had taken to remaining close except when Haley was at his own training sessions—at the evening meal.

Medart endured the clan-chief's scrutiny, certain he knew what was coming, so he wasn't surprised when Ryan spoke. "Prince James, will you admit I have done my best to teach you as you asked?"

"You have, Clan-chief," Medart replied. "My inability to benefit by more than the most basic instruction cannot be laid to your lack of effort." He took a deep breath, rubbed his aching eyes. "You've done your best; I can't hold you to a repayment I'm incapable of absorbing. As far as I'm concerned, that part of Clan Vader's life-debt has been discharged."

"I thank you for your generosity, James. I will have you returned to the Empire; perhaps they can heal you where we cannot."

"No. My job's not done, and you still owe me one thing—I have a duel to fight, as soon as you can arrange a meeting."

"In your condition, I cannot permit that."

"You don't have any choice, Clan-chief." Medart pulled himself together as well as he could, reminding himself that these peoples' origin made them Imperial citizens whether they knew—or liked—it or not. He didn't have any enforceable authority over them, true, but sometimes that wasn't essential. "You issued the challenge on my behalf and implicitly agreed to arrange the duel, without specifying my physical condition. The only criterion was that I be trained to use Sandeman magic as well as I could, which has been done."

"It has, and I did issue challenge for you—but I did not agree to send you to certain death."

"It isn't—I'm running about fifty-fifty minimum power and maximum. That gives me a reasonable chance, better than the Empire'd have if I don't even try." Medart felt himself weakening, summoned his remaining resources. "You'd do the same if it were the Sandeman race at risk; I know that from personal experience. Even if you knew it'd cost you your life."

"That is true," Ryan replied slowly. "Very well, Highness, I will make the arrangements. But you should rest until then, doing no magic—and you must try to eat. In your present condition, even winning a duel would be fatal; to have a chance of surviving, you need to build yourself back up."

"I will," Medart promised. "I don't want to die; I've got too many interesting things to do first. And—" he looked from Kelly to her son—"I have a couple of guardians who wouldn't let me overdo even if I wanted to."

Medart kept his promise. It took Ryan six days to finalize arrangements for the duel, including what Clan Miklos needed to broadcast it to Sandemans and Empire alike; Medart spent the time resting as well as he could, nibbling on the food either Kelly or Haley kept him supplied with, and talking to the two of them.

He regained some strength, but the pain didn't ease in spite of Kelly's healing spells, so finally, the evening before the duel, he decided to ask her for a prognosis.

When he did, she frowned. "There's been no relief at all?"

"None that I've been able to notice."

"That is bad." Kelly paused. "As Ryan told you, we've had little experience with training adults to use magic, and you are our only experience teaching our system to a Terran. This makes it difficult for me to give you an accurate evaluation; I have almost nothing to base it on."

"I understand that."

"With that caution, then," Kelly said slowly, "I'm afraid our efforts to teach you have caused permanent damage. Either your age or your Terran physical characteristics—or possibly your extra-universe origin—have made it impossible to clear what Ryan called your magical-energy channels. Since my healing spells have no effect, I would say the attempts to train you have been … the best analogy I can think of is burning … them out."

Medart leaned back, sighing. "That's what I was afraid of. Is my opponent going to be battleprepped?"

"Of course."

"Will I be allowed a similar form of preparation?"

"Of course, if you have it."

"I do. Not built in, the way yours is, but I had a special medikit set up just in case; I have drugs that'll boost my strength and speed. And to block the pain, now that the duel's close—unless you think the painkiller'd interfere with what little control I do have."

"I can see no reason it should," Kelly said. "It should help, in fact, by allowing you to concentrate better. Why didn't you mention it before?"

"Because I don't have much, and wanted to save it for when I'd need it most." Medart opened one of the pouches on his belt and took out a small injector. "As you can see, my medikit's not that big, and I damnsure didn't think I'd need enough quidine for two months plus. I've got four doses, which is enough for about thirty hours." He felt for his carotid, triggered the painkiller into the artery, and seconds later sighed in relief. "Whew—that's a lot better."

"You look better, even so soon," Kelly agreed. "That quidine appears to be extremely strong—is it dangerous?"

"No." Medart shook his head, smiling as much at the relief from pain as at the question. "It is strong, but it's the safest analgesic ever discovered. It doesn't affect your reflexes or thinking, and it's not addictive—all it does is kill pain for about eight hours. The worst it does is numb you if you take an overdose."

"Doing that tonight might be wise. You haven't slept properly in that same two months plus, and you will need to be rested tomorrow."

"Recommendation accepted," Medart said promptly.

"Good." Kelly smiled. "I believe it would also help if you think of something besides the duel, so may I take advantage of your respite to ask you some things?"

"Be my guest."

"I found it revolting at first to think of being friends with a Terran, but after being around you for a brief time, that became a more attractive idea than otherwise. We seem to have more in common than I would have believed possible—do you have any idea why?"

"I know exactly why, and I think you could figure it out for yourselves—but you're like the ones at home. You don't want to think about it."

Kelly frowned. "I must lack information, because I've been trying to figure it out since you began training."

Medart grinned. "You have the necessary information. Want me to prove it, or just tell you outright?"

"Prove it," Kelly challenged.

"Remember you asked for it, and try not to attack me. I trust you both, but I also remember how strongly the ones at home reacted to the same information."

"I will control myself. Haley?"

"The same."

"Okay. You remember I told Ryan I recognized the design of Clan Vader's arms from seeing the Saga as a child?"

"I remember," Kelly said.

"And your Standard is almost the same as Imperial English, right?"

"Right."

"And you know the Shapers began creating the Sandeman race from their own genetic material in 2130, according to the calendar you and the Empire share."

"Every child knows that."

"Uh-huh. Given all that, tell me where the Shaqers originated."

Kelly thought about his statements, her expression going from intent to disbelief to revulsion. "They came from Terra!"

"They sure did," Medart said. "Which makes you Terrans, too. An improved version, so changed my Empire classes you as human variant rather than standard human—but Terrans. And that makes you Imperial citizens by right of birth."

"That's obscene!" Haley burst out.

"Matter of opinion," Medart said calmly. "Both personally and as a Prince of the Empire, I think it's great—as long as you're not fighting the Empire you're rightfully part of."

"Ryan has to know about this," Kelly said. "Haley, would you please inform him and ask him to join us?"

"Yes, lady." Haley stood and bowed to her, then left.

"Is it really that bad?" Medart asked the w'woman as soon as the young warrior was out of hearing. "It doesn't change what you are,