled broadly. “Your superiors would lack a very basic understanding of anatomy if that concerned them.”

“Well, there’s always surrogacy. Or adoption,” Branmer said. “Have either Mazetch or Vashaer mentioned an interest?”

She started to laugh. “Oh, stop that, priest, what are you really here for? Your superiors wouldn’t let you waste a trip.”

“Perhaps you don’t know them as well as you think,” Branmer said, putting on his most winsome and charming face. It was an expression calculated to unnerve the most serene of High Priests and Priestesses. He had even on one rather proud occasion managed to unsettle a Satai with that smile.

Beshaal saw right through it. “You wretch. It’s a wonder you’ve never been thrown out of temple. This is about the Dilgar isn’t it?”

“As I understand it,” Branmer said, with a sweetness that had Beshaal’s eyes rolling, “the Shai Alyt has already made it clear that she will honour whatever decision the Council makes, as is her duty, so it could hardly be about that.”

“Does that simpering work on your superiors?” Beshaal asked, grinning. “I’m glad to hear that your Religious brethren do not need the Shai Alyt’s position explained to them again. She does not enjoy repeating herself.”

Despite her initial play of severity Beshaal was evidently in a mood to be indulgent. Likely the festive atmosphere was having some influence, but he had over the years also got the impression that she rather liked him. If she wanted him to speak plainly there was no harm in doing so, and frankly, he was not in a mood to be any more circuitous than he had to be, not with the Warrior Caste. They were often easier to deal with if you just got to the point. “Suppose though,” he said finally, “that their concerns lie less with the Shai Alyt than they do with factions within her Caste.”

“Ah,” Beshaal said, managing to pack an intensity of satisfaction into that one, simple exhale. She said nothing more, but looked at him expectantly.

“It has come to their attention that there is a faction within the Warrior Caste that is in favour of Minbari intervention. They are worried about their influence, not just on the Shai Alyt, but with factions in the other castes too.”

“Worried about a bit of cross caste collaboration?”

“Where it resists the will of the Grey Council, yes.”

“I think this is less about the will of the Grey Council than it is about the will of your superiors in the Religious Caste,” Beshaal said, losing something of her playful mood to sideways snideness. “You might remind them that our Warriors are entitled to their own opinions on political matters so long as they remain obedient and do their duty when the time comes. Does that satisfy?”

“It won’t and you know it.”

“It should and you know that.” Beshaal shook her head. “Don’t they see how insulting it is to question the loyalty of our Warriors like this?”

Branmer shuffled his feet, catching some of her unhappiness. “It is, I’m sorry, but I’m obligated to find out what I can and report back. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to throw a scrap my way?”

“No.” And some of her good humour returned, as if she was in on a secret joke beyond his comprehension. Her eyes crinkled with unspoken laughter. “I don’t think I will. If you want to find out who these war mongers are, you will have to put in the graft yourself. You have eyes and ears combined with a clever mouth and a pretty face. That should be more than enough.”

So, she definitely knew, and thought it would be fun to play games with him. “Oh well,” he said, “it was worth a try.”

“The worst of your father and your mother,” she said, looking him up and down with a fond shake of her head. “The universe was playing tricks when it brought you into being.” She made to leave and then paused at the door, turning back again with an intense scrutiny that was almost like hunger in that keen face. “This sort of thing is beneath you, Branmer.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he stood there quite mute as she sailed through the door and down the steps without the slightest acknowledgement to anyone else. At the bottom she startled a salute out of some poor Warrior who’d chosen the wrong moment to check on his herb garden and was very alarmed to find the second most powerful person in the entire caste striding confidently through the courtyard.

“What was that about?” Mayan demanded.

Branmer, Beshaal’s parting words still sombrely reverberating through him, was a touch slow to reply. “Oh, nothing. Just a message she wanted me to take back to the Conclave. They do that sometimes. Use me as a go between.”

“That is quite an honour,” Delenn said. “I hope it is nothing serious?”

“No, it’s quite trivial,” Branmer replied, and he was not lying in the least bit. It was trivial. Why did his superiors care what Warriors thought privately and shared with others as long as they obeyed? What were they going to do to this faction once they were discovered? March them out and publicly shame them? Demand their demotions? The whole thing made him deeply uncomfortable, more so for the fact that they were deliberately exploiting his relationship with the caste – which was based on mutual trust as much as his father’s blood – to do it. And it was not the first time.

He wondered if he should take the matter to Rekshival. She would not be happy to know that the Caste Elders were twisting his arm. He was growing tired of being used in this manner.

“If it was serious,” his father was saying, “they would take it through official channels,” and then as if sensing Branmer needed a moment to collect himself, distracted Mayan and Delenn by showing them round the apartment and then to their room. Soon they were both cooing with delight over the cosy furnishings and spectacular view of the lower city, stretching out to the sea.

Branmer took the opportunity to take his bags upstairs to the little training room annex where he and Neroon would be sleeping. His father had been busy turning the bright, sunlit room into a suitable living space, screening off their respective sleeping areas for privacy and making a little sitting room between them, with a large fur rug and cushions for seating. There was even a portable stove in the centre with all the accoutrements necessary for making tea set out beside it on a low wooden table. Aside from eating and morning purification they would have very little need to leave the annex except for work and festivities.

He poked his head around Neroon’s screen, feeling a touch wicked but unable to resist indulging his curiosity. It was very neat and orderly and not terribly interesting. The only furnishings were a low angled bed, a clothes chest, and a little bed side table, upon which someone had carefully arranged a carved wooden maelyn, a small star map, and a rather beautiful and ornate crystal cut knife. Branmer thought it was probably very old and a family heirloom. Warriors often passed such things down generation after generation and it was not at all unusual to find even the most ordinary families in possession of weapons that were many thousands of years old. Other than that the only other sign of personality was in the well-loved and beautifully embroidered coverlet draped over the bed, splendid with scenes from Star Rider stories, which he did not recognise as belonging to his father or anyone else in his family.

There was a creak on the stair and he shot back across the rug to his own side, just in time for his father to appear in the doorway, smiling brightly. “Everything as it should be? I was about to start cooking, if you want to help.”

He found he did not much want to be alone any more, and so he ended up quietly chopping vegetables while his father made a marinade. Occasionally the quiet was broken by a burst of laughter from the other room, where Delenn and Mayan were making a raucous time of unpacking.

“I hope,” his father said suddenly, when the last lot of laughter had died down, “that Beshaal isn’t asking too much of you. It isn’t right for the Shai Alyt to make demands of someone who isn’t of the caste.”

It was sweet of his father to assume his own caste at fault. “No, father, it really was nothing.”

“Good.”

Branmer hesitated, turning his knife this way and that before laying it down with a distinct clink. “Father, has there been much talk about the Dilgar here?”

“Of course,” his father said without looking up. “Anything that might become a defence issue gets talked a great deal by Warriors. Your mother tells me its a hot topic in the religious caste too. Every day we get news of some abomination on their part.”

“There isn’t any need for concern is there, father?” Branmer said. “They wouldn’t be so foolish as to attack us.”

“Who knows what they might do.” His father shrugged. “They’ve been bold enough to open up multiple fronts across the League with great success. Such achievements might encourage them to think beyond their present scope. But you needn’t worry, son. Our forces are superior to theirs in every conceivable way. If they did turn their eye towards us, we would put it out quite easily.”

“Hmm,” Branmer said, and picked up his knife again. “When do my cousins arrive?”

“Tomorrow evening, so enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

✦

As evening came and the sky darkened Tinarel’s upper and lower rests came alive with light; hearth lamps lit at every door, colourful lanterns strung across every street and courtyard, and candles burning in every window. Delenn, stumbling along a few paces behind Branmer and Mayan, was dazzled into a dream. “I thought this place was supposed to be a fortress!”

Mayan hooked her arm through Branmer’s. “Tell Delenn about the Shadows.”

“No need,” Branmer said, spotting one cutting across the street, a group of screaming children chasing in its wake. Fydor-haka Inahel had excelled herself with the costumes this year, giving them all many jangling limbs attached by string to their real arms, so that they seemed to move of their own accord.

Delenn bumped into Mayan, too busy staring to look where she was going. “Oh, I read about this. They are supposed to be the Great Enemy, yes?”

“Yes,” Branmer said. “The story is Rashok’s daughter started it. She was worried that since most of our records were destroyed during the Great War, the Warrior Caste would forget what their enemy looked like. So she began a tradition that every year in the weeks surrounding the anniversary of the Great War ending, young Warriors should take on the likeness of our enemy and chase through the streets looking to cause trouble.”

“Hmm,” Delenn said, watching as the Shadow disappeared down an alleyway, uttering unhallowed shrieks that the children replied to with a chorus of their own. “Is it true that they give out sweets?”

Branmer laughed at the scepticism in her voice. “I’ll admit, it may have outlived its function, but still. It’s fun. I have chased a Shadow or two in my time.”

“I suppose if you approve,” Delenn said doubtfully, and the next Shadow they saw – hopping and jumping and rattling its limbs noisily to the great amusement of its audience – she tucked herself into Branmer’s side, leaning away from it. Branmer didn’t blame her. His mother had been very unsettled the first time she’d encountered one too, though in her case her reaction had been to lash out and hit it violently.

They continued on down the street and then another, the festival unravelling noisily around them. Warrior Caste festivals were rarely sedate affairs and spirits were particularly high tonight. Children chased about under foot, either after Shadows or each other; couples, courting or otherwise paraded arm in arm looking for secluded spots amidst the festooned lights; and young Warriors fresh in their uniforms and eager to prove themselves in the Denn’Vatek were jostling and wrestling playfully in untidy troops. One group overdid themselves and blundered carelessly into a circle of older Warriors, causing drinks to spill, and were sent sloping off in shame with an angry tongue lashing. Worst still, the next table over was a cluster of trainees who, scenting blood as only adolescents can, giggled and jeered as the miscreants tried to shuffle quietly past them. This, in turn, set Delenn and Mayan into fits of laughter. Their humiliation complete, the young Warriors fled down an alleyway and into the sheltering darkness.

“Oh!” Delenn said, mournful with guilt and pity. “I feel bad! They were only having fun.”

A little further along they came upon a stall serving up hot drinks, and burnt their tongues on tesha. Delenn had never had the sweet, spiced drink before and liked it so much she asked for a second cup, which she nursed between her hands as they continued into another little square. There, a Worker was handing out beautiful lantern kites to a crowd of excited children and some equally excited adults. Branmer spotted Alyt Rokesh among them, accompanying his daughter and pretending poorly that he was not, in fact, very interested in having a kite of his own too.

The crowds thickened as they moved closer to the centre of upper city and the streets narrowed and grew in height into a mad tumble of old buildings, overlooked from behind another interior wall by the old circular fortress tower where the Shai Alyt resided. Branmer busied himself telling Delenn about Tinarel’s history and pointing out the old from new.

“This predates Valen by several thousand years,” he said, as they approached the great grand entrance to the inner complex, the Vashek-Gate as the Warriors called it. Both gate and surrounding walls were decoratively spiked and at that moment festooned with hundreds of glittering ai’toka, hung by Warriors to signal their intent to enter the Denn’vatek and prove their fighting skill. “The story was they used to decorate the walls and door with the heads of their conquered enemies, but that’s probably apocryphal.”

There was a Warrior climbing the wall now, her ai’tok clenched between her teeth to leave her hands free. Younger untried Warriors had a tendency to climb high on the wall as a point of pride, competing over who could reach the highest spot.

“Neroon got all the way to the top last night,” someone murmured from behind Branmer, laughing derisively with their companions. “He’s so dramatic.”

He turned to look for the speaker, but Delenn tugged at his sleeve before he could spot them. “What is the significance of that little ornament she carries? Oh, no, I understand what she means to do, but is that it’s only purpose? I’ve seen Warriors wearing them before in Yedor and Tuzanor.”

“Oh, well, the ai’toka used to be for identifying the dead after battle,” he said. “They’re engraved with your name and clan insignia, and sometimes family crests or other personal symbols. Outside of contests they’re just for decoration now, but the Star Riders and Moon Shields use them in their courtship rites too. When you meet someone you want to court you offer them your ai’tok and if they take it and wear it on their belt it means they’ve accepted your suit.”

Delenn was rather charmed by this. “Do none of the other clans have a similar custom?”

“The Night Walkers do, but they usually offer each other a brooch or a cloak pin and it’s made specially for the occasion.”

“What I wonder,” Mayan said with an air of amusement, “is how they take note of everyone who wants to participate. Does some poor official’s lackey have to climb the wall and check them all?”

Branmer laughed. “No, this is just for show. There’s an official register. You climb the wall, hang your ai’tok, and then go and submit your name. In that order. To do it the other way around is to invite misfortune.”

“Quite so, priest,” a warm voice emerged from the crowd at his shoulder. “Last year some young fool forget the proper order of things and broke his leg falling from the wall. He was unable to compete and had to forfeit his place. Now his mistake will be in the record of contest for all time.”

“Justek,” Branmer said, recognising the voice and turning to find his father’s former second-in-command standing beside them. He was not quite as tall or as old as Branmer remembered. Of course, every adult seems very old and mature when you are sixteen and a bit silly. Most especially when they are a brusque executive officer brimming with easy confidence and quiet good humour that worked to disguise their youth and lack of experience. He realised now that Justek must have only been in his mid-twenties when he had served on the Iskhati. “I didn’t know you were back on Minbar.”

“We were due some maintenance,” Justek said, with a characteristically lopsided smile. “It just happened to coincide nicely with the Festival.”

“Ardrishi’s serving with your crew, isn’t she?” Branmer said, spying an opportunity. “I’d like to catch up with her. Do you know where I could find her?”

“I don’t keep tabs on my crew when they’re on leave,” Justek replied, his lip curling up at an even sharper angle. “If they want to get into trouble that’s up to them.”

“A sensible policy,” Branmer laughed. He would just have to find Ardrishi himself. Shouldn’t be too hard. He thought he still had her contact. They had grown up together on his father’s cruiser and tried to stay in touch when they’d gone their separate ways. “I don’t think you’ve met my friends, have you?”

“Are you going to hang your ai’tok?” Mayan asked, when the introductions were over. Laughter rippled suddenly through the crowd. The young Warrior had finally reached her target, and was fumbling clumsily to hang her favour.

Justek eyed the young Warrior’s efforts with a rather wicked gleam in his eye, one hand coiling and unclipping his own from his belt. “Oh, yes, and I have a notion where it should go.”

There was a little murmur of recognition as Justek detached from the crowd and approached the wall. The young Warrior had successfully hung her ai’tok now and was half swinging, half scrambling down, trying not to disturb the other ai’toka and quite oblivious to Justek or to crowd’s diverted attention. Below Justek paced back and forth, making a great show of scanning the wall as if to choose the perfect spot.

He hemmed. He hawed. The crowd began to titter nervously. The youngster scrabbled and slid for purchase, casting anxious glances at the chipped flagstones below. It was a long way to fall.

Finally, when the young Warrior was a little over two thirds the way down, Justek stepped up to the wall in one deliberate movement and, being an Alyt with his own ship to command and absolutely nothing to prove to anyone that he had not done a long time ago, bent to the lowest spike and hung his ai’tok at the bottom of the wall. There was another wave of titters through the crowd. The young Warrior, still struggling to descend, looked down and spotted Justek. Her face mottled with embarrassment and anger.

Justek, having her attention, took several steps backwards and finished the joke with a deep salute -the sort you might give to the Shai Alyt herself- before turning and wandering back to where Branmer and his friends were watching. “You’ll have to forgive me the meanness,” Justek said without the slightest appearance of guilt, “but she’s my little sister. Something of a surprise for my parents, as you can guess.”

There was a loud thump behind them as his sister landed heavily on the ground. She glared pointedly at him and stomped off to join her friends, who gave him looks of more guarded disapproval, not wanting to disrespect an Alyt.

Mayan had no such qualms. “You’ve upset her!”

“Yes,” Justek said, flashing one of those quick, crooked smiles of his, “but now perhaps she won’t have any second thoughts when she faces her big brother across a denn’bok stall, eh?”

The entertainment now over, and with no one else stepping up to the wall, people began to move on and shift away to find other diversions. Some lingered, chattering about the upcoming competition. The voice from earlier piped up, “Neroon’s still the highest. She stopped a few bricks below him.”

“That’s your father’s aide, isn’t it?” Delenn said. “The one who was so very rude.”

Branmer turned to look. It was pitch black now, but under the glow of the thousands of lanterns Branmer spotted the ai’tok’s silver gleam. It was at the highest reachable point, very precisely placed in a direct line up from the centre of the gate. It was a hard place to reach even besides the height and something about that struck Branmer as charmingly defiant. Justek’s sister had been trying to prove something by trying to climb so high, no doubt motivated by the long shadow cast by her older brother, but Branmer got a strange instinct Neroon was the opposite. If anything his placement seemed to suggest that it was everyone else, regardless of rank, that had to prove something to Neroon.

Match me, it said mockingly, if you can.

✦

They parted ways not long after that. Mayan and Delenn were both tired from the journey, and wanted to be there for the last half of his father’s dumri before turning in, and Branmer went to find Ardrishi. He’d sent her a message and received a surprisingly swift reply, offering to meet straight away and suggesting a spot nearby.

The main thoroughfare was thoroughly clogged up with people, so Branmer opted to test his memory and internal map by taking a shortcut down a side street, surprising a young couple that had thought it would be a good place to cuddle up.

“You might try the Moon Pools,” he suggested to them as he passed. “There’s lots of secluded spots and if you’re lucky you might even snag a bench.” Which would be a sight more comfortable and private than the steps outside someone’s front door. Really though, from the state of them, they were better off just finding a bed.

Branmer didn’t encounter many people after that, and most of those he did were hurrying to get somewhere else. Eventually they dwindled until, by the time he broke out into a small courtyard close to where they were meeting, he was quite alone among the bunting and colourful lanterns that canopied the little square. He was just cutting diagonally across when there was a stampede of little footsteps and happy squeals and a group of children came charging round the corner, chasing after a prancing Shadow. They paid no mind to Branmer, focused single mindedly on their prey as the Shadow led them a merry dance through the arches, until finally the mob caught up and the creature was brought down, staggering as it tried to throw off its hunters.

It attempted one last, futile shake before submitting to fate and came down in a smooth motion, calculated quite perfectly to avoid crushing any of the little warriors or damaging the costume.

The children whooped with victory, kicking the creature rather savagely until it relinquished their prize, and then ran off screaming and laughing with handfuls of sweets. Forgotten, the Shadow lay on the courtyard floor, false limbs rattling as it struggled to right itself.

Branmer wandered over and held out a hand. "Are you alright? That was an impressive fall."

