The next several evenings were illuminated by a full moon, and Zaria decided, with her seasoned companion to travel under the protection of night. This plan cut down on the searing heat, which was becoming formidable at mid-day, and it also made the trekkers not such a salient image moving across the track of barren space.

On the third night in the company of Tanzu Han, the rocky outcropping of the Pazyryk citadel could be finally be seen in the moon glow  like a mirage. Zaria's heart beat strongly as she considered her lover Tsudros was now within just a day's journey. The food she had been carrying was practically gone and there had been little foliage for the old man to work his magic, procuring sustenance out of the hot, dry flat lands. Water was in abundance, however, as they still skirted the swift river which moved along the rust-colored land like a silver snake.

It was decided that they would approach the large tented settlement at the darkest time of the early morning when the moon was down and most of the residents of the nomadic settlement would be asleep. This did not preclude that the sentries of the Pazyryk would undoubtedly be vigilant before the kingdom for any sign of siege. And this would be especially true of their guarding the rock fortress where Zaria had spent several years of her delicate youth--in captivity as Sharvur the king's virgin slave princess.

On the night they approached the outskirts of the palace, with its rows of concentric tents, it was strangely quiet and devoid of any mounted warriors. This was not the way Zaria had remembered it. It was as though the whole complex of tents around the rocky hill was asleep, with no armed guards patrolling the perimeter on horseback.

"Why do you think no one stirs there," Zaria asked Tanzu Han as they moved forward quietly, reaching the first row of leather domiciles.

"There has been a great change here," he said quietly. "I can also feel it in the air."

The travelers moved slowly along the tented pathway and then up the dusty trail toward the hill. It was there where Sharvur's rock castle dominated the landscape with its many caves and passageways.

"I was a prisoner here myself. Many years ago," the old man told Zaria. "The Pazyryk are a strong people. Cruel and successful as warriors. They love war, and their horses. And they have little use for weakness. Yet . . . I see and feel a weakness here now," Tanzu Han said, looking up and down the rows of tents and sniffing the air.

"How did you escape them?" Zaria asked, as she dismounted her horse and pulled Pritel along with his reins beside the old man.

"I had met a man inside who was in the king's court. He listened to my thoughts. My ideas about life. And he had a mind to believe what I was telling him. About peace and understanding among all who live on the great steppes."

"He must have been very special," she said.

"Yes. And though he was the king's adviser in the court, and had to honor his warring ways, he told me my ideas were sound and someday possible. He said I was a young man worthy of living. Of being freed."

"How did it happen that you were freed?"

"This man had great influence over the affairs in the palace. He had planned that I should escape when the time was right. But it would not come until many moons when the opportunity created itself."

"What was that opportunity?" Zaria asked, ever curious. "And who was this man in the kings court?"

"It has been many years now. He was then young like me at the time. A gentle soul with the mind of a fox. His name was Kriedo. He must be long dead now, unless he is as strong and crazy as I am today, to have lived so long."

"Did you say his name was Krido?" Zaria was shocked. "That was king Sharvur's old adviser. He both plagued me and helped me there in the palace. For it was he who at first convinced Sharvur that I remain as his vestal virgin. A slave of virtue so as to protect his kingdom from defeat. My two sisters . . .also abducted with me from the Slavic territory, were not so lucky. They suffered nightly from the king's cruelty. And the perverted joys he played out with them in his bedchamber."

"Just like his father," the old man replied solemnly. "And his father before him. There is a legacy in those rocks for such a treatment of young women. You are lucky to be alive."

"There were times when I would have wished otherwise," Zaria  said sadly. "And especially from hearing of the horrors my sisters endured there in his bed. Some of those nights they could not even tell me what had been demanded of them."

"Well, it was this Krido," Tanzu Han said. "The young adviser to the king in those times. And he did spare my life. I have thought of his generosity many times over the years."

Zaria could see the sincerely in the old man's face as he continued.

"I would be honored if this Krido still lives. To give him my hand of appreciation. To give my wishes upon him . . . blessings for the remainder of his days."

"I cannot say if the Kreido I knew still lives," said Zaria. "If anyone I had known before, lives on here, it would only be my sister, Svetlana, and my lover, Trudros the Pazyryk. For they are whom I seek on this difficult journey. Whom I risk my life to see again."

The two had passed several more rows of tents along the path to the palace hill.

"You are a noble young woman," Tanzu Han finally told her, as they paused now in the dusty street.

"But wait." Zaria said. "You never told me what the opportunity was for you to escape. With the help of Krido."

The old man smiled nostalgically. "It was a great shaking of the earth," he said, holding both of his thin arms out to show the earthquake's total devastation at that time. "These violent storms of the land come without warning. But we see few of them so strong in our lifetime. They can destroy villages. Bury people beneath hills. This is what happened here many years go when I was up there as a prisoner in a rock cell."

Tanzu Han pointed to the massive outcropping of boulders which for generations had provided the many rooms and passageways of the palace.

