ONE

Hunter Predd was patrolling the waters of the Blue Divide

north of the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost at

the western edge of Elven territorial waters, when he saw

the man clinging to the spar. The man was draped over the length

of wood as if a cloth doll, his head laid on the spar so that his face

was barely out of the water, one arm wrapped loosely about his

narrow float to keep him from sliding away. His skin was burned

and ravaged from sun, wind, and weather, and his clothing was in

tatters. He was so still it was impossible to tell if he was alive. It was

the odd rolling movement of his body within the gentle swells, in

fact, that first caught Hunter Predd's eye.

Obsidian was already banking smoothly toward the castaway,

not needing the touch of his master's hands and knees to know what

to do. His eyes sharper than those of the Elf, he had spotted the

man n the water before Hunter and shifted course to effect a

rescue. It was a large part of the work he was trained to do, locating

and rescuing those whose ships had been lost at sea. The Roc could

tell a man from a piece of wood or a fish a thousand yards away.

He swung around slowly, great wings stretched wide, dipping

toward the surface and plucking the man from the waters with a sure

and delicate touch. Great claws wrapped securely, but gently, about

the limp form, the Roc lifted away again. Depthless and clear, the

late spring sky spread away in a brilliant blue dome brightened by

sunlight that infused the warm air and reflected in flashes of silver

off the waves. Hunter Predd guided his mount back toward the

closest piece of land available, a small atoll some miles from Mesca

Rho. There he would see what, if anything, could be done.

They reached the atoll in less than half an hour, Hunter Predd

keeping Obsidian low and steady in his flight the entire way. Black

as ink and in the prime of his life, the Roc was his third as a Wing

Rider and arguably the best. Besides being big and strong, Obsidian

had excellent instincts and had learned to anticipate what Hunter

wished of him before the Wing Rider had need to signal it. They

had been together five years, not long for a Rider and his mount, but

sufficiently long in this instance that they performed as if linked in

mind and body.

Lowering to the leeward side of the atoll in a slow flapping of

wings, Obsidian deposited his burden on a sandy strip of beach and

settled down on the rocks nearby. Hunter Predd jumped off and hur-

ried over to the motionless form. The man did not respond when the

Wing Rider turned him on his back and began to check for signs of

life. There was a pulse, and a heartbeat. His breathing was slow and

shallow. But when Hunter Predd checked his face, he found his eyes

had been removed and his tongue cut out.

He was an Elf, the Wing Rider saw. Not a member of the Wing

Hove, however. The lack of harness scars on his wrists and hands

marked him so. Hunter examined his body carefully for broken

bones and found none. The only obvious physical damage seemed

to be to his face. Mostly, he was suffering from exposure and lack of

nourishment. Hunter placed a little fresh water from his pouch on

the man's lips and let it trickle down his throat. The man's lips

moved slightly.

Hunter considered his options and decided to take the man to

the seaport of Bracken Clell, the closest settlement where he could

find an Elven Healer to provide the care that was needed. He could

take the man to Mesca Rho, but the island was only an outpost. An-

other Wing Rider and himself were its only inhabitants. No healing

help could be found there. If he wanted to save the man's life, he

would have to risk carrying him east to the mainland.

The Wing Rider bathed the man's skin in fresh water and ap-

plied a healing salve that would protect it from further damage.

Hunter carried no extra clothing, the man would have to travel in

the rags he wore. He tried again to give the man fresh water, and

this time the man's mouth worked more eagerly in response, and he

moaned softly. For an instant his ruined eyes tried to open, and

he mumbled unintelligibly.

As a matter of course and in response to his training, the Wing

Rider searched the man and took from his person the only two

items he found. Both surprised and perplexed him. He studied each

carefully, and the frown on his lips deepened.

Unwilling to delay his departure any longer, Hunter picked up

the man and, with Obsidian's help, eased him into place on the

Roc's broad back. A pad cushioned and restraining straps secured

him. After a final check, Hunter climbed back aboard his mount,

and Obsidian lifted away.

They flew east toward the coming darkness for three hours, and

sunset was approaching when they sighted Bracken Clell. The sea-

port's population was a mixture of races, predominantly Elven, and

the inhabitants were used to seeing Wing Riders and their Rocs

come and go. Hunter Predd took Obsidian upland to a clearing

marked for landings, and the big Roc swung smoothly down into

the trees. A messenger was sent into town from among the curious

who quickly gathered, and the Elven Healer appeared with a clutch

of litter bearers.

"What's happened to him?" the Healer asked of Hunter Predd,

Ofl discovering the man's empty eye sockets and ruined mouth.

Hunter shook his head. "That's how I found him."

"Identification? Who is he?"

"I don't know," the Wing Rider lied.

He waited until the Healer and his attendants had picked up the

man and begun carrying him toward the Healer's home, where the

man would be placed in one of the sick bays in the healing center,

before dispatching Obsidian to a more remote perch, then fol-

lowing after the crowd. What he knew was not to be shared with

the Healer or anyone else in Bracken Clell. What he knew was

meant for one man only.

He sat on the Healer's porch and smoked his pipe, his long-

bow and hunting knife by his side as he waited for the Healer to

reemerge. The sun had set, and the last of the light lay across the

waters of the bay in splashes of scarlet and gold. Hunter Predd was

small and slight for a Wing Rider, but tough as knotted cord. He

was neither young nor old, but comfortably settled in the middle

and content to be there. Sun-browned and windburned, his face

seamed and his eyes gray beneath a thick thatch of brown hair, he

had the look of what he was—an Elf who had lived all of his life in

the outdoors.

Once, while he was waiting, he took out the bracelet and held it

up to the light, reassuring himself that he had not been mistaken

about the crest it bore. The map he left in his pocket.

One of the Healer's attendants brought him a plate of food,

which he devoured silently. When he was finished eating, the atten-

dant reappeared and took the plate away, all without speaking. The

Healer still hadn't emerged.

It was late when he finally did, and he looked haggard and un-

nerved as he settled himself next to Hunter. They had known each

other for some time, the Healer having come to the seaport only a

year after Hunter had returned from the border wars and settled

into Wing Rider service off the coast. They had shared in more than

one rescue effort and, while of different backgrounds and callings,

were of similar persuasion regarding the foolishness of the world's

progress. Here, in an outback of the broader civilization that was

designated the Four Lands, they had found they could escape a little

of the madness.

How is he?" Hunter Predd asked.

The Healer sighed. "Not good. He may live. If you can call it

that. He's lost his eyes and his tongue. Both were removed forcibly.

Exposure and malnutrition have eroded his strength so severely he

will probably never recover entirely. He came awake several times

and tried to communicate, but couldn't."

"Maybe with time—"

"Time isn't the problem," the Healer interrupted, drawing his

gaze and holding it. "He cannot speak or write. It isn't just the

damage to his tongue or his lack of strength. It is his mind. His

mind is gone. Whatever he has been through has damaged him ir

reparably. I don't think he knows where he is or even who he is."

Hunter Predd looked off into the night. "Not even his name?"

"Not even that. I don't think he remembers anything of what's

happened to him."

The Wing Rider was silent a moment, thinking. "Will you keep

him here for a while longer, care for him, watch over him? I want to

look into this more closely."

The Healer nodded. "Where will you start?"

"Arborlon, perhaps."

A soft scrape of a boot brought him about sharply. An attendant

appeared with hot tea and food for the Healer. He nodded to

them without speaking and disappeared again. Hunter Predd stood,

walked to the door to be certain they were alone, then reseated

himself beside the Healer.

"Watch this damaged man closely, Dome. No visitors. Nothing

until you hear back from me."

The Healer sipped at his tea. "You know something about him

that you're not telling me, don't you?"

"I suspect something. There's a difference. But I need time to

make certain. Can you give me that time?"

The Healer shrugged. "I can try. The man inside will have some-

thing to say about whether he will still be here when you return. He

is very weak. You should move swiftly."

Hunter Predd nodded. "As swift as Obsidian's wings can fly," he

replied softly.

Behind him, in the near darkness of the open doorway, a shadow

detached itself from behind a wall and moved silently away.

The attendant who had served dinner to the Wing Rider and

the Healer waited until after midnight, when the people of Bracken

Clell were mostly asleep, to slip from his rooms in the village into

the surrounding forest. He moved quickly and without the benefit

of light, knowing his path well from having traveled it many times

before. He was a small, wizened man who had spent the whole of

his life in the village and was seldom given a second glance. He

lived alone and had few friends. He had served in the Healer's

household for better than thirteen years, a quiet, uncomplaining

sort who lacked imagination but could be depended on. His quali-

ties suited him well in his work as a Healer's attendant, but even

better ac a spy

He reached the cages he kept concealed in a darkened pen be-

hind the old cabin in which he had been born. When his father and

mother had died, possession had passed to him as the eldest male. It

was a poor inheritance, and he had never accepted that it was all to

which he was entitled. When the opportunity had been offered to

him, he snatched at it eagerly. A few words overheard here and

there, a face or a name recognized from tales told in taverns and ale

houses, bits and pieces of information tossed his way by those res-

cued from the ocean and brought to the center to heal—they were

all worth something to the right people.

And to one person in particular, make no mistake about it.

The attendant understood what was expected of him. She had

made it clear from the beginning. She was to be his Mistress, to whom

he must answer most strongly should he step from between the lines

of obedience she had charted for him. Whoever passed through the

Healer's doors and whatever they said, if they or it mattered at all, she

was to know. She told him the decision to summon her was his, al-

ways his. He must be prepared to answer for his cummons, of course.

But it would be better to act boldly than belatedly. A chance missed

was much less acceptable to her than time wasted.

He had guessed wrongly a few times, but she had not been

angry or critical. A few mistakes were to be expected. Mostly, he

knew what was worth something and what was not. Patience and

perseverance were necessary.