The Shadow sat up on its elbows, giving its head a little shake, like a maelyn tossing flies from its mane. Impossible though it was to see the creature's face, Branmer got the sense he was being scrutinised intently. He proffered his hand again in response. After a moment's consideration, the creature took it.

"It's not very priestly behaviour to lend aid and assistance to the Great Enemy." The Shadow remarked, in a voice that was so rich and warm it startled something in Branmer. He had not been expecting a voice like that at all; every word so perfectly enunciated, coiling in the air around him like sweet incense. It was the sort of voice that should give sermons at the altar or commands in battle, not issue forth from a scuffed Shadow costume.

"If that's what you think" -Branmer waited until the Shadow had put its weight on his hand and then let go, letting it collapse back on the ground in a flail of false limbs- "you can stay on the ground."

The Shadow laughed, and Valen, even the laugh had this lustre to it that kindled heat in Branmer's nerves. "Exactly the sort of treachery we have come to expect from the Religious Caste."

Branmer prodded the Shadow with his boot. Handsome voice or not he was very tempted to kick him. "Do you want help, or not? Because right now I'm inclined to beat some sweets out of you and leave."

"Beat me!" The Shadow rattled and flailed his limbs in theatrical despair. He looked rather like a large upturned bug. "And my only crime was trying to proliferate evil throughout the galaxy and destroy your people! Cruel priest! Wicked priest! So much for the compassionate Religious Caste."

Branmer danced out of the way of the thrashing limbs. "Well, make up your mind. It's unpriestly to help you, it's unpriestly to kick you while you're down. You're not leaving me many options."

"Perhaps," the Shadow said, a rather sinister element entering that velvet voice, "you could join me."

Branmer tried to move but it was too late. The Shadow moved lightning quick, legs wheeling out in a violent arc that swept the ground from under Branmer. He stumbled, tried to catch himself, and crashed to the floor.

Beside him the Shadow chuckled victoriously. "Oops, what a clumsy priest."

Branmer rolled onto his side to look at the Shadow, who was up on his elbows again, head cocked defiantly. "That was unnecessary."

"Oh, I think it was very necessary," the Shadow, his voice dripping with texture. "I am only doing my duty as an agent of darkness."

I have to put a face to that infuriating voice, Branmer thought, I simply must. If only he would take off that ridiculous mask. Maybe I can make him take it off.

"In that case, I must do my duty as a defender of the light," he replied, and lunged bodily at the Shadow, jabbing an elbow into his thorax and hearing a surprised ‘oof’ as the wind was driven out of him. The surprise didn’t last though, and within seconds whatever advantage Branmer had was lost as they rolled in a confusion of false limbs. He scrabbled furiously, trying to get the Shadow pinned, but it was quickly apparent he was outmatched. Even in his cumbersome costume the Shadow was faster, and stronger, and just better than him. It was over in a few embarrassing seconds, with Branmer slammed into the ground like a rag-doll.

Branmer made one last, pathetic attempt to escape, squirming a hand free long enough to lash out, catching the Shadow's mask and knocking it askew. He got a brief glimpse of a stubborn chin and sneering mouth; of dark, glittering eyes, and then the mask fell back into place and his hand was pinned.

It was no use. He was trapped beneath that solid, unassailable weight, acutely aware of the strength behind the hands holding him down.

"You're bold, priest, I'll give you that," the Shadow chuckled. Pressed up against each other like this, Branmer could feel the sound reverberate through him and pool into heat. His breath hitched, loud enough that surely the Shadow could hear, and even if he couldn't surely he could see it in Branmer's face, just how far he was undone. Only the discipline drilled into him over his years of training kept him from the final embarrassment of unfurling.

He swallowed, tried to master himself, failed, and managed to find his own voice again enough to say, "would you like to test that boldness?"

For a brief, scintillating moment, in which the heat between them surged and Branmer was overwhelmed with hopeful want, the Shadow leant in close with a scrutinising tilt. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “you’ve had enough fun for tonight, priest. We wouldn’t want you coming to a real injury. What kind of hosts would that make us?”

And then he sprang up, light footed as air, and scampered off into the night, limbs jangling merrily. Branmer lay on the ground, stunned by the sudden empty cold; body and soul in complete and utter disarray.

✦

He was still recovering his dignity when he found Ardrishi. She was occupying a corner table overlooking a courtyard where a very rowdy and woefully inaccurate play about the life of Rashok was taking place, and nursing a hot drink, which steamed the air with sweet spices. She laughed rather vindictively when she saw him. “You’re looking very rumpled in your finery, priest.”

“I bumped into a Shadow on the way.”

“That’d do it,” she said, laughing some more. “One of them pushed Alyt Haikat into the Moon Pools. Speculation abounds as to who it could be. Good luck to them if she ever figures it out.”

Branmer shook his head. Playing Shadow was often a way for the younger Warriors to have a little fun at their superior’s expense. “Isn’t retaliation forbidden?”

“There’s ways to get around that,” Ardrishi said, “but I think they’re safe all the same. Inahel is very protective of her little Shadows.”

He thought of his own Shadow -that glimpse of sneering mouth and dark eyes- and felt a little guilty for trying to unmask him. “What can you tell me then?”

“Right to business aren’t you?” Ardrishi straightened up with a little sigh. “Yes, there’s a lot of talk about the Dilgar but you don’t need to worry. They’re not any threat to us.”

That was pretty much the same answer his father had given. “I’m not worried about that,” Branmer said. “I’m more curious as to what people think about it all. I’ve heard there’s some Warriors believe we should be considering war regardless of whether or not the Dilgar are interested in us.”

Ardrishi shrugged indifferently. “They’re not wrong. Some of the stories I hear would churn your stomach. But it’s not like it matters what any of us think. We don’t set policy.”

He had a feeling he was going to hear this answer a lot. “The Warrior Caste doesn’t usually show much interest in the suffering of other races.” Excepting his father, who was considered soft by most of his caste. Compassion was usually a luxury reserved for those who gave the orders to kill, not those that carried them out.

“We’re not heartless,” Ardrishi replied, fidgeting with her cup. “You wouldn’t do to an animal what the Dilgar are doing to the League. It’s not honourable. It’s worse than dishonourable. It’s disgusting.”

“And is it disgusting too, that we stand back and do nothing?” Branmer kept his tone neutral, as if he were only entertaining a rhetorical question.

Ardrishi leaned away from him, swirling her cup thoughtfully. It was dark in their little corner and hard to see more than the vague outline of her expression, but there was a certain disquiet in her posture that told him he’d pushed a little too far too soon. But then she took a draught of her drink and said, with matter of fact finality, “Maybe it is.”

“And are you the only one that thinks this way?”

“No, there’s others,” Ardrishi said, “but it’s not unanimous by any means. There’s even been one or two people suggesting we might be better off working with the Dilgar.”

That caught Branmer’s attention. “Really?”

“Wind Swords,” Ardrishi snorted, with all the sneering derision of a Star Rider. “What else can you expect from them? They’re hardly worth the armour they come in.”

Below there was a loud round of jeering as the villain, one of Rashok’s historical rivals, strode onto the scene. Warriors could be very Centauri-like when overtaken by the celebratory spirit and Branmer could see the makings of a fight breaking out in one corner. “What’s the moral?”

Ardrishi looked down disdainfully. “Valen knows. Killing other Minbari is bad? As if we need to be told.”

He had Ardrishi’s information confirmed for him a short while later when he pried another old friend, Morreal, from a noisy group of Warriors arguing over who would triumph in the first round of denn’bok matches. “Neroon will make it through for sure,” one of them remarked in confidential tones as Branmer (ignoring how his ears twitched at that tantalising name) led Morreal away. “Have you seen him fight? It’s brutal.”

"A little too brutal if you ask me," someone replied as they were leaving earshot, "but what else can you expect from that family."

“Yes, it’s true,” Morreal said, when Branmer had him cornered behind an arch, confessing quite blithely. “It’s more of Shakiri’s nonsense, but of course my sister thinks it’s a wonderful idea too.”

From what Branmer knew of both Shakiri and Morreal’s sister this was very alarming. “But it’s just talk, yes? They haven’t reached out to them?”

“No,” Morreal snorted. “He’s not that stupid. More’s the pity because if he had I’d turn him over to the Shai Alyt in a heartbeat. Why do you want to know anyway?”

“Just curious,” Branmer said. “Your caste are becomingly remarkably interested in external affairs these days.”

“We’re always interested where it concerns Minbari security,” Morreal replied, eyeing Branmer sharply. “You should know that, surely. Are you going to tell your Caste Elders about this?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe not. It depends on whether or not it ends up being their business.” Branmer could admit as much to Morreal, who he owed rather more than any other Warrior aside from his father. “Are you entering the games?”

Morreal leaned against the arch and folded his arms, the picture of dangerous Warrior Caste elegance. It had been a few years since they had seen each other in person and time had stripped away the last of his youthful softness to the handsome bone structure beneath. He was disgustingly good looking, especially when he allowed himself the small pleasure of smiling. “Yes, I wasn’t, but then I heard Shakiri was entering and I reconsidered.”

Branmer returned his smile a little ruefully. “It’s not in the spirit of the Denn’Vatek to use it for settling grudges.”

Morreal’s teeth flashed bright and sharp in the lamplight as he laughed. “Now, priest, where’s the fun in that?”

“Far be it from me to stand in your way,” Branmer said. “Just try not to make it too obvious that’s what you’re after.”

“Odds are we won’t be paired up against each other anyway.” Morreal shrugged nonchalantly. “Have you thought about entering? There’s no rule against priests joining, and even if anyone did challenge it you could always argue your rights as a warrior’s son.”

Branmer was briefly taken aback by the suggestion. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea right now.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Morreal said, with a little shake of his head. “You’re up for high priesthood aren’t you? Wouldn’t want to be caught doing anything so unseemly as entering the Denn’Vatek.”

“I don’t know for sure that they’d object to it.” Branmer pulled his bottom lip through his teeth, as if he were chewing on that in place of the temptation. “How could I even enter though? I don’t have an ai’tok.”

“So, just use that pendant you’re always wearing?” Morreal snorted. “Ai’toka are just glorified jewellery anyway.”

“They’re a great deal more than that to the Star Riders and the Moon Shields.” Branmer protested, even as he was still being drawn in by Morreal’s lure.

“Oh, yes, their antiquated little courtship customs,” Morreal sneered, as if the Wind Swords didn’t have their own ancient and archaic traditions. His own face bearing the marks of one such rite. “Just give it a think, will you? Might be the last bit of fun you have before they make you as boring and stuffy as the rest of them.”

“Ah yes, something to look back on with misty eyed remembrance when I have nothing left in my life except prayer and contemplation,” Branmer said, with a little laugh. Morreal was underestimating how exhaustingly active the priesthood could be. “By the by, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about my father’s new aide, would you?”

“Why do you need to ask me about him? Haven’t you met him yet? O-oh, you haven’t, have you!” Morreal started to laugh, properly delighted by Branmer’s ignorance. “No, no, I won’t spoil it for you. Neroon is a rarity that must be experienced free of any prejudice.”

Branmer watched him laugh with some irritation. “If that is your intent then I am afraid you are having the opposite effect.”

Which of course only made Morreal laugh harder. When he had recovered he said mysteriously, “There’s not much I can tell you anyway. Even if I knew I wouldn’t be allowed.”

“Oh?” Branmer said, only more intrigued. “A prohibition?”

“I’ve already said more than I should,” Morreal said. “It concerns his family history, and that’s really all I know. Something to do with his mother or his grandmother. As for the man himself,” he looked suddenly very sober, “well, I suppose I’m really the last person who should be laughing at anyone for having a chip on their shoulder.”

He certainly was. Morreal had more edges than anyone Branmer had ever known. It was one of his more attractive qualities, so long as you didn’t mind getting cut occasionally, and Branmer had always been rather drawn to sharp personalities. Branmer found himself eyeing Morreal thoughtfully. It had been some time since they had been serious about each other, but Morreal had from time to time been happy to spend a few hours in his bed all the same and he was still feeling the heat from that Shadow. “Do you have any plans this evening?”

“Yes, actually,” Morreal said, glancing at his nhitenka as he did. “You’re lucky you caught me when you did. I’ll have to dash in a moment.”

“I don’t suppose you’re free later?” Branmer said, still hopeful. It was always preferable to take a tumble with someone he knew.

“No, sorry,” Morreal seemed to finally catch on to what he was asking, “and I won’t be able to oblige you in the future either. I’m spoken for these days.”

“Oh,” Branmer said, and then added quickly, “I’m very happy for you then.”

“Don’t be. It’s a complete mess, just like everything else in my life,” Morreal said, only half joking. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“I hope they’re worth it.”

“Oh, she is,” Morreal said, already starting to edge away. “I’m the one who’s unworthy.”

“Go on then, I can see you want to leave,” Branmer said, and watched dejectedly as Morreal sped off to meet his paramore, feeling suddenly very, very alone. He was ashamed to find that there was a considerable and conceited part of him that had taken it for granted that Morreal would always be available and was taking this change in fortune very like a betrayal.

“Enough of that,” he said to himself, disgusted by his own selfishness. After all, Morreal had always made it clear he wanted something more lasting one day, and he was hardly going to sit around waiting for an itinerant and unreliable priest who was only interested in a convenient body for the night. If he had finally found someone who he loved and who would be willing to chance his awful family then that could only be good.

Unfortunately that meant Branmer was still in this strange, overstimulated mood and had no means to dispel it. He thought about hunting down Sashain in the Upper Temple, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be welcome there either. Not that things had ended on bad terms with her, but she was not the type to do anything so messy as share an ill advised night with a former lover. So, he found himself wandering aimlessly through lamplit streets and happy festival goers in a peculiar haze of gloomy yearning, thinking of his Shadow’s dark, laughing eyes and rich, velveteen voice.

He was still in this distracted, ridiculous mode of thought when he turned a corner and slammed right into Justek coming the other way. They both grabbed onto the other for balance and careened clumsily into a wall, which did a better job propping them up than either of them were managing. Branmer had two fistfuls of his tunic, and Justek was holding onto both his elbows. “Well, priest,” Justek laughed, “we meet again.”

“We do,” Branmer laughed, surprised by how pleased he was to see him. Though Justek’s voice was very different, his eyes were just as invitingly warm and dark as the Shadow’s and when the light hit them just right, lit up amber. Branmer uncurled his fingers, smoothing down Justek’s tunic but kept his hands there, flat against the centre of his chest. “How did the courtship go?”

Justek’s eyes crinkled up in a puzzled frown. “Courtship?”

“You were in the middle of courting a fighter pilot when I went away to temple,” Branmer said. “Did it work out? My father never mentioned it.”

“Ah, that courtship,” Justek laughed, rueful but not regretful. “No, we broke it off. A mutual thing. No hard feelings. I don’t think I’m meant for such things.”

Justek was still holding his elbows but now he was stroking them gently through the thin white fabric of his sleeves. Branmer slid his hands down to Jusek’s waist and felt rather than heard the sharp little inhale; saw the way Justek’s gaze darkened just a little.

“What,” Branmer said teasingly, “are you meant for then?”

That little, lopsided smile was back. “Depends on what you ask for, priest.”

Chapter Text

The sun was just threatening to emerge from behind the rooftops of Tineral when Branmer finally awoke enough to disentangle himself from Justek’s warmth. He hadn’t meant to stay so long, but he’d been lulled by a combination of post-coital contentment and the conversation of his bedmate. Justek, as it turned out, liked to talk after sex, and had kept Branmer busy with a gentle but exhaustive inquiry regarding the decade or more since they’d last seen each other. Branmer had his own questions in turn, and so they had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning very well reacquainted with each other.

Under different circumstances he might have stayed longer and spent the morning happily entangled with Justek, but he was acutely aware that he had guests at home and should hurry back before Delenn and Mayan missed him too much.  He extracted himself with some reluctance, prompting a mumbled complaint from Justek, and set himself to the business of locating first his briefs and then his trousers, before realising he had no idea where his tunic or his outer robe had gotten to.

“I take it this won’t be a repeat performance,” Justek said sleepily, rolling up onto one elbow to watch Branmer’s search.

“No, sorry.” Branmer said guiltily. “I just needed…”

“…a little fun?” Justek’s mouth turned up in one corner. “For the best, I think. I’m not in the habit of tumbling priests, and I’m far too afraid of your father to court you. Your tunic is on the chair behind you, by the way. I think you lost the outer part by the door.”

“Thank you.” Branmer found it in a crumpled pile behind the door jam and began trying to untangle the flowing, caped sleeves with mixed success. “Are you really afraid of my father?”

“Only disappointing him,” Justek said, propping his head in his hand to watch more comfortably. “No one wants to be the poor idiot who ends up breaking his son’s heart.”

The way he said it suggested this was some shared and universal feeling among the Warriors of his acquaintance. Branmer turned this over in his mind, picked at it and poked it and found it wanting in logic the way many things in the Warrior Caste were. “And yet you have no qualms about fucking me?”

“One is public, the other is private,” Justek said. “I’m assuming you don’t go telling your father about your sexual escapades?”

“Certainly not,” Branmer replied dryly, shrugging on his outer tunic and adjusting how it sat over his shoulders. One of the caped sleeves had torn and was refusing to lie properly. He would blame his encounter with the Shadow if anyone asked, but he was fairly sure he’d caught in the door as they’d made their stumbling, hasty entrance. “Though I suspect he knows I’m not celibate.”

“So you see then, why the prospect of a very public disappointment involving a high ranking Alyt’s son would be more terrifying to most Warriors than a very pleasant and discreet evening in his bed?”

“I do see,” Branmer said as he struggled with the catches of his clothes. “I had just always assumed that the difference in caste would be the major difficulty. I’d never factored in how much you all admire my father.”

“He is very well loved,” Justek said quietly. “He expects the best from everyone, and you want to live up to his expectations.”

“That I understand well enough,” Branmer sighed. It was nice to know he was not the only one trembling in the shadow of his father’s goodness. And you couldn’t even resent him for it because he wasn’t doing it purposefully to make you feel bad, it was just the way he was. Delenn was similar in that respect, although Branmer suspected the difference between them, besides caste, was that Kedrunn was very much aware of the failings and foibles of his people and Delenn was very much not. He hadn’t figured out yet whether it was the naivety of a youth spent in temple, or just the way she saw the world.

“Interesting how you wear Religious colours but style yourself like a Warrior,” Justek remarked as he finished dressing and was making a final attempt to smooth down his rebellious sleeves. “That cut is quite the fashion among all the young Warriors at the moment.”

“I suppose I’m trying to find a way to honour both parts of me.”

“Is that why you like to fuck Warriors?” Justek said with a little, yawning laugh; flopping back on the bed to stretch luxuriously in a display of smooth tan skin and finely tuned muscles. “Honouring your fine Star Rider lineage?”

