sponded more quickly than their more settled counterparts. By the
    same token, though, they took a fiercer toll.
     Especially of one not so practiced as her mentor in shielding herself
    from those negative effects.
     She heard her name called but couldn't find the wherewithal to re-
    spond.
     "Good thing we're in a valley," noted Bastian. 'Put her on a moun-
    taintop, she'd be mistaken for a star."
     "Whuzzat?" she wondered, her attempt to speak coherently fore-
    stalled by a yawn so huge it threatened to crack her jawbone loose.
    The Daikini matched her from his pallet, move for move.
      "You're glowing," Rool said simply.
     She wished she could see herself through their eyes but lacked the
    strength to cast forth her InSight. It took all her focus to laboriously
    make her way along all the connections she'd established between
    herself and the Daikini and pull them loose, a task that proved as ex-
    haustive as saving him had been. No less necessary, though, if she was
    to keep herself safe.
     "Elora," Rool called to her again, the wonder in his voice giving
    way to thin-edged urgency, "by the living host, what have you done
    here?"
     A mist had grown off the river while she worked to coat the slopes
    and hollows of the town, shrouding the brutal remnants of the mas-
    sacre and giving the scene a false seeming of peace and tranquillity.
    Cruel realities were blurred and softened, the boundaries erased be-
    tween what was and should have been.
      "Something moves in that fog," Rool reported.
      "I see it. Put up your bow, Rool, they mean us no harm."
      "You'll wager your soul on that?"
      "It's what I'm here for."
     She rose to her feet with a sleek grace that was totally at odds with
    a body that moments before felt as though it had been cast from lead.
    There were lights visible through the mist, a scattering across the hill-
    sides that corresponded with the locations of all the houses. The
    structures themselves took on a more coherent form, trampled gar-
    dens resumed a vestige of their former beauty.
     Figures appeared. Ghosts at first, for that was what they were, dis-
    cernible by the way they stirred the mist with their movements. They
    were spots of darker gray against the lighter background that gradu-
    ally assumed a tangible form.
    
    10
    
    At the sight of them, Rool groaned. For all their bad behavior and

    




    the grief they gave races other than themselves, brownies always con-
    sidered themselves creatures of honor and decency. To torment their
    fellows was a joy and a delight. Murder was an abomination.
     Here was murder.
     The figures that wandered before them all bore the signature
    marks of the wounds that took their lives. Great slashes across the
    body, tom limbs, crushed bones, burned flesh, they formed a presen-
    tation of outright horror. Nor was this barbarity confined to the
    Daikini inhabitants of the village. Among the gathering, Elora made
    out denizens of Lesser Faery who'd also made this place their home.
    They had been slaughtered with no less savagery than the Daikini.
     'They're coming closer, Elora," Rool said. 'They should not be
    here, we shouldn't be here."
     'Bastian," she called softly to the eagle, "can you fly?"
     'Far enough."
     'Take Rool, get out of here."
     'Forgive me, Elora Danan, but I cannot carry you away."
     'I'm not asking for me. just take Rool."
     "The devil you say, girl," the brownie protested. "I'm goin'
    nowhere without you."
     "Nor I," echoed the eagle.
     "They keep looking at me," she said. "Why do they keep looking at
    me?"
     "You're the beacon," Bastian told her.
     "They're lost," Rool echoed. "Cut loose from their earthly lives, un-
    able to claim the peace of whatever lies beyond."
     "There must be a way to release them."
     "Don't turn to me, girl. Dead is dead, a fate to be devoutly avoided
    for as long as possible, that's the brownie way. We have no truck with
    necromancers, not those who speak to the dead, nor those who wield
    power over 'em."
     "I'm sorry to hear that, my friend," she said, "because I think I'm
    about to try both."
     'What?" Rool squawked incredulously.
     She didn't mean that quite the way it sounded. She knew nothing
    of the spells required to perform either feat, and had no interest in
    leaming. It was their wounds that sparked an inspiration in her. The
    ghosts were in pain, that much was clear. As she had found a way to
    heal the Daikini's wounds, she had the hope now of trying the same
    with them.
     , 'Once, Rool, this was a place of peace and joy," she told him as she

    




    stepped beyond the firelight, haunted eyes and bodies turning to fol-
    low as she did. "There should be dancing."
     Voices curled at her from the mist, a litany of resentment building
    to outright hatred: a Daikini, The cursed naiads tore our fish traps; the na-
    iad, The cursed Daikini befouled our water. Another Daikini, The dryads
    spelled our orchards so the fruit rotted on the stem; a dryad, They clear-cut
    whole groves!
     Good neighbors they had been, the Daikini who tilled the soil and
    shaped this rich land to their liking, and those of Lesser Faery who had
    resided here for as long as there was memory. There were resources in
    abundance and all the various races had long ago learned to share the
    wealth of this valley to the benefit of all.
     Then came a change. A growing uneasiness that dated from the
    Cataclysm, open hostility following the debacle of Elora's Ascension.
    The culmination was an incident at midsummer. Children went miss-
    ing and suddenly all the old stories about kidnapped babies and
    changelings didn't seem so fanciful anymore. By the time the young-
    sters had been found and the truth made known-that they'd run off
    because of a beating and stayed hidden for fear of a worse one-the
    damage had been done. A family of trolls had been discovered and
    locked in a crow cage, together with any of the other races that could
    be found. The village had its vengeance on all it thought had done it
    harm.
     Not so long after, the slain got their own back. As they were mur-
    dered they cried out to their own kindred beyond the Veil, the High
    Elves of Greater Faery, who retaliated in kind.
     The blood of too many innocents had been spilled, each drop taint-
    ing the ground on which it fell, poisoning the earth as thoroughly and
    lastingly as these souls had been.
     For what seemed the longest while, Elora stood with shoulders
    hunched, back curved, head bowed, as if she'd suddenly been bur-
    dened with an impossible weight. Her hands hung straight at her side,
    half curled toward a fist. To Rool and Bastian, watching from the
    campsite, it appeared as though her inner radiance had dimmed to the
    point where she was no more noticeable than any of the ghosts. As
    wisps of fog curled and flowed about her, she too often reached the
    brink of vanishing. Far from healing these crippled souls, Elora looked
    more in danger of being consumed by them.
     Then, as if in answer to some cue that only she could hear, the
    young woman's head came up, her body straightening to its full
    height. In absolute stature, there were many among the gathering

    




    who stood taller than she, yet her presence had become so forceful,
    her manner so commanding, that she seemed a match and more for
    them all.
     She stepped back into a graceful pirouette, one arm and leg lan-
    guidly extending with a sweeping elegance that bespoke endless
    hours of practice in flowing, floor-length formal gowns. It was the en-
    gagement used to open every grand cotillion in Angwyn and it ended
    with her standing before a wizened elder of the town, whose leather
    apron marked him as the publican of the tavern and sutler's store that
    had in happier times occupied the ground floor of the tower.
     She led, he followed. Her invitation was too gracious, her smile too
    irresistibly winning, to be refused.
     They weren't together for long before their dance segued smoothly
    into the more elemental and rustic steps favored out along the frontier.
    The publican began to prance and kick and whirl with an abandon he
    probably hadn't seen in himself in a fair while, and the smile that
    gradually swept out across his face was a wonder to behold. With a
    whoop that caught Elora by surprise, he spun her around in a fast
    pirouette that flung her to the full extension of both their arms. Before
    she had even a moment to collect wits or breath, he snapped her back
    against his body. He held one arm upraised and lifted her off her feet
    with the other, embarking on a succession of snap turns that ended
    with a dip and finally a release that placed each of them just out of
    reach of the other. They both looked ready and eager to start the
    whole joyous sequence all over again.
     Instead, with an ease that suggested the entire dance was choreo-
    graphed, Elora swirled into the arms of a lad half her size and age. The
    beat in this instance was sharper and more peremptory, in keeping
    with the boy's character. From one soul to the next she passed among
    the crowd, offering as much of herself as was needed, freely and with-
    out reservation, trusting to her own inner resources to sustain her. The
    only constant was that she led, her partner-regardless of age or gen-
    der or race or inclination-followed.
     'D'you see, Rool," Bastian called softly, as though a normal tone of
    voice might shatter the crystalline delicacy of the moment, "what's
    happening?"
      'Better to ask, do I credit it?"
      'Your soul no more plays you false, runt, than does hers."
      'What is she doing, Bastian?"
     'No more, no less, than your eyes reveal. She's healing them, one
    and all."

    




      Suddenly both bird and brownie were startled by the sound of fi
    gertips on drumhead. Rool was still edgy from the battle in the towe
    he had arrow nocked to bow in a twinkling as he spun around to b
    hold the Daikini they'd rescued sitting up in the lean-to with
    bodhran drum in his lap, fingers and dumbbell-shaped clapper tappin
    out a fast and fluid tempo.
      Elora didn't acknowledge the unexpected insertion of music to h
    dance as the Daikini set aside his drums for a set of bellows pipes, t
    fill the air with sound as infectiously wild as the dance itself. Faster I
    played and faster she danced from partner to partner, as though eac
    was trying to outdo the other, raising the stakes, consequences I
    damned, until finally and simultaneously, they reached a crescendo.
      There were two figures left with her at the last, a little girl wh
    Elora knew was the owner of the doll she'd found. And a naiad,
    mother who'd reached in futile, heartsick desperation from her cro
    cage to her mate's as the sun broiled them both.
      There was silence on the ridge, a hush and stillness that tra
    scended the concept of sound. The three watching who could st
    breathe did so sparingly, so as not to mar the delicate purity of the m
    ment. Elora swayed, moving between the two figures, alike in fo
    and stature though they stood at opposite ends of a generatio
    Mother and child, both wrongly done to death, their afterlife taint(
    by a fear neither comprehended.
      Elora set a gentle rhythm, t I he child matched it, so charmed by th
    argent vision that a smile broke her features for a moment. Elora d
    the same for the naiad, turning back and forth, from one to the oth
    bringing them ever closer until they were face-to-face.
      They stopped. They stared. The little girl blinked her eyes rapid
    casting about for somewhere to run and hide. Elora's lips tightened
    the blossoming of a dark stain on the girl's breast, the reanimation
    the wound that Elora had thought was healed.
      The naiad was searching, too, but not for sanctuary. Her ey
    marked the gathering beyond, the faces so bright with wonder a
    joy they might have been alive, only lightly dusted here and the
    with apprehension as the gossamer mood began to fray. Daikini he
    Faery in comfort and friendship, as those of Faery did in return.,
      With a smile of her own, the naiad spun herself into a slow and la
    guorous pirouette that was a match for the engagement Elora hers
    had used at the very beginning. She held out her hands to the chi
    with the same gentleness and generosity she would have used for h
    own offspring, all the while swaying in tune to Elora's waltz cadenc

    




     Shyly the girl tried a smile of her own in return and lifted a hand to
    the naiad's. As delicately as if she was grasping the most fragile piece
    of porcelain, the most evanescent of soap bubbles, the naiad gathered
    the child into her loving embrace.
     On the far side of the river, a gusting breeze set the treetops into
    motion with their characteristic shushush sound. It swept past the
    watchers with a chill harbinger of fast-approaching fall and cast the
    mist into instant chaos. The campfire blazed as though it had been fed
    oxygen through a bellows pump and a magnificent shower of sparks
    spiraled their way toward the heavens.
     On the boundary where firelight blended with darkness, Elora
    stood alone. Of the townsfolk, the Veil Folk, there was no sign, save
    perhaps for some fast-fading sparkles that might be mistaken for way-
    ward sparks from the fire. The spirits were gone. Only the living re-
    mained atop the knoll.
     Elora was breathing hard and her skin gleamed with the exertions
    of the night. She had to be exhausted but in no way did she look tired.
    Rool started toward her, a query poised on the tip of his tongue to ask
    if she was all right, if there was anything he could do, only to realize
    that she was looking past him and that the night had suddenly grown
    far more bright and warm.
     On its bluff, the tower burned. The stout stone battlements acted
    like a chimney, air being drawn in through the open doorway and the
    various embrasures to superheat the flames beyond white-hot. From
    the intensity, Rool knew that it would consume everything within its
    walls and very likely the walls themselves.
     Whatever the High Elves had planned for this valley had perished
    with them. Now every vestige of their presence was being erased.
      The land, the village, its people, were healed.
      The valley was whole again.

    




    AJ2 T C R
    
        UGUAY FARALORN.,- THE DAIKINI SAID BY WAY OF
    introduction, accompanied by an elegant bow far more suit-
    able for an imperial court than this frontier lean-to.
     "I'm Elora," she told him, returning his smile with a some-
    what more weary one of her own.
     He had height on her, which was nothing new among
    Daikini, but his shoulders weren't that much broader. His
    body was slim-hipped, lean as a rapier, and he moved with
    such a lazy ease that she suspected he possessed a formida-
    ble strength as well. His features were no more classically
    handsome than his body, yet the overall effect was quite
    pleasing to the eye. His mouth was wide, the nose above had
    been broken, and Elora couldn't help wondering what had
    happened to the fellow responsible because this was a man
    who didn't suffer such assaults lightly. His face was textured,
    especially around the eyes, in ways that told her he laughed

    




    easily and well. A level gaze, directed now on her, that saw far more
    than the man let on. A broad brow, topped by an unruly stirring of
    curly brown hair, a pair of piercing holes in the lobe of his left ear, one
    in the right.
     He was a very nice man, but in many ways wholly unmemo-
    rable-which made the announcement of his occupation all the more
    remarkable.
     "I'm a troubadour," he told her, fishing in his kit bag for clothes
    and other adornments, among them a set of plain gold rings for his
    ears.
     Strangely Elora found it almost impossible to meet his eyes. When
    she looked at him, her gaze fixed itself on the tip of his nose, an ear,
    the hollow of his throat, whatever stood just beyond his shoulder. By
    contrast, his stare was disconcertingly level as he surveyed her from
    head to toe, cataloging her in a way that turned her hot and cold all
    at the same time and left her skin a mass of shivery goose bumps.
     "I am in your debt, Elora," he said. Then he cocked his head a lit-
    de sideways, to consider a new thought. "Famous name, that."
     "Popular, too, so I'm told. Was a time when every newborn girl
    seemed to be gifted with that name."
     "And the skin?"
     "How about your silence for your life,
    that relates to me, and we'll call our debt square?"
     "Bargain like a Cascani, you say." Rool sounded disappointed as
    he muttered in her ear a small while later, the bulk of his attention fo-
    cused warily on their new companion while Elora busied herself with
    final preparations for their journey. 'I think not!"
     "Forgive me," she pleaded as she finished her packing, "I'm tired."
     "That's when traders should be at their most dangerous, my girl!"
     "My work here is done, Rool, she said, then brightened as the trill
    of a birdsong resounded from the trees across the river. It was the first
    she'd heard since their arrival. Off to the east, the velvet sky was tak-
    ing on a faint roseate sheen in herald of the coming dawn. Mist had
    given way to morning dew, the air brisk enough to make every ex-
    halation visible, and even the smell of smoke off the remnants of the
    tower didn't seem out of place.
     ,,I don't want to think for a while, I just want to enjoy the mo-
    ment."
    
    Master Duguay, in any way
    
    "Walking alone?" Duguay wondered as they left the village be-

    




     She made no audible reply, but swung her eyes to the brownie rid-
    ing her shoulder and from there to the eagle soaring just above the
    treetops.
     "Apparently not," he acknowledged.
     They'd lingered at the campsite one day more while Elora re-
    gained her strength, at the same time growing increasingly concerned
    about their supplies as she wolfed down every scrap of food that
    came to hand in her traveling pouches. Most of Duguay's instruments
    had survived his captivity. His clothes proved less fortunate, making
    the man cluck with dismay at the mismatched garments he was left
    with. He prided himself on his fashion sense and had no truck with
    ragamuffins. Rool's wound turned out to be mostly cosmetic, requir-
    ing a poultice instead of Elora's gifts as well as a bandage, which gave
    him a raffish, piratical air. Bastian, too, was well on the path to re-
    covery, though both strength and endurance were limited until the
    soreness passed. His flights were of short duration and he didn't stray
    far.
     Ironically the healthiest among them was the one who'd nearly
    died and he made the most of it, taking on himself the bulk of the
    chores with a solicitude and charm they all found irresistible.
     "I can find another road, Elora, if that's your wish," he offered in
    that same vein. "It's nothing to me which way I go."
     She slid a skeptical gaze his way, making an obvious show of
    looking past him at the steep ridge that rose up from the road on one
    side, then swiveled her head toward the widening race of water that
    paced them on the other.
     Duguay chuckled.
     "Fine," he said, waving his hands in a concession of defeat. "Shall
    I retire to some forest hollow to wait a day or three until you're too
    far ahead to catch?"
     Elora responded with another dumbshow, cocking her head, rais-
    ing her eyebrows, pursing her lips, making all manner of obscure
    sounds in mock consideration of his offer. In fact, a part of her deep
    inside was doing precisely the same in all seriousness. For different
    reasons, both aspects came to the same conclusion.
     "You. . ."-she strung the word well past the point of decency,
    and let it trail off into a pause that lasted even longer, gleefully taking
    the opportunity to keep the troubadour dangling in suspense-"can
    stay."
     "I am so honored."
     She made him a face and threw a punch to his nearside shoulder

    




    that was meant to thump but only provoked a laugh when she ended
    up shaking the numbness from her knuckles. For all the man's lack of,
    bulk, he was solid as forged steel. The only softness about him was
    the clothes on his back.
     "I've never seen skin like yours," he noted.
     One of a kind, that's me was her silent retort. Aloud, she was more
    circumspect. 'It's a wide, wonderful world," she told him. 'You'd be
    amazed at what you'll find in it."
     "Considering my present company, I already am."
     She rolled her eyes, shutting her mental ears against Rool's hoots
    of derision, but secretly she was smiling with an awkward shyness
    she'd never before felt.
     His answers proved as vague as hers. He was from somewhere, en
    route to somewhere else, the clear impression being that his depar-
    ture was hasty and involved some flagrant breaches of hospitality
    and etiquette, not to mention propriety. Troubadours had notorious
    reputations but in Duguay's case it appeared to be wholly deserved.
    His capture was deftly explained away as a case of being in the
    wrong place at the wrong time. Of the spell the elves planned to cast,
    he professed total ignorance. All that mattered to him was that he
    was to be the sacrifice that activated it.
     For all his mysteries-and who was she to throw those stones,
    who kept tightly shuttered the doors and windows of her own
    past?-Duguay proved himself the ideal partner for the road. He was
    good company, silent when needed, always ready with a story to
    make her laugh or a witty, occasionally wicked observation, and a
    song to lift her spirits or make the miles go that much faster. When
    they broke for lunch and later found a place to pass the night, he
    pulled forth an instrument from his pack and spent some time in
    practice with it. Over the course of the days that followed, she saw a
    bodhran, a tiompan, a set of bellows pipes, and a pennywhistle, a fid-
    dle, and a guitar, and had she not seen how artfully he arranged his
    kit-and tried hefting the load onto her own back-she was ready to
    swear he used a variation of her own traveling pouches and stored
    everything in a hidey-hole of magic.
     For all that she came to like him, though, she still found herself un-
    able to look him in the eye.
     They were proceeding through highland country, and would be
    until they reached Sandeni, where the continent dropped literally off
    a cliff toward the west and ultimately to Angwyn. Mile after endless
    mile of rolling hills that passed through the most impressive forest

    




    Elora had beheld since Angwyn. Old-growth conifers, pointed
    crowns stabbing skyward like lancers at attention, the smallest of
    their trunks broad enough for a stout man to hide behind unseen.
      Bastian was their primary hunter, providing them with a fresh kill
    for every dinner, rabbit one day, trout or salmon another. Responsi-
    bility for cooking was shared between Elora and Duguay, while Rool
    took himself into the woods for greens and vegetables, Elora produc-
    ing condiments from her pouch to add spice to the meal. For drinks,
    they had to make do with mountain springwater, filling their flasks
    as required from the river.
      There was no end to Duguay's repertoire and he needed no excuse
    to break into song, whether around their nighttime fire or during
    each day's trek. He had tunes for every occasion and could make
    Elora laugh as easily as cry. What she loved best, she discovered with
    an incendiary passion that was altogether new to her, were the ones
    that made her dance. She'd never had such simple, pure fun: Duguay
    would establish a beat on his bodhran before shifting to pipes or tin
    whistle and Elora would let her body take things from there. There
    were no inhibitions when she danced, no restrictions, she found in it
    the way to claim the full measure of freedom she'd been denied most
    of her life.
     "You never danced at court?" Duguay asked as he ran* through a
    series of paradiddles on his guitar. The word made her giggle to hear
    it, even after his patient explanat ' ion that it was a sequence of stac-
    cato, four-element beats, alternating between the strings and his fin-
    gers tapping the face of the instrument like a drum.
      The question caught her off guard, as much as the casual way he
    asked. Her reply was automatic.
      "That wasn't dancing," she scoffed, realizing too late what she'd
    just revealed about herself but deciding to plunge on regardless. To
    hear her name and see her argent skin told him all he needed to know
    about who she truly was, anything more was window dressing. "I've
    seen soldiers have more fun during close-order drill."
      "That's harsh."
      "Step-two-three-four-step-two-three-four," she continued in that
    same derisive tone, mocking court behavior with the same joyous en-
    thusiasm as a brownie. "Wrapped so tight in gowns you can hardly
    move, face your partner just so, hold your body thus, such a touch is
    permitted while this other is most definitely not! See what the others
    are wearing and never let on that any look more glorious than you."
      'I can see a lovely time was had by all."

    




     'I wouldn't know. I was only ever allowed to watch."
     She folded her body in on itself and dropped like a puppet whose
    strings had just been cut, loose-limbed and without the slightest stiff-
    ness to her joints as she planted her bottom on the ground and
    flopped full-length onto her back to stare at what stars were visible
    through the treetops.
     "Enjoy that, my girl," Duguay told her.
     "Enjoy what?" she wondered, bridling ever so slightly at the pos-
    sessive reference.
     'How easily your body obeys you. We take it for granted when
    it's ours, and lose it all too quickly."
     'You move well enough, Master Faralorn."
     'And greet the morning with groans to prove it." He strummed
    some random chords on his guitar. 'Have you ever tried singing,
    Elora?"
     "By myself," she confessed.
     "I'd like to hear."
     She shook her head, grateful the nighttime shadows hid the flush
    that warmed her cheeks. She wasn't used to compliments, and even
    when they came, a part of her always feared they were offered be-
    cause of who she was rather than what she'd done. Reverence was
    hers almost as a matter of right. Respect, she had to earn. And once
    gained, it was something she was loath to place at risk. She didn't
    want to seem foolish in front of him.
     'What's wrong?" he prodded gently.
     She made a weak gesture in the general direction of her throat.
     "You've heard my voice."
     "I like it."
     "Don't be mean, Duguay. It's deeper than most girls' and broken
    besides. Audiences like their girls to sing clear as crystal, sweet as
    May wine."
     'That they do."
     "You have a broader range and you're a wonder to hear. I'd just be
    a joke."
     'You're too hard on yourself. Trust me, Elora, I've heard the oth-
    ers. Everyone sounds the same, where you'd be unique. Especially if
    
    we can find a way for you to sing the way you dance."
     "Make things up as I go along?"
     'With passion. The way you move, when the light flashes off
    your skin, it's like watching fire come to life, a radiance so intense it
    hurts. Yet one can't look away."

    




     "Rool," she called, "help! The man's demented."
     "Can't argue with you there," the brownie agreed, polishing of
    the last of a sprig of wild blackberries, each one of which was bigge
    than his head. 'But he's right nonetheless."
     'Traitor," she cried, plucking a couple of berries from his grasp t
    pop one in her own mouth and toss the other across the fire int
    Duguay's. "Score," she said proudly, savoring the tart juice as sh
    swallowed.
     "Where's the harm to try, Elora?" chided Duguay. "There's non
    but us to hear."
     Her first inclination was to fake going asleep until they lost inter
    est, but they all knew her too well to fall for that old ploy.
     Duguay started a round, pitched the refrain to Rool, who caugh
    it with ease, carrying the tune with a strong, mid-range tenor tha
    brought Elora over onto her belly, chin resting in cradled palms as sh
    listened and enjoyed.
     Then it was her turn. She caught the refrain well enough but he
    position denied her decent breath or voice. Rool pinched her har
    enough to make her yelp and the look on his face prompted her to si
    straight up, promising far more inventive torments if she didn't a
    least make a credible effort.
     "I thought you were my friend," she hissed at him.
     "I am. I happen to think this'll do some good."
     "Wretch!"
     "Never in the history of the world, of any world, has there eve
    been a being so stubbornly determined to make herself utterly an
    eternally miserable!"
     "Not so!"
     "Really." He wasn't convinced.
     Again the round came to her. This time she tried her best.
     She was right on both counts. Her voice was low and husky, d
    scribed by Duguay as a "whiskey contralto." The term meant not
    ing to Elora, who didn't drink beyond the occasional glass of win
    To her it seemed the poorest of tools, the weakest of her body's a
    sets.
     "An asset is what you make of it," Duguay told her. "And more o
    ten than not, it's the presentation of a song that makes the differenc
    to the audience, more than the tune itself. Keep at it, you'll see."
    
     Within a week they came to their first fork in the road, the oth
    path branching off to their left to disappear into the deep woods, n

    




    doubt leading to some other remote settlement. Elora considered
    sending Bastian in that direction, to see if things there were all right.
    The problem was, what then? She didn't know these folk, nor how
    to use the golden eagle to convey a warning to them. If she went her-
    self, who knew how long the journey might take or what might hap-
    pen along the way?
     Bastian spiraled as high as he could but saw no sign of any Daikini
    habitation. There were too many folds to the land, too many valleys
    to choose from.
     It was Duguay who found an answer, though it wasn't one that
    made any of them feel easier. The road they had followed was rela-
    tively flat and unmarred. The other fork was marked with deep ruts,
    as was the way ahead, clear sign that heavily laden wagons had
    passed by recently.
     'Y'see here," he indicated, motioning for Elora to hunker down
    beside him as he waved his hand over what was to her an indeci-
    pherable mess. "We have footprints between the wheel ruts."
     "Ah," she said sagely, ignoring a derisive snort from within the
    folds of her cloak on her shoulder where Rool was snugly ensconced.
     'A lot of folks walking," Duguay said. 'And off to the side, shod
    horses, right along the border of the road as well as overlaying some
    of these signs."
      "Which means?"
     "Outriders," Rool replied, for her ears alone. "Fore- and after-
    guard."
     "Outriders," Duguay told her thoughtfully, munching absently on
    a long stalk of grass. "Together with a fore- and after-guard."
      "Told you," said Rool.
     'You're a hunter, Rool," she told him in mindspeech. "I expect
    such insights from the likes of you."
      "A freight train would have an escort," she said aloud.
     "But not all these folks on foot. We ever reach the villages along
    here, it's my bet we'll find them empty."
      "Awfully specialized knowledge for a troubadour, Duguay."
     'I like wandering, Elora. I like surviving more. On the frontier, a
    body's pretty much on his or her own. You'd be amazed at what you
    can learn, and how it can save you."
     "Hush," said Rool suddenly, rising to his full height on Elora's
    shoulder, "the lot of you."
      "What's the matter, Rool?" she asked.
      "I mean it, Elora. Listen!"

    




     "For what?" Duguay wondered. "It's a quiet day but I don't hear
    anything out of the ordinary. Plenty of birds and the like.'
     'Be quiet, will you?" Rool snapped, exasperated. 'I'm talking to
    Elora." Then, to her: "Listen!"
      "To what? Nothing's here but what Duguay said."
     "Precisely. I was going to ask the local dryads for information on
    this convoy. They're social creatures, they love to gossip. Yon great,
    thumping, lumpen Daikini there, he might scare 'em off, but I figured
    word would get about that we meant no harm. Eventually I expected
    someone to brave our campfire and pay us a visit."
      "Probably fled my singing."
     "They fled something, Elora. Use your InSight, tell me if there's a
    dryad within view."
      She did as she was asked and her voice and manner grew very still.
     "There's nothing, Rool," she said at last. "As far as Lesser Faery is
    concerned, this stretch of forest is barren. But why? Where did they
    go? What are they afraid of?"
     "What's behind us, I 'spect," said the brownie. "And what's
    ahead."
      Elora's brow furrowed.
     "When a war starts," Duguay agreed, with a nod, "you don't want
    to be caught between the two sides."
      "The Maizan are here," Elora asked.
     "No," Rool said sadly. "This is new, this is different, a conflict be-
    tween Greater Faery and the Daikini Realm as a whole."
     "It was just a raid," she protested, but her heart had already ac-
    cepted the essential truth of what she heard.
      Rool indicated the rutted track, and then the forest about them.
      'They think different."
    
     From that crossroads, they picked up the pace. The mood had
    changed and none among them could find desire or determination to
    win it back, either during their daily hike or around the evening
    campfire.
     Each morning, Elora sent Bastian forth with a specific purpose, to
    sweep the way behind for any sign of threat and forge ahead to fin6
    a sign of Daikini habitation.
     On the third day, beyond the crossroads, Bastian flashed her a
    view of a town, a hub community sited mainly to serve as the anchor
    for all the far-flung settlements beyond, in a locale where there was
    nothing much else of value. Good timber, true, but the river was too

    




    rough to use it to float the logs downstream to any market. Fair ter-
    rain for farming, more to serve as subsistence for the town than for
    export, and with the apparent abandonment of the forest by its care-
    takers and inhabitants among the Veil Folk, the country would be
    wide open for a boom in the fur trade.
     What Elora saw through the eagle's eyes, courtesy of her InSight,
    was a fair-sized natural meadow that had been expanded fivefold by
    an aggressive and thorough clearance campaign that left a huge
    stretch of open ground on every side of the bustling stronghold. The
    timbers had been put to good use, to form a stockade better than
    twenty feet tall atop an earth-and-stone -reinforced redoubt that itself
    rose ten feet above the ground. Within the walls was an open square
    twice the size of a jousting yard, dominated at one end by a massive,
    multistoried structure that was hostelry and fortress combined. Ring-
    ing the yard were lesser structures, barns whose residents were split
    between horses and livestock, coupled with an equally extensive
    smithy. A slaughterhouse and smokehouse were attached to the
    kitchen, itself an adjunct to a large communal lodge. The storehouses
    would most likely be underground, since the clearing ran right to the
    shore of the river, which also probably meant a buried channel bring-
    ing freshwater.in from the stream to supplement any wells.
     "Now there," Duguay muttered as she described what lay ahead,
    'is a castle worth the taking."
     "I'm certainly impressed."
    
     Scattered out from the fort were individual homesteads, structures
    as stoutly designed and constructed as the stronghold itself, hard by
    fields of cleared land that were thick with late-summer crops, almost
    ready for harvesting. Close by the walls stood a circle of wagons, a
    train of settlers out to make a new life for themselves. Duguay shook
    his head at the news, commenting that they'd waited far too late in
    the year to travel, they'd be buried in snow long before they reached
    any decent land.
     In the meanwhile Elora made her way to the comparative seclu-
    sion of a convenient stand of brush and raided her traveling pouch for
    a change of attire. Buckskin leggings to cover her from hip to ankle,
    tied to loops that hung from inside the waist of her tunic. Gauntlets
    for her hands, a wimple to mask every part of her head but her face.
    At the last a long scarf of patterned muslin, which she wound and
    draped over and around her skull in desert style until only her eyes
    were visible. It wasn't a terribly comfortable arrangement, especially
    since she'd grown so used to the more casual and open style she'd

    




    adopted these past weeks, but altogether preferable to someon
    catching sight of a crop of silver hair or gleaming argent skin.
     To the outward eye, she now appeared as a Highlander, one o
    that breed of iconoclasts and loners who roamed the most remot
    and inaccessible reaches of the globe. In temperament and reputatior
    they were considered close kin to the Cascani, though they were hel
    in regard more as warriors than merchants. They preferred the sol
    tude of their own kind, and any who crossed their path with malic
    were as likely as not to lose some major body parts, if not their ve
    lives.
     Elora wasn't cheating by wearing their colors. During their fligl
    eastward from Angwyn, she and Thom had spent a turn of seasor
    among one of their clans. Thorn tended their sick and from the
    Elora received her tartan-wool greatcloak.
     "Something the matter?" Rool inquired as she stretched and wri
    gled each leg in turn, then tugged ineffectually at her leggings.
     "They're tight, Rool. And they've shrunk!" The lower hem w
    meant to rest on the top of her foot, but that left a gap of expose
    skin at the top of her thigh. When she pulled the leather to her hi
    where it was supposed to be, the bottom rode up past her ankl
    Elora muttered something foul.
     "I thought your clothes didn't do that."
     "They're not supposed to. Oh, bother," she cried, deciding th
    since she was wearing high boots she'd tie the leggings as snugly
    her belt as they'd go. "And the damn boots aren't that comfortab
    anymore, eitherl"
     'Perhaps it isn't them, ever consider that?"
     "I beg your pardon?"
     'You heard. You're the Royal Highness, you figure it out."
     She plumped onto her backside and covered her face with h
    hands.
     "Bollocks," she said miserably.
     'Well, you wanted to be bigger. Me, I think you're quite lar
    enough already, but since when did my opinion ever matter?"
     "Why now, for heaven's sake?"
     "Perhaps because you're finally running about in a world whe
    you've room to grow."
     "Ugh!"
     'What is your problem, Elora Danan? I'm the one, standing besi
    a walking mountain, have to shred my throat raw just to say hello

    




    ride your shoulder still, I'll most likely suffocate, bouncing up so high
    there's no more air for me to breathe."
     "Don't talk like such a silly. If I can breathe, so can you."
     "Someone big as you, figure you'll use it all up."
     'Is there any way," Duguay interjected carefully, from a respectful
    distance, "I might be of assistance?"
     "I'm growing," Elora lamented.
     ,,oh.,,
    
     "Out of her clothes." Rool chuckled.
     'Ah. It's certainly a different look," Duguay commented as she
    stepped around the bush and into full view.
     "It's necessary."
     "No need to explain, Elora. You're the right size and apparent age
    for an apprentice. Any problem with a Highlander hiring on to an
    outsider to learn a trade?"
     She shook her head. 'Highland bards are as renowned as their
    fighters. I may draw looks but no -real questions. Best of all, given the
    reputation of the clans, no one's likely to give me any trouble."
     'Splendid. I'm tired of this load anyway."
     She'd carried his pack before, it weighed the proverbial ton. As be-
    fit her adopted station, she let him take the lead as they made their
    way to the road. They were spotted the moment they emerged from
    the treeline. Bastian's eyes gave Elora a spectacular overhead view of
    a sentry pointing from one of the blockhouse watchtowers set at
    each comer of the five-sided stronghold. Its longest wall was the one
    facing the river, where it would be hardest for any invader to mass
    his forces for an attack. Someone up there had a spyglass. Sunlight
    flashed off its lens as it was brought to bear. Duguay paid the distant
    hubbub no heed as he made his way forward with a jaunty and ef-
    fervescent step while Elora trudged behind him in the best tradition
    of a slavey.
     He waved a merry hello to the settlers as he passed their encamp-
    ment, spinning his cloak out and around with the flourish of a born
    courtier as he offered so elegant a bow to a clutch of girls playing by
    the roadside that they scampered away, giggling, to tell their parents
    someone wonderful had come to town. The menfolk looked on him
    as maj . or trouble and the smile he offered in return to their warning
    glares did nothing to reassure them. While Duguay worked the
    crowd Elora assessed the nearby horseflesh. The traders at the bazaar
    favored mountain ponies, sturdy short-legged creatures one step re-

    




    moved from mountain goats, built to survive in extremes of weather
    and terrain. These, on the other hand, were massive, hulking draft an-
    imals, half again her height at the shoulder and averaging better than
    a ton in weight. The herd was all of the same stock, a mixture of duns
    and chestnuts with close-cropped coats, long manes, and a feathering
    of similar hair about their fetlocks.
     While the horses were similar, what they pulled here was not.
    Barely three or four qualified as shipping wagons, the kind used by
    merchants at the Cascani bazaar to transport their goods. The rest
    were a mismatched hodgepodge of carts, drays, buckboards, light
    transports, and other carriages. Some were in good condition, others
    looked like they'd just come from the junkyard, where they'd been
    up on blocks for years.
     The same dichotomy applied to the travelers as well. Well
    dressed, comfortably and practically clothed, these were people of
    some substance, yet there was a palpable air of apprehension to
    them, bordering on outright fear. They were folk on the run, from
    something too terrible to contemplate, much less confront. They
    were here because they had no choice and they had no faith in these
    stout walls to protect them.
      'Rool," she muttered.
      "Not outward bound at all, you had that assessment backward."
     "The ruts we saw in the road. These could be the wagons, they
    could be from that other settlement."
     "Prob'ly heard what happened to the village we found, hit the
    road that selfsame night."
      "Look at all their faces-the grown-ups, I mean."
     "Walking dead, the lot, that's how they see themselves. Figure
    they can run where they like, it won't save 'em. An' who're we to say
    they're wrong?"
     The sheer excitement of the place, even more than its size, took
    her aback as they made their way to the main gate. Even though the
    approaches to the fort were clear, to allow defenders an unobstructed
    field of fire, a stretch of about a hundred yards or so on each shoul-
    der leading to the main gates was a veritable thicket of tents and
    stalls, a bazaar in miniature, with wandering entrepreneurs offering
    all manner of trinkets and gewgaws, souvenirs, talismans, snacks, for-
    tunes, whatever, in such variety and profusion that Elora ha:d to mar-
    vel. The scene was thick with customers, which made her assume
    that this must be a market day. A vendor wafted a length of translu-
    cent cloth before a trio of appreciative young women, letting the light

    




    play across the shimmering metallic threads woven at random
    through the fabric, though it quickly became clear they weren't en-
    tranced enough to buy. Seeing Elora's interest in the fabric, Duguay
    stepped into that breach, charming both the ladies and the merchant
    with one of his trademark smiles as he bargained the man down to a
    fraction of the price that had been quoted before.
     Elora couldn't help a grin of admiration to watch the troubadour
    at work, sidling this way and that through the crowd, leaving not a
    whit of ill feeling in his wake. She didn't try to follow, there wasn't
    space to fit both her and the pack she carried, and frankly it was more
    fun to watch him from a distance.
     "He's very good."
     "He's paying," groused Rool. "Doesn't count at all."
     "What, you want us thrown out of here before we've even prop-
    erly arrived?"
     "If he was very good, Highness," the brownie mocked, 'it
    shouldn't come to that. A good thief-"
     "Such as yourself, I assume, Master Magpie?"
     "I name no names, but a good thief could strip this lot bare and
    leave them none the wiser."
     "You don't like him much."
     "He flashes too many teeth when he smiles, and he smiles far too
    much."
     "A man of good cheer, Rool, where's the fault in that?"
     "No. He's a man who's in on the greatest joke ever told, and he's
    the only one who knows it. There's a difference and it makes me ner-
    vous."
     'Well, I do like him."
     "You're young, you don't know any better."
     "Thank you, Conscience."
     'You think this is a joy for me, Elora? Cast as chaperon to a will-
    ful, growing, stuck-up-"
     'Am not!"
     '-know-it-all-!
     "R-o-o-ol!"
     "Nice noise."
     She made a worse one, the kind of whine that came easily to her
    in Angwyn, but that now made the both of them laugh.
     Then, as suddenly as if a door had slammed, her laughter stopped.
     "On the notice board, Rool, that proclamation."
     Ther was a large, framed rectangle of wood posted between the

    




    encampment and the gate, one half listing the general rules and codes
    of conduct of the stronghold, while the other was for announcements
    of general interest. It was dominated by a single sheet of parchment,
    relatively clean still and without weathering, which meant it hadn't
    been up for very long.
    
    IM TI)C MACDC Ojz
    
            CD 0 -0 0 _R_t
    
    CASTeLL&m OF TbG CY)3JZ3,N
    
    a,, REWNRO Of
    
    1000 QOLO S0VeRC-1QMS
             IS OCI:CRCO FOR TbC
    
            RESCUE 3,M0 RCTURM
    
    aLive zNO U1K1b3,RCDE0
    
               or
    OUR i3eLovcO PRIMCESS
    
    eLOR~X O&M&M
    
     A description followed, fairly sparse in details because no one
    knew how tall she'd grown or how her features had matured (hardly
    at all, she muttered to herself, in either case). Its key point was that the
    fugitive could most easily be identified by the fact that she was silver
    in color, from head to toe. Silver skin and silver hair, like a forging
    come to life.
      " 'Alive and unharmed/ " Rool noted. "How considerate."
      "I like 'our beloved princess.' Nice touch."
     "As is 'rescue and return.' Makes a body think he's doing some-
    thing noble."
     'Do the Maizan a favor, get on their good side. It's beautifully
    worded. Provides every incentive for playing along and giving them
    what they want." She made a face. "Well, no one ever said the De-
    ceiver wasn't cunning."
      "Not so impressive a price. He's trying to get you cheap."
      "Hardly."
      "A thousand sovereigns?"

    




    "Gold sovereigns," she corrected.
    'Is that significant? I mean, I'm sure it's a lot to these rustics...
    
     "Rool, if he's using Cascani standards, there are a thousand
    crowns to a single gold sovereign. Outside of Axigwyn City itself, and
    I assume Sandeni, a thousand crowns will support a major household
    prosperously for a year."
     'A tempting sum, is it?"
     "Suddenly I feel like there's a bull's-eye on my back."
     "Move on, then?"
     'Soon as we can."
     "You realize, I hope, that this is why Drumheller wanted you to
    stay with Torquil."
     "Thank you, I'm not wholly dim."
     "Now there's a relief."
     She glared at the brownie. He didn't appear the slightest bit both-
    ered.
     "I simply don't want to depend any longer on the kindness of oth-
    ers," she said slowly. "If that's all right with you."
     'Hola, Elora!" she heard from a short ways to the rear as Duguay
    rejoined them.
     'What about him?" was Rool's final question before lapsing into
    silence.
     She had no answer. Duguay spared the board hardly a passing
    glance but she knew that meant nothing. His sight often proved more
    keen than hers and he had the infernal knack of seeing things while
    appearing not to.
     "I don't know about you, apprentice, but I am tired of the road,"
    he announced as he promenaded to the main gate of the fort in full
    view of the sentries and their officer of the watch, who had the
    power to admit them or turn them both away. "A few days' rest and
    relaxation, to replenish the body and the purse, should set us both to
    rights."
     He shot Elora a sudden, sideways glance that was so quick, that
    caught her so by surprise, that for the merest split instant her eyes
    met his. In that flash she felt as though she'd just stared into the heart
    of the sun. She couldn't remember any details, the inrush of sensation
    was too intense. The moment passed so quickly, in a space of time so
    small, she didn't have a word for it, she was left only with its resid-
    ual aftertaste. She felt a vague mix of exhilaration and danger, a de-
    sire so pure she ached to possess it even though that would mean
    oblivion.

    




      The only outward sign of this was a faint gasp from her, nothing
    from Duguay, which immediately made her wonder if it was all her
    own imagination. His words, however, told her he'd seen the sign
    and made all the right connections. They were meant to reassure.
    They didn't.
      "Trust me," was what he said. And strode right up to the gate-
    keepers.
      "Don't," was Rool's warning.
      Duguay met the guards'. challenge with a smile and a wave and in
    short order, to the accompaniment of glib words, irresistible charm,
    and finally the clink of coins changing hands, and they were admit-
    ted.
      Of a sudden there was a riot of sound from within the stockade,
    beginning with a single shout in the distance that doubled and redou-
    bled, crashing toward the gate like an aural wave as voices mingled
    with the crash of steel and the falling of heavy objects. Heads turned
    out along the road, none of the patrons of the bazaar quite sure what
    was happening, their interest manifesting itself more as curiosity than
    alarm. The gatekeepers knew better, they'd been galvanized into ac-
    tion right from the start. Elora saw pikes tossed to waiting hands
    while others leaped with trained precision to close the gates.
      Elora barely had time to register the sound of hoofbeats before a
    cavalry charger bulled its way past her through the crowd from the
    opposite end of the bazaar, its bulk and the harsh cries of its rider act-
    ing in concert to clear a path. As it reached the gate a figure launched
    itself from the interior shadows. The rider bellowed, the horse
    screamed in startlement, rearing up onto its hind legs. Too much hap-
    pened too fast as the rider tried to maintain control of his mount and
    defend himself. The poor man simply didn't have enough arms. At
    the same time the horse had lost all memory of its training, reverting
    to a natural state of panic. It overbalanced, lost its balance, tumbled
    to earth with a palpable crash. As it fell the rider's assailant launched
    itself from the saddle with a fearsome roar.
      Unfortunately Elora was right in its way.
      She felt like she'd been thumped by a thunderstone. It really didn't
    matter much that Duguay's pack caught the full brunt of the impaGt
    as the pair of them hit the ground, the collision still hurt.
      She struck out reflexively, not a conscious thought behind any of
    her blows beyond a primal desire to protect herself. Each one,
    though, brought her an increasing sense of recognition. This was no
    stranger atop her, and no enemy.

    




     At least so she assumed until Ryn Taksemanyin bared fangs and
    uttered a snarl that set babies immediately to shrieking and sent on-
    lookers scrambling desperately for cover or weapons. Elora couldn't
    help flinching as wicked claws flashed across her body, the look on
    his features was so fierce she was sure he'd cut her. Then he scooped
    her out of the severed pack straps and heaved her from his path.
     Again reflexes superseded intellect. She twisted in midair, manag-
    ing to salvage a decent landing. Ryn cast about for an escape route
    through the crowd, but a burly armsman took him down with a
    chest-high tackle. An elbow to the solar plexus took the Daikini out
    of the fight, but two of his mates slammed into Ryn as the Wyr
    scrambled to regain his feet.
     A cudgel rose and fell, and Elora hissed as the blow drew blood.
    For each opponent Ryn cast aside, easily two or three more piled on
    to take their place, and the Wyr was quickly buried beneath a mass
    of pile-driving punches and savage kicks. There was no elegance or
    finesse to this encounter. It was a brawl, and these men were masters
    at the art.
     The crowd kept a respectful distance. The authorities appeared to
    have the situation under control but no one wanted to find out the
    hard way that they were wrong. A couple of horsemen were waved
    back by one of the troopers on the ground. This was a foe better han-
    dled on foot. Shackles were quickly and roughly fastened into place
    about ankles, wrists, and throat. A thick hobble chain prevented Ryn
    from walking with anything better than quick little stagger steps and
    his arms were wrenched painfully high on his back in a pair of ham-
    merlocks, to be hooked onto the back of his collar, making it a strug-
    gle for him even to breathe. A restraint gag had been applied as well
    to keep his fangs at bay. Elora's hand itched toward her traveling
    pouch, and the weapons within, as she heard a chorus of loud com-
    ments that the prisoner, this beast, would be better off hamstrung.
     Duguay's hand covered hers and Elora felt a madcap flash of agi-
    tation at how easily he'd caught her unawares. She knew that this
    was no time for a rescue, but it was agony to stand by and do noth-
    ing while her friend was dragged away.
     Manacled as he was, Ryn still stood taller than many of his cap-
    tors, tall even for his own ocean-dwelling race. He was broad in the
    shoulders, long and lean along the body, built better for swimming
    and scampering than for walking upright. His fur had suffered from
    the scuffle, and whatever imprisonment had come before. Usually
    immaculate, with a glossy sheen that made it look polished, it was

    




    now scored with dirt and mud, matted in places, and stained with
    what Elora hoped was water but suspected was blood. His face was
    usually expressive as any Daikini's, though while their fangs were
    vestigial, his were not. Ryn's intelligence should have been a match
    for the best among the jeering crowd of onlookers and his sense of
    honor put more than most to shame. But now, snarling through his
    gag, foam flecking his muzzle, a mad glare in his eye, Ryn appeared
    more beast than human.
      The Wyrrn spanned the gap between land and sea. While they
    made their settlements along remote and wild shorelines, they were
    equally at home far out upon the Deep Blue, as they called the
    Mother Ocean. They breathed air but could swim underwater for pe-
    riods that would leave the hardiest Daikini drowned and dead, as
    well as plumb depths that surface dwellers could only reach in their
    imagination. They were as ubiquitous and far-ranging at sea as
    Daikini were on land, and in the main a far more collegial species.
    Their partnership with the Cascani was legend, so much so that sto-
    ries labeled them as related offshoots of the same parents. When
    challenged on that point, the response of either race was generally a
    broad and knowing grin, and the offer of another glass of something
    good to drink to make the encounter pass more enjoyably. The main
    difference between them, aside from the physically obvious, was that
    Cascani lived for the deal and had their fun on the side. Wyrrn ap-
    parently were born laughing, the better the game, the happier they
    were.
      Damn, she thought as she watched Ryn dragged away, and then
    gave the feelings voice, "damn damn damn!"
      "You were hanging back before," Duguay noted, the sound of his
    voice yanking her from her reverie. "Of two minds about staying?"
          17
      "Nope.
      "Nasty business, that."
      Uyup.Y7
    
      He got the message and mentioned no more of it as he led her be-
    neath the portal of the main gate. Passing within on his heels, Elora
    was impressed to note that the redoubt was twice her height in thick-
    ness and that the tree trunks which formed the wall above were
    themselves doubled.
      'These folks take their security seriously," she said quietly, as
    much to Rool on her shoulder as to Duguay by her side. The trouba-
    dour had taken charge of his pack, keeping hold of it with one hand
    and her with the other.