He'd developed both, and they had served him well. This time,

he knew, he had something of real value

He unfastened the cage door and took out one of the strange

birds she had given him. They were wicked-looking things with

sharp eyes and beaks, swept-back wings, and narrow bodies. They

watched him whenever he came in sight, or took them out of the

cages, or fastened a message to their legs, as he was doing now.

They watched him as if marking his efficiency for a report they

would make later. He didn't like the way they looked at him, and he

seldom looked hack

When the message was in place, he tossed the bird into the air,

and it rose into the darkness and disappeared. They flew only at

night, these birds. Sometimes, they returned with messages from

her. Sometimes, they simply reappeared, waiting to be placed back

in their cages. He never questioned their origins, It was better, he

sensed, simply to accept their usefulness.

He stared into the night sky. He had done what he could. There

was nothing to do now, but wait. She would tell him what was

needed next. She always did.

Closing the doors to the pen so that the cages were hidden once

more, he crept silently back the way he had come.

Two days later, Allardon Elessedil had just emerged from a long

session with the Elven High Council centered on the renewal of

trade agreements with the cities of Callahorn and on the seemingly

endless war they fought as allies with the Dwarves against the Fed-

eration, when he was advised that a Wing Rider was waiting to

speak to him. It was late in the day, and he was tired, but the Wing

Rider had flown all the way to Arborlon from the southern seaport

of Bracken Clell, a two-day journey, and was refusing to deliver his

message to anyone but the King. The aide who advised Allardon of

the Wing Rider's presence conveyed quite clearly the other's deter-

mination not to be swayed on this issue.

The Elf King nodded and followed his aide to where the Wing

Rider waited. His arrangement with the Wing Hove demanded that

he accede to any request for privacy in the conveyance of mes-

sages. Pursuant to a contract drawn up in the early years of Wren

Elessedil's rule, the Wing Riders had been serving the Land Elves as

scouts and messengers along the coast of the Blue Divide for more

than 130 years. They were provided with goods and coin in ex-

change for their services, and it was an arrangement that the Elven

Kings and Queens had found useful on more than one occasion. If

the Wing Rider who waited had asked to speak with Allardon per-

sonally, then there was good reason for the request, and he was not

about to ignore it.

With Home Guards Perin and Wye flanking him protectively,

he trailed after his aide as they departed the High Council and

walked back through the gardens to the Elessedil palace home. Al-

lardon Elessedil had been King for more than twenty years, since

the death of his mother, the Queen Aine. He was of medium height

and build, still fit and trim in spite of his years, his mind sharp and

his body strong. Only his graying hair and the lines on his face gave

evidence of his advanced years. He was a direct descendant of the

great Queen Wren Elessedil, who had brought the Elves and their

city out of the island wilderness of Morrowindl into which the Fed-

eration and the hated Shadowen had driven them. He was her

great-great-grandson, and he had lived the whole of his life as if

measuring it against hers.

It was difficult to do so in these times. The war with the Federa-

tion had been raging for ten years and showed no signs of ending

anytime soon The Southland coalition of Bordermen, Dwarves,

and Elves had halted the Federation advance below the Duin two

years earlier on the Prekkendorran Heights. Now the armies were

stalemated in a front that had failed to shift one way or the other in

all that time and continued to consume lives and waste energy at an

alarming rate. There was no question that the war was necessary.

The Federation's attempt at reclaiming the Borderlands it had lost in

the time of Wren Elessedil was invasive and predatory and could

not be tolerated But the King couldn't help thinking that his an-

cestor would have found a way to put an end to it by now, where he

had failed to do so.

None of which had anything to do with the matter at hand, he

chided himself. The war with the Federation was centered at the cross-

roads of the Four Lands and had not yet spilled over onto the coast. For

now, at least, it was contained.

He walked into the reception room where the Wing Rider was

waiting and immediately dismissed those who accompanied him. A

member of the Home Guard would already be concealed within

striking distance, although Allardon had never personally heard of a

Wing Rider turned assassin.

As the door closed behind his small entourage, he extended

his hand to the Rider. "I'm sorry you had to wait. I was sitting with

the High Council, and my aide didn't want to disturb me." He

shook the other's corded hand and scanned the weathered face. "I

know you, don't I? You've brought me a message once or maybe

twice before."

"Once, only," the other advised. "It was a long time ago. You

wouldn't have reason to remember me. My name is Hunter Predd."

Ihe Elven King nodded, failing to recognize the other's name,

but smiling anyway. Wing Riders cared nothing for formalities, and

he didn't bother relying on them here. "What do you have for me,

Hunter?"

The Wing Rider reached inside his tunic and produced a short,

slender length of metal chain and a scrap of hide. He held on to

both as he spoke. 'Three days ago, I was patrolling the waters north

off the island of Mesca Rho, a Wing Hove outpost. I found a man

floating on a ship spar. He was barely alive, suffering from exposure

and dehydration. I don't know how long he was out there, but it

must have been some time. His eyes and his tongue had been cut

out before he had been cast adrift. He was wearing this."

He held out the length of metal chain first, which turned out to

be a bracelet. Allardon accepted it, studied it, and went pale. The

bracelet bore the Flessedil crest, the spreading boughs of the sa-

cred Ellcrys surrounded by a ring of Bloodfire. It had been more

than thirty years since he had seen the bracelet, but he recognized it

immediately.

His gaze shifted from the bracelet to the Wing Rider. "The man

you found wore this?" he asked quietly.

"It was on his wrist."

"Did you recognize him?"

"I recognized the bracelet's crest, not the man."

"There was no other identification?"

"Only this. I searched him carefully."

He handed the piece of softened hide to Allardon. It was frayed

about the edges, water stained and worn. The Elf King opened it

carefully. It was a map, its symbols and writing etched in faded ink

and in places smudged. He studied it carefully, making sure of what

he had. He recognized the Westland coast along the Blue Divide. A

dotted line ran from island to island, traveling west and north and

ending at a peculiar collection of blocky spikes. There were names

beneath each of the islands and the cluster of spikes, but he did not

recognize them. The writing in the margins of the map was indeci-

pherable. The symbols that decorated and perhaps identified cer

tam places on the map were of strange and frightening creatures he

had never seen.

"Do you recognize any of these markings?" he asked Hunter

Predd.

The Wing Rider shook his head. "Most of what the map shows

is outside the territory we patrol. The islands are beyond the reach

of our Rocs, and the names are not familiar."

Allardon walked to the tall, curtained windows that opened

onto the garden, and stood looking out at the flower beds. "Where

is the man you found, Hunter? Is he still alive?"

"I left him with the Healer who serves Bracken Clell. He was

alive when I left."

"Have you told anyone else of this bracelet and map?"

"No one knows but you. Not even the Healer. He is a friend, but

I know enough to keep silent when silence is called for."

Allardon nodded his approval. "You do, indeed."

He called for cold glasses of ale and a full pitcher from which to

refill them. His mind raced as he waited with the Wing Rider for the

beverage and containers to be brought. He was stunned by the sal-

vaged articles and by what he had been told, and he wasn't certain,

even knowing what he did, what course of action to take. He recog-

nized the bracelet and, thereby, he must assume, the identity of the

man from whom it had been taken. He had not seen either in thirty

years nor had he expected to see them ever again. He had never

seen the map, but even without being able to decipher its language

or read its symbols, he could guess at what it was meant to show.

He thought suddenly of his mother, Aine, dead for twenty-five

years, and the memory of her anguish during the last years of her

life brought tears to his eyes.

He fingered the bracelet absently, remembering.

Thirty years earlier, his mother, as Queen, had authorized

an Elven sailing expedition to undertake a search for a treasure of

great value purported to have survived the Great Wars that had

destroyed the Old World. The impetus for the expedition had been

a dream visited on his mother's seer, an Elven mystic of great power

and widespread acclaim. The dream had foretold of a land of ice, of a

ruined city within the land, and of a safehold in which a treasure of

immeasurable worth lay protected and concealed. This treasure, if

recovered, had the power to change the course of history and the

lives of all who came in contact with it.

The seer had been wary of the dream, for she understood the

power of dreams to deceive. The nature of the treasure sought was

unclear, and its source was vague and uncharted. The land in which

the treasure could be found lay somewhere across the Blue Divide in

territory that no one had ever seen. There were no directions for

reaching it, no instructions for locating it, and little more than a

series of images to describe it. Perhaps, the seer advised, it was a

dream best left alone.

But Allardon's elder brother, Kael Elessedil, had been intrigued

by the possibilities the dream suggested and by the challenge of

searching for an unexplored land. He had embraced the dream as

his destiny, and he had begged his mother to let him go. In the end,

she had relented. Kael Elessedil had been granted his expedition,

and with three sailing ships and their crews under his command, he

had departed.

Just before leaving, his mother had given him the famous blue

Elfstones that had once belonged to Queen Wren. The Elfstones

would guide them to their destination and protect them from harm.

Their magic would bring the Elves safely back home again.

When he left Arborlon to travel to the coast, where the ships his

mother had commissioned were waiting, Kael Elessedil was wearing

the bracelet his brother now held. It was the last time Allardon saw

him. The expedition had never returned. The ships, their crews, his

brother, everything and everyone, had simply vanished. Search

parties had been dispatched, one after the other, but not a trace of

the missing Elves had ever been found.

Allardon exhaled softly. Until now. He stared at the bracelet in

his hand. Until this.

Kael's disappearance had changed everything in the lives of his

family. His mother had never recovered from her eldest son's dis-

appearance, and the last years of her life were spent in a slow wast-

ing away of health and hope as one rescue effort after another failed

and all were finally abandoned. When she died, Allardon became

the King his brother was meant to be and he had never expected to

become.

He thought of the ruined man lying wasted, voiceless, and blind

in the Healer's rooms in Bracken Clell and wondered if his brother

had come home at last.

The ale arrived, and Allardon sat with Hunter Predd on a bench

in the gardens and questioned the Wing Rider again and again, cov-

ering the same ground several times over, approaching the matter

from different points of view, making certain he had learned every-

thing there was to know. Perhaps understanding in part at least, the

trauma he had visited upon the Elven King by his coming, Hunter

was cooperative. He did not presume to ask questions of his own,

for which Allardon was grateful, but simply responded to the ques-

tions he was asked, keeping company with the King for as long as it

was required.