“I’m honouring the fact that none of you are interested in courting me. Things get complicated very easily in my own caste. There are expectations that Warriors don’t seem to have of me,” Branmer laughed. “Now I know why.”

“I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“No,” Branmer said firmly. “I’ve no interest in courtship. My nature is too independent.” And he had not, frankly, felt very strongly about anyone in some years. He did not entirely trust himself to like anyone too strongly in any case. It had a tendency to make him very stupid.

“In that it seems we are similar,” Justek said, finishing his stretch and sitting up fully to make the proper, ritual goodbye, “but try not to be too cavalier. Independence is a fine thing, but it can get very lonely if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Branmer said, coming to the bed to bend their heads together until their noses touched, laying his hand over Justek’s heart. Together they chorused the parting words, “Thank you for sharing this night and your company with me, friend. May the breaking sun chase the shadows away and guard you home.”

✦

He was back in time to be greeted with wide open arms by his mother, still in her night robes and yawning a great deal. “We got in last night,” she said, “and I should have gone straight to bed but I can never resist a dumri, and your friend Mayan was so keen that I should sing something. Where have you been anyway? Very rude of you to be absent on your mother’s return.”

“I didn’t know you’d be back,” Branmer protested, keenly aware of his dishevelled appearance and the wry smile his father was shooting at him. “I met an old friend and we got carried away talking.”

“I suppose we must excuse that, Eiyamer,” his father laughed, and turned back to frying fresh flat bread over the fire pit. “Verann, could you get the plates? I think this one is about ready.”

Alyt Verann, who had been propping up the wall - and who even past his prime could have easily propped up the entire city- gave Branmer a friendly thump on the shoulder as he passed by. “You’re looking skinny, priest.”

Branmer was glad he’d never known an unfriendly thump from Verann. As it was he was wincing as he replied, “Are you staying with us too?”

“If your parents will put up with me,” Verann said. “Though I must make some use of my apartment. The clan is always threatening to take it away from me and give it to someone else if I don’t.” He looked at Kedrunn. “I got a message from Rakhinn just the other day asking if she should update my address to yours. It’s getting very pointed.”

“Are the Fire Wings hoping you’ll finally make honourable Minbari out of us?” Kedrunn teased, sliding a finished flat bread, sizzling with melted kishte, onto the plate Verann held out and began preparing another one, flattening the dough into a  perfect circle before dropping it into the pan. 

“I think they want to economise on space,” Verann grumbled. “Aren’t you going to add-”

“You have to cook the underside first, remember?” Kedrunn replied. “Maybe you should move in permanently. At least then I’d know you were being fed properly instead of dining on ration packs all the time.”

“And be surrounded by honour-brained Star Riders all the time? No, thank you. I’ll keep my ration packs, some of the flavours are almost discernable these days.” Verann stomped over to the table and sat down, cursing when he burnt his tongue on hot kishte. He broke off abruptly when he noticed Delenn shuffling into the communal room, yawning and wiping sleep from her eyes, and beaming as bright as the sun when Eiyamer pressed a cup of tea into her hands.

“Oh, thank you, honoured Shaal,” she said dreamily, and took a place next to Verann, who looked suddenly very uncomfortable. “Blessed morning, Alyt. Did you sleep well?”

Verann, who had just taken another bite of his bread, chewed hastily and swallowed. He shifted in his seat, looking like he wanted to spring up and flee the scene. “Yes, very well thank you, orshai’mir.”

Branmer glanced at his father, who had a very sly, wry look on his face. “She’s so gracious and sweet,” Kedrunn whispered, handing Branmer a full plate. “He doesn’t know what to do with her.”

Branmer snorted. Neither Kedrunn or Verann had ever seen Delenn’s edges, but they certainly existed. He’d been cut before in theological debates with her. Verann would do well to be cautious. “I notice Mayan isn’t up yet.”

“Nor likely to be,” Eiyamer remarked over his father’s shoulder. “She had rather too much of Alyt Shakaia’s home brewed nakti last night. I expect she’ll need a couple more hours to sleep it off.  She was chattering  about all of us merging into one great whole and singing in a heavenly chorus among the stars when I put her to bed.”

That sounded suspiciously like the sort of drivel acolytes in temple would spout after getting at the ceremonial hallucinogens. Nakti root was not known for those specific qualities but sufficient quantities could be guaranteed to turn the most severe Warrior into a blithering idiot in love with everyone in their vicinity. “How much did she drink?”

Kedrunn blanched. “Enough. I think she was just in very good spirits.”

“Sounds like,” Branmer balanced a cup of tea on the edge of his plate, and glanced around, “Is Neroon going to be joining us or is he sleeping off the nakti too?”

“I’ve never seen him touch the stuff,” Kedrunn said, sliding another finished bit of bread onto a plate and handing it to Delenn. “He’s already away. He’s helping Inahel corral her Shadows, among other things. Work always slows over the festival so I only need him for a couple of hours every day and his skills are too valuable to waste.”

Oh, interesting. Perhaps Neroon knew his Shadow?

“But,” Kedrunn added, “if you’re so desperate to meet him then you could come along to his first qualifying bout this afternoon. I’ll message you the time. When are you meeting that couple?”

“Not until noon.” Something from the previous night came back to Branmer. “You know, Morreal suggested that I enter the Denn’Vatek.”

“Oh, so that’s who you were with,” Kedrunn said, just a touch too casually, his eyes flicking up and down Branmer’s rumpled attire.

Branmer ignored the look. It was better than his father knowing who he had really spent the night with. “Is it possible?”

“I’m not aware of any prohibition against the other castes entering, it’s just not something anyone’s thought to do before,” his father admitted, putting down his spatula and leaning on one elbow as he mulled the problem. “You’ve no ai’tok though, that’s a problem.”

“He seemed to think any trinket would do.”

“In that your friend Morreal is very wrong,” Kedrunn laughed. “It would have to be something equal in significance, and I know for a fact you don’t have such a thing in your caste. You could use mine, I suppose, if your mother's willing to give it up. That would be acceptable. But Branmer, I must advise against it. The Denn’Vatek is no trivial contest, it is dangerous. You could be seriously injured or worse. Some of the best in the caste will be competing and they won't hold back for a priest.”

“I don't expect them to,” Branmer replied. “I'm not defenceless.”

His father looked pained, but all he said was, “I think sometimes, Bran, your intimacy with my caste blinds you to our full capacity for violence. If you choose this you will not walk away unscathed.”

“What are you two whispering about so seriously?” Eiyamer interrupted. “Come and eat, won’t you.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Kedrunn said to Branmer, switching off the firepit and sweeping up his and Eiyamer’s plates, “just don’t make any rash decisions.”

✦

Delenn was very keen to see the Star Seers temple in Upper Tinarel, so after breakfast, with a little time left for Branmer to wash and change, they left Mayan (snoring contentedly into her pillow) with his parents and went to meet the priestess Sashain. Who, within minutes of meeting Delenn, was eyeing her like one would a large and very unusual bug. Branmer could see her taking mental notes for dissection later.

“Is she for real?” She murmured to Branmer at one point, when Delenn had wandered ahead a little to admire some bit of Religious iconography on the walls. They were in one of the newer parts of the temple - dating to about 1500 years before Valen - built after the Star Riders had allowed them to settle in Tinarel, taking over what had once been a holy site dedicated to one of the old Warrior Caste gods they had long since spurned. It was the only Religious Caste temple that had ever been built in the Tinarel’s fortified Upper Rest; not so much welcomed as tolerated. 

“Oh, quite real,” Branmer said. “In all the years I’ve known her she’s never been anything other than totally earnest. I don’t think she has an inch of cynicism in her entire soul. Still, she’s not quite so naive as you might think. It would be a mistake to underestimate her.”

“Oh, really?” Sashain was biting back a laugh, her cheeks dimpling with the effort. “So what made you bring this sweet and sincere creature here?”

“I was hoping the experience might open up her mind to other perspectives before the chance is gone forever. She’s marked for service on the Valen’tha once her education is complete.”

Sashain’s brow wrinkled. “Straight out of temple?”

“Yes, I know, that was what I thought too,” Branmer sighed heavily. “I feel somewhat responsible because I was the one who brought her to Dukhat’s attention in the first place. He’s stealing her out from under me.”

“Do I detect a hint of resentment towards our illustrious Chosen One?”

“No, not exactly,” Branmer never felt entirely comfortable criticising Dukhat, rare though the inclination moved him. It felt a little like sacrilege. “I just wish he would explain things to me sometimes. I suppose that’s my Warrior Caste blood speaking.”

“They aren’t the only ones with a sense of curiosity, Bran. You’re far too quick to judge anything about you that doesn’t perfectly match up with Religious ideals as being the malign influence of the Warrior Caste. I’ve never liked the concept of blind obedience either, and I’m solidly Religious Caste all the way back to Valen. As is your mother, who I’ll remind you, defied her entire fane so she could have your father.”

“Do I detect a tone of censure, Sashain?”

“Only a very gentle one,” she said, and turned back to Delenn, brow creasing into a thoughtful frown. “If you’re called to examination I don’t want you going in there feeling like you have to apologise for your Warrior Caste heritage. You get like this whenever you’re up for some honour and you shouldn’t. You’re going to be half-Warrior no matter what you do, might as well be proud of it.”

Branmer didn’t know what to say to that. “Sashain-”

“Oh, don’t you do that grovelling business,” Sashain replied, tilting her head up at an arrogant angle to look down her nose at him. “You know I’m very fond of you.”

He swallowed unhappily. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us.”

“No, you aren’t. And neither am I,” she snorted with laughter. “We would have been a disaster. I remember at one point thinking ‘if I have to spend the rest of my life with this awful little man with his high opinions of himself either he’s going over the cliffs or I am’ and that was when I knew it wasn’t going to work. You make a fine friend, but it’ll take someone a great deal more stubborn and determined than I am to make a decent partner out of you.”

“I was pretty awful, wasn’t I?” Branmer found himself laughing along with her, as much as it pained him to think back on that time. “Last night I almost had the thought to come knocking on your door again. Good thing I saw sense.”

“Very good thing. I would certainly have sent you away,” Sashain said. “No doubt you tumbled some poor, hapless Warrior instead.”

“Hardly hapless!” Branmer replied, thinking of the strength in Justek’s hands with happy warmth. It was a shame, really, that it was unlikely to happen again. “Valen, you know me too well sometimes. No wonder you broke it off.”

They were following a looping, circular path down into the depths of the old temple and had come out into a cave-like room that opened out behind the Eral falls. Sheets of water plunged past, thundering loudly. Delenn rushed forward, flinging her arms out to cut through the veil and laughed as water rained around her.

“Careful now, orshai’mir,” Sashain called out. “A few steps forward and you’ll be falling too.”

Mollified, Delenn stepped back, but stayed close enough that the waters still pattered down on her as she stood, arms wide and face uplifted in prayer.

“Sashain,” he said quietly, taking advantage of the furious crash and echo of the falls, “you’re here in the midst of the Warrior Caste – you wouldn’t happen to have heard any rumblings about the Dilgar War?”

She eyed him pointedly. It felt a bit like being slowly flayed. “What’s it to you?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Branmer said, “but I’ve been asked to look into it by several senior members of the Conclave of Priests, and so, here I am, asking you.”

“You should have told them that Warriors are allow-”

“-yes, I know, I know. And I did,” Branmer huffed. “It didn’t impress them. Their concern, I think, is that there are some in the Warrior Caste attempting to form a cross-caste coalition in favour of entering the war and that if they gain enough support at a high enough level it might sway the Grey Council to act.” And by feigning ignorance and repeating her line on duty and service the Shai Alyt was protecting them and placing herself in the way of the Conclave. A dangerous place to be if she wasn’t careful. And yet Bashaal had almost dared him to go looking deeper. 

“Aren’t you better off asking some of your charming Warrior Caste friends?” Sashain said. “Priestess of the Upper Temple I might be but they’re far more likely to talk to you than me.”

“They talk, but they don’t always tell me everything all at once,” Branmer said. “You haven’t heard anything?”

Sashain folded her hands in front of her belt and sighed. “I hear things, yes. Mostly from younger Warriors who haven’t learnt to shut their mouths yet, so I can’t vouch for their accuracy, but word is that members of the Shai Alyt’s own inner circle have been arguing for intervention.” 

“I see,” Branmer said. That would make them high ranking alyts, war leaders in fact, with real resources at their command and the will to wield them. No wonder the Conclave was worried. No wonder they were so eager to find these Warriors. They did want to march them out and shame them. “And they have been talking to the Worker Caste too?”

“Not just the Workers, some in our caste too,” Sashain said. There was something pained in the turn of her mouth and the set of her shoulders. Branmer narrowed in on this.

“Our caste?! How come I haven’t heard about this? Surely I must know someone involved. I move widely in the caste.”

“Yes, you do. I am sorry, Branmer,” Sashain said, wincing. “From what I understand there was talk of approaching you, but it was felt that you were best kept out of it - lest it sink your chances of being called for High Priest.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He stuttered helplessly before landing on, “I am being protected?”

“Is it so surprising, really? You’re not without support, even beyond our order. Your reputation for cutting through gokk shit has earned you a deal of respect among those minded towards reform.”

“I have never had any intention of setting myself up for a political career,” Branmer said, and then realised how stupid that sounded as soon as the words were out of his mouth. What was intervening in matters between Warrior and Priest other than politics? Still, it was an uncomfortable truth to acknowledge. “I only see what needs to be done and do it.”

“Yes, and when everyone else either ignores problems or talks them to death, your decisiveness is very refreshing.” Sashain grinned and nodded at Delenn. “I hope some of it rubs off on your friend here before she gets abducted to serve on the Valen’tha.”

“Oh, she doesn’t need my influence for that,” Branmer said, numbly, hearing his voice from a distance, barely audible above the thunder of the falls. Valen, Beshaal had been daring him! No doubt she and the Shai Alyt were hoping his decisive instincts would resolve the matter for her. He couldn’t even really claim he was being used - after all, they were only letting him fulfil his obligations to the Conclave. It just so happened that doing so suited them, because they knew him well enough to know none of this would sit right with him.

“How does it feel,” Sashain remarked dryly, “being the Conclave’s chief inquisitor?”

“Like having a tooth pulled,” Branmer replied glumly. “Frankly, I’m of a mind with the Shai Alyt on this. What right do the Conclave have to try and quash anyone who disagrees with them?”

“What will you do?”

“The same thing I always do. Find out who these Warriors are and then protect them.”

And if it lost him the chance to be High Priest, well, then so be it.

“You know,” Sashain said slowly, “your father is in the Shai Alyt’s inner circle. If anyone were likely to know who was in this rebellious faction-”

“Yes, very likely, but my father has had a lifetime of keeping Warrior Caste secrets,” Branmer said. “I’m not going to get anything from him beyond the answer he already gave me. He has always been very careful about separating professional and personal.”

No, his best course of action was to go after his friends in the lesser ranks. He’d allowed himself to get distracted by Ardrishi’s little tidbit about the Wind Swords -which had likely been her intention- but there was more to be mined from that particular seam and he would doubtless find an excuse to see her again soon. There was Justek too, who held higher rank and had useful connections in the caste. He’d deliberately avoided the topic with him last night - given the context it would have felt too much like trading sexual favours - but there would certainly be opportunity in the future under more appropriate conditions.

“Ah, well,” Sashain sighed in the background of his schemes. “It was only a thought.”

By the cave opening, Delenn finished her prayer and bowed to the waters, feet slapping wetly as she trotted back to where they were waiting. She was soaked to skin, robes trailing water and a fat drip collecting at the bottom of her chin, but she looked absolutely beatific. “Oh, that was wonderful!” she had caught their sombre faces before they could put them away. “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Branmer smiled, “I’m only worried you might freeze like that.”

“I can find her something to change into,” Sashain said warmly, taking Delenn by the arm in a sisterly fashion. “It will give us a chance to talk in private, without your interference.”

“Oh, really?” Branmer laughed. “Very well, I should be going anyway. I told that couple I’d meet them in the temple gardens and it’s nearly noon now. I wouldn’t want to be late.”

✦

It didn’t take long for Branmer long to discern that if there was a problem it wasn’t with the couple. Mazetch and Vashaer were of equal rank; a shy, sweet pair that looked at each other with embarrassingly stark admiration. “I really don’t see what the issue is,” Branmer said, reviewing the details of their courtship, “typically when a clan makes a demand for specific rites it’s because they think the couple isn’t right for each other, or there’s some concern regarding propriety, but there’s nothing here that would raise any alarms with me.”

“They didn’t tell you?” Mazetch said, with a puzzled frown. Vashaer squeezed his hand, giving him an encouraging smile. He was not much of a talker, but had a calming, stoic presence that seemed to reassure Mazetch. “It’s because of me. I want to leave the Star Riders and become a Moon Shield.”

“Ah, I see,” Branmer said, “yes, that’d do it.”

Vashaer’s mouth twitched. “So you see our problem.”

“Yes,” Branmer said, having to work to control his anger. Star Riders. “They are hoping to exhaust you with rituals, with the outcome that either Mazetch gives up the Moon Shields or gives up you. You don’t have any family left in the Star Riders, do you?”

“A couple of distant cousins,” Mazetch replied, “but no close kin who would object. Both my parents have been dead for some time. Vashaer’s family have been very welcoming. I feel… at home with the Moon Shields. Their vocation as Warriors matches my own better than the Star Riders.”

Of course, the Moon Shield philosophy of war was one that focused largely on defence. In times of war it was the majority of their fleet that was tasked with protecting the home world systems, while more aggressive clans, like the Star Riders and Night Walkers, took the fight directly to the enemy. They were not called the Shield of Minbar for nothing. 

“So, you have likely simply fallen afoul of Star Rider pride,” Branmer sighed. Typical. “In that, I can help. First, I recommend that we proceed with the demanded rituals for now. It’s better if you appear compliant. Meanwhile, I can advise both your and my superiors that I believe there is no need for religious intervention and that you should be allowed to proceed according to your chosen Warrior Caste rites. I am afraid they will probably require a period of observation all the same, but it will still take considerably less time than if you had to undergo the full regiment of rituals overseen by my caste.”

“I have heard there can be as many as fifty,” Vashaer murmured quietly. He looked a little nervous at the prospect.

“Oh, even more, depending on the couple and their fane,” Branmer laughed at the horror on their faces. “Yes, it’s a wonder we ever manage to complete a courtship. I’ve always admired the brevity, and diversity, of Warrior Caste rites. But you needn’t worry about that, trust me.”

Mazetch smiled. It was only a small thing, the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth, but it altered his face completely. He changed from a slightly dour, plain creature, into something that blazed with kindly good humour. Branmer could understand exactly why Vashaer was so moonstruck. “I hoped you would help us,” Mazetch said. “Your father said you weren’t quite like other priests. Most of them seem to resent the validity of our rites.”