    




     'Then we've every expectation of a sound, safe sleep this night,"
    Duguay responded.
     The promise of a performance gained them a cubby for the night,
    and supper. The closet had a feather bed that might comfortably fit a
    Nelwyn, provided he was modestly sized and didn't move much in
    his sleep, and there were peg hooks on the wall to hold their gear,
    plus a single shelf. No candles, and when Elora inquired about them
    she was greeted with an explosion of derisive mirth from the serving
    lass who had showed them the way. No door, either, only a curtain
    to afford them a marginally threadbare modicum of privacy. Com-
    mon washroom and privy out back. Light, such as it was, came from
    a line of sconces in the hallway. There were quality rooms of course,
    for the quality folk with means to pay for them. Still, the mattress
    was clean, as was the floor and the staff, and the room had a mini-
    mal sense of bugs. Duguay commented that he'd seen worse.
     He sat Elora in the corner farthest from their 'door," plucking off
    her greatcloak to hang on the frame and shroud the pair of them in
    near-absolute darkness. MageSight allowed Elora to see perfectly and
    she wondered if the same held true for him until he folded back one
    comer of the cloak to spill a wedge of light over his pack. From there
    he drew a small metal container, pulled off the tight-fitting top to ex-
    pose the wick. He handed her the lamp, struck flint to steel, and
    within seconds the room had illumination. At his direction she set
    the lamp on the shelf, while he refastened the cloak to enclose them
    completely once more.
      'This could get us into trouble," she told him.
     "Only if they notice, which they won't, and only if we set the
    place on fire, which we won't."
      "You're sure on both counts?"
      'Trust me."
      "You keep saying that."
      'I haven't betrayed you, Elora, and I won't."
      She said nothing but cocked an eyebrow.
     'Please," he said, "don't dissemble. I saw that warrant out front
    same as you and I have to ask, how many silver-skinned people are
    there in the world?"
      'I haven't met the whole world, have you?"
     'Suit yourself, but you can't wander about this fort dressed like
    that."
      "Highlanders do."
      'And when you eat or drink, what then?"

    




     "I can stay here."
     "Won't be doing your friend much good in that case, am I right?"
     He was, and she sighed to show she knew it.
     "How could you tell?"
      "I watch people. I observe the way they react to things. From
    yours, that Wyr was known to you and on a more than casual basis."
     "He's my friend, Duguay. I have to help him."
      "Best then you begin by helping yourself. There are two ways to
    hide when you're on the run." It sounded like firsthand knowledge.
    "Play the titmouse and stay so deep within yourself you're never no-
    ticed. Or grab center stage so flagrantly no one'll dare think of you as
    a fugitive."
     "Speaking from experience?"
      "Not every engagement ends happily. Some audiences carry a
    grudge."
     "And your preference?"
      "People don't like surprises, Elora. It's always better to play to
    their preconceptions and prejudices, to be precisely what they expect.
    You're apprentice to a bard. When was the last time one of that breed
    was ever shy and unassuming? Besides, if you make sure to direct
    everybody's attention one way, all manner of schemes can be
    hatched behind their collective backs."
      "I should warn you, Duguay, if you mean to cast any sort of glam-
    our, magic doesn't hold on me." '
      "A glamour, this isn't. That sort'a nonsense doesn't hold much for
    me, either." His mouth quirked, an expression too wry and rueful to
    be a proper smile. "Besides, you've seen and touched parts of me no
    one else has. A good heart, I'll own to, albeit reluctantly, since I pre-
    fer the role of a rogue and rou6. But magic"-and Elora heard a defi-
    nite sense of sorrow to his tone-"not at all."
      He turned his gaze toward her, and try as she might she still
    couldn't meet it. "I owe you my life, Elora with the silver skin. This
    is small and scant repayment." He took a big and deliberate breath to
    break the mood and returned to his original discourse. "Anyroad,
    magic is too easy, first thing any truly suspicious mind looks for. In a
    stronghold this big, probably three or four household spooks on, re-
    tainer, just to sniff out the slightest whiff of any renegade spell cast-
    ing. Me, I'm an old-fashioned player. I work with my hands, with
    whatever comes to hand, and with my wits, and so should you."
     "What about the rewar&"
     "Am I a liar or a fool to tell you no way? I've the wanderlust in my

    




    soul, Elora, same as you. That's more money than a man like me will
    ever see in his whole life, but what'll I do with it? Carry it on my
    back, I'm branding myself a target for every robber worth the name.
    Even if it was possible to spend so much, I'm not sure I'd want to try.
    That much money has a way of twisting a body's spirit, spin its
    thoughts around a practical, sensible turn. Some are born to be men
    of property, but I've yet to see one of those I truly liked, and I've cer-
    tainly no desire to see one staring back at me each morning from my
    mirror. So, in the balance, I am tempted. I'm only human. But not so
    much as to act on it."
     "Fair enough."
     "You're not convinced."
     "It's a good speech, Duguay, but these are times that cast shadows
    across the best men's souls. Maybe you're right, and that means it's
    better to throw in with scoundrels born. In my case, I sure hope so.
    But under the circumstances, it isn't as if I have a whole lot of choice.
    So ... ?"
     He had her strip to the borderside of decency, shorts and a singlet
    that didn't quite cover her midriff, and at the sight of her even he had
    to sit back on his heels and simply stare. She dropped her eyes and
    hunched her shoulders forward, struck by an unaccustomed fit of
    modesty she'd never felt around the brownies. She locked her fingers
    together in her lap, to keep from little helpless gestures meant to
    cover her body, apologize for her shorn head.
     "That poster doesn't do you justice."
     She didn't trust herself to speak. She wanted to shriek at him, This
    isn't me, this isn't who I really am! Yet at the same time she wanted to
    face him with pride. She'd never felt this way, so wholly and funda-
    mentally unsure of herself. Everyone loved her when she was a baby
    because everyone loves babies. Growing up in Angwyn, the Vizards
    who were her guards and constant companions were no more real to
    her as people than she was to them. Her own opinion of herself was
    so flawed that theirs didn't matter. Afterward, when she was re-
    united with Thorn and came to have an appreciation of her own
    worth and potential, she deliberately refused to think of herself in
    terms of physical beauty. That wasn't the standard she wanted to be
    judged by. She set out to learn skills and shape her body to accom-
    modate them. She always knew the day would come when she
    would want to be seen as a woman, but she never had anyone to pre-
    pare her for the moment.
     'May I touch you?" Duguay asked, and was answered by the shal-

    




    lowest dip of her head. The mere thought of it gave her another at-
    tack of goose bumps and she pursed her lips in agitation as she tried
    to understand how she could feel as though streams of ice-cold and
    near-boiling liquid were intertwining themselves throughout her
    body.
     It's not as though he's doing anything, she thought in frantic confu-
    sion. Rool wouldn't allow it if he tried. She blessed Rool for his presence
    and hated him, all in the same moment.
     "Your kin's warm," he said, marveling, as he took her forearm in
    hand. Then, as if realizing how absurd he sounded, he broke out in a
    low chuckle.
     "Forgive me, Elora," he apologized, gathering himself to his knees
    and dropping head and shoulders slightly forward in a proper bow. "I
    must appear one great and thumping lummox."
      "It's all right."
      "You really do appear a statue come to life."
     "The one spell I've encountered that hasn't washed off. Unless, of
    course, this is how I was supposed to look all along. The question
    is"-and here she hardened her voice, holding fast to the original sub-
    ject of their conversation as though it was a lifeline-'how do I hide
    it? As you said, in plain sight."
      "Clothes are one way, that you know. But for our purposes ...
      Duguay rummaged in his pack, came up with a smaller box that
    opened to reveal a cornucopia o ' f jars and pots, ointments and pastes.
     "The trick," he considered thoughtfully, picking and choosing
    among its contents, "is not to cover the silver, but make it appear as
    though the silver is covering something else."
     "Suppose I sweat, and what about when I bathe, won't your paint
    wash off?"
     "Some will, others not, that's the key. Apply the makeup in layers,
    you see ......
     He left her hair spiky, but washed it with an unguent that turned
    it a black so dark she could have been dipped in an inkwell. He used
    a pencil to shape her brows so that they rose up and away from her
    eyes in a dramatic sweep, and then took a razor to her scalp to
    deepen and extend the arc formed by her natural widow's peak. -
     Paint came next, swashes of vibrant color, primaries all, highlight-
    ing and accentuating the shapes and planes of her face in ways that
    both added years to her appearance and, paradoxically, made it in-
    creasingly difficult to tell precisely what she looked like. The overall
    design was wonderful, Elora never imagined she could ever look so
    
    11

    




    beautiful, yet even she found she couldn't fix any coherent image of
    herself in memory.
     Over the rest of her, every part that would be visible, went a sub-
    tle base coat that didn't so much submerge her argent skin tone as
    cast it in a wholly different light. With paint, Duguay somehow repli-
    cated the same effect that occurred whenever Elora blushed, giving
    her body a faint but discernible roseate accent, the end result being a
    woman with exceedingly pale but otherwise normal skin.
     The final effect was striking. Elora looked utterly wild, with more
    than a deliberate hint of Faery to her features.
     "The main idea for now, though," he told her in what was meant
    to be reassurance, "is to make sure they look more at your face than
    anywhere else."
     'For now?"
     "Face facts, you don't have that distracting a body."
     She hit him for that. He got his revenge by producing the costume
    he wanted her to wear. She held the gauze scarf before her face and
    looked at him right through it.
     'I don't think so," she said warningly.
     As it turned out, her apprehensions were pretty much unfounded.
    There were light sandals for her feet and thin silk trousers that
    hugged legs and bottom like a second skin. They didn't reach her
    waist, however, like proper pants, but sat right atop the line of her
    hips, as did the flounce skirt that tied over them, itself made of a
    gauzy fabric similar to her scarf, ankle length and laced through with
    spangles and beads designed to reflect and refract the light with every
    movement. Despite its seeming lack of substance, the skirt was
    weighted to allow it to flow with her movements, billowing outward
    when she turned with a sleek and sensuous grace that by rights
    should be doing justice to a woman who knew how to use it. A set
    of golden chains encircled her waist, with dangles of metal and crys-
    tal hanging from where it clasped together over her navel.
     The bodice was an equally theatrical mix of the fantastic and the
    practical. A shirt of fine cotton that had the feel and presentation of
    silk, fitting snugly to her shoulders and billowing outward where its
    bell sleeves fastened around her wrists. A high collar swept around to
    a neckline that plunged to the blouse's hem, right below her breasts,
    cut in a way that masked her lack of prominence there. The sleeves
    were slashed from top to bottom, exposing the full length of her
    arms, which were decorated with bangles and bracelets galore, as
    well as with a set of stylized tattoos which Duguay painted on in ink

    




    as black as her new hair. The designs represented nothing Elora was
    familiar with, they were abstract shapes that she best described to
    herself as interlocking spear points.
      More jewelry for her face, a clip-on ring for the septum of her
    nose, with a double line of light chain attached to rings at the tip and
    lobe of her left ear. A broad choker necklace, more gold, around her
    throat, rings for every finger and one of her big toes.
      "Might this not be considered," she wondered as the session pro-
    gressed, "a tad gaudy?"
      Duguay grinned so infectiously she had to respond in kind. "You
    haven't seen me yet."
     The thought of that set her to laughing outright.
      "You're painted in hot colors," he told her, "clothed in warm ones,
    accented in gold, rubies, amethysts. Every element is intended to take
    the watcher as far as possible from a vision of you as you truly are."
     "Will it work?,,
     "Ask me tomorrow."
     'I find that so comforting. What about Ryn?"
     "Your furry friend?"
     "His name is Ryn Taksemanyin."
      "We establish our own rightful place here first, then we can begin
    to maneuver about. The one thing we cannot do is rush."
     "All this preparation doesn't matter a damn if we lose him!"
      "Then you'll have to trust that the Fates aren't in a malicious
    mood."
      She stuck out her tongue at him, and then settled back to watch
    as he began to ready himself for the evening's performance.

    




    C
            Z, P,,,-U C R
    
    DUGUAY WAS VERY GOOD, THERE WAS NO DENYING
    that.
     He charmed the crowd as individuals and as a whole, and
    possessed that rare gift of making a song sound as if it had
    just been written right then and there, a personal creation for
    every person in the room. The dining hall was an imposing
    space, broad more than deep, with room for two impressive
    hearths along one of the long walls. Its twelve-foot ceiling
    was broken at intervals by the massive beams necessary to
    support the upper floors of the building. Rough wood all
    around, creating a dominant impression of rustic strength and
    solidity rather than elegance. This was a functional building,
    with few pretensions, like the people it served.
     Light was courtesy mainly of the hearth fires, plus a mul-
    titude of thick-bodied candles on standards and lamps ar-
    rayed throughout the room. Meals were served on a line of

    




    trestle tables and benches, with the high table on a dais along the wall
    between the two hearths and beneath a magnificent rack of antlers,
    so broad and thick with points that many visitors assumed it couldn't
    be real.
      All around Elora, the hall shook with the raucous assemblage of
    permanent residents and transients, all of whom were in a mood to
    enjoy the troubadour's ribald and occasionally acerbic wit. In return,
    Duguay entertained them with songs and stories that made men bel-
    low with laughter and their lady companions blush and giggle. A beat
    later he would come back to those same tables with a selection that
    provoked entirely the opposite response, howls and scandalized
    shrieks of delight from the womenfolk and grumbles of bluff dis-
    comfiture from their mates.
      At the same time the room was a frenetic bustle of activity as a
    veritable army of serving men and maids rushed to and fro, laden
    with trays of food and drink from the kitchen, equally weighed down
    by dirty dishes on their return. For the most part table manners were
    atrocious, as the several courses of the dinner were attacked with a
    ferocity that would have put many so-called animals to shame. Elora
    was a bit taken aback by all this manic hubbub. Growing up, she al-
    ways sat at the high table at meals, and was the one waited on. Since
    those were invariably state dinners, the most formal and dignified of
    occasions, she found them deadly dull. She had little experience
    working the other side of the table, especially in a crowd like this.
      As a consequence, after Duguay made his entrance she kept close
    by the wall, trying her best to follow his injunction that at the very
    least she look decorative and suspecting she was making a royal
    botch of it. She felt stiff and frighteningly ill at ease, certain her dis-
    guise was a joke, that any moment she'd be denounced and seized.
    Or, far worse to her way of thinking, the crowd would fix on her
    every imperfection and laugh at her pretensions to prettiness. Be-
    cause she'd never done this before and didn't know any better, she
    cared too much what the audience thought of her, and that very
    nearly proved her downfall as she took advantage of Duguay's open-
    ing ballad to slink toward the nearest hidey-hole.
      She never made it, the troubadour didn't let her. His hand caught
    her by the scruff of the neck, and without missing a lyric or a beat of
    his song, he paraded her before the mob. She thought she would die,
    and then determined not to go without killing him first.
      Thankfully, at least Rool wasn't here to see this humiliation.
    (Though, chances were, he'd make a great show of enjoying every

    




    moment and would never, ever, let her forget it.) She'd cut him loose
    before following Duguay inside, to find where Ryn was incarcerated
    and see how he was. Later, when the show was done, she'd follow
    and together they'd work out a plan to set him free. She couldn't help
    wondering how the wily Wyr had been captured in the first place and
    what sort of mission had brought him so far from Thorn. She tried
    not to think about the moment of their collision. In the midst of their
    struggle she'd called out to him with voice and mindspeech, but
    there's been no reply. No acknowledgment of his name, and worse,
    not the faintest awareness of her. She might as well have been yelling
    at a brick.
     Gradually it dawned on her that hardly anyone in the audien~e
    was paying her the slightest bit of attention. They had far more im-
    portant things on their minds, she was simply part of the back-
    ground, to be admired momentarily and then soundly ignored just
    like the antlers on the wall.
     This revelation, of course, left her so miffed that she had to laugh
    out loud.
     It was a liberating realization and with it she cast aside much of
    her stiffness and reserve. The smile that had till now looked pasted
    on her face, and badly, came more spontaneously and began to draw
    equally genuine responses. She watched the serving staff as they
    slipped and sidled their way along the narrow passages between the
    tables and let her own body adopt their rhythms and manners. It
    wasn't as easy as it looked, she quickly discovered as she found her-
    self drafted into service.
     There was a challenge to keeping track of orders and delivering
    them promptly, and as well to handling trays of food that were nearly
    as broad across as she was tall. The tables allowed precious little
    clearance between them and anything that spilled was likely to land
    on a paying customer, which meant that was to be avoided at all
    costs. The problem was dealing with louts and yobbos who took her
    mere presence as an invitation to be rude.
     Quality folk were tabled right below the dais and its high table
    and were accorded the privilege of choosing their dinner from a
    menu. They were presented with a selection of wines as well, for
    which they were handsomely charged. Everyone else, who actually
    had better seats, since their tables fronted both hearths, enjoyed
    whatever repast the cook had in mind. Tonight, that meant a hearty
    game stew-mostly bison, with leftover boar and venison from the
    night before, mixed in a rich, spiced broth with potatoes, leeks,

    




    carrots, onions, and other assorted vegetable s-served in cast-iron
    pots that went straight from kitchen fire to table, each kettle serving
    a dozen customers. No wine for the cheap seats, either, only beer or
    plain water. Unfortunately there were thirsts to match a fair number
    of equally considerable appetites, which kept the staff busy with re-
    fills from the first plating of the night to the last. The only saving
    grace was that the crowd forced the Commandant to banish the fort's
    resident pack of wolf- and elkhounds to their kennels for the evening,
    thereby removing one formidable hurdle from the tavern's nightly
    obstacle course.
     Through it all, Elora obeyed Duguay's injunction to watch and lis-
    ten. She worked as hard as she ever had in her life (as hard, she con-
    cluded with a groan when she realized that the evening was barely
    half over, as in the whole rest ofmy life put together), and she learned more.
     "What's a lovely lass like you doing in a dump like this?" she was
    asked by a strapping young man too altogether certain of his ability
    to set ladies' hearts to fluttering.
     "Why," she replied in the tone of a breathless ingenue, as she'd
    seen the other girls do, and stealing one of their lines as well, "hop-
    ing beyond hope to meet a wonder such as yourself!"
     She fluttered her lashes becomingly (at least, that was the idea)
    and made a moue with her lips. Then Elora's eyes met a fellow serv-
    ing maid's, who made the exact same expression back at her, and the
    false mood of the moment was thoroughly shattered by a mutual at-
    tack of the giggles. The lad didn't get the joke, and rose up to take
    righteous umbrage, but the other maid flicked a foot lightly between
    both of his and fhe next the young man knew he'd dropped hard
    back down onto his bench without the slightest clue as to how he'd
    just lost his balance. The maid immediately topped off his mug with
    beer, gave him her brightest smile and a kiss on the cheek; by the
    time he realized he'd been abandoned, he was altogether smitten,
    and she and Elora an entire table length away.
     "Weren't our fault, what happened!" she heard from a middle-
    aged man, among a clutch of people determined to resist the general
    merriment. She recognized some faces from earlier in the day and
    knew without another word that these were from the wagon tradn
    encamped outside the gates. Immediately, Elora sidled closer to hear
    what they had to say.
     "Weren't right, Maug, what they did," countered another, half
    again as old, as deep in his cups, as haunted in his eyes.
      "You sayin' those poor devils deserved what happened to 'em?"

    




    Maug cried. "By the Realms, Hobi, there was children slaughtered in
    Ganthem's Crossing!"
     So, Elora thought, the village had a name.
     "There was babies, man. An' you know how ogres love the taste
    o' meat that fresh!"
     "Shut'cher damn hole, Maug," snapped another. "There's women
    here with babies, an' folks with kids, who want no more'n for folks
    to mind their business an' their manners so's we can all eat a decent
    meal in peace!"
     "We earned that land of ours fair an' proper, Asa," Maug said. "We
    shoulda stayed."
     'Go back, then," came a challenge. "See how long you last before
    it's your head decoratin' a Faery pikestaff!"
     A mug was hammered down on the tabletop, spilling much of its
    contents. Maug was pulled back down by his fellows before he could
    respond in kind or worse and cause an incident. The fort was peace-
    bonded, no weapons allowed to any save its own detachment of sol-
    diers, and there were always proctors close at hand to quell any
    disturbance. This was only a flashfire altercation, yet Elora spotted
    two of those deputies looking their way. They'd already marked
    these refugees as potential trouble.
     "Behave, Maug," snapped one of the others, "else we'll have the
    law toss you in with that damnable beastie for the night, see who
    walks out come the morn."
     'Meant no harm, not words nor deed," Maug said, but from the
    way he cringed in his seat, Elora knew he took the threat seriously.
      'Those raiders from Elfland, they meant plenty harm."
      "We lived in peace, our kind an' theirs, for as long as always."
     'What can I say, Maug, or any of us? Times have changed. Looks
    like there be new powers beyond the Veil don't care for peace. Don't
    care for Daikinis. They want us gone from their land, or they want
    us dead."
     "Give it a rest, Hobi," someone demanded. "You're as bad as
    Maug."
      'Whole world's gone to hell," lamented Maug over a fresh beer.
     'Teach you to believe in that damn 'Sacred Princess' nonsense, ya
    dumb duffer."
      'She was hope."
     "For who?" "Sure, not for us." "B'sides, you seen that poster, she's
    gone missing." "Ahhh, but if we could find her..." "Dream on." A
    clutch of voices, overlapping as one.

    




     "More money there than all of us put together could dream of
    spending," Hobi proposed enticingly, "if we had all our lifetimes to
    try. We could start again."
     "If wishes were pigs. . ." scoffed Asa.
     "Where can we live," said Maug, "that the lords of Greater Faery
    won't claim for their own?"
     "Among the Maizan, maybe," Hobi offered.
     "Aye," agreed another at the table. "It's said none of the Veil hold
    any sway in Maizan land."
     'How long'11 that last?"
     "It's better'n we got now."
     'Girly!" With a start, and after a second and third call for her at-
    tention, Elora realized that call was for her. 'More ale!"
     "It's hope, damn it!" said Hobi, but Maug shook his grizzled head.
     "We got no hope," he said. "We got no hope."
     Elora topped off their mugs, cleared what plates were ready, al-
    lowed herself to drift around the periphery of the room. She didn't
    need any special abilities to see now how forced and almost desper-
    ate the general good humor was. That it existed at all was because
    too many of those present refused to consider anything more than
    the immediate here and now. The analogy that came most readily to
    her mind was of the calm surface of the water, hiding the vicious rip-
    tides that lurked a body length below to doom any unwary swimmer.
    Ryn had told her a long time ago that one of the first things that
    young Wyrm learned was how to recognize those treacherous strips
    of water because even the strongest swimmer could find himself in
    deadly trouble if he let himself be caught.
     The image turned her thoughts to Ryn but there was still too
    much to do in the dining hall, she had no opportunity to slip away.
    What bothered her was hearing no news from Rool.
     A stocky figure of average height paused a moment in the door-
    way, returning the wave of an officer at a front table and quickly
    threading his way through the crowd toward him. He caught Elora's
    elbow as he went and gave her a rushed order for food and water. He
    wore mail, his surtoat emblazoned with the sigil of the Sandeni cav-
    alry corps and the piping of a captain. There was dust all over him,
    worked deep into the creases of his mouth, and he smelled of both
    human sweat and horse. He was armed with long sword, short
    sword, and daggers but he'd left his helmet at the door. His stiff gait
    and the way his legs bowed told her he'd just come from a long ride,
    as did the way he eased himself onto the proffered bench.

    




     He drained a full glass of water the moment she set it before him,
    so she brought a large carafe with his meal, returning in time to catch
    him in mid-conversation.
     "No word from the Paradise River patrol?" he was asking his fel-
    low officer who'd cried the greeting.
     "No reason to expect any, Sam, they're not due for a week yet."
     "This is black business, Ran, an' that's no error. Baraclough's Sta-
    tion, up by Tooley Crest. .
     "I know the place."
     'Gone. As bad as Ganthem's, so my scryscouts said."
     "You didn't press on to see for yourself?"
     "No, I did not. I'll tell you what I just told the Colonel, I'll not be
    throwing away good men we'll likely be needing before winter."
     "Your scouts couldn't establish contact with the Paradise patrol?"
     The Captain shook his head. 'That's what's got me scared. The
    raiders, I think they let us see Baraclough's same as they did Gan-
    them's, so's we'd spread the word across the whole of these high-
    lands. I'm also thinkin', any settlement that isn't down here by
    week's end, they won't be comin' at all." He blinked, surprised to find
    a bowl of steaming stew beneath his nose, plus a plate with extra
    bread. His hunger matched his thirst and he ate wolfishly, shoveling
    the food into his mouth without regard for its taste. He could have
    been eating swill for all he appeared to notice.
     "Colonel says no crops go downstream this harvest," the other of-
    ficer told him. "Everything consumable is to be brought within the
    walls and stored for siege. We're to make a residence plan as well."
    He took a hefty swallow of his ale. "You've seen the crowd outside,
    Sam. If more come, can we accommodate them all?"
     "For their sakes, we'll have to."
     "First the Maizan, now this. What the hell is happening to the
    world?"
     'Looks like war, lad."
     Elora blinked rapidly, shaken not so much by the news but by the
    resignation underlying it. Events to these men were out of their con-
    trol, they could do no more than try to cope with the consequences.
    That same air of despondency flickered through the emotional atmo-
    sphere of the hall like a heat haze, carrying with it an unpleasant af-
    tertaste of acid and grease that reminded her of the time she'd been
    caught downwind of one of the Nelwyn smelters. The effect could be
    endured, even though it made the lungs bum, but it was no place to
    linger because a lengthy exposure would kill.

    




      She looked for Duguay, hoping to find him as the sole shining
    point of light amidst the gloom. Instead she found the lad who'd
    made a clumsy pass at her earlier.
      "Uh," he said, in the manner of boys, to break her reverie, and
    then as her eyes focused in on him, "hi."
      He was as stumble-tongued as the other maid had made him
    stumble-footed when she tripped him, bravado packed away now
    that he was out of eyeshot of his fellows. He had size on her in every
    dimension, and years, too, by the look of him, yet Elora had a strange
    intuition that he regarded her as the older and wiser of the pair.
      "Hello," she returned with polite reserve. She was leaning back
    against one of the pillars that supported the ceiling, both arms
    wrapped lightly around a large pitcher of beer she was holding close
    to her belly.
      "I'm, uh, Luc-Jon."
      'Elora."
      He bobbed his head and flashed a lopsided grin. "I know. I asked.
    He's pretty good," and indicated Duguay with a jut of the chin. She
    said nothing, which made him react as if the ice beneath his emo-
    tional feet was beginning to crack. 'You, too, I'll bet."
      "Thank you. You're very kind."
      Something wet and cool poked her in the side and the sad eyes of
    one of the household wolfhounds gazed beseechingly up at her. The
    dog stood as tall at the shoulder as her waist and easily doubled her
    weight. Big head, big body, with a keen intelligence that marked it
    much more as companion than pet. These were hunting animals,
    bred and trained originally to battle the terrible dire wolves of legend,
    who held such sway in these mountain forests that they were once
    revered as gods themselves and in turn gave rise to the earliest known
    tales of heroes. Those stories told of how the wolves had exchanged
    the true and vaguely human form they wore in their own accursed
    home for this most fearsome of predator shapes, and came to this
    world to hunt Daikini for sport.
      Daikini being Daikini, so those age-old tales went, which is to say
    stubborn beyond all belief and even more cunning, they fought back.
    They adapted, by learning new ways to fight and finding allies to
    help them, forming a bond with these hounds that had lasted unbro-
    ken through the ages. Every other time, every other place, the depre-
    dations of the dire wolves lasted until they grew bored and departed
    of their own accord, satisfied that they had marked both land and
    people with blood and horror enough to scar them to the end of time.

    




    I
    
    Against the Daikini, for the first time in their own history, they found
    themselves actively repulsed, leaving behind only tales and a name
    that was never spoken lightly, if at all, to this very day, because it still
    had the capacity to inspire dread in any who heard it.
     This most ancient and feared race called themselves the Malevoiy.
     Elora laid her hand on the wolfhound's head, and the beast gave
    her palm a single lick with its broad, warm, altogether slobbery
    tongue.
     'You've made a friend," the young man said.
     "You like puppies?"
     The lad chuckled. "This'un ain't been a puppy for years now, got
    pups an'gran'pups of his own."
     "No fooling? I wouldn't have guessed, to look at him. He seems as
    young as you."
     "You're funnin' me."
     "No, really."
     Elora set down her jug and folded herself at the hips and knees un-
    til she was sitting on her heels, still braced against the pillar, her head
    on the same level as the hound's, who proceeded to give her a thor-
    ough sniffing. For a moment she felt a surge of panic at the thought
    the hound might move from sniffs to licks and thereby make a mess
    of her disguise, but a good look into the dog's eyes instantly calmed
    those fears. He and his kind meant her no harm. Quite the opposite,
    in fact.
     He knows who I am, she thought in amazement.
     "Given his bloodline, Elora Danan, hardly a surprise." Rool's voice,
    mindspeaking inside her head, and Elora flushed hot to realize how
    carelessly she'd broadcast her thoughts to give him so strong an
    awareness of what she was seeing. "These wolffiounds," the brownie
    continued, 'have been bred to sense the difference between good and
    evil, light and shadow."
     "Rool, in his heart-!" She struggled a moment to put words to the
    absolute and unwavering faith she found there. "He'll defend me to
    the death!"
     "As would Drumheller," the brownie replied, "as would Ryn, as
    would U
     'Rool," she said, unaware that she was speaking aloud, "I can hear
    it in your voice. What's wrong?"
     Sensing her sudden surge of distress, the hound whined and gave
    her a nudge with his muzzle.
     'Anything the matter?" the lad asked, hunkering down himself

    




    Ni
    
    and not convinced in the slightest by the emphatic shake of her head.
    "Thought I heard'ja say somethin'. Too blessed loud in here for any-
    body to make sense with less than a shout. Come on," he told Elora
    in a take-charge tone he hoped would brook no back talk, "you've the
    look of someone needin' fresh air."
      She acquiesced until she'd risen once more to her feet, then made
    her apologies.
      'You're right on both counts," she told him, "the noise and the
    need for a break."
      "So stuff 'em," she was told conspiratorially. "Stuff him, too, while
    yer at it. Everyone deserves a moment to play hooky, thisn's yours."
      'Right now I can't. I'm really sorry." That was where she meant to
    end it but her body acted of its own accord, the line popping free be-
    fore she even realized she was speaking. 'Some other time, maybe?"
    She swallowed hard, not sure which of the possible answers was
    making her the more nervous.
      "I'd like that," he said. "Soon, yah?"
      The grin she answered with popped every bubble in his head
    about her being older, for it was as youthful and conspiratorial as his
    own.
      It stayed with her out onto the porch and beyond to the broad ex-
    panse of the parade ground. She cast about for some sign of the
    brownie, was about to call with mindspeech, when Bastian reached
    out to her instead. The eagle stood atop the apex of one of the block-
    house watchtowers, which gave him a commanding view of the en-
    tire yard. InSight did the same for Elora through his eyes, and since
    he already knew where to look, that single glance was all she needed
    to guide her to her friends.
      Ryn had been locked inside a comer of the horse bam reserved for
    wild mounts who hadn't yet been broken to the saddle. The timbers
    were as stout as any in the fort and Elora doubted even an ogre's
    punch could easily break them. Moreover, massive ringbolts had been
    mounted on the walls and floor, the prisoner shackled so comprehen-
    sively he couldn't do more than stir. The weight of the metal alone
    that bound him was probably greater than his own. There was no
    provision for hygiene either, beyond rushes strewn haphazardly over
    the floor, ' and Elora's nose wrinkled in acknowledgment of the smell.
      All this she saw through Rool's eyes. There was a pair of guards
    at the entrance to the stable and all the windows had been latched
    shut.
      "Ryn," she called softly with mindspeech.

    




     There was no reply as a small form dropped lithely from a chink
    in one of the wall seams.
     'It's no use, Elora," Rool said with a disconcerting edge of bleak-
    ness to his utterly professional tone and manner. "A wasted effort."
     "What are you talking about?" she demanded in a whisper. "He
    hasn't answered me," she realized. "Surely he heard-!"
     "No doubt."
     She fingered his long canvas duster, a fresh double line of parallel
    slashes that opened one whole side of it along Rool's flank.
     "I got too close," he said in answer to her unspoken query. 'I ap-
    proached him like a friend. My mistake."
     "He attacked you?" She didn't bother trying to hide her in-
    credulity~
     'He was hungry, I was meat. He was bound, I was free. Who
    knows? So used to seeing him play slybones all the while, you forget
    how fast Wyrm. can really move when there's need. Happily"-a
    ghost of a smile that lacked the smallest scrap of humor-"brownies
    can move even faster."
     'I don't believe this."
     He nodded. He'd expected this response.
     "Ride with me back inside, then," he said, meaning that she
    should use her InSight to bond her thoughts and spirit temporarily
    with his, a more complete merger than she normally utilized when
    she just wanted a peek through another's senses. "But what you find
    won't be pretty. Bastian," he continued in the same matter-of-fact
    tone, trusting the eagle to hear him, "watch over her body while she's
    spirit-strolling."
     "Always," was the reply. "And I won't be alone in that regard."
     Both girl and brownie looked over their shoulder as the
    wolfhound dropped heavily to his belly. His dark coat was ideal cam-
    ouflage for the heavily shadowed alley, only the glint of his eyes gave
    him away.
     'I must be getting old," Rool muttered disgustedly, "to be so lack-
    wit as not to notice something big as that sneaking up on me."
     "Maybe it's because he meant us no harm?"
     "Fine. What's Faralom's excuse?"
     "Duguay?"
     "Back at that tower, Elora, I had spirit-scents from the goblin, the
    two elves, the ogres. I marked the carrion smell of all the leavings
    piled in the ground floor. Nothing more. Nothing since, where
    Duguay's concerned."
    
    I

    




      "You telling me he's not real, Rool? I helped the man heal himself.
    Trust me, he's as real as any of us."
      "Oh aye, girl, I can see him, hear him, touch him. On every tangi-
    ble level, he exists. But go a step beyond and there's nothing but fog.
    The only spirit-scent I read off him is a residue of yours, from that
    healing."
      "Are you saying he has some magic?"
      "I don't know what he's got, or even what he is! I've never seen
    the like of him before."
      "Why haven't you said any of this before now?"
      "There's a saying: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.
    You weren't about to abandon him, I wanted to learn what he had in
    mind."
      "He's done nothing but help, Rool."
      "To serve whose purposes, Elora Danan?"
      "I don't care right now. And I don't want to talk about it anymore.
    It's Ryn who needs us."
      She was really angry, which wasn't the ideal state of being in
    which to use her InSight in this manner. It made for a rough ride, and
    unfortunately the person she bonded with was the one who bore the
    brunt of the grief. In Rool's case, the net result was a moderate to aw-
    fulheadache.
      She pressed on regardless, reaching out to Ryn with her thoughts
    the moment the Wyr came into view. Her heart leaped to see him and
    the sight only made her rage all the more. He was manacled in a sit-
    ting position, on the floor, arms and legs outstretched, shackled seem-
    ingly at every major joint: wrists and ankles, elbows and knees, plus
    waist and throat. A spiked skullcage enclosed his entire head, locking
    his jaw closed tight on a thick gag.
      "They haven't seen to his wounds, Rool," she said with mind-
    speech. "One's close to festering."
      "I can smell the rot, Elora. Can you work from here? I'll go no
    closer."
      "What happened before? How'd you get into trouble?"
      The brownie sounded chagrined. The fault was his. "They didn't
    bind his fingers."
      "His claws. . ." she began.
      "Are very sharp," he finished.
      "I'll fix the damage."
      "You can sew?"
      "Heavens forfend, no! I'll simply sing the appropriate song of

    




    shaping and remind the threads of how they used to lie together. The
    little darlings will do all the work for me."
     It was a splendid deadpan delivery and he fell for it like a brick.
     "You can't do that!" he accused after due consideration.
     "Of course I'll sew it," she chortled, delighted to get a bit of her
    own back against the brownies. "I learned a lot of useful skills in
    Torquil's household."
     "Proper marvel you are, that's obvious."
     'Hey, what can I tell ya, being the Sacred Princess isn't what it
    used to be."
     This was a tiny interlude of repartee but absolutely necessary for
    Elora. There was no way she should attempt a healing with her spirit
    wrapped tight in skeins of violent, negative energy. To reach out in
    anger might well make the wounds worse and, by example, flashfire
    the infection she had sensed into full-blown gangrene.
     As with Duguay, the first requirement was to assume a measure
    of control over the active life 'processes, most notably pulse and res-
    piration. The difficulty here was that she was manipulating two
    physical bodies while her spirit was apart from both of them. If
    something went wrong, the first set of reserves she'd have to draw
    on would not be her own but Rool's, since she was sharing his body.
    Worse, since the energies she wielded were those of primal fire, any
    kind of uncontrolled surge would consume him utterly.
     He knew that full well but didn't raise the point. His trust was ab-
    solute, as was her determination never to betray it.
     There was no resistance from Ryn to her incursion but she pulled
    back from him regardless, as if that merest touch was poison.
     'What?" Rool asked her, sensing shock and distress and a horrified
    grief.
     'It's not Ryn," she said, aghast.
     "A changeling. Some double, you mean?"
     'No, no, nothing like that. It is Ryn, yet it's not. Rool, it's a spell.
    He's been cursed."
     'Ah. A very good one, it must be, for me not to notice."
     'I spotted it just as I began to merge with him, like a spiderweb
    beneath the skin. I'll have to be really careful here, Rool, I can't finish
    the healing all at once."
     'Should you try at all? You might be trapped yourself."
     "It doesn't feel powerful enough to hold me, but damaging the
    pattern might have an effect on Ryn. There's a total absence of spirit '   I
    or self What's held here is the shell of him, able only to function in

    




    its most bestial state. It has nothing to do with being a Wyr, I don't
    believe even the most crazed of them would act so. His humanity's
    been stolen, and replaced by this brute."
     "Very sly."
     "You talk like you admire what's been done!"
     "Abomination this may be, Elora, but an exercise in supreme cun-
    ning nonetheless. You have the essence of the man all for your own
    and at the same time prevent him from resisting you in any mean-
    ingful way. He can't turn to friends for help, or explain what's hap-
    pened, and he's so dangerous he has to be locked away lest he
    slaughter those who wish to save him. Should the body somehow es-
    cape, as Ryn obviously has, he won't be that hard to find."
     "Rool"-her voice was rough with dismay as she fought back
    tears-"I don't know from spells. I can, I can help his body heal itself,
    but that spiderweb inside him, that was grafted on by someone else.
    It isn't natural. I'd have a better shot manipulating the iron of those
    chains."
     "Help him as you can, Highness. Then let's get out of here."
     She worked on only one wound, and that only to erase the infec-
    tion. It was a long way from healed but it was all she wanted to try
    until she had a better idea of the limitations imposed on her by the
    spell that held Ryn.
     The yard was silent as she slipped free of Rool's body and re-
    turned to her own. Torches burned along the parapet and at intervals
    throughout the yard, but almost none of the windows visible were il-
    luminated. The scene possessed the eldritch stillness of deep night.
     "How late is it, I wonder?" she asked rhetorically as she took a
    wary look about.
     'Late enough for all good souls to be in bed. We shouldn't tarry."
     "You're not going to." The forcefulness in her tone made the
    brownie look sharply up at her.
     "I'm of no use to Ryn," she said, "neither are you. There's only one
    person who can help him."
     "Out of the question."
     "Don't be obstinate, Rool, you know I'm right."
     "Observation and conclusion, top-notch. Where this is leadidg,
    madness."
     "Someone has to tell Thom."
     'Bastian can go, I'll stay with you."
     "That won't work. Because we were merged, you saw what I saw,
    Rool. Firsthand observations are critical, especially since you can ex-

    




    plain it a whole lot better than Bastian can. You're both of the Circle
    of the Flesh, that's true, but Bastian's wholly of the world; he's bound
    to the Realm of the Daikini. Rool, you're of the Veil, you have a com-
    prehension of magic, an insight and understanding, that he doesn't.
    No offense, Bastian," she added hurriedly with a mindcall to the ea-
    gle, fearing she might have hurt his feelings with her blunt assess-
    ment.
     "None taken. And she's right."
     "I won't leave you alone," the brownie insisted stubbornly.
     She smiled. "I have my wits. And as we've discovered tonight, I
    have my puppy."
     Obligingly, the wolfhound whoulfed at them from where he lay.
     'Perhaps that's why he made himself known to me," she went on,
    'because he sensed a moment like this was at hand."
     'It's too dangerous, Elora. There's that Maizan price on your head,
    and who knows what repercussions from what happened at that vil-
    lage." He left the line unfinished but Elora had no doubts as to the
    conclusion of his thoughts: and no matter how much you try to take his
    part I'll not trust that dandy troubadour!
     "I'll be careful, Rool," she told him, "I'll be fine," and then admin-
    istered the coup de grAce. "Unless you have a better idea."
     He paced, he fumed, he worried a thumb knuckle, he would have
    ranted, but none of them wanted to draw the attention of the night-
    watch sentries.
     'Please don't be foolish," he implored at last, as his concession of
    her victory.
     "Sooner you're gone, the sooner you're back. We'll be waiting."
     With a rare formality, he took one of her fingers in his hand and
    bent at the waist in a proper court bow to kiss it. She took him in her
    palm and with the same regal gravity lifted him to her lips to bestow
    a kiss on his head where he'd been wounded weeks ago. She rose to
    her feet, placing Rool on her left shoulder, lifting the arm in invitation
    to the eagle.
     Silent as any wraith, Bastian swooped out of the night, wings and
    body curving to embrace the air even as his claws did the same to
    Elora's outheld arm. Any sane falconer would be wrapped thick in
    protective garb from shoulder to gauntleted wrist, yet Bastian's touch
    was so considerate, his balance so exquisite, that the dagger points of
    his talons made hardly an indentation in the fine cloth of her blouse.
    He partially extended his nearside wing to form a ramp for Rool, who
    obligingly scampered to his perch straddling the eagle's shoulders.

    




    Elora gave Bastian a gentle stroke along the feathers of his broad
    breast.
     'Fly fast," she told him. 'Stay safe."
     "No less," he replied, "than you."
     A powerful thrust of the legs propelled him from her shoulder.
    The moment he was clear, his wings pumped the air to gain him al-
    titude by brute muscle power alone.
     As the eagle swept across the yard Rool let out a banshee screech
    that turned heads and set dogs to barking throughout the stronghold,
    leaving Elora understandably impressed that such a wee bit of a crea-
    ture could utter so caterwauling a noise.
     And then she was alone. Until a weight pressed against her hip
    and her hand quite naturally cupped the hound's massive head.
    
