decided. "As clan-chief of Vader, I judge the similarity between the Clans Vader in the two universes to be sufficient that we are liable for the life-debt. What repayment do you require, James?"

Medart sighed, letting his relief show. "I want you or someone you choose to teach me Sandeman magic, clan-chief. The only way I can see for an outsider like myself to end this war is to challenge whoever the clans designate to single combat, and I'd have no chance in a conventional battle. I was told shortly after I arrived that I have strong magical powers, though, and that you were the only ones who could train me to use them at their maximum. I have had no training whatsoever, so I have no bad habits to unlearn."

Ryan frowned. "I can testify to your power, Prince; that was obvious in the strength of your automatic defense against my compulsion spell. But magic training is started young, as soon as the … I suppose you could call them magical-energy channels … begin to develop. With respect, you are no longer young; such training would be both painful and dangerous. And fighting a magical duel would be even more so. I would prefer not to pay our debt in such a negative way."

"I was under the impression the choice was mine," Medart said quietly.

"It is, Highness, and if you insist I will begin your training myself as soon as proper preparations can be made. But honor also requires that I point out the drawbacks and possibility of injury."

Medart frowned. "The Imperials didn't want to teach me because their training would limit my powers, not because the training itself was dangerous."

"They also told you, I'm sure, that there are great differences in methodology. Terran magic operates primarily through symbols, tools, and ceremony; ours operates through personal mana. There's very little danger in their method, but as they admit, it costs them power. We accept the risks in return for that extra edge."

Medart chuckled. "Exactly the reaction I'd expect. Since I need that edge too, I have to accept the dangers as well. How long will it take for me to learn enough to fight a duel?"

Ryan shrugged. "We have very little information on training adults, none on training Terrans, so I have no way to give you an estimate. Why?"

"I want to end this war, and end it as soon as possible. It's as simple as that."

"In that case, I'd suggest you issue challenge right away. That will bring an immediate truce, which will last until after the duel. And the duel cannot be fought until Clan Vader has finished discharging its life-debt, now that we've begun."

"How do I do that?"

"Since you're leaving the choice of opponent to us, you inform a Warleader or clan-chief. You've already told me, and I'm willing to pass it along as a formal challenge if you want me to."

"I'd appreciate that. You do realize the Empire'll use the truce to regroup and rebuild?"

"I certainly hope so; they haven't been doing too well the last several weeks."

As he had for the last month, Medart woke feeling like he hadn't slept for a year. If anything, Ryan had understated what he'd be going through, starting Sandeman-style magical training so late. He hurt all the time, and was usually on the edge of nausea, making it difficult to eat. That, in turn, meant he'd lost weight he could ill afford.

On the whole, he knew, he was in lousy shape—probably his worst since the early part of his recuperation from that Traiti almost tearing him in half. He'd been having doubts, the last couple of days, whether or not he'd be able to make it through the training, much less be able to fight and win a duel with someone who'd been using magic all his life. He couldn't quit now, though; at the very worst, he was buying the Empire some time. And there was always a chance he'd win the duel; pure dumb luck had been known to come to the rescue before.

He sighed, then forced himself to get out of bed, bathe, and dress. He'd been supplied with warrior-drab coveralls, complete with his arms on the breast—not too different from his uniform, and more practical than the civvies he'd worn at first.

And after the first couple of days, Ryan had ordered him exempted from the chores the entire warrior caste shared—cooking, clean-up, laundry and the like—because of the toll his training exacted even that early. Medart was grateful, though he'd felt guilty about it at first; by now, guilt had been swallowed by the chronic pain.

It amused him that he'd been more or less adopted by the lady Kelly and her son Haley, one of the young warriors in training. Like the rest of the clan, Haley had been aloofly superior at first—the typical Sandeman reaction Medart expected from those who hadn't been around Imperials much—but his stubborn determination to learn in spite of what the lessons did to him had broken down that reserve. The clan accepted him, and those two had practically become mother hens. As usual one—Kelly, this time—met him at the dining hall door, then brought him a tray and joined him.

"Thanks, Kelly." Medart picked up his fork and stared at the food for several seconds, trying to ignore his stomach. That didn't work any better than usual; at last he gave up the effort and started eating in spite of the queasiness.

"No improvement?" Kelly asked, after a few minutes' silence.

"No. I've given up expecting any, but I can't help hoping." Medart took a few more bites, then shook his head and put the fork down. "Who'm I going up against today?" He'd learned the necessary spells for a duel the first week, both offensive and defensive; he'd been practicing them ever since, trying to learn control, but that was frustratingly elusive. One day he'd barely be able to make his opponent feel his efforts or protect himself, the next it would take the monitors to erect fast barriers to keep him from injuring the other, while his own defenses were at peak.

"The warrior Loren of Clan Raynor," Kelly told him. "I think Chief Ryan is trying to force a breakthrough, finding you strong opponents who won't pull their punches the way we've started doing because we don't want to add to your problems."

"Um." Medart frowned at that. "I hadn't noticed—but then my control's so erratic I probably couldn't. Whoever I fight the duel with damnsure won't pull his punches, though, so I have to go along with Ryan—best I train with someone who's going all-out, too."

"That part no one can argue," Kelly said. "But … James, can you tolerate the added stress? Watching you is like watching a warrior in constant need, with no hope of being able to give you release."

Medart winced, aware of how much that would distress any warriors'-woman. "I'm not in that bad a shape—I've seen some who were, remember? What I'm going through is no fun, but I think I can hold out long enough."

"I pray to all the gods you're right."

By the end of the next week, Medart was praying too, to all the gods he could recall from his childhood. He'd been brought up Omnist, so there were quite a number of them, and he added a pair the Sandemans in Alpha Prime said should be favorably inclined to him: the two warriors he'd given Last Gift to, Leigh DarVader and Keith DarLewies.

It didn't seem to help. Despite Ryan's instructions, his opponents' best efforts, and his own increasingly urgent attempts over the next month, his control remained erratic. Unfortunately his physical condition didn't remain as stable; it worsened steadily. By the end of that time, Medart had lost close to twenty kilos, and the constant pain allowed him only the sleep his body absolutely had to have.

He'd given up even trying to eat breakfast, beyond the hot chocolate that contained the caffeine he needed as a stimulant; he ate only after his afternoon practice sessions, when he was too tired to gag.

And he'd wondered how long Ryan would keep supporting him, so he wasn't surprised when the clan-chief joined him, Kelly, and Haley—both of whom