“My father? And he told me he knew better than to interfere in such things.”

“Oh no, he didn’t,” Mazetch said, hastily. “I went to see him when I heard you were coming and asked him about you. I wanted to know what to expect.”

“Well,” Branmer said, still amused. “I like to think I am not so unlike the priests of my order, but it’s true that I cannot say the same for other, more conservative rules. At any rate, I suppose my parentage has left me with a tendency to side with the calling of one’s heart over clan prerogatives.”

“You’re a romantic,” Vashaer said.

“Exactly that.” Branmer smiled. “And I do not like to see anyone’s vocation denied. If Mazetch says that he will be happier and more fulfilled with the Moon Shields then I cannot, in good conscience, allow the Star Riders to force him to stay.”

✦

The first qualifying bouts are, by tradition, always decided by denn’bok, and it usually takes a full week of round the clock scheduling to get through them all. The core skills of the Denn’Vatek are all traditional martial arts (denn’bok, nil’bok, ka’nil, tor’bok, mounted combat and others), but the competition has expanded with time and technology to include testing flight and modern armament skills. Past a certain round of martial bouts a Warrior can be knocked out of the main contest and still be allowed to compete in one or more of these ancillary competitions, and even win, but they will have lost their chance at winning the highest honour and claiming a personal reward from their Shai Alyt.

On top of this there is a complicated arithmetic governing a Warrior’s progression through this martial contest that has encouraged a vast secondary contest of speculation to grow, allowing Warriors to engage in their other favourite pastime: arguing over tactics and strategy. Quite a number of Warriors come to Tinarel not so they can participate in the Denn’Vatek itself, but to cheer on family members, friends or favourites from the sidelines and gamble on their success. These bets rarely take the form of money (which the Warrior Caste have no need of given that all their comforts and necessities are provided for in return for their duty) or material possessions, but instead come as honours and favours. For example, a Warrior, upon losing a bet, might be asked to take on some duty or task for the winner, the more humbling the better. In a recent instance one unlucky loser was given the task of maintaining and caring for the winner’s weaponry, armour and other necessary accoutrements for the duration of the Denn’Vatek. 

Such bets, no doubt, will seem quaint and tame compared to the excesses we have become used to (who can forget Lord Terini gambling away the entirety of his ancient family estate in one night) but it is interesting to observe that despite the serious and aloof exterior of the Minbari, we at least share a similar enthusiasm for games of chance. One wonders what other similarities we might find upon closer acquaintance.

Extract from a report in 2217 by Beli Vellano, Centauri Ambassador to Minbar from 2216-2221, which launched a fad among young courtiers for engaging in bets of honour in the ‘Minbari fashion’ and was referenced in Lord Dura’s speech before the Centaurum in 2220 where he denounced the malign foreign influence of Minbari contact on Centauri culture and criticised Lord Vellano’s conduct as a representative of the Emperor. Vellano was recalled to Centauri Prime shortly after and never replaced. The Centauri embassy continued to operate on a skeleton staff for some time afterwards, but by the time of the Dilgar War was effectively defunct.

✦

When Branmer and Delenn arrived at the denn’bok stalls that afternoon, the place was packed tight with Warriors and thunderous with chatter and laughter and familiar arguments. There were two floors to the high vaulted fighting hall. The ground floor, where the fights would take place, had been divided up into raised platforms so that multiple bouts could take place at once, each arena sealed off with a energy field and bordered by a crowd of both excited onlookers and anxious competitors, the stands encircling the hall so packed that most people ended up standing right up against the ring. The upper floor, which overlooked the hall from fluted, crystal arches, was usually the governance of higher ranking Warriors. Branmer knew to look there and quickly spotted his mother, resplendent in white and gold and sticking out brightly among the black sea of Warriors.

Branmer grabbed Delenn, who was eyeing a spatter of blood in the nearest ring with open consternation, and dragged her away from her fascination and up the stairs.

The atmosphere above was less frantic than below; there were fewer people for a start, and the mezzanine had been laid out in little sections of cushioned seating where Warriors loitered comfortably in chatty groups. Branmer spotted Beshaal holding court over one group - lounging in her seat like the Centauri Emperor on his throne. Several Warriors were clutching drinks as they threaded their way across the floor, chatting amiably, or lingering at the balustrade, watching the scene below with casual interest. Some of them were sporting a few bruises - trophies from earlier bouts - or were still in their sparring armour. 

His mother was on one of the central walkways running across the hall - a wise position since if you got bored with one set of fights you could easily stroll a few steps to see another set -  leaning out to watch something below. Mayan was seated close by with Verann, who was in the middle of removing his armour, wincing a little as he loosened the straps around his waist.

“Rough bout?” Branmer said, by way of greeting. “I didn’t realise you were competing.”

“For the last time, I think,” Verann grunted, letting his padded breastplate hit the ground with a heavy thwup. There were different styles of armour for different weapons, and unlike the nil’bok and nil’ka, denn’bok armour was merely made to soften blows rather than turn away a sharp point or bladed edge. “Past a certain point it lacks dignity. Oh, no need to do that, Orshai’mir. It’s made to take a beating.”

Delenn had sprung forward to collect his discarded bits of armour and pile them on the low table that was slung between their circle of chairs. “It’s no bother, honoured Alyt.”

Verann grimaced. “No need for that either. We are among friends. Just Verann will do.”

“Oh, only Verann, not the familiar form?” Branmer said slyly.

“Don’t push your luck,” Verann growled and finished untying his last vambrace. He made an instinctive motion as if to throw it on the floor and then caught Delenn watching him and dropped it gently on top of her neat little pile. “I need a drink. Would any of you like some nakri?”

Delenn leaned in close to Branmer when he was gone and said, “did I offend him?”

“No,” Branmer said, eyeing the carefully arranged armour with some fascination. “I think you disarmed him. He’s used to priests being one of two things: irreligious free spirits like your mother and Mayan, or political antagonists.”

“Where do you fit in that spectrum?” Mayan yawned. She was sprawled lazily in the most comfortable looking chair with her feet propped up on the table.

“I don’t think I fit anywhere,” Branmer said. It was hard to explain his relationship to Verann - a man who was, for all intents and purposes, an unspoken second father to him. Verann treated him affectionately, after a fashion, but loved and respected Kedrunn too much to ever enter a degree of intimacy that might overthrow his authority. The result was a carefully maintained and awkward orbit, neither coming quite close enough to cause a fatal collision that might knock the other into the vacuum of space.

Which was reason enough why Branmer had no intention of quizzing Verann about the Dilgar. For one, Verann would figure him out immediately, and second, he wouldn’t appreciate being used by Branmer, and Branmer, well, he wouldn’t feel good about trying to use Verann either. It was too risky a gamble for such low stakes. 

“Branmer!” His mother had noticed his arrival and waved him over. “You’ve finally arrived! You missed quite a dramatic bout between two Night Walkers. They were from rival, oh, what’s the word, tokriae?”

“Yes, tokriae. That’s right. It’s similar to the Worker Caste tokvarai.” He came up beside her. “Where’s father? I thought he’d be with you.”

“He’s down there,” his mother tilted her head down towards the nearest arena. “They’re just about to begin.”

He leaned out further, bracing his legs against the balustrade, and spotted his father at the edge of the platform, resting his arms on the lip as he talked to a young Warrior wearing Star Rider colours on his shoulder. The Warrior was kneeling to listen with his face turned away but Branmer could catch the tantalising outline of a strong, square jawline beyond the fluting spikes that curved round to form a perfect, warlike crest. “So that’s Neroon?”

“Yes,” Eiyamer said, “he’s up against some Moon Shield. Burrda, I think. Your father says he’ll most likely win.”

“Hmm,” Branmer said, eyeing Neroon’s opponent, who was prowling to and fro at the other end of the mats; a tall, broad Warrior who looked like he could hit like a sledgehammer. “I’ve heard he’s very good.” 

“Trained by Durhan himself.”

That was an interesting tidbit. Durhan didn’t just take any students. He was notoriously picky about who he trained, and turned away five times more Warriors than he ever accepted. Branmer returned his attention to Neroon with renewed interest. So, what was holding him back in the caste, then? Fine, traditional martial skills weren’t as valuable on the battlefield as they had been before the days of modern warfare, but they still held enormous prestige in the Warrior Caste.

What family dishonour would be worth holding back a valuable asset to the caste? It didn’t make any sense. “Warriors and their honour,” he muttered under his breath, just as his father tapped two fingers to his chest to sign good fortune, and Neroon turned to stand. 

Oh.

A hot jolt of recognition hit Branmer, and he was left scrambling to locate its origin. He had seen Neroon before, he was sure of it;  that face was as strikingly known to him as it was new. He had looked into those eyes before: dark, glittering, deep set and shadowed by a heavy brow; sweeping his opponent with anticipation and calculation. Knew too, the high cheekbones, snub nose and stubborn chin. Even the way he moved sparked a familiar heat: stepping forward light-footed and agile, approaching his opponent with deliberate indirectness, ready to prance back to avoid a blow or feint for a strike. 

And then Neroon smiled, confidence overflowing into arrogance and turning it into a mocking smirk, and it clicked. Dark eyes, a stubborn chin, and a sneering mouth.

It was his Shadow. 

Neroon was his Shadow.

Oh. No.

“See something you like?” Mayan whispered in his ear. He jumped.

“He’s my father’s aide,” he whispered back, checking to see if his mother was listening, and finding her preoccupied with Delenn. He was a little annoyed by how easily Mayan had read him.

“Doesn't mean you can't look,” Mayan scoffed, and turned appreciative eyes back to the ring, where Neroon was saluting his opponent. “I certainly will.”

“You're shameless.”

Mayan snorted gracelessly. “Says the priest who's tumbled out of more beds than I care to count.”

“Sometimes, Mayan,” Branmer said, “I do regret that you know me so intimately. It’s going to make it very hard to claim any superiority over you when I’m a High Priest.”

“Shouldn’t you have superiority now?” Mayan replied lightly. “What’s a fledgling poet compared to a priest?”

“Depends who you ask.” The familiar swish-click of denn’boks extending dragged his attention back to the arena, where the two opponents had finished their opening salutes and were now circling slowly, assessing one another. “Shush, they’re starting.”

Branmer had never really been entirely keen on watching fights. There were some Warriors that enjoyed spectating a fight as much as participating, but that had never been the case for Branmer. It had always been in his nature to be in the arena, not the stands, and he never felt the same excited investment that other observers did. This time, though, was different.

He couldn’t look away from Neroon. 

He followed him, entranced, as he prowled around his opponent. Purposeful, intent. Eyes narrowed in calculation, burning as if to brand Burrda. What would it be like to have all that focused on you? But Branmer did know something of how it felt, because he had been there, held down by a lesser version of that intensity under more playful circumstances.

He wasn’t surprised when Burrda’s nerve broke first and he lunged.

Neroon deflected easily, using the momentum of the strike to spin them around and drive his opponent back towards the arena edge. It was a viciously graceful move, uncharacteristic of the direct, unornamented aggression that Durhan taught. Burrda staggered, struggling to maintain his balance, and dropped his guard long enough for Neroon to slip under and strike a blow to his shoulder.

“First strike!” Came the call from the sidelines, accompanied with a chorus of cheers, whistles and jeers.

Neroon was already whirling away, easily dodging a counter strike. He moved with deliberate fluidity, pulling Burrda after him like a current draws a swimmer out to sea. Burrda might have sheer strength on his side, but what mattered in a fight was who commanded the floor, and Neroon was already in absolute dominance, directing his opponent across the arena in wide, sweeping movements that Branmer now recognised as the influence of his father’s elegant, defensive fighting style. Branmer spared a glance in his father’s direction and found him watching the fight with one of his infamously bland expressions. For all appearances merely a disinterested onlooker, but to Branmer, who knew him better than everyone except his mother and Verann, the set of his brow and a slight tightness of his jaw betrayed his anxious hopes.

He felt a slender splinter of jealousy pressing on his heart and had to pluck it out. Of course he would want Neroon to win. It was only natural for any Alyt to want their aide to succeed, and in doing so honour their association. Victory benefited them both.

Burrda, for his part, did not yet seem to realise that he was being led -thinking he had his opponent on the retreat- and followed in Neroon’s wake with violent exuberance, unleashing a barrage of attacks that Neroon slipped like mist. He was fast - so fast - Burrda either met air or the sweeping parry of his denn’bok. It was like watching an Ingata blundering after a playful gokk. Branmer struggled to keep up, marvelling at the speed and grace with which Neroon moved. 

“Strike!” 

Burrda staggered back again, gasping. Neroon had slipped through an overextended attack to land a blow to his ribs. Branmer winced in sympathy.

Neroon had danced back, out of reach, but sensing weakness he lunged forward again, unfurling with a violent snap that echoed around the arena. He was not as powerfully built as Burrda, true, but there was muscle there beneath the padding of his denn’bok armour - Branmer could see it in the taut stretch of his thighs, the bunching of his calves - sleek, skillful strength that would win out over brute force (strength that had won out over Branmer, and pinned him to the floor). Burrda barely managed to escape the blow, twisting away from Neroon in a rushed, uncoordinated retreat that had him tripping over his feet. They circled carefully. Burrda was breathing heavily - a wariness entering his posture that had not been there before. Neroon looked entirely unruffled - eyes narrowed on the Moon Shield as if they were the only two beings in existence and everything else had dropped away - pacing like a predator after prey, all calculating purpose and lethal execution.

Beautiful. 

To think, only the night before he had been held down by all that wondrous predatory intent. He could still feel the weight of all that power - the reverberation of that lustrous laugh through his nerves - kindling heat -no, no. Don’t get stupid. Don’t. He’s your father’s aide. It wasn’t proper, it wasn’t wise, but it was also too late. The flame had already been sparked on the cobbles of that courtyard, and now it was being stoked anew. It was so embarrassingly typical. Just the sort of idiot, lustful mistake he would make. The next few weeks were going to be a supreme test of his self-control. Perhaps he’d break his rule and seek out Justek again; indulge in a little festival fling to take the edge off it. Or better yet perhaps he’d wake up tomorrow and find it was just a passing fancy, a phantom coaxed into being by the intoxicating combination of his pre-examination nerves and the excitement of the festival. 

Yes, yes, that could be it.

Below Neroon had tired of playing with his opponent. He lured Burrda into one last desperate lunge, and when he overextended, swept Burrda’s legs away and sent him toppling to the floor. Neroon’s next strike missed - Burrda rolling aside just in time and scrabbled for his fallen denn’bok - in an instant Neroon was on him, bringing his boot down with vicious precision-

-crack!-

-even about above the hubbub of the hall everyone heard the sound of Burrda’s wrist breaking.

In the hushed silence that followed, Neroon brushed the other denn’bok aside with his own, and then brought the end to rest at his opponent’s collarbone. Burrda swallowed once, eyes glittering with unvoiced pain, and signalled surrender with his good hand.

The crowd erupted. Branmer’s heart drummed loudly in his ears, a wild staccato against the heavy stamp of boots. Delenn was suddenly at his side, righteous with disgust, “He didn’t need to do that! It wasn’t necessary!” and he was brought abruptly back to the world, suddenly overflowing with people where previously there had just been Neroon and Burrda.

“Sometimes you need to be sure a fight is won,” Verann remarked. Sometime during the duel he had returned, drink in hand, and was regarding the victorious tableau below with the grizzled sagacity of one who spoke from experience. “Still, that will be Burrda out of the running entirely. Unfortunate.” He saw Delenn’s questioning expression and added, “You don’t get thrown out after losing one fight, usually. Victors go through to the next round, while the losers are paired up for another bout. You get two more shots after your first match to make it through.” He tipped his drink in Branmer’s direction. “This one’s father once lost his first fight to Durhan, but was able to recover in the next and go on to win the tournament.”

“I never knew that!” Mayan exclaimed, elbowing Branmer. “Bran, you never told us your father was a champion!”

“It was a long time ago,” Branmer said, still distracted by the aftermath of the fight. Below Neroon was helping his defeated opponent to his feet, handing him back his collapsed denn’bok. “He was playing with him, don’t you think?” That wasn’t Durhan’s influence, and nor was it Kedrunn’s (neither of whom were in the habit of playing with their food), that was all Neroon.

“Hmm?” Verann saw where his attention was fixed. “Oh, yes, Burrda had no chance of winning. Neroon could have finished it a lot earlier, but this way it looks a little better for Burrda, don’t you think?”

“Even with the broken wrist?” Delenn said.

“An injury acquired in battle is an injury acquired honourably,” Eiyamer interjected, and stole Verann’s cup to take a sip. “Burrda doesn’t seem to mind much.”

In fact he was laughing and joking with his friends as they helped him down from the arena, throwing Neroon a friendly wave over his shoulder. Neroon returned the wave with a stiff nod, and then leapt down to join Kedrunn, who had lost his bland mask in favour of a proud grin. He embraced Neroon, cuffing his crest with a paternal air and checking him over for injuries. Neroon took the attention quietly, just the smallest upturn at the corners of his mouth and a slight flush to show he was flattered by his superior’s concern. Branmer was sure, at this point, that his father had known Neroon for a long time and was very fond of him. This certainly went beyond the pride of a superior enjoying the success of a mere subordinate.

“Your father said they’d join us when the fight was over,” Eiyamer said, as Kedrunn began leading Neroon through the crowd. “We were going to stick around to watch Jielzar’s match. She says it’s her last time competing.”

Jielzar, the hardened veteran of many past Denn’Vatekae, and formerly head of the Shai Alyt’s guard, was always a favourite with the crowds. She would be missed in the arena, but likely she had the same view of things as Verann. Better to bow out gracefully before you were forced. “When is she on?” Branmer said, glad to have something to distract him from Neroon’s imminent arrival. He needed to salvage some dignity if he was going to make it through the rest of the evening without embarrassing himself.

“Not for another couple of matches, I think. Oh, look, Verann, there’s Terzain! You promised you’d introduce me!” Eiyamer pushed away from the balcony, dragging Verann, who was trying very hard not to slop his drink, with her. “Sorry,” she called back over her shoulder, “but she’s simply the most extraordinary singer. I can’t miss the chance!”

That left just Branmer, Delenn and Mayan.

“Well… I am going to find something to eat. I’m famished. Come on Delenn, let’s see if we can find any of those little cakes you like.” Mayan hooked her arm through Delenn’s and leant in to whisper as she passed Branmer, “Try to control yourself. Wouldn’t do to unfurl at your first meeting, now, would it?”

“Harridan,” Branmer returned, with no real animosity. He was too busy smoothing down the lines of his tunic, suddenly hyper aware of every miniscule detail of his own bearing and dress. He'd worn one of his plainer tunics today; practical and short hemmed, but with detailing down one arm in an imitation of nil’bok armour. A little nod to his Warrior Caste heritage that suddenly seemed flamboyant and ridiculous.