"As the rocks were moving and people in the palace were screaming, Krido led me out of the cell and told me to run. Run to the barren steppes, he demanded. Where I have lived all these years. Alone and free."

"Yes. You were very lucky, then," Zaria said, seeing the old man's eyes well up with tears in the morning light. "Lucky for the angry earth . . . and for this man, Krido, you speak of. I am sure he is the same living soul I knew here. The old adviser to the king who helped me with my own escape from the palace."

"And you were fortunate to have escaped with your life, young lady. For I know of this Sharvur's cruelty through the evil of his father."

Zaria did not want to say or remember more of those times.

An eerie morning light began to illuminate the tented city, and the first stirrings of the Pazyryk people began to emerge—some toward the river for water, others tending to their young children who could be heard crying from hunger.

As a woman carrying an empty clay vessel on her way to the river passed near, Zaria stopped her. The cloaked stranger immediately could see Zaria's features were not from her surroundings, nor were those of the old man who accompanied her. As Zaria hid her tattooed arms and neck, the woman, looking closely at the the two, was puzzled as to why they were standing idle in the path.

"Can you tell me why the village is so quiet?" Zaria asked her in the Pazyryk dialect. "Where are the men? The warriors this morning?"

The woman, dressed in the typical unadorned clothing, put the heavy container down and looked more critically at Zaria's foreign face and responded to her unauthentic accent.

"We have lost many of the men here in the great battle among ourselves," she said."There are few of them left now. Many fathers . . . sons and brothers have been killed in these times. Now there is only quiet confusion among us. Life is so difficult now with no authority. No strong hands to guide and help feed each family. To make raids upon our enemies and bring us back the goods we need to survive. We are mostly just women and children now. Trying to live on this barren land without a king. With less than half our men."

Zaria could see the pain of loss in the woman's face.

"When did this happen?" She asked. A curious Tanzu Han looked on.

"In the winter," the woman said, sighing a deep lament. "It became a war between those who favored our king Sharvur's second return to power . . . and those who trusted only his younger generals. But now he is not king. And the generals . . . we never hear from as they continue to fight. Only the relatives of each support them. And they murder each other. No one trusts anyone anymore. We are dying from this confusion and greed."

Zaria looked up at the rock compound—the invincible stone palace where she had spent years of her young life.

"And there? In the palace?" She asked. 'Who is there now? What became of Sharvur?" 

Her voice had become stressed, fearful of the woman's answer.

"No one knows who really remains there. Which of the generals. Nor do we care. Those dogs take care only of themselves when they are not fighting each other for power. Many say it was better when Sharvur came back after having his kingdom taken from him. But now, for over a year, he has been  pushed out again.  Everyone thought the Pazyryk could be stronger, happier without his terrible ways. But it became like this, today . . . Confusion! Hunger! Killing! The generals and their followers fighting each other!"

Tanzu Han just nodded his head. He had heard and seen these cycles of destruction and greed many times, in many places from his wanderings. And always it was at the expense of the women and children. The future generation, he knew, would be lost and weakened until a better king emerged. It was all so much the antithesis of the old man's wise and benevolent beliefs. How mankind could better live through harmony, compromise and peace.

The Pazyryk woman, picking up her large water vessel, continued.

"Some say Sharvur was killed inside. When he had briefly come back to power. Some say poisoned at the hands of one of his women slaves. Others say he was cut to pieces by the swords of his enemy generals. There are even those that say he escaped again and is hiding. Right here in one of these many tents."

The thought of this possibility sent a chill own Zaria's back. Just knowing that she could be in his presence again, made her knees weak and her mouth dry. For there was no other human in her life she feared more or wished more to be dead than Sharvur—the man who had systematically tormented her sexually, and cruelly humiliated her for his own pleasure. Only the thoughts of what he had done to Branka those many months, almost nightly, while she was forced to entertain his perverted desires, made her again mindful of how she could easily wield the sword herself to rid the world of him.

The woman slowly made ready to depart for the river.

"There are many who wish this former king dead," she lastly said. "And there are some still who want him back. Ruling again strongly in the palace."

"Please tell me, good woman," Zaria finally asked. "Is there any news of Tsudros, the tattoo artist? He was captured many days ago, out on the steppes. I was told he was brought back here by warriors."

"I have not heard of this man," she said sadly. "There are many imprisoned in the palace. Both men . . . and even some women with their children. Still more have been tortured and killed these many moons, as we are without a king. And a life we once knew. No one knows who stays in the stone palace now. The generals who would have him back . . . or those who want him dead."

Zaria looked again up at the quiet rock citadel.

"It is heavily guarded," the woman warned. You are best to stay away."

With this, the stressed woman turned and started her labored trek towards the river, presumably to fetch her family another day's supply of water.

Zaria looked over at her weathered companion for some guidance. The old man just hung his head pensively, showing no sign of eagerness. At this point, for Zaria's quest to rescue her sister and be united with her lover, there seemed little or no glimmer of hope.

* * *