When the interview was ended, Allardon asked the Wing Rider

to stay the night so that the King could have time to consider what

further need he might have of him. He did not make it a command,

but a request. Food and lodging would be provided for rider and

mount, and his staying would be a favor. Hunter Predd agreed.

Alone again, in his study now, where he did most of his thinking

on matters that required a balancing of possibilities and choices,

Allardon Elessedil considered what he must do. After thirty years

and considerable damage, he might not be able to recognize his

brother, even if it was Kael whom the Bracken Clell Healer at-

tended. He had to assume that it was, for the bracelet was genuine.

It was the map that was troubling. What was he to do with it?

He could guess at its worth, but he could not read enough of it to

measure the extent of its information. If he were to mount a new ex-

pedition, an event he was already seriously considering, he could

not afford to do so without making every possible effort to discover

what he was up against.

He needed someone to translate the phrases on the map. He

needed someone who could tell him what they said.

There was only one person who could do that, he suspected.

Certainly, only one of whom he knew.

It was dark outside by now, the night settled comfortably down

about the Westland forests, the walls and roofs of the city's build-

ings faded away and replaced by clusters of lights that marked their

continued presence. In the Elessedil family home, it was quiet. His

wife was busy with their daughters, working on a quilt for his

birthday that he was not supposed to know about. His eldest son,

Kylen, commanded a regiment on the Prekkendorran front. His

youngest, Ahren, hunted the forests north with Ard Patrinell, Cap-

tain of the Home Guard. Considering the size of his family and the

scope of his authority as King, he felt surprisingly alone and help-

less in the face of what he knew he must do.

But how to do it? How, so that it would achieve what was

needed?

The dinner hour had come and gone, and he remained where he

was, thinking the matter through. It was difficult even to consider

doing what was needed, because the man he must deal with was in

many ways anathema to him. But deal with him he must, putting

aside his own reservations and their shared history of antagonism

and spite. He could do that because that was part of what being a

King required, and he had made similar concessions before in other

situations. It was finding a way to persuade the other to do likewise

that was difficult. It was conceiving of an approach that would not

meet with instant rejection that was tricky

In the end, he found what he needed right under his nose. He

would send Hunter Predd, the Wing Rider, as his emissary. The

Wing Rider would go because he understood the importance and

implications of his discovery and because Allardon would grant

the Wing Hove a concession they coveted as a further enticement.

The man whose services he required would respond favorably be-

cause he had no quarrel with the Wing Riders as he did with the

Land Elves, and because Hunter Predd's direct, no-nonsense ap-

proach would appeal to him.

There were no guarantees, of course. His gambit might fail, and

he might be forced to try again—perhaps even to go there himself.

He would have to, he knew, if all else failed. But he was counting on

his adversary's inquisitive mind and curious nature to win him over;

he would not be able to resist the challenge of the map's puzzle. He

would not be able to ignore the lure of its secrets. His life did not

allow for that. Whatever else he might be, and he was many things,

he was a scholar first.

The Elf King brought out the scrap of map the Wing Rider had

carried to him and placed it on his writing desk. He would have

it copied, so that he might protect against its unforeseen loss. But

copied accurately, with all symbols and words included, for any

hint of treachery would sink the whole venture in a second. A scribe

could accomplish what was needed without being told of the map's

origins or worth. Discretion was possible.

Nevertheless, he would stay with the scribe until the job was

completed. His decision made, he dispatched an aide to summon

the one who was needed and sat back to await his arrival. Dinner

would have to keep a little while longer.

Two

On the same night Allardon Elessedil awaited the arrival of

his scribe to make a copy of the map delivered by Hunter

Predd, the spy in the household of the Bracken Clell

Healer received a response to the message he had dispatched to his

Mistress two days earlier. It was not the kind of response he had

anticipated.

She was waiting for him when he came to his rooms at nightfall,

his day's work finished, his mind on other things. Perhaps he was

thinking of slipping out later to his cages to see if one of her winged

couriers had arrived with a message. Perhaps he was thinking only

of a hot meal and a warm bed. Whatever the case, he was not ex-

pecting to find her. Surprised and frightened by her appearance, he

flinched and cried out when she detached herself from the shad-

ows. She soothed him with a soft word, quieted him, and waited

patiently for him to recover himself enough to acknowledge her

properly.

"Mistress," he whispered, dropping to one knee and bowing

deeply. She was pleased to discover he had not forgotten his man-

ners. Although she had not come to him in many years, he remem-

bered his place.

She left him bowed and on his knee a moment longer, standing

before him, her whisper of reassurance and subtle pressure soft and

light upon the air. Gray robes cloaked her from head to foot, and a

hood concealed her face. Her spy had never seen her in the light or

caught even the barest glimpse of her features. She was an enigma, a

shadow exuding presence rather than identity. She kept herself at

one with the darkness, a creature to be felt rather than viewed,

keeping watch even when not seen.

"Mistress, I have important information," her spy murmured

without looking up, waiting to be told he might rise.

The Ilse Witch left him where he was, considering. She knew

more than he imagined, more than he could guess, for she pos-

sessed power that was beyond his understanding. From the message

he had sent—his words, his handwriting, his scent upon the

paper—she could measure the urgency he was feeling. From the

way he presented himself now—his demeanor, his tone of voice,

his carriage—she could decipher his need. It was her gift always to

know more than those with whom she came in contact wished her

to know. Her magic laid them bare and left them as transparent as

still waters.

The Ilse Witch stretched out her robed arm. "Rise," she

commanded.

The spy did so, keeping his head lowered, his eyes cast down. "I

did not think you would come.

"For you, for information of such importance, I could do no

less." She shifted her stance and bent forward slightly. "Speak, now,

of what you know."

The spy shivered, excitement coursing through him, anxious to

be of service Within the shadows of her hood, she smiled.

"A Wing Rider rescued an Elf from the sea and brought him to

the Healer who serves this community," the spy advised, daring

now to lift his eyes as far as the hem of her robes. "The man's eyes

and tongue were removed, and the Healer says he is half-mad. I

don't doubt it, from the look of him. The Healer cannot determine

his identity, and the Wing Rider claims not to know it either, but he

suspects something. And the Wing Rider took something from the

man before bringing him here. I caught a glimpse of it—a bracelet

that bears the crest of the Elessedils."

The spy's gaze lifted now to seek out her own. 'The Wing Rider

left for Arborlon two days ago. I heard him tell the Healer where he

was going. He took the bracelet with him."

She regarded him in silence for a moment, her cloaked form as

still as the shadows it mirrored. A bracelet bearing the crest of the

Elessedils, she mused. The Wing Rider would have taken it to Al-

lardon Elessedil to identify. Whose bracelet was it? What did it

mean that it was found on this castaway Elf who was blind and

voiceless and believed mad?

The answers to her questions were locked inside the castaway's

head. He must be made to give them up.

"Where is the man now?" she asked.

The spy hunched forward eagerly, the fingers of his hands

knotted together beneath his chin as if in prayer. "He lies in the

Healer's infirmary, cared for but kept isolated until the Wing Rider's

return. No one is allowed to speak with him." He snorted softly.

"As if anyone could. He has no tongue with which to answer,

has he?"

She gestured him away and to the side, and he moved as if a

puppet in response. "Wait here for me," she said. "Wait, until I return."

She went out the door into the night, a spectral figure sliding

effortlessly and soundlessly through the shadows. The Ilse Witch

liked the darkness, found comfort in it she could never find in day-

light. The darkness soothed and shaded, softening edges and points,

reducing clarity. Vision lost importance because the eyes could be

deceived. A shift of movement here changed the look of something

there. What was certain in the light became suspect in the dark. It

mirrored her life, a collage of images and voices, of memories that

had shaped her growing, not all fitting tightly in sequence, not all

linked together in ways that made sense. Like the shadows with

which she so closely identified, her life was a patchwork of frayed

ends and loose threads that invited refitting and mending. Her past

was not carved of stone, but drawn on water. Reinvent yourself, she

had been told by the Morgawr a long time ago. Reinvent yourself,

and you will become more inscrutable to those who might try to un-

ravel who you really are.

In the night, in darkness and shadows, she could do so more

easily. She could keep what she looked like to herself and conceal

who she really was. She could let them imagine her, and by doing so

keep them forever deceived.

She moved through the village without challenge, encoun-

tering almost no one, those few she did unaware of her presence as

they passed. It was late, the village mostly asleep, the ones who pre-

ferred the night busy in the ale houses and pleasure dens, caught up

in their own wants and needs, uncaring of what transpired without.

She could forgive them their weaknesses, these men and women,

but she could never accept them as equals. Long since, she had

abandoned any pretense that she believed their common origins

linked them in any meaningful way. She was a creature of fire and

iron. She was born to magic and power. It was her destiny to shape

and alter the lives of others and never to be altered by them. It was

her passion to rise above the fate that others had cast for her as a

child and to visit revenge on them for daring to do so. She would be

so much more than they, and they would be forever less.

When she let them speak her name again, when she chose to

speak it herself, it would be remembered. It would not be buried

in the ashes of her childhood, as it had once been. It would not be

cast aside, a fragment of her lost past. It would soar with a hawk's

smooth glide and shine with the milky brightness of the moon. It

Would linger on the minds of the people of her world forever.

The Healer's house lay ahead, close by the trees of the sur-

rounding forest. She had flown in from the Wilderun late that after-

noon, Come out of her safehold in response to the spy's message,

sensing its importance, wanting to discover for herself what secrets

it held. She had left her War Shrike in the old growth below the

bluffs, its fierce head hooded and its taloned feet hobbled. It would

bolt otherwise, so wild that even her magic could not hold it when

she was absent. But as a fighting bird, it was without equal. Even the

giant Rocs were wary of it, for the Shrike fought to the death with

little thought to protecting itself. No one would see it, for she had

cast a spell of forbidding about it to keep the unwanted away. By

sunrise, she would have returned. By sunrise, she would be gone

again, even given the dictates of what she must do now.