Across the upper hall Kedrunn was weaving through the crowd with Neroon at his side, nodding distractedly to various greetings thrown his way. They were talking, and Branmer could tell by the energy of his father’s movements that their conversation was all denn’bok technique and tournament strategy. Neroon was listening closely, with keen, narrowed eyes, interjecting with equal enthusiasm, though his gestures were less animated and more deliberate and controlled. It was hard, marrying this serious, self-contained Warrior with the playful apparition that had flirted with Branmer and foundered him, but he was there somewhere. He had been in the fighting ring with Burrda, Branmer was sure.

His father had spotted him, and nudged Neroon who glanced up, eyes widening as they landed on Branmer. His face coloured. There was no doubt. He recognised Branmer, just as Branmer recognised him. 

“Neroon,” his father smiled as he approached, oblivious to his aide’s discomfort, “this is my son, Branmer.” 

“That much is obvious,” Neroon said, in that wonderful drawling voice, covering well for that brief moment of appalled recognition but still staring fixedly at Branmer in a way that had him prickling with heat. “How many priests with such a resemblance to you could there possibly be running loose in the world?”

“Enough of that cheek,” Kedrunn replied affectionately, giving Neroon a fond clap on your shoulder. “One of these days you're going to get in trouble talking so freely. Not every Alyt is as permissive as me. Ah. Excuse me, Beshaal is calling me over. Behave, both of you.”

“I always behave!” Branmer said, but his father was already gone and he was left standing face to face with Neroon in a bubble of uneasy silence amidst the chatter and laughter of the upper hall. Branmer flexed his fingers, trying to grasp onto something to say, but Neroon beat him to it.

“Does tussling with Shadows fall under your definition of behaving?” There was that warm, almost flirtatious, inflection to his tone Branmer remembered. Still there, under that sombre exterior. Was it intentional, or was that just the way he always sounded?

“I'm not going to tell him about it, if that's what you're asking.”

Neroon’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. He didn't have an overwhelmingly powerful stature, not like Verann or even his defeated opponent, but was still pleasantly broad and well defined. Looking, Branmer could feel again the power that had defeated him down the previous night. And, oh, it was a mistake to think about that.

“I think it would be best for both of us,” Neroon said, “if that little incident remains forgotten.”

Oh, he's embarrassed. Branmer wanted to laugh but swallowed it down diplomatically and said, “Then we are in accord.”

“We are, thank you,” Neroon fell silent, looking at Branmer in such a way that was dangerous to both of them, and then shook his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you. He only talks about you all the time too.”

“Does he?” Branmer blinked at this admission. He hoped it wasn’t anything that would prejudice Neroon. “Congratulations on winning the match, you fight very well.”

A touch of smugness entered Neroon’s smile. “I trained under Durhan.”

“So I’ve heard,” Branmer grinned at Neroon’s pride. He’d been right to think the placement of Neroon’s ai’tok had been a challenge. Neroon wasn’t looking to prove he was good enough, he already knew he was. “And by my father too, from what I can tell. You seem to favour his style.”

Neroon looked at Branmer anew. “You noticed that?”

“Of course, I only grew up watching him fight, though your application is a touch more brutal.” Which matched what he had overheard the previous night. Poor Burrda, those gossiping Warriors had not exaggerated.

“Your father’s always been too kind, even with his opponents,” Neroon replied warmly. He had very dark, brown eyes, which absent the ferocity of battle had a genial softness. “It’s admirable, but not always practical for the rest of us. On that, I favour Durhan.”

“So you take the best of both and abandon their weaknesses. Sound strategy,” Branmer laughed, finding himself a little giddy. If only Neroon weren’t his father’s aide, if only there weren’t a hundred complications… ah, well, at least he would have good company for the festival. That was something. “You know, I’ve been thinking of entering the contest myself.”

“I'm surprised you don't consider it beneath you to entertain such savagery,” Neroon said, something of a smile twisting his mouth, a teasing edge to his voice.

“With a Warrior for a father -a former champion of the Denn’vatek no less- you can hardly expect me to disdain your customs,” Branmer said, returning the teasing quite happily. “I grew up on a Sharlin cruiser, surrounded by Warriors, remember.”

“I am well aware of your history,” Neroon said, and the teasing faded into something more serious. He was suddenly very grave and cold. “None of that is any replacement for the intensive training that Warriors endure. The Denn’Vatek is no place for thrill seekers. It is a serious test of skill and endurance, not a silly distraction to fill your time with before you return to Yedor like a dumri or a game of sedisha.”

“I’m hardly a thrill seeker,” Branmer scoffed, but he was thrown by the turn the conversation had taken into a lecture - and when Neroon had seemed so agreeable a moment before. Had he mistaken a sneer for a smile? “Nor am I untrained. I have just as much right as any Warrior.”

“What right?” Neroon replied, and his tone was becoming scornful now. “The Denn’Vatek is for Warriors.”

“By right of my father!” Branmer snapped, growing prickly. Neroon had unwittingly touched an old sore, one that was always happy to reopen. “Isn’t that enough?”

Neroon shook his head. “Father aside, you are still a priest. It’s not your place.”

“My place to what? Test my skills?” Branmer was struggling to control his volume, extremely aware that they were within earshot of a half-dozen high ranking Warriors.

“What skills?” Neroon snorted, in a manner perfectly calculated to infuriate Branmer. “Don’t forget I’ve some experience of your supposed skills.”

“You had me at a disadvantage!”

“I would imagine you are always at a disadvantage, priest,” Neroon replied, raking him with a contemptuous look that summed him up and dismissed him as just another silly little priest with ideas beyond his vocation. “But by all means, enter. I wouldn’t deprive any of your caste the opportunity to humble themselves. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe your father needs me.”

He made to sweep past, but Branmer grabbed his arm. “Bet on it,” Branmer said - Neroon was just a little shorter than him, and he took advantage of the difference to look down his nose at him, “if you’re so sure of my weakness, then why don’t we bet on whether I can make it past the first round?”

“Let’s be generous,” Neroon replied coolly, extracting his arm with a little shake, “and make it the 5th.”

Which was stacking the odds in Neroon’s favour. But the 5th round made sense too. That was after the cut off for continuing to participate in the ancillary contests. “Very well.”

“An act of service is the customary wager,” Neroon said. “Will that suit, or would you prefer something a little less injurious to your dignity.”

“Hardly,” Branmer said curtly, “if my dignity were so easily injured I would never have entered the priesthood. I was born to a life of service, just the same as you.”

“Not quite the same, I can assure you,” Neroon returned, “but if we are agreed on the wager I really had better not keep your father waiting. For some of us the festival is not all free and easy.”

“I imagine nothing much is free and easy with you,” Branmer shot back as Neroon swept away. The jibe was beneath him, but Neroon’s sneering pride was stinging his own. The audacity! To talk down to Branmer as if he was some damn fool from Chu’domo on a gap year reconnecting with their ancient Warrior ‘heritage’. So much for his tempting Shadow with laughing eyes and a teasing smile. And there he had been worried about resisting such temptation – well, no fear! His father could keep his wretched, smug, arrogant aide!

He knew he was giving into the rage, letting it override his rationality, but he didn’t care. He spotted his mother across the room, arm in arm with Verann and laughing at some joke Terzain was telling her, and Branmer knew exactly what he was going to do. 

In the breath it had taken to make the choice he was standing beside Eiyamer, holding out his hand. “Mother, I need to borrow father’s ai’tok.”

It came out too loud, carrying further than their little group. Branmer could feel the stares, prickling over the back of his neck and one in particular, he imagined, so much fiercer and more determined than the rest. He could picture those dark eyes, that mouth curling into a sneer, that contempt. Some part of him couldn't help but admire the audacity of the man, all the same. It was a rare Warrior who’d risk insulting his superior's son - either he was certain of his position with Kedrunn, or he just didn't care. Either way, Branmer wasn't about to go running to his father, but he also couldn't let this pass. He would prove that arrogant bastard wrong!

His mother peered at him, mouth parted in puzzlement. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “I don’t have one of my own, so I need his. I’ve the right.”

Beside her, Terzain, who Branmer had met once before some years earlier and was as solemn as he remembered, blinked wide, thoughtful eyes and pursed her lips, but said nothing. Verann seemed to find something funny. His mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter, and his attention kept flicking past Branmer. “You certainly do. Go on, Eiyamer, let him have it. He needs to prove something. What and to whom, I couldn't say, but we’d best not stand in his way.”

“Don’t tease him, Verann,” Eiyamer said sternly, smiling all the same. She signalled over Branmer’s shoulder, angling to tap the ai’tok where it hung on her belt, brows raised. Whatever reply she received it must have been enough, for the next moment she was untangling Kedrunn’s ai’tok from her belt with deliberate care. She held it reverently in both hands for a moment, thumbs tracing the smooth grooves that marked out the sigils of his father's family and clan; Warriors of the icy northern ranges of Minbar, who had guarded the Star Rider’s wealth of natural resources and mountain fortresses for centuries. Not great heroes of legend or mighty war leaders with battle glory, but solid, loyal stock, who had served in an unbroken line since before Valen's time. Slowly, reluctantly, she held it out to him. “You will take care of it, yes, Bran?”

He reached out to take it, feeling her pulling back still, and knowing what it had cost her to hang his father's favour at her side. “Of course, mother.”

Eiyamer’s reluctance passed into a broad smile. “Then go on, and show them all that Warriors aren't the only ones who know how to fight.”

✦

The ai’tok was light in his hand as he made the walk from the arena to the gate, and up close he could see it was scratched and worn from hanging every day on his mother’s belt; a precious testament to his parent’s love and the years they had spent together. Was it profaning something sacred to put it to use in a petty bet? But it was too late for any regret. The matter was public now - every footstep he took shadowed by a growing retinue of chattering Warriors, noisy with excitement at this dramatic turn of events. Neroon was somewhere among them, and so was his father.

He hoped his father could forgive him for ignoring his warning.

“Ay, let me through! Out of the way!” Someone came running after him, breaking through the procession. It was Ardrishi. She came abreast of him, grinning delightedly and a little out of breath. There was a bruise blossoming at her jaw and it was clear she’d come straight from a fight. “Valen, it’s true isn’t it? Everyone says you’re going to compete! Is that even allowed?”

“There’s no rule against it,” Branmer replied, and cast a sardonic look over his shoulder. “I don’t know what’s got everyone excited.”

“You’re quite the weirdest priest I’ve ever known,” she laughed, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder, “and I have cousins in the Chu’domo. Even they wouldn’t dare! Good luck, you’ll need it.” 

She was not the only old friend who had caught wind of his intentions. Morreal materialised ahead of them, slipping out from a close to take up position on his other side. “What happened to now isn’t a good time? No, don’t tell me. You let someone wind you up, didn’t you?”

“So happy to have your support,” Branmer replied drily. “You were the one that put the idea in my head.”

They had come out into the plaza below the gate, the crowd parting to let them through. Evidently someone had run ahead and let everyone know he was coming and the air was thick with anticipation. He was numbly aware of hundreds of eyes on him, his pale robes marking him out among all the Warrior black, and suddenly he found that his hands were trembling. Yes, this was certainly going to get back to his superiors. He had probably sunk his chances of becoming High Priest for at least another decade, but it would be worth it to wipe that infuriating sneer off Neroon’s face.

He tied his father’s ai’tok into his belt, and faced the gate. Behind him Warriors were already taking bets on his chances. At least one was convinced he would fail to even hang his ai’tok successfully. He ignored them and stepped forward.  He did not need to stop and think where he wanted to place it, he already knew exactly where it belonged. He hooked a hand around an empty spike and braced himself. High above Neroon’s ai’tok gleamed bright white in the dying afternoon like a guiding star. 

He fixed himself on that beacon glare and began to climb.

Chapter Text

“This is highly irregular and quite possibly dangerous,” Alyt-kati Kurzek remarked, looking ruffled. She had been Worker Caste before being called to a Warrior’s vocation, and had brought with her a Worker’s fixation on rules, regulations, and above all, safety.

“But not contrary to our rites,” Sech-na Shavhal said, mouth twitching with laughter. “In fact I can find no rule that states only Warriors are permitted to enter.”

“My point is that it might be considered irresponsible to allow someone untrained to enter,” Kurzek replied, a touch arch. It was no secret that she and Shavhal did not particularly like each other; Kurzek found Shavhal’s manner too glib, Shavhal in turn found her too fussy. “We don’t allow Warriors to enter until they have finished their education and been approved for duty.”

“Oh, untrained is he? My apologies, Branmer, I didn’t realise you were still only an acolyte.”

“Trained as a priest!” Kurzek snapped. “Do not be facetious with me, Shavhal! You know I didn’t mean it in a general sense. In Valen’s name, he could be seriously injured!”

“I am not wholly untrained,” Branmer cut in. They were high up in Kruzek’s office overlooking the Vashek-Gate. A crowd was still gathered there, buzzing with speculation and rumour, rippling with movement as they waited. Waited for him. It set nerves alight and fluttering in his stomach having so many eyes turned his way. And to think he had fled Yedor to escape such. “I grew up among Warriors and until sixteen shared classes with them as a peer. I have a denn’bok and training in all the necessary arts of the Denn’vatek, plus what wits and learning temple provided me. I can compete. Or is it less that you are afraid for my safety and more that you can’t face the possibility of a priest showing you up?”

“Oh, I can guarantee that won’t happen.” Shevhal laughed.

“You forget, priest, that I have some understanding of the training gap between castes. I had much catching up to do when I found my calling, and it was hard. I felt that difference,” Kurzek said coldly, “and you will feel it too. Don’t think your childhood dabbling is in any way comparable to the training a Warrior receives.” 

It stung Branmer, but she wasn’t wrong. Neither was Neroon. He had to admit that he had acted on impulse and was now defending a difficult position, but he couldn’t back down. True, he hadn’t had formal training for some time, but his order encouraged the use of martial arts, even if just as a pastime, and he’d kept up with his denn’bok, nil’bok and nil’ka as far as he could over the years. It would have to be enough to see him through.

“The ai’tok is also a problem,” Kurzek continued, “it doesn’t belong to you.”

“There is some precedent for a child to enter with their father’s ai’tok.” Everyone turned to the father in question, who was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, and holding the door open with his body. It was the first time Kedrunn had spoken since the argument began - since, to be honest, he had met Branmer beneath the gate and marched him up to meet the judges. “If they don’t have one of their own, or are entering on their behalf, or even just to honour them.”

Kurzek stared. “You are happy for your son to risk himself like this?”

“Happy, no,” Kedrunn said, shrugging, “but I’m too indulgent to deny him. Not when it seems to mean so much to him.” But there was a look in his eyes; a certain forced calm which foretold a gentle remonstrance as soon as they were alone. “At any rate it is done. He climbed the wall, he hung an ai’tok, he earned his place. It is hardly fair to refuse him now on such minor technicalities.”

“If I may,” another voice interjected. It was Sech Durhan, who would be refereeing the final Denn’bok and Nil’bok matches, and had been as silent as Kedrunn until now. “It is true that there is precedent, but in those instances the child was a Warrior.”

“Is his parentage not enough for you, old friend?” Kedrunn said dryly.

“Enough for me, if not for others,” Durhan replied, flashing an indulgent smile. “Perhaps if the Star Riders were willing to vouch for Branmer’s entry too… if perhaps we accepted your ai’tok in lieu of Branmer receiving his own from the clan and presenting it to us as proof of his eligibility.”

“What’s the need?” Branmer snapped. It sounded like a delaying tactic, an attempt to frustrate him into giving up. “Why not just let me fight in the first rounds and see if I make it through? That will be all the proof of eligibility you could want.”

“I said in lieu,” Durhan said. “For now you can compete under your father’s sigil until the Star Riders provide a new one for you. It would be a retroactive approval.”

His own ai’tok. “Is that even possible? I’m not-”

“-a Warrior,” Kurzek remarked acidly, but there was something uncomfortable in her posture, as if Durhan had hit upon some technicality she couldn’t argue her way around. “Yes, you finally grasp the salient point.”

Branmer glared helplessly at her and then at the other judges. “Is it possible?”

Shavhal cleared her throat hesitantly. It was an emotion that ill suited her. “It has been done before for a taikara’ke” -an outsider to the caste- “though usually in context of a potential courtship - if they were choosing to pursue a mate within the caste according to our rites.”

“I have no intention of entering a courtship, or pretending that I might in the future.”

“Never say never, priest,” Durhan said, with infuriating good cheer, “but that is not the precedent I was referring to.”

“Oh,” Kurzek exclaimed, “Durhan, you cannot be serious-”

“Rashok gave Valen possession of one,” Durhan with an air of one delivering bad news gladly, “and there is historical record of priests who fought beside Warriors being granted an ai’tok. As he so proudly boasts, Branmer already has the right to wield a denn’bok and was raised among Warriors-”

“Oh, come on!” Kurzek snapped. “He was a child! And that privilege was more of a courtesy than anything else.”

“Excuse me-!” Branmer started, but was cut off by Durhan.

“-a child who trained with them,” Durhan said resolutely, “and now he is asking to fight with them.”

“I cannot believe you are being so permissive,” Kurzek drew herself up. She had a full head on Durhan, and was an imposing presence even when she was not furious. Rumour was her ancestors had worked quarries. It was not hard to imagine her smashing rocks with her bare fists. “You of all people, as a former champion, should be aware of the very real dangers of entering the Denn’vatek improperly prepared!”

“Probably because you are worrying yourself needlessly,” Durhan snapped, some of his renowned crankiness making an appearance. “Look at him. He’s not going to make it past the first round.”

They all turned to look at Branmer, even his father, instinctively obeying Durhan’s directive. He had that effect on people. Branmer, under the glare of all that scrutiny, returned their looks with sullen rebellion and said (rather unwisely he would later admit), “Maybe you’re afraid I’ll surprise you. It would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it, if you had to acknowledge a Religious Caste champion.”

His father’s veneer of calm cracked. He rolled his eyes, biting on the inside of his cheek, and turned away, suddenly deeply interested in the ceiling. Durhan, who had no fatherly affection holding him back, laughed viciously, “Somehow I don’t think we’re going to be the ones feeling embarrassed, saving your poor father.”

Kurzek raised a finger, stabbing it furiously in Branmer’s direction. “Just for that, priest, I’ll allow your entry. If anyone needs a humbling, it’s you, and the Warrior Caste will be happy to provide it.”

✦

“Didn’t I say not to make any rash decisions?” His father sighed. “What were you thinking?”

“You gave permission! I saw mother signalling to you!” Branmer snapped. Now that the adrenalin of the moment was wearing off he could feel the price of his climb being exacted on his body. His arms felt like dead weights hanging from his shoulders and his legs demanded that he sit and let them rest. He wanted very much to go home and sleep, but instead his father had corralled him into an empty weapons store a short walk from the denn’bok stalls.