     Duguay made no comment as she slipped gingerly over the
    threshold and hunkered down into the space he'd left her on their
    pallet. She'd stripped herself to pants and shirt in the washroom, di-
    vesting herself of everything that might make noise enough to wake
    him. She could see by her reflection in what passed there for a mir-
    ror that the body paint had survived the night remarkably intact, but
    even so, the twenty-odd strides to their room were the longest and
    most harrowing she could recall. She wedged herself into a corner
    and tucked her greatcloak snug about her until she was completely
    covered save for her head. She slept where she sat, as in a chair.
     Paid for it, too, come the morning, with a grimace or a groan for
    every attempt to shift position. She knew he'd been awake when she
    returned and was grateful for his pretense, her estimation of him ris-
    ing another notch when he said nothing about the absence of either
    Rool or Bastian. She was used, sadly, to being feared, for that was but
    a short step removed from the veneration accorded her in Angwyn as
    the Sacred Princess. It was a far different feeling to find herself, even
    now, respected. She still wasn't sure she deserved it but found herself
    thankful just the same.
     The troubadour had news, revealed after a hearty breakfast as
    Elora found herself led to a different floor of the hostelry and a much
    nicer room. Evidently Duguay's performance had so impressed the
    innkeeper that, in return for a guarantee of a week's run, minimum,
    she had upgraded them to a chamber with a door, together with
    space to move around in, a window overlooking the parade ground,
    and an actual bed.
     By night, the pair of them worked from first seating to last,

    




    Duguay entertaining, Elora serving meals. She didn't explain where
    she went for an hour or so afterward, nor did he pry, except to offer
    a sympathetic eye at the hollows on her features and the tension
    strung through her body when she returned. It wasn't a huge bed,
    though a comfortable enough fit for two. The problem for Elora was
    that she'd never really shared one before. She of course had no sib-
    lings, and because of her status had never even shared one with a
    maid. She didn't know what to expect of him or of herself and the
    first night she resolved the problem by curling up on the floor.
     That day, Duguay took some of their earnings and presented her
    with a nightgown. Soft flannel, because the weather was showing far
    more signs of fall than summer, long-sleeved and floor length with an
    arrangement of delicate floral embroidery about the bodice, His gen-
    erosity had limits, however. He would share the bed but not give it
    up.
     The solution, since she didn't much like the floor either, was to di-
    vide the bedding and the mattress equally, each of them rolling in a
    set of separate blankets as though they were separate sleeping bags.
    They might well touch as they moved about during the night, but
    only through a major thickness of cloth. This was a source of consid-
    erable amusement to Duguay, and of perplexed self-consciousness to
    Elora. She enjoyed his company when they were awake, and his
    proximity when they weren't. She felt safe and secure to have him in
    reach, all Rool's concerns notwithstanding. She acknowledged them
    but did not share them and as time passed saw less and less reason to
    give them any weight.
     Her days quickly proved far from free, for Duguay took her role as
    his apprentice quite seriously. They didn't work anywhere within the
    fort, she was far too shy for that, but each morning he would lead her
    along the river to find a stand of rocks or a clearing within a grove of
    standing trees. He started her with scales to warm up her voice, and
    exercises to unlimber her body, and then push both to their limits.
     For all her initial protestations, Elora discovered that she had a
    voice, and a surprisingly good one. It lacked the purity of classic so-
    pranos, she was no match for the soloists among the stronghold choir
    and probably not for any of the chorus, either. Those weren't the
    kind of songs she sang, anyway. Hers was a bar voice, meant for
    smoky rooms where the competition was wine and conversation and
    the occasional thump of knuckles on nose, and the counterpoint to a
    good line of verse was the crash of pewter dinnerware, or worse,
    china, hitting the floor. She had a fairly broad range for someone

    




    without training, and she hit her notes the way a master swordsman
    crosses blades, sharp and clear and with an edge that cuts. Better yet,
    she had the endurance to sustain those notes and the diaphragm
    strength to make them heard.
     It was her passion, though, that had the power to make her mem-
    orable. Duguay found within her the talent to present a love song
    with the innocence of someone who'd never even been kissed, for
    whom the whole of life was nothing but possibilities and dreams. Or
    lament a loss so piercing she'd surely wrest tears from hardened cam-
    paigners. By lesson, and example in the evenings when he took the
    stage, Duguay taught her to gauge the mood of her audience and
    pitch her performance accordingly, sedate one moment, roguish the
    next, drawing heat from them or striking out at them with her own,
    as if it was a weapon.
     At the same time he made improvements to the design of her
    makeup, offered suggestions for her costuming, switching conversa-
    tional subjects from one fine to the next, as though they all ran along
    parallel tracks, allowing him to jump randomly from one to another
    and back again.
      "Do you really believe this works?" she asked him.
     "I didn't hear any shouts of discovery last night, or the night be-
    fore, or during either day."
      "That's because everyone was looking at you."
     "I rest my case. As my apprentice, you have a place and an iden-
    tity. Your function is to draw attention to yourself, because that
    draws attention to me, and that is how we bards earn our living. But
    when people look at you, they see what they expect to see, a trou-
    badour in training, not that far removed-in the eyes of so-called
    quality folk-from the village tart. They can't be bothered to look
    past the prejudice to see the fugitive beneath, especially if that fugi-
    tive is supposed to be some kind of royalty. They resolve the conun-
    drum according to their bias: royalty dresses a certain way, acts a
    certain way, you neither dress nor act like royalty, therefore you can-
    not be royalty. Therefore, ultimately, you cannot be the personage
    everyone's looking for. By contrast, a girl traveling alone, folks might
    wonder why. Wondering why, they'll wonder who you are, where
    you hail from, what you're doing here. Wondering who and where
    and what, they'll pick at any disguise until they know."
      "You're as twisted a trickster as a brownie."
      "I trust that's a compliment. A touch more kohl for the eyes, I

    




    daresay, to seat them deeper in the sockets, hmnh yes, and enhance
    your general air of exotica and mystery."
     "Will this ever come off?" she wondered with a dollop of concern.
     "Undoubtedly, and at the most inconvenient moment."
     'Oh joy."
     'First law of the universe, everybody knows that-Whatever can
    go wrong, will. Or is it, I'm making this up as I go along? Hoy, Elora,
    stop giggling there, you wretched creature, these lines have to run
    straight." Then, a while later: 'How's your friend?"
     She knew whom he meant. "Better," she said. "Looks worse than
    ever but I've done what I could for his wounds."
     "Obviously, from your tone and expression, there's more to it."
     "Someone did this to him, Duguay."
     "That's the way of sorcery, 'lora. There always has to be a victim."
     'Every spell has its counter!"
     'That's the hope. But does every poison have an antidote, every
    sickness a cure?y'
     "You sound like all the people in the fort."
     'All? In what way?"
     "They're giving up. A lot of them have given up. It's like they're
    dead, only none of them knows it yet."
     "So do something about it!"
     'I'd love to! If I only had the power and the knowledge I could
    cage the Maizan before they could conquer another city, and make
    the Great Realms behave. There was a Demon Queen once named
    Bavmorda ......
     "I've heard songs about her."
     'I'll just bet. She was as evil as could be but there are times I'd love
    nothing more than to wave my arms like her and cry the proper
    arrangement of syllables, and presto, turn a whole invading army into
    Pigs."
     "And that would make things right, you figure?"
     'It's a place to start, isn't it? At least itd bring some order and
    peace to people's lives."
     'Is that what they want?"
     'Why wouldn't they? Why wouldn't anyone?"
     'Blessed if I know, Elora. Why not find out for yourself? That's
    what a bard does mostly-listen, to the ebb and flow of conversa-
    tion, who's doing what to whom and why, where folk come from,
    what they dream of, what they fear. Stir it all together, offer it back

    




    to them in songs to make them laugh or cry or think, but always to
    feel. I mean, it's all very well to be a legend"-she shot him a sharp
    and piercing glance from under lowered lids-"but who do you think
    spreads the word?"
     His face moved close to hers, his breath warm across her cheek.
    Somehow, though, the touch of it on her skin made her shiver as a
    chill breeze never did.
      "Tonight, I think," he mused, "we'll go a bit bloody."
     He was talking about lip paint and nail polish and quickly mixed
    a color that was both darker and more red than burgundy wine. The
    application made her mouth stand out dramatically, even against the
    backdrop of her painted face, and he used a variation on the shade to
    accent her eyes.
     "I can do this," she told him as he expertly drew a brush across her
    nails.
      "It's my pleasure," was his offhand reply.
      Mine, too. The thought popped unbidden into her head.
     Her hand lay on his thigh, just above the knee, the two of them
    sharing a seat on a flat-topped slab of a boulder overlooking the river.
    There weren't many trees along this stretch of bank, the ground
    cover was a mixture of grass and wildflowers. He finished her last
    finger-making a better job of it, she conceded easily to herself, than I
    possibly could-but otherwise made no move. Toward her or away.
    His gaze had to be intense, though every other aspect of his body
    was casual and relaxed, but Elora couldn't bring herself to lift her eyes
    to his for confirmation.
     He extended a pair of fingers and lightly stroked the tendons of
    her hand as if they were guitar strings.
     She started to say "please," but couldn't decide what was to come
    next: "stop" or "more." That was when the dog coughed.
     The wolfhound sat at a discreet remove, tongue lolling as direct
    sunlight warmed his sable coat. He was the picture of innocence and
    as effective a mood breaker as any chaperon.
     "How does anything that big"-Duguay marveled-"approach so
    silently?"
     He patted her hand, a more companionable gesture, and pfo-
    ceeded to pack away his pots and potions. "I must say, Elora," he told
    her, "you make the most damnably infernal friends."
      "Being one, Master Faralom"-she laughed-"you should know."
     Where the hound roamed, Luc-Jon wasn't far behind. Or perhaps
    it was that he knew the hound would invariably lead him to Elora.

    




    Either way, she didn't mind as the young man rambled over to where
    she sat, Duguay having returned to the fort to prepare for this
    evening's performance.
     The sky was supernally clear, with a crispness to the air that held
    more than a promise of winter, though by the calendar it wasn't yet
    autumn. Luc-Jon pulled his collar tight and made to gather Elora
    close, to share some of that warmth. He was tactful enough not to
    press the point when she didn't take his hint.
     'Cold?" he inquired.
     'Is it?" she queried back. "I hadn't noticed."
     "Dressed like that, I figured you'd be the first."
     She dropped her eyes and felt her cheeks grow warm. He left her
    in peace again and occupied himself by tossing a stick for the hound
    to fetch. The dog hardly seemed to make an effort, yet not a single
    time in a half-score tries did that stick touch the ground once it had
    been thrown. The hound would mark its line of flight and be there to
    catch it, eating up the distance between with a stride that would put
    a horse to shame.
     'Bears move like that'cha know," said Luc-Jon.
     'How do you mean?"
     "Ya sees 'em," Luc-Jon explained, "they look like these big, plush,
    stuffy toys, all fat an' lazy like. They see something they want, sum-
    mat that angers 'em like, they get really rollin', boy you better watch
    out. They'll be on you quick as lightning."
     He tried to fake a toss, but the hound merely gave him a look of
    such patience and contempt that Luc-Jon didn't even try the bluff
    he'd prepared but heaved the piece of wood as far as he could.
     'Do you work with dogs?" Elora asked him.
     "Na, jus' like 'em is all. I'm an apprentice."
     'Me, too.'
     'So, you'll sing an' play someday, like hisself in there?"
     She shrugged and shifted the subject back to him. 'What about
    you~"
     "Scribe, that's me."
     "You're not!"
     "What, I look that much a thickwit?"
     'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude.' She flushed, she stammered,
    she lost all pretense of mystery and found herself once more acting
    her age. "It's just, I thought, I mean, I am, I am so sorry."
     'Not to worry," he told her, enjoying her discomfiture even as he
    tried his best to ease it. 'Ain't the first to react that way, given the
    
    I

    




    way I talk. I know the woods-can't grow up here'bouts without
    learnin' that-know animals. I can ride fair an' I'm decent with bow
    and blade; I can stand my place with the militia. But the best at what
    I do is letters. A sure an' elegant hand, my master says."
     "I'm impressed."
     "First one in my whole house, I am, can read an' write. First one
    as far back as any can remember in my family. Problem is, the knack
    I got with words on paper, it don't carry over as easy to speech."
     "What do you write?"
     They were strolling with apparent aimlessness toward the com-
    pound, the wolfhound pacing behind them. Luc-Jon took her hand in
    his for a bit, she didn't mind, but he let her loose in short order be-
    cause he used his hands when he spoke, weaving his pictures like a
    born storyteller with gestures as well as words,
     "Letters, o' course. I read 'em also, them what arrive in the post.
    Contracts an' the like, though the master's seal has to go on all for-
    mal documents, to make 'em all proper an' legal. An' it's fun some-
    times, t' take the stories I hear an' put 'em down in ink."
     He paused, but clearly there was more to tell, so Elora prompted
    him with her expression. He looked endearingly shy.
     "I change 'em when I do. A little."
      "In what way?"
     "T' add some spice, maybe make the characters a little more like
    local folk might recognize but also mix in some of what I've heard an'
    read 'bout folks from other lands. Sort of what the world might be if
    it was all mine to make over. I mean'-another pause as he searched
    around him for inspiration-"this is home an' all, an' it's a place ol
    wonder for those with wit to truly look, but it's still wood an' hill an
    meadow an' stream, as it's been my whole life. The same old, samE
    old. My dreams, they're full of all these places I've never seen. If I car
    make 'em real in my words, it's as good as goin'."
     "Why not go for real? You've a craft that'll serve you as wel
    downriver as here."
     "Once I'm certified, aye, then I'll have my craft."
     "But ... ? I hear a but."
     "This is home. An' I'd hate ta find out my dreams was better.'I go
    time yet, though. Maybe I'll stay. Maybe I won't." Then, abruptly
    'Y'know, Elora, my master, he owns books!"
     "Oh."
     "Lots of books."
     "Ah."

    




     In her tower in Angwyn, there'd been a room of no mean size
    shelved floor to very high ceiling with books, the knowledge of the
    ages she was often told, donated for the education of the Sacred
    Princess. But while she'd been taught to read, the library was denied
    her. Like Elora herself, in the eyes of the Angwyn King, it was solely
    for show.
     Which turned out to be a mistake, because she was stubborn as
    well as willful and she refused to be locked out of anywhere. The
    more she was forbidden something, the more she rose to the chal-
    lenge of achieving it, especially when she had to outwit Vizards and
    servants galore in the process. It was an arduous task she set herself,
    and not always successful. More than once, she was ready to chuck
    the whole project, deciding the reward in no way compensated for
    the aggravation. What ultimately decided her was the anticipation of
    knowing things her minders did not, though she had no notion at
    that point of how she'd turn that learning to her advantage.
     She'd barely scratched the surface of the library before she had to
    flee Angwyn. She hadn't pushed herself before then, she thought
    she'd have a whole lifetime to explore.
     Luc-Jon's master was working in his scriptorium, at a partner's
    desk he shared with his apprentice, so large that it nearly filled the
    entire room. The two sat facing each other across a tabletop angled
    to form a comfortable work surface. The entire ceiling was a skylight,
    as was the wall that faced the scribe's garden, to take full advantage
    of the day. The walls behind each man were broken floor to ceiling
    into cubbyholes of various dimensions, some squares, others rectan-
    gles that were wider than they were high, filled with raw materials,
    tools of their craft, works in progress, pending commissions, and any-
    thing else that might prove useful. There was a hearth in a comer,
    tightly grated to prevent the escape of any sparks.
     So as not to disturb him, Elora and Luc-Jon slipped barefoot past
    him into the library, a room of similar size and design set right next
    door. The shelves here were rough-hewn, in keeping with the basic
    nature of the fort itself, the collection eclectic, again what you'd ex-
    pect from someone who made his acquisitions while traveling. There
    were parchment rolls tied into tubes, flat sheets of the same pressed
    between tablets, more modem bound books inscribed by hand, plus
    some of the latest tides to come upriver from Sandeni that had been
    printed by machine.
     A glance over the study told Elora that the master's focus was
    more on decorative illuminations. He left the actual calligraphy to

    




    Luc-Jon. None of the titles meant anything to her. They were in a
    half-dozen languages, some of which she could barely understand
    when spoken and had no hope of reading. Sadly, in that regard, Luc-
    Jon wasn't much help, for many of these languages were a mystery
    to him, too. Some were so ancient, from lands so distant, he had no
    idea of the cultures they represented.
     'This is Hansha," she cried delightedly as she flipped open a vol-
    ume that was alm'Ost as big as she was.
     "Wha'chy'say?"
     "The language. I know this! It's a variant of the Chengwei main
    tongue, from the islands off their coast."
     "You can understand this?"
     "I wish. I have a smattering of speech, and I can puzzle out some
    of the meanings of their written words, but no one'll ever mistake me
    for a native."
     "So what's this, then~"
     "An abstract of some kind. Census, maybe, tallying populace, pos-
    sessions, moneys earned, moneys spent."
     "Not very exciting."
     "Life rarely is, if you're lucky."
     "I thought bards lived for adventure."
     She laughed outright. "It's the lively bits get told around hearth
    fires, my sweetling. Nobody's much interested in the days and days
    and days it takes the heroes to get wherever they're going."
     Elora slipped her left hand along , the edges of the shelves, occa-
    sionally touching the spine of a book, the bindings of a manuscript.
    One she looked at was emblazoned with the figure of a dragon,
    though it looked nothing like the one she'd actually seen, but the text
    was a mass of indecipherable glyphs.
     "Would your master mind me looking at more of these?" she
    asked Luc-Jon.
     'Can't figure any reason he'd say no," the lad told her, leaning
    knuckles on the arms of her chair so that he loomed over her. He was
    looking very intently into her eyes, with hardly anything remaining
    of his earlier shyness. Apparently, he'd passed that aspect of charac-
    ter right over to her, as Elora's breaths turned quick and shallow and
    her lips went infernally dry.
     He's going to kiss me, she thought with a dispassion she in no way
    felt.
     And then, he did. Very lightly, his lips hardly brushing hers, in a

    




    touch that was mostly tease and promise and left her suddenly hun-
    gry for more.
     She was about to kiss him back when the wolfhound began to
    growl.
     It was a fearsome sound, that instantly stiffened the hackles on
    her neck and set goose bumps racing across every square inch of
    Elora's skin. Luc-Jon heard the challenge as well and, from the way
    his face changed, experienced much the same response.
     Without another word, both youngsters fled the room. In the
    foyer, halfway down the short hallway from the house's double
    doors, Luc-Jon grabbed a broadsword from the household weapons
    rack. Two-handed haft, the straight, double-edged blade almost as
    long as Elora was tall, it was intended for use by footmen against cav-
    alry.
     The wolfhound stood on guard, waiting for them on the porch,
    his own hackles stiff as rumbles continued to rise up from the bottom
    of his chest. He wasn't alone. The rest of the stronghold's resident
    pack were all in view, their eyes fixed on the main gate.
     Beneath its arch, and under the watchful eyes of the sentries, rode
    a troop of horsemen, a light squad of seven warriors. One of the
    hounds started barking as soldiers of the garrison moved out along
    the parapet, splitting their attention between the riders inside the
    walls and the view beyond. Bows were already in hand, every one
    with an arrow nocked, ready to be drawn and fired.
     'Not ours, I'm thinkin'," Luc-Jon said in hardly more than a whis-
    per. 'None of our patrols're due back an' nothin's scheduled from
    downriver neither."
      'No," agreed Elora. "They're Maizan."

    




    ~t
    
    TEY SAT ASTRIDE THEIR CHARCERS WITH THE EASY
    arrogance of a race who believed they were destined to rule
    the world. Given recent history, fewer and fewer were in-
    clined to argue the point. Big men on big horses, sable on
    ebony, made all the more imposing by dark armor and
    homed helms that intentionally hid their features.
     There was a stiffness to the squad's leader as he swung his
    lanky form to the ground that bespoke long, hard days in the
    saddle, if not weeks. For a race that was fond of boasting they
    were bom on horseback and more at home there than in any
    hut or palace, it was nice to see their nomadic ways taking
    their toll.
     Elora didn't hear what was said as the Commandant met
    the squad leader on the porch of the stronghold's central keep,
    but the stance of their bodies marked it as a formal exchange.
      "Wh t d'you think?" she wondered aloud.

    




    0
    
     "Mos' likely, askin' permission to kip here for the night," Luc-Jon
    replied, a tad unsure now what to do with his bare blade. "'Pears
    they've spent a fair piece on hard an' open ground, prob'ly wouldn't
    
    mind a change to soft bedding an' decent grub."
     "They can sleep on rocks, for all I care. The more iagged, the bet
    
    ter."
     'Don't like 'em?"
    
    "There isn't much to like
    "First Maizan I've ever see
    
    "The way they're spreading across the continent, it's doubtful
    
    they'll be the last."
    
    someone taller."
    
    "Hmmph." He paused a little, then tried a joke. "I were expectir
    
    It was an honest effort, so Elora had grace enough to reply in kind
    
    "That's what they all say."
    
    'You lauRhed."
    
    "I have a kind and overly generous nature, inclined to take pity on
        r . 11
    
    "You laughed," he said again, with perfect deadpan
    
     'You're impossible." This time the laughter was in no way forced
     Across the compound, all the Maizan dismounted, two of their
    number leading the horses under escort toward the stable while the
    rest gathered their gear. The Provost Marshal, the garrison's military
    lawman, and some of his proctors had materialized to gather their
    weapons. They'd be locked securely away in the armory until the vis-
    
    itors' departure. To all outward show, there was nothing exceptional
    or untoward about the scene, merely the arrival of some new travel-
    
    Elora marked though, how the wolfhound hadn't relaxec
    
    his vig-
    
    ilance in the slightest, and how the rest of the pack took their cue
    from him. None of the hounds approached the Maizan, they main-
    tained a respectful distance. However, so long as any one of those
    
    warriors was in the open, he had a hound for a shadow.
    
     'Well"-Luc-Jon sighed-"that appears to be that, then, blessed
    be. No more need for this," and he brandished his sword a last time.
    "I'll just nip back inside and tuck it away. If you'll wait, Elora, I'll walk
    
    "All right." She was glad for the compa
    
    By sunset, the entire community was abuzz with news of the

    




     "Think it through, Elora," Duguay cautioned as he sat on the long
    porch of the tavern, "what you intend." His guitar rested on his belly
    and he lazily played with chords as he pushed his leg against one of
    the roof's support pillars to tilt his chair backward.
     "Pardon?"
     'They're on horseback, those Maizan. And from all accounts, very
    good at their craft, am I right? You start trouble, light out of here on
    foot, or even on a horse of your own, how far d'you think you'll get
    with them in pursuit? And after, of course, everyone'll know this dis-
    guise. One less weapon for your arsenal."
     "I'm not that dim, Duguay. I've no intention of raising a ruckus
    with them. It's Ryn I'm worried about. Suppose he's recognized?
    Suppose it's him they've come for? What then?"
     'I don't know yet. And neither do you. Got to figure, though,
    doubtful it's coincidence. For a Wyr, he's far from home. See 'ern
    maybe around Sandeni, working the riverboats or having a bit of fun
    running the cataracts, but the streams here'bouts, they're too shal-
    low. More for naiads than the likes of them."
     "So it's like what you said about me traveling alone-simply see-
    ing him is enough to raise a question."
     "An' one question almost always leads to another, that's the na-
    ture of things. And from there, just as certainly to trouble."
     She watched a pair of Maizan stride back from the stables. Every-
    one in eyeshot stopped to stare, they couldn't seem to help them-
    selves. As well, anyone in their way gave them the widest possible
    berth.
     "They always walk in pairs," she noted.
     "Safety in numbers. Always guarantees someone to watch your
    back. And to talk to." He punctuated the final comment with a deco-
    rative riff.
     "Why do you think they're here, Duguay?"
     "You tell me, apprentice. Consider it today's lesson."
      Luc-Jon was booked solid through most of the evening, as the
    Commandant drafted him to work with his own secretary on a new
    batch of communiqu6s to go downriver with the next dispatch rider.
    Couriers had been sent out within the hour of the Maizan's arrival to,
    alert those Sandeni patrols still in the field. The stronghold itself was
    advanced to a heightened state of readiness. The leader of the refugee
    wagon train wasted no time adding to the Commandant's burdens by
    demanding an immediate escort to the lowlands. He was rejected out
    of hand. There was no state of war in Sandeni nor any imminent ex-

    




    pectation of one, and the level of brigandage, even this far out along
    the frontier, in no way justified such a diversion of resources. Grant-
    ing the level of protection they requested would subject the strong-
    hold itself to an unacceptable level of risk. The wagon master asked
    permission to bring his train within the wall, and that, too, was de-
    nied. People and livestock, yes, but not their movables. There simply
    wasnyt room. Voices were quickly raised and words heatedly ex-
    changed but the Commandant's decision remained unchanged.
     All this Elora learned from Sandeni troopers gossiping at the horse
    trough, from customers in the sutler's store, from strollers in the
    bazaar outside the gates, from menfolk bellying up to the bar at both
    the fort's own tavem and a refreshment booth set up outside among
    the itinerant merchants. In addition to refining her face paint, Duguay
    had also expanded her wardrobe, providing a loose-fitting gown that
    brushed her toes when she walked and decorously covered her to the
    wrists and collarbone. It was slit to the waist along both side seams,
    exposing the full length of her legs, and was likewise slashed across
    her shoulders and down her arms as well, held in place solely by
    clasps at the wrist, elbow, and shoulder. She caught more than her
    share of scandalized stares as she made her rounds, until the onlook-
    ers saw that she wore her silk trousers beneath the gown and realized
    she'd merely tweaked the nose of propriety, not flouted it. Some ap-
    preciated the joke, some condemned her all the more.
     As she roamed the grounds she had to concede Duguay's point:
    she was drawing eyes every which way and hardly a one among
    them spared her a second glance except perhaps to reinforce what
    they already saw. She was still nowhere near as relaxed as the other
    girls she worked with in the dining hall but she'd come a fair piece
    from the ill-at-ease creature who'd followed Duguay inside that first
    night, expecting nothing but disaster.
     So, when she saw the doors open to the barn where Ryn was im-
    prisoned, it seemed only natural for her to saunter over to see what
    was up. As she joined the smallish gathering close by his cage, she
    decorously draped her gossamer shawl across her forehead and one
    of its long edges across the bridge of her nose to shroud her features.
     A warder had come over from the guardhouse to sluice down
    both cell and prisoner, that was the occasion for the show. While an
    assistant enthusiastically applied himself to the levers of a pump, the
    warder directed a powerful stream of ice-cold river water from the
    hose in his hands onto the floor and then the prisoner. Ryn writhed
    in his bonds, making futile attempts to evade the tormenting spray.

    




    Unable to give voice to his misery because of the skullcage and it
    gag, he hammered the iron frame as best he could over and ove
    again into the wall behind him.
     Elora didn't know what to do. Part of her wanted to scream, t
    horsewhip the onlookers back from the stall, to set her friend free
    Yet his every response to this situation was a painful reminder tha
    he wasn't the friend she remembered.
     Someone pitched a partially munched carrot through the bars, tha
    bounced off Ryn's skullcage. His aim was applauded but the crow
    had clearly hoped for more of a reaction.
     "CanTcha poke him wi' your pike there, laddie?" came a call t
    one of the guards, who hastily demurred, protesting it was worth hi
    stripes and maybe even his posting to manhandle a prisoner so. Th
    rules evidently applied to beasts as much as men.
      How civilized, Elora thought, and then, Bastards!
     A sotto voce chorus of catcalls ensued, offering rude commenta
    on the guardsmen's antecedents, gender preferences, sexual prowes
    (or rather, the total lack of same), and anything else duly insulti
    that came to mind. Elora's time with the brownies had spoiled her fo
    such invective. This wasn't even minor-league material, but it mad
    their targets bristle.
     "You mind'jer manners there, lout," one guard told the crowd
    brandishing his own pike for good measure, "else you'll be the on
    gettin' poked."
      "Sure you know which end's the one to use!"
      'Be off wi'ya, the whole lot o'yas!"
     They couldn't care less about the guard's threat, but there ap
    peared to be precious little fun to be had in this venue. The crowd be
    gan to drift on in search of some other amusement. As they cleare
    away, Elora stepped close.
     "Oi, girl, what'cher?" called the guard who'd warned off the oth
    ers, now intent on doing the same for her. "Leave the poor creatur
    be now. He's done ya no harm, how's about offerin' the same kind
    ness in return?"
     "Precious little kindness in evidence about here that I can see," sh
    flared before a thought could stay the words.
     "You mind'jer mouth, missy. We'll have no sass nor back talk o
    my watch!"
      "What did you do to him~"
     "Nothin' we wouldn't do to any other placed in our custod
    What's it to you~`

    




     "Well, I ain't about to step in there to see if he's hurtin', an' nei-
    ther's the sawbones. Be better for him to die anyway, if the claim o
    
    Some paper or other marks that critter as their property.
    "The Commandant would honor a Maizan warrant?"
    
     The soldier sighed in a big huff. "Not for me ta say, missy. Ain'
    for me to make those decisions nor pass judgment on 'em, an' bless-
    ings galore for that. Still, they're guests an' the rules o' hospitality ap-
    ply. Orders are to make nice. An where s the harm? Its only a
    beastie, is all, an' we sure as hell ain t doin wonders for his life.
    He s not a beast," Elora snapped intemperately, he s a Wyr!
     "Aye," the guardsman agreed, "an' some o' them can t be touched
    
    bv madness same as Daikini? Best for all t'keet) him Denned so cruel
    
    as it may seem. Them sodbusters in that wagon train out beyond the
    vate thev're alreadv in an unroar about 'im sure an' certain he's one
    
    'No matter, when a body's out for vengeance. Trust our colonel
    
    missy. He'll deal square an' fair with the Wyr, an' that's no error."
     Throughout, Elora had gradually closed the gap between hersel
    and the cage until she was right up against its bars. There was no
    sense of recoRnition of her, of her scent or her mindspeech, and she
    
    didn't need InSight to show that the spell still held him fast
    
    'Oh, Ryn," she keened so quietly she hardly expelled breat1
    
     Ryn Taksemanyin, she called in mindspeech, casting the summons
    forth with all her strength as a fisherman would his net, only to see
    it sink beneath the surface without a trace. Reaching for his thoughts,
    for any aspect of his spirit, was like making a free dive into the Great
    Deeps he spoke of so fondly, plunging down and down and down
    
     Her body saved her, reacting before her mind became aware she'd
    moved, hurling Elora back from the bars even as ravening strands of
    energy erupted from Ryn's body to where she stood. The guards saw
    
    nothing of these, they reacted solely to Elora as she 11, legs scram-
    bling for purchase on the dusty hardpan as she struggled to kick her-
    self out of the reach of the onrushing tendrils. She hit her rump and
    kept going, heard the delicate fabric of her scarf tear as she flipped
    throu2h a sidewavs roll that vanked her levs back under her and nut

    




    her back on her feet in a combat crouch that left her perfectly bal-
    anced for attack or evasion. Most of the runners discorporated the in-
    stant they touched the iron bars of the cell. The three that survived
    to press on after her were speedily dispatched by slashes of the blade
    she plucked from her traveling pouch. Then, remembering her role
    and realizing the threat was past, Elora collapsed to her knees, back
    bowed with hands to her mouth while she let her dagger fall from
    nerveless fingers and uttered a wail of utter misery. She didn't have
    to feign a sense of shock, or stark terror, she felt both in full measure.
    The tendrils had been a deadly surprise.
     Her own fault, she knew. A sorcerer formidable enough to capture
    a soul as cantankerously independent as Ryn's would have set layers
    of trip wires to protect his handiwork. She'd been right to take care
    with her healing, but the thought now struck her that she might have
    inadvertently triggered some other defense.
     Could I have set off some kind of beacon, she thought, that gave away
    his hiding place to the Maizan?
     Everything happened so quickly that the guardsmen had no
    chance to react before the danger was past.
     "What the hell," the older man cried as he sprang to the fallen girl's
    side. "What the hell?"
     "I'm sorry," she gabbled. 'It's all right, I'm all right, really I am, no
    harm done, it was my own silly fault you see for going too close, I'm
    sorry, I'm so sorry!"
     "Damn me, Mam," the younger one said to his companion, his
    pike held at the ready in both nervous hands. "I dint know better, I
    ain't seen with my own eyes, I'da sworn you was attacked, girl!"
     "Well, she weren't, Roke, so give your imagination a rest. But you
    called it right, lass, for goin' too close. Your fault for bein' so lackwit,
    ours for givin' you leave. It's a blessing you ain't hurt none."
      'Tell that to my backside," she told him with a pout.
     Out of nowhere, a pair of hands closed about her shoulders to lift
    Elora to her feet with breathtaking ease. She knew without a glance,
    from the feel of his gloves and the texture of his spirit, that it was one
    of the Maizan.
     'You've lost your scarf, lass." His Sandeni was fluent but strangely
    shaped by his native plains accent. "If you like, it'll be my pleasure to
    retrieve it."
      Somehow, in the confusion, it had ended up inside Ryn's stall.
     Looking up at the Maizani, Elora had a flash of insight as to how
    the Daikini world in general must look to Nelwyns. This warrior was

    




    a living, breathing, walking, talking embodiment of big, and she felt
    sympathy for the poor horse that had to carry him. He was smiling,
    too, but his expression lacked any of the gentleness she'd seen in
    Mam. He'd seen her, he desired her, he would possess her.
     "No," she said flatly, keeping her replies simple so there'd be no
    misunderstanding. 'Thank you."
     "Wouldn't allow it anyroad," Mam said, and Elora noted the quiet
    shift in his own stance as each warrior took the other's measure.
     The Maizani raised an eyebrow, as though to say, And you'll be the
    one to stop me, old man~
     Roke bristled at the unspoken insult, but Marn didn't react in the
    slightest, which immediately marked him as the more formidable of
    the two.
     'Take it here," the Maizani said, referring to Ryn, 'or on the road,
    it's of no matter."
      "What do you mean?" Elora demanded.
      "Ours by claim, ours by right."
      'Not if our Commandant says different," snapped Roke.
      "We are Maizan,' the warrior replied. 'Better to be our friends."
     He still had his hands around Elora's arms, tight enough to hold
    her fast though not enough to hurt. He was daring her to struggle to
    escape or beg for her release. Either would be a victory.
     Instead she cocked her hips as she'd seen other young women do
    when ever so slightly peeved, and assumed an air of such boredom
    that Marn couldn't repress a snort of raw amusement.
     The Maizani knew instantly his ploy had turned against him and
    that he'd become the butt of someone else's joke. Neither suited him,
    and like all Maizan he reacted with lightning speed by shifting once
    more to the attack.
     So quickly she had no chance to slip from his grasp, Elora was
    spun 'round to face the man and then lifted off her feet. His lips
    closed on hers. There was no comparison between her kiss with Luc-
    Jon and this. That was invitation and entreaty on both their parts,
    where this was outright invasion.
     She didn't resist, she didn't respond, and when the Maizani held
    her away from his face, the self-satisfied smirk on his features was
    greeted by an expression even more bored than before.
      'You mock me, girl?"
     She shrugged her shoulders, "Why bother, when you do such a su-
    perb job of it yourself?'
      'Diseased dog whore,' he snapped at her in Maizan, unaware she
    
    It
    
    I

    




    i
    
    knew perfectly well what was being said. The two Sandeni troopers
    didn't understand the words but the tone was plain. It was Mam who
    stepped forward, while Roke stood watchfully to the side, bringing
    his pike down to guard position.
     "I think enough has been said and done this day," Marn said com-
    panionably. 'Set the lady down, if you please, an' be on about your
    business."
     "And if my business is with this piece of excrement?"
     "Not within these walls, not the way you mean. You're guests of
    the Republic of Sandeni. Don't abuse our hospitality." With each
    phrase, there was less "companion" to Mam's speech and much more
    steel. The Maizani's eyes flicked arrogantly from him to Roke, bal-
    ancing present pleasure against future pain, gauging the amount of
    damage he could inflict on the two troopers versus the punishment
    meted out to him afterward. Then Elora heard the faint creak of gut
    and yew that marked a longbow being drawn to full extension. The
    Maizani's eyes moved upward to the hayloft and the archers who'd
    quietly taken their positions. Though he'd yielded his weapons to the
    garrison Provost Marshal, the Maizani wore heavy mail beneath his
    leather tunic. No matter, the bowmen's shafts were tipped with
    points designed to punch right through, and they had skill enough to
    place them wherever they pleased.
     The Maizani set her down.
     "No harm done," he said, thick with mockery, daring them to fire.
    
     By sundown, it was the talk of the fort. Eyes shifted Elora's direc-
    tion, and whispers followed, everywhere she went-and no longer
    because of the way she looked. With each retelling, even over the
    course of a single day, the confrontation grew more extreme and her
    response more devastating. It was as though the entire complement
    of the fort, military and civilian, soldiers and dependents, had been
    waiting for the merest excuse to put the Maizan in their place. Elora
    was the catalyst to ignite all that pent-up animosity.
     There were no demonstrations of hostility, collective or singular,
    no one was that stupid. Or suicidal.
     There was simply ...
     ... laughter.
     This patrol represented the nation who'd conquered half the con-
    tinent, whose proclaimed goal was to bring the whole of the world
    beneath their feet, yet they couldn't quell the spirit of a single, soli-
    tary slip of a girl. The aura of invincibility they used to armor them-

    




    selves had taken a nice dent, and each chuckle from then on marred
    it that much more.
     They sat alone at dinner, with an entire table to themselves.
     Elora worked the far end of the room that night, keeping close by
    the Commandant's table, partly to steer well clear of the Maizan and
    thereby avoid the possibility of another incident, but mainly because
    she wanted more than gossip from the evening. She guessed rightly
    that the garrison's officers would be focusing on their guests and that
    the conversational "shop talk" would involve not simply the tactical
    aspects of fighting those legendary warriors but the strategic ramifi-
    cations of the Maizan's eastward expansion running up against
    Sandeni's borders.
     'Stairs of Heaven to the south," a captain said, referring to the
    monster mountain range that split the continent just above the equa-
    tor, one spur forming the secondary range where the Rock Nelwyns
    made their home, "Ice Lands to the north, an ocean behind 'em, our
    in front. They're boxed, same as that creature outside they've
    such a hankering for. They might as well get used to it."
     The Commandant wasn't convinced, Elora saw it in his eyes, sensed
    those doubts skibbling across the surface of his thoughts. He kept
    them to himself, however, he was here to listen to others' counsel.
     'You think?" queried another troop commander, likewise a cap-
    tain. She recognized him from her first night here, returning from his
    patrol. His name was Sam.
     "Fact of nature, Sam my dear friend, the way the land lies. They're
    reaching the natural limits of their ambition. I mean, they already rule
    near half the continent, how much more do they want?"
     "Forgive me, Captain," came an interjection from the Comman-
    dant's left, "I'm just a plain, old, country doctor .....
     The self-deprecating introduction was greeted with snorts and
    chuckles and pro forma protests. The physician may have gotten his
    age right but he was in no way plain and the respect accorded him- by
    the others was very real, as glasses of wine were raised to him here
    and there in salute.
     11... but it's my experience that some ambitions have no limit.
    Neither does human ingenuity. Why are you so sure of our security?"
     "The Wall, of course."
     "Yes?"
     'Doctor, half the continent's two thousand feet higher than the
    other, demarked by a sheer cliff that runs from these mountains north

    




     "Actually, Captain, it slopes. Travel far enough, there isn't any sort
    of cliff at all to bar your way."
     "No, Doctor," the other man countered with a laugh, "merely
    some of the most raw and unwholesome terrain ever created, land
    that must have been cursed the day it was formed. I did my first tour
    of duty in those Ice Land territories. Believe me, if the mud and flies
    don't finish you in what passes there for summer, the ice and cold of
    those endless winter nights will for certes."
     "Smugglers manage."
     "A band of outlaws is hardly an army. I mean, if this Castellan
    were to cut a deal with some of the Veil Folk or other, then we'd have
    a different story. But to all accounts he's death to them. And magic
    besides."
     Here, the discussion turned along lines she'd heard before, as
    some spoke for the ways things had always been and others about
    what might be coming. Again, there was a sense of loss, for magic
    added an element of spice and wonder to the world, a spectrum of
    colors and possibilities that enriched both the eye and the imagina-
    tion. At the same time she heard an undercurrent of eagerness, a han-
    kering for an age when the Daikini could reign supreme and gather
    the future of the globe wholly into their own arms.
      'You see," the Commandant spoke at last, with a smile that was
    mainly sadness, "there is no limit to ambition. You dream of a day
    when Daikini might reign supr ' eme over the world, the Maizan of one
    where they reign over the Daikini. Different perspective, same goal.
    Yet what of the cost, to our spirits as much as anything, if all the Gates
    between ourselves and the Veil Folk are sealed shut forever? Do an~
    of you wonder why this is happening? We accept the what, that thE
    Maizan are doing something, without a clue as to their reasons?"
     "It suits our interests," the Doctor noted idly. "As a species, as onE
    of the Great Realms, we chafe under the restrictions imposed on ou:
    lives by the Veil Folk. Of all the absurd things, asking permission o
    dryads before logging a single tree, much less a forest, or of naiads be
    fore building a dam. It's a wonder anything's gotten done these pas
    eons."
     A lieutenant spoke up. "Forgive me, sir, but would you go into
    neighbor's house and take their possessions without permission-
    cook a meal in their kitchen, serve it on their china? It's not our wo6
    alone; others were here before us. We owe the courtesy, the respec,
    of sharing that we'd expect for ourselves."
      "Bravo, Lieutenant. From out of the mouths of babes. We are nc

    




    alone, gentlemen. We of the Twelve Great Realms have lived in var-
    ious measures of comfort and relative harmony for the whole of
    recorded history. Being creatures wholly of the world, we do not un-
    derstand the Veil, much less those races and Realms that lie beyond
    it. There are some who presume we fear what we do not understand
    and there's something to be said for that. Worse, though, to my eyes,
    is that we have no regard for it. We log that tree I spoke of without a
    thought for the dryad who perishes with it. We plow the land with
    no concern for the fairy nests or brownie burrows we ravage in the
    process. We create reservoirs that doom naiads who must live in the
    active, running water of streams and rivers.
     "And moreover-to borrow your analogy, young Lieutenant-be-
    cause that neighbor's house is so much grander than ours, because
    the covenants on the land-that have existed for far longer than we-
    prevent us from building ours to equal or surpass it, we content our-
    selves to turn a blind eye to an assault on its foundation. If it is
    diminished, we profit. If it is destroyed outright, we profit. Secure in
    the certainty that whatever happens to our neighbor, we remain unas-
    sailable."
     "Which is," the Commandant continued for him, "utter rot. Of
    course"-and he fixed his gaze on the visiting patrol across the hall
    before returning it to the captain who'd spoken first-"Sandeni can
    be taken. It's a fixed position. Any fixed position can be taken, given
    sufficient resources."
     'As you proved, Mikal," the Doctor told him, but the Comman-
    dant waved off his proffered hand, choosing instead to refill his glass
    to the brim.
     "And I might point out, gentlemen," the Commandant finished,
    "that whatever happens to our capital, we have no wall to stand as
    our bulwark, save those we've built ourselves."
     "Perhaps, sir,' hazarded another lieutenant, in hopes of lightening
    the mood, "the Sacred Princess Elora Danan will save the day for us
    all?"
     That jape occasioned its apportioned share of laughter, but again
    Elora sensed the rising heat haze of despair, a foul coloration to the
    mood that made every attempt at humor sound forced to her ears. All
    their lives, these men and women had lived in a world where magic
    was an integral, intricate part of its primal fabric: gods could be con-
    versed with, enchantments cast, blessings requested, and curses over-
    thrown. At some time or other, through the whole of a Daikini
    lifetime, it was inevitable that there'd be at least one point of contact

    




    with one of the Veil Folk. Many dealt with them on a daily basis.
    Whole economies were based on that ongoing interaction.
     Now, before the eyes of the world and wholly beyond its control,
    that relationship was being deconstructed. Old loyalties no longer
    had weight, covenants that folk on both sides of the Veil lived by
    were crumbling to dust, to the point where lasting friendships were
    giving way to active hostility.
     If that verity of being no longer held, why should any other? If
    magic could be stolen from the world by the Deceiver, could impreg-
    nable Sandeni likewise fall? How could it possibly survive?
      That was the moment when Elora Danan took center stage.
     She'd been working on this with Duguay but hadn't considered
    herself anywhere near ready. Tonight changed that. She could no
    more stand aside in the face of this growing miasma of the spirit than
    she could deny a soul who needed healing.
     She stood in a pool of candlelight, cast in shades of gold that ac-
    cented the stark black red of her lipstick and nails. She glistened, but
    except for the barest, accenting highlights, there wasn't a hint of sil-
    ver to her coloration. Instead she seemed to flash fire, little chips of
    glitter scattered across fabric and flesh, adding to the illusion by mak-
    ing it appear as though she was striking sparks simply through con-
    tact with the air.
     She stood stock-still and swept the room with her eyes, waiting
    for the background noise to ease,past the point where she could be
    heard.
     The audience was a bit confused. They were expecting Duguay,
    used to seeing her waiting on their tables. And this was something al-
    together new and unexpected for Elora. Though she'd played the ap-
    prentice and dutifully begun to learn the trade, she never once
    seriously considered assuming the stage. From the instant she
    stepped forward, she knew she was making the right decision.
     It was a story from Angwyn's past, long before the nation had be-
    come respectable, that she'd found in her library. It wasn't the first
    she read but it quickly became her favorite. The words she spoke, the
    melody she used to shape them, slipped free of their own accord, as
    naturally as breath, coming from a part of her more akin to soul than
    mind.
    
     It was olden days, because all the best stories were set in olden days,
    when a good and noble people suffered beneath the cruel yoke of a
    tyrant. A monarch of consummate cruelty, whose lust for power no

    




    amount of conquest seemed able to satisfy. He held sway in great cities
    and trading towns and tiny, outland villages, and no affront was so
    slight as to go ignored or unpunished. The people endured because, de-
    spi . te their proud history, they knew no other way to survive. Resistance
     A~A .", 4 .1., ~              c, to    14
    
    gu                 rrible that death, w en it came, was
    
    considered a mercy.
     In this time of shadow, against all odds, a simple man strode forth
    
    to plant his feet and set his sword and tell this dread liege, "No more. '
      When the monarch sent a troop to arrest him, he was nowhere to be
    found, Assassins were dispatched to murder him, and were never seen
    again. Royal tax collectors were routed, their moneys disbursed to those
    who needed it most. Royal warehouses were raided, their contents used
    to feed the hungry. Royal edicts were mocked, and throughout the length
    and breadth of this land of sorrow, for the first time in a generation,
    
    whispers of defiance were heard.
    
      An army was sent, to discover that they no longer dealt with a man
    alone. Others had flocked to his side, and the monarch's soldiers were
    sent back to him on foot, stripped to their tunics, with a warning that he
    and his were no longer welcome in this land. The monarch had those
    hapless souls impaled for their failure, his warning plain for those who
    would soon follow: return in victory or return not at all, the only alter-
    native is death.
    
      And so began a war. And soon the realm entire was drenched in
    blood. A line was drawn across the soul of the nation and eventually al,
    I . ts citizenry-noble and common, secular and religious-came to the
    moment when they had to choose their sides. On the one hand was a
    puissance almost beyond all comprehension. Against it, a desperate
    yearning for liberty, for the triumph of right over might. This man, this
    rebel, spoke of equality, ofa future where every man and every woman
    
    would be judged by character and deeds, rather than the accident o
    birth. He spoke of honor, he spoke of justice, and found himself love4
    
     Who knows how the battles would have ended~ Some were wo
    others lost. Like tides upon a shore, the campaigns flowed back an4
    forth across the countryside, ultimately resolving nothing. War has its
    own i . mplacable dynamic: the best of the breed are often the first to die.
    Those who remained began to whisper among themselves, that no mat-
    ter how many battles were won there was always another to be fough
    tomorrow. Victories against this monarch brought no peace, in a conflic
    where defeat meant sure aster,

    




     In the beginning the rebels had everything to gain, and that gave
    them courage. After long years of struggle they found themselves with
    too much to lose, and that made them afraid.
     So, at the last, telling themselves this was for the best, they betrayed
    their chieftain.
     In chains, he was dragged to judgment and thence to the place of ex-
    ecution, before a massed crowd of those with cause to hate him most, the
    nobles whose estates he had burned, the abbots whose treasuries he had
    looted, the common folk dispossessed of property, or worse, of the lives
    of loved ones who had gone to their deaths in battle against him. They
    cheered to see him helpless and could not wait to see him bleed.
     Before their eyes, the chieftain was subjected to unspeakable tor-
    tures, a death that was guaranteed to be as slow as it was agonizing. It
    was so terrible a sight that some in the crowd cried out in sympathetic
    pain and horror
     Yet the chieftain uttered not a sound.
     The flesh was peeled from his bones, long past the point when any
    lesser soul would have fled its casement, yet he breathed. And said
    nothing.
     Where there had been cheers and catcalls, there was only silence
    now, broken by sobs from those who could not endure the awfulness be-
    fore them.
     "Kill him,' someone cried, but there was no hatred in this voice. It
    was a plea for mercy.
     The Lord High Executioner-a wizened stick of a creature, from
    whom had been sucked every scrap of kindness or decency-leaned
    close by the chieftain"s ear and whispered. "Beg for mercy, and it shall
    be yours. '
     When he heard no reply, he tried again.
     "Be sensible. We have barely begun. You can see this sun set and
    tomorrow's rise, in such agony as the mind cannot conceive. Or we can
    end it. Quickly. Cleanly. Plead for mercy, and you shall be at peace.'
      The crowd was growing restive. The chieftain still lived, he was still
    awake to hear every word and suffer every torment, and not one among
    those who watched could find the temerity within themselves to mock
    such absolute courage. He would not speak and he would not die and,
    that was more defiance to their monarch than any one of them had
    thought possible. And the whisper began among them, in the most se-
    cret hidey-holes of their being, that perhaps their ruler was not so all-
    powerful after all. Perhaps there might be hope.
     The Executioner spoke again, with an edge of desperation to his

    




    voice because he, too, sensed the shift in the crowd's mood. He could not
    let the chieftain die, not without publicly breaking his spirit, yet no
    longer could he afford to let the rebel live, since each breath was like an
    arrow through the foul heart of his monarch's majesty. He bent to his
    task a final time, his voice as soft and caressing as a lover's, for the bond
    that had grown between him and his victim was as intimate, to win
    through deceit what could not be forced.
     'This has gone on long enough. You have done enough, and more.
    Your task is done. Ask for mercy, and you shall be free. '
     At last the chieftain spoke, in a voice that filled every corner of the
    war yard, that made strong men weep and women gather their com-
    panions to their breast,
     A great shadow fell across the square and every eye looked up, to
    behold on every parapet, atop the crown of every tower, at the summit
    of every mountain that could be seen about this haunted, hated spot ...
     ... dragons.
     A score, a multitude, more than any present could remember seeing,
    more than anyone could conceive of ever being, gazing down on this
    place of execution with ancient eyes to witness the chieftain's final act of
    supreme and lasting defiance. One took for its perch the peak of the
    monarch's own battlements, directly across the yard from where the
    chieftain hung, ofsuch a size that none could understand why its weight
    didn't crush the stone to rubble beneath it, with wings so broad they
    could envelop the entire castle. Its eyes, that had witnessed the birthing
    of the worldl gazed into those of this Daikini-and when the chieftain
    smiled, the dragon wept.
     As the echoes of the chieftain's cry began to fade, that dragon lifted
    his own face to the heavens and roared defiance of his own. First one,
    then the others on the walls, and those in the distance, took up that self-
    same cry and cast it forth in pride and joy with force enough to shatter
    the casement of heaven itself
     A single word ...
     ... against which evil ultimately has no power, nor can tyranny long
    
     "Freedom!"
     Elora spoke in the barest of whispers, the selfsame voice that the
    chieftain had used to speak it into the Executioner's ear. Yet so still
    was the room, so skillful her projection, that every ear took note.
     She was crouched low, shoulders bowed, head bent, a posture of
    grief and loss. Suddenly, in a movement as smooth and fluid as

    




    quicksilver, she rose to her feet, the upward thrust of her body giv-
    ing her utterance added force. This outcry was full-voiced and she
    prayed it would be heard in Angwyn by all the innocent souls im-
    prisoned there.
     "Freedom!"
     The acoustics were wretched and the echoes of her shout faded
    quickly, as though the room itself had gobbled them up. In the vac-
    uum that stillness caused there was a sudden creaking and groaning
    of the wood, as if some incredible weight had settled on the roof. A
    wind skirled past doors and windows and the flames flashed brighter
    in both hearths, and more than a few listening clutched charms or
    loved ones or both and whispered of dragons, some in fright and
    some, delight. For Elora herself, it was a reminder of her rescue of the
    firedrakes, when her blood burned white-hot, every pump of her
    heart sending another surge of glory through her system. It was a pas-
    sion so intense she was surprised to find herself still whole and
    thankful she wasn't actually glowing; a wonder so all-encompassing,
    all-consuming that she was reduced to ash and resurrected in the
    same fantastic blip of time.
      By the Great Gods, she thought, words do have power!
     Another moment followed and with it a distancing from the sto-
    ryteller's magic Elora had spun with her tale. There was no holocaus
    in her heart, only honest blood. One set of hands came together from
    the audience before her, then another and another, and faster than a
    line of failing dominoes the whole room exploded in applause and
    cheers, leavened with hearty sighs of relief that it was only a sto
    and jovial chuckles at how they'd all been spooked at the end by tha
    gust of wind.
     Elora herself was drenched, top to toe, as if she'd just plunged int
    a pool. She was trembling, too, when voices began to chant he
    name, more exhausted than she'd ever been after a hard day a
    Torquil's forge. The beginnings of a smile tickled the side of he
    mouth as Duguay gathered her into his arms from behind, offeri
    his strength to sustain her-in the nick of time, too, because he
    knees were on the verge of total collapse.
      "Elora," they chanted. "'lor-ah! 'lor-ah!"
     In the face of such adulation, she basked and couldn't understan
    for the life of her why she was sobbing.
      "What did I do?" she cried to Duguay.
     "What came naturally, that's obvious," he replied into her ear
    "There's a born bard in you, Elora, an' that's no error, am I right?"