She slipped through the door of the Healer's home on cat's

paws, moving through the central rooms to the sick bays, humming

softly as she passed the attendants on duty, turning their minds in-

ward and eyes elsewhere as she passed so they would not see her.

The ones who kept watch outside the castaway's curtained entry,

she put to sleep. They sank into their chairs and leaned against walls

and tables, eyes going closed, breathing slowing and deepening. It

was quiet and peaceful in the Healer's home, and her song fit snugly

into place. She layered the air with her music, a tender blanket

tucking in around the cautions and uneasiness that might otherwise

have been triggered. Soon, she was all alone and free to work.

In his bay, with a light covering over his feverish body and the

window curtains drawn close to keep out the light, the castaway

lay dozing on the pallet that had been provided for him. His skin

was blistered and raw, and the mending salve the Healer had ap-

plied glistened in a damp sheen. His body was wasted from lack of

nourishment, his heart beat weakly in his chest, and his bruised and

ravaged face was skeletal, the eyelids sunken in where the eyes

themselves had been gouged out, the mouth a scarred red wound

behind cracked lips.

The Ilse Witch studied him carefully for a time, letting her eyes

tell her as much as they could, noting the man's distinctly Elven fea-

tures, the graying hair that marked him as no longer young, and the

rigid crook of fingers and neck that screamed silently of tortures en-

dured. She did not like the feel of the man; he had been made to

suffer purposely and used for things she did not care to guess at. She

did not like the scent he gave off or the small sounds he made. He

was living in another place and time, unable to forget what he had

suffered, and it was not pleasant.

When she touched him, ever so softly on his chest with her

slim, cool fingers, he convulsed as if struck. Quickly, she employed

her magic, singing softly to calm him, lending peace and reassur-

ance. The arched back relaxed slowly, and the clawed fingers re-

leased their death grip on the bed covering. A sigh escaped the

cracked lips. Relief in any form was welcome to this one, she

thought, continuing to sing, to work her way past his defenses and

into his mind.

When he was at rest again, given over to her ministrations and

become her dependent, she placed her hands upon his fevered body

so that she might draw from him his thoughts and feelings. She

must unlock what lay hidden in his mind—his experiences, his tra-

vails, his secrets. She must do so through his senses, but primarily

through his voice. He could no longer speak as ordinary men, but

he could still communicate, It required only that she find a way to

make him want to do so.

In the end, it was not all that hard. She bound him to her

through her singing, probing gently as she did so, and he began to

make what small and unintelligible sounds he could. She drew him

out one grunt, one murmur, one gasp at a time. From each sound,

she gained an image of what he knew, stored it away, and made it

her own The sounds were inhuman and rife with pain, but she ab-

sorbed them without flinching, bathing him in a wash of compas-

Sion, of reassurance and pity, of gentleness and the promise of

healing.

Speak to me. Live again through me. Give me everything you hide, and I

will

give you peace.

He did so, and the images were brightly colored and stunning.

l ere was an ocean, vast and blue and uncharted. There were is-

ands, one after the other, some green and lush, some barren and

rocky, each of a different feel, each hiding something monstrous.

There were frantic, desperate battles in which weapons clashed and

men died. There were feelings of such intensity, such raw power,

that they eclipsed the events that triggered them and revealed the

scars they had left on their bearer.

Finally, there were pillars of ice that reached to the misted, cool

skies, their massive forms shifting and grinding like giant's teeth as a

thin beam of blue fire born of Elfstone magic shone through to

something that lay beyond. There was a city, all in ruins, ancient

and alive with monstrous protectors. And there was a keep, buried

in the earth, warded by smooth metal and bright red eyes, con-

taining magic.

The Ilse Witch gasped in spite of herself as the last image regis-

tered, an image of the magic the castaway had found within the

buried keep. It was a magic of spells invoked by words—but so

many! The number seemed endless, stretching away into shadows

from soft pools of light, their power poised to rise into the air in a

canopy so vast it might cover the whole of the earth!

The castaway was writhing beneath her, and the hold she kept

on him slipped away momentarily as she lost focus. She brought her

song to bear again, layering it over him, embedding herself more

deeply within his mind to keep him under control.

Who are you? Speak your name!

His body lurched and the sounds he made were terrifying.

Tell me!

He answered her, and when he did, she understood at once the

importance of the bracelet.

What else were you carrying? What else, that speaks to this?

He fought her, not realizing what it was he was fighting, only

knowing that he must. She sensed it was not entirely his idea to

fight her, that either someone had implanted within his mind the

need to do so or something had happened to persuade him it was

necessary. But she was strong and certain in her magic, and he lacked

the defenses necessary to resist her.

A map, she saw. Drawn on an old skin, inked in his own hand. A

map, she surmised at once, that was no longer his, but was on its

way to Arborlon and the Elven King.

She tried to determine what was on the map, and for a moment

she was able to reconstruct a vague image from his grunts and

moans. She caught a glimpse of names written and symbols drawn

here and there, saw a dotted line connecting islands off the coast of

the Westland and out into the Blue Divide. She traced the line to

the pillars of ice and to the land in which the safehold lay. But the

writings and drawings were lost to her when he convulsed a final

time and lay back, his voice spent, his mind emptied, and his body

limp and unmoving beneath her touch.

She stilled her song and stepped away from him. She had all she

was going to get, but what she had was enough to tell her what was

needed. She listened to the silence for a moment, making sure her

presence had not yet been detected. The castaway Elf lay motion-

less on his raised pallet, gone so deeply inside himself he would

never come out again. He would live perhaps, but he would never

recover.

She shook her head. It was pointless to leave him so.

Kael Elessedil, son of Queen Aine, once destined to be King of

the Elves. It was before her time, but she knew the story. Lost for

thirty years, and this was his sorry fate.

The Ilse Witch stepped close and drew back her hood to reveal

the face that few ever saw. Within her concealing garments, she was

nothing of what she seemed. She was very young, barely a grown

woman, her hair long and dark, her eyes a startling blue, and her fea-

tures smooth and lovely. As a child, when she had the name she no

longer spoke, she would look at herself in the mirror of the waters

of a little cove that pooled off the stream that ran not far from her

home and try to imagine how she would look when grown. She had

not thought herself pretty then, when it mattered to her. She did not

t ink herself pretty now, when it did not.

There was warmth and tenderness in her face and eyes as she

bent to kiss the ruined man on his lips. She held the kiss long

enough to draw the breath from his lungs, and then he died.

"Be at peace, Kael Elessedil," she whispered in his ear.

She went from the Healer's home as she had come, hooded

once more, a shadowy presence that drew no notice by its passing.

The attendants would come awake after she was gone, unaware that

anything had transpired, not sensing they had slept or that time had

passed.

The Ilse Witch was already sifting through the images she had

culled, weighing her options. The magic KaeI Elessedil had discov-

ered was priceless. Even without knowing exactly what it was, she

could sense that much. It must be hers, of course. She must do what

he had failed to do—find it, claim it, and retrieve it. It was protected

in some way, as such magic necessarily would be, but there were no

defenses she could not overcome. Her course of action was already

decided, and only a settling of the particulars remained.

What she coveted, even if she did not require it in order to suc-

ceed, was the map.

Sliding through the darkness of Bracken Clell, she gave con-

sideration to how she might gain possession of it. The Wing Rider

had taken it to Allardon Elessedil in Arborlon, along with Kael

Elessedil's bracelet. The Elven King would recognize the impor-

tance of both, but he would not be able to translate the writings

on the map. Nor would he have the benefit of his now dead

brother's thoughts, as she did. He would seek help from another in

deciphering the mysterious symbols to determine what his brother

had found.

Who would he turn to?

She knew the answer to her question almost before she had fin-

ished asking it. There was only one he could ask. One, who would

be sure to know. Her enemy, one-armed and dark-browed, crippled

of body and soul. Her nemesis, but her equal in the nuanced wielding

of magic's raw power.

Her thinking changed instantly with recognition of what this

meant. Now there would be competition in her quest, and time

would become precious. She would not have the luxuries of long

deliberation and careful planning to sustain her effort. She would be

faced with a challenge that would test her as nothing else could.

Even the Morgawr might choose to involve himself in a struggle

of this magnitude.

She had slowed perceptibly, but now she picked up her pace

once more. She was getting ahead of herself. Before she could re-

turn to the Wilderun with her news, she must conclude matters

here. She must tie up loose ends. Her spy was still waiting to learn

the value of his information. He would expect to be complimented

on his diligence and well paid for his efforts. She must see to both.

Still, as she moved silently through the village and nearer to her

spy's rooms, her thoughts kept returning to the confrontation that

lay ahead, in a time too distant yet to fix upon, in a place perhaps far

removed from the lands she traveled now—a confrontation of wills,

of magics, and of destinies. She and her adversary, locked in a final

struggle for supremacy, just as she had dreamed they would one day

be—the image burned in her thoughts like a hot coal and fired her

imagination.

Her spy was waiting for her when she entered his rooms.

"Mistress," he acknowledged, dropping obediently to one knee.

"Rise," she told him.

He did so, keeping his gaze lowered, his head bent.

"You have done well. What you told me has opened doors that I

had only dreamed about."

She watched him beam with pride and clasp his hands in anti-

cipation of the reward she would bestow upon him. "Thank you,

Mistress."

"It is for me to thank you," she replied. She reached into her

robes and withdrew a leather pouch that clinked enticingly. "Open

it when I am gone," she said quietly. "Be at peace."

She left without delay, her business almost finished. She went

from the village to the decaying cottage that belonged to her spy,

uncaged her birds, and sent them winging back into the Wilderun.