“I could hardly deny you publicly,” his father replied calmly. “Had you made the request more privately I might have tried to talk you out of it. As it is, you’ve put me in an awkward position. It’s obvious to everyone you intended this as some kind of challenge to Neroon. What happened? I left you alone for all of five minutes.”

Branmer fiddled with his cuffs. Yes, there was no denying. Not after he’d hung his ai’tok on the same spike as Neroon’s. There was no other way it could look. “That conversation is not my own to repeat.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know I can just order him to tell me.”

“But you won’t,” Branmer said, a little defiant in his familiarity. “I know you won’t.”

Kedrunn breathed out through his nose. “No,” he said, “you’re right about that. It wouldn’t be fair to Neroon. In Valen’s name, Bran, I thought you were past this kind of nonsense. You’re too old to be running around picking fights over every little slight. Not to mention this is poor behaviour for a potential High Priest.”

Yes. There was no denying that either. In the harsh and unfeeling light of reason, free from the rage and defensiveness that spurred his decision, the consequences were fast growing greater in his mind. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking at all.

“Is it that you don’t really want to be High Priest,” his father asked tiredly, “or that you want it so badly you’re self-sabotaging? Or something else… you want it but you’re afraid of the changes it will bring? High Priests, for all their authority, have less freedom and privacy than your average priest.”

“It’s not that,” Branmer said, although it was preferable that his father think any of those answers than the truth: that he had been instantly attracted to Neroon and embarrassed when it became obvious that Neroon not only had no interest, but viewed him with scorn. He had been behaving more like a ridiculous adolescent than a Minbari of more than thirty years. Of the two of them it was Neroon, for all his rudeness, who had come off better from the encounter. “Father, please leave it be. It’s done now.”

“Yes,” his father said, sounding, if it were possible, even more exhausted, “but can you at least promise me that you will conduct yourself with more respect and humility than you did just now? If you carry on that way publicly you will drive your poor father to the sea before his time.”

Branmer winced. “Yes, father, I’m sorry. I lost my head.”

“I get the impression you have lost more than your head,” Kedrunn remarked, “and will lose yet more still. You cannot possibly think you can defeat him, certainly. Even in my prime he could have beaten me. He was taught by both Durhan and myself, and has brought together our two styles into something stronger than either alone. His only real weakness is his pride, which is a weakness you share, and believe me that in a contest between your pride and his, he will win every time.”

“I don’t have to beat him,” Branmer said unhappily, all of his earlier bravado quite washed away by his father’s blunt assessment of his chances. “Is he really that good?”

“Yes, he really is,” Kedrunn said seriously. “He was only playing today.”

So Branmer’s earlier observation was correct. At least he was unlikely to be paired against Neroon, not unless the universe decided to play a colossal joke at his expense. Then again, he wouldn't put it past Kurzek to fiddle with the draw just to spite him. Between the universe, malicious bureaucracy and his own impulsive idiocy he was doomed.

“Branmer,” his father interrupted his self pity with a surprisingly gentle tone, “all that said, I am proud of you. You will be the first priest to ever compete. That's no small thing, no matter if you don't make it past the qualifying rounds.”

“Your faith in my skills is heartwarming, father, but… thank you. I wouldn't want to compete without your approval, not really.” Branmer hesitated and then added, “I will need a mentor to coach me through the contest, since it is my first time and I am not of the caste. Would you-”

“No,” Kedrunn cut him off apologetically. “It would look like I was siding with you against Neroon. He needs my support as his superior officer.”

“Of course,” Branmer mumbled. His father’s sense of duty towards his subordinates was what had made him so popular in the caste. Positions serving under his command were much coveted and not without reason. “I understand it’s very awkward for you.”

Kedrunn clapped his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. He had a soft, kindly set to his face, if not a touch worried. He often had reason to be worried for Branmer, something that Branmer regretted a great deal. He did not like to think of his father fretting over him, and yet he couldn’t stop getting himself into exactly the sort of situations that were bound to encourage exactly the anxiety he wanted to avoid. “Don’t look so forlorn, son,” Kedrunn said, all of his sternness gone, “we will find someone suitable.”

✦

“I’ll do it,” Verann said immediately.

“You can’t,” Kedrunn said. “You’re a contestant.”

“So I’ll forfeit my place,” Verann said. “Oh, don’t look like that, Kedrunn. I’m too old for this nonsense anyway. You had the right of it; retiring when you did. The Denn’Vatek is a young Warrior’s game. What do you say, Branmer?  Will I do?”

“I… if you are sure,” Branmer said, warmed by Verann’s unexpected generosity. It was a surprisingly out of character offer - Verann was usually the kind inclined to let people make their own mistakes without interference (unless it concerned some threat to Minbari security, which this objectively was not), “it would be a great honour, Alyt.”

“Ah, look at you,” Verann patted his cheek, as one would a small child who had just demonstrated a new skill or done a trick, “such a flatterer. You’ll be less grateful when I’m done knocking you about. I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? And you, I’m headed out to a dumri in the Fire Wing quarter just now, want to come along? Kedrunn told me you’re hoping for a placement with one of our squadrons.”

This last part was directed to Branmer’s eldest cousin, Sekrunn, who was slumped miserably over the firepit, poking through the grill at the ashes beneath. They had returned from the sparring halls to find the cousins already arrived and Sekrunn clearly at the limits of her patience after spending the entire journey corralling Bestak and Kordak. She bolted upright when Verann addressed her, gawping for a minute as she processed what he had said and realised it was not a reprimand, “Oh! Oh, thank you, Alyt! Yes, I would. Thank you! That’s very - did I say thank you?!”

“Yes,” Verann, who was aware of his fearsome reputation among the younger Warriors and rather proud of it, smiled. “Three times now. Come along, then, before you swallow your own tongue.” He stumped out, Sekrunn trailing after him with a glazed expression.

“Well,” Kedrunn said, sounding rather thoughtful, “if you were hoping for a restful festival that is certainly out of the question now.”

“Are you sure about this, Branmer?” Delenn, who had been listening quietly from the door of her and Mayan’s room, interjected. “It seems very dangerous.”

“There’s no need for concern, Delenn,” Branmer said, stretching out his aching legs. He was sprawled across the settee next to his mother, who was preoccupied with tuning a kyelti, his limbs having finally given out on him as soon as they sensed a safe place to rest. He was not sure he was going to be able to get up without assistance, which did not bode well to being tossed around the training halls by Verann. “It’s tournament rules, not real fighting.” That was something he would certainly never say in front of Neroon, the man hardly needed more reason to despise him for disrespecting sacred Warrior Caste traditions.

“If you say so,” Delenn said, but it was obvious she was not really convinced. “You would know best, I suppose.”

Doubtless Branmer would face more objections from her later. He picked at his trouser leg and sighed. “I’m only sorry it’ll take me away from you and Mayan while I’m competing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, cousin!” Bestak piped up from the seats across from Branmer where she was sitting with Mayan. She was showing off the hidden crystal blades in her gloves and preening rather outrageously. “We can take care of them, can’t we nhe’Khorye.”

Kordak, who had been searching through his bags for something, bounced to his feet immediately. “Yes, of course! Fear not, cousin, they will not be without entertainment!”

Certainly not , Branmer thought dryly, and caught Delenn biting back a laugh. “Thank you,” she said carefully. “That’s very gracious of you both.” 

“Will the two of you be entering?” Mayan asked. 

“Oh, yes, of course, we can hardly let Branmer make us look like cowards,” Bestak said, winking at Branmer. “You’d better hope you don’t end up facing me in the stalls, cousin.” 

“Hmm.” Branmer hadn’t even considered the possibility until now. He’d sparred with them plenty of times in the past, but he didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of competing his own kin. “We’ll see.”

“Sekrunn will most likely enter too, though she’s really only interested in competing in the races.” Bestak rolled her eyes. “All she ever talks about these days is flying manoeuvres and fighter modifications. She’s so boring.”

“We’ll go hang our favours once we’re done unpacking. Perhaps you’d like to come with us?” Kordak smiled charmingly at Delenn. Branmer found the twins a little unnerving to look at sometimes. He could see too many of his own features reflected strangely in theirs, like peering into a distorted mirror: there were his eyes, but the wrong colour; his nose but somehow not; his freckles but in less abundance; his smile but edged with more mischief than he liked to show. At least in build they were his opposite: broad, compact, powerful; an inheritance from their father’s side of the family. “We’re meeting some Night Walker friends down by the river for a meal afterwards.”

Delenn glanced at Branmer, as if asking permission. “Go on,” he said. “I’m done for the day. You should both go and enjoy the festival.”

“I’ve heard the Night Walkers boast some fine poets,” Mayan said. “I don’t suppose any of your friends number among them?”

“I’m sure Shakat believes he’s a poet,” Bestak snorted. “Whether his scribbles measure up to Religious Caste standards I leave to you to discover.” 

They headed out not long after that; Kordak offering Delenn his arm and Bestak happily strutting alongside Mayan. Kedrunn watched their retreating figures with a rather amused expression and remarked idly, “who do you think is conquering who?”

“I’m afraid that’s a definite victory for my caste, dear,” Eiyamer said, at last looking up from her kyelti and giving the strings an experimental twang. “Poor Bestak is going to embarrass herself quite thoroughly carrying on like that.”

“As if she ever needs much encouragement in that department,” Branmer said drily, and then immediately blanched when he remembered why, exactly, every conceivable muscle in his body was aching tremendously. “Must run in the family.”

“Speak for yourself,” Eiyamer remarked. “Your father never carried on in such a ridiculous way.”

Kedrunn laughed at this, and said teasingly, “no, that was all you, my dear.”

They were looking at each other with such soft, simpering expressions that Branmer wondered if now was the time to chance standing up and escape to the annex, when Neroon burst into the room, shattering the warm and happy atmosphere like a brick through a window. He was half in half out his denn’bok armour, trailing pieces over his shoulder, and brandishing a reader. “Apologies for interrupting, Alyt,” he said (Branmer sat up at the use of his father’s military title), “but we’ve had news about the League.”

Kedrunn’s happy demeanour dropped from his shoulders like a discarded tunic. Branmer had seen him switch modes many times before, but repetition never blunted its impact. Suddenly it was not his father standing at the firepit, nor an ordinary Sech, but a stranger only two steps beneath the Shai Alyt, shrouded in Warrior Caste secrets and the authority that came with them. A brusqueness entered his movements that was unlike his ordinary character, sharpening him into something that was more warlike and dangerous, arming even his natural warmth. He glanced at Eiyamer and Branmer, his expression carefully bland. “The prayer room will have to do, I think, eikha-ni.”

“That can only be bad news,” Eiyamer said, after the door had slid shut behind them. She stood up and reached out to pat Branmer’s cheek. “I must love you and leave you, Bhranye. Try not to challenge anyone to a denn’shah in the meantime.”

As soon as she was gone Branmer heaved himself to his feet and tottered to the prayer room. There was a little trick he had learned a long time ago with that door - it never closed quite correctly, and if you stood close enough with your ear bent towards the join, you could sometimes catch the conversation within. He had the shame to feel guilty, but it was overwhelmed by curiosity, and besides that, the opportunity to learn something that might be useful to his assignment.

“-from your contact in Drazi space. The Belosian homeworld fell to the Dilgar a few days ago.”

“They’re sure of this?”

“Refugees are flooding into Fendamar via Alaca. The word is that the Balosians knew they couldn’t win, so they played for time to get as many people out as they could.”

“Understandable considering what we know of the Dilgar,” Kedrunn sighed. “Well, this was inevitable when they lost control of the Tirith jumpgate. Now with the Balosians neutralised the Dilgar can advance more freely into Abbai and Hyach territory. I suspect their homeworlds won’t be long to follow.”

“It’s astounding they’ve held out this long. I-”

“Is something wrong, eikha-ni?” His father said, and Branmer just had time to register a shadow crossing the crack of the door before it was thrown back so violently the frame shook and Neroon loomed in the doorway (and how did he manage to loom when he was shorter than Branmer? It was incredible! His entire demeanour defied physical reality!). Over his shoulder Kedrunn sighed, “Really, Branmer? I would think eavesdropping beneath a future High Priest.”

“That’s not guaranteed anyway,” Branmer said, feeling his face prickling with shame. No doubt he coming out in blue all over. Unable to meet Neroon’s eyes, he looked past him to his father. “I was just curious! Everyone’s curious!”

“Isn’t ‘understanding is not required only obedience’ a favourite Religious saying?” Neroon said, with what Branmer conceived as undue sarcasm. “There’s that other one too, about knowing what you need to know when you need to know it and not before.”

“Ah, let him be,” Kedrunn said, the little smile curling at his mouth breaking the image of a stern Alyt. He nudged Neroon aside. “He has already heard enough, and it’s not news that will remain secret for long.”

Neroon moved away from the door and over to the little altar shrine, but cast a sidelong glower in Branmer’s direction to let him know he disapproved.

“Is there nothing the League can do about this?” Branmer said, ignoring Neroon. It was not he who was Alyt, after all. “They are many and the Dilgar are but one.”

“Strength in numbers means very little when you are vastly outclassed in every other metric. The Drazi were the League’s best military asset and they’ve been stuck most of the war pouring all their resources into preventing the Dilgar reaching Zhabar, sacrificing most of their outer colony worlds in the process,” Kedrunn replied. “If they had support from elsewhere perhaps... but the Centauri are more interested in trading for weapons with the Dilgar than stopping them, and the Narns have only just gained independence and don’t have the resources to fight an open war. They haven’t a hope without intervention from either us or the Vorlons. And as things stand, the Vorlons are more likely.”

Branmer swallowed. “I didn’t know things were so bad.”

“Most of Minbar doesn’t,” Kedrunn said. “The Grey Council is worried that if the full scope of the disaster were made clear to the general public then compassion might overthrow isolation as policy.”

Branmer eyed his father thoughtfully. He had always been soft on aliens, especially the Narns, who had lost territory to the Dilgar in the first days of the war. They had still been under Centauri yoke at the time, and their colony at Hilak had been traded away as part of a non-aggression pact between the two powers. It was not such a leap to imagine that sympathy extending to the embattled League worlds. “And yet, the Shai Alyt is monitoring the situation?” 

“Of course,” Kedrunn said, “it is a security issue so the Warrior Caste must take notice, even if we are not tasked with acting. It is our duty.”

And there was the crux of it. His father was simply too bound by duty to ever truly defy the Grey Council, or even the hegemony of the Religious Caste. Otherwise he would have run away to join the Narn Resistance a long time ago. He was the perfect Warrior in all respects; loyal, honourable, and obedient. He had defied all those things only once and that was in his choice of mate. No, Branmer could discard him safely without worrying that love and filial piety were intervening in his judgement.

“It is unfortunate,” Branmer said lightly, “that we cannot do anything to help them.”

“It may not only be unfortunate but perhaps regrettable,” Neroon said quietly, his attention turned away from Branmer to scrutinise a little icon of Valeria. “For more than just the League.”

“What do you mean by that?” Branmer said, ears pricking up. That sounded like exactly the sort of sentiment his superiors were worried about.

“I think that is enough talk about something that none of us have the power to intervene in. I’d appreciate it if you kept quiet about this for now, Branmer, just until it finds its way through proper paths,” Kedrunn intervened, and it was obvious that was an order. “If you will both excuse me, I’m expected at a dumri tonight.” 

That left Branmer alone with Neroon. He looked at him, braving his embarrassment, and said, “what did you mean by that?”

“You heard the Alyt’s order.” Neroon pushed past him and towards the annex stairs. “The discussion is over.”

Branmer followed him up and collapsed on the little nest of cushions and rugs, trying not to watch too closely as Neroon removed the rest of his armour. It was such a shame he was a complete bastard; like being tempted by a beautiful but poisoned dessert.  “Why are you like this?”

“Excuse me?” Neroon didn't look up from unbuckling his vambraces. Unlike Verann he was careful with his armour, hanging it up on the back of his screen beside a set of battered nil’bok armour. Modern nil’boks used outside of ritual for training and competition had blunted edges, but could still deal considerable damage. This set had clearly been well used. Branmer had left his own in Yedor and would likely need to have a new set made for the tournament if he could not borrow one. 

“So hostile,” Branmer said, picking idly at a loose thread in one rug and trying not to think of his chances in the ring. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed. I don’t think most Warriors would have the guts to insult their superior’s son without fearing consequences. You don’t suffer fools regardless of their provenance, that much is clear. What I don’t understand is why? You were perfectly friendly until I mentioned competing.”

“I thought I made myself clear earlier,” Neroon replied. “It's not your place.”

“Apparently it is, since your superiors saw fit to let me enter,” Branmer knew he was goading, but the temptation was too much to resist. “Unless you think you know better than them?”

“In this instance, perhaps I do,” Neroon said quietly. “It has, after all, been a long time since any of them had to worry about advancement. If you succeed in qualifying you will be taking the place of a Warrior who needed the opportunity more than you. Not all of us are guaranteed a position in the caste, and the Denn’vatek is a means for us to gain notice. You don’t need this like we do.”

“Surely if they can be beaten by me, then they are hardly likely to make much impression anyway,” Branmer snorted. “You weren’t so concerned for Burrda’s opportunities when you broke his wrist.”

“Burrda’s mother and father are both Alyts,” Neroon replied, icy cool unmelted. “He will have no trouble finding a good position and was only participating because it was expected of him. You may find that he was pleased to have an excuse to exit honourably.”

Branmer thought of Burrda’s smiling and happy face as his friends helped him down. “So you were only performing a kind service then.”

Neroon shrugged. “If that's how you want to see it. The point I'm making is that not all of us are the sons of powerful Alyts, with the expectation of secure careers laid out ahead of us. We have to fight for our place in the caste.”

There was a bitter edge to his tone that spoke of his own experiences. What had happened to hold him back? Branmer would put it down to having an abhorrent personality, but if it was just that he doubted his father would have taken an interest. And in the Warrior Caste an unpleasant character could be overlooked if you had the skills to make up for it, even if you were a lowly nobody without the helping hand of a high ranking family member to hold.

“Perhaps you're right that I’m overstepping my bounds,” Branmer said, shrugging. He got it  now. Neroon saw him as just another obnoxious product of nepotism, taking more than he deserved. He wouldn't be the first. “But I understand better than you might think what it means to have to fight for your place. Having an Alyt for a father was less of an advantage in the Religious Caste than you might think. If I am called to be High Priest it will be in spite of that connection, not because of it.”

This had no effect on Neroon. He only snorted contemptuously. “You forget that your mother is also an Honoured Shaal.”