    




     'Sure wouldn't have thought it to look at my past. Do they un-
    derstand? What I was trying to say?"
     "Some more than others, but that's always the case. Yon Maizan,
    they got your message, sure. Left before you finished, all in a
    Clump."
     "What?"
     She searched the room, with all the Sights at her disposal, and saw
    that Duguay was right. The Maizan were nowhere to be seen.
     In a flash of intuition, she knew where they had gone and what
    they were about. She was on the move herself that selfsame mo-
    ment, realizing she hadn't a prayer of making her way through the
    crowd and out the main doors. The audience was already pressing
    forward, clapping, cheering, wanting to touch her, congratulate her,
    to try through that little bit of contact to reclaim some of the wonder
    of her performance. If she let them catch her, she'd never get out. She
    wasn't sure she'd even survive.
     She dropped loose of Duguay's embrace, kicking herself sideways
    in a crab scuttle that took her to the dais. Then, proprieties be
    damned, she flung herself over the high table and dashed for the
    kitchen entrance beyond the far hearth. Through the door, returning
    the applause of the serving staff who'd been watching with smiles
    and nods and waves, trying her best to be gone before anyone was
    sure she was actually there. Out the back to where the trash was
    dumped, trying not to gag on the stench or wonder how the cooks
    could stand it, leaping for the near balcony and going up the wan
    much like a monkey, thankful both Ryn and the Rock Nelwyns had
    taught her how to climb.
     It took neither time nor effort to reach the roof, but as she clam-
    bered to its peak she almost came to disaster as one foot found open
    air where it expected shingles and she thumped down hard on her
    front, the pitch so steep that she was propelled headlong toward the
    gutter and a four-story fall to the ground below. Fortunately, a flailing
    hand found the same hole that had tripped her up. That broke her
    slide and provided a solid enough anchor for the moments she al-
    lowed herself to regain a semblance of breath. Even so, when she
    opened her eyes, she saw more spots than not before her vision and
    each breath hurt as though she'd been soundly punched.
     'There's a hole in the roof," she told herself stupidly, and to her
    surprise found three more on the other side. Looking along the build-
    ing, MageSight revealed an identical pattern, almost all the way to
    the other end. They looked like claw marks, and if called to testify,
    
    I
    
    P

    




    she'd have to say they most resembled the footprints of some giant
    creature coming briefly, and lightly, to rest....
      Here, she stopped herself, not at all comfortable with where this
    line of thought was going.
      What? she scoffed in silence. Are you going to presume that a dragon
    dropped in to hear your story? How come no one saw?
      But then, memory reminded Elora of the story Thom Drumheller
    told, no one saw Calan Dineer, the dragon that had brought him and my
    bear to Tir Asleen the night before the Cataclysm destroyed it.
      At that point all her speculations were banished by the clash of
    steel from the direction of Ryn's cell. Instinct prompted her to look
    that way, conscious thought overrode the impulse and turned her
    eyes toward the main gate instead, to find one door wide open.
      She almost cried, Alarm, but another sweeping glance in a circle all
    about her confirmed her worst fears. The battlements were clear,
    without a sign of the normal scattering of sentries. She heard horses
    in the distance, more sounds of a struggle, the faint thump of chains
    against a padded target that she suspected was covered in fur. The
    stable was closer, but she suspected she'd have a better chance catch-
    ing them at the gate.
      She used the length of the building as a runway, then launched
    herself in a wild leap for the parapet beyond. She tried too hard, she
    made it with room to spare and so much excess momentum that she
    crashed full tilt into the palisade beyond, leaving her sore and a little
    winded and glumly anticipating a sensationally dramatic bruise come
    the morrow as decoration for playing such a daredevil. She ignored
    the aches and protests of her flesh as she made her way along the
    walkway, accelerating with every step until she was flat-out running.
      There was one comer tower between her and the gate. She
    guessed that if she was going to find trouble, it would be there. With-
    out breaking stride, she twisted the clasp that held her skirt in place
    and rolled the waistline once about her hand. Not much as weapons
    went, but all she had, and with that thought, she promised herself to
    find a way to integrate at least one of her bottomless traveling
    pouches into any future costume.
      Through the doorway, a Maizani was waiting, the warrior who'd
    confronted her at Ryn's cage. The instant he realized it was she, a
    huge and unpleasant grin split his face. He was between her and the
    exit, and set himself to make sure she went no farther.
      She caromed off the wall ahead without slackening speed, then
    used the opposite wall as a springboard, kicking herself up into the

    




    air as though off a pair of tightly coiled springs. In mid-Right she
    tucked arms and legs together into a somersaulting ball, rolling as she
    went so that she'd bounce off the next wall on her feet. As she passed
    the Maizani, who wasn't sure what to make of her acrobatics, her
    movements so quick and dramatic that he was a fatal half second be-
    hind them in his reactions, she snapped the skirt into his eyes, flick-
    ing it the same way boys do towels at one another's backside when
    they're feeling particularly obnoxious. Didn't do him any lasting
    harm but she made him flinch. That was all the opening she needed
    as she came at him from above and behind, giving voice to a great
    war cry as she hammered clenched fists down close on either side of
    his spine, at the base of the neck. She struck the nerve clusters per-
    fectly, right above the protective collar of his leather tunic. He made
    an odd little noise, his eyes glazed, his limbs lost all ability to hold
    him erect, and down he went with a formidable clump.
     He'd be unconscious quite a while, and more sore than she for a
    bit longer after that.
     He had no sword but Elora relieved him of the long knife she
    found sheathed to the outside of one boot. Double-edged, well-
    balanced, it'd suit her fine.
     So much for peace bonding, she thought, not to mention the rules of hos-
    pitality. Then she was off again.
     Someone had sounded the alarm. She heard a chorus of basso
    barks as the wolfhounds responded to the threat, saw people boiling
    out of the dining hall like ants from an unearthed nest. Too late,
    though, for the remaining Maizan were already racing for the gate on
    horseback, leaving the stables afire in their wake to forestall any pur-
    suit. Much as the Commandant and his men might like to stop these
    raiders, the critical priority was to save the livestock, as well as pre-
    vent the fire from spreading to the body of the fort.
     The lighting was uneven, moonlight mixed with torches, but
    MageSight easily made up the difference, showing Elora that Ryn
    was tied belly down across his animal's back, the reins of his horse in
    the hands of the Maizani galloping ahead. Two mounts were saddled
    but empty. One was presumably for the warrior Elora had already
    dealt with, the other for whoever had opened the gate.
     She didn't take time to think. If she did she knew she'd be too
    scared stiff to act. She reached the gate a few steps ahead of the
    Maizan and without a heartbeat's pause hurled herself for the war-
    rior leading Ryn's animal. She let his body bear the brunt of the im-
    pact, and before the Maizani knew what was happening, he was

    




    unhorsed, pitched into the face of his comrade, who'd emerged from
    the shadows by the gate to mount up himself. In those few, frantic
    moves, she managed to throw a well-planned and executed escape
    into utter disarray. The challenge now was to get herself and Ryn out
    of the mess intact and unharmed.
      Elora yanked on the reins, digging her heels into her horse's ribs to
    make the beast rear up on its hind legs, forehooves lashing out in-
    stinctively to make anyone in front keep a respectful distance. At the
    same time she pulled its head to the side, trying to turn her mount
    back into the fort.
      She thought she knew the location of every Maizani. She thought
    she had a clear lane open to safety for herself and Ryn. She was just
    kicking the horse into gear when the Maizan Captain loomed up out
    of nowhere, so close at hand and coming so fast that Elora barely had
    time to recognize her danger before she was struck down, to crash in
    a clumsy heap through a roadside pile of compost.
     By the time Elora struggled free, clothes and body now adorned
    by a wild variety of filth, the Maizan were past the tree line. In their
    wake they cast torches among the tents that lined the approaches to
    the main gate, and set fire to some of the wagon train as well, break-
    ing the refugees' livestock loose from their paddock. Of the two
    who'd fallen, one had managed to make his escape. His companion,
    though, had been tackled by a pair of wolfhounds, a fearsome shock
    since their size was a match for ' his and their combined weight
    greater. He knew neither mail nor any weapon would be fair pro-
    tection against jaws powerful enough to tear limbs from their sock-
    ets, and so he yielded. A quartet of Sandeni troopers managed to
    evade the roadblocks the Maizan had set and thundered past Elora
    in hot pursuit. If the Commandant knew his business, and her read-
    ing of him was that he did, their orders would be to follow but not
    engage, to mark their trail for a larger, more heavily armed force.
    With all the confusion, the need to bring both fires and loose ani-
    mals back under control, those reinforcements wouldn't be leaving
    soon.
      She sensed the presence of the wolfhound who'd adopted her be-
    fore she actually saw him. He whined his concern, then lifted himself
    on his hind legs, making her grunt with the strain as he placed
    forepaws on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. He was a
    dog, yet standing in this position he had height on her by better than
    a couple of heads. She didn't reprimand him, she knew he just
    wanted to make sure she was all right. She even endured a slobbery

    




    lick of his tongue because it was to make her feel better. Once,
    though, was enough, and with a heave she returned him to all fours.
     What she wanted now more than anything wasn't comfort, she
    wanted to give chase herself. Her failure to rescue Ryn, when she had
    him right in hand, left a bitter, angry taste in her mouth. The fact that
    she'd outmatched the Maizan warrior in the watchtower only made
    her feel worse. Winning every battle, she raged to herself, didn't
    count for much if ultimately you lost the war.
     She said as much to Duguay, when he found her helping fight the
    fires outside the stronghold walls, turning the upper-body strength
    she'd built at Torquil's forge to good advantage by working the
    rocker bars of a water pump. It also proved a splendid outlet for her
    frustrations, maintaining a steady flow of water to the fire hose.
     He appeared as elegantly turned out as ever, and she hated him for
    it, painfully aware of how wretchedly bedraggled she looked.
     "Depends on the war," he noted. "On how you define the terms
    of the conflict and the victory to be won. You should pay more at-
    tention to your own songs."
     'I should have been paying more attention to that mess at the
    gate. I was totally blindsided."
     'The Captain's a warrior. That sort of thing's his stock-in-trade.
    You've the beginnings of a decent bard."
     "I'm not supposed to be either, Duguay! Hey," she bellowed sud-
    denly as the bellows clunked on air instead of water, "get off the
    damn hose, you great thumping pillocks! Can't'cha see we're work-
    ing here!" Retorts came in a blend of apology and insult as the of-
    fending wagon was shoved clear of the line that linked pump to the
    river. For the next couple of minutes Elora said nothing, save for some
    random grunts, as she worked the rocker arm all the harder to rebuild
    pressure in the hose. Now of course, there were cries of dismay and
    protest from the other direction as the spray faded fast to a trickle and
    then to nothing.
     "Conversation's a duet, Elora my sweeting," Duguay prompted
    gently when the silence began to drag. "You have to know the right
    moment to come in with your part, else you'll cock up the tune
    worse than any traffic accident."
     "I'm a little busy right now, Duguay," was her pointed reply. "You
    could always pitch in and help, you know."
     "I like to think I am, in my own way. Talk with me, Elora, it'll
    make the work go easier. I can guess partly what this is all about, the
    bare bones seem pretty obvious."

    




     "Oh?"
     "A prophecy,' he said with a small smile that, despit* her fatigue,
    she couldn't help returning. She liked the shape of his mouth, the
    firm set of his jaw, the way this one infernal forelock refused to yield
    to any amount of styling pomade but always slipped free to curl
    across his brow. She had a solid sense of every aspect of his features,
    except his eyes. Without them, the picture was incomplete. Worse,
    she feared it was meaningless.
     "A Princess," he went on, thankfully oblivious to the path her
    thoughts were taking. "Everybody wants the prize. I've the dis-
    tinct impression hardly anyone really knows why. Except perhaps this
    Mohdri fella. He's offering a pretty penny, think he has the answers?"
      "If he does, we're all damned."
      "An old familiar face, then?"
     "We've crossed swords."
     "Prophecy and Princess. Noble heroes, a grand and glorious villain.
    Must be a fable, then. An epic confrontation between Good and
    Evil!"
     She gave him her best basilisk glare for that remark, which only
    made him laugh.
     "What exactly does that mean, good and evil?" she wondered af-
    terward, in all seriousness.
     "Substance versus style?"
     'Is everything to you nothing but source material for a joke?"
     "No more or less than it should be for you, lass. We're trouba-
    dours, we tell stories, our purpose is to entertain, am I right?"
     "I bet," she said, bypassing his question because a part of her
    agreed with him, "if you took a poll of our audience, a decent num-
    ber would say the Maizan conquest isn't such an awful thing. That
    the Daikini Realm is a better place with the doors to the Great
    Realms of Faery closed and sealed. Probably find as many among the
    Veil Folk of the same opinion."
     "House gets too crowded, Elora, somebody generally has to move
    out."
     "Suppose you have a pattern of glorious beauty and complexity, a
    weave whose whole is far stronger than the sum of its parts? When,
    you split it into its component threads, is it then as lovely, as rich? As
    lasting?"
     "Lovely for cloth, perhaps, but I've never heard of one thread hav-
    ing any sort of opinion about another."
     "Listen harder."

    




     "Oil and water don't mix, Elora, why should every race and cul-
    ture?"                                   411,
     "Isn't that one of the responsibilities of sentience, Duguay, to rise
    above even natural prejudices?"
     "Especially with a Sacred Princess to show the way?"
     "Who's to say? The job didn't come with instructions."
     "Now who's making light?"
     'It's true. The only person with any real clue is the Deceiver .....
    Her voice trailed off, as if the words themselves constituted a sudden
    and unexpected revelation.
     "What?" came a prompt from Duguay, after she'd been silent
    awhile.
     "Something Thom Drumheller said..."
     "That name I've heard before."
     "My guardian, you might say."
     "You mean I've a rival for that role? Heaven forfend!"
     "Keep this up, Master Faralom, I'll have them hose you down."
     "Hmm, I'd best behave. You're always most formidable when you
    call me 'Master Faralorn.' "
     "And you're worse to deal with sometimes than any brownie!"
     'So what did this Drumheller fella tell you?"
     "That the Deceiver seemed to know everyone better than they did
    themselves. Cherlindrea, all the other monarchs, Thom himself." And
    especially, she thought, feeling apprehension descend her spine like a
    trickle of ice, me. He knows me, and his spells can do me harm. But why?
    How can he alone have such power? Where does it come from, where does he
    come from?
     "As the sages are fond of saying, Elora, knowledge is power."
     'And I have next to none. I don't even know who I am."
     "Could have fooled me."
     "My mother was murdered the day I was born, Duguay. I have no
    fit memory of her, I know nothing about my father. If anyone else
    did"-a pause, as a vision all in scarlet and black, with haunted fea-
    tures and hating eyes swam across the panorama of Elora's memory,
    the Demon Queen Bavmorda, who'd tried so hard to end Elora's life
    before it had even begun-"they never told me. What are you smil-
    ing at?" she demanded suddenly of Duguay, tempted to clout him for
    his rudeness.
     "Just listening, is all. I can't speak for the whole of your destiny but
    at this time, in this part, it's clear you were meant to be a bard."
     "Stop."

    




      "It's the way you frame words, almost as well as I do music-and
    that's saying quite a piece."
      "Thank you," she told him, but her tone made plain that she
    didn't believe. He didn't appear to mind, which infuriated her all the
    more.
      'So," he said. "That elf, back at Ganthem's, when he lay dying he
    named you 'Deceiver.'"
     "That's not the same!'
     "The accusation struck a chord, that much is plain. Do you fear
    
    some connection with your enemy?"
     'It would explain a lot."
      He considered. "Think to when we were deep within the forest.
    Suppose you ask me what the shape of the world is and I tell you
    straight it's made of naught but trees. Can you prove me different?"
     'Easily."
     'How? Look about you, Elora, what do you see?"
     "Trees. But-F
     'What do you see?" he asked her again.
      "Trees!" she repeated with some asperity. "And if we travel a
    ways," she went on, daring him with a glare to interrupt again, "we'll
    see meadows." She waved an arm to illustrate the point. "And plains.
    And mountains. And an ocean."
      "Absolutely right. The more you know," he announced tri-
    umphantly, as though presenting a fundamental law of the universe,
    "the more you know! And you"-for emphasis, he gave her a sharp
    poke on the breastbone-"know damn all. Am I wrong, or am
    right?"
      She let out her breath in a deliberate and obvious sigh and pursed
    her lips. "You're right," she said, with a shallow nod.
      'Absolutely." He surveyed the scene, pursed his lips, came to a de-
    cision. "Come with me," he told her. 'Time you did some good."
     "And this is ... ?" she said, wearily indicating the pump.
      "Something any stalwart soul can do. What I have in mind is for
    you and me alone."
      He produced a jug of mint-accented water, deliciously cool, so she
    could slake her thirst. She splashed a double handful across her face
    and head, won a nod of self-appreciation from Duguay at how well
    his paint withstood the night's onslaught, and asked for something to
    eat. All he had to offer were road biscuits, which tasted like sawdust
    but took the edge off her pangs.
     Then his rich baritone voice rang out in a roundelay familiar to the

    




    locals, used during harvesttime in the wheat fields, to make the cut-
    ting and threshing go more quickly. Elora came in on cue a half phrase
    behind him, taking the harmony to his melody.
     No one paid much attention at first. The most response they got
    was a volley of sharp complaints from those who had to replace Elora
    at her pump, and by the hoseman who felt the replacements didn't
    do as good a job. Elora took the challenge personally and without
    missing breath or beat moved back to her old position and took hold
    of the rocker arms. She matched the cadence of the pump to that of
    the song and turned it into a duel with Duguay to see who could
    complete each verse with more energy and panache.
     The hoseman couldn't help a laugh at the discomfiture shown by
    the four Elora had supplanted, who themselves were trying to figure
    out how this girl could outperform them. Duguay moved over to
    him, gestured him to pick up the next verse, only to roll his eyes in
    overplayed scom at the hesitant attempt that emerged. The four
    pumpers took that as an opportunity to get some of their own back
    and took up the roundelay themselves, engaging in a four-part har-
    mony as they accepted the handoff of the pump from Elora. Which
    in turn inspired the hoseman to better efforts.
     And so the troubadour and his apprentice spread music through
    the night, easing the pain of those who'd suffered loss, energizing the
    spirits of those who fought to help them. Their repertoire were sim-
     I +. 4, +.    t,    +-I, +-    IA ;  11 1   A
    
    p e unes a everyone new or a cou eas ly e earne
     As battles went, this was quickly won, and the cost was surpns-
    ingly cheap. Aside from some aching heads-drugged wine flasks-
    and a couple of abstemious sentries who'd been thumped, there were
    no casualties. While the risk of disaster had been significant, the ac-
    tual losses turned out to be far less so. Scorched timbers and a roof in
    need of repair about the stable, a number of tents that would have to
    be replaced, one wagon that was a total write-off.
     True, the Maizan had stolen Ryn away, but two of their number
    had been left behind, the one from the gate and his companion,
    whom Elora had clocked in the watchtower.
     Elora wanted to confront them herself. To her astonishment, she
    found herself summoned to the Provost Marshal's office for an inter-
    rogation of her own.
     She wasn't under arrest, or even under suspicion, she was assured,
    despite the fact that a couple of armed proctors had been sent to col-
    lect her. This was only a formality.
     Luc-Jon sat at his scribe's table in the comer of the Marshal's aus-

    




    tere office, to record all that was said. He tried to look reassuring as
    Elora was marched inside but couldn't hide the worry in his eyes.
     She told the truth. Just not all of it. About the confrontation at the
    stable and the Maizan's determination to win back what they con-
    sidered their property at any cost. Her flight from the dining hall af-
    ter her performance, she ascribed to panic over the audience's
    response. She'd never done this before, she didn't know how to cope
    with their reaction. She wanted some time to herself, to regain her
    composure, and heard the commotion at the stable. She didn't sound
    an alarm because she didn't know what was happening. By the time
    she did, there was no more time. Her reason was simplicity itself: she
    believed the Maizan intended harm to that poor creature and she
    wasn't about to let them have their way with him.
     It was a well-told story. The Marshal made no attempt to discount
    it, but also made none to disguise the fact that he knew this was a
    bard's stock-in-trade. It was plausible, which was why he chose to
    accept it. He also believed there was more.
     She asked if the Maizan prisoners had said anything, received no
    more than a thin-lipped smile in return that told her it was none of
    her business. She was thanked for her cooperation and dismissed,
    and just,as she stepped over the threshold she was informed that un-
    til this matter was fully resolved she and her companion were re-
    stricted to the fort.
     As morning edged away night, after all the others had gone to bed,
    she sat by herself in the dining hall staring into the hearth until the
    last of its embers finally guttered out. Every now and again she would
    reach a finger, or all of them together, through the flame of the can-
    dle that stood before her on the table. Sometimes its fire was like the
    lick of a serpent's tongue, at others like a caress of heat. Once, she
    closed her palm around it, to see if she could steal it away, but the
    flame slipped from her grasp and held its place firmly on the wick.
    Such a puny thing, yet it could ignite a blaze capable of consuming
    the entire fort, if not a goodly portion of forest. At the same time, it
    remained so fragile that she could extinguish it with a fingertip, or the
    smallest puff of air.
     She thought of dragons, and asked how they could possibly hold
    a fire as hot as the world's heart within their bellies and not be de-
    voured themselves? How could firedrakes exist, composed of noth-
    ing but molten essence, of such incredible intensity that their mere
    presence could vaporize steel and stone? How could she swim with
    them, be one with them, yet not be annihilated?

    




     Thinking of swimming reminded her of Ryn, and that the word
    which came most naturally to mind when she pictured him was joy-
    ous. Life was a delight and his sense of wonder was so infectious that
    all who encountered him couldn't help but be swept along with it.
    His features weren't even human, when she was younger she took
    him for a living embodiment of her guardian bear, whereas Duguay
    was a heartbreaker. Without a thought as to why she measured these
    two against each other, she realized that she could look Ryn in the
    eye, and what she found there was a soul as winning and noble as
    could be wished for.
     She ached with the loss of him and raged at her inability to find a
    way to go to his rescue.
     The rational side of Elora told her to go to bed, that no good pur-
    pose was served by such ruminations, but she wasn't in the mood.
    Her spirit wasn't weary and her body was beset by too many angry
    sensations, as though all of her joints and bones had decided they
    were done with living in harmony. She snorted then, remembering
    her analogy with the cloth and wondering if all the parts of her had
    decided they were better off wandering their separate ways.
     She puffed out the candleflame and stepped past the wolfhound
    onto the porch. In the early-morning silence, with the stronghold
    mostly asleep, natural sounds once more held sway. She could hear
    the wild progress of the river as well as the rustle of wind through the
    spen groves that intruded upon the more numerous spruce and high-
    land pine. The breeze brought with it a myriad of scents that weren't
    so noticeable by daylight. There was no moon, but neither were
    there clouds to obscure the magnificent panoply of starlight over-
    head. Black sky she beheld when she looked up, against the blacker
    silhouette of the forest. Peace at last settled around her like a shawl,
    and she thought to go to bed.
      "Elora Danan," she heard from behind, "you're dead."

    




    12 A.
    
    "THANK YOU SO MUCH." ELORA SAID TO THE WOLF-
    hound, who merely opened his mouth wide in a luxurious
    yawn and then let his teeth close with a resounding chop.
      You should know better," said the warrior, in a familiar
    voice.
      Elora considered a rude reply, but decided on a more tem-
    perate one and made a face instead which she knew the other
    could not see.
      "Hoy!" she heard Luc-Jon cry from the Commandant's
    porch, where he'd been working through the night.
    "What'cher there! Put up them swords!"
      "It's all right," Elora called as the young man's alarm
    brought an instant response from guards, whose nerves were
    already on hair triggers. "No harni meant, no harm done!"
      She stepped clear of the blades' embrace and heard them
    sing through the air as the warriors returned them to their

    




    V
    
    scabbards. Boots thundered on floorboards all around them. In sur-
    
    prisingly short order near a dozen armed men had taken position be-
    fore her, to face Elora and her supposed assailant with a formidable
    
    'Who goes?" demanded the Ser-aeant of the Watch.
    
     'Khory Bannefin," said the warrior, stepping into the torchlight
    where she could be properly seen. "In the service of Thom
    Drumheller. himself adiunct to the office of the Chancellor of the Re-
    
    She lad,,'t clia ed much sinrP the last dme Elora had seen her
    
    two ears earlier, any more than since the first Broad shoulders
    long arms and legs, hair as naturally black as the false color Elora
    wore, cropped as close to her skull as a day's growth on a man with
    a heavv beard. She wasn't t)rettv. she wasn't uglv. Khorv existed in
    
    that realm where features were defined more by character than de-
    sign. High cheekbones framed a strong, square jaw beneath a broken
    nose and wide-spaced eyes their oval shape and upturned setting
    marking her as a native of the Spice Lands, though her features were
    too angular, her skin too rich a gold to be mainland Chengwei.
    Thom's guess was that her heritage was Hansha, off the coastal
    archipelago, but had no notion how one of her race had come to
    Angwyn, to meet her doom ages ago in the dungeons beneath the
    
     Tribal tattoos marked biceps and thighs, and especially her face
    behind and above her left eye, covering her eyelid and filling the
    whole of the brow ridge before flaring up and out along the flank of
    
    her skull until it met her hairline. The image was as brilliantly color-
    ful as Elora's makeup, and most closely resembled the facial feather-
    ing of some exotic raptor, as if transposed directly from the head of
    that great hunting bird. The odd thing was, in all their travels to-
    gether, none of their party had ever been able to identify which bird.
    Thom didn't know, neither did the brownies, nor the two golden ea-
    gles Bastian and Anele, nor did anyone they met along the way.
     In her previous life Khory had been a warrior. That had been plain
    at the start from the tone of her body's musculature and the calluses
    on her hands, as well as the few scars that marked her flesh. While
    death claimed her soul in those catacombs, the reaper found it had a
    challenger for her body: a demon imprisoned since time immemorial
    in the very stones used to construct the ancient stronghold that
    served as the original seat of power for Angwyn's rulers. The demon
    saved Thom's life, and offered to help save Elora's provided the Nel-

    




    wyn sorcerer gave life to its own unborn offspring. The demon was
    a prisoner from time's beginning to its end. It would not allow its
    child to share that fate. The child was soul without body, Khory was
    body without soul. Thom would be the catalyst that brought the two
    together and made them one.
      He had never spoken of that ceremony. Neither had Elora, and she
    never would. Necromancy was considered a Black Art, province of
    such evil wizards as Bavmorda. Trafficking with demons was worse.
    Revealing Khory's true nature would be an instant sentence of death,
    for her and Thorn both.
      Then again, Elora considered as she accompanied the other woman
    to the Commandant's, what is her true nature? Demons have always been
    considered spawn of the ultimate evil, yet Khory's been nothing but a true
    Mend, a woman of courage and honor.
     "I sent for Thom," Elora said.
      "And he sent me, little Princess." Plain as spoken words between
    them was her silent rebuke: He has duties, Elora Danan, and there's more
    at stake here than the life of any friend, no matter how dear.
      "You should have been here sooner." She was unable to keep a
    hint of accusation from her tone.
     "So I gather."
      "Or at least sent Bastian and Rool ahead to let me know you werf
    coming! With their help none of this might have happened."
      'I don't care who she claims to be," they heard the Commandan
    roar. His anger was as palpable as an expanding field of burning gas
    making those outside extremely reluctant to make their presencl
    known. "What I want to know, gentlemen, is how the hell she en
    tered this stronghold unnoticed?"
      'Sir-" one of his officers began, but that was as far as he was al
    lowed to go.
      "I don't want excuses," the Commandant snapped. "I also don'
    want this to happen again. Find out what happened and make j
    right."
      The officers hurried out, radiating their own little puffballs of hL
    miliation and fury, promising an equivalently hard time for their ow
    subordinates. The troopers who composed Elora and Khory's escoi
    exchanged rueful glances at the sight. This promised to be a bear of
    day.
      The Commandant didn't ask how she accomplished her incursio
    as she presented both credentials and a packet of dispatches. A bri(
    but thorough sweep of the eyes across her body, taking the measui

    




   of her stance and weapons, told him all he needed to know about her
    bilities.
     He looked rumpled, he looked wom, with none of the,%.cultivated
    veneer of the visage he normally presented to the world. He was a
    figure as rough-hewn in his way as the garrison he commanded,
    who'd grounded his life in as firm a foundation and built it solidly
    piece by piece. He would never be flashy, he was rather the kind who
    would endure. Right now, to Elora, he was very much the bear who'd
    been rudely wakened from his winter's hibernation. Not happy at the
    disturbance and less so to be presenting himself at so much less than
    his best, with grizzled, unshaven cheeks and red-streaked eyes sunk
    too deep in their sockets. He'd obviously grabbed whatever lay clos-
    est at hand to wear, belting his sword on over a nightshirt.
     He ran his fingers through hair that badly needed a wash, scrab-
    bled about the desktop and drawers in a vain search for something to
    tie it back from his face.
     "You seem to be the focus of quite a lot of interest, young
    woman," he noted to Elora.
     "A misfortune of fate, sir?" she hazarded lightly in response.
     He gave that line no more credit than the story she'd told him ear-
    her but chose to accept it anyway. For the moment.
     "Are you familiar with these assessments?" he asked Khory, indi-
    cating the thick bundle of dispatches she'd delivered. The warrior
    nodded. 'Is there hope for a negotiated truce?"
     "Defensive mind-set," she said simply, voicing her own opinion.
    "Defensive strategy. Automatically cedes the initiative to the enemy.
    Peace will last until the enemy decides to break it."
     "At which point," the Commandant mused thoughtfully, in agree-
    ment, "the question becomes, can that attack be repulsed? I'm to hold
    fast here, then."
     'As best you can, and for as long, yes. Those are the orders."
     'With no more resources than what I have?"
     'In light of Testeverde, the decision has been made to concentrate
    Republican forces at Sandeni itself. If the Maizan mean to scale the
    Wall, that's the nut they have to crack to do so. The hope is that the
    Castellan and his warlord will conclude it is a shell that can't be bro-
    ken."
     "There's more at play here than just Maizan, does your master,
    Drumheller, understand that? Does the council? The Maizan are no
    longer the only enemy with territorial ambitions. We've had skir-
    mishes all along the frontier."

    




     "Those were no more than raiding parties, weren't they?" Elora in-
    terrupted. "I'm sorty," she hurried on as both Khory and the Com-
    mandant turned their gaze on her, "I guess I'm wrong but what threat
    could they pose to a place like this?"
     "That the High Elves of Greater Faery raid at all is cause enough
    for concern," the Commandant told her. "But they've enlisted allies to
    their cause. Every which way you look, there's someone new who
    feels they've been pushed hard into a corner. Daikini who believe the
    Veil Folk mean their extermination, to whom the Maizan appear their
    sole salvation. Veil Folk who see how magic is being expunged from
    Maizan holdings and assume the same in return. And those nations
    of the Daikini caught in the middle ' unwilling to bow before either
    camp. We're none of us being left with any option save total com-
    mitment, because the perceived alternative is annihilation."
    
     "What will happen here?" Elora asked Khory as they returned
    along the porch to the inn.
      The taller woman shrugged. "Maybe nothing."
     Her gaze was always roving, sweeping the space immediately sur-
    rounding her and flicking from point to point across whatever lay
    within eyeshot to check for any possible threat.
      "You don't believe that. The Commandant doesn't."
     "The government in Sandeni has decided. They have to make a
    stand."
      "What's that mean~-"
     "The best I can do, little Princess, is tell you what Drumheller told
    me before I left. The Republic has to hold what is theirs, not only
    against the Maizan but against these marauding forces of Greater
    Faery. The Maizan must be made to bleed for what they wish to con-
    quer, not only to maintain Sandeni's independence but to demon-
    strate to the Veil Folk that there are Daikini who will stand in their
    defense. There is no longer any middle ground, as the Commandant
    said. Testeverde was proof of that. To save the lives of its populace,
    the decision was made to surrender the city, even though that meant
    the eldritch power of its World Gate would be stolen away by the
    Deceiver. Instead, some force beyond the Veil shattered Testeverde's
    Gate with a spell so foul that the land there is death for any Daikini
    who even comes close."
      "Like Angwyn."
      Khory shook her head violently. "No. What happened at

    




    Testeverde was an abomination. For all the enmity we may bear him,
    the Deceiver has committed no such atrocity. Angwyn is ensorcelled,
    as Thom's stories say your Tir Asleen once was. Consider the De-
    ceiver more like a drain, drawing to himself the magical essence of
    the world. That upsets the balance of things. Because the Realms are
    interlinked, what affects one affects all. The less energy a thing pos-
    sesses, the colder it becomes."
     "So if the Deceiver wins, we all freeze?"
     Khory exhaled sharply and both of them watched the thick cloud
    formed by her breath as it chilled.
     There was a bite to the air strong enough to make others clutch
    their jacket collars about their throats and exchange knowing nods
    about how quickly summer was giving way to fall, but neither
    woman appeared to mind.
     "Everyone's desperate," Elora noted, using the term to encompass
    far more than just the Daikini within the stronghold's walls, "every-
    one's scared. That's why they're lashing out so fiercely, they figure
    there's nothing left to lose. That's the Deceiver's doing," she told
    Khory, "that's the responsibility he must bear. He's the one who's
    pushed us all into these corners." She looked around the whole of the
    parade ground yet again and exclaimed, 'There has to be a way to
    help!"
     "The decision has been made."
     "That this fort is to be sacrificed? I refuse to accept that!"
     "You have no choice, Elora."
     "Do you ever wonder," Elora asked her, "about where you come
    from?"
     "Formlessness into form. I was not and then I was."
     "Trust a demon to speak in enigmas."
     "I am not a demon, Elora. Any more than I am this woman whose
    flesh is foster home to my spirit. I am myself entire. Beyond that, all
    is discovery."
     "You sound like Ryn."
     "Not so poor a way to embrace existence."
     "Do you deny your heritage?"
     "I assume, like most, my whole is greater than the sum of my
    parts. Do you deny yours?" she asked Elora suddenly.
     The question caught Elora off guard and the answer burst out be-
    fore thought could temper it. "I don't have one."
     "No?"

    




     "I've a Destiny. That's apparently all that matters."
      "You haven't the experience to be clever, girl. Save it for better
    days."
      "I'm serious. I think. I mean, who am I? Princess by name, but
    what's my blood? Hellsteeth, Khory, you know more than that about
    yourself and you're not even wholly human!"
     "Piss and vinegar will only take you so far."
     'That's for damn sure."
     "Bed, girl. Now."
     "I'm not sleepy."
     "You've a hard ride ahead come morning."
     "We're going after Ryn! Why wait till sunup, I'm ready now!"
     "Ryn is my responsibility, girl. I'll bring him home safe."
     "I'm coming with you!"
      "You'll do as you're told. Don't look so downcast, Elora, you're
    getting your wish. You're going to Sandeni to join Thorn."
    
      Khory was gone within the hour.
      Elora would have followed, but the warrior had left her in the
    charge of a brace of proctors, with orders to keep her under close con-
    finement until morning when she'd be sent downriver under escort.
    Even if she gave her minders the slip the gates were closed and
    bolted, with a full wartime complement of sentries on the walls. For
    her, the fort was a closed box.
      There was no sign of Duguay in their room, which provoked a
    mixture of emotions in Elora. She was thankful for the solitude, up-
    set at his absence. She wasn't in a mood to sleep, though she knew
    she'd pay for that later when the excitement of the evening finally
    faded, and so busied herself packing away her costume finery into a
    traveling pouch, replacing it with her buckskins.
      The mare Khory provided for her wasn't much to look at, ma-
    hogany coat accented with russet in the mane and tail, dark socks on
    all her legs, in the same autumnal red, white blaze down her forehead
    like someone had laid down the basic outline of a broadsword.
    Across shoulders and flanks was a network of pale lines, some long,
    some short, some wide, some narrow that first glance registered to
    Elora as scars, long-healed. A moment's reflection rejected that pre-
    sumption on the grounds that no creature living could survive such an
    onslaught, and most certainly not in the prime of health and condi-
    tion that this animal radiated.

    




     There was pride in her stance and a knowingness in her gaze that
    Elora had rarely seen in her breed. Though she wore saddle and bri-
    dle, this horse had never been broken, nor did she acknowledge any
    rider as her "master." With that exchange of looks, Elora understood
    that here stood one who faced her as an equal, whose friendship and
    loyalty and, above all, respect had to be earned.
     The distinctive clip-clop of another set of hooves alerted her to the
    approach of another animal and a few moments later Duguay Far-
    alorn led a mount of his own around the comer of the paddock.
     Elora greeted him with a tense flattening of the lips and continued
    her examination of her tack, tugging on the saddle girth to make sure
    it was securely strapped in place. She offered the mare a fresh carrot
    and smiled at the whuffle of the horse's warm breath as she took her
    scent as well as the proffered snack.
     'What's all this, then?" she asked the troubadour as she slipped
    the bridle into place and fed her mare another carrot, stroking her soft
    muzzle as she ate.
     "You don't get rid of me that easily, lass."
     'Bound at the hip, are we, Master Faralorn?"
     'We make good music together, Elora," he said in all seriousness.
    "I don't want that to end. I don't think you do, either."
     'I have other obligations."
     "They're mutually exclusive?"
     'Ryn's my friend. I won't abandon him."
     "Don't you think that your warrior friend might be better quali-
    fied to go to his rescue?"
     "So I just stand idly by and wait, while others do the work and
    take the risks?"
     "It happens. It isn't even so bad a thing."
     'You live with that attitude. I refuse to."
     'How will you find him?'
     "The same way Khory will, with Bastian and Rool's help. I caught
    a whisper of their presence a little after sunup. She brought them
    back upriver with her, but she's got them ranging way wide of the
    fort, I assume to mark the Maizan trail from the air."
     "And they'll help you?" She shot him so fierce a basilisk glare that
    he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right, no of-
    fense, we'll set that one aside for a moment, there's no need to cry."
     "I'm not crying," she snuffled, physical evidence to the contrary.
     "Of course not. Take my handkerchief anyway."

    




     She blew her nose but didn't give it back right away, letting her
    forehead rest against the seat of the saddle. She heard the mare
    whicker in concern for her.
     'I felt so good the other night," she told them both, her voice thick
    and huskier than usual.
     "And deservedly so."
     "I felt I had made a kind of contribution! Taken all the despair that
    was in the room and galvanized it into something brighter and
    stronger and more positive. I felt hope from them, Duguay. And then
    Ryn was taken and I couldn't stop it and now I'm being told to run
    away to where it's safe while all these people here, they're doomed,
    and I don't want to be told there's nothing to be done, I'm sick of be-
    ing told there's nothing to be done!"
     "So what will you do?"
     She huffed. "I can't fight, like Khory. I can't wield magic, like
    Thorn. I'm a fair blacksmith, but Torquil's better. All I know, that I'm
    good at, are singing and healing. Those I can do. That's where I'll have
    to start."
     "I've heard of some building more with less."
     "Thank you."
     Elora circled the mare's hindquarters, keeping one hand lightly on
    the horse's rump so she wouldn't make the animal nervous while she
    moved through the blind spot in her vision. Circuit complete, Elora
    once more stood before the mare, noting that the horse stood higher
    at the shoulder by better than a head than Elora herself was tall. Blue
    eyes met brown, in an exchange of looks and an equivalence of mien
    that was as utterly formal as any court introduction.
     "I am Elora," she told the mare. Almost immediately she became
    aware of the name offered in response. It wasn't that the mare an-
    swered-this was a creature whose sentience was defined by the act
    of being rather than by literal intellect, a mentality structured along
    wholly different paths than the human mind-but that Elora intuited
    a simple and obvious truth about her.
     "And you are Windfleet," she continued, gaining a whicker of ac-
    knowledgment and a bob of the head in response.
     She knew the story from both brownies, Rool and Franjean,
    though she'd never met the horse. Before coming to Angwyn, they
    and Thom Drumheller encountered a young Angwyn pathfinder. To-
    gether, the four of them and the Pathfinder's mount faced down a
    hunting pack of Death Dogs that had been set on Thorn's trail. In the
    course of that terrible fight, the mare was mortally wounded. Thorn

    




    brought her back from the brink of death, and that struggle far more
    than the one with the hounds was what inspired him to come at last
    to Elora's side,
     For the better part of a decade Thom had roamed the world, tak-
    ing stock of all its crippled and broken places, those sites of power
    which had been destroyed by the same Cataclysm that had claimed
    Tir Asleen, unwilling-afraid-to accept that he himself numbered
    among them. Windfleet's healing was the first active, positive, step
    he'd taken in that time, the long-overdue reassertion of his proper
    role in the shape of things.
     "I am honored," Elora said, bobbing her own head.
     She grasped the pommel and the reins and hoisted her left foot to
    the stirrup, swinging herself into the saddle with an ease that belied
    the fact that she hadn't been on horseback in years. There were some
    moments of adjustment, as Windfleet settled the new weight on her
    back and Elora tried to get used to straddling the powerful chest.
      Now, she thought, I know how a wishbone feels.
     She'd been taught to hold the reins in both hands, back in
    Angwyn for a brief, lost time when the Emperor had seen her as a
    surrogate for his own lost children: his son, who'd disappeared the
    night Elora had appeared, and the boy's twin sister, the Princess
    Anakerie, who'd run away from home rather than serve as the first
    of Elora's Vizards, the guardians of the Sacred Princess.
     The Emperor was a warrior bom. It was his wife who actually ran
    the kingdom while he served ably and well commanding the armies
    that defended it, Tragically, she had died the night of the Cataclysm
    and he had been forced to relinquish the duties of warlord in favor of
    those of Angwyn's monarch. He tried his best, and wasn't so bad in
    the job, but it was painfully much like fitting a cavalry charger be-
    tween the poles of a dray. The animal may well pull the load but it
    isn't the best use of its skills and talents.
     To compensate for those awful losses, he began to lavish care and
    attention on Elora. With a fondness that surprised her, considering
    how she came to hate her time in Angwyn, she found herself now re-
    membering how he'd sit her before him on his saddle when she was
    barely able to walk and trot about the castle's war yard. She hadn't
    been afraid, snug in that seat with him, even when he took the huge
    animal over some small jumps, and couldn't wait for the day when
    he promised to take her riding on a pony of her own.
     That day never came, of course, for the Emperor's advisers pre-
    vailed in their objections, proclaiming endlessly their concern over
    
    ~ I

    




    the consequences to Angwyn should the Sacred Princess be injured
    during one of these excursions. Or worse, be abducted by some other
    power among the Great Realms. Or worst of all, escape. She was
    Angwyn's prize and Angwyn's talisman, a gift from the Almighty,
    cast halfway around the face of the globe itself into the monarch's
    very courtyard. She was a treasure beyond price and must be secured
    accordingly.
      So, a tower was built, adjacent to the palace, and from the day of
    its completion Elora was never allowed beyond its gates.
      On the ground once more, she led her mare across the sprawling
    yard to the hitching post in front of the inn. Her leggings were more
    uncomfortable than ever, which gave her a wry appreciation of the
    old saw about 'sprouting like a weed," but they were an absolute ne-
    cessity on horseback, especially in rough country. She'd once more
    wrapped her head and shoulders in her tartan scarf, and lashed the
    much heavier greatcloak to her saddlebags and bedroll. True to
    Duguay's word, her face and body paint hadn't faded in the slightest
    and the dramatic patterning drew more stares now than when she
    strolled about in costume.
      "Got to go, I hear," said Luc-Jon from the porch.
      "What can I say? My first solo performance, and next I know, I'm
    being run out of town."
      "Aye, truly there's no justice in world."
      "'In the world,'" she corrected., 'Scribes should know their gram-
    mar, if no one else."
      "Pfaugh!"
      "Nice noise!"
      "You should talk, some o' the ones you've made."
      "Nice manners."
      'Even more so, back at you!"
      'Children!' remonstrated Duguay, at which point both Luc-Jon and
    Elora burst into a rampaging fit of giggles.
      "Better take care, Elora, else you'll make y'r master old afore 'is
    time."
      "If I do, it's no less than he deserves."
      A volley of hooves on hardpan heralded the approach of their es~-
    cort, a light patrol of a dozen troopers with a fresh-faced lieutenant
    to command and a grizzled sergeant to actually run things. The
    Sergeant was Marn and he greeted Elora with affection. The Lieu-
    tenant was in a rush, and obviously considered this 'baby-sitting" de-
    tail beneath him, so farewells had to be quick.