She would find them waiting within her safehold when she re-

turned. The spy would have no further use for them. Within the bag

of gold she had given him nested a tiny snake whose bite was so

lethal that even the smallest nick from a single fang was fatal. Her

spy would not wait until morning to count his coins; he would do so

tonight. He would be found, of course, but by then the snake would

be gone. She guessed that the money would be gone almost as fast.

In quarters of the sort where her spy lived, it was well known that

dead men had no need for gold.

She gave the matter little thought as she made her way back to

where she had hobbled and hooded her War Shrike. Although they

were many and were positioned in large numbers throughout the

Four Lands, she did not give up her spies easily. She was fiercely

protective of them when they were as useful and reliable as this one

had been.

But even the best spy could be found out and made to betray

her, and she could not chance that happening here. Better to cut her

losses than to take such an obvious risk. A life was a small price to

pay for an edge on her greatest enemy.

But how was she to gain possession of that map? She thought

momentarily of going after it herself. But to steal it from Allardon

Elessedil, who would have it by now, in the heart of Elven country,

was too dangerous a task for her to undertake without careful plan-

ning. She could try to intercept it on its inevitable way to her

enemy, but how was she to determine the means by which it would

be conveyed? Besides, she might already be too late, even for that.

No, she must bide her time. She must consider. She must find a

more subtle way to get what she wanted.

She reached her mount, removed the stays and hood while

keeping him in check with her magic, then mounted him behind his

thick, feathered neck and above the place where his wings joined to

his body, and together they lifted away. Time and cunning would

reward her best, she thought contentedly, the wind rushing past her

face, the smells of the forest giving way to the pure cold of the high

night air that swept the clouds and circled the stars.

Time and cunning, and the power of the magic she was born to,

would yield her a world.

THREE

Typical of Wing Riders in general, Hunter Predd was a

pragmatic sort. Whatever unwelcome cards life dealt him

he accepted as gracefully as he could and went on about

his business. Journeys into the interior of the Four Lands that

stretched beyond Elven territory fell into that category. He was un-

comfortable with traveling anywhere inland, but especially uncom-

fortable with traveling to places he hadn't been before.

Paranor was such a place.

He was surprised when Allardon Elessedil requested that he

carry the map there. Surprised, because it seemed more appropriate

that a Land Elf make the journey on behalf of the King than a rider

from the Wing Hove. He was a blunt, straightforward man, and he

asked the King's reason for making such a choice. The Elf King ex-

plained that the individual to whom Hunter was taking the map

might have questions about it that only he could answer. Another

Elf could accompany him on his journey if he wished, but an-

other Elf could add nothing that Hunter did not already know, so

what was the point?

What was needed was simple. The map must be carried to this

certain individual to examine. Hunter should convey Allardon

Elessedil's respects and request that the map's recipient come to Ar-

borlon to discuss with the Elf King any usable translation of the

writings and symbols.

There was a catch to all this, of course. Hunter Predd, who was

no one's fool, could see it coming. The Elf King saved it for last. The

individual to whom the Wing Rider was to deliver the map was

the Druid they called Walker, and the Rider's destination was the

Druid's Keep at Paranor.

Walker. Even Hunter Predd, who seldom ventured off the coast

of the Blue Divide, knew something of him. He was purported to be

the last of the Druids. A dark figure in the history of the Four Lands,

he was said to have lived for more than 150 years and to still be

young. He had fought against the Shadowen in the time of Wren

Elessedil. He had disappeared afterwards for decades, then resur-

faced some thirty years ago. The rest of what the Wing Rider knew

was even more shadowy. There was talk of Walker being a sorcerer

possessed of great magic. There was talk that he had tried and failed

to establish a coven. It was said he wandered the Four Lands still,

gathering information and soliciting disciples. Everyone feared and

mistrusted him.

Except, it seemed, Allardon Elessedil, who insisted that there

was nothing to fear or mistrust, that Walker was a historian and aca-

demician, and that the Druid, of all men, might possess the ability

to decipher the drawings and words on the map.

After thinking it over, Hunter Predd accepted the charge to

take the map east, not out of duty or concern or anything remotely

Connected to his feelings for the Elf King, which in general bor-

dered on disinterest. He accepted the charge because the King

promised him that in reward for his efforts, he would bestow upon

the Wing Hove possession of an island just below and west of the

lrrybis that the Wing Riders had long coveted. Fair enough, Hunter

decided on hearing the offer. Opportunity had knocked, the prize

was a worthwhile one, and the risks were not prohibitive.

In truth, he did not see all that much in the way of risk no matter

how closely he looked at the matter. There was the very good

possibility that the Elf King wasn't telling him everything; in fact,

Hunter Predd was almost certain of it. That was the way rulers and

politicians operated. But there was nothing to be gained by sending

him off to die, either Clearly, Allardon Elessedil wanted to know

what information the map concealed—especially if the castaway on

whom it had been found was his brother. A Druid might be able to

learn that, if he was as well schooled as the Elf King believed.

Hunter Predd did not know of any Wing Riders who'd had personal

dealings with this one. Nor had he heard any of his people speak

harshly of the Druids. Balancing the risks and rewards as he under-

stood them, which was really the best he could manage, he was in-

clined to take his chances

So off he went, flying Obsidian out of Arborlon at midday and

traveling east toward the Streleheim. He crossed the plains without

incident and flew into the Dragon's Teeth well above Callahorn,

choosing a narrow, twisting gap in the jagged peaks that would

have been impassable on foot but offered just enough space for the

Roc to maneuver. He navigated his way through the mountains

quickly and was soon soaring above the treetops of Paranor. Once

over the woodlands, he took Obsidian down to a small lake for a

cold drink and a rest. As he waited on his bird, he looked out across

the lake to where the trees locked together in a dark wall, a twisted

and forbidding mass. He felt sorry, as he always did, for those who

were forced to live their lives on the ground.

It was nearing sunset when the Druid's Keep came in sight. It

wasn't all that hard to find from the air It sat on a promontory deep

in the woodlands, its spires and battlements etched in sharp relief

by the setting sun against the horizon. The fortress could be seen

for miles, stone walls and peaked roofs jutting skyward, a dark and

massive presence. Allardon Elessedil had described the Keep in de-

tail to Hunter Predd before he left, but the Wing Rider would have

known it anyway. It couldn't be anything other than what it was, a

place where dark rumors could take flight, a haunt for the last of a

coven so mistrusted and feared that even their shades were warded

against.

Hunter Predd guided Obsidian to a smooth landing close by the

base of the promontory on which the Keep rested. Shadows layered

the surrounding land, sliding from the ancient trees as the sun

lowered west, stretching out into strange, unrecognizable shapes.

Lifting out of the woods, out of the shadows, rising above it all,

silent and frozen in time, only the Keep was still bathed in sunlight.

The Wing Rider regarded it doubtfully. It would be easier to fly Ob-

sidian to the top of the rise than to leave him here and walk up him-

self, but he was loath to risk landing so close to the walls. Here, at

least, the trees offered a protective perch and there was room for a

swift escape. For a Wing Rider, his mount's safety was always fore-

most in his mind.

He did not hobble or hood the great bird; Rocs were trained

to stay where they were put and come when they were called.

Leaving Obsidian at the base of the rise and the edge of the trees,

Hunter Predd began the short walk up. He arrived at the tower-

ing walls as the sunlight slid away completely, leaving the Keep

bathed in shadows. He stared upward, searching for signs of life.

Finding none, he walked to the closest gate, which was closed and

barred. There were smaller doors set on either side. He tried them,

but they were locked. He stepped back again and looked up at the

walls once more.

"Hello, insidet" he shouted.

There was no response. The echo of his voice faded into silence.

He waited patiently. It was growing increasingly dark. He glanced

around, If he didn't rouse someone soon, he would have to retreat

ack down the rise and make camp for the night.

He looked up again, scanning the parapets and towers. "Hello! I

ave a message from Allardon Elessedill"

He stood listening to the silence that followed, feeling small

and insignificant in the shadow of the Keep's huge wall. Maybe the

Druid was traveling. Maybe he was somewhere else, away from the

Keep, and this was all a big waste of time. The Wing Rider frowned.

How could anyone even know if the Druid was there?

His question was cut short by a sudden movement at his side.

He turned swiftly and found himself face-to-face with the biggest

moor cat he had ever seen. The huge black beast stared at him with

lantern eyes in the manner of a hungry bird eyeing a tasty bug.

Hunter Predd stayed perfectly still. There was little else he could

do. The big cat was right on top of him, and any weapons he might

call upon to defend himself were woefully inadequate. The moor

cat did not move either but simply studied him, head lowered

slightly between powerful front shoulders, tail switching faintly in

the darkness behind.

It took Hunter a moment to realize that there was something

not quite right about this particular moor cat. In spite of its size and

obvious power, it was vaguely transparent, appearing and disap-

pearing in large patches as the seconds passed, first a leg, then a

shoulder, then a midsection, and so forth. It was the strangest thing

he had ever seen, but it did not prompt him to change his mind

about trying to move.

Finally, the moor cat seemed satisfied with his inspection and

turned away. He advanced a few paces, then turned back. Hunter

Predd did not move. The moor cat walked on a few paces more,

then looked back again.

To one side of the main gates, a small, iron-bound door swung

open soundlessly. The cat moved toward it, then stopped and

looked back. It took a few more tries, but finally the Wing Rider got

the message. The moor cat was waiting on him. He was supposed to

follow—through the open door and into the Druid's Keep.

Hunter Predd was not inclined to argue the matter. Taking a

deep breath, he passed from the bluff face through the entry and

into the Keep.

The man who had once been Walker Bob and was now simply

Walker had seen the Wing Rider coming from a long way off. His

warding lines of magic had alerted him to the other's approach, and

he had stood on the walls where he could not be seen and watched

the Rider land his Roc and walk up the rise to the gates. Black robes

gathered close about his tall, broad-shouldered frame, Walker had

watched the Wing Rider scan the Keep's walls. The Wing Rider had

called up, but Walker had not answered. Instead, he had waited to

see what the other would do. He had waited, because waiting until

he was sure was an advisable precaution.