“Which means very little when it comes to the ordination and appointments of the priesthood.” Branmer could feel his temper rising again. There was something about Neroon’s dismissive ignorance that was particularly infuriating. “If I cannot speak with any authority about your caste, then you can hardly speak with any about mine.”

“I did not say you could not speak,” Neroon said, stripping the last of his armour down to the padded gambeson underneath, “only that you do not belong in the Denn’vatek.”

“And yet here I am.” He thought about telling Neroon that he would be given an ai’tok, just to rub it in, but decided he better not in case the Star Riders refused him. He didn't want to look any more foolish than he did already. Some scraps of dignity had to be maintained, even if it meant delayed gratification.

“I am going to enjoy watching you get stomped into the mats, Priest,” Neroon said, smiling vindictively, and turned away to remove his gambeson. “Perhaps if I’m lucky I’ll be the one to do it. I'm only sorry your father will have to see it.”

Not sorry enough, clearly. “Well,” Branmer sighed, eyeing the strong line of Neroon’s shoulders as the gambeson slipped away. There was no harm in looking, after all. He wore a sleeveless black vest under it, hiding his ai’shakni, but there were still tantalising stripes of blue descending his upper arms. “At least I’ll provide some entertainment.”

Neroon snorted softly and disappeared behind his screen, emerging a moment later with a fresh tunic of lighter day fabric. His tastes clearly ran to plain compared to Branmer, but there was a little ornamentation to the collar and hem of this one, in shining black thread that gleamed against the duller tone of the main body. 

“I was going to make tea, if you'd like some,” Branmer said, struggling upright. “Call it a peace offering.”

“I don't have time,” Neroon said, securing the last of his tunic ties and picking up a belt, cinching it tight around his waist. “Durhan needs me for a denn’bok demonstration and after that I'm playing Shadow again for Inahel.”

“And when do you sleep?” Branmer laughed.

Neroon shot him a contemptuous look and left. Wrong thing to say, apparently. Branmer wasn't sure there was a right thing when it came to Neroon. He was sharper than Morreal and determined to cut and be cut. 

✦

The next morning Neroon had come and gone before Branmer woke up. Only the displacement of a few tea things marked that he had actually been there. Branmer had an interview with Mazjen, the least of the three matriarchs who dominated the Tinarel branch of Star Riders clan, but by far the most severe. She had always been a tall, lanky creature, and time had only shrunk skin to bone, lending her the look of a tree that had been stripped of its bark. She stared past him over steepled hands, and for a moment (before he mustered his resources) he was eleventy-five again and about to get thoroughly bollocked for some misadventure. 

Mazjen had never liked him and the feeling was mutual.

“Well,” she said, with customary sourness, "you’ve done it again.”

“Again?” Branmer said. “I thought I'd done something quite new.”

“Hmm,” she said, and turned to her stylus. “First the matter of Mazetch and Vashaer. You've stated you see no issue with the match and they should be allowed to proceed with the rituals of their choice. Obviously we disagree.”

Oh, alright then. She was leaving him in suspense. One of her favourite intimidatory tactics, but not one which would work on him. He was not by nature a patient man, but if it meant winning a small internal victory against her, he could be. He was not about to be rattled by a petty Warrior Caste bureaucrat. “Yes,” he confirmed, “I can't see any reasonable obstacle.”

“That is not acceptable to us.”

Branmer sighed. “You can't force Mazetch to stay in the Star Riders if he doesn't want to be. It's petty and cruel to force a young couple apart like this just for the sake of pride.”

“It's not just about pride,” Mazjen replied. “Past a certain point a courting couple must inform their family and the clan authorities. Mazetch failed to do both, which suggests to us something shameful at work.”

“Oh, come on, everyone's a little fast and loose with those kinds of niceties. Forcing them apart based on a technicality is even worse than pride.” Despite the splendid diversity of their coupling rites Warriors could be worse than his own caste for this kind of pedantic nonsense when they wanted to be, especially when it came to preserving certain bloodlines. “Besides, Mazjen, that's a Star Rider custom. Moon Shields are free and easy with these things.”

“A little too free,” Mazjen said stiffly.

“Still,” Branmer said, “if Mazetch wants to join the Moon Shields it makes sense they would choose to do things according to their customs.”

“The very fact that he wants to leave the clan makes it more important that he follow our customs to the letter!” Mazjen snapped. “Frankly, we’re concerned that Vashaer is putting some undue influence upon him.”

“Oh, so this is just genuine concern?” Branmer said, sarcastically. “How nice. Look, given Mazetch doesn’t have any family left I real-”

“He does actually,” Mazjen interrupted. “Cousins, on his mother’s side, and believe me they were very surprised to hear about the match.”

“I wonder who told them.”

“Someone had to,” Mazjen replied stiffly. “At any rate, they would like an opportunity to meet Vashaer and assess the match, so I took the liberty of inviting them to attend the next scheduled rite, which as you know is-”

“-traditionally the formal bringing together of the respective couple’s families, yes,” Branmer recited. “I did wonder who would be present for Mazetch. It struck me as cruel to force him to undergo that rite when he had no family, though I’m not sure it isn’t equally cruel to place his happiness at the mercy of strangers.”

“They’re his kin-”

“Kin so close they aren’t even mentioned in his file? Has he even met them before now?” Sometimes the best way to deal with Mazjen was simply to strike fast and cut her off. “Tell me, just how many times removed are these cousins?”

“They are close enough,” Mazjen snapped. There was an obstinacy in her expression that told him it was time to give up this particular tack. 

Or, could he use it to his advantage? 

“Fine,” he said, “and if these ‘cousins’ find the match acceptable, will you allow Mazetch and Vashaer to go ahead with their preferred rites?”

Mazjen made a show of adjusting the items on her desk, pursing her lips and clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “I will… consider it.”

It was probably the best he was going to get from her. For now. He just had to get Mazetch’s something-times-removed cousins onboard -he didn’t foresee being a particularly difficult obstacle- and securing their courtship was a done thing. “Thank you,” he said, allowing himself a little pre-victory gloat. “Now onto the matter of my ai’tok. I-”

“The Star Riders clan will be more than happy to grant you the privilege of your own ai’tok,” Mazjen cut in brusquely. 

Branmer foundered momentarily. He had expected her to put up more of a fight. “Oh?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t we?” Mazjen said, obviously enjoying his surprise. “Despite your unorthodox behaviour, we’re very pleased that you would choose to honour your father’s clan, and there is more than enough precedent in this instance to allow it. Especially if, as we assume, this signals an intention to court within the clan.”

Ah. Well. If it helped him he wasn’t going to disabuse them of the notion. It wasn’t like they could force him into a courtship. Or could they? Was there some obscure Star Rider bylaw Mazjen was going to spring on him when he least expected? No, ridiculous, he was giving in to paranoia. Though, it was amusing to imagine who they might decide to pair him with. Perhaps Ardrishi? Oh, she would hate that. 

“However, I must warn you that if your actions yesterday are any indication of where your affections lie that while we would not stand in the way of such a match, our support would come with certain stipulations.”

Wait, what? “I’m… I don’t follow. You think that I’m courting-”

“Specifically,” Mazjen ignored his interruption and continued smoothly, “that while we might consider you candidates for adoption, surrogacy is entirely out of the question. Something to be aware of if a biological connection to any future children is an important consideration.”

Branmer stared at her, scrutinising every little flicker of expression for some sign that she had lost her mind, or was playing some kind of absurd prank, but all he found was complete and utter stone cold sincerity. She was very serious. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s simply not within the best interests of the clan to allow that particular bloodline to continue,” Mazjen said matter of factly. “As for the ai’tok, we have already placed a request with the Blacksmith’s Guild. Now, if that is everything I have a very busy day ahead and would appreciate being left in peace.”

Branmer was too stunned to argue. He rose to his feet and left her office in a fugue state, hardly knowing where he was going. What had Neroon’s family done to earn this level of approbation from their clan? What crime was so terrible that the Star Riders, who normally so coveted their bloodlines, would be willing to bring one to an end? 

Whatever it was, Branmer was determined to find out.

✦

“You’re distracted.” Verann stood over Branmer, leaning on his denn’bok. “You’ve got to get out of your head and be present if you want to win.”

Branmer propped himself up on his elbows, wincing. Verann was right. He’d been too preoccupied thinking about Mazjen’s bizarre pronouncement to notice the leg sweep until he was on the floor. A beginner's mistake. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

“Now, you’re not doing so badly.” Verann offered him a hand. “Come on, we’ll take a break.”

Branmer limped off the mat to sit with Verann on a balustrade between two arches. They were at his apartment in a private outdoor training area that overlooked a quiet, open courtyard in a small quarter of Tinarel that had been given over to the Fire Wings. There was little movement below, just a pair of old Warriors whiling away the morning playing pashan as the city slept off the night’s revelries.

“Alright,” Verann continued gruffly when Branmer had settled on his perch, “you know I don’t do this often so let’s not make this awkward, but you’ve been off balance since you got here and even an emotional block of wood like myself can tell something is wrong.”

Verann had a forthright, no nonsense approach to problems that could sometimes be more practical than his father’s circuitously cautious sensibilities. If there was anyone who he could trust to be totally honest about such things, it was him. “Is it the norm in the Warrior Caste to…. Look, have you ever heard of a clan forbidding one of their members from having children?”

“Only…” Verann looked distinctly uncomfortable, “the only instance I can imagine is if they felt they were a danger to children… but that would be the least of the consequences. The caste has… ways of handling these matters. It’s not something we like to talk about publicly though.”

“Yes, we don’t like to talk about it publicly in my caste either,” Branmer said soberly. “But no, this has nothing to do with that-” Verann’s shoulders relaxed considerably- “I’m talking more about a clan specifically trying to end a particular bloodline.”

“Ah,” Verann said. “Then no. Not since before Valen. Clans can interfere with matches, try to push people away from each other, make it hard enough that they give up, but ultimately they can’t prevent people from going through with a courtship or having children if they’re determined and don't care about being ostracised. That’s, well, I don’t think that’s even lawful anymore. If a clan has done this then whoever it affects could probably take it to the Marka’ri’Minsa.”

“Who would want to take such a thing public, though?” Branmer pondered. “Doing so would only expose yourself to speculation. No one is going to willingly admit their own clan wants to extinguish them.”

“True enough, not everyone could stand up to that scrutiny.”

Taken together with everything else it could only mean that someone in Neroon’s family had committed a crime so great that the continuation of their line was, in itself, an embarrassment and dishonour to the Star Riders. No, more than that, because there was a Prohibition that even a Wind Sword like Morreal had to keep, which meant it was something that shamed the entire Caste. Something so terrible they wanted to wipe it from history, unmake it’s very happening, and all the while Neroon’s continued existence was spitting directly in the face of that mandated memory loss.

Neroon’s ai’tok hadn’t been a message for his competition, but for the Elders who had wanted to destroy him, and with him, the last remnant of their dishonour: I am still here and I am not going away. In that context Branmer’s decision to hang his father's ai’tok with Neroon’s as a challenge was… unspeakably cruel.

“Branmer,” Verann said eventually, gravelly with unease, “if you know of someone who’s come under an edict like this… I am a Caste Elder, albeit a Fire Wing (assuming this is Star Rider business), and I could advocate on their behalf.”

“I don’t think I'm in any position to ask that kind of favour. I’m not even sure… I don’t know the full details of the case.” There was another reason for caution. His father was hoping that Verann would take Neroon on as an aide. Without knowing what the dishonour was it was best not to involve him in anything that might discredit Neroon. Though, surely since Verann was a Caste Elder he would have enough authority to be aware of the prohibition if Morreal was? More, he might actually know what it pertained beyond vague rumours. 

At any rate, Neroon struck him as a very private person, and was hardly going to thank him if he got Verann involved. He didn’t need to give him more reasons to despise him.

“Well, in that case,” Verann said, “best to turn your attention back to the problem immediately at hand.”

“The tournament,” Branmer sighed.

“Don’t look so glum,” Verann laughed. “Where’s that fighting spirit of yours? Look, you’re half-way competent with a denn’bok -otherwise you’d have never been allowed the gift of one- so that will get you into the competition, but your real strength is nil’bok and nil’ka. Make it past the third round of denn’bok matches and even if you get knocked out at the next round, you’ll still be allowed to continue competing in the other contests, which contributes to your overall placement.”

“It seems unfair that so much weight is given to denn’bok skill,” Branmer complained.

“Yes,” Verann said, “believe me there are plenty of tedious debates about whether or not we should make changes to the competition, but ultimately tradition tends to win out. Mind, before Valen it was the nil’bok that was predominant, so things have changed before.”

“If only I had been born a thousand years ago.”

“Could be worse, could be a pilot or a marksman. Neither of those contests contribute to placement at all. They’re really just an opportunity to show off your skills and hope some Alyt decides to give you a place on their ship, or a promotion.”

“Has there ever been a champion who hasn’t won the denn’bok competition?”

“A few, but it is rare,” Verann said. “Rarer still is to get an all round champion who dominates across the board. There have only been three in my time. Your father was one of them.”

“Is there anything he isn’t good at?” Branmer said, with a touch more bitterness in his laughter than usual. His father had been casting a long shadow lately.

“Few things,” Verann replied, giving his shoulder a shunt. “You have your own talents, lad, perhaps ones better suited to your caste, too.”

Branmer squinted at him. “You don’t even mean that as an insult, do you?”

“You’re not so bad for a priest,” Verann teased. “But my point is, play to your strengths. You’re not going to win high honours, or beat Neroon - if that’s your aim, give up now- but you’ll do respectably if you focus your attention on bladed weapons and just use denn’bok to get where you need to be.  At the very least you’ll get to sit comfortably knowing a not inconsiderable number of fools will have lost bets on your account.”

“I’ll admit, that would be satisfying,” Branmer agreed, and didn’t tell Verann his own bet with Neroon. There was a better chance of winning it now.

“Branmer!” A cry came up from the courtyard below. Delenn was crossing it, in the company of a tall, broad shouldered Warrior who was leading her with the same reverential manner you might a Satai. It was the rude Warrior from the docks. That seemed now months ago rather than only two days past. 

“Resek, isn’t it?” Branmer leant out to call down. “I hope you’re treating my friend well!”

Resek's dorsal markings blushed blue and Delenn took pity on her. “Leave her be, Branmer! I was lost and she was kind enough to show me the way.”

Resek beamed gratefully at her and saluted. “It was an honour, priestess.”

“I suppose I must be merciful then, and thank you for your service,” Branmer laughed. “Come on up! You can watch Verann dismantle me in advance of my first opponent.”

“Don’t think you aren’t giving me trouble for it,” Verann grunted, pushing off from his seat. “If you’d had the same training as a Warrior… well. I may be strong but strength isn’t everything.”

Branmer was listening with only half an ear. There was an atmosphere between Delenn and Resek as they made their goodbyes; a kind of fluttering, nervous warmth on Resek’s side, and a flattered interest on Delenn’s part. “Good luck with your next fight,” Delenn said, bowing to her escort and looking up coyly through her lashes, “and I will consider your offer.”

“What offer? Delenn?” Branmer leant out further, but neither of them acknowledged him. He might as well have been mute. Resek was already striding away and Delenn had disappeared under the lip of the balcony, headed towards the stairs. “Well, how rude!”

“Honestly,” Verann harrumphed, hooking a hand through the shoulder strap of Branmer’s body armour and hauling back on to the mat, “let the little priestess handle her own affairs. She’s not a child.” 

“She's my direct junior, and my friend,” Branmer replied indignantly, pulling away. “I do have some responsibility for her.”

The hiss of Verann’s denn’bok expanding was so quiet Branmer didn't notice until it was tapping his chest warningly. “Even so,” Verann said, “you cannot command her in all things. Your father tells me she’s marked for the Valen’tha. Let her have a little freedom before she is consigned to that prison forever. That is why you brought her with you, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t like Verann to talk like that about a priest. “She’s charmed you, hasn’t she?”

Verann chuckled grimly, shaking his head. “There is sympathy enough in me for any poor soul doomed to spend their life in the company of the Grey Council. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Branmer couldn’t disagree. A life aboard the Valen’tha would never have been his choice, but it wasn’t a matter of choice. Delenn had been called to service, and who could refuse the Grey Council? Who could refuse Dukhat? He swallowed. “You’re getting softing in your dotage.”

The denn’bok tapped his chest again, but Verann’s expression was gentle. “Careful now, lad. Don’t bait an ingata in his den.”

At that moment Delenn appeared at the head of the stairwell, smiling as she approached them. “I thought I would come and show my support. I didn’t like to think of you busy training while we were off having fun.”

“There’s no need for that, De-”

“And,” she continued in a brisk manner, “it occurred that you might need someone to squire for you and take care of your armour. I would like to volunteer.”

She had her shoulders set in steely resolve and he knew it wasn’t worth trying to argue with her. When Delenn was set on something it was impossible and dangerous to move her. She hadn’t recognised that quality in herself yet, thinking it only ordinary stubbornness, but Branmer saw it for what it was, and so, apparently, did Dukhat. He took her hands instead, and said, “My friend, I would be honoured.”

Behind him Verann grunted impatiently. “Let’s get back to it shall we then?”

Branmer groaned, every bruise on his body protesting at once, but nodded and pulled Delenn off to the side of the mats. “To start,” he said, squeezing her hands, “you can referee. All you have to do is call out when you see a strike.”

He let Verann throw him about the mats while Delenn watched for another uval before he begged for an end to it, pleading exhaustion. “Very well,” Verann reluctantly allowed, “tea, then?” and ducked into his apartment while Delenn helped Branmer out of his armour. She was careful with it, taking her time with every buckle, and smacking Branmer’s hands away when he lost his patience.

“You should take better care of it,” she grumbled, in the same tone she used on the junior acolytes when they were in trouble. “It’s all that stands between you and a broken bone.”

“I’m not going to get hurt.”

“You can’t promise that,” she retorted, lifting away his padded doublet and starting on his vambraces. “You don't know what's going to happen. Think of Burrda.”

He laid his free hand over hers, stilling them. She refused to look at him. “A broken bone is not going to kill me, Delenn. To live is to risk, if you don't then you're already dead.”

“That sounds like a very Warrior thing to say,” Delenn said tersely, brushing his hand away and returning to her work. 

“Perhaps, but it runs true for the rest of us too,” Branmer replied, and they said little else until Verann returned with a tray of tea. They made awkward conversation together. Neither Verann nor Delenn being entirely certain in the other's company so Branmer did the bulk of the talking until Verann had to go inside to reply to some Warrior Caste business, leaving them alone again.

“I won’t ask about Resek,” Branmer said after a prolonged silence, he was sitting astride the balustrade with his third cup of tea balanced on one knee. Delenn sat more sensibly, back to the courtyard, sipping her second slowly.