    




    "Just my luck. . .' Luc-Jon began.
    
     'Damn straight," Elora told him, stopping him with a finger to his
    lips before he could say another word. "It's a young world, Luc-Jon,
    
    and we're a pair of young lives. Anything's possible."
    
    "You believe that?"
    
    "I know it." This time, she thought, I'm going to ki.55 him! And she
    
    did. It was as gentle as the first, though it lasted a bit longer.
    
     He has nice eyes, she thought. He makes my heart race. Her hands
    rested lightly on his neck and through her fingertips she could feel the
    pulse of the big vein just beneath the skin and the tips of her mouth
    
    twitched in delight at its tem-oo.
    
    'I brung you something," Luc-Jon stammered.
    
    "You a magician then, to whistle something out of nothing? The
    
    only thing I see in your hands is me.'
    
    it.
    
     "In y'r bag aready. From my master's archives. With permission,"
    he added hurriedly as she reacted to the thought he might have stolen
    
    Finally they heard a cough from the Lieutenant, apparently the lat-
    
    est in a series.
    
     'Where's the puppy?" she asked, more to tweak the Lieutenant
    than to prolong the moment.
     Luc-Jon shrugged. "Ain't seen him nor any t'others in his pack all
    
    the momin'. Maybe they're huntin'Maizan "
    
     "Say good-bye for me, will you?" Elora asked as, with far more
    outward confidence than she actually felt, she climbed back onto
    
    Windfleet's saddle
    
    "You take care,' Luc-Jon called after her as she turned to join the
    
    patrol,
    
    "You, too!" she called back to him with a wave.
    
     The Lieutenant offered a salute to the Commandant, to the colors,
    to the Officer of the Guard at the gate. They hadn't even left the fort
    
    and already Elora was bored enough to die.
    
     She'd thought of kicking her mount into a full gallop the moment
    they were outside, but common sense scotched that notion right
    away. That's why there were miles of cleared ground on every side
    of the fort, so the defenders could see everyone coming or going. In
    the best of circumstances, she'd only have seconds for a head start
    and she doubted she could maintain that lead for long. The only way
    such a bolter would work was with a monstrous huge distraction.
    
    The wolfhound gave it to her.
    The patrol was hardly out the gate when the dogs came at them

    




    from every side, raising a terrific hullabaloo of barks and snarls, bar-
    ing fangs with fearsome growls, lunging forward in a stiff-legged at-
    tack posture as though they meant to grab the horses by their fetlocks
    and pitch them over. The horses immediately assumed the worst and
    their riders, taken by surprise by the attack itself as well as by its fe-
    rocity, had no argument for them. The animals panicked, and the
    men, who should have been trying to calm them, were suddenly left
    desperately trying to hold their seats.
      They didn't have a chance. In lightning succession, the entire pa-
    trol was unhorsed, the terrified animals charging across the parade
    ground for the sanctuary of their stables to the jeers and catcalls of
    watching troopers. Duguay's horse skibbled in anxiety. It would have
    joined the others given the chance, but the troubadour proved him-
    self as expert a horseman as he was a balladeer and kept the beast un-
    der control. Elora of course was lost, lacking both training and
    experience, but with her it was Windfleet who saved the day. The
    mare wasn't bothered in the slightest by the hounds' display. She had
    fought Death Dogs and lived. She knew there was no threat.
      "Bravo, puppy!" Elora called, and without the slightest urging on
    her part Windfleet shot into a gallop.
      The wolfhound looked indecently pleased with himself as he
    loped to a small rise past the wagon train's encampment to watch
    them go. Behind him there was a wild succession of shouts and
    curses, yelps of the purely human variety, and then a monstrous huge
    crash as one of the other dogs, very keen on initiative, streaked from
    the gatehouse as the portcullis thundered into place.
      Feeling very pleased with himself, the hound lifted his head high
    and howled, as his ancestors had to tell the Dire Wolves their reign
    of blood and terror was done, and that now they were faced by foes
    worthy of the name.
      "Did you see that?" Elora crowed, in between heartfelt prayers
    that the base of her spine not be pounded to powder. 'Did you see
    what my puppy did?"
      "Very impressive," Duguay agreed as his mount held pace with
    hers. "A prince among canines, truly."
      "He did it for me, bless his heart." A frantic look over the shoul-
    der. "There's nobody following!"
      'Not really expecting anyone."
      "What was that big crash, d'you think?"
      "Portcullis. Not so hard, really. They're designed to come down in
    a hurry. All you have to do is release the brake."

    




    I
    
     "Absolutely brilliant."
     "They're working dogs, wolfhounds are. Bred for brains as well as
    brawn."
     "A whole lot of things in the world are smarter than they appear,
    Master Faralorn. You simply have to find the way to communicate
    and comprehend. Is the portcullis broken, dyou think? Is that why
    they're not after us yet?"
     "Takes time to raise the gate, though not a lot. Takes time as well
    to round up another patrol, though not a lot. By then, we'll be near
    the trees, if not outright in 'em."
     "They have trackers, though, and scryscouts."
     "If they want us badly enough, Elora, they'll find us. And run us
    down. We've only these animals here, they'll come with remounts so
    they can maintain a constant pace and faster. But I don't think they'll
    come."
     "Why not?"
     "There's been no word from that patrol went haring after the
    Maizan. If the rumors are correct about the Commandant being told
    to make a stand, he'll need every man and every blade."
     "They are true, Duguay."
     "I figured as much in the stable. By his lights, if we're this hell-bent
    set on suicide, he hasn't the resources to spare to save us from our-
    selves."
     They slowed somewhat once they reached the shelter of the tree
    line. Open ground gave way to a succession of forest trails, but
    Duguay didn't call a halt for the better part of another hour, when
    they reached the crest of a rise that allowed a surprisingly panoramic
    vie of the fields and the fortress at their hub.
     "Well?" he challenged Elora.
     She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
     'From here we still have a decent sight of the fort," he explained.
    "It's not so hard to pretend we got lost if we decide to call this quits.
    We press on, girl, we cast away that luxury. But if we do press on, we
    need to know which way to go."
     "Ri8ht."
     He caught one of her reins, close by the bit.
     "I know what this means to you, I know Ryn's your friend, but
    those others you're counting on, if they shut you out, we're done
    here. We go no farther, are we agreed?"
     " 'We'?"
    
     'If I have to hog-tie you, girl, I will. Think now what you mean to

    




    those we've left behind! That boy, that damnable hound! You talk
    about being worthy. Well, worth is grounded in honor, and honor in
    truth, to yourself first of all! And there's neither worth nor honor nor
    truth in being dumb. Now, are we agreed?"
      She sat very still and very proud, because it was rare that she was
    ever spoken to in such a tone and rarer still when she acknowledged
    the moment was deserved.
      She answered with a small and shallow nod of the head and didn't
    realize how truly regal she suddenly looked.
      "Rool!" she called in mindspeech, firing her thoughts skyward like
    a beacon. 'Bastian!
      "I know what Khory probably told you," she explained. "I know
    what she told me. I'll understand if you don't reply. I hope and pray
    you will. Please. I beg you. Let me help."
      She took a shuddery breath and chewed a moment on her lower
    lip. Duguay's horse was still a bit nervous, expecting another dog at-
    tack any moment, and kept shifting its feet. Windfleet remained to-
    tally calm.
      'How long should we wait?" Elora asked.
      Then her eyes went wide and she sagged back in her saddle as if
    a great and invisible hand had suddenly pushed against her chest. The
    air went right out of her and Duguay was halfway to the ground to
    catch her, certain she was about to fall, when she regained both
    breath and balance.
      "Oh my," she said, and took a long moment to enjoy the view.
      Bastian soared to the north and west, in the general direction that
    Elora was meant to travel. Below him was a hedgehog range: old-
    growth mountains whose majestic summits had been worn away by
    the passage of the eons and cast in gentler forms, so named because
    of their general resemblance of those animals. Rool was riding with
    him, and with his first word, Elora knew she'd made the right deci-
    sion.
      "Come," he said, with the finality to his voice of a warrior facing
    battle.
      "Where, Rool? What's happening?"
      "Stay merged with Bastian, he'll show the way. There's a fast trall,
    I'll explain as you go. Be quick, Elora Danan. Be here by moonrise. Be
    ready to fight."
      Rool was good as his word and Bastian a superb guide. Once they
    gained the track he spoke of, Elora merely gave Windfleet her head
    and trusted the mare not to make any missteps. It proved to be a

    




    wild, wonderful ride, even if the young woman spent much of it with
    her eyes closed.
     Abruptly, shocking the girl's eyes wide open, Windfleet jerked to
    a stiff-legged stop. Tension raced with fatigue straight through the
    mare's body, and from there through Elora's, with such force and in-
    tensity that both sets of nerves were nearly crackling. Duguay felt it,
    too. He'd pulled his own mount beside her, his free hand clasped
    tight around the haft of a drawn sword.
     Ahead and above rose a mound. Nothing near as impressive to
    look at as many peaks she'd seen, that was true of all these ancient
    mountains. Wom away by the elements of nature as a body is by
    time, they had all been reduced to the merest ghosts of their original
    selves. Yet this one in particular possessed a gravitas, a primal weight
    of spirit, that put the whole rest of this range to shame, and a fair por-
    tion of the Stairs to Heaven as well.
     The night of the Cataclysm, not only Tir Asleen was destroyed. As
    Thom discovered during a decade and more of roaming the face of
    the globe, that selfsame malefic force annihilated a score of similar
    sites, on every continent and on both sides of the Veil, savaging those
    special places that were the main repositories of arcane energy.
     Once upon a time, this hill would have been among that number,
    a nexus of the ley lines which sustain all magic through the uncount-
    able eons. But just as with every other physical property of the world,
    the intersection points that once existed here had moved on, leaving
    only the residue of that eldritch force, the palest echo of the glory
    that once had been.
     Windfleet danced sharply on her hooves and laid her ears back flat
    atop her skull. This was not so much a posture of fear but of ready-
    ing herself for battle. Flight was certainly a considered option. Brave
    she was, not stupid. There was a stillness to the air, akin to the gath-
    ering of forces before a thunderstorm. It felt supercharged with an in-
    finite number of tiny, invisible lightning bolts that burst over every
    inch of Elora's skin, whether clothed or not. Even her hair, short as it
    was, stood on end. Sounds faded the way they do in terrible cold,
    when the air becomes too dry to carry noise very far. Yet, paradoxi-
    cally, Elora felt the beginnings of a wind, not so much the movement
      ir
                  rough the air, winding their corkscrew way up
                  teep-sided mound.
                    she asked, in a voice as hushed as the mo-

    




      "A high tor," she heard Rool say aloud, and Bastian swung out of
    a tight circle to claim a perch on a nearby outcrop of stone. A nudge
    with her knee sidestepped Windfleet close beside it and she raised
    her arm to make the transfer easier. She noted a harness tucked be-
    neath the eagle's shoulder feathers. Rool used it to swing to her hand
    and from there he made his swift and surefooted way to his usual
    perch on her shoulder.
      "A place of gathering," he finished. He wasn't happy to see
    Duguay alongside but chose not to press the issue.
      "Something special about tonight?" asked the troubadour. "You
    made it sound urgent."
      'We're at the midpoint between solstice and equinox. It's a win-
    dow of opportunity for the casting of major spells, if you've the
    knowledge and the heart."
      "Let me guess," Elora noted. "Someone up there has both."
      "I see horses tethered in that hollow," Duguay noted. "No riders
    visible."
      "None alive, leastways," was the brownie's grim comment.
      "Maizan?"
      "The ones who stole Ryn had comrades waiting in the forest. And
    more here."
      "Those poor bastards." At Duguay's exclamation, Elora looked at
    him in startlement until he explained. 'The patrol, those four men
    sent out to mark the Maizan's trail."
      "They were alive when they were brought here. And when they
    were dragged up the slope."
      "What about Khory?" Elora demanded.
      "She dealt with all the Maizan she could find. Then she followed.
    We've seen an' heard nothing since."
      "The summit's obscured," Bastian explained with mindspeech.
    "And something about the mist that shrouds it made me keep clear."
      "Made us both," echoed Rool, who'd heard him.
      Without a word, Elora swung herself to the ground, leaving Rool
    behind on the saddle.
      "Elora Danan," he snapped in protest, but his mouth clacked shut
    as she tossed the reins to him.
      "Keep her calm," she said, meaning her mare.
      "And mine as well, small master, if you please," said Duguay,
    slinging his own reins over Elora's saddle horn.
      "And his as well," she agreed, since he clearly wasn't about to be
    denied in this.

    




     "Suppose there's trouble!" Rool cried.
     She ghosted a grin. "If there is, I'm counting on you and Wind-
    fleet"-she gave the mare a comforting stroke to the muzzle-"to
    bring help. Watch over him, Bastian,' she called.
     'Always, Royal Highness."
     With that, she was gone, Duguay by her side.
     Dressed though she was for the road, Elora was glad whatever
    forces shaped her physical being had gifted her with a marked re-
    silience to extremes of weather. The temperature was closer to cold
    than chill, and a skirling breeze put sharp teeth into its bite. Thickly
    layered as he was, in wool and leather and fur, she could feel Duguay
    shiver.
     At this altitude, the air was thin enough to permit a spectacular
    view of the firmament, a sight Elora had beheld often before but one
    of which she never tired. It was a cloudless night, and with the moon
    wholly occluded there was no competing radiance to detract from the
    overarching glory of the heavens. Even when she told herself there
    was nothing new to see, she found herself casting forth the net of her
    imagination and picturing a different kind of Elora on some distant
    peak looking back at her across that inconceivable gulf. Usually those
    dreams made her laugh, because it was hard enough to conceive of
    the myriad and conflicting aspects of life on her own world, much less
    crowd an entirely new and different order of creation in beside them.
     There was more. As Thom said resignedly, there was always
    more. If each of those dots was a sun much like the one that sus-
    tained this world, and if each of those suns had planetary children,
    and each globe inhabitants, then the universe, already so vast and un-
    fathomable, grew utterly beyond all hope of comprehension.
     That's usually when she stopped thinking about it, for the con-
    cepts made her head hurt, as when she spun herself around and
    around like a dervish until she found herself no longer able to stand.
    A dizziness of the spirit to complement the vertigo of the flesh.
     She saw a flash, high above and toward the horizon, brilliantly
    scoring the darkness for the merest moment before it was gone.
     "Shooting star," she and Duguay said together, and both made
    light of their impromptu congruence.
     A mist rose in the time it took them to make their way to the base
    of the tor, across a jumbled scree that reminded her of a child's messy
    playroom, with building blocks all tossed carelessly about. Save that
    these blocks were stone instead of wood and weighed tons, not
    ounces, and could only be held in a giant's hand.

    




     The smell of blood drew her to the first sacrifice. He'd been
    stripped, but Elora assumed he was one of the four Sandeni troopers.
    He'd been staked head down toward the base of the tor, with his feet
    directed at the summit. His aspect was due north. Elora assumed that
    if they circled the tor they'd find the other three men at the remain-
    ing cardinal points of the compass. There were a pair of Maizan close
    at hand, as dead as he, with their torturer's tools smashed and scat-
    tered about them on the ground. One was twisted back on himself in
    a way that indicated both his spine and neck had been broken. The
    other was minus his head altogether.
     "It's called the blood eagle," Duguay said in a voice totally devoid
    of emotion, as though flat reportage was the only way this scene of
    horror could be endured. He was on one knee beside the sacrifice and
    with a hand indicated the ruin that had been made of his chest. "The
    object of this atrocity is to keep the victim alive until the ceremony's
    complete."
      "Look at his face. That's a man at peace, not in agony."
     "Your friend Khory's doing," Duguay reported in that same
    matter-of-fact tone. "She took care of the Maizan, then gave this poor
    devil the mercy of a quick, clean death, to put an end to his torment.
    Should we try to find her?" he wondered.
     "She'll be after Ryn." Elora's gaze rose up the slope before them.
    "That's where to look."
      "Let's go, then."
      She shook her head.
      "Not you, Duguay. Not any farther."
      'I'm not having this discussion another time, Elora."
     'No, we're not. There's sorcery afoot here, so foul I don't have
    words to describe it. But at least I have some immunity."
     'Suppose there are other Maizan. You're not that good in a rough-
    and-tumble scrap that you can't use someone to watch your back."
     "If Khory's gone ahead, there are no other Maizan. Stay by the
    horses and heed Rool. If he says, you bolt."
      'You need me by your side, Elora!" he called.
      She didn't look back. He didn't follow.
     She heard the first scream when she lay foot upon the actual slope
    of the tor. There were no evident paths, to Mage- or InSight, and
    while the grade wasn't anywhere near vertical, it was steep enough
    to be a trial. This first stretch was the most difficult, mainly because
    the footing was so treacherous, the surface littered with stones that

    




    threatened to skibble out from underfoot with every step, and hand-
    holds equally ready to betray her.
     It was a man's voice, the kind of bellow that mostly comes from
    a physical shock, cut off with a finality that left her no illusions as to
    his fate.
     Elora felt something grab at her, twisted instinctively to break its
    hold, lost her balance in the process, the sharp tip of a rock making
    her cry out as it poked her, and began a madcap toboggan back the
    way she came, managing to stop herself by frantically splaying every
    limb to full extension and scrabbling for purchase with fingers and
    toes together.
     She was on her back, and therefore had an uncontested view into
    the heart of the mist. She didn't consider that a blessing, as a twisted,
    glowing shape leaped from those skirling clouds to swipe at the laces
    of her tunic. The attack was so quick, the creature was out of reach
    before Elora could even register her danger, much less attempt any
    defense. It wasn't alone, either, as a glance up and down the course
    of the mist revealed almost as many glowing shapes within as there
    were stars above, all of them racing pell-mell for the tor's summit.
     A second creature began its charge and this time Elora took a swat
    at it, only to see it loop around her hand with an ease that beggared
    birds and insects both and zoom back to safety with her sleeve
    slashed open to the elbow.
     This time, though, she'd caught a decent look at her attacker. It
    was a fair),~
     All her life she'd thought them the most inoffensive of beings, lit-
    de more than adorm-nents on the form of Creation in the same way
    that decorations adomed the Yule trees. They were always said to be
    the kindest of souls, who never tormented a stranger in their midst
    out of malice, but tried their best to entrance with play.
     The emotion she saw now was anything but gentle, and the blow
    that struck her was likewise rich in hatred.
     A third and fourth broke from the cloud to come at her, but this
    time the surprise was theirs as she spun to her feet and sprinted up-
    hill, accepting the risk of an occasional slip as she blazed a crablike
    switchback trail-racing to her left, to her right, to her left-that
    gained her distance with every reversal of direction. She didn't evade
    these new attacks, she refused to pay them any mind, keeping her
    concentration focused instead on the need to reach the summit.
      Rock soon gave way to grass, a rich, thick, loamy sod that had no

    




    J
    
    business being on these slopes at all, much less at such an altitude.
    Here and there Elora could see patches where peat had been wom
    away to bare rock, and the image came to her of waves pounding
    ceaselessly on a shore, each crash of surf inexorably peeling away an-
    other layer of sand. Same here, in its way. Magic sustained the life rep-
    resented by this grass. But with the passage of the ley lines, the magic
    was no longer renewed. Eventually that residue would be exhausted,
    the grass would wither, the soil fly away on each gust of wind as dust.
    Snow and stone would claim this peak, as they had all the rest.
      Another scream, a gargling ululation so piercing Elora had to cover
    her ears and blink away a wicked cascade of tears before they over-
    flowed her eyes. The first death, however brutal, had been quick and
    in that way merciful. Not so the second, in either respect: not quick,
    not merciful. She couldn't recognize the voice, and prayed it wasn't
    Ryn's.
      Elora had come better than halfway, and forced herself to pause
    not so much for breath but for the opportunity to take stock of her-
    self and the situation. The strands of mist had been thin when they
    started rising around the tor, their course following the whirlwind
    form of a tomado. In the time Elora had been climbing they'd thick-
    ened and widened, to the point where they'd closed the gaps be-
    tween them totally below her into a solid mass of cloud. She could
    see more lights as well, sparkling brilliantly within that gray mass.
    Each one, a fairy. Each fairy with a, blade.
      She couldn't retreat now if she wanted to.
      Her clothes were a shambles, hanging off her body in great droops
    of cloth, with every seam slashed through. She salvaged what she
    could and cast the rest aside. She'd grown so used to the style and
    manner of the fairy attacks she gave them little mind any longer. It
    was a nuisance having her clothes literally cut from her body but
    hardly worth the effort needed to defend herself.
      This one came sharply around the curve of the hillside, in a blind-
    ingly fast, diving attack that Elora didn't catch until it was nearly too
    late. Even then it was only a reflexive snap of the head away from the
    pop of fiery radiance that was the fairy that saved her eye. She felt a
    blow strong enough to stagger her, heard a howl of triumph that was-
    a poor imitation of a wolfsong as the tiny creature swept back into
    the misty skystream, and then felt something wet across the curve of
    her cheek.
      The gash was barely two fingers long, only a surface cut, although
    it bled freely and stung worse than any wasp or homet. More than

    




    the attack itself, what disturbed Elora was the crazed grin the fairy
    wore, as it took a feral delight in an act that its kind would have once
    considered obscenity.
     At least now Elora understood why they'd been tearing at her
    clothes, and realized as well that even the shallowest of wounds, in
    sufficient number, can cripple if not outright kill.
     As the fairies came for her she attacked the hill, scrambling the in-
    tervening distance to the summit with a frantic, four-limbed gait that
    was an unconscious but disconcertingly effective echo of Ryn when
    he was in a rush. Her assailants redoubled their own efforts, no
    longer striking singly but descending in a swarm to scourge and harry
    her, determined to claim sole credit for this one life in the face of the
    score run up by whatever ruled the summit.
     Rounding a last pile of boulders, she crashed headlong into a
    Maizani hell-bent on flight. The collision pitched them both to the
    ground, though Elora caught the worst of it, since the warrior had the
    advantage in bulk, not to mention the remnants of his armor. He
    struck out from the moment of contact, fists and feet flailing with
    such fury that to protect herself Elora had no choice but to curl into
    a tight ball, knees to chin, her own hands closed into fists, forearms
    crossed before her face ' taking the blows on bones, gambling that
    none would strike so hard to break them.
     The Maizani wasn't interested in doing her harm, merely in driv-
    ing her away. Once she was out of reach he lumbered on. Elora's in-
    stinct was to follow and bring him down, for in his state and on this
    sharp a grade, his course would lead him only to disaster, but she ut-
    tered not a word, made no more than that sole halting gesture. She'd
    seen the man's eyes in the moment of contact and there was no in-
    tellect left in them for commands or comfort to reach. He had been
    reduced to little better than a beast, obedient only to the most basic
    of inborn natural directives.
     The fairies appeared to view his attempted flight as more impor-
    tant, possibly more sport, than her ascent. None attempted to defy
    the current that spun them all ultimately to the summit, but those be-
    low who'd been gathering against Elora now turned their full atten-
    tion to the Maizani. She saw him in bursts as he emerged from each
    line of mist, with every appearance more and more dotted with
    flashes of radiance until he,might well be mistaken for a creature of
    light himself. In far less time they stripped him to the skin, and then
    they stripped him of his skin, only to discover a prey too dumb to
    know it was doomed.

    




     The fairies could make him fall, they couldn't keep him down.
    Elora found herself thankful that the and air, so sharp and dry each
    breath scored her lungs, kept his outcries from her ears. This was
    hard enough to watch, unbearable to hear as well. Sworn enemy
    though he was, being a Maizani, she had to acknowledge him a mar-
    vel of a man, brimming with strength and life. She wished he had less
    of both-so he could die.
     It was a spear that claimed him, cast from the summit as swift and
    sure as any arrow. Elora's heart leaped to see it, for she knew only
    one person with so deadly an aim and the strength to make it good.
      "Khory," she whispered. "Alive!"
     But for how much longer, she thought as a last glance down the slope
    saw the Maizani collapse to his knees, the spear standing up from his
    body like a standard, while the fairies burst away from him like a
    nest of glittering hornets.
      Elora began to run, and prayed there wasn't far to go.
     The summit was roughly the size of the fort's parade ground, dip-
    ping down and away from where she stood to form a shallow bowl
    before rising to a crest two thirds of the way to the other end. It
    should have been barren save for the natural adornments of grass and
    flowers. Any sarcen stones and plinths to mark the cardinal points of
    the physical as well as arcane compass should have wom away ages
    past, for once the lines of power moved on there was no reason to
    use this tor any longer. It wouldn't even be effective as the setting for
    a World Gate to and from the Veil Realms.
     Yet stones stood before her. The perimeter ring marked the rim of
    the peak. It was composed of the smallest pieces, wedge-shaped and
    no taller than her knee. Narrower at the top than base, they reminded
    Elora of the battlements of long-lost Tir Asleen.
     A slightly larger set, each stone approximately Elora's height and
    breadth, demarcated the bowl itself, with the primary stones arrayed
    in a circle about the altar. Those last dwarfed all the rest, and for the
    life of her Elora couldn't imagine how anyone had set them in place.
     The perimeter was rough-hewn, giving Elora the impression that
    a load of boulders of approximately appropriate size had been gath-
    ered and then chiseled into shape on site. By contrast, the primary
    sarcen stones were an obsidian so dark and gleaming they might have
    been touched with oil and polish just the hour before, surfaces so
    smooth, corners so sharp, they must have been quarried and then fin-
    ished by master artisans. She'd rarely seen steel come from Torquil's
    foundry in so excellent and flawless a state.

    




     Khory was waiting.
     Perhaps there'd been fewer fairies to oppose her, or they didn't
    much care even in madness to pit themselves against a warrior with
    a demon's soul; whichever, she'd reached the summit in a far better
    state than Elora. There was blood on her, and some of it was her
    own, a testament to the prowess of her foes.
     "Are you all right?" they said as one and each spared the other a
    fleeting smile of reassurance to discover they were.
     "What's happening?" Elora asked.
     'I think I'm happier not knowing," was the taller woman's laconic
    reply. "The Maizan knew I was coming, there were ambushes set for
    miles back. This had already begun when I arrived."
     'Makes sense. Begin at moonrise, climax at zenith." Elora skated a
    glance across the heavens but the mist lay too thickly overhead.
    "There can't be much time."
     "I thought, if I finished those men below before their time . .
     "It was a kindness, if nothing else." She turned toward the heart of
    the stone circles. "I have to go in there."
     Khory nodded. "Saw you coming. Figured I'd wait."
     The altar was where all the elements of the battle crashed to-
    gether. As they approached, Elora could make out a glow at ground
    level, a defensive sphere of energy whose blood-hued shades rippled
    like fine satin in a breeze. Directly above it the rising column of fairies
    came together as clouds do to form the anvil forms of thunderheads,
    so innocent and beguiling in the one incarnation, puffballs finer than
    blossoms of unspun cotton floating through space. In the other, they
    form the embodiment of violence and destruction, giving birth to
    thunder and lightning, torrential rains, and winds of such fury even
    stone houses could not stand against them.
     She remembered something a Highlander she knew had told her
    when she was cooing over the dogs that jogged happily at his heels:
    "A pup alone is a wondrous thing," he said of his mixed-blood
    herders, "but put two together, they'll sure an' find a sheep to kill."
    Because then they were a pack and became subject to hereditary im-
    peratives that overruled the character of the individual.
     Alone, a fairy was the quintessence of loveliness. In this mass,
    they roiled together with such intensity the construct they formed
    couldn't hold a wholly stable shape. It was meant to be vaguely hu-
    man, with correct extremities in pretty much the proper arrange-
    ment-allowing of course for the homs and wings and tail-but the
    details couldn't remain constant from one moment to the next. Each
    
    11

    




    new arrival altered the blend, which in turn had a cascading effect on
    the final result. The changes never ended, so many occurring in so
    short a span of time that Elora couldn't bear to look at it. There was
    nothing tangible on which to anchor her perceptions, it was like try-
    ing to keep her balance on a floor composed of nothing but marbles
    and ice. Merely trying made her eyes bum and her head ache.
      Like swimming with firedrakes, she thought.
     The figure cried out and the sound it made was worse than the
    sight of it. There was no single voice, but a chorus of every creature
    that composed its being. It had no coherent form of its own, but was
    an amorphous compilation of this horde of fairies, crushing them-
    selves so tightly together that their individual luster blended to cast
    the illusion of something greater and more terrible.
     As with any great enterprise, there was a commensurate cost. The
    fairy that blazed most brightly does so for the briefest time, and these
    were burning with an intensity that seared the eye. That made the
    melody of their blended voices as unendurable as their glow, for
    within the mass, individual songs suddenly vanished, as did the light
    that signaled that fairy's life force. They were dying, one and all,
    killing themselves willfully-gleeful/y-in defense of this most holy
    ground. Any creature not of their own kind who trespassed on this
    hill tonight was an enemy, and therefore to be destroyed without
    hesitation or mercy. Within the globe of energy, a sorcerer's last and
    most desperate line of defense when all the other spells of protection
    had failed, was the person responsible for this sacrilege, the object
    now of the fairies' greatest hatred.
     When Elora started forward, belatedly aware that she was next to
    naked, clad in her belt with its traveling pouches, from which hung
    the tattered remnants of her shorts, the fairy conglomerate swept
    out an arm toward her, casting a blistering lash of raw energy across
    the curve of its foe's globe. Rainbow fire exploded on the surface of
    the globe, tendrils striking back at the assaulting arm, Elora crying
    out in sympathetic horror as they left avenues of shadow in their
    wake. Tiny bodies rained down to carpet the stone like ash. She rec-
    ognized the nature of those defenses, they were the same that had
    attacked her in the fort when she'd called out to Ryn. Yet she to6k
    no pleasure in the discovery that she'd run her prey to ground, and
    that the fairies' enemy was also the sorcerer who'd enslaved her
    friend.
     Above her, those countless scores had no sooner perished than
    their place was taken by hundreds more, and the bolt of fire which

    




    struck toward Elora was tenfold more powerful than the one un-
    leashed against the globe.
     With a desperate cry, she shoved Khory to cover beyond the cir-
    cle, but there was no time for her to follow. She staggered as the blast
    washed over her, but that was mainly from the shock of contact. She
    thought there'd be pain, sufficient to dash her shrieking to her knees
    for the brief moments allowed her before she was utterly consumed.
      Not a thing.
     On either side, rock blistered, slagged, exploded under the terrible
    onslaught. Elora remained untouched, unharmed.
     In amazement, she stared down at herself while the conglomerate
    howled frustration and redoubled its efforts against the figure within
    the globe. She believed she'd been cut more times than she cared to
    recall, yet there wasn't a sign of it on her skin. Dried blood on the
    loincloth, yes, but not even the ghost of a scar elsewhere.
     She sensed movement, caught a glimpse of Khory slinking from
    cover to cover, called out to her to stay clear. This was a moment for
    Elora alone.
     An avenue led from the perimeter to a circle of station stones, and
    from there to the heart of the ancient shrine. Elora took a breath to
    compose herself and then set off with a formal and measured ca-
    dence, approaching the altar with all due respect and solemnity.
     At the station stones, she paused, ignoring (though it was blessed
    hard) the monstrous creature that loomed so high above the tor, it
    now dwarfed these sarcen stones that in their turn dwarfed her, and
    the now visibly shrunken (though no less colorfully bright) globe of
    fire huddled at the base of the one that stood at the head of the altar.
     Lifting her arms to either side, stretching her hands, she found she
    had just enough height to brush her fingertips over the lower surface
    of the gateway plinth.
     'Revered heart of grace," she said, and wished for something more
    mal . estic than her husky and broken voice. "I come in peace. I mean
    none harm, I do none harm. I ask your welcome."
     She didn't know what to expect by way of reply, didn't really ex-
    pect one at all, and so wasn't surprised when none was forthcoming.
     Elora drew about herself the same dignity she'd have projected in
    any royal palace, with herself gowned and coifed to the eyebrows,
    and took the twenty steps that brought her at last to the basalt cen-
    ter court. It was easier to ignore the battle now that she realized none
    of the weapons could do her harm.
      She stood before the altar and repeated her invocation.

    




     There was no sense of foulness when she placed palms flat on the
    wom and pitted slab. Alone of all the aspects of the shrine in view, it
    showed full evidence of its tremendous age. Whatever was intended
    here by the person in the globe, it had not come to pass.
     Then and there, Elora took a slow, steadying deep breath. She
    shook her hands in a vain attempt to stop their trembling, frightfully
    aware that if she was in any way wrong about her invulnerability
    she'd only find out the hard way. A last and final lesson in humility.
     She put her back to the creature, aware of a tickle of sensation
    along her spine as she stepped forward into the path of its bolts. She
    strode right to the edge of the glowing sphere, spared a moment to
    kneel and lay her hand in sorrow and apology on the scored and sav-
    aged rock that had borne the brunt of the damage.
     Then as easily as strolling through an open doorway, she breached
    the sorcerer's wards and passed through the globe.
     Within crouched a woman twice Elora's age, garbed for war, in a
    pose that suggested cornered predator more than human being. Soft
    leather garbed her snugly, a costume designed as much to distract the
    eye as for comfort and ease of movement. It was dyed the color of
    rich red wine, more black than scarlet. Spike-studded gauntlets
    reached to her elbows, boots to the top of her knees. She wore a tu-
    nic laced as tight as any corset, slashed in battle to reveal a layer of
    fine chain mail sandwiched between those of leather. Elora had no
    doubt the woman was armed to.the proverbial teeth, but knew as
    well she hadn't strength or concentration to spare to draw a single
    one. All her efforts and resources were devoted to the maintenance
    of her wards. The slightest relaxation and she'd join her comrades.
    Elora understood, as did this Maizan sorceress, that their agonies
    would pale to insignificance compared with hers.
     It was a beautiful face, she saw, though now to Elora it seemed
    haunted. There were great dark circles beneath her eyes, which
    themselves appeared sunken within their sockets, eloquent testi-
    mony to the toll this struggle was taking. The battle was literally eat-
    ing her alive. She lacked the nigh-inexhaustible numerical reserves of
    her foes. Fairies could be easily replaced on this slaughtering ground,
    not so the substance of the woman's own flesh. Her cheeks were
    deeply hollowed as well, and there was a loginess to her movements,
    as though every particle of her was pulling against the resistance of a
    great and growing weight. Full lips, pressed thin and bloodless from
    strain, elegant hands made more for holding a dancing partner at

    




     Beside her on the ground lay Ryn. Alive, and to Elora's eye un-
    harmed.
     'You've lost, Maizani," Elora told the woman.
     "Never."
     'Take my hand."
     "Rather have your heart." Defiance had its moments, this wasn't
    one of them.
     'Are you surprised at their resistance? This is their home. What-
    ever you had planned, the fairies want none of it."
     "There's a new order in the world. They have to move aside."
     The woman grabbed for her blade. Elora tapped her on the breast-
    bone with its point.
     "How-!" the sorceress gobbled.
     'Magic." It was nothing of the sort, really. The sorceress was too
    fixated on the need to maintain her wards. By the time she noticed
    what was going on around her, Elora had stolen her sword.
     "You're not magic, you're not even human."
     "There's been enough bloodshed, and too much damage done al-
    ready."
     The woman's expression changed, twisted by a burst of compre-
    hension. "I know you," she hissed.
     "Yield."
     'This is your companion, that's why we took him. We hope to
    lure Drumheller to his doom, but you'll do just as well."
     "I'm not the one here who faces doom."
     "I have his spirit, I have his"-and the way she spoke the word
    made it a curse-soul. '
     'And I have you," Elora said, with a calmness she didn't feel.
    "Fates willing, if you've wit to realize it, I can be your salvation.'
     "His life for mine, is that it?"
     "I'm not the only one you have to deal with, remember."
     "You don't speak for them, you're nothing like them."
     "Consider those my advantages. You haven't much time to decide,
    you're weakening with every breath."
     "This World Gate must be closed!"
     'Why? There hasn't been the power to sustain a Gate here in
    longer than the Daikini race has even been alive."
     "No matter. It was a place of power once, can be so again. That
    must never be! Limit the access of the Veil Folk to our world, limit
    their power over it. Over us!"
     "Is that what Mohdri told you? Is that what you believe he wants?

    




    The spells you cast don't simply seal World Gates, they strip the land
    of its magic and deliver it to him. He's betrayed you-so you can be-
    tray the world."
     "Liar!" she screamed. "We're saving the world for our people, for
    our children!"
     'What about the Veil Folk? Isn't this their world, too?"
     "They have proper domains of their own, we Daikini this one
    alone, what right have they to pieces of ours?"
     "That may be true for Greater Faery and those who dwell in the
    Circle of the Spirit. But this is sacred ground for Lesser Faery. They're
    partly of the Veil, but mainly of the world. They've as much right as
    we to live here."
     "Then why haven't they ever offered to share?" There wasn't ha-
    tred in the woman's voice, although she well and truly snarled her
    words. To Elora she seemed more like a child who'd spent too long
    staring through a set of gates at something wondrous and untouch-
    able, heartsick and crying out in sorrow because no matter how hard
    she begged, she'd never be allowed through.
     "We're not arguing over toys," Elora told her with a gentle but
    matter-of-fact tone. "Not possessions of any kind. We are all of the
    world, on both sides of the Veil. Diminish a part, we diminish the
    whole."
     "Words." Another snarl, thick with rough contempt.
     "Your companions are dead. Is that what you want, to join them?"
     "I'm willing to die for what I believe in."
     "Then you die for nothing."
     "Kill me, then, you silver bitch, and have done with it, if you've
    the courage!"
     Elora shook her head. "There's been enough killing. You want to
    show me courage, try living! Try building something, creating some-
    thing. "
     "Stop it. I don't want to hear any more. Leave me be!"
     "There are beings out there who love their lives as much as you
    do yours. They're immolating themselves, like moths on a furnace
    flame, to get to you. I walk away, they die, you die. I refuse to accept
    either."
     "You're a fool, then."
     "Then I'm a fool."
     The bubble around them creaked, as though from the pressure of
    some great wind, and a moment later the Maizani groaned in sym-

    




    pathetic pain as the force deployed against her shields made itself felt
    within her body. She was breathing in deliberate pulses, almost akin
    to an automaton, each breath proclaiming her will's domination of
    her flesh. Yet in stark defiance of that state of being, her sunken eyes
    were awash, tears of sorrow streaming across her proud, ravaged
    cheeks. She knew her life was done, and she was afraid.
     "There's a time for every death," Elora told her. "And somewhiles
    even a purpose. This isn't yours."
     "You're trying to trick me!"
     Elora snorted.
     "You're a sorceress," she said, trusting her instincts to guide her
    words the way they did her songs. "If you're any good at all, that
    means you've touched the glory. I can't work magic. I'll never know,
    but I've heard sorcerers speak of it." Thom spoke of it only in the
    most simple terms. The words weren't important, Elora understood
    that now more than ever. What mattered was the light that gleamed
    deep in his eyes, like a lighthouse beacon against the darkest night-
    fall, and the joy that gathered around him as snug as his most favorite
    quilt. To touch the glory, he told her, was to know wonder, and from
    there find your way to the heart of the dream.
     "Remember the joy of that moment," Elora cried out, "the sense of
    hope, the surety that all things are possible. Where's that wonder"-
    and she waved her arm to encompass not simply the interior of the
    sphere but the battlefield hidden beyond-"here?"
     Elora reached out to the woman, but held short of actually touch-
    ing her.
     ayour heart knows the truth," she said. 'Your soul knows. This is
    wrong. You are wrong. And you should stop.'
     She saw a tremble ripple across the other's chin that she took to
    mean assent, for in every other aspect the woman appeared to be
    carved from stone, as immovable and eternal as the rocks of the tor
    itself.
     With that, Elora simply stood up to her full height, bringing the
    crown of her skull up against the substance of the energy field.
     With a pop much like a soap bubble, the globe burst, its substance
    fast-fading in a shower of firefly particles, leaving a scene dominated
    by the ghastly greens and blues generated by the fairy creature tow-
    ering above.
     The globe had comprised a circle with a diameter of roughly twice
    Elora's height. The boundary itself was marked by a wall of ash, the

    




    remains of fairies who'd sacrificed themselves in onslaught after fu-
    tile onslaught, creatures the size of dust motes piled as high as Elora's
    hips and considerably farther back.
     Without the globe to restrain them, the entire bulwark collapsed
    inward, with a soft shooshing that sounded louder than any church
    carillon in the sudden hollow silence. The spillage flowed like mer-
    cury across the earth, almost to their feet, and Elora blinked back
    tears of her own at the sight.
     So many hopes-the thought came to her, not one she had herself
    but overheard from another-so many dreams. Lost.
     The creature stretched its great arms to the heavens and roared in
    triumph. The Maizani took no notice as she stroked trembling fingers
    across the fairy remains, barely touching them, the wake left by her
    hand moving through the air enough to stir them into a dance that
    was a pallid and poignant reminder of what they'd been capable of
    when alive.
     Did fairies come to dance for you, Elora thought, the night of your As-
    cension, when you touched the glory and claimed the fullness of your natural
    power~ Is that what you're remembering?
      "What have I done?" the woman breathed. "What have I done?"
     "WE WILL HAVE VENGEANCE," thundered the great mass over-
    head.
     Elora took a step sideways to place herself between it and the sor-
    ceress, and shook her head, painfully aware of how hard her heart
    was suddenly pounding and wishing as suddenly for a whole host of
    things, all of which would place her as far as imaginable from this
    place and this moment.
      Then, in the face of the creature's fury, she smiled.
     "This is a place of passion," she told the fairies, and felt the faintest
    tingling in her toes as the stones below remembered what that meant
    over countless eons, "but most of all, of peace."
      "IT IS NOT WE WHO HAVE COME TO DESECRATE THIS HOLY PLACE. WE ARE
    ITS DEFENDERS, ITS CHAMPIONS!"
      'And you have done that work well. But the danger is past."
      "Suppose We say different."
      A single voice, single face, emerged from the verdant radiance to,
    take a stand before the altar. He viewed the scene with a proprietary
    air that marked his rank, his true place in the scheme of things, far
    more eloquently than any crown. He stood shorter than Elora,
    though not by much, and not so broad as a Nelwyn, though she
    could see strong similarities in the shape of his body and the structure

    




    of his face. His robes seemed to be formed of leaves, and since it was
    late in the growing year he was a riot of autumnal color, russets and
    scarlets and golds. Long hair the color of mahogany was woven into
    multiple braids, though his beard, by contrast, hung loose. Elora spied
    the tiny heads and bright eyes of fledgling birds poking out from its
    thicket.
     'Such is your prerogative," she replied, 'but that doesn't make it
    right."
     'And what's been done here, be that 'right'?"
     "If it were, I wouldn't have stopped it."
     He said nothing but his manner made his anger plain.
     "I am-" she began, but was rudely cut off by a peremptory wave
    of the hand.
     "Your name is known, and your claim. Whether We acknowledge
    either remains to be determined."
     "As Your Majesty pleases," and she bowed her head in affirmation
    of the King's rank.
     "Death has been brought to this sacred place, and foul desecration
    attempted. Those scales must be balanced."
     Too late Elora realized that the King wasn't engaging in a dialogue
    but was passing sentence. A blast of energy ripped forth from him.
    She'd been expecting any attack to come from the mass above, yet
    even as the King struck at her she saw the monstrous creature burst
    apart into all its component parts, the sky around her suddenly filling
    with fairies, thick as snowflakes in a blizzard and infinitely more
    lovely.
     She had a heartbeat to realize the purpose of this distraction be-
    fore the King's bolts struck both her and the warrior. Coherent
    thought shattered like breaking glass, all the numberless pieces of her
    self cast forth on bits of crystal, each to be snatched up by a fairy and
    hidden away in some secret spot known only to them, nevermore to
    be found. In this way would the old persona be irreversibly annihi-
    lated, leaving the way clear for something new and altogether differ-
    ent to be born.
     She would have cried out, but the pain was so blindingly intense
    that her breath caught in her throat. Her mouth opened wide, the sole
    means left her to express those feelings of suffering, but then to her
    horror her jaws separated even wider, as though her flesh had become
    pliable and elastic. The shape of bones shifted beneath her skin like
    soft clay, squarish jaw becoming sharply pointed, skull elongating and
    narrowing to match, eyeteeth stretching into fangs, ears curving up

    




    and out to triple their former size, a fan shape ending in sharp points
    top and bottom. Her vision splintered, re-formed, developed multiple
    facets, as though the lens of her eyes had been replaced by cut dia-
    monds. She felt her shoulders compress, then her hips, accompanied
    by an elongation of the spine. She registered a dull, distant thump as
    her belt dropped from a waist grown too thin to support it. Legs came
    to resemble stilts, uncommonly long and thin as twigs, nothing but
    bone and whipcord muscle beneath their tautly wrapped envelope of
    skin. Her arms grew much the same, to end in fingers dominated by
    wickedly sharp, retractable claws. She didn't need a look at her toes to
    know they were the same, accompanied by a spur that extended from
    her heel to make it easier to grasp hold of a landing perch.
      The last was the worst, as flesh and bone and muscle and sinew
    were reshaped a final time to bring forth her wings.
      She found herself wrapped in a cocoon of her own making, pliant
    wings folded protectively across her body. She unfolded herself
    gracefully, because there was no other way for one of the fairy folk
    to move, to find the King standing before her, hand outheld to help
    her to her feet.
      Elora turned her head to the side, and beheld the sorceress, curled
    up in much the same pose, having undergone an identical transfor-
    mation. She was larger by far than most of the fairies, though little
    more than a small child by Daikini standards. She awoke slowly, halt-
    ingly, confused at first by the strangeness of all that lay about her, but
    speedily entranced by the wonder of it all. Every experience was a
    discovery, and each of those, a delight.
      Her wings unfolded with a snap, and the moment they did so her
    feet left the ground. It took no effort on her part, and there was only
    the barest of breezes across the crest of the tor. Neither mattered. Her
    place was the sky, and as she rose a triple column of flashfire crea-
    tures spiraled about her until she was as radiant a being as the mas-
    sive creature that had tried so hard to claim her life.
      Elora felt a terrible yearning in her own heart, an itching down the
    length of her spine as her wings stirred of their own accord.
      She closed hands into fists, felt the pressure of blunt fingernails
    against her palm, held them out for inspection, and realized with that,
    sight that she viewed them through a single smooth lens rather than
    the prism of a fairy's eyes.
      "Elora Danan," the King breathed while she tried to master the
    pain of reversion, and she found herself thankful to be already on her
    knees as she rebuilt herself from the inside out.