But when the Wing Rider called up a second time, saying that

he carried a message from Allardon Elessedil, Walker sent Rumor

down to bring him in. The big moor cat went obediently, silently,

knowing what he must do. Walker trailed after him, wondering why

the King of the Land Elves would send a message with a Wing

Rider. He could think of two reasons. First, the King knew how

Walker would respond to an Elf from Arborlon and to her King in

particular, and he was hoping a Wing Rider would do better.

Second, the Wing Rider had special insight into what the message

concerned, Descending the stairs from his perch on the battle-

ments, Walker shrugged the matter away. He would find out soon

enough.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs and moved out into

the courtyard the Wing Rider and Rumor were already waiting. He

drew back his hood and left his head and face bare as he crossed to

give greeting, There was nothing to be gained by trying to intimi-

date this man Clearly the Wing Rider was a tough, seasoned vet-

eran, and he had come because he had chosen to do so and not

because he had been commanded. He owed no allegiance to the

Elessedils, Wing Riders were notoriously independent, almost as

much so as Rovers, and if this one was here, so far from his home

and people, there was good reason for it. Walker was curious to

learn what that reason was.

"I am Walker," he said, offering his hand to the Wing Rider.

The other accepted it with a nod. His gray eyes took in Walker's

dark face, black heard and long hair, strong features, high forehead,

and piercing eyes. He did not seem to notice the Druid's missing

arm. "Hunter Predd."

"You've come a long way, Wing Rider," Walker observed. "Not

many come here without a reason."

The other grunted. "Not any, I should think." He glanced

around, and his eyes settled on Rumor. "Is he yours?"

"As much as a moor cat can belong to anyone." Walker's gaze

shifted. "His name is Rumor The joke is, wherever I go, I am pre-

ceded by Rumor. It fits well with the way things have turned out for

me. But I expect you already know that."

The Wing Rider nodded noncommittally. "Does he always

show up like that—in bits and pieces, sort of coming and going?"

"Mostly. You called up that you had a message from Allardon

Elessedil. I gather the message is for me?"

"I t is." Hunter Predd wiped at his mouth with the back of his

hand. "Do you have any ale you can spare?"

Walker smiled. Blunt and to the point, a Wing Rider to the core.

"Come inside."

He led the way across the courtyard to a doorway into the main

keep. In a room he used for storing foodstuffs and drink and for

taking his solitary meals, he produced two glasses and a pitcher and

set them on a small wooden table to one side. Gesturing the Wing

Rider to one seat, he took the other and filled their glasses. They

drank deeply, silently. Rumor had disappeared. He seldom came in-

side these days unless called.

Hunter Predd put down his glass and leaned back. "Four days

ago, I was patrolling the Blue Divide above the island of Mesca Rho,

and I found a man in the water."

He went on to tell his story—of finding the castaway Elf, of de-

termining his condition, of discovering the bracelet he wore and

the map he carried, of conveying him to the Healer in Bracken

Clell, and of continuing on to Arborlon and Allardon Elessedil. The

bracelet, he explained, had belonged to the King's brother, Kael,

who had disappeared on an expedition in search of a magic revealed

in a dream to Queen Aine's seer thirty years earlier.

"I know of the expedition," Walker advised quietly, and bid him

continue.

There wasn't much more to tell. Having determined that the

bracelet was Kael's, Allardon Elessedil had examined the map and

been unable to decipher it. That it traced his brother's route to the

sought-after magic was apparent. But there was little else he could

determine. He had asked Hunter to convey it here, to Walker,

whom he believed might be able to help.

Walker almost laughed aloud. It was typical of the Elf King that

he would seek help from the Druid as if his own refusal to supply it

in turn counted for nothing. But he kept silent. Instead, he accepted

the folded piece of weathered skin when it was offered and set it on

the table between them, unopened.

"Have you provided sufficiently for your mount?" he inquired,

his gaze shifting from the map to the other's face. "Do you need to

go outside again tonight?"

"No," Hunter Predd said. "Obsidian will be fine for now."

"Why don't you have something to eat, a hot bath afterwards,

and then some sleep. You've done much traveling over the past few

days, and you must be tired. I will study the map, and we will talk

again in the morning."

He prepared a soup for the Wing Rider, tossed in a little dried

fish, added a side portion of bread, and watched in satisfaction as

the other ate it all and drank several more glasses of ale in the bar-

gain. He left the map where he had put it, on the table between

them, showing no interest in it. He was not sure yet what he had,

and he wanted to be very sure before he conveyed to the Wing

Rider a reaction that might be carried back to the Elf King. The un-

easy relationship he shared with Allardon Elessedil did not permit

giving anything away in their dealings. It was bad enough that he

must pretend at civility with a man who had done so little to deserve

it. But in a world in which alliances were necessary and, in his case,

tended to be few and infrequent, he must play at games he would

otherwise forgo.

When Hunter Predd was fed, bathed, and asleep, Walker re-

turned to the table and picked up the map. He carried it from that

room down musty halls and up winding stairs to the library, which

had served the Druids since the time of Galaphile. Various inconse-

quential books filled with Druid recordings of weather and farming

and lists of surnames and the births and deaths of noted families

lined the ancient shelves. But behind those shelves, in a room pro-

tected by a magic that no one could penetrate save himself, lay the

Druid Histories, the fabled books that recorded the entire history

of the order and the magic its members had conceived and em-

ployed in the passage of more than a thousand years.

Settling himself comfortably in place amid the trappings of his

predecessors, Walker unfolded the map and began to study it.

He took a long time doing so, much longer than he had sup-

posed would be necessary. What he found astonished him. The

map was intriguing and rife with possibilities. Inarguably, it was

valuable, but he could not make a firm determination of how valu-

able until after he had translated the writings in the margins, most of

which were scripted in a language with which he was unfamiliar.

But he had books of translations of languages to which he could

turn, and he did so finally, walking to the shelving that concealed

the Histories and their secrets of power. He reached back behind a

row of books and touched a series of iron studs in sequence. A catch

released, and a section of the shelving swung outward. Walker

slipped through the opening behind and stood in a room of granite

walls, floor, and ceiling, empty of everything but a long table and

four chairs set against it. He lit the smokeless torches set in iron wall

racks and pulled the shelving unit back into place behind him.

Then he placed his hand against a section of the granite wall,

palm flat and fingers spread, and lowered his head in concentration.

All the lore of all the Druidc cince the beginning of their order

belonged now to him, given when he recovered lost Paranor and

became a Druid himself those many years ago. He brought a small

part of it to bear, recalling the Druid Histories from their conceal-

ment. Blue light emanated from his fingertips and spread through

the stone beneath like veins through flesh.

A moment later, the wall disappeared, and the books of his

order lay revealed, shelved in long rows and in numbered sequence,

their coverc bound in leather and etched in gold.

He spent a long time with the books that night, reading through

many of them in his search for a key to the language on the map.

When he found it, he was surprised and confounded. It was a deri-

vation of a language spoken in the Old World, before the Great Wars,

a language that had been dead for two thousand years. It was a lan-

guage of symbols rather than of words. How, Walker wondered,

would an Elf from his era have learned such a language? Why would

he have used it to draw the map?

The answers to his questions, once he thought them through,

were disturbing.

He worked on the translation almost until dawn, being careful

not to misinterpret or assume. The more he deciphered, the more

excited he became. The map was a key to a magic of such worth, of

such power, that it left him breathless. He could barely manage

to sit still as he imagined the possibilities. For the first time in years

he saw a way in which he could secure what had been denied him

for so long—a Druid Council, a body independent of all nations,

Working to unlock the secrets of life's most difficult and challenging

problems and to improve the lives of all the peoples of the Four

Lands.

That dream had eluded him for thirty years, ever since he had

come awake from the Druid Sleep and gone out into the world to

fulfill the promise he had made to himself when he had become

what he was. What he had envisioned was a council of delegates

from each of the lands and races, from each of the governments and

provinces, all dedicated to study, learning, and discovery. But from

the very beginning there had been resistance—not just from quar-

ters where resistance might be expected, but from everywhere.

Even from the Elves, and especially from Allardon Elessedil and his

mother before him. No one wanted to give Walker the autonomy

he believed necessary. No one wanted anyone else to gain an ad-

vantage. Everyone was cautious and suspicious and fearful of what a

strong Druid Council might mean to an already precarious balance

of power. No one wanted to take the kind of chance that the Druid

was asking of them.

Walker sighed. Their demands were ridiculous and unaccept-

able. If the nations and the peoples were unwilling to let go of their

delegates, to give up control over them so that they could dedicate

themselves to the Druid life, the whole exercise was pointless. He

had been unable to convince anyone that what he was doing would,

given enough time, benefit them all. Druids, they believed, were

not to be trusted. Druids, they believed, would visit problems on

them they could do without. History demonstrated that Druids had

been responsible for every war fought since the time of the First

Council at Paranor. It was their own magic, the magic they had

wielded in such secrecy, that had finally destroyed them. This was

not an experience anyone wanted to repeat. The magic belonged

to everyone now. It was a new age, with new rules. Control over

the Druids, should they be permitted to re-form, was necessary.

Nothing less would suffice.

In the end, the effort fell apart, and Walker was made outcast

everywhere. Petty feuds, selfish interests, and short-sighted person-

alities stymied him completely. He was left enraged and stunned.

He had counted heavily on the Elves to lead the way, and the Elves

had spurned him as surely as the others. After the death of Queen

Aine, Allardon Elessedil had been his best hope, but the Elf King

had announced he would follow his mother's wishes. No Elves

would be sent to study at Paranor. No new Druid Council would be

approved. Walker must make his way alone.

But now, Walker thought with something bordering on eu-

phoria, he had found a way to change everything. The map gave

him the kind of leverage that nothing else could. This time, when

he asked for help, he would not be refused.