“There’s nothing to ask about,” Delenn shrugged. “She asked me if I’d like to see the Moon Pools this evening and offered me a tour. I think she is trying to make amends for being so rude at the docks.”

The Moon Pools were a bit of a generic choice for a romantic walk, but Branmer couldn’t really fault Resek for that. “So,” he said teasingly, “was my cousin Kordak not up to your standards, then?”

“I liked him fine,” Delenn said, looking away, “but it is uncanny. He is so like you and yet… not, and I found myself wanting for the real thing.”

“Delenn-” They had never talked about this. Branmer, out of kindness, had done his best not to notice her shy, admiring glances, her smiles only for him, or the way she grew towards him like a flower seeking the sun. It was not uncommon in the Religious Caste for relationships between superior and subordinate to deepen into something closer, but in the Warrior Caste such things were forbidden; a violation of trust and consent that undermined the necessary hierarchies that governed chains of command. Branmer, though he tumbled from bed to bed, had been raised among Warriors and never shaken their aversion to such things. Even if there had been feelings on his side he would never have acted on them. Delenn had hoped, and hoped in vain.

“It’s alright,” she smiled at him over her cup, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know.”

“You will forget me soon enough,” he said, “when you are far away in the stars.”

“Will you never come and see me, then?” Delenn lowered her cup, turning it in her hands without looking at him. “Or even write?”

“Of course! Whenever I can,” he said. “I only meant that you will have too much to do and think about and to see, to think too much of me. You are set on a path that will take you far beyond a mere priest.”

She delivered him a sidelong look full of skepticism. “You do yourself a disservice, my friend.”

“I am not,” he replied. “You are going to serve the Grey Council, Delenn, as aide to a Satai. One day you will have authority over me, and not the other way around. I hope when it comes you will show mercy on your old friends.”

She laughed. “I am not going to become a tyrant!”

“But you may sometimes have to exercise command over us,” Branmer said quietly. It was long past time to have this conversation, but he had been avoiding it. He did not want to let go of her, not yet. She had been his faithful, pleasing shadow for so long; burning with a quiet fire beneath her sweetness. “You cannot be afraid to give orders.”

“Even to an old friend?” Delenn mumbled sadly, barely able to look at him again.

“Even to an old friend,” he said, and because she seemed to need reassurance, added, “you needn’t worry that I’ll be insulted. It won’t change the love and respect I hold for you. I promise. You will always be my dear friend and sister.”

“Sister,” she repeated, and sniffed wetly. “What if I’m not up to the task? I’ve seen so little of the world beyond our temple walls. I’m just an acolyte, how am I supposed to serve such great Minbari?”

Which only made her perfect for shaping according to Dukhat’s vision; fresh clay, wedged and ready to be moulded into whatever Minbar required. He reached out and took her hand, clasping it fondly. “Delenn, they are no different from you and I, except that their service sets them apart. You needn’t be afraid. You are more than a match for any Satai.”

She squeezed his hand in return, still tearful. “I wish you were going with me. I will be alone among all these strangers.”

“I will come when I can,” Branmer promised again. “I wish you could stay. Nothing would make me happier, but it would be selfish of me to keep you all to myself. I would only be holding you back.”

“Would it be holding me back? There will be a wall between me and the rest of the world,” she sniffed again and sighed, “I will miss so much.”

He shuffled closer, wrapping his arms around her and she folded into his embrace without hesitation, pressing her face into his shoulder, arms sliding round his middle. Her doubts were a mirror to his own. It was not that Delenn was unprepared for service on the Valen’tha, or incapable, but it was too soon. There was so much of the world she had yet to see and experience, and so little time left to her. “You will find a way,” he said, as much for himself as for her. “Somehow, the world will come to you. And in the meantime… there is no time like the present.”

She sniffed again and pulled away from his chest, saying snottily, “yes.”

“Why don’t you come along with me for the rest of the day? I’ve some little tasks to do but after that we could get food and wander down to the river to see if Mayan’s sick of Night Walker poetry yet,” Branmer said, “and then, come evening, you can go along to the Moon Pools and meet Resek.”

“Branmer, I-”

He pressed a finger to her lips, shushing her. “You should have some fun while you can, Delenn, before the Grey Council echoes wherever you go.”

She smiled and laughed, and wiped her face dry with her sleeve. “What is he like?” 

“Dukhat?” Branmer said gently. “Eternally patient and kind.”

Her mouth trembled. “ What about the other Satai?”

“As I said, no different from us.” Except perhaps, more set in their ways, made rigid by time and absence from the world. “Satai Kodroni, who you will serve, is sensible enough and will treat you well.”

Delenn finished wiping her face, showing a stronger smile despite watery eyes. “Then I will look forward to meeting her when the time comes.”

“Good,” Branmer said softly, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before sliding off the balustrade and gathering up his armour. “Come on, finish your tea and we’ll take our leave. I imagine Verann will probably be running off on some business for the Shai Alyt soon anyway.”

✦

“You’ve lost weight,” Inahel grumbled. She was measuring Branmer for a new set of nil’bok armour, tutting as she did so. Around them her atelier was bustling with an intensity of festive activity, vibrant with pageantry and colourful costumes. “You’ll need to put on some muscle and fast if you want to stand a chance in competition, but I think we have something I can alter for you, though they’ll be significant alterations.”

“I’m sorry to put you to trouble,” Branmer said, meekly. He always felt small in the Worker’s presence. She wielded authority with more precision and power than Mazjen could ever dream. A necessary trait for anyone who spent their life dealing with the Warrior Caste on a daily basis. Thousands of Warriors had passed through those clever hands and were poked and prodded into submission. “You don’t need to worry about matching the design to my order or family history.”

“Nonsense,” Inahel snapped, drawing herself up. “I was never entirely happy with my original design anyway. This will be an opportunity to make a few small changes for the better. You can send back your old armour when you return to Yedor. I’m sure we can find a use for it. Alright, step down, I have enough for my needs.”

“Now, my dear,” Inahel turned to Delenn, who had been perched in a corner between two racks of clothes trying not to get in the way, “do you have anything you’d like to be fitted for? Perhaps some new boots? I see those are very worn down at the heel.”

Branmer heard the beginning of Delenn’s polite protestations as he stepped down and then two of Inahel’s assistants moved to the side and he spotted Neroon’s distinctive profile. He was sitting on the shallow set of steps leading up to the mezzanine level and its tall, floor length windows, stitching up the torn sleeve of a Shadow suit in a pool of golden light. The Shadow sat despondently beside him, a gleaming jumble of false limbs, masked head propped on its free hand. They made for a dreamlike picture, like a scene from some Star Rider song come to life. “They’re monsters,” the Shadow was saying, in a sad, husking voice, “one of them tried to rip my carapace off looking for sweets. I told the brat I didn’t have any under there!”

“I’ve taken a few good kickings myself,” Neroon remarked with startling good humour, leaning a little closer over his stitching, “but you can’t say we didn’t do the same when we were that age.”

“I don’t remember ever kicking that hard,” the Shadow said flatly. 

“Of course not,” Neroon said, and there was an easy familiarity to his tone and posture that suggested a closer acquaintance with the Shadow. Was it possibly he actually had a friend? It was almost the same way he had spoken to Branmer before his ‘blunder’, only a deal less flirtatious. He looked relaxed… happy even, and it suited him. Branmer veered closer to listen in as Neroon continued, “No one feels the strength of the blow they deliver, only the one they receive.”

“Oh, do not get philosophical with me,” the Shadow gloomed. “You’ve been spending too much time with that wretched kalivnai. You’re such a sanctimonious bore these days-ow!”

“Apologies,” Neroon didn’t sound in the least bit sorry, “but if you will keep moving.”

The Shadow lapsed into resentful silence, holding itself very still, and Branmer, sensing opportunity, broke into the gap, and leant down to admire Neroon’s stitches. “I didn’t know you were so good at sewing.”

“Why would you?” Neroon shot him a quick, contemptuous glance before returning to his work. “Every Warrior can sew. It is a basic and necessary skill. Who do you think patches up our clothes or fixes our armour when we are on assignment?”

Any reconciliatory intentions Branmer had vanished instantly. “Of course I know that! I was just trying to pay you a compliment!”

The Shadow lifted its head and turned to him. He had again the feeling of being scrutinised intensely from behind unseeing, painted eyes. “Wait,” the Shadow said, “is this that priest?!”

Neroon did not answer immediately; he had misjudged the amount of thread required and had come to the end too soon. As he finished tying it off Branmer handed him the spool of black thread that was sitting on the bottom step and their hands brushed. Just for a second he felt once more that crackle of heat he had found that night in the courtyard. His breath hitched. Neroon met his eyes and looked away. “It is.”

“You’ve got a lot of gall, priest,” the Shadow said, and there was a distinct sneer in its voice. 

“Oh, yes, magnitudes of gall,” Branmer replied, shaking off the heat, and sensing an opportunity to antagonise both of them which overrode his better inclinations, offered them his most charming smile. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to face me in the arena?”

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), the Shadow was not so easily baited. It gave a snorting laugh and nudged Neroon -who narrowly avoided stabbing himself while trying to thread his needle again- and said, “Oh, I like him! You should be careful though, priest. Some of my brethren have shorter tempers.”

“That I know already.” Branmer eyed Neroon pointedly.

“Yes,” the Shadow nodded, “you’ve met my cousin.”

Cousin? Branmer bit back surprise. He had somehow come to imagine that Neroon was the last of his line, a lone island menaced by a rising tide. This rather upended all his assumptions and generated more questions. Was the cousin under the same squall of disgrace? Or was it only one side of the family? And which did they come from?

“One would think,” Neroon said drily, but without menace, “that one could rely on their own flesh and blood to take their part, but alas.”

“Perhaps if your part were ever reasonable,” the Shadow responded piously, and was stabbed once more for its trouble. “Ow! You can’t treat me like this, not when I’m heartbroken.”

Yes, they certainly behaved like family. Branmer swallowed down his curiosity. “Heartbroken?”

“She is not heartbroken,” Neroon said. “She is only disappointed because someone she hoped would attend the festival has not and she took leave specially to see them. A circumstance that could have been avoided if she had bothered to ask them if they were coming. Do not feel sorry for her.”

“I’ll feel sorry for anyone who misses the opportunity to see someone they love.”

“Thank you,” the Shadow sniffed. “Neroon doesn’t have a heart so he doesn’t understand these things.”

“I have a heart,” Neroon said, tying off the last stitch and biting off the thread. “I’m just not as careless with it as you are.”

“Sounds to me like you are afraid,” Branmer teased. He really could not stop himself from poking at Neroon. His self-importance begged to be popped. “My friend Mayan likes to say that if you are too cautious in love you will never know it.”

“Your friend Mayan has obviously never had to choose between love and duty,” Neroon replied, not looking up from tidying his sewing kit, “and does not know which matters more.”

“What a miserable existence you lead,” the Shadow sighed, and patted his shoulder with sisterly affection. They had obviously had this conversation many times before and there was a resigned concern to her demeanour.  “Thanks for the stitch up. I think I shall go play Shadow in the Night Walker encampments and see if anyone has any word about Dushenn.” 

“Dushenn?” Delenn had appeared at Branmer’s elbow, a pair of pretty new boots tucked under one arm. Far and few between were those who could resist Inahel’s insistent generosity. “But she’s here in Tinarel. I met her last night down by the river. She sang an old Night Walker marching song for us.”

“What?!” The Shadow sat up, shedding her despondency like a second skin. She was suddenly buoyant with energy and alert with interest. “Do you think she’s still there?”

“She had a tent, so I assume so unless she’s packed up since last night. She didn’t seem in any kind of rush though,” Delenn answered with a shrug, smiling pleasantly. “I can take you. We were going to meet a friend there. Coming, Bran?”

Branmer pondered whether it was worth pointing out that if Dushenn hadn’t sought the Shadow out already she might not want to be found and decided against it. “In a moment.”

“She’s usually very sensible,” Neroon sighed when they were both out of earshot, “but since she met Dushenn she’s become insufferable. It’s all she talks about. I hope I am never like that.”

His cousin seemed to have put him in a more tolerable mood. Branmer took a risk. “Would you like to join us later? I’m sure you would be more than welcome.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Neroon replied dryly. “At any rate, I have to attend to the Kalivnai once I’m finished here. They would hardly be pleased if I played truant.” He turned back to sorting through his sewing kit, and Branmer took that to mean the conversation was over. He was hardly going to press Neroon to join them, and given everything he had learnt so far Neroon might well be right to think that he would be unwelcome, in which case Branmer would only be exposing him to embarrassment. As much as he enjoyed needling him, that was a step too far. Branmer had his own painful experiences of such things, and he would never knowingly expose someone to the same.

Still, he left reluctantly, looking back over his shoulder at Neroon’s isolated figure and pausing in the doorway to watch him for a moment. He had dragged another Shadow costume into his lap and was carefully threading a fresh needle, making a lonely little tableau amidst the swirling industry of the Workers. Lonely and fierce, to survive so long in the face of so much set against him. No wonder he had been so furious with Branmer’s incursion into Warrior Caste traditions. He had likely been fighting his entire life for his place in his clan, his caste, and Branmer had walked in and just taken it like it was nothing. He was glad he hadn’t told Neroon about the ai’tok. He would certainly never tell him now.

But what he would do, was try to help him.

✦

It was approaching midnight when Branmer finally swayed his way home in the cooling dark, sloshing with nakti and stumbling at every little obstacle. He’d have stayed longer, but unlike Delenn and Mayan, he didn’t have the luxury of a long lie in tomorrow. He was rather redundant anyway. Once they had exhausted everything that was entertaining about his entrance into the Denn’vatek the Nightwalkers were far more interested in his charges. They were all besotted by Mayan, and had spent most of the evening pleading for her to sing and recite for them. She would likely be hoarse in the morning. They were equally pleased by Delenn, largely because she was such a devoted listener, and happy to sit quietly and appreciatively as they extolled the virtues of their clan above all others. Superiority complexes were a trait shared by all the Warrior clans. They had been distraught with pleas when she left to find Resek, but had hardly noticed Branmer’s departure.

He reached his father’s apartment to find light streaming from the windows and a cacophony of voices and laughter inside. When he opened the door a blast of heat and noise hit him like a speeder. It was as if he had stepped out of one world and into another. The kitchen and living area were packed with Warriors, jostling and cracking jokes and trying not to knock each other's drinks over. A number of them had instruments, and it was clear they were between songs and arguing over which to play next.

“If you’re hoping for some peace and quiet, you’re in the wrong place,” his mother shouted from the couch, kyelti in her lap, and crushed up contentedly against his father, who was tuning his vikri absent mindedly while keeping one ear on his neighbour’s conversation. “Rekshival left a message for you saying to call her as soon as you can. You can use the prayer room.”

“It’s rather late,” Branmer began and then reconsidered. It wouldn’t be late where Rekshival was and he had owed her an explanation for his recent actions. He had done enough stupid things without adding avoiding his direct superior to the list. Eyeing the merry crowd with some envy, he trudged into the prayer room and shut the door behind him. Rekshival answered almost immediately.

“I won't demean us both by asking what it is you think you are doing,” Rekshival said, struggling not to laugh. “You’ve always been my most tempestuous and unpredictable pupil.”

“I know, I know,” Branmer said, rising from his obeisance to meet his superior's exasperated fondness. “You’re going to tell me I've nuked my chances of ascending to High Priest, aren't you?”

“I don't know about that,” Rekshival’s holographic figure shimmered out of focus for a moment. A bad connection. She was far out in the Protectorate conducting observational rituals. Branmer felt a wince of shame that he had distracted her from such important business. “If you are called up for examination it will certainly be an interesting interview. You can hardly downplay your Warrior Caste heritage now, if that was indeed your plan.”

“No,” Branmer said, reluctantly. “Certainly that would be difficult now.”

“I should think it would always be difficult. You'd do better to treat it as an asset,” she said, in an echo of Sashain. “The Religious Caste can only benefit from having a High Priest on such friendly terms with the Warrior Caste.”

Yes, he thought irritably, they were already benefiting. Doubtless the Conclave would be expecting him to have made progress on the Dilgar problem soon. He had now missed several opportunities to pursue that, perhaps, largely because he didn't actually want to, but he couldn't afford the Conclave knowing that. It would ruin the good credit he had been storing up with them.

Damn. Sashain was right. He was a politician.

“Oh, dear,” Rekshival sighed. “You do look glum. That's why I called to be honest. I was worried. You do have this habit of making rash decisions when you're overwhelmed. Is everything alright?”

“I-” Branmer hesitated. He didn't want to admit that had been less stress than… other powerful urges that had emboldened him to be so stupid. He found his way to a half-truth. “I made a bet with my father's aide. I-well, you know what I'm like when I lose my temper.”

“I certainly do,” Rekshival remarked dryly. “If you get called for examination you'd better find a good way to spin that, because they will ask and I don't think they'll consider ‘I just lost my head' an appropriate reason.”

“Yes, master.”

“And… do try to be careful. This is different from casual sparring. You could be seriously injured,” Rekshival said, frowning down at him with gentle concern. “You could die.”

“Minbari do not kill Minbari,” Branmer replied. “It's a tournament, not a denn’shah. Alright, sometimes pilots spin out in the races, but I won't be flying. You know I'm a dreadful pilot.”

“They might not mean to kill you,” Rekshival said, pressing her lips together in the way she often did when she was struggling to decide whether to impart some secret or other. “I should not tell you this. It is prohibited in the Warrior Caste to speak of it but I am not a Warrior so I am not bound by their prohibitions, even if I keep them out of courtesy. The only reason I even know is because I was present when it happened. On at least one occasion that I know of a match ended with one opponent disqualified and the other dead.”

✦

Message from [UNKNOWN ID] to Drazi ID-KHURZ5961 12 Vherin 2232, 20:45:
You failed to report for your check in. What is your status?

Drazi ID-KHURZ5961 13 Vherin 2232, 00:32:
We’ve been under bombardment for several hours and communications are patchy. I will report when and if I am able. The Dilgar are pressing their attack on Shambah. I do not think we will hold out for much longer, but word is there may be reinforcements from the Dumdhoyni.

[UNKNOWN ID] 13 Vherin 2232, 00:39:
Acknowledged, stars light your path and guide your steps.

Drazi ID-KHURZ5961 13 Vherin 2232, 00:41:
And yours.

[UNKNOWN ID] 13 Vherin 2232, 01:15:
Are you still there?

Drazi ID-KHURZ5961 13 Vherin 2232, 01:16:
Yes.

[UNKNOWN ID] 13 Vherin 2232, 01:16:
I wish I were with you.

Drazi ID-KHURZ5961 13 Vherin 2232, 01:18:
I am glad you are not. Do not worry for me. I’m not afraid.

[UNKNOWN ID] 13 Vherin 2232, 01:19:
But I am.