    




     "It is YOU."
     She was folded totally in on herself, on her knees with her fore-
    head resting on the rough surface of a paving stone. She wanted
    nothing more than to sleep away the season, if not the year, if not the
    rest of her life, but instead pressed herself up until her spine was
    straight and sat on her heels in the Chengwei manner. She and the
    King were eye to eye. She met his gaze and did not bow.
     "I am Tyrrel." His public name, of course, for the revelation of his
    True Name would give sorcerers power over him, as would knowl-
    edge of his rank to his more temporal foes.
     "Majesty," she replied.
     "My spell did not hold."
     "None do, on me."
     "You don't sound so pleased."
     She flicked her eyes skyward, to where the woman who had once
    been a Maizani had joined hands with other fairies in a joyous dance
    of rebirth and welcome.
     "It would have been nice to fly just once. What have you done
    here, Tyrrel?"
     "As I said, balancing the scales. A bloodgelt. A life in payment for
    the slain."
     'Your fairies took their toll of her companions, why spare her?"
     "They fought, they were slain in battle. She yielded. That brought
    her before Our justice. Rampant slaughter is a Daikini trait, Elora
    Danan."
     "What will become of her?"
     "She will serve as Our consort. Her children will take the place of
    those who were slain defending this most sacred place. And mayhap
    her power as a sorceress will help defend Us against any others who
    would do Us harm. On either side of the Veil."
     'She won't be enough."
     'Shall We then depend on you, Sacred Princess?"
     Elora made a wry face and rose to her feet, grimacing at every pop
    of every joint as they were reminded how to properly work. She felt
    sore and pummeled, worse than she ever had after a day's work at
    Torquil's forge. She scooped up her belt and pouches as she stood,
    and cast about for something to wear.
     "I was thinking we might help each other. You know of the
    Sandeni stronghold on the river, to the south and east?"
     Tyrrel nodded.
     'One way or another, war will come to them before long. Either

    




    the Maizan, or Faery. Those Daikini are taking a stand to defend your
    homes as much as theirs."
      "Tell that to those dispossessed when they clear-cut the forest for
    their buildings and their farms."
      "Will you argue till we're all ghosts and these Realms we cherish
    no more than a memory? I say to you what I did to her, there's room
    to share. Or do you choose to be just as deaf? They're prepared to die,
    for you as much as for their own. But if you of Lesser Faery join with
    them, that doesn't have to be."
      "Fairies," Tyrrel said slowly, "are but one of the races of the Realm
    of Lesser Faery, even as Maizan and Sandeni, Angwyn and even Tir
    Asleen are but nations of the Daikini Realm. They cannot speak for
    all."
     ,,I'm not asking them, Majesty. I'm asking you."
     "And who am I?"
      "When my adversary, the Deceiver, who wears the shape and
    seeming of the Maizan Castellan, ensorcelled the monarchs of the
    Twelve Realms who'd assembled for my Ascension, his goal was to
    seize dominion over them all. He failed. I escaped. Instead the gover-
    nance of those Realms has been thrown into disarray. Out of that
    chaos comes opportunity."
     'Not only for him."
      "You plead my case for me, Tyrrel. Together we have a better
    chance than alone. And who knows where such an alliance might
    lead?"
      "You could command Us, Elora Danan. As you could have com-
    manded Us earlier to forbear. Such is your right."
      "I didn't think you'd listen," she confessed. "And I haven't earned
    that right."
     He nodded.
      "You are learning, child. All life grows according to a natural order.
    A quicker way might be found, that growth could be forced. But
    should it?"
      'Puzzles?" she groaned in dismay. "Why does it always have to be
    puzzles?"
     To her surprise, Tyrrel actually chuckled.
     'You want it to be easy?"
     "Yes?" she hazarded.
     "Then you'd be your own adversary."
     "What's that supposed to mean?"
     From beneath his cloak, that spread out from him like a fall of for-

    




    est leaves, Tyrrel drew his staff of office. It stood as tall as Elora her-
    self and was composed of strips of all the woods of the world, wound
    lengthwise together. She didn't think much of it, beyond an appreci-
    ation of the wood-carver's craft to combine examples of so many dif-
    ferent trees, until a closer look revealed that no piece of the staff had
    been cut or carved. The staff itself was as much a living thing as any
    of the trees it symbolized, its component elements blended because
    it was the natural and proper thing for them to do.
     In one hand, he raised it shoulder-high and held it parallel to the
    ground so that he stood on one side of the altar and Elora on the
    other. Without urging, trusting yet again to instinct and inspiration,
    she reached out with both her hands and placed them on either side
    of his.
     'We speak as Prince Regent of the Realm known in the Daikini
    tongue as Lesser Faery," Tyrrel said, and with those words came the
    barest hint of sunrise behind him to the east. "For all who swear Us
    true allegiance, We pledge to the Sacred Princess Elora Danan Our
    lives, Our souls, Our most sacred honor. When needed, We shall
    come. Her battle is Ours. As are her foes."
     'I speak as Elora Danan," she said in response. "And to you and
    yours, my lord, I pledge my life, my soul, my most sacred honor.
    When needed, I shall come. Your battles are mine. As are your foes."
     "So mote it be," cried the green man, and together they slammed
    the staff down upon the altar.
     Silence. Not so hollow and lifeless as before, just the ordinary
    quiet of a mountain dawn, highlighted by the ever-so-slight shush of
    a breeze around the rocks and stones jumbled across the hillside, stir-
    ring air in much the same burbling manner as a current might water
    over a riverbed. The towering plinths were gone, all the sarcen
    stones, the perimeter blocks. Even the altar was once more a wind-
    wom lump of obsidian. The last stars of morning blazed defiantly in
    the heavens, grass tickled the folds that marked the knuckles of her
    toes, and each slow breath tasted sweet.
     She buckled her belt across her hips because she had nowhere else
    to put it, thankful beyond words to once more have hips, and began
    to root in a traveling pouch for something to wear.
     "To the victor," Khory noted, joining Elora from where she'd been
    watching behind one of the middle rank of stones. She held forth
    some of what the Maizan sorceress had worn.
      'I don't think so." Elora wrinkled her nose in distaste.
      "You're of a size."

    




     "I don't think so," she repeated, comparing her own image with
    that of the sorceress.
      'Consider the alternative."
      "I'll find something."
     "That fits?" She didn't mind Elora's basilisk glare in the slightest.
    'Considering the company?"
     'Ryn," Elora cried, "what about Ryn?" She dashed to where the
    young Wyr lay. "He's still unconscious-no!" She corrected herself
    excitedly, "He's asleep!"
     Her smile was a wonder to behold as she lay her hands gently on
    the young Wyr's temples. "Khory, the bindings are gone. His soul is
    his own again."
      "A good night for us all around then. About time."
      'What should we do?"
     "Sleep's the best thing for him now. Rool has some herbs to help
    in that regard. While he takes his ease we'll transport him to Thom.
    He's the Magus, mind you, he'll be able to make sure of the lad's re-
    cover),~" She turned her head downslope in the direction of their
    companions below. "We've certainly horses enough for the journey,
    between our own and what the Maizan rode. And Bastian can find
    us a gentle track. Ryn should come through fine."
      "From your mouth to the Almighty's ear?"
      "I know things. He'll be fine."
     Who knows, Elora thought with an irreverence that made her laugh
    out loud, maybe we all will.

    




    V
    
    FROM HORSEBACK AS ON FOOT, VIEWS ARE ALWAYS
    limited. The horizon is a flat line off in the distance, that dis-
    tance determined by the height of the vantage point. It can be
    the mountains that define the shape of the land along the
    southern frontier of the Republic of Sandeni, or the trees ar-
    rayed ahead or on either side. You see what there is to see-
    until something gets in the way.
     Bastian had no such impediment. For the eagle, perspec-
    tives were boundless, the nature of the world was laid out be-
    fore him. That was the practical reason Elora loved looking at
    it so often through his eyes, to provide herself both a sense of
    true direction and of progress. She could actually see where
    she was going, and determine from that sight how long until
    she got there. It allowed her to view things as a whole, rather
    than in isolated bits and pieces. There was a context from on
    high that wasn't always clear at ground level, in much the
    
    b&J-1-i-4~
    
    1 0

    




    same way that the surface of the ocean provides only the most gen-
    eral clues of the shape and texture of what might lie thousands of feet
    below.
     The Stairs to Heaven formed the spine of the continent, as well as
    its literal, and mythical, summit. They were the highest point on the
    globe, whose paramount peaks soared to realms where such as Elora
    could find no air to breathe nor those like Bastian sufficient air to sup-
    port even their mighty wings. Snow was a constant on those rugged
    and towering slopes, right through the hottest days of summer.
    These were young mountains, their silhouettes only lightly touched
    by wind and weather, with edges so sharp they might have been
    etched in acid against the cerulean backdrop of the sky.
     The range stretched east and west like a belt across the belly of the
    continent, forming a natural barrier between the upper and lower
    hemispheres. Because the crown of the chain lay closer to the Cheng-
    wei coast than Angwyn's Sunset Ocean, there was no gradual fall off
    to the east. The phalanx formed by these peaks charged right to the
    water's edge, ending in a line of breathtaking cliffs and the most for-
    bidding coastline ever charted, while out to sea for another two hun-
    dred miles was scattered an archipelago of sea mounts, the tops of
    peaks whose bases stood hundreds of feet if not miles beneath the
    water's surface. It was almost as if they were pathfinders for the
    army that followed, marking the way for the rest to ultimately form
    some impossible land bridge to the opposing shore.
     Thanks to generations of mapmakers, the general shape of the
    Stairs to Heaven was seen as resembling a vase, fattest like a bulb
    where the peaks rose highest, slimming and lowering as it stretched
    westward in a gradual descent to sea level. As it progressed', offshoot
    secondary chains sprayed to the north and south in a way that was
    reminiscent of the spray off a fountain or the curve of flowers in that
    vase, blending ultimately with lesser, independent ranges thrown up
    along the north-south orientation of the coast.
     The most dramatic feature of the continental landmass occurred
    roughly two thirds of the distance from Angwyn eastward to Cheng-
    wei. It was as though countless eons past some titanic force had sim-
    ply lifted the entire surface of the world to create a plateau of
    incredible dimensions. Its western boundary was a chain of cliffs for
    the most part better than a thousand feet high that stretched from a
    subsidiary branch of the Stairs to Heaven almost all the way to the
    top of the world, where it merged indistinguishably with the equally
    magnificent Ice Land glaciers.

    




    To the Daikini, it was known with simple eloquence as the Wall.
    From the earliest chapters of recorded Daikini history, the Wall ap-
    peared to be an insurmountable obstacle to travel between east and
    west. True, there were trails and passes through the southern moun-
    tains, but they were traversible only in summer and they passed
    through so many different domains of the Veil Folk that anything
    more than the most minimal traffic and trade proved uneconomical.
    Too many tolls to start with, since each domain had to be negotiated
    with in turn. It was difficult enough to get the locals to acknowledge
    any Daikini right to use the land at all, much less arrive at some mu-
    tually agreeable formula for compensation. This left almost no hope
    of laying down the roadwork necessary to sustain regular traffic.
    Dryads might be persuaded to accept the felling of a stretch of trees in
    the forest, but would the naiads who resided in the lakes accept the
    use of their water by stock and travelers? Ultimately for both sides,
    there was too much grief and aggravation for far too little reward.
     This was the classic story of relations between the Great Realms.
    Everyone had ambitions, but could find neither clue nor desire in re-
    gard to achieving a compromise. In a world where no one accepted
    that they had anything in common with their neighbor, how then to
    determine a common good?
     But where the Veil Folk possessed actual, direct power over the
    physical world-the ability, through magic or innate talent, to indi-
    vidually manipulate their environment-the Daikini were blessed
    with a formidable intellectual capacity, married to a gift for engineer-
    ing even brownies knew to respect. For every problem there was a
    technological solution. That was the Daikini way. Every obstacle was
    merely a new challenge to be overcome. If they found a wall they
    couldn't go around, they'd find a way to go over it.
     In this instance, while the Wall was high and altogether forbid-
    ding, it proved in no way unscalable. Water, as always, tended to
    flow downhill. Streams that began in the highland reaches of the
    Stairs to Heaven became rushing torrents by the time they reached
    the foothills both above and below the cliffs. Some rolled east toward
    Chengwei. Others cast themselves from the precipice in a series of
    breathtaking waterfalls and cataracts, cascading thunderously off out-
    crops of primordial rock to crash into the great basin below, there to
    combine with another stream of far less visual drama but consider-
    ably more strength flowing out from the mountains to form the offi-
    cial headwaters of the Cascadel, greatest of the westward flowing
    rivers.

    




     From the Wall it was a relatively smooth run to the sea and the
    river's terminus at the southern end of the Bay of Angwyn, along a
    course so wide in some points that one shore could not be seen from
    the other, while at others a good stone's throw would reach the far
    side, so deep that for near a thousand miles it could take the largest
    oceangoing vessel.
     Water formed the key to prosperity both for the ranches and farm-
    ing homesteads that dotted the Cascadel's shores and for the mer-
    chants who plied their trade from one end to the other. Naiads ruled
    the lesser streams, but their influence waned in direct proportion to
    the size and strength of the water. The great rivers were the province
    of the freshwater Wyrm, as the oceans were of their blue-water
    brethren. These Wyrrn also acknowledged the special relationship
    their blue-water cousins shared with the Cascani. Out of that grew a
    similarly beneficial relationship. Once the requisite treaties had been
    negotiated, the Cascadel became a highway that opened the way to
    the heart of the continent. After that, surmounting the cliffs was a mi-
    nor hurdle.
     Approaching from the south and west, as Elora and her compan-
    ions did, afforded one of the truly spectacular views in the natural
    world. Heavily forested highlands yielded near the end to a barrier
    wall of peaks called the Shados because of the shadows they cast.
    This mandated a climb past meadows of grass onto barren slopes of
    scrub rock. Around the flank of one mountain, through the shadow
    of its neighbor, along a turnpike that would have been impossible for
    wheeled traffic had not a veritable army of workers hammered a path
    through any and all barriers-and there you were.
     There was nothing gentle about the transition, none of the usual
    sequence of foothills leading to the lower range to the high reaches.
    There were plains, there were peaks, punching up into the air as dra-
    matically as the plateau itself. That contrast was just as spectacular,
    only not quite so extreme, a vertical descent measured in thousands
    of feet. To the west Elora found herself gazing down upon an appar-
    ently endless prairie that disappeared over the far distant horizon.
    The sole defining feature of the landscape was the Cascadel, winding
    outward from the magnificent lake formed at the base of its water-,
    fall, the foot of Lake Morar forming the first of a succession of
    cataracts.
      To the east stood the Wall.
     From her vantage point on the pass that cut through the last rank
    of Shados, Elora was actually above the level of the plateau, which

    




    provided her a view of the upper boroughs of the city of Sandeni
    Here at a massive and recently reinforced barbican that straddled this
    end of the pass as its twin did the other, the road branched. Travelers
    could either descend to the prairie below along a sequence of wild
    switchbacks or make their way over a series of,equally daunting
    
     Like the prairie, the plateau stretched off to the distance, well be-
    yond the limits of her vision. To Elora's dismay, not to mention a
    modest measure of disbelief, she discovered it reached far beyond
    Bastian's as well. It was one thing to hear the stories and read the ac-
    counts of this natural marvel, quite another to confront it face-to-face.
     The Wall wasn't entirely straight, she observed, but was marred
    by promontories and depressions. In some places, a promontory had
    
    collapsed, leaving a butte to stand alone like some giant column
    amidst an otherwise denuded landscape. The plateau's general con-
    struction reminded Elora so much of a coastline that she couldn't help
    but wonder if, at some unimaginably ancient moment in the past,
    
     Though the falls were miles away, the shape of the Wall combined
    with the serried ranks of the Shados themselves to form an effective
    amplifier that allowed Elora to hear the rolling thunder of the falls the
    moment they came into view. The Cascadel flowed directly to the
    plains but she could see at least six other rivers of varying sizes come
    together on the plateau, where they plunged over the edge in three
    distinct streams. The largest dropped straight to the lake, the others
    bounced and showered off jutting outcrops of granite and basalt, cre-
    ating a perpetual mist that kept the base of the cliff shrouded in ro-
    
     The lowland boroughs of Sandeni weren't tucked up close be-
    neath the cliffs. Quite the opposite in fact, the land appeared sub-
    stantially undeveloped until hard by the cataracts, where she made
    out what appeared to be quite a substantial community. There was
    an extensive waterfront of piers and warehouses, far more lake traf-
    fic to and from the falls than along the roads that ringed the
    lakeshore She saw grananes as well and a clear network of trails
    ranging off to the north and west across the well-nigh-endless prairie.
    She saw no bridges across the first cataract, but given the width of
    that gorge and the force of the water below, could understand why
    none had been attempted A single span wouldn't reach and there
    was no practical way to anchor pylons in that tremendous flood.
     Thouah the sun was cruarterine toward the westward horizon it

    




    didn't take much imagination to comprehend the other reason why
    there was very little building close by the Wall. On a clear day, the
    view from the plateau was said to be better than fifty miles. The
    drawback for those below was that the extraordinary shadow cast by
    the Wall lasted until close to midday. It must be a strange sensation,
    she thought, to stand on a balcony atop the Wall in brilliant morning
    sunlight, and then look the other way to behold land that would re-
    main wrapped in the semblance of evening for hours yet to come.
    Stranger still, perhaps, to live below, knowing that the day would
    never reach you with its full force until it was half over.
     About ten miles along the Wall and as many out into the prairie,
    which placed them almost directly ahead of her, stood three lean pil-
    lars of stone. They'd been christened the Three Maidens, because
    they seemed to have no geologic connection with the plateau. Their
    substance was a variant of sandstone, a dun-colored base coat shot
    through with reefs of umber and scarlet.
     To the distant west, she recalled from her reading, beyond the fi-
    nal cataract, the shore along the Cascadel was a dark, rich bottom-
    land that provided some of the best farming between Sandeni and the
    sea. The prairie itself was mainly grassland, home to migrating herds
    of buffalo and deer, but also to sprawling cattle stations. The country
    surrounding Sandeni was pretty much as it had always been. Few
    Daikini made a mark on those plains, and it didn't last. Those
    changes were reserved for the city and its environs.
      And what a city!
     Elora had never seen anything like it. Even from this remove,
    Sandeni dwarfed the only municipality she had to compare it with,
    that of Angwyn, and she couldn't begin to imagine the number of
    people who resided within its confines. Of all the cities of the world,
    what made this unique was that in Sandeni there was hardly any
    magic. It was located at one of those rare points where the influence
    of the eldritch ley lines was at an absolute minimum. It was the bal-
    ance to those places where magic came as second nature, and words
    had to be chosen wisely lest an untimely, ill-thought-out curse might
    actually come to pass. In Sandeni, since there was no convenient
    reservoir of energy to draw from, the easiest spells took more effort
    to cast than they were worth, while their greater counterparts took
    more than any sorcerer could afford.
     On the face of it, Sandeni seemed an odd location for Thorn to go
    to ground, considering that many of his abilities as a mage would be

    




    crippled. Then again, since their foe was likewise a sorcerer, perhaps
    this was the ideal place to make a stand.
     They'd ridden hard since leaving the tor, to get Ryn as quickly as
    possible to where Thom could help him. The hours of daylight
    passed either on horseback or leading their mounts on foot as they
    made their way through the mountains to the carriage route. From
    there, at least for Ryn, once he was loaded onto a coach, the journey
    was easier. Khory's assumption was that Elora would accompany
    them to a reunion with her guardian and protector.
     That had been ten days ago, better than two hundred miles up the
    fine, when they broke their journey at one of the taverns that lined
    the turnpike at intervals from Sandeni to the distant frontier. It hadn't
    begun as a pleasant conversation.
     "I'm going my own way," Elora said.
     "The hell you are," was the taller woman's response. She spoke
    matter-of-factly as they put their animals to bed, Khory more con-
    cerned with them at the moment than she was with Elora.
     "It's not safe, child," she said a moment later, looking across the
    back of her own mount to where Elora was busy tending to Wind-
    fleet.
     "I'm not a child, Khory." Elora turned to face her. 'True, in
    Sandeni, I'm below the age of legal majority, but among the Nelwyns
    I'd be an apprentice."
     "Barely."
     'In Chengwei, married and probably with child!"
     'And that's your ambition?"
     'I know my own mind, enough to try to chart my own destiny.'
     'It's not safe."
     "The world hasn't been safe for me since I was bom!"
     "This is an argument better left for Drumheller. I'll have none of
    
    it."
    
     'By then it'll be too late."
     Khory made a face, dismissing that contention out of hand.
     "Listen to me, will you," Elora cried, confronting her across the
    back of Khory's horse, who wasn't at all pleased to be caught in the
    middle and made that opinion plain by shifting its feet nervously.
     'I'm not a baby anymore," she went on in a great rush. 'I can, I
    need to, I must take part in my own defense."
     "Fine. What's wrong with doing so from a place where you can be
    defended?"
    
    ~1

    




     "Thom's achieved a position of some responsibility among the
    Sandeni, yes?"
     A nod from Khory.
     "If I were the Deceiver, I'd have spies watching Sandeni and espe-
    cially watching him."
     No reaction at all from the demon warrior, but she was listening
    intently.
     'Because the Deceiver wants me, seemingly more than anything.
    And Thom's my guardian. Sooner or later the Deceiver's got to figure
    I'll go to him or he to me. Wait long enough, watch hard enough, he'll
    have me. My best hope is to stay away."
     Again, no reaction. Elora took that for a positive sign and pressed
    ahead.
     'Think about it. He knows my name, but I share it now with how
    many girls? A lot, judging from Angwyn and the places we've visited
    since. And a lot who are now about my age. He knows my face, but
    he hasn't seen it since Angwyn. I'm not the girl I was then."
     "With one slight exception," Khory interjected mildly, and Elora
    realized this wasn't an objection so much as a test to see if she'd con-
    sidered this element as well. Khory was taking this discussion very
    seriously.
     "True enough, the Sacred Pnincess has skin of silver, and hair to
    match. How about Elora the apprentice bard?"
     "You think that paint will hide you, girl?"
     "I'm not trying to hide, don't you see? Hiding, the way you mean
    it, will draw the Deceiver's agents right to me! When they look my
    way, I want them to see exactly what they expect."
     "That's no small gamble."
     "I'm not just being willful. Look at the people, Khory. Did you see
    them inside the tavern when we arrived? It was the same back at the
    fort. They're terrified. Their world's coming apart at the seams, leav-
    ing them with nothing to hold on to, no anchors against the storms
    to come. They're losing hope."
     "And you'll give it back to them?"
     "I can remind them of the time in their lives when they had faith,
    and what that faith was, and why it's important to take tight hold of
    it." She made a gesture with her hands, of acceptance as much as
    frustration. "Right now, that's what I'm good for."
     "I saw you on the tor, remember? Don't sell yourself short."
     "Khory, you're a warrior. Tell me the truth, can Thom defeat the

    




    Deceiver? Can l?" She was answered with silence, as she knew she
    would be.
     'If my contribution to the struggle is to behave exactly as every-
    one expects, how will that ever change?"
     "This is war."
     "I know."
     There were ghosts in Khory's soul as she said, "You don't."
     "And who's kept me from leaming?"
     "This isn't a thing you hurry to embrace, or wish on anyone else."
     Khory reached out to Elora, lightly stroking the young woman's
    jawline in a gesture of surprising tenderness. "You are so young," she
    said softly, and the pain in her voice slashed like a razor.
     "It won't stop, Khory, until we yield or we win. You know that.
    You know I have a role to play."
     "Better I should lock you in your room."
     "I'll pick the locks."
     "Brownie locks."
     'I'll do them fasted'
     Khory gave her the shallowest of nods. 'He won't be happy," she
    said, meaning Thom. "But that's his lookout. Bastian I'll keep with
    me. Eagles are rare enough to be noticeable, and golden ones, espe-
    cially. Rool stays by you."
     "He's pretty recognizable himself."
     "If he's seen, which I don't expect to happen. Ever," she finished
    pointedly, with a glance up and over her shoulder that was followed
    by a discreet cough from the shadows of the bam's hayloft.
     "Damn," the brownie muttered as he lowered a rope and rappelled
    down to Elora's shoulder. 'And I thought I was doing so well, eh?"
     'Consider that your one mistake," Khory told him, with a curious
    flatness to her tone that served as plain warning of the consequences
    of any future oversights.
     "Spying on us, you wretched little bug boy?" Elora chastised the
    brownie in a shocked tone as she returned to the care and feeding of
    Windfleet.
     "Haven't called me that in an age," Rool grumped. He rose to his
    feet, hands on hips as he glared up and back at Elora.
     "Haven't deserved it. But you can make it up to me."
     "Is that a threat?"
     'A challenge, 0 font of all the world's wisdom."
     "I do not like the sound of that."

    




     "I want to know about myself, Rool."
     "Look in a mirror, there's the place to start your education."
     "Been there, done that, don't get snarky. I'm serious, Rool," she
    told the brownie.
     "As am I, Elora. You are what you are, anointed before my eyes by
    Cherlindrea herself."
     "Why me?"
     "Bom at the moment foretold by prophecy, bearing the equally
    foretold birthmark."
     "Why me, Rool," she repeated. "Why me?"
     "Blessed if I know."
     "You're a brownie, you claim to know the way the world works.
    Aren't I part of the world?"
     She expected at the very least a smart remark.
     "I don't know," he said at long last, in distress.
     "What?" Her confusion was genuine.
     "Whether or not you're part of the world. I don't know. You speak
    to demons, child. You're a part of the tapestry of legend of every race
    I know, whether Daikini or Veil Folk, on levels I'm not sure even they
    understand."
     "What do your legends say?"
     'A child shall come, apparently of Daikini stock, but bound to all
    the Great Realms. Her birth shall presage a time of great change. Of
    boundless possibilities both for good and ill."
     "That's all?"
     "The essentials."
     "What, you weren't paying attention during catechism class?"
     'We glean our knowledge the way we do our prizes"-he sniffed
    dismissively-"from around the edges of events."
     'Find out more."
     "Those doors are closed to us, Elora, I told you."
     "Guess what, Rool? I don't care. You're so great a thief, lemme see
    some proof. If it's written, find me the book, or at least directions to
    the library where it's housed. If part of an oral tradition, I'll take the
    song or the storyteller. Whatever their origins, Rool, I want them all."
     "As you command, my princess."
     She started to smile, and protest that she was "asking" not telling,
    but realized in the same thought that that wasn't true. She'd given an
    order, expecting as a matter of right to be obeyed, and Rool had re-
    sponded accordingly.

    




    "T ask but one boon in return." he told her. "Leave Faralorn- Ride.
    
    on alone."
      "I can't."
    
    "What's this then?" Khorv wondered.
    
    'The bard," snapped Rool, making the title an obscenity.
    
    "Whv don't vou like Ducuav- Rool?" When he didn't answer right
    
    away, Elora asked, " re you jealous?"
    
    "As Rood a reason as anv"-he huffed back at her-"for those too
    
    damn dim to know better."
    
    "Liar."
    
    "Why do you like him?
    
     She shrugged. "He makes me laugh. He's shown me parts of
    self I never knew were there. I like to hear him sinQ."
    
    "But ou can't meet his e es "
    
     She blinked rapidly and looked from place to place to place, as
    though Duguay himself had suddenly materialized before her. She
    thought of a thousand quips to dance free of Rool's challenge but in
    
    the end confined her reply to a single word.
    
    "No," she said softly, flatly.
    
    'Wil ic that?"
    
    "I don't know. Others seem t
    'And they love him for it."
    "You think he has magic?"
    
     "I don't know. And I should, at a glance. I've said before, we
    brownies know the way the world works. We know who possesses
    the talent of a sorcerer and who does not. I look at Duguay and
    everything tells me he is precisely what he seems, yet for all that cer-
    titude I don't believe it. And no I won't meet his eves either."
    
     She and Khory parted company the following morning, when the
    demon warrior rode out with the stage. Elora and Duguay remained
    that night at the depot, singing for their supper, then set off them-
    selves on horseback. Their reputation preceded them down the road,
    and each time they broke their journey they found growing audi-
    ences and publicans more willing to make them welcome By the
    time thev reached the Shados thev had earned a decent sum even bv
    
    Sandeni's inflated standards
    
    I
    
     From the barbican, they took the turnoff toward the upper city.
    This last leg was the easiest, as they passed along another magnifi-
    cent example of Daikini ingenuity. The road had been carved out of
    the body of the mountainside, wide enough for two freight wagons

    




    to travel side by side with room to spare. A stone wall, hip height on
    Elora, ran along the outside of the entire route as a barrier to,the
    precipice beyond.
     After a fortnight on Windfleet's back across all manner of country,
    ranging from mountain trails barely wide enough to accommodate
    the mare's hooves to the broad, well-maintained expanses of the Re-
    publican highway, Elora had become used to the mare's incredibly
    smooth gait. She'd also learned that the horse could be trusted to
    keep to the road without active supervision. Through the thickness
    of the saddle Elora could feel the interplay of Windfleet's powerful
    muscles, the easy ride rocking her ever so gently back and forth. The
    young woman let her awareness drift, until each of the mare's
    breaths struck a resonance in her own lungs, each beat of that in-
    domitable equine heart striking fire through human arteries and
    veins. Elora felt a security that reminded her of the comfort she used
    to derive solely from her bruised and battered old stuffed bear (now
    tucked away securely in her traveling pouch), an assurance that here
    was a friend whose faith, and likewise trust, was wholehearted and
    unconditional. Windfleet would stand by Elora as she would her own
    foals, and fight as fiercely to protect her.
     She let her eyes close, her shoulders slump, the way she might in
    a favorite chair when she wasn't quite ready for sleep but found her-
    self unable to stay wholly awake. She found herself in the grip of a
    yearning she could not deny. The immediacy and passion of the
    mare's life was plain before her, rieat and uncluttered, obligations
    strictly defined without the slightest confusion or doubt, all bound
    together by a contentment that had no physical equivalent in her
    own. Elora wanted to throw herself forward, to stretch herself full-
    length along Windfleet's back with her arms wrapped around the
    horse's neck until flesh dissolved and these two lives flowed into one.
    The temptation was so strong that Elora felt actual pain, enough to
    sting her eyes with tears ...
      . . but instead of fighting, instead of yielding, she spread wide her
    wings and leaped for the stars.
     Not really, of course. Although that single beat of her shoulders
    thrust Elora so high that the figures she left behind of herself and
    Duguay were reduced to little more than dots, she knew that her
    body still rode astride the mare. Physically, she had gone nowhere.
    Only in spirit did she soar.
      It was the most magnificent of sensations.
      Elora couldn't believe the way she looked, this grandly terrifying

    




    form she'd conjured in what she told herself had to be some fantas-
    tic and wondrous kind of waking dream. The strangest aspect was
    that, to her own mind, she remained unchanged.
     She couldn't help a giggle, and as soon as she started, it grew into
    full-throated, belly-busting laughter. Three rings to encompass all the
    signal aspects of Creation, and here she beheld three distinct aspects
    of herself. A purely physical being, that she was leaving far behind.
    Another of spirit, that mixed what was with what she dreamed of be-
    ing. And a third that she had no label for whatsoever, save that it ap-
    peared to have some manner of literal being and seemed to be taking
    her to the farthest reaches of her imagination.
     She turned her neck right the way around, as limber as any swan,
    to behold this new self, and found a sight to take her breath away.
     Tremendous wings stretched from her shoulders, from a body that
    matched them in grace and timeless power. If she landed in the cen-
    ter of a parade ground, an easy stretch would allow her to touch op-
    posite parapets with her tips. From nose to tail she doubted she was
    much shorter. Her skin gleamed with a shimmering iridescence that
    reminded her of Angwyn Bay at night, when she would look out
    from her tower to watch the moonlight play across the water. The
    sparkles she saw then were silver; these comprised more hues than
    she had names for, that changed continuously in a fantastic interplay
    of color and intensity with every ripple of her skin. There was a
    gleaming sheen to the flesh as well, that gave it a familiar metallic
    cast; in it, she saw the reflection of a head that was shaped like a
    blacksmith's wedge, whose mobile features allowed for an unex-
    pected range of expression. She bared fangs longer than most Daikini
    were tall and knew she'd assumed the form of a creature that knew
    how to hunt and fight and kill. A pair of homs curled up and back
    from her temples, in a manner more aesthetic than functional. From
    their base grew a double line of secondary ridges that made their way
    along the length of her spine, peaking in size at her shoulder blades,
    then fading away as they descended her tail.
     I've never done this before, she marveled, giddy with the joy of fly-
    ing as well as the myriad sensations that came to her from this new
    and wondrous body. She remembered her wistful comment to Tyrrel
    atop his tor, about flying, and thought with delight, Now I know.
     This is like the story Thorn told, she thought further, when the dragon
    brought him to Tir Asleen. Except in his dream he only got to tide a dragon,
    and she felt a set of subsonic rumbles that passed in her for chuckles,
    where I-!

    




     "Yes, you are," she heard from above and behind. "At long last."
     First thought: There's someone on my back. But the quality and tim-
    bre of the voice was all wrong. Too deep for someone small enough
    to climb aboard, and too far removed. A turn of the head should give
    her a sight of this new companion, but she decided on something
    more dramatic. Impulse combined with physical instincts and link-
    ages well beyond the reach of her still primarily human conscious-
    ness to make desire reality as she closed her wings, twisting eel-like
    the whole length of her body as she'd seen Ryn do in water, dancing
    wickedly across all three dimensions of flight in a snap roll meant to
    loop her around her mysterious companion and essentially reverse
    their positions so that she'd be on his tail.
     It was a totally outrageous maneuver, especially for one whose ac-
    tive flight time could be counted in minutes. It might have worked,
    too, had not the other dragon rolled the other way in that selfsame
    instant, the pair of them racing around each other in wild circles un-
    til Elora belatedly realized that every attempt to shake free of him
    had failed.
     Elora heard laughter and redoubled her efforts, the pair of them
    darting from the top of the sky to near its bottom, slashing their way
    through the mountains with the reckless abandon of children playing
    tag, brushing treetops with their bellies, mountainsides with wing
    tips. There wasn't the slightest hesitation in Elora, any more than in
    her rival, the thought of disaster was utterly inconceivable to them
    both. It was the invulnerability of ignorance and it cloaked her as
    surely as any armor.
     She couldn't remember when she'd had such fun, in dreams or
    awake, though her fiercest efforts didn't bring her close to catching
    him, nor did they provide any opportunity for escape when she
    found him on her tail.
     In the full dark of night she couldn't get a kinetic sense of him even
    with her MageSight. Try as she might, she could grab only the most
    fleeting of glimpses as his body briefly occluded the stars beyond. He
    had the ability to bar her InSight as well, she couldn't merge her con-
    sciousness with his.
     The sight of the tor brought her up short, the one great sweep of-
    her wings it took her to come to a full stop striking the air with such
    a shock that the sound of whipcrack thunder echoed through the
    mountain passes.
     She wasn't sure if it was the perspective granted by flight, or some
    enhancement of her vision that came from her change of form, but

    




    the shape and structure of the hill below appeared more clear to her
    now. A pattern was visible where before she'd seen only stands of
    stone.
     The altar stood dead center atop the tor, in a space formed by the
    intersection of three circles, each of those demarcated by a border of
    sarcen stones. The stones themselves began as paving blocks, hardly
    bigger than Elora's human foot, set flush with the ground at the point
    of the circle farthest from the altar. She counted twelve in all, set in
    tandem at equidistant points around the circumference of each circle.
    Each pair doubled the height of the one before until they reached the
    last, directly opposite the first and a tall Daikini's body length re-
    moved from the altar. Those three cardinal stones formed an equilat-
    eral triangle with the altar at its heart. At the same time Elora beheld
    another pattern overlaying them, the sense of a fourth circle, running
    through those cardinal stones and enclosing the altar.
     A sudden swoosh of air up and across her back heralded the mad-
    cap arrival of her pursuer, but as she frantically twisted around to
    catch at least a partial sight of him, the only figure to greet her eyes
    was a boy, standing by himself in the third circle, leaning noncha-
    lantly against the cardinal stone as though he'd been lounging there
    all along.
     In the moonlight he appeared as silver as she, though to be hon-
    est, a second, stronger look forced her to call his gender into question.
    He seemed of an age and body form where either pronoun-he or
    she-might be applied with equal justification. His clothes were no
    help, either. He wore a snug-fitting suit of fabric that splintered every
    element of radiance that struck it into glittering pieces of light and
    color. A dazzling enough display at midnight, well nigh unendurable,
    she suspected, at sunrise. His hair was as black as Duguay's dyes had
    made hers; another aspect he and Elora shared in common was their
    barber, who'd done neither of them any favors.
     'I know you," she hazarded, delicately balancing herself on her
    hind legs atop the other two cardinal stones, as though claiming the
    Circles they represented-of the World and the Flesh-for her own.
    He stood at the heart of the Circle of the Spirit.
     The faintest nod was the only reply. The manner of that gesture,
    the crinkle about the eyes, the mix of familiar and strange within
    them- clinched his identity for her. She wished it hadn't. The sudden
    insight was like a spear through her soul.
      'You're dead," she breathed.
      "Join me," Kieron Dineer said, and held out his hands as though to

    




    invite her to join him in a dance. He had a lopsided smile that was
    just off-kilter enough to be endearing.
     She never had a chance to know him. He alone among the whole
    assemblage at Angwyn had stood to her defense. His sacrifice had
    bought Thom Drumheller the precious opportunity he needed to res-
    cue Elora.
     Then she remembered the other portion of Thom's story, that all
    he'd assumed was dream that fateful night was in fact reality. Some-
    how a dragon had plucked his spirit from his bed and made it flesh,
    and brought him across the leagues and miles to Tir Asleen so that he
    might see his dearest friends a final time and unwittingly carry away
    the brownies Rool and Franjean to safety. And most important of all,
    to deliver his birthday gift to Elora Danan: a stuffed bear he'd made
    with his own hands, and imbued with a portion of his own magical
    strength, together with the injunction that it keep her safe till his re-
    turn.
     Reflexively, her hand went to her traveling pouch, where she kept
    the bear-but in this incarnation, this aspect of reality~ neither was
    there. Her heart was starting to pound faster and faster, like a drum-
    mer sounding the tocsin call to arms, as she raked her gaze across the
    horizon to see how clearly every feature of the landscape was etched
    in place. It was as though a moment had been plucked from time and
    then gone over by some celestial artist whose task was to integrate
    all its component elements into a perfect harmony. The peaks to the
    east were touched with the faintest roseate glow that hinted at a
    dawn she knew would never come, blades of grass and the edges of
    leaves glistened from a decorative application of dew. Nocturnal ani-
    mals had just tucked themselves into dens and burrows and nests,
    while those who stirred by day had yet to rise. There was a preter-
    natural stillness to things that should have been a wonder, but in this
    instance left Elora terrified.
     "What have you done?" she demanded of the boy. Unspoken, the
    twin injunctions, to the world, Kieron, and then, to me? "What is this
    place? Where am I?"
     "Where you must journey, Elora Danan, for your own circle to be
    complete."
      "Don't speak in riddles, that isn't fair!"
     "This isn't about fair, and it isn't meant to be easy. Some prizes
    must be won, little Princess, and others earned."
      'What do you want from me?" she cried.
      'Your life," was his reply, and he burned.

    




     They weren't the flames of honest combustion but dragonfire, the
    most extreme manifestation of sorcerous might. Kieron blazed from
    top to toe, with such intensity that he should have been consumed in
    an instant. This was energy in its most raw and primal state, that
    might have been scooped from the foundry of Creation itself, an
    essence of nature so profound that nothing mortal could endure its
    touch, much less stand against it.
     On Tyrrell's tor, in the Hour of the Wolf, when the night is dark-
    est and the boundaries between the Realms are at their thinnest, in
    that terrible moment where the NightGaunts hunt their prey across
    the Field and Forest of Dreams, it seemed to Elora Danan that Kieron
    Dineer had come to repay her in kind for his life, and in full measure.
     She tried to fly, blind instinct prompting wings to lunge for the
    sky, but even as she clawed desperately for altitude an awful paraly-
    sis gripped her and she tumbled to earth with a crash that shook the
    hills like the fall of some colossal thunderstone. Her frantic struggles
    had thrown her wholly beyond the circles, the size differential be-
    tween herself and Kieron so extreme that even flat to the ground as
    she was, she still looked down on him across the crest of the tor.
     He didn't look pleased. Matters were not going as desired. She
    wasn't in her proper place in his scheme of things, the pristine per-
    fection of the setting had been marred, she hoped irreparably. She
    was glad.
     She struggled to move, denying the lethargy that wormed its way
    through bone and sinew and gave her flesh the immobile consistency
    of metal to match its appearance. She was growing cold inside, as still
    in her own way as the ground she lay upon, and saw that the only
    source of warmth available to her was Kieron's burning, outstretched
    hand.
     'Why are you doing this?" she cried, angry with herself because
    she wanted only a warrior's strength and defiance in her voice and
    what she heard sounded too much the girl.
      "Because I must. You must. We must."
     "I deny this!" She heard her name called. "I deny you the power to
    do me harm! "
     Again she heard her name, and from Kieron's reaction so did he,
    and from his scowl came the realization that this, too, wasn't part of
    his program.
     A third time, her name. With the last of her will, for her strength
    was nearly gone, Elora screamed her reply:.
      "Duguay!'

    




      The hearty aroma of spiced chicken soup told her she was safe,
    and the toasty comfort of a down quilt. To begin, she simply lay
    where she was, luxuriating snugabug in her cocoon of bedclothes and
    using those sensations as bulwarks against the aches she knew lurked
    just offstage.
      She was in no place she recognized, taking stock of a fire in the
    hearth beyond the foot of the bed. She arbitrarily labeled it as
    "cheery" because that's how it made her feel, as did the warming pan
    tucked a bit beyond her toes.
      It was a huge bed, her kinesthetic judgment confirmed that when
    she creased her eyelids open for a proper look. Best she'd seen since
    Torquil's. She'd stayed in rooms smaller. She could stretch full length
    from its center, arms and legs both as long as she could reach, and not
    touch the edge of the mattress in any direction. Lots of pillows. The
    design of the bedframe was as simple as it was elegant, composed of
    smooth and gracious curves, and the bed in keeping with the rest of
    the room. Furniture was functional but well crafted, the harder edges
    smoothed by accents of cushions or throw rugs. There was personal-
    ity to the room, as well as considerable taste, but it was of a general
    nature that told Elora she was in a hostelry rather than someone's
    home.
      At the moment the only light came from the fireplace, which
    consisted more of glowing coals than outright flames. Elora gathered
    a pillow to her that was so big sh e could easily wrap both arms and
    legs around it. She folded her legs up within her nightgown until her
    knees were almost to her shoulders, making herself as small as pos-
    sible within this cozy little nest. She was trembling, a physical reac-
    tion that had nothing to do with being cold. Her eyes were wide and
    haunted, as liquid as a trapped fawn, though she felt no urge for
    tears. She didn't want to touch any of the memories of what had
    happened, but found they were like a scab that itched abominably
    until she just had to pick at it, no matter if doing so made the wound
    bleed afresh.
      So like a dream, she wanted it to be a dream yet knew it was not.
    The shape of her body didn't fit her quite as it was supposed to; she
    was too small and every twitch of her shoulder blades only served as
    a reminder of wings that were no longer there. She could recall every
    moment that had passed atop the tor, with a clarity that transcended
    what she beheld now with open eyes. It was nothing like what she'd
    experienced with the ghosts at Ganthem's Crossing. There'd been

    




    11
    
    hardly any sentience to them, they were shades of spirit as much as
    of flesh, the leftover resonances of what once had been, defined
    mainly by their rage and their pain at the manner of their death.
    Kieron was something altogether different, as alive during this en-
    counter as in Angwyn. Yet she knew he was dead, and with that ac-
    knowledgment, she wept for his passing and for the role she had
    played, however unwitting, however unwilling, in it.
     "Mama," she whispered, the barest outrush of sound, hardly dis-
    cernible at all, much less as a word. In her thoughts, that word burst
    forth as a cry from the farthest depths of her being, with all the pas-
    sion and grief she was capable of. A cry of loss, at being alone, and
    one of rage, at being so abandoned.
     Tapa,' as quiet in one form, as loud in the other.
     It cat-ne to her then, in a flash of realization that once might have
    been dismissed by all and sundry as childish pique, that she hated her
    life and title as the Sacred Princess. Not for what it was, but for what
    it represented. She'd been too long the Princess in her bejeweled cage,
    a bauble fit only for display. She hadn't accepted until now how won-
    derful it was to be a part of a family, of a community, as she'd been
    with Torquil and Manya, among the Rock Nelwyn.
     She buried her face in the pillow, using its case as an impromptu
    cloth to wipe her eyes dry, then called out to the figure whose pres-
    ence she sensed lounging in the sumptuous armchair close beside the
    bed.
     "Duguay?'
     She heard a hesitation in breathing patterns that told her she'd
    been heard, and realized with the texture of his next breath how ter-
    ribly wrong she'd been.
     "No," Rool said softly, without any inflection to his tone to give
    her a clue to his reaction. 'Shall I summon him, Elora Danan?"
     The brownie was up and gone before she could muster any reply.
    She gathered the comforter about her shoulders like a cloak, feeling
    very small amidst this vast expanse of bedding and wondering if the
    bed could be persuaded to eat her.
     "Are we in Sandeni?" she asked the troubadour from her down-
    and-cotton redoubt upon his entrance.
     "Safe and sound," Duguay noted cheerily. "And rest assured, we're
    at a fair remove from your mentor Drumheller's residence. Lads may
    come from far and wide seeking Elora the songstress, but not a
    Princess of any kind, sacred or otherwise." He perched himself on the
    edge of the bed and lifted the lid from the bowl of soup that was set

    




    on the bedside table. 'I'll confess, though, that last stretch through
    the Shados gave us something of a turn, me and your brownie both."
     "What happened?"
     "We were riding along, normal as could be. Thought you might be
    dozing. Then, of a sudden, you screamed. That horse of yours, she's
    one damn smart animal, sidestepped right away straight to the Wall
    so you wouldn't tumble far. If she'd had hands, I daresay she'd have
    caught you in the bargain."
     "Windfleet, is she-?-"
     "Nicely stabled." His eyes roamed the room appreciatively. "As are
    we."
     'A tavern?"
     "Food and drink and lodging, and no objection to an evening's en-
    tertainment."
     'That's good."
     She pulled the quilt over her head to shut out the world, but it
    quickly grew too warm beneath the covers and she was forced to
    poke her head, then most of her body, back into the open. Duguay
    leaned forward, a quizzical expression on his face, to press splayed
    fingers on the mattress.
     "What?" Elora demanded, seeing this.
     "Just curious, is all. Wanted to see who in here would spend the
    night on a cat's-claw bed." Then, mockery gone from his voice, he
    asked, "Care to talk~"
     "How'd I get here?" she wondered.
     "Dissembler."
     "No such thingl"
     "Answer my question with one of your own, what else d'you call
    AV' In a single, smooth motion he pirouetted to his feet from where
    he sat on the edge of her bed, the utter, raw grace of the movement
    taking Elora's breath away as he held out a hand. "You've played the
    slug too long, Elora my pet. Up with you before you're mistaken for
    a piece of furniture."
     "That's mean."
      "Aren't we all, given spur and circumstance?" She flushed with
    anger as she struggled free of the covers and he spread hands wide in,
    a placating gesture. "I'm not the one whose spirit went wandering,
    Elora," he said, temporizing. "You ever stop to consider that answers
    sometimes can't be found because there are none to be found."
     "Bollocks."