If, of course, he cautioned himself quickly, he could find and re-

trieve the magic that had eluded the Elven expedition under KaeI

Elessedil. If he could recover it from the safehold that hid and pro-

tected it. If he could survive the long, dangerous journey such an ef-

fort would require.

He would need help.

He replaced the Druid Histories on their shelves, made a quick

circular motion with his hand, and closed the wall away. When the

room was restored to blank walls and snuffed torches, he went back

out into the library and pushed the shelving unit securely into place

again. He looked around momentarily to be certain that all was as it

had been. Then, with the map tucked into his robes, he went up

onto the battlements to watch the cunrice

As he stood looking out over the treetops to the first faint sil-

very lightening of the eastern sky, Rumor padded up to join him.

The big cat sat beside him, as if seeking his companionship. Walker

smiled. Each was all the other could turn to for comfort, he mused.

Ever since the shade of Allanon had appeared. Ever since they had

been locked in limbo in lost Paranor. Ever since he had brought the

Druid's Keep back into the world of men by becoming the newest

member of the order. Ever since Cogline had died

All the rest were gone, too, from that earlier time—the Ohms-

fords, Morgan Leah, Wren Elessedil, Damson Rhee, all of them.

Rumor and he alone survived. They were outcasts in more ways

than one, solitary wanderers in a world that had changed consid-

erably during the time of his sleep. But it wasn't the changes in

the Four Lands that worried him this morning. It was his sense that

the events that would transpire because of his reading of the map

and his search for the magic it detailed would require him to be-

come what he had always worked so hard to avoid—a Druid in

the old sense, a manipulator and schemer, a trader in information

who would sacrifice who and what he must to get what he believed

necessary. Allanon, of old. It was what he had always despised

about the Druids. He knew he would despise it in himself when it

surfaced.

And surface it would, perhaps changing him forever.

The sun crested the horizon in a splash of brilliant gold. The

day would be clear and bright and warm. Walker felt the first rays of

sunlight on his face. Such a small thing, but so welcome. His world

had shrunk to almost nothing in the past few years. Now it was

about to expand in ways he had barely imagined possible.

"Well," he said softly, as if to put the matter to rest.

He knew what he must do. He must go to Arborlon and speak

with Allardon Elessedil. He must convince the Elven King they

could work together in an effort to discover the secret of the map.

He must persuade him to mount an expedition to go in search of the

magic of which the map spoke, with Walker in command. He must

find a way to make the Elven King his ally without letting him see

that it was the Druid's idea.

He must reveal just enough of what he knew and not too much.

He must be cautious.

He blinked away his weariness. He was Walker, the last of the

Druids, the last hope for the higher ideals his order had espoused so

strongly when it had been formed. If the Four Lands were to be

united in peace, the magic must be controlled by a Druid Council

answerable to no single government or people, but to all. Only he

could achieve that. Only he knew the way.

He bent to Rumor and placed his hand gently on the broad

head. "You must stay here, old friend," he whispered. "You must

keep watch for me until I return."

He rose and stretched. Hunter Predd slept in a darkened room

and would not wake for a while yet. Time enough for Walker to

catch an hour's sleep before they departed. It would have to be

enough.

With the moor cat trailing after him, fading and reappearing

like a mirage in the new light, he abandoned his watch and de-

scended the stairs into the Keep.

FOUR

His worn black flight leathers creaking softly, Redden Alt

Mer strode through the Federation war camp on his way

to the airfield, and heads turned. For some it was the mane

of red hair streaming down past his shoulders like fiery threads

that drew attention. For some it was the way he carried himself,

fluid, relaxed, and self-assured, a big man who exuded strength and

quickness.

For most, it was the legend. Seventy-eight confirmed kills in

192 missions, all flown in the same airship, all completed without

serious mishap.

It was good luck to fly with Redden Alt Mer, the old boots

swore. In a place and time where an airman's life expectancy was

rated at about six months, Alt Mer had survived for three years with

barely a scratch. He had the right ship, sure enough. But it took

more than that to stay alive over the front, It took ckill, courage, ex-

perience, and a whole basketful of that most precious of commodi-

ties, luck. The Captain had all of them. He was steeped in them.

He'd lived almost his whole life in the air, a cabin boy at seven, a

First Officer by fifteen, a Captain by twenty. When the winds of

fortune shifted, the old boots said, Redden Alt Mer knew best how

to ride them.

The Rover didn't think about it. It was bad luck to think about

good luck in a war. It was worse luck to think about why you were

different from everyone else. Being an exception to the rule was all

well and good, but you didn't want to dwell on the reasons you were

still alive when so many others were dead. It wasn't conducive to

clear thinking. It wasn't helpful in getting a good night's sleep.

Walking through the camp, he joked and waved to those who

acknowledged him, a light, easy banter that kept everyone relaxed.

He knew what they thought of him, and he played off it the way an

old friend might. What harm did it do? You could never have too

many friendc in a war.

He'd been three years now in this one, two of them stuck here

on the broad expanse of the Prekkendorran Heights while Federa-

tion and Free-born ground forces hammered each other to bloody

pulps day after day after day. A Rover out of the seaport of March

Brume, west and south on the Blue Divide, he was a seasoned vet-

eran of countless conflicts even before he signed on. It was no exag-

geration to say that he had spent his whole life on warships. He'd

almost been born at sea, hut his father, a Captain himself, had man-

aged to reach port with his mother just before she gave birth. But

from the time he'd taken that first commission as a cabin boy, he'd

lived in the air. He couldn't explain why he loved it so; he just did. It

felt right when he was flying, as if a net of invisible constraints and

bonds had been slipped and he had been set free. When he was on

the ground, he was always thinking about being in the air. When he

Was in the air, he was never thinking about anything else.

"Hey, Cap!" A foot soldier with his arm tied against his body

and a bandage over one side of his face hobbled into view. "Blow me

a little of your luck!"

Redden Alt Mer grinned and blew him a kiss. The soldier laughed

and waved with his good arm. The Rover kept walking, smelling the

air, tasting it, thinking as he did that he missed the sea. Most of his

time in the air had been spent west, over the Blue Divide. He was a

mercenary, as most Rovers were, taking jobs where the money was

best, giving allegiance to those who paid for it. Right now, the Fed-

eration offered the best pay, so he fought for them. But he was

growing restless for a change, for something new. The war with

the Free-born had been going on for more than ten years. It wasn't

his war to begin with, and it wasn't a war that made much sense to

him. Money could carry you only so far when your heart lay some-

where else.

Besides, no matter who you were, sooner or later your luck ran

out. It was best to be somewhere else when it did.

He passed out of the sprawling clutter of tents and cooking fires

onto the airfield. The warships were tethered in place by their

stays, floating just off the ground, ambient-light sails tilted toward

the sun off twin masts. Most were Federation built and showed it.

Big, ugly, cumbersome brutes, sheathed in metal armor and painted

with the insignia and colors of their regiments, in flight they lum-

bered about the skies like errant sloths. As troop transports and

battering rams, they were a howling success. As fighting vessels that

could tack smoothly and quickly, they left something to be desired.

If they were ably commanded, which most weren't, their life ex-

pectancy on the front was about the same as that of their Captains

and crews.

He walked on, barely giving them a glance. The banter that had

passed between himself and the foot soldiers was absent here. The

officers and crews of the Federation airships despised him. Rovers

were mercenaries, not career soldiers. Rovers fought only for money

and left when they chose. Rovers cared nothing for the Federation

cause or the lives of the men that had been expended on its behalf.

But the worst of it was the knowledge that the Rover officers and

crews were so much better than the Federation crews were. In the

air, faith in a cause did little to keep you alive.

A few taunting remarks were tossed at him from behind the ano-

nymity of metal-clad hulls, but he ignored them. No one would

make those same remarks to his face. Not these days. Not since he

had killed the last man who'd dared to do so.

The sleeker, trimmer Rover airships came into view as he neared

the far end of the field. Black Moclips sat foremost, polished wood-

and-metal hull gleaming in the sunlight. She was the best ship he

had ever flown, a cruiser built for battle, quick and responsive to the

tack of her ambient-light sails and the tightening and loosening of

her radian draws. Just a shade under 110 feet long and 35 feet wide,

she resembled a big black ray. Her low, flat fighting cabin sat amid-

ships on a decking braced by cross beams and warded by twin pon-

toons curved into battering rams fore and aft. Twin sets of diapson

crystals converted to raw energy the light funneled from the col-

lector sails through the radian draws. Parse tubes expelled the con-

verted energy to propel the ship. The bridge sat aft with the pilot

box front and center on the decking, its controls carefully shielded

from harm. Three masts flew the ambient-light sails, one each fore,

aft, and center. The sails themselves were strangely shaped, broad

and straight at the lower end, where they were fastened to the

booms, but curved where spars drew them high above to a triangle's

point. The design allowed for minimal slack in a retack and minimal

drag from the wind. Speed and power kept you alive in the air, and

both were measured in seconds.

Furl Hawken came racing down the field from the ship, long

blond beard whipping from side to side. "We're ready to lift off,

Captain," he shouted, slowing as he reached Alt Mer and swung

into step beside him. "Got a good day for it, don't we?"

"Smooth sailing ahead." Redden Alt Mer put his hand on his

Second Officer's broad shoulder. "Any sign of Little Red?"

Furl Hawken's mouth worked on whatever it was he was

chewing his eyes cast down. "Sick in bed, Captain. Flu, maybe. You

know her. She'd come if she was able."

"I know you're the worst liar for a hundred miles in any direc-

tion. She's in a tavern somewhere, or worse."

The big man looked hurt. 'Well, maybe that's so, but you'd

better let it pass for now, 'cause we got a more immediate problem."

He shook his head. "Like we don't have one every time we turn

around these days. Like every single oink doesn't come from the

same pigs nouse.

"Ah, our friends in Federation Command?"

"A full line Commander is aboard for the flight with two of his

flunkies. Observation purposes, he tells me. Reconnaissance. A day

in the skies. Shades! I nod and smile like a sailor's wife at news of his

plans to give up sailing."

