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Demetria's voice interrupted the recitation of her serial number and birth date. "This 'air force' is your
tribe? From your name, you would be of the ruling line?"
If "Kyrios" meant "lord," then "Kyria . . ."
Long-lost princess. Right. Kyria resisted the temptation to tug the goatskins, which didn't stink as badly
as she'd expected, over her head until Demetria stopped asking questions.
Demetria held a second cup to her mouth. "Drink. This will steady you."
"My tribe, yes," Kyria agreed as soon as her head stopped spinning. "But I am not in line to rule." What
Intel would say about any of this was another thing not to think about. Section 8 would be the least she
could expect.
"You may feel better if you dress," said Demetria. "Certainly, you will feel warmer. The clothes I brought
will do for now, but we must find you better before you meet the queen."
That bronze bra was cold!Kyria discovered as she wriggled into it. She pulled on the rest of the
garments a dark leather tunic, a skirt of those metal-tipped strips her military history prof had said were
calledpteruges . No boots. These women might be low-tech, but they weren't stupid.
"Can I have my stuff?" she asked again. If she could just get to her gun, her radio, her medical supplies,
maybe she could make a break for it.A prisoner's first duty is to escape.
Demetria was six inches taller than she and had that staff. Right.
"The queen will decide when to return your possessions to you. Meanwhile, you will be well treated, as
befits your rank."
Lieutenant? Or princess of the tribe "US Air Force"?
"When can I speak with her?" Kyria asked.
"Now that the mists have lifted, she is out hunting." Demetria emphasized the last word and smiled thinly.
"She will not return until tomorrow. I know she will want to confer with you in the absence of your queen.
For now, rest."
* * *
Kyria emerged from her shelter the next morning to respect and curious whispers. She had the mother of
all headaches, and if she didn't find a bathroom soon . . .
Well, she didn't have cramps. Thank heaven for small mercies.
She gestured urgently, and a hand pointed the way to a Bronze Age equivalent of a latrine. Two very
young women leaned on trees nearby, pointedly allowing her privacy, while letting her know she was
under guard. They carried businesslike knives and staffs like the one that had put Kyria out of action the
day before. Two against one, even if they weren't much more than kids. Better not, she told herself.
At least, not till after breakfast.
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"I don't suppose you have a shower nearby," she asked, as she readjusted the leather garments
Demetria had handed her.Don't even thinkabout asking if there's coffee.
"There is a hot spring, Kyria, if you wish to bathe." The way they spoke her name, it sounded like a title.
"We will alert the guards."
"After breakfast," she decided. "You do have breakfast around here, don't you?"
Demetria hailed her on her return and gestured her to a seat by the fire. Suspended from a tripod was a
heavy pot in which bubbled what looked like oatmeal or some sort of boiled grains with dried fruit mixed
in. She ladled out two bowls and handed one to Kyria, who took it with as much grace as she could,
considering how hot it was and how hungry she suddenly found herself.
Demetria clapped her hands. Kyria's guards of earlier that morning disappeared into one of the shelters,
then emerged.
"My gear!" Kyria got the words out despite hot porridge that damned near scalded her mouth. She had
more attention for the sage-green and gray vest with its many pockets, pouches, and straps than she did
for the pain.
One of the young guards had parked Kyria's helmet on top of her mop of hair and was trying hard to
swagger. The other carried her vest and was trying just as hard to peek into it without being caught.
Demetria barked laughter. "Quite the warriors, now that they have passed their women's trials. Patience,
cousins. The queen should return this evening, and I will wager you a dozen arrows that she does not
return alone."
The girls blushed identically.
"Are they twins?" Kyria asked. "They look a lot alike."
Unobtrusively, she checked the nylon holster in its innermost pocket: yes, the automatic was still there.
Her headache lightened. She sorted through her First Aid kit to make certain no one had mistaken pills
for the coffee candy that her survival gear also contained, popped two painkillers anyway, along with a
broad-spectrum antibiotic, and waited for the headache to subside.
She offered some of the hard candy to the twins. Nice-looking kids. Come to think of it, they had a
marked resemblance to Demetria. Who looked a lot like the other women who emerged from various
huts, from the woods, and from the bank of a nearby stream to watch Kyria.I may be the first person
some of these women have ever seen who doesn't resemble them.
Demetria snapped something in Greek too fast for her to follow.
"Your pardon. We do not see many strangers here."
That returned her to the question that dogged her all day, persistent as her young guards. Where was
here?
Bosnia? Macedonia? Some time in the past? Maybe this was a sort of branch office of the Bermuda
Triangle, and they were all stuck. What were these mists that seemed to determine when they could hunt
and when they could leave?
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