    




     "Think a bug looks at the world the same as you?" he asked her,
    scuffing the toe of his elegant boot across the floor, stirring dust in the
    darkness that floated more like ash from the body of something long
    since dead and decayed. "Or I? And where stand we"-now he
    waved his arms to encompass not only the room, but everything that
    lay beyond-"in the face of all that is? Everything has its place and
    proper purpose; if nothing else in Creation holds true, it's that. Bass
    baritone might have one hellacious voice, but don't expect him to hit
    a soprano's notes."
     "No transcendence, Duguay? No dreams? Then why are the cir-
    cles interwoven?"
     Surprisingly, he needed no explanation of what she meant, though
    she'd been ready to present one.
     'Are they truly, Elora? Or just because that's how you want to see
    them?" He faced her again, a glorious figure of a man, and oh, how
    he knew it. By movement and manner he dared her to join him.
     "Myself," he continued, 'I'd rather form circles of my own." Eyes
    flashed at her from beneath hooded brows, a come-hither glance that
    gave her chills and goose bumps that were nothing like how she'd felt
    when Luc-Jon kissed her. The sensations were electric and tantalizing
    but they left her vaguely unsettled, as though she'd been sent signals
    she had no desire yet to comprehend.
     Almost in defiance, Elora swung one leg across the other and as
    smoothly as though she were on ice pirouetted up from where she
    sat in a match for Duguay's turn.
     His eyes were waiting, and his hands. Avoiding the one, she al-
    most took the other.
     Right before they touched, her eyes fell toward the table where
    her belt and traveling pouches lay, and the small figure that stood
    there, holding them out to her. Duguay responded with the savoir
    faire of a cat, as though he'd known all along this was how the mo-
    ment would end. His fingers never closer than an inch to hers, he piv-
    oted as she ducked beneath his arm and past him, paralleling her
    movements so that it seemed he was the one casting her loose, rather
    than Elora departing of her own volition.
     "Am I interrupting?" Rool inquired, making it obvious that he was,
    and intentionally so.
     Duguay's response was another of his trademark smiles, though
    he held an outstretched forefinger toward the brownie and mimed
    the action of pulling the trigger on a crossbow. On the surface it could

    




    be taken as an exchange of physical banter with no harm meant. Rool
    clearly considered it something altogether different. He watched the
    troubadour as if Duguay was the incarnation of a Death Dog.
     "The room's paid for," Duguay told Elora. "But if we want to stay
    here, we'll have to work for it. I promised tonight at least."
     "I'll be down directly," she replied, "as soon as I've bathed and
    dressed."
     "Fair enough. See you then." And he was gone.
     There wasn't a shred of apology in thebrownie, not for his man-
    ner toward Duguay nor his refusal to leave Elora in private. She re-
    taliated by ignoring him, as if he wasn't there.
    
     The establishment was called Black-Eyed Susan's, so named for
    the proprietor, a handsome woman of middle years whose calm and
    generous nature made her the ideal host. When Elora found out its
    address was the Street of Lost Dragons she directed a very sharp
    glance Duguay's way, assuming some deliberate confluence with her
    dream. All he did in return was shrug and proclaim all innocence
    with such a lack of guile that she threw up her hands in despair.
    There was no way to tell when he wasn't dissembling, he was too
    good an actor.
     Tavern and street were located on a small island called Madaket,
    one of the modest parcels of earth and rock scattered across the
    floodplain formed by the upland rivers as they rushed toward the
    falls. They were connected by a network of bridges that linked them
    to the main body of the city, but even that small separation allowed
    each to develop its own separate charm and character. Madaket, be-
    ing most convenient to both the university quarter and a whole host
    of government ministries, attracted an eclectic mix of students and
    professionals. On any given evening a tour of its taverns and coffee-
    houses could provide a fair example of the young passionately de-
    claiming to their seniors about how badly they'd screwed up the
    world and getting just as impassioned a response that they couldn't
    possibly know anything until they worked a real job.
     Construction here was predominantly brick, which held true
    across the whole of the city, since good clay was more economically,
    feasible on the plateau than forests. Also, it was far more effective at
    withstanding the onslaught of damp from the rivers. Civic design
    was more regular on the mainland, buildings tended to be set in rows,
    sharing common walls along the length of an entire street. On
    Madaket, by contrast, and many of the other islands, houses were

    




    snugged together on stand-alone plots which allowed for some quite
    spectacular gardens,
     Elora had hardly any opportunity for sightseeing this first day. The
    afternoon was spent in introductions to the staff and preparation for
    the evening meal. It was a communal enterprise, everyone pitching in
    as and where needed, so Elora found herself dragooned into accom-
    panying Susan and the chef to market and then to work peeling and
    slicing the vegetables she brought home. Then, after a visit to the
    washhouse, she and DuZuay closeted themselves in her room to
    make whatever repairs were necessary to her paint. No work was
    needed to her costumes, because it had already been done, with the
    invisibly fine stitching that was the hallmark of a brownie's hand.
    Thanks to Rool, the clothes looked better than they had when they
    were new and Elora felt churlish for her anger toward him.
     She wanted to apologize, but he was nowhere to be found.
     Early arrivals, once the tavern opened for business, were regulars,
    with favorite seats and favorite dishes, who greeted Susan compan-
    ionably and were more than a little intrigued by the new guests.
    There was no requirement for Elora to help with serving meals but
    she found that she enjoyed the work. She had had so few opportuni-
    ties to mingle with people before now, especially those of her own
    kind, that she wanted to take full advantage of them. The more she
    watched and listened, the more she learned, not only about the news
    of the day but how people reacted to it, hopes and fears, ambitions
    and frustrations. Each moment, each life, was a thread that she wove
    into the tapestry of every performance, the means she used to make
    it a personal and lasting experience for her audience.
     From one clutch of ministerial scribes she heard of Thom's status
    within the Sandeni government. The Nelwyn had done well for him-
    self as an adviser without portfolio, his status as high within the
    councils of power as his title was intentionally nebulous. The net re-
    sult was that he had access to the Chancellor whenever required and
    that his advice might actually be heeded.
     Her own reputation was somewhat less stellar.
     "The Sacred Princess has a reputation?" she asked a student in all
    innocence.
     "No more than any self-respecting lightning rod." One of his com-
    panions laughed as he polished off the last of a pitcher of beer and
    took the replacement Elora held out to him.
     'Not so bad a strategy, that," commented an older man at a neigh-
    boring table. He wore the robes of a lecturer and the students de-

    




    ferred to him. "If you spread the tale that everywhere Elora Danan
    takes refuge falls before some terrible onslaught, how long before
    none will dare to take her in? And with every door closed to her, how
    then to raise an effective resistance against the Maizan?"
      "Your pardon, Professor," said a student, "but suppose the tales are
    truth? It's said Angwyn is sheathed in the hoarfrost of a bleak and
    perpetual midwinter."
     "No traffic on the Cascadel anymore worth a damn," a trader
    noted in passing. "Short-haul, that's all that's left, town to town on
    this side of the High Desert of the Saranye. Nothin' goes beyond the
    Ramparts"-which were the range of coastal mountains that fronted
    the Sunset Ocean. "Whole of Angwyn Bay's s'posed to be frozen, an'
    a piece of the ocean beyond. Surroundin' country's glaciating worse
    than any of the Ice Lands. The Ramparts are as good as their name
    for now, holdin' back the worst of this false winter. But mark my
    words, young masters, there'll come a time, and soon, when t ' hey
    won't be enough. Summer'll be a memory from the Wall to sunset."
      From a far distance Elora heard the staccato drumbeat of fingers
    on a "doumbek," establishing a rhythm that fit her body as naturally
    as her own skin.
      Her feet began to move in time to the drum, hips and shoulders
    articulating ever so slightly to match its infectious beat. They were
    small movements, flowing so effortlessly one into the next that once
    started, there seemed no natural way to stop. Elora was the active
    partner in the dance, Duguay assuming the passive role with his
    drum, the hub around which she revolved.
      She flung her arms up to full extension as she sidled clear of the ta-
    bles into the open floor before the hearth that Susan had cleared for
    their stage. Then she brought them back to her body with an almost
    languid grace, sometimes in total harmony with the music, others in-
    tentionally at odds. The drum became her pulse, each hammer of her
    heart adding fiery spice to the flow of her blood as it went coursing
    throughout her body. She spun on the ball of a foot, threw back leg
    and shoulders and head until her body was bent double, then fol-
    lowed through on the motion to kick herself up and over in a sensu-
    ously acrobatic flip. She drew on the performances of gymnasts she
    had seen, and warriors, to craft a dance that was part purest move-
    ment, part combat, all suffused with an elemental passion that en-
    tranced the gathering crowd almost as completely as she was herself.
      Always, Duguay was there to complement her, keeping fair dis-
    tance to make clear to the audience that this was Elora's solo, but

    




    likewise never relinquishing the equally unequivocal sense that he
    was the principal half of their partnership. Whenever he extended an
    arm, hers curved toward it in response, as a plant seeks out the life-
    giving radiance of the sun. Any move he initiated, she echoed in gen-
    der resonance. The merest touch would instantly bring her back to
    him.
     Duguay took Elora's left hand in his right, pulled it up and across
    her body in a gesture so natural that she couldn't help but follow and
    complete the circle. He spun her once, twice, a third time, then fol-
    lowed those triple pirouettes by bringing her close into his arms, grip-
    ping her snug about the waist as he led her through a fourth and final
    circle that somehow encompassed the first three, making what had
    been a solo into a duet. She not only let him do so, she welcomed it.
     At the end, as the pounding rhythms built to their final, almost vi-
    olent crescendo, the bodies of the two dancers appeared to flow to-
    gether, as though both beings were composed of nothing but wiry
    sinew without a decent skeleton between them. How else, those
    watching wondered, to appear so elegantly, inhumanly limber?
     He meant for Elora to finish facing him but at the last she twisted
    in his grasp so that they came together back to front. Duguay didn't
    seem to mind, taking hold of her around the waist and by the right
    hand with such remarkable ease they must be following long-
    practiced choreography.
     Elora spun gracefully to her knees before him, settling on her heels
    in the Chengwei manner while her back arched along its entire length
    like a drawn bow. Duguay stood above her, apparently ready to re-
    ceive any arrow she cared to hurl forth. Presumably of love, but from
    the undertone of their performance in the raucous opinion of many
    onlookers, more likely of sin.
     There was a moment of absolute stillness, the only sound that of
    Elora's breath pumping in and out through a mouth that was curved
    into a smile of exultation. Otherwise, the whole of the tavern seemed
    to be holding its collective breath.
     Then came applause, and cheers, caps materializing in the hands
    of both performers as they slipped among their audience to gather
    every coin to come their way. Elora was exhausted, yet at the same
    time she was flush with the most intense and incredible energy. She'd
    stopped dancing, not for tiredness, but because she'd come to the end
    of that song. Given that music, and players whose vigor matched her
    own, she had the giddy certainty she could go on forever. Even now
    she couldn't stay still. She was too receptive to every wayward rush

    




    of sensation without and within her own body, each providing the
    impulse to a new movement, and each of those the inspiration for a
    new dance.
     People stared. Those who hadn't given her a second glance when
    she served their meal found themselves fascinated. Elora didn't care.
    She thrilled to the adoration, but more important to what she had
    achieved.
     The talk had been of winter and despair. She'd grabbed tight to
    their spirits and lit a fire there she hoped would warm them, sustain
    them, for a good long time to come.
      They would need it.

    




    ALONE IN HER ROOM, ELORA DANAN OPENED THE
    present Luc-Jon had given her.
     It was a small book, quite a contrast to the massive tomes
    piled in the cubbies and on the shelves of his master's library.
    The bindings were a leather whose condition made no con-
    cession to its evident age, and it was fastened by a single
    strap. Few details survived on the cover but the leather had
    been lovingly polished and oiled by the hands that held it to
    the point where its mahogany color was so rich it created the
    illusion of depth. Elora had the thought that if she placed her
    hand on its surface it would pass right through, as though
    she'd reached into a pool of water. She had never touched
    anything that felt as smooth or lustrous.
     The pages were no less special, sheets of a parchment finer
    than vellum but far more durable. It was a book of illumina-
    tions. On every recto sheet, the right-hand page, Elora found
    
    1~

    




    the representation of some fantastic creature. Opposite, on the verso
    pages, were what she assumed were the arcane symbols for each im-
    age. The brushwork was of a piece with the construction of the book,
    the pictures so lifelike Elora half expected them to move. She had no
    trouble recognizing the ones she knew but those proved only a small
    proportion of the contents. The colors were breathtaking, blazing
    forth with such vibrant intensity that they might have been applied
    only yesterday.
     Luc-Jon had included a letter. The book was from his master's col-
    lection, freely given over to Elora because despite its antiquity, this
    master had no great regard for it and little hope of ever deciphering
    its contents. Luc-Jon wasn't altogether sure why he himself had cho-
    sen it, save that one of its images was recognizably a dragon and the
    book had struck a resonant chord with the song she'd sung the night
    before her departure. Strange as it might sound, he wrote, this was a
    book that felt like it should be hers. He also included a note of rec-
    ornmendation from his master to a colleague at the university in
    Sandeni; if she wanted anyone knowledgeable about the history of
    the Great Realms to talk with, it was he.
     She smiled, curling up on her bed with the letter in her arms, the
    book left for now off to the side. She could see Luc-Jon in the scrip-
    torium, hunched over his half of the partner's desk, wearing finger-
    less gloves to keep the fingers of his writing hand warm and limber
    while he worked. He used a variety of crow-quill pens and as needed
    would pause to sharpen the nib or shift to a different edge. There was
    an elegance to his handwriting that bore little relationship to the
    rough-hewn facade of the young man himself, which provided as ef-
    fective a disguise to his true nature as Elora's makeup did to her own.
    Yet, though she was sure she'd given him no clue, he'd divined her
    identity. She didn't have to read too closely between the lines to see
    that. He was trying his best to be of help.
      "Rool," she called, "this is serious. I need you."
     "Milady," he replied from a perch on the bedside table, as if he'd
    been there all along.
     "Don't start, all right? Come here, would you, and tell me what
    you can make of this."
     He forbore the temptation to belabor the obvious and pursed his
    lips as she turned the pages.
      "That's a firedrake," he said, pointing.
     "So would this be its sigil?" she asked, indicating the symbol op-
    posite.

    




     "I don't know, I'm sorry."
     "A bestiary, perhaps?"
     "If so, it applies to creatures that either no longer exist or those
    who reside far beyond the Veil for the likes of any of us. There's
    nothing like this in the worlds I know, either among the Daikini
    Realm or those I'm familiar with beyond the Veil. Unless"-he
    brightened-"it's fiction, the product of some poor soul's dementia."
     "Good imagination. The dragon and the firedrake are perfect rep-
    resentations."
     'I can give it to Thorn," Rool suggested.
     Elora shook her head. "I want to speak to Luc-Jon's professor first.
    He went to the trouble of securing me an introduction, it'd be a
    shame to waste it."
     "Look here toward the back, Elora, These pages are blank."
     'Only the images. The sigils go right to the end."
     "You know some of them, don't you? I can hear it in your voice."
     "Not 'some,' Rool. One. The symbol Carig forced me to form."
     "A name but no face."
     "Precisely."
     "Shall we try to find one?"
    
     She discovered while dressing that Rool had been busy again with
    needle and thread. The Maizan woman's leathers now fit like they'd
    been made for her, and there was enough play left in the material and
    stitching to allow for further growth. It was a sinfully comfortable
    suit but the mirror's reflection once she was dressed confirmed her
    initial impression, that it swung a tad too far onto the side of daring
    for her taste. Then, of course, she caught what she decided was a
    scowl of disapproval from Rool, which immediately stiffened her
    spine and put some sass in her stride as she proclaimed the style
    wholly and forever her own.
     "Not so used to this high collar," she noted in mock complaint. Flat
    in front, it swept up on a steep flare to shield the entire back of her
    neck to the base of her skull.
     'Style's all the rage around town."
     "Oh joy."
     "Color suits you.'
     "Wine on silver?"
     'You're forgetting Duguay's face paint, Elora. Combine that with
    the way yon outfit's cut, I guarantee nobody will look first at your
    face."

    




     "What a relief. I feel more reassured already."
     The brownie was proved right yet again at the foot of the stairs as
    Elora descended for some breakfast. She took a seat at the counter,
    trying to ignore the gawks from a couple of students and concen-
    trated instead on the heady aroma from the mug of steaming tea Su-
    san set before her.
     "Bless you," she said as she took a hesitant sip, and meant it.
     She wolfed down a bowl of fresh porridge and an omelette fla-
    vored with herbs and mushrooms and melted cheese. One of the
    other women who worked there took a seat beside her and picked
    off a mouthful of egg, trading a chunk of fresh sourdough in return.
     "You eat and eat, girl, more than is decent," Pilar groused in good
    humor. "Why doesn't it ever show?"
     "The way we work each night," Elora retorted, "you have to ask
    such a thing?"
     "I'll concede your performances. Those are hard."
     "And I'm a growing girl."
     Pilar offered the most jaundiced of looks that raked Elora from top
    to toe. The younger woman had the grace to blush.
     'This is ridiculous," Elora fumed. 'Everyone's looking at me like
    I've just grown a second head! I'm fully clothed here, Pilar. I don't get
    this much attention in costume and that shows off just about every-
    thing! "
     "On occasion, sweetie, it's the assets you hide that become more
    enticing than what's on active display. Don't mind them, though."
    She indicated the students. "Scholars have no lives."
     "Actually, I need one."
     Pilar raised her eyebrows, looking from Elora to the students and
    back again with disapproval.
     "Not that way, not socially," Elora protested, "and not them. Ex-
    cuse me," she called to them, sidling off her chair and over to their
    table, "I'm looking for this professor." She handed them the envelope
    on which Luc-Jon's master had scribbled his name.
     "He's in Keeys College, yes?" asked one, to nods all around.
     "But you'll not get in to see him till, oh, mid-afternoon at the ear-
    liest. Classes today, you see."
     'Partial to high tea, though. Scones and cakes, the way to win his
    heart."
     "We're easier conquests, Elora. You've won our hearts already!"
     'Aha." She nodded, and then asked for directions.

    




    i
    
     Dominating the city was a massive edifice called the Citadel, of
    which Thom's tower was a part. This was the seat of government, so
    vast it bridged two of the rivers that plunged over the Wall and added
    better than a hundred feet to the height of the cliff. That prominence
    wasn't so evident at first glance, mainly because of the sheer bulk of
    the stronghold. In shape, from an eagle's-eye view overhead, it de-
    scribed a rough half circle, which presented a curved defensive pal-
    isade to the east (since it was assumed that no attacking force could
    possibly scale the Wall itself) that in its turn enclosed a massive com-
    plex of interconnected buildings and fortifications that extended for
    the better part of a mile along the escarpment. It was near half that in
    depth, with far more available space than was ever actually used,
    since it was also intended to serve as a refuge of last resort in case of
    attack.
     Those had been dangerous days, when the feuding warlords of
    Chengwei had been in an expansionist frame of mind, each deter-
    mined to seize control of the trading routes to the west-the fabled
    'Silk River"-as a means of consolidating power to the point where
    they could proclaim themselves "Emperor." Some proved little better
    than brigands and were dealt with accordingly, as were their descen-
    dants to this day. Others represented more formidable threats and
    came across the sprawling tableland in massed formations of horse or
    on foot, assaulting Sandeni with forces temporal and, on rare and ter-
    rifying occasions, magical.
     From the beginning the greatest danger came from the sunrise,
    and the east was where the city concentrated the bulk of its attention
    and defenses. Paradoxically, it was also where Sandeni enjoyed its
    most impressive growth as the city expanded inland from the cliff
    face as well as along its edge. Fanning outward from this hub were
    streets and buildings too numberless to count, representing a mass of
    humanity that easily eclipsed all Elora had known in the past. Tir
    Asleen and Nockmaar, the preeminent castles of their respective
    realms, would both be lost within this Citadel. Even mighty Angwyn
    couldn't compare.
     Being the confluence of a half-dozen rivers and lesser streams, the
    land above the falls formed an extensive floodplain interspersed with
    a fair number of islands, of which Madaket was one. Some were
    rock, others were composed of silt that thickened over the decades
    into solid earth-. During the initial expansion from the stockade that
    would quickly become the Citadel, bridges had to be built, traversing
    not only the free-flowing waterways but the bog and marshland sur-

    




    rounding them, thereby allowing troops to reach the solid land be-
    yond. The swamps were more than a strategic nuisance, though.
    Summer brought not only a stench that was often indescribable, but
    hordes of insects who made the citizenry's life a misery from equinox
    to equinox. To deal with both problems, a massive public-works
    project was instituted to drain the marshes and replace the natural
    landscape with a metropolis worthy of Sandeni's substantial, and in-
    creasing, wealth and power.
      The end result, at least in the eyes of the civic fathers, more than
    justified the cost.
      Sandeni was laid out much like a wheel, with the Citadel its hub.
    After generations, if not centuries, of rampant development, the
    shape of that wheel had been thrown significantly off center. There
    was much more of the city to the north, where the ground was more
    substantial, than in the opposite direction. Broad avenues stretched
    straightaway from the huge plaza that fronted the Citadel. There'd
    also been two moats, channels connecting the rivers that ran beneath,
    designed to serve the plaza's original intent as a clear killing ground.
    Under constant fire from the walls, it was believed impossible for any
    attacker to make a successful assault across such a broad expanse. But
    there'd been no war for two generations, nor had the city itself been
    under direct siege for centuries before that. The original purpose
    didn't seem so essential any longer, and since the plaza was so much
    more useful for peaceful, activities, the moats had long ago been
    filled in.
      Major intersections on the avenues followed the same basic curve
    established by the Citadel's walls. The difference was that the cross
    streets derived their inspiration from the plaza moats, and alternated
    solid thoroughfares with aquatic canals. Those canals in their turn
    were linked so that it was actually possible to travel from the
    Citadel's water gate to well beyond the official boundary of the city
    without once setting foot on dry land. An arrangement of dikes and
    bulwarks diverted the force of the rivers themselves, preventing the
    canals from being too affected by their swiftly flowing currents, and
    likewise keeping any boaters from being inadvertently swept over
    the falls.
      Every so often some bravo or other, convinced either of
    genius or invulnerability, made the plunge, in a contraption "guaran-
    teed" to survive the attempt. Thus far, the falls remained uncon-
    quered.
      In concept, the city was simplicity itself, laid out according to a

    




    grid with streets essentially at right angles to one another. Six boule-
    vards, named for the six rivers whose waters fed the falls, stretched
    outward from the Citadel as the "spokes" of the great half wheel,
    while a mix of numbered avenues and named streets formed the
    rings that intersected with them. On those boulevards could be found
    the most impressive and renowned demonstration of the city's in-
    ventive genius, its tram system.
     From the founding of the city, the inhabitants respected the power
    of the falls. Being Daikini, and finding themselves in a portion of the
    world where the Veil Folk appeared to have little interest or influence,
    they dreamed of ways that power might be harnessed. The principle
    of using a water wheel to power a mill's grinding stone had been long
    established. Roughly a century earlier an engineer had the inspiration
    of applying that same notion to public transport. A whole series of
    wheels were constructed, connected by an ingenious network of
    gears to what was essentially a giant pulley system buried under the
    street. Water spun the wheels, which turned the gears, which pulled
    the perpetual cable, which dragged along anything clamped to it.
    Tracks were laid on the street bed to keep the vehicles properly in
    fine, and the Sandeni Municipal Railway was born. Day and night
    without pause its trolley cars trundled back and forth along the av-
    enues, creating a safe and efficient means for those who lived on the
    outskirts of the city to visit its center, and vice versa.
     Plans existed, had for some time, to expand the system to the ma-
    jor cross streets, but there remained too much opposition from the
    Watermen's Guild, who rightly saw the trolleys as a significant threat
    to their own livelihoods. As a consequence passengers rode the trol-
    ley to the required intersection and transferred to a water bus or taxi,
    or on a noncanal street, a horse-drawn coach. Otherwise, folk made
    do with mounts of their own, or rickshaws, or their own feet.
     The streets also served as convenient boundaries for the political
    subdivisions of the city~ The area between the boulevards, roughly
    the shape of a giant pie slice, was designated a council borough. Dis-
    tricts were delineated by the avenues, which then were broken down
    into precincts. Unfortunately the expansion of the city, and the
    equally expanding arc of each borough's 'pie slice," meant that out-
    lying districts comprised a far greater population than those closer in.
    They wanted power in council commensurate with their greater
    number of precincts. By the same token, the older, more established
    districts were equally reluctant to yield their own influence or status.
    It was a debate as long-standing as the city itself that had in recent

    




    years grown increasingly fractious, with positions hardening on
    every side, as Elora had heard herself while serving dinner.
     The points of the "pie slices" that abutted the plaza comprised the
    city's business center. Here could be found the home offices of
    Sandeni's major banks, mercantile houses, cathedrals, each proclaim-
    ing to the world their own absolute preeminence in their respective
    fields. There were also the official residences of the ambassadors of
    all the major continental Daikini powers, even one whose gate was
    still adomed with the crest of royal Angwyn.
     Off to one side of the plaza Elora spied an island, sensing in-
    stinctively that it was one of the original plots of solid ground on
    which the rest of the city had been constructed, and positioned in
    such a way as to provide a deliberate flaw in the otherwise superbly
    symmetrical design of the esplanade. It intruded no small distance
    into the body of the plaza itself and took a divot out of the termi-
    nus points of the two adjoining boroughs. Here the moat had not
    been filled in, nor had the race of water been checked in the slight-
    est. Both sound and sight testified eloquently to the ferocity of the
    current and to its purpose as a deterrent. It was too great a width to
    jump and far too dangerous to attempt a crossing either by boat or
    by swimming.
     There were structures visible on the island, but only as discon-
    nected elements, being mostly hidden behind so majestic an assort-
    ment of trees and shrubbery that the island might well be mistaken
    for an arboretum. A promenade 'ringed its shore, with paths fading
    into the shadows cast by the full branches, giving it a marvelous air of
    mystery and enchantment even at the height of the day. For a stretch
    of the isle's circumference Elora beheld a magnificent stand of wild
    roses, still in bloom despite the lateness of the season. She felt a pang
    of sympathy for whoever was responsible for pruning that nasty tan-
    gle, as well as for anyone fool enough to try to slip through it.
     Rounding the whole of the moat, she found only one way across,
    a stone bridge too narrow for any vehicle, with barely space for two
    Daikini to walk side by side. Thinking at first this must be some pub-
    lic garden, she made her way from one shore to the other only to dis-
    cover a thin length of silver chain, so fine it would hardly qualify ~s
    a woman's necklace, strung between a pair of stone pillars to block
    the way. It was apparently a permanent obstruction, a quick exami-
    nation provided no sign of any lock and the links themselves ap-
    peared to disappear into the fabric of the lacquered stone. There were
    no seams visible in the rock, or tool marks of any kind, which gave

    




    Elora the distinct impression that these two obelisks were two per-
    fect crystals, either grown in place or brought untouched from the
    quarry. And while the surface gleamed as though from the ministra-
    tions of a daily and thorough polish, there was absolutely no reflec-
    tion to be seen.
     She considered stepping over the chain, or crouching underneath,
    but after a glance at the carved gargoyles crouched watchfully atop
    the obelisks, thought better of it.
     The isle and its dwellings might be empty, even abandoned, but
    that didn't mean caretakers hadn't been left behind to look after
    things.
     She slumped down onto her heels and chewed on her lower lip
    while she stared at the island in frustrated fascination, ignoring the
    faint burr of warning sent her way from above.
     At that point both brownies together decided this was the mo-
    ment for discretion to prove the better part of valor.
     "Walk away from here," Rool hissed in one ear.
     "Now!' echoed Franjean in the other, in a remarkable imitation of
    a cat's raowL
     So strong and urgent were their injunctions that Elora didn't stop
    to question or argue but let her feet take her quickly off the bridge,
    back the way she came. She didn't pause or even look back until she
    was once more well into the broad, sunlit expanse of the plaza.
     "Have you lost all sense, girl?"
     "Pleased to see you, too, again, Franjean."
     'If you could see yourself through my eyes-! Elora Danan, what
    cut your hair, you go all dozy too close to a herd of sheep?"
     Common sense put a brake on the retort that sprang to her lips.
    Franjean was already in rare form and could cut with epigrams more
    deeply than Khory with a sword. Moreover, experience told her that
    his acerbity in this instance came from a genuine fright.
     "Where did you come from?" she asked instead.
     "Thom lives there,' the brownie replied, with a turn of the head
    to indicate the Citadel that created a wall of its own along the far bor-
    der of the plaza. "Thorn works there. I live and work with Thorn.
    You don't want contact with him, that's your lookout."
     "I have good reason, Franjean," she tried to explain, but he would
    hear none of it.
     'Not passing judgment, wouldn't think of it, your decision after
    all, but don't see a need to be bound by it either, especially when
    your foolishness looks to put my friend Rool in jeopardy."

    




     "I would never-!" she protested.
     "Turn about," Rool told her. "Slowly."
     'What's this all about?" she asked instead.
     "Take in the sights."
     "What do you see, then?"
      "Buildings.' A pause. "People." A longer pause. "Lots of people."
    There was the merest thread of unease running through her ostensi-
    bly casual tone. "I've never seen so many, not up this close. Not in
    Angwyn, nor at the bazaar in the Valley of the Mountain Kings.
    Where do they all come from? How can they live so chockablock, all
    one upon the other?"
     "Daikini and ants," groused Franjean. "Go figure."
     "I'm serious, Franjean."
      'And I am not? Don't imagine there's a species born that isn't so-
    cial, one way or t'other, Elora. It's just you Daikini tend to carry that
    impulse to extremes. Brownies now, we like communities where all
    the names are known. Big enough for spice and variety but not so
    much that there are strangers among us. Hive like this, everyone's a
    stranger. Don't see the sense. But then again, in the eyes of most folks
    hereabouts, I'd wager the likes of us are considered too small to mat-
    ter in their scheme of things."
      "The way you talk, Sandeni's already pretty much in the De-
    ceiver's camp, with no time or truck for any people but themselves."
      "You misunderstand, Elora," Rool offered laconically. "They have
    both time and truck, just not a whole lot of gratuitous respect. Big
    folk beyond the Veil, elves especially, aren't used to that. Don't much
    care for it.
      "Right now, I don't much care for you," snapped Franjean to his
    friend. "If I hadn't seen with my own eyes, I'd never have credited it.
    You let her stroll across that bridge, pretty as you please, knowing
    what was waiting!"
      "What was waiting?" Elora asked, resisting the urge to steal a
    glance over her shoulder.
      "That's of no mind right now. D'you see the strollers on this prom-
    enade, where they wander?"
      A nod. In actuality, she'd noted the difference even before the
    question was asked.
      "None of them near the bridge. None even close to the moat.
    Wards?" she asked, after brief consideration.
     Franjean was taken slightly aback. He'd assumed he'd have to take

    




    her through this step by laborious step. Instead she was leapfrogging
    ahead.
     "Passive mainly," he explained, "innate to the land and structures
    themselves, radiating a pervasive background suggestion that you'd
    be better off somewhere else. Reinforced by the gargoyles, of course.
    They woke up when you looked like you were about to stay awhile."
     "So I felt."
     "Anyone else would have leaped from there faster than from a
    red-hot skillet. You hardly noticed and walked through the rest as
    though they didn't exist. If not for us, you'd be there still,"
     'Would they have attacked?"
     "Doubtful, given who you are," said Rool. "She was in no danger,
    Franjean."
    
     'Run up a flag, why don't you?" Franjean's tone was acid mock-
    ery. 'Build a platform in the center of the plaza and reveal her true na-
    
    ture. Save us all a lot of fuss and bother."
     'What is the matter, Franjean?' Elora demanded.
    
     "Got time, and patience, to hear the list? That island doesn't even
    wholly exist in this plane of being! It dates from long before the
    founding of the city, that's why no attempt was ever made to move
    it or alter its shape. Supposedly, in its heart is an ancient World Gate.
    No one's ever found it wouldn't matter if thev did since there's no
    
    energy left herebouts to power it
     "Like the tor" Elora mused
    
     "I heard about that," said Franjean, "from the demon child," which
    was his term for Khorv Of them all he still refused to refer to her 1,
    
    name. 'Bad business."
    
     "Happy ending," Rool commented. "And you should be more po-
    lite, Franjean, since we're sworn allies now, Lesser Faery and Elora."
     Franjean retorted with such a face coupled with the most disre-
    
    spectful of noises that Elora nearly burst out laughing.
    
     "The physical aspect of the world changes with age," she said, re-
    turning to her thought. 'And why not, since the world's a living be-
    ing? The patterns of force it generates change with it. What's true for
    
    one age may not prove so for the next."
     'Is that helpful?" Rool wondered.
     "Not really," she confessed. "Not yet."
     "Regardless, ' Franjean announced, reclaiming the conversation,
    "that island serves as home for all the local embassies of the Veil Folk!
    No one visits uninvited. same as no one Finds, a brnwnie Nirrow lin-

    




    less we're of a mind to allow it. Walking on that bridge is trouble
    enough. Not being attacked brands you for certain."
      "I understand, Franjean. I'll be more careful."
     "You're in the world, Elora, as you so proudly proclaim. Igno-
    rance-rather, stupidity-is a luxury you can't afford."
      'You rather I hide?"
     Franjean, always the more voluble of the pair, made a noise of ex-
    treme exasperation.
     "Faint hope of that, the mind you're in," he told her. "But mark
    me, girl, in the scheme of things you've only now come into your
    milk teeth. You're a fledgling with more down to your wings than
    proper feathers."
      "I'm not helpless, Franjean."
      "Not that helpless, perhaps," he scoffed.
      "I've held my own pretty well so far."
      "And our charge is to ensure that doesn't become your epitaph."
      "You are in a choice mood."
     "Clothes are adequate," he said dismissively, abruptly changing
    the subject with the most minor and grudging of compliments, which
    was as quickly undercut. 'For traipsing through bogs and fens and the
    like."
     Elora rolled her eyes and tried to exchange expressions with Rool,
    but the other brownie was nowhere to be seen on her shoulder. Nor,
    when she turned her head the other way, was Franjean, although his
    voice made his presence as plain as his opinions.
      "I suppose you hate my body paint as well," she dared him.
      "Actually, that has possibilities."
      "I'm so glad."
     "Truth," he conceded grudgingly, "if I hadn't known from the de-
    mon child and Bastian what to look for, and hadn't spotted Rool in
    the bargain, I'd most likely have passed you by. You've gone through
    more than a skin change, Elora, and walked a far piece from the girl
    you were, in both body and spirit."
     She said nothing, where ordinarily she'd have been floored by
    Franjean's unexpected and gracious compliment. Indeed, she seemed
    to have hardly heard him.
      "Elora," asked Rool suddenly, "what's the matter?"
     "What I said before. All these people. All this noise . . ." Her voice
    trailed off.
     The plaza was the center of urban life for upper Sandeni. From it
    ranged a whole network of walkways and esplanades that took

    




    strollers to the edge of various falls, or right to the cliff itself. Portions
    had been cleared of stone, over the strenuous objections of the mih-
    tary, and planted with stands of trees, so long ago that those saplings
    had grown taller than the surrounding buildings. Both groves and
    flower beds were interspersed with plots of grass and benches where
    citizens could enjoy some quiet contemplation, or a meal in the open
    air. Strolling buskers entertained, speakers harangued, children
    played, cutpurses cruised for marks while avoiding the watchful,
    wary eyes of the patrol constables. Elora heard the sound of shoes on
    flagstones, the background susurrus of thousands of voices, skeins of
    music, all battling to be heard over the constant rush of water over
    the falls. Nothing before her stayed still, all was constant motion in a
    never-ending panoply, a feast for her eyes that she found both en-
    trancing and terrifying.
     Of a sudden, in a way she'd never experienced before and didn't
    understand, she felt tiny, like a fairy among giants. And most awfully
    alone.
     "There are so many!" she wailed softly, to herself. "And this is just
    one piece of one city of one domain among the whole Daikini Realm.
    And that Realm is one among twelve."
     "Thirteen," reminded Rool.
     "The Realm of Elora," she snorted.
     "If you're afraid," Franjean said with uncharacteristic kindness,
    "knock on the Citadel door."
     "Is Thom watching, Franjean?" Her eyes scoured the battlements
    but they were too high and too far away. She could find no details
    she was sure of.
     "No. More fool him. The demon child pled your case, he accepted.
    Won't watch for fear of someone watching him."
     "It was easier at Ganthem's Crossing, or on Tyrrel's tor," she said.
    "The goals were tangible, they were right in front of me. Someone
    needed saving, I did it, hooray for me. The consequences were im-
    mediate and personal." She took in a deep breath, released it in a
    rush. "I look around here and see all these people-I"
     "There's no harm in accepting your limitations," said Franjean.
     She reached into her pouch, to find Luc-Jon's gift at hand. She
    stroked her thumb on its cover, thinking her skin would never feel so
    sleek, and to her mind came the vision of the sigil that stood alone.
     Another breath, this one of acquiescence, and for an instant both
    brownies feared she had given up.
     "I gave my word, Franjean," she said simply, before casting about

    




    for the trolley stop. "Just like Thorn did to Cherlindrea, when she
    asked him to take me to Tir Asleen. Knowing your limitations is a
    good and necessary thing, my friends. Knowing your honor," she fin-
    ished, "is more."
    
     The university was larger than many towns she'd known, a com-
    munity unto itself chockablock with subordinate colleges that dealt
    with each other much like rival states. She enjoyed the stroll through
    the school's environs, painfully certain from the way she marveled at
    every sight how much the country bumpkin she must appear despite
    her leather costume, and soon got used to the brusque manner the
    students applied to anyone not of their college. The brownies were
    less charitable. Within short order they were gleefully plotting be-
    tween themselves the nature of their spectacularly malicious revenge
    against all and sundry.
     As predicted, the professor was in class, but Elora had timed her
    arrival so that she didn't have long to wait. Also as predicted, he had
    an abiding fondness for sweets.
     "Ah, Luc-Jon," he mused, picking crumbs off his faded black robe
    and popping them in his mouth with a diligence Elora had never
    seen. "I told Parry"-Luc-jon's master-"that if he'd send the lad
    downriver I'd sponsor him myself."
     "He'll be honored to know you think so highly of him, sir."
     She offered the plate of cakes. He made a show of reluctance, then
    shook his head, scratched his beard, and plucked the richest of the
    lot.
     ,You'll pardon me for saying, miss," he said to her between
    mouthfuls, "but you're not the sort we're used to seeing about these
    precincts."
     "Sort of what?"
     "Person, for one. Your appearance is rather more ... theatrical
    than most."
    
     "As is my profession."
     'Yet you come to me for some assistance."
     "A need born of a regrettable lack of education."
     "I would scarcely credit such a statement."
     "Appearances are deceiving, Professor." Elora laughed. "To ~e
    well-spoken is not necessarily to be well-read. To be well-read
    doesn't always provide one with the knowledge one requires."
     "What do you require?"

    




     She almost answered him but caught herself over the way he'd
    hrased his question.
     'I ask," she said, offering an entreaty where he'd been expecting a
    command, "your help."
     "Regarding?"
     "The prophecies of Elora," she told him.
     He made a tremendous whoulf sound that turned heads at some of
    the neighboring tables.
     'And the nature and truth about dragons," she told him.
     He made the same sound, louder than before, and tossed his
    hands up in the bargain. A waiter hurried to his side, concerned that
    the professor might be having some sort of seizure.
     "And this," she said at the last, when the waiter had departed. She
    set the book Luc-Jon had given her down before him.
     He steepled his fingers before his face, stared at the book, then at
    her, and was silent for long enough to make her nervous. If not for
    the brightness of his eyes and the vibrancy of his spirit, she might
    have made the waiter's mistake and assumed the worst as well.
     'Do you know what you have here?" he asked in a tone meant for
    her ears alone.
     "I've heard it described as a kind of bestiary."
     "Fascinating. I've never heard it described at all."
     'But you know what it is."
     "I suspect," he said with gentle emphasis, and a succession of qual-
    ifiers, 'I may know what it is supposed to be, that is possible, yes.'
     "Why are you so afraid, Professor?"
     'Truly, you don't know?" She shook her head. 'I am a man of let-
    ters, the closest I've come to weapons are the knives I use to cut my
    meat. That's as it should be, for I've no skill whatsoever with the
    bloody things, But as I am a man of letters, I've read accounts of
    weapons and battles by those who know both well. I know, for ex-
    ample, there are blades of so fine an edge that any fool struck by one
    will see the offending limb fall, completely severed, before the body
    has had time to realize what's happened."
     He reached out a finger as though to tap the book by its cover, but
    never made contact.
     "This is much the same, Do you know why Parry gave it up to
    you~" he asked her.
     "Luc-Jon didn't say, beyond that it had no value and he despaired
    of ever deciphering its contents."

    




     "Hard to decipher what you can't blessed see," chortled the pro-
    fessor. "I'll wager any sum you like that the one time, and one time
    only, Parry opened this book he saw naught but blank pages. Tossed
    it on a shelf after and never gave it a second thought, not even to use
    for himself."
     "The pages aren't blank."
     "You've been told," he inquired sharply, "or you've seen it for
    yourself?"
     "I've seen."
     'Then, my dear, you are singularly blessed. Or cursed. It is an en-
    cyclopedia, a census if you will, of those who are said to inhabit the
    Third Circle."
     "Have you seen it?"
     His mouth quirked a little ruefully, at opportunities set aside. "I
    have been told about it. I am a scholar, not a sorcerer. Only they can
    perceive its true nature, and thereby its contents. Only a magus"-
    and his eyes met hers a moment before dropping away-"can actu-
    ally use the summoning sigils."
     "Setting the book aside, Professor," she said, and did so, sweeping
    it casually back into her pouch, 'what about the rest?"
     He slid a key across the table to her.
     "You are welcome to my library at any hour. Whatever is in my
    power is yours for the asking."
     If Keeys College were the castle it pretended to be, the profes-
    sor's lodgings would be one of the'subordinate keeps, three stories
    of stout stone whose interior was as solid and conservative in de-
    sign as the building's facade. His actual residence was little more
    than a closet, and as she passed it by Elora felt a surge of sym-
    pathy for whoever was responsible for keeping it tidy. While those
    rooms were a veritable chaos, the work spaces were anything but.
    Cases of volumes climbed every wall to the ceiling, while others,
    not quite so tall, stood alone in ranks across the floor. A space was
    set aside for desks and there was a whole collection of ladders to
    reach the topmost shelves. At the far end of the room she could see
    a circular stairway of wrought iron, leading, she assumed, to the
    floors above.
     "Iron steps," the professor said idly, "iron mullions between the
    windowpanes, iron facings on the doors. Simple precautions"-a
    flare of a smile, as quick as the blink of an eye-"but effective."
     "Against what?"
     'Knowledge is power. And ambition is not solely a Daikini trait."

    




     "I have to go, Professor. Do you know the Street of Lost Dragons,
    on Madaket?" He nodded. 'Come by Black-Eyed Susan's some night.
    I'd like you to hear me sing." She took him by the hand. "I'll be back,"
    she said.
     'The books will be here. I will be waiting."
    
     A long embankment formed the southernmost boundary of the
    university along the shore of the Paschal, smallest of the six rivers
    that flowed through Sandeni, It was also the only one that stayed
    wholly independent all the way to the edge, forming a cataract all its
    own from the heights of the cliff to Lake Morar below. As she strolled
    along Elora could see the sparkling trail made by the Paschal as it
    plunged off the heights of the Shados in a series of wild cataracts that
    brought it to the level of the plateau. The mountains met the table-
    land like the point of a wedge, in an arrowhead formation of jagged
    and imposing peaks, as though they meant to crack the land asunder,
    the way an ax might split a log.
     'Think they've ever been found?" Elora asked no one in particular,
    basking in the warmth of a lowering sun, the air cast in comforting
    autumnal hues, her thoughts full of the possibilities she'd seen in the
    professor's library. She assumed the brownies would reply.
     "Who's that?" Duguay asked in return, and Elora stumbled in
    startlement. She struck the parapet, hissing with annoyance more
    than pain as she barked her hip, and the troubadour's hands closed
    over her to keep her from falling farther.
     "The dragons." Whatever her innermost feelings, her smile of wel-
    come was genuine and a decent complement to the daystar beaming
    overhead. Duguay looked like he was about to kiss her but chose in-
    stead to stroke his thumbs lightly along the column of her throat. The
    sensations were delicious, they made her tremble like a cat. She'd
    have purred as well if she'd known how.
     'They're a vexatious breed," he said. "Comes of heeding no law
    but your own."
     "Know'em that well, do you?"
     His smile turned lazy and possessive in a way that made her want
    to melt inside. "I've heard the stories and sung the songs, like any
    troubadour worth the name."
     "Street of the Lost Dragons," she mused. "I wonder, does 'lost'
    mean missing, or cloomed~"
     'Or nothing at all? Does it matter? It's only a street sign."
     'Just a thought, is all. What are you doing here, Duguay~"

    




     "Thought we'd go a-wandering tonight, pet. Dance for our plea-
    sure ...
     "Don't we always?"
     "Gauge the competition, so to speak?"
     "Answer my question."
     "Asked at Susan's where you were. Got pointed toward the uni-
    versity. Came looking. Not so big a place to search, nor are you so
    hard to miss. Now you answer mine~"
     'It sounds like fun. Though I warn you, Duguay, if the perfor-
    mances of the last few nights are any indication, once we're done at
    Susan's, it's bed."
     "I'll take my chances."
     He took a hand in his, sliding fingers between hers to intertwine
    their grasp. She let him for a few more steps, then slipped free be-
    fore his hand could close. She had no thought of direction when
    they started their stroll, the only requirement being that they return
    to Madaket in time for dinner. They passed along lanes barely a few
    handspans wider than their shoulders and from there into proper
    streets, crossing bridges when they came to them. Given the layout
    of the city, that proved fairly often. Few words passed between
    them as they walked, but to those who passed they seemed the
    most familiar of couples. Not quite lovers but more than simple
    friends, bound by an intimacy that went beyond the simply physi-
    cal.
     It was her inspiration to ride the cable car. She saw it at the end of
    the street and took off like a stone from a catapult, crying at the top
    of her lungs for the car to stay just a bit longer until she could leap
    aboard. There were hardly any passengers, which was fortunate be-
    cause she'd built up so much momentum she very nearly hurled her-
    self straight through the open-sided carriage. At the last instant she
    caught hold of one of the brightly polished poles that supported the
    roof, swinging one leg out and around in a huge circle, embracing the
    pole with both arms wrapped about it and a great, goofy grin on her
    face as she beheld Duguay huffing after her.
      Her entrance earned her a stem reprimand from the conductor and
    she took it with such courtesy and good grace that he hadn't the,
    heart to pitch her off. She snugged herself down on the wooden
    bench beside the brakeman, legs folded tight beneath her, one arm
    wrapped around her ankles to hold them in place, the other draped
    along the back of the bench while her gaze swept the buildings on ei-
    ther side of the magnificent boulevard. A greenway promenade bi-

    




    sected the roadway for its entire length, providing a lovely mix of
    grass and flower beds and trees.
      Somewhere or other Duguay had managed to come up with
    lunch, and he presented Elora with a sandwich from a roving vendor.
    Bread hot and fresh from the oven, spiced meat, grilled mushrooms
    and onions and peppers, plus melted cheese. It smelled delicious and
    tasted even better. The aromas were too enticing to hide and it
    seemed discourteous to hog such bounty to herself, so Elora broke off
    a pair of decent-sized pieces and offered them to the trolley's crew.
      "I'm Elora," she said cheerily. She didn't hold out her hand in
    greeting because both of the brakeman's were covered in heavy,
    grimy gloves, but he returned her smile with one of her own, a bit
    more shy. The offer of food was appreciated but they weren't al-
    lowed to eat while on a run, so the gifts were stored away for later.
    In return, the conductor offered one of their own dinner flasks of hot
    spiced cider, and as the car trundled on its route they chatted amiably
    about the city, about politics, about sports, about their lives.
      "Damn daft, is what they are," grumbled the brakeman, referring
    to politicians in general. He was a young barrel of a man, whose com-
    pact form belied an exceptional and formidable strength of body in a
    way that made Elora wonder if there was Nelwyn blood in his an-
    cestry. Such occurrences were exceeding rare, and actively discour-
    aged by all the races on both sides of the Veil, but they happened
    nonetheless. Duguay had a song about two such lovers, doomed of
    course. No matter how true their love, the world was against them,
    the tragic end preordained and inescapable. Far sadder than the bal-
    lad itself was the occasional comment from some lout or other in the
    audience that it served the lovers right, they merely got the fate they
    deserved.
      The brakeman's name was Tam.
      "I mean," he said between small grunts as he hauled on the great,
    polished lever handle mounted on the floor to tighten the clamp on
    the cable buried beneath the street or release it. As the car slowed he
    took hold of the brake to bring it to a halt. Lastly he sounded the bell
    by tugging the lanyard by his head. All these actions occurred in se-
    quence, in a matter of seconds, so practiced a series of moves that the
    trolley slowed and accelerated with hardly a jerk. 'It's a big world,
    innit?"
      "What's your point, Tam?" wondered the conductor, whose name
    was Rico, sneaking a sip of cider from the mug he'd given Elora.
      "Well! How many weeks to Angwyn, d'y' think, by boat or

    




    horseback? How many to Chengwei, t'other direction? An' d'y'
    know of anyone been south o' the Stairs to Heaven, I mean regular
    like? It's no small business, is what I'm sayin', travelin' from place t'
    place. Hardly none of it's what'cha call a regular service, like what we
    provide. Caravan leaves when it's good an' ready, ain't no set sched-
    ule. How's one guvment, any kinda guv'ment, s'posed t' bind it all
    t'gether, is what I'm askin'?"
      'We don't do so bad, Tam, movin' folks from the Citadel to
    Wivlesfield."
      "What, you suggestin' we stretch a cable from here t' the ocean?"
    The brakeman found that concept so amusing he nearly choked on
    his mouthful of cider, splurts of laughter interspersed with bouts of
    coughing. He never once lost his rhythm on the levers, and the car
    likewise lost no headway.
      "What I'm saying, dolt-"
      "Wa'cher yap, there's a lady present!" Tam tossed Elora a wink
    and a lopsided grin and got a fair smile from her in return.
      'I am saying," the conductor repeated patiently, conveying the
    sense that this was not the first of such discussions between the two
    men and that the heat it generated was actually a form of play, "that
    we started our journeys afoot. Learn to stand, learn to walk. We grad-
    uated to horseback, and let them do the bulk of the work. After do-
    mesticating the animal, we harnessed them to carts. When we came
    to rivers, we discovered how to make boats. We built these trolleys.
    We Daikini-we learn, we grow, we'invent. That's our nature. You
    may not see how a single state might effectively rule a continent, or
    even a world, but does that mean it can't be done? Or shouldn't be
    attempted?"
      "Where's the benefit?" Elora asked.
      "Be nice never again to have to worry about marauding warlords
    out of Chengwei. Or possibly establish a regular shipping service
    across the continent, from top to bottom as well as sunrise to sunset."
      "Accordin' t' me ma, had fairies present to bless me at my birth,"
    Tam said quietly. "Cost me da a pretty penny in obligation, but tha'
    was work he was glad to shoulder, an' I in my turn after he passed on.
    If I have young of me own, I'm hopin' they'll come again. And for me
    grandkids in their turn. A world that denies us tha' beauty, whatever
    else kind of peace or prosperity it offers, comes at too high a price."
      'But I've heard said that the Veil Folk oppress us," Duguay said,
    playing devil's advocate. 'They deny us the nature your partner
    speaks of."