Redden Alt Mer nodded absently. "Best thing to do with these

people, Hawk."

They had reached Black Moclips, and he swung onto the rope

ladder and climbed to the bridge where the Federation Commander

and his adjutants were waiting.

"Commander," he greeted pleasantly. "Welcome aboard."

"My compliments, Captain Alt Mer," the other replied. He did

not offer his own name, which told the Rover something right away

about how he viewed their relationship. He was a thin, pinch-faced

man with sallow skin. If he'd spent a day on the line in the last

twelve months, it would come as a surprise to the Rover. "Are we

ready to go?"

"Ready and able, Commander."

"Your First Officer"

"Indisposed." Or she would wish as much once he got his hands

on her. "Mr. Hawken can take up the slack. Gentlemen, is this your

first time in the air?"

The look that passed between the adjutants gave him his answer.

"It is our first," the Commander confirmed with a dismissive

shrug. "Your job is to make the experience educational. Ours is to

learn whatever it is you have to teach."

"Run 'em up, Hawk." He gestured his Second Officer forward to

oversee lofting the sails. "We'll be seeing action today, Com-

mander," he cautioned. "It could get a little rough."

The Commander smiled condescendingly. "We're soldiers,

Captain. We'll be fine."

Pompous fathead, Alt Mer thought. You'll be fine if I keep you

that way and not otherwise.

He watched his Rover crew scramble up the masts, lofting the

sails and fastening the radian draws in place. Airships were mar-

velous things, but operating them required a mind-set that was

sorely lacking in most Federation soldiers. The Southlanders were

fine on solid ground executing infantry tactics. They were comfort-

able with throwing bodies into breaches, like sandbags, and relying

on the sheer weight of their numbers to crush an enemy. But put

them in the air and they couldn't seem to decide what to do next.

Their intuition vanished. Everything they knew about warfare dried

up and blew away with the first breath of wind to fill the sails.

Rovers, on the other hand, were born to the life. It was in their

blood, in their history, and in the way they had lived their lives for

two thousand years. Rovers did not respond well to regimentation

and drill. They responded to freedom. Flying the big airships gave

them that. Migratory by nature and tradition, they were always on

the move anyway. Staying put was unthinkable. The Federation was

still trying to figure that out, and they were constantly sending

observers aloft with the Rover crews to discover what it was their

mercenaries knew that they didn't.

Trouble was, it wasn't something that could be taught. The

Bordermen who fought for the Free-born weren't any better. Or the

Dwarves. Only the Elves seemed to have mastered sailing the wind

currents with the same ease as the Rovers.

One day, that would change. Airships were still new to the Four

Lands. The first had been built and flown barely two dozen years

earlier. They had been in service as fighting vessels for less than five

years. Only a handful of shipwrights understood the mechanics of

ambient, light sails, radian draws, and diapson crystals well enough

to build the vessels that could utilize them. Using light as energy

was an old dream, only occasionally realized, as in the case of air-

ships. It was one thing to build them, another to make them fly. It

took skill and intelligence and instinct to keep them in the air. More

were lost through poor navigation, ioss of control, and panic than

through damage from battle.

Rovers had sailed the seas in trading ships and pirate vessels

longer than anyone had, and the jump to airships was easier for

them. As mercenaries, they were invaluable to the Federation. But

the Southianders continued to believe that if they could just learn

how the Rovers managed to make it all look so easy, they wouldn't

need them as Captains and crews.

Hence, his passengers, three more in a long line of Federation

hopefuls.

Resigned, he sighed. There was nothing he could do about it.

Hawk would fuss enough for the both of them. He took his station

in the pilot box, watching his men as they finished tying down the

draws and securing the sails. Other ships were preparing to lift off,

as well, their crews performing similar tasks in preparation. On the

airfield, ground crews were preparing to release the mooring lines.

The old, familiar excitement was humming in his blood, and the

clarity of his vision sharpened.

"Unhood the crystals, Hawk!" he shouted to his Second Officer.

Furl Hawken relayed the instructions to the men stationed at

the front and rear parse tubes, where the crystals were fed light from

the radian draws. Unhooding freed the mechanisms that allowed

Alt Mer to fly the ship. Canvas coverings and linchpins securing the

metal hoods that shielded the crystals were released, giving control

over the vessel to the pilot box.

Alt Mer tested the levers, drawing down power from the sails in

small increments. Black Moclips strained against her tethers in re-

sponse, shifting slightly as light converted to energy was expelled

through the parse tubes.

"Cast off!" he ordered.

The ground crew freed the restraining lines, and Black Moclips

lifted away in a smooth, upward swing. Alt Mer spun the wheel that

guided the rudders off the parse tubes and fed power down the ra-

dian draws to the crystals in steadily increasing increments. Behind

him, he heard the hurried shift of the Federation officers toward

pieces of decking they could hold on to.

"There are securing lines and harnesses coiled on those railing

stays," he called back to them. "Fasten one about your waist, just in

case it gets bumpy."

He didn't bother checking to see if they did as he suggested. If

they didn't, it was their own skins they risked.

In moments, they were flying out over the flats of the Prek-

kendorran, several hundred feet in the air, Black Moclips in the lead,

another seven ships following in loose formation. Airships could fly

comfortably at more than a thousand feet, but he preferred to stay

down where the winds were less severe. He watched the twin rams

slice through the air to either side of the decking, black horns

curving upward against the green of the earth. Low and flat, Black

Moclips had the look of a hawk at hunt, soaring smooth and silent

against the midday sky.

Wind filled the sails, and the Rover crew moved quickly to take

advantage of the additional power. Alt Mer hooded the diapson

crystals in response, slowing the power fed by the radian draws,

giving the ship over to the wind. Furl Hawken was shouting out in-

structions, exhorting in that big, booming voice, keeping everyone

moving smoothly from station to station. Accustomed to the move-

ments of a ship in flight, the crew wore no restraining lines. That

would change when they engaged in battle.

Alt Mer risked a quick glance over his shoulder at the Federa-

tion officers.......risked because if he started laughing at what he

found, he would find himself in trouble he didn't need. It wasn't as

bad as it might have been. The Commander and his adjutants were

gripping the rail with white-knuckled determination, but no one

was sick yet and no one was hiding his eyes. The Rover gave them a

reassuring wave and dismissed them from his thoughts.

When Black Moclips was well away from the Federation camp

and approaching the forward lines of the Free-born, he gave the or-

der to unlock the ship's weapons. Black Moclips carried several sets, all

of them carefully stacked and stored amidships. Bows and arrows and

slings and javelins were used mostly for long-range attacks against

opposing crews and fighters. Spears and blades were used in close

combat. Long, jagged-edge pikes and grappling hooks attached to

throwing ropes were used to draw an enemy ship close enough to

tear apart her sails or sever her radian draws.

The two dozen Federation soldiers who rode belowdecks during

embarkation climbed up the ladder through the hatchway amid-

ships and moved to arm themselves. Some took up positions behind

shielding at the rails. Some moved to man the catapults that launched

buckets of metal shards or burning balls of pitch. All were veterans

of countless airship battles aboard Black Moclips. Alt Mer and his

crew of Rovers left the fighting to them. Their responsibility was to

the ship. It took all of their concentration to hold her steady in the

heat of battle, to position her so that the soldiers could bring their

weapons to bear, and to employ her when necessary as a battering

ram. The crew was not expected to fight unless the ship was in

danger of being boarded.

Watching the soldiers take up their weapons and move eagerly

into position, the Rover Captain was struck by the amount of en-

ergy men could summon for the purpose of killing one another.

Furl Hawken appeared suddenly at his side. "Everything's at the

ready, Captain. Crew, weapons, and ship." He shifted his eyes side-

ways. "How's our stouthearted passengers holding up?"

Alt Mer glanced briefly over his shoulder. One adjutant had

freed himself from his safety line and had buried his head in the slop

bucket. The other, white faced, was grimly forcing himself not to

look over at his companion. The pinch-faced Commander was

scribbling in a notebook, his black-clad body wedged into a corner

of the decking.

"They'd prefer it if we just stayed on the ground, I think," he of-

fered mildly.

"Wonder if they've got anything to report regarding the func-

tions of their insides?" Hawk chuckled and moved away.

Black Moclips passed over the Free-born lines headed toward

their airfields, the other seven airships spread out to either side.

Two were Rover ships, the other five Federation. He knew their

Captains. Both Rover Captains and one of the Federation Captains

were reliable and skilled. The rest were marking time until one mis-

take or another caught up with them. Redden Alt Mer's approach to

the situation was to try to keep out of their way.

Ahead, Free-born airships were lifting off to meet them. The

Rover Captain produced his spyglass and studied the markings.

Ten, eleven, twelve—he counted them as they rose, one after the

other. Five were Elven, the rest Free-born. Not the kind of odds he

liked. Ostensibly, he was to engage and destroy any enemy airships

he encountered, without sustaining damage to his own. As if doing

so could possibly make a difference in the outcome of the war. He

brushed the thought aside. He would engage the Elven airships and

let the others bang up against themselves.

"Safety lines in place, gentlemen!" he called to his Federa-

tion passengers and crew, gripping the controls as the enemy ships

drew near.

At two hundred yards and with an airspeed approaching twenty

knots, he sideslipped Black Moclips out of formation and dipped

sharply toward the ground. Leveling out again, then increasing his

Speed, he brought the airship out of her dive and into a climb be-

neath the Free-born. As he sailed upward on their lee side, his cata-

pults began launching scrap metal and fireballs into the exposed

hulls and sails. One ship exploded into flame and began drifting

away. A second responded to the attack by launching its own cata-

pults. Jagged bits of metal screamed overhead as Alt Mer spun the

wheel sharply to carry BlackMoclips out of the line of fire.

In seconds, all the airships were engaged in battle, and on the

ground, the men of the opposing armies paused to look skyward.

Back and forth the warring vessels glided, rising and falling in