    




     "They do oppress," Rico said slowly, placing words and thoughts
    together with due deliberation. "They do deny our nature. But I'm
    like Tam, I'll miss them if they go. I'd like to find another way."
     'At least in Sandeni," Tam interjected with no little civic pride,
    "we each of us have our proper say in the making of things."
     "However small that may be," noted the conductor.
     "We've our franchise ' Rico, we got our vote. Them what rule do
    so by the consent of the governed. The decisions they make, they're
    answerable to us."
     "The Highlander clans are much the same," Elora said. "And
    brownie burrows, so I've heard tell. In fact, there's a story that Nel-
    wyns passed the idea to the Cascani, who mixed it in with a holdful
    of beliefs gotten from the Wyrrn, and the founders of Sandeni stole
    from them all!"
     "Most excellent thievery"-Duguay chuckled-"if this is the re-
    sult. No wonder, though, the Royal Realms are so nervous about
    them. It's always been hard to mesh the right of monarchs with those
    of the individual.'
     "Heard talk out of Angwyn, before the Frost," which was how
    folks had come to refer to the overthrow of that city, "'bout some yob
    came up with a way to harness steam as a means of propulsion.
    Imagine, Tam, cars like this moving along a set of tracks, with an en-
    gine to pull them instead of our cable."
     "That'll be the day. Remember the stories~ All the grief the city fa-
    thers went through with the Veil Folk just to get these trolley lines
    laid? An' this be land where most beyond the Veil don't lay no claim.
    You stretch iron from here to the sea, in any direction, Rico, then
    you'll see a war, an' tha's no error!"
     "You two at it again," said a new arrival, by way of an introduc-
    tion of his own. He was a Daikini of middling height and apparently
    slighter than average build, though Elora noted that could have been
    as much a result of stance and style of dress as the actual shape of his
    body. Chestnut hair, neatly combed, otherwise the man was utterly
    unassuming. The same true for his clothes and diffident manner. At a
    glance he could be marked as a member of any number of profes-
    sions, nothing physical like a foundry worker but by the same token
    nothing higher than mid-list on the economic food chain. One of the
    multitude of unexceptional functionaries essential to the well-being
    of the state.
     Only his eyes gave him away, and only then because Elora had
    learned from Khory and the brownies what to look for. They missed

    




    nothing about him and did so without drawing the slightest attention
    to their scrutiny. His interest wasn't confined to the trolley, either. He
    regularly swept his gaze over the frontages they passed.
     She offered her hand and her name. The conductor supplied the
    response.
     "This is Renny Garedo," he said.
     "Constable~" Elora hazarded mischievously, to be rewarded with
    a pleasantly surprised chuckle from him, and a nod of acknowledg-
    ment.
     "You two been corrupting minors again," the constable said, toss-
    ing a gentle gauntlet down before the two transit workers. His man-
    ner was relaxed, his tone unthreatening, as he sat on the opposite side
    of the car from Elora.
     'Shaa," scoffed Tam. "We never!"
     "More likely the other way 'round, Constable," said Elora cheer-
    ily. "As you'll see if you come to our show tonight."
     "Last stop," Rico sang out from his own perch in the back. "Citadel
    terminus. All passengers off, please!"
     For the crew, this also represented the end of their shift, as Elora
    and Duguay and Renny joined them and their replacements in haul-
    ing the car around on its turntable, thereby reversing its direction and
    positioning it to catch the outbound cable.
    
     It seemed like a wonderful idea at the time.
     From the start, though, the moodwas jangly, with an undercur-
    rent that made Elora nervous. Patrons were brusque and uncom-
    monly hard to please, and there were occasions in the evening that
    made her glad the constable had decided to accept her invitation, and
    that the professor had chosen not to.
     Then Duguay sang the doomed lovers' song. Elora started toward
    the stage intending to follow with another tune entirely, but the japes
    and catcalls from some of the audience were harsher than usual and
    the casual cruelty of that intolerance sent a tidal wave of anger cours-
    ing through her. She took a seat before the fire and didn't move, gath-
    ering a stillness about herself that made Duguay look up sharply,
    reminded of the prelude to her performance at the fort weeks ago.
    Renny looked as well, and as intently, for different reasons. Unbid-
    den, a tune and lyrics flashed from lips and fingers as Elora strummed
    a sequence of basic but increasingly passionate chords on her guitar,
    accenting them by striking a dynamic percussive beat with her hand
    on the face of the instrument. There was no ambiguity about her po-

    




    sition, nor any mercy. It was an anthem and a slap in the face to every
    person here who'd offered a rude remark about Duguay's song.
    Strangely, though, it was as strong a refutation of the song itself. His
    lovers were doomed, hers defiant. His were victims, hers seized hold
    of their fate. There was a neat ending to his. Hers was a call to the
    barricades, with nothing settled and nothing guaranteed. Hers had
    rage, and it had hope.
     There was a large table of students, not from Keeys College, she
    was glad to see, who were responsible for most of the rude com-
    mentary They caught the brunt of her fury when she sang, and knew
    full well, as did everyone else in the room, that her words were
    meant for them. They weren't happy about it, either, and harsh glares
    followed her back to the table she shared with the transit workers.
     Tam was on his feet, hands held overhead as he pounded palms
    together, counterpointing his applause with piercing whistles,
     'Damn fine," he cheered over and over, 'damn fine!"
     "You liked?" Elora asked.
     'I'm not altogether certain 'like' is a word I'd apply to that song,"
    said Renny, "but a powerful performance nonetheless."
     'I'm afraid,' Elora said, flexing sore fingers, 'I'm still learning the
    guitar."
     'Better at it than I ever was," Tam told her.
     "With fingers like yours, that's no revelation.'
     Four heads turned as one to fix themselves on the student who'd
    commented just a bit too loudly.
     Renny started to his feet, but Susan was there before him, sidling
    easily through the press of customers and tables to place herself be-
    tween the constable and the students.
     "With respect, gentlemen," she said, "you've finished your meal
    and these tables are needed for other customers. If you don't mind,
    perhaps it's better that you take your leave."
     One started a protest but another gave him a thump to the shoul-
    der and used his own body to shunt him from his seat. None of them
    looked happy but they all did as they were told. As they departed Su-
    san and the staff all exchanged glances and nods, silently confirming
    amongst themselves that it would be a long time before any of those
    faces were welcomed back.
     That flashfire confrontation, brief and seemingly inconsequential
    as it was, defined the evening from then on. Duguay took Elora's re-
    sponse to his song personally and for the first time harsh words were
    exchanged between them.

    




     "I wasn't aware I had to ask your permission what to sing," she
    told him during a break after he'd hustled her into an alcove.
     "Nor was I that I should be so actively and publicly insulted by my
    apprentice."
     "I meant no insult."
     "Spare me, girl. What else would you call it?"
     "It wasn't you, Duguay," she tried to explain, but her thoughts
    kept stumbling over the irrefutable truth that he was right. "The song
    made me angry ... 71
     "And you couldn't find another oudet? Another way to express
    yourself? You saw no alternative but to turn this into open conflict
    between us?" He hadn't raised his voice once but even a casual on-
    looker couldn't help but realize from the pose of his body that this
    was a private conversation. "You have so little regard for me?"
     She blinked, quickly, as though she'd been actively struck. She
    said nothing, could find no words to close the sudden breach be-
    tween them. Worse, she wasn't sure she wanted to. His song had
    acted on her like a gauntlet and she found she could not, would not,
    apologize for taking up that challenge.
     Throughout the evening, right to the very end, the constable's
    eyes never left Elora for long. It was a very underhanded scrutiny,
    she'd catch him out of the comer of her eye watching her from the
    corners of his. She'd flick a surprise glance his way, to discover his
    gaze conspicuously elsewhere, which paradoxically left her all the
    more convinced he'd been watching'. He sat with his back to the wall,
    his chair angled toward the other two men, but in such a way that his
    field of vision easily included Elora, so that even when he wasn't
    looking at her directly his awareness of her was total.
     'Tell me, Constable," she asked at last as the tavern gradually
    emptied, 'what is it you're looking at?"
     "You have good bones, Elora, why hide them beneath all that
    paint?"
     "I like to be seen. I want to be remembered."
     "But the paint is artifice, the memory a lie."
     'I'm a performer, Constable."
     "Nothing to hide, then?"
     "Everything. Nothing." She batted her eyes. "Mystery is my stock-
    in-trade, Renny, as keen eyes are in yours."
     "Point an' game t''lora, Renny, tha's my way o'thinkin'!" chortled
    Tam. "Pay him na' mind, lass," he continued to Elora, "man's a
    sponge o' questions."

    




     'Another useful talent in my profession, Tam," Renny said.
     "Too damnably suspicious by half, Renny, an' y'ask me!"
     "Right," Rico announced, rising wearily to his feet and stretchinj
    his back to ease the kinks. "Your pardon, gentles, but it's been a lonj
    workday and I've baims a' home I'd like to see afore they're off tc
    class in the morning."
     "It's not that late, Rico," protested Elora.
     "Puttin'y'r garden abed on the morrow, are y, Rico?"
     "Aye, that's my thought, Tam. Might leave some veg till the firs
    hard frost but better this year to be safe than sorry. Will we see you
    then?"
     "Said I'd help. But prob'ly not till after midday."
     "Not a problem."
     'No obligations?" Elora asked Tam, after the taller man had de
    parted.
     'Single man, single life."
     He smiled. She smiled back. They both turned their eyes on
    Renny, who was tactful enough not to mention the hint as he smil-
    ingly took his own leave.
     There was no sign of Duguay at closing, not downstairs nor up in
    the rooms they shared when Elora changed from costume to what
    had become her favorite everyday leathers. An inquiry to Susan re-
    vealed that he'd gone his own way soon after their performance was
    done, to find a companion for the evening who wasn't quite so judg-
    mental. That proved the final seal on Elora's decision to walk with
    Tam partway home-if he was interested, which he was.
     As they passed the Citadel there were still lights to be seen at var-
    ious windows across the otherwise dark and featureless expanse of
    stone, testifying to those still at work on state business despite the
    midnight hour. To Tam, what was the value of work that took you
    forever away from home and family, and what then the point of hav-
    ing either if you allowed your work to so dominate your life, and fi-
    nally, what kind of person allows himself to be caught in such a
    tangle? Is that someone they really want deciding the fate of the na-
    tion?
     'What do you say then," she demanded, with a fair portion of the
    passion she'd put into her song, because she was thinking of those
    she knew and loved, no less than herself, "of those who've lost home
    and family but struggle on regardless?"
     'Would those things ha' been lost, my girl, had they paid proper
    minde "

    




     "The world isn't always so easily ordered, Tam. And I'm not your
    anything." She said it deadpan, but the twinkle in her eyes gave the
    game away.
     "So," Tam began, hesitated, almost began again, hesitated again, in
    the manner of a deliberate man working himself up to something
    spontaneous. Vety much a Nelwyn trait, Elora thought, reacting to him
    with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. 'You an' the bard."
    Another pause, before he backed away from the question he wanted
    to ask. "Y' sing well t'gether."
      "We have our moments," she conceded, "good and bad."
      "Y' like him."
      "There's a lot to like."
     "An' a lot, I'll wager, makes y' want to slap him upside his noggin
    with the flat of a cast-iron pan."
     She chuckled, then said, in answer to the question he hadn't
    asked: "He's my teacher. We travel together."
      "Companions, then."
     "Not the way some mean that word, no," she said hurriedly, for
    she knew in many contexts it described a relationship one small step
    shy of marriage. "Why do you ask?"
      "Man likes to know where he stands in the scheme of things."
      "I never realized the scheme of things could get so complicated."
      "Couldn't tell that from the way you sing."
      "Duguay's the master in that regard, Tam."
     "You should give y'rself more ctedit, 'lora. He's got the voice,
    tha's certes, can't remember myself hearin' one better. But there's
    no heart. No truth. I don't listen to him. Wi' you, it's near impossible
    not to.
     "Hightown's not so bad for a visit," he then said, responding to her
    comment about the city. "Got the view for certain, and some sights
    to match. It is quite the proper venue"-without missing a beat, Tam
    presented an acid, dead-on mockery of the accents practiced by many
    of the university students, with lots of smoothly rounded vowels-
    "for proper people." Just as smoothly, he reverted to his normal way
    of speaking. "But the prairie's the place t' live."
      'I thought they called it Lowtown."
      "They would."
     At the terminus of each cable-car line, a broad set of stairs de-
    scended to a level beneath the plaza, where Elora found a huge
    arcade connecting them all together. There were stalls aplenty, all

    




    shuttered and locked, offering goods and services of every conceiv-
    able description.
     Their footsteps set up cascading echoes in the silence, adding to
    the quietly sinister mood cast by the lanterns. Staccato spots of sound
    that complemented these spots of light amidst the otherwise all-
    encompassing shadow. It was a lonely place, the kind where it
    seemed natural to expect ghoulies or some other, worse monsters to
    leap from the darkness to wreak unholy mayhem on all in their path,
    and more than the evening chill made Elora shiver.
     Would Tam think the less of me, she wondered to herself, if I unlim-
    bered my cloak from where I tossed it over my shoulder and wrapped myself
    up snug inside? And then, a counterpoint question: Would that make the
    slightest difference? Is it this gallery that makes me cold, or my own imagi-
    nation?
     The unnerving quiet wasn't as absolute as first she'd thought, ei-
    ther. There was a faint vibration, set up through the soles of her
    boots, of a piece with a roar so muted and distant that it was likewise
    felt more than actually heard.
     "Is that sound," she asked, "the falls?"
     'Tha' 'tis," replied Tam. "Can't get away from it in any part o'
    Sandeni, plateau or prairie. Shouldna' sound so ungrateful, tho', since
    it's wha' helped make us what we are."
     "They sound so far away. But they aren't really?"
     "Had to do somethin' t' mute their thunder, else the din would
    make this depot unusable. Tha's why there's a quarry's worth o'
    stone 'tween us an' free water."
     'I keep forgetting the city here's mainly built on platforms."
     "Y're na'alone in tharegard, 'lora lass," Tam told her, "an'we live
    here. Least you have the excuse of ignorance."
     "Thank you. I think."
     'Meant no slight, take no offense. The ignorance of an outlander,
    is what I'm sayin'. There's a whole rat's-nest maze o' tunnels down
    here, natural an'man-built, some the province o' them what was here
    b'fore us Daikini, so many I don't think they ever been properly
    charted in the altogether."
     'Wow,' was what Elora said.
     And then "Wow" again, when they came upon the funicular.
     As with the trolley cars, there were six lines, only these were set
    right beside one another and dropped almost straight down through
    the floor of the platform. There were three stages-or levels-to the

    




    cars, allowing them to carry a total of better than a hundred passen-
    gers each per trip. The same principle operated them as the trolleys:
    a series of cables, running vertically along perpetual loops about huge
    wheels that were partially visible overhead where they extended
    from their housings in the roof. In this instance, each vehicle rode a
    double cable. Tightening the clamp on one line initiated a controlled
    descent to the plains below, while the other brought the car back up
    again.
      The journey was in a tunnel all the way. Tam explained that there
    was an external funicular consisting of two sets of cables and much
    smaller cars but that was mainly for tourists and sightseers. These
    were to move people, and freight, between plateau and prairie with
    all the speed and ingenuity Daikini wits could muster.
      At bottom was another tunnel, another network of cable cars to
    take riders from the cliff to the first cataract. There'd been plans for
    years to use the same technology to establish funiculars and trolleys
    the whole of the distance to the sixth cataract, but the farther out
    from the cliffs the city expanded, the more opposition its planners
    and engineers had encountered from the Veil Folk.
      He was close behind her, on an observation platform cut through
    the face of the cliff that offered the most spectacular view of the
    prairie beyond. In the background the clank of gears announced the
    departure of the next descending funicular. They'd held hands on and
    off along their stroll, initiated by one or the other, briefly maintaining
    contact until some impulse pulled them apart, and had gradually
    learned that each was more shy than the other had expected. Tam
    had set himself on a step that allowed him the slightest height ad-
    vantage, which was a bad thing for Elora to think about because the
    fact that she was taller, if only by a bit, almost made her giggle. Then
    he placed his hands on her sides, where she curved out from her
    waist and over her hips.
      'Could they be afraid of what they don't understand?" Elora
    asked.
      "Fates forfend!" Tam sounded legitimately shocked. "Why,
    would'na' tha' make them," he paused for effect, "just like us?"
      "Troll-boy," said a voice from out of eyeshot to raise the hackles
    instantly on Elora's neck, "you are nothing like us."
      Tam spun about like he'd just been stroked by a bullwhip and
    his face was ugly with rage as he reflexively shoved Elora behind
    him.
     "Who?" she stammered as a handful of shapes moved in the

    




    gloom between them and the funicular. There was less light than be-
    fore, a number of wall sconces had been extinguished, but she'd been
    so wrapped up in the moment, in her enjoyment of it, that she hadn't
    noticed.
     'Tha' lot from y'r place, looks like t' me," Tam said. Then, louder:
    "We want no trouble here. This is a public place!"
     "All the more reason to enforce a modicum of civilized behavior,
    don't you agree? If you and your slut desire to do the nasty, Tammy
    Troll-boy, find one of your burrows or whatever."
     "You take tha' back!" Tam took a step forward. Elora locked both
    her hands on one arm but he broke her grip as though her fingers
    were made of straw.
     "Which part, pray?'
     "All of it, damn your eyes!" She grabbed for him again, he broke
    her grip again.
     "Tam, don't do this! You're giving them what they want!"
     "More's the pity for them!"
     As he lunged forward Elora felt a wild twist in her own percep-
    tions. In that moment, but fortunately only for that moment, her
    awareness was yanked wholly from her body, as InSight splintered
    into a half-dozen component elements to merge her perceptions with
    those of her attackers.
     In a flash, spirit and flesh restored, she dropped to a crouch on one
    bended knee, bracing most of her weight on her hands as she used
    them as she used arms and foot together for a pivot point and swung
    her remaining leg around like a scythe, catching Tam right behind the
    knee and dumping him to his back a heartbeat before a pair of cross-
    bow bolts whizzed past.
     After that, a whole host of events seemed to happen all at once,
    even though memory after the fact strung them all together in a lin-
    ear sequence. Tam, delightfully quick on the uptake, rolled one way,
    and Elora the other. No time to grab for a weapon from her traveling
    pouch, s e ad to make do with whatever came to hand. She heard
    a scream from along the vaulting passageway, that redoubled with
    every echo until she had to hold her ears against its fury. Then there
    was a gust of wind as a golden eagle-not Bastian, Elora recognized,
    but his mate, Anele-swept through the opening in the cliff to strike
    at one of the bowmen with beak and wings and, most especially, her
    murderously deadly claws. The would-be assassin worked his mouth
    like a puppet, ruined eyes above, gaping throat below, flailing with
    both arms in a futile attempt to protect himself before collapsing to

    




    his seat, dead before he'd realized the eagle had stripped him of sight,
    of voice, of life itself.
     Another bowman-Elora tagged three so equipped, from a total of
    eight-yelped and leaped like someone who'd just had his socks
    turned all to brambles. He slapped at his cheeks, at his breast, at his
    butt, making noises like a dog in agony until Elora put her shoulder
    into his belly so hard he folded right over with all his breath slammed
    right out of him. There was a sliver of thom on his face, proof posi-
    tive that these attackers weren't the only ones armed with bows.
    Brownie arrows may be small as splinters, but the poisons they were
    coated with made homet and wasp stings seem mild. Worse, both
    Franjean and Rool were such formidable archers that neither clothes
    nor mail, nor on occasion even steel-plate armor, was any protection
    against them.
     Elora swung back to the main body of the fight, having yanked the
    fallen man's dagger from his belt, in time to see Tam take down three
    at once, two with his hands and a head butt for the last. Bastian had
    harried another into headlong flight. She did an instant head count,
    came up four short.
     That was the cue for disaster. A bolt caught Tam in the back of the
    thigh and he toppled to the polished floor. At the same time Elora
    was tackled herself. She grappled with her attacker like a leech as
    they tumbled, landing with her on the bottom. The impact put stars
    in her vision but she ignored them, using the fact that she was angled
    downward on an incline to give her leverage enough to pitch the man
    off. He didn't go far, she didn't want him to, as she kicked herself up
    and over and delivered a knee as hard as she could to the junction of
    his legs.
     A fist connected right beneath her breastbone, did her assailant
    more harm than her as the force of the blow, and maybe some knuck-
    les on the bargain, were broken on the sandwich armor of her tunic.
    Unfortunately, the advantage was as minimal as it proved short-lived
    as the man unloaded a tremendous backhand to the side of her head
    that immediately connected all the stars she'd been seeing with bolts
    of lightning.
     He pitched her on her face and straddled her, putting his greater,
    bulk right across the base of her spine and using his good hand to
    haul her head up and back from beneath the jaw. If dancing hadn't
    made her limber, the move would have snapped her spine. As it was,
    the sudden shock of being bent backward like a bow, and torqued a

    




    little sideways in the process, made her grunt in pain. He knew his
    business, he had her too well pinned. Try as she might, even with
    two arms free and one of his out of commission, Elora couldn't get a
    grip on him to free herself.
     There was no sign or sense of Bastian or the brownies. Wouldn't
    be, in a mess like this. It would take no effort at all to snap her neck.
    Even the deadliest brownie poisons wouldn't act fast enough to stop
    him.
     On the other hand, the instant he relaxed his hold, or his vigilance,
    even the slightest ...
     That moment wasn't in the cards. A shape approached, loomed,
    his voice marking him as the student who'd challenged Tam.
     "Bitch!" he raged at her, and raised his hand to strike.
     "Do that," growled the man holding Elora, "we're dead."
     The bravo didn't understand. He blinked and raised his hand
    higher.
     "You hit her, I lose my hold, we're dead," the man repeated. "Look
    about, an' you doubt my word. She had an eagle come when she's
    needful, an' other friends besides. We breathe 'cause we hold some-
    thin' they value. She's our talisman, the only hope we have to walk
    away clean."
     From the bottom of Elora's belly came a cry of rage and defiance,
    and she flashed fangs of her own as she made a final, ultimate effort
    to dislodge her captor. The student sneered, his teeth startlingly
    bright amidst a countenance of shadows.
     That sneer was his last expression as his head suddenly, startlingly,
    departed from his neck.
     Elora and her captor cried out at once, and then she felt a spray of
    hot liquid across the back of her head, followed by a cessation of the
    pressure on her head and spine. The weight fell one way, she pushed
    herself the other, and never once looked back. She knew what had
    just happened, but her eyes were only for Tam.
     He lay sprawled facedown where he fell, the crossbow bolt stick-
    ing upright from the meat at the top of his thigh. The whole lower
    part of Tam's leg was sodden as she rolled him over, but loss of blood
    wasn't the real threat. Elora sensed it from the blue-black tinge to his
    lips, the rictus of pain that drew them away from his teeth. Placing
    hands gently on his leg, bracketing the wound, confirmed those fears.
    The bolt had been poisoned. Whatever their intentions, these attack-
    ers had intended to leave no witnesses.

    




     She bent forward for a sniff, wrinkled her nose, and made a face
    at the strong odor of corruption, as though Tam had been struck by
    an instant case of gangrene.
      "Franjean!" she called, "Rool! I need an antidote here!"
     'There is none," was Rool's reply. The brownie stood across Tam's
    body from her, splashed head to toe with blotches she suspected
    were blood. Franjean had been equally in the thick of the battle, yet
    had emerged wholly unscathed, without even a torn thread. Beyond
    them, Khory Bannefin emerged into view, sword in hand. To her left
    strode Renny Garedo.
      "I don't want to hear that, Tam's dying!"
     "His killers have paid the price," the constable said. "Our friend
    will not leave this world unavenged."
     "He won't leave at all, not yet he won't, if I've any say in the mat-
    ter."
      "Even a healer can't stop poison this deep in him."
     There was no time to explain, here was an instance where seconds
    were crucial. She laid her hands around the wound, enclosing it in a
    rude circle formed by the crook between thumb and forefinger. She
    began to croon a song of Making, casting her InSight down through
    the layers of reality, first separating his clothes into their component
    threads to allow her passage, then beyond to the outer layers of his
    skin. It seemed so solid from one level of perception, yet another
    placed her beside pores that seemed as large as Lake Morar, where
    the hairs stood higher than the sentry spires of rock that heralded the
    presence of the Wall itself.
     Smaller still, she slipped her awareness through these flakes of
    flesh into a veritable soup of interwoven tissues that was the body
    beneath. There wasn't even a pretense of health here. Blood moved
    sluggishly, if at all, and she sensed a chalky quality to the cells that
    made her think Tam was being transformed to dust from within.
    There was worse than an air of death about his body, there was de-
    spair, as though even the tiniest components of his being had given
    up the fight, believing there was no hope.
     No problem, Tam, she thought with wild defiance, I'll hope for us both
    till you can manage once more on your own.
     There were five edges to the crossbow bolt, all nicked and scored
    in such a way as to do far more damage going out than on the way
    in. The arrowhead was forged steel, capable of punching through
    plate armor, too dense and formidable a material for her to manipu-
    late in the time allowed. She turned instead to Tam's flesh, teasing

    




    apart the bonds that anchored cell to cell and gave him cohesive
    form, to the point where what was solid became a kind of viscous
    fluid most akin to soft putty. At the same time she reached up a phys-
    ical hand to grasp the bolt's shaft. She didn't realize she was sweat-
    ing, she didn't realize she was glowing, as the fire she sent surging
    through her own blood cast its glow outward through her argent
    skin.
     This was a tricky procedure, She had to draw the head free and re-
    verse the effects of her own chant in virtually the same movement,
    or she'd end up doing the arrow's work for it.
     She let out her breath in a long, slow slide and in the moment
    where body and spirit grew absolutely still, as smoothly as drawing
    sword from scabbard, she pulled the arrow free.
     Someone plucked the deadly shaft from her fingers. She didn't
    look to see who, didn't really care. This had been the easy part. Now
    there was the poison to deal with.
     Once more, she used InSight to cast herself altogether from her
    own bodily casement into Tam's. No fun right from the start, like im-
    mersing herself in a lake of noisome sludge, waste pond for the filth
    of a world, but she pressed on regardless. When "riding" the eagles,
    she was essentially a passenger and therefore ever-mindful of her re-
    sponsibilities as a good and hopefully welcome guest. Yet InSight
    was more than a passive tool of observation, because through access
    came the opportunity for control. If her will was stronger, she could
    take control of the host's physical being. The drawback was that this
    linkage represented a two-way street. As she could apply human di-
    rection to the actions of a lesser being, so, too, could that creature's
    more elemental and passionate nature have an equally powerful ef-
    fect on her. Duguay had a song about such an experience, of a sor-
    cerer who'd merged his soul with a kindred beast and found the
    experience so much to his liking that he never went "home" again.
    The sorcerer gained a lasting and ultimate contentment, but at the
    cost of everything that made him human. By the same token, there
    were tales of those who'd attempted such possessions, only to be-
    come possessed in turn. Supposedly, that was how the race of
    Shapeshifters came to be.
     Elora had little fear of either happening to her in this instance. Tam
    had so little life in him to begin with, the remaining force of his own
    will was sadly negligible. She didn't expect to find any resistance to
    her assumption of primacy. The danger was his dying. By so merging
    with him, binding themselves tighter than identical twins, almost to

    




    the point where they became a single entity, Elora made herself vul-
    nerable to whatever ailed him. She'd already tasted the poison, she
    had no doubts about her ability to counter its deadly effects. But if
    the damage done to Tam was too great, if he was already too far
    gone, she might well find herself unable to pull free when he died.
     She knew enough to be afraid. She refused to let it deter her as she
    pulled a rill of fire from the torrent coursing through her own arteries
    and veins and set it loose in his, to consume the poison that was
    killing him.
     She started from the wound, because that was the source of the
    infection, and let the natural current of his body sweep her from the
    lesser tributaries into the femoral vein and from there to the great
    central vessel that led up the trunk of the torso straight to the heart.
     She'd seen her share of bodies, and helped Thorn with wounded
    over the years. She knew what the heart looked like, inside and out.
     So it came as no little surprise when she burst from the darkness
    of the inferior vena cava onto the starlit expanse of the fairies' tor.
     Shock froze her where she stood. She refused to believe her eyes
    and feared in those initial moments that she had gone mad, or sim-
    ply died herself. This had never happened to her, she'd never imag-
    ined it was even possible, to be seized in the middle of a trance and
    transported somewhere else.
     'No,' she said to herself in reflexive denial, repeating it over and
    over again as though the words alone would craft the spell that
    would return her to where she rightly belonged, "no no no no no no
    no! "
      It didn't work.
     All was as it had been before, with one exception. The last time
    she'd come to the tor as a dragon; now she stood amidst the stones
    in human form, with a dragon waiting for her, perched delicately
    atop the principal stones of the Third Circle. Elora herself was across
    the altar from him, flanked by the equivalent stones of the Circles of
    the World and the Flesh.
     The dragon was the personification of every noble word she
    knew. He was power and grace and a beauty that made her eyes burn
    and teeth ache, because he represented an order of being so far re-
    moved from her humanity that not even imagination could bridge
    that gulf.
      She had seen him killed.
     As though that thought was a cue, Kieron Dineer's great, wedge-
    shaped head snapped forward, baring teeth that were longer than

    




    Elora stood tall. They came together with the crash of the greatest
    steel trap ever conceived, but they closed on empty air.
     She rolled to the base of one of the primary stones, not even con-
    sidering a break from the circle she'd found herself in. Size, in this in-
    stance, was Kieron's liability and her only advantage. The stones
    were on a scale to match him and set too close together for him to fit
    his body between them. The only way he could reach her here was
    bl stretching his neck or a hand to full extension.
     Like the man who held me during the attack, she thought wildly, duck-
    ing a wayward grab of the dragon's forehand with a crab scuttle that
    skibbled her sideways past the altar to the stone directly beneath
    him. Kieron looked almost comical as his head curved upside down
    to follow, but to reach her properly he had to take flight and try to
    catch her from the air. As he moved, so did she, denying every pos-
    sibility to catch her. He couldn't let me go for fear of what the brownies or
    the eagles would do. I can't leave these stones for the same reason. But I don't
    even know what I'm doing here,, I'm trying to save Tam's life!
     She told Kieron so, he wasn't interested. She was the prey and he
    the predator. His only goal was winning.
     Unless she killed him first.
     "I saw you slain once, dragon," she cried aloud, denying the
    thought that followed, even though it wasn't my fault, because she still
    believed she should have found a way to defend him and all the oth-
    ers against the Deceiver's power. "Never again!'
     "Consider the alternative," Kieron said for the first time, in a voice
    that was all the more heartbreakingly magnificent (as all dragons'
    voices are magnificent) for its youth, and a promise unseasonably cut
    short. It made Elora weep. 'Consider the consequences.'
     "Why are you doing this? Do you want to die again?" She
    screamed the last, leaping from her latest hidey-hole to the altar, to
    take her stand full in the dragon's face.
     "Is that what you want?"
     He looked pleased.
     But the voice that answered was Duguay Faralom's.
     "No!"
     With the utterance of that single word, Kieron's mouth opened
    like the maw of a blast furnace that enclosed the heart of the world,
    and Elora's defiance turned to terror and pain for the flashfire instant
    left her before oblivion as she found herself engulfed in raw flame.
     There was a roof gleaming overhead when she found courage
    enough to open her eyes. Next came an absurd tidal wash of relief that

    




    her experience on the tor-whether dream or something else-had
    had no lasting physical effect, and with that, her body was shaken by
    a series of profound sobs that racked her as hard as any beating.
     Somehow, during the healing trance she and Tam had turned
    themselves around. The last she recalled was crouching over his thigh
    while he lay mostly on his belly. Now he was on his back, with his
    head cradled in her lap. There was color to his features and he
    breathed with the ease of sleep. The touch of fingertips to flesh told
    her that all taint of infection had been removed, the young man as
    well as he'd ever been.
     More than could be said for her, she decided, conscious of a bitter
    chill that centered so deeply in her bones she had to fight to keep
    from shivering, though she found no way to check the trembling in
    her hands.
     "It's cold," she announced, and was rewarded by her cloak being
    draped across her shoulders, gathered snug about her and Tam both.
     "Brought some soup," Renny said, crouching before her with a
    steaming bowl. More like stew than soup from the smell and look of
    it, and utterly enticing. Too bad she didn't have strength enough to
    even lift her arms.
     Apparently Renny recognized the lack and proceeded to feed her,
    not so easy a task considering that the moment she opened her
    mouth her teeth began to chatter.
     The brownies were happily at work, stripping the slain of any-
    thing that might prove of value, while Khory remained close by
    Elora's side, unsheathed blade resting in the crook of an elbow, an-
    other couple laid out close at hand in case they were needed.
     Spices in the stew made Elora's eyes tear, and a great sniffle made
    her realize her nose was badly running. So with what she labeled a
    "supreme" effort, Elora drew a handkerchief from her pocket and in-
    dulged in a spectacular sneeze.
      "Bless you," said the constable.
      "How long?" she asked.
      'An hour," Khory replied, "if that."
      'Since I started working on Tam?"
      'Since the attack."
     "Well," said Rool, 'you were the one who wanted to see the
    world."
      "Still do."
     'Milk teeth won't save you, Elora." The brownie's tone was light,
    his meaning deadly serious. "And we may not always be at hand."

    




    L-A
    
     'I'll manage, Rool."
     She touched Tam's cheek in a gesture as affectionate as it was ten-
    der. "Ah, Tam, you sure know how to show a girl a good old time."
     "You're lucky you can laugh."
     "Hardly luck, Constable, considering the army I had at my back."
    Elora fixed a gimlet eye on Khory, who didn't seem to mind in the
    least. "How did you know?"
     "You've me to thank for that," said a voice she knew better than
    fier own. "I like to think there's little that occurs in Sandeni I don't
    know about. That holds even more so for the catacombs beneath my
    tower." He looked about the carnage and sighed. "This should not
    have happened.
     "It's not the way I wanted to welcome you, Elora Danan," Thorn
    Drumheller told her as he opened his arms and gathered her into a
    hug so strong she was sure she heard her bones creak. There were
    tears on his cheeks, too long held back, but she didn't mind, since
    they were a match for her own. "But I'm glad you're here."
     "No less than 1, old duffer."

    




    _0 4,P C R
    
       1 2
    
    SHED CROWN SINCE LAST THEY MET, THAT WAS IN-
    stantly obvious to her, standing more than five feet tall to his
    barely four. Like many of his kind Thom's limbs were pro-
    portioned to a different aesthetic than Daikini, long arms and
    stunted legs on a barrel torso. Hard for getting around yet
    powerful nonetheless, and his long fingers were capable of far
    more delicate work than many twice his size. His was a good
    face, though stricken with more lines than Elora recalled, and
    what shone most clearly still from his features was his innate
    generosity of spirit. He loved to laugh, so infectiously that for
    all the grumbling and grousing forced on him by circum-
    stance, those around him couldn't help but take on a portion
    of that good cheer as well. There was intelligence in his wide-
    set hazel eyes, but more, there was empathy. He was a won-
    der at seeing the essential passion of things, which in large
    measure formed the core of his abilitv to work magic.

    




     Clean-shaven as he was, he looked surprisingly young. Elora
    knew better. In years and experience there were few among the
    Daikini who could match him. If he lived a normal Nelwyn span,
    none of his companions save perhaps the brownies would see him
    die. His hair was neatly combed, the color of pale oak, swept straight
    back from his brow and held at the nape of the neck by a silver clasp.
    As for the rest, Elora was suitably impressed.
     She was used to him in homespun, wools and cotton and shear-
    ling, depending on season and terrain. This incarnation of Thorn
    Drumheller wore a velvet robe that probably weighed a goodly por-
    tion of what he did. It buttoned up the front to a high collar, fitting
    snug at the torso, flaring below the waist into a wider skirt to allow for
    a long and easy stride. Over that went a brocade surcoat, sleeveless
    and floor-length. This hung open, as did the overcloak that covered it.
    She suspected trousers rather than tights because Thorn preferred
    them, and she knew he would only yield so far to the dictates of fash-
    ion. His own shoes as well, because Nelwyn feet weren't constructed
    for anything approaching Daikini footwear, even at their most practi-
    cal. Around his neck and hanging off his shoulders was a chain of of-
    fice, its links composed of representations of the crossed spears and
    bound sheaves of wheat which symbolized the Sandeni Republic.
     Renny took charge of the scene, seeing to the disposition of the
    bodies. The fight had been brief, but also brutal. The only two sur-
    vivors had fled without raising a weapon to anyone and they were
    quickly taken into custody. Elora's presence was duly noted in the
    crime report, but only as a potential victim who'd actively defended
    herself against this heinous and unforgivable attack. Renny's friend-
    ship with Tam and the fact that they'd all been seen together earlier
    explained his appearance. As for Khory, although the funicular sta-
    tion was a public thoroughfare, it was located beneath the Citadel.
    She was in Thorn Drumheller's service and known to be a warrior of
    some considerable renown, who was said to have an "instinct" for
    such things. No one reading the report would think twice about her
    intervention. The brownies simply were not present, nor were the
    eagles.
      Tam's survival, concluded the report, was Thom's doing.
     "You want to see how the world works, Princess," Franjean noted
    from where he lay sprawled on his belly across her right shoulder,
    watching what transpired with his chin resting on crossed arms. She
    had never seen bureaucracy in action before, though she'd been en-
    meshed in one all her childhood.

    




    El
    
     'It all makes such sense." She marveled. "The elements are mostly
    true. They're all plausible. Yet the end result is a total fabrication."
     "You'd prefer to reveal the truth?" Rool asked her.
     "That'll be the day, her and Drumheller both." Franjean cackled.
     'You two are in rare form," she said.
     'It's been a rare night," Rool commented.
     'A rare day preceding it," agreed Franjean.
     "As I recall, Rool," Elora told them, slipping the smallest width of
    steel into her voice, 'I gave you a task not so long ago. I've heard
    nothing since."
     "There is a domain among the lords of Greater Faery called the
    Tadjeek." The savage twist of emphasis he gave the name of that
    Realm wasn't very nice, and Rool spat the words like darts. "Alone
    among the Veil Folk, they hold to life as a flat state of being, with but
    two aspects: you are, you are not. To them, life is nothing but a test,
    each of its moments presenting a choice of how you interact with the
    world and with others. There is no going back, there are no second
    chances, what's done cannot be undone save perhaps by some action
    yet to be. The only forgiveness, the only atonement, is what we find
    or make for ourselves while we yet live. Once dead, while the book
    may continue, our chapter is closed."
     "Being of the Veil, aren't they immortal~"
     "That's a cheap word, Highness."
     'Immortal?"
     "Compare a mayfly to a Daikini' does the one consider the other
    immortal because his life spans numberless generations? To some
    among the Veil Folk, Daikini are mayflies. To others, so are those Veil
    Folk. Legend says only the Malevoiy can speak firsthand of the dawn-
    ing of the world, but no one's knocked on their door to ask in living
    memory. By the same token, the same is said about dragons at the
    dawning of Creation."
     "Has anyone asked them?"
     "And gone mad trying to decipher the reply."
     "What do you believe, Franjean?"
     She felt the ghosting echo of his grin. "If I can move it, I can steal
    
    it. 77
    
     She felt Thom's spirit brush past hers as he made his physical way
    to her.
     "I think they've been testing me," she said, in what was meant to
    be a joke but came out as something harsher.
     "They test everyone," he replied lightly.

    




      'In my case, though, are they passing judgment~"
     "To what end, Elora~"
     "I was hoping you could tell me."
     "Walk with me a ways, would you? I think we're secure enough
    here from prying eyes. Or spells," Thom added with a crinkle of old
    mischief around the eyes.
     'I thought magic didn't work in Sandeni."
     'That depends on how you define the term. What you did was
    magic of a sort."
     'I did nothing, Thom, except perhaps persuade Tam's body to
    work a little harder and faster."
     'And who sustained that body through all those trials and tribula-
    tions? The fire in you, Elora"-and he tapped a knuckle lightly on her
    breastbone-" comes from. . ." He was about to kneel down and tap
    the floor beneath them, as surrogate for the molten core of the earth
    itself, but then thought better of it. He wore an odd expression as he
    looked to the floor, to Elora, to the sky, then finally back to Elora. "I
    was going to say the earth," he confessed, "but now I'm no longer so
    sure."
     "That isn't comforting, Thom."
     "I'm trying my best."
     "So am l!"
     She was silent for a time.
     "Something happened to me," she said, 'in my healing trance."
     "I feared as much. That's what brought me down to you. I had to
    be on hand to help."
     She took his hand in both of hers and held him blindly, as a child
    might, while she told him of her two encounters with Kieron Dineer.
    At her story's end, she looked to him for answers, only to see him
    shake his head.
     'I don't know."
     "Dream then, maybe~ Nothing to worry about, I hope?" The in-
    tentional lightness of her tone belied the anxiety that twisted her in-
    sides.
     He pulled her closer to him on the bench where they sat side by
    side, and thought of how he used to be able to lay his arm comfort-
    ingly across her shoulders; now the best he could manage was to
    catch her 'round the waist.
     'After all these years with those two scoundrels," he said in the
    same easy manner, meaning the brownies, 'you'd think I'd have bet-
    ter learned the art and craft of dissembling."

    




      "That serious, huh?"
     "I wish I could tell you different, Elora. The linkage between spirit
    and body is stronger in you than in any I've ever known, myself in-
    cluded."
     "Yet the Deceiver has his hooks deep in me, and now apparently
    so does Kieron Dineer. How can that be, Thorn~"
      "Blood is the traditional binding element for such things."
     She snorted disparagingly, "Oh, wonderful, you mean we're all re-
    lated?"
     "Anything I say here, child, I speak from ignorance. But the kinds
    of magicks the Deceiver has demonstrated, the way he acts upon the
    waking world-especially his need for a living, tangible host-leads
    me to suspect his origins are of the Circle of the Spirit. Kieron is dead,
    we both saw him die, but Kieron is also a dragon, and who knows
    what rules apply to them, if any rules at all! In both the instances you
    speak of, your spirit left your body. I can only assume that in some
    way that act left you vulnerable to Kieron's power."
     "How can he have power if he's dead?" she demanded in exas-
    peration. "And don't tell me it's because he's a damn dragon."
     "That might well be the case. You know," he noted thoughtfully,
    "the dragon that brought me to Tir Asleen the night before the Cata-
    clysm was named Calan Dineer. And his behavior was just as high-
    handed."
     "If he knew what was coming, why didn't he warn everyone?"
    Her voice grew rough, thickened by grief and rage. 'Why did they
    just let things happen?"
     "Do you think I haven't asked? There were nights, while Rool and
    Franjean and the eagles and I were wandering, that I would stand be-
    neath the endless stars and scream his name until my voice was a
    ghost. I would light a magical beacon brighter than any noonday sun.
    I tried to command his presence, I begged for the mercy of a single
    visitation. And came to realize that dragons come to us in their own
    manner, and at their own pleasure. If we would go to them, we must
    first find the way."
     "Rool spoke of those who tried going mad."
     "To wield power on that level, to have safe congress with the likes
    of firedrakes and demons, madness is almost a prerequisite."
     "Kieron's already been killed once, Thom. Why does he want me
    to do it to him again?"
     "Better yet, Elora, why does your troubadour seem able to prevent
    
    it?"

    




     "I should have listened to Khory and joined you in your citadel."
     "No," Thom told her with some emphasis. "You made the right
    decision. The trouble with most Kings is that they too often have no
    contact with the people they rule. They suffer few of the conse-
    quences of their decisions. Your task is different-to weave the
    strands of these separate, antagonistic Realms into a single, common
    thread. You can't do that without knowing them. And that's the kind
    of knowledge you must discover for yourself."
     'Whether I like what I learn or not?"
     "What do you mean?"
     'I was window dressing tonight," she said, indicating the scene
    before them. "It was Tam those bullies were after. They hated him,
    Thom."
     'I can imagine."
     "'Troll-boy'was what they called him."
     "I've heard the term." He didn't like it.
     "And I've been inside his heart. I know him, Thom, as well as I be-
    lieve I know the constable over there.'
     "In what way?"
     "Tam is Nelwyn," she said, and when Thorn turned his face to her,
    "as much as Renny is of the High Elves."
     He had the good grace not to deny it.
     "A world without the Veil Folk is a shadow of itself," the consta-
    ble told her, after Thom called him over. "Yet by the same token, the
    prejudice of the Veil Folk cannot keep one Realm, one race alone,
    from claiming its rightful place. Achieving its destiny. Any more than
    they can people."
     As she watched his fellow constables go about their tasks, and a
    team of ambulance surgeons supervise Tam's evacuation on a
    stretcher, Elora found herself examining every face with a fierce,
    questing intensity for the telltale signs of difference she now knew to
    be there. In the main, she was disappointed. Most of the forms and
    faces were Daikini through and through, but every now and then, in
    the structure of the body, in the subtle shadings of the face, she found
    clear evidence of mixed blood.
     "I didn't think it was possible," she said to him, "for the races to
    interbreed."
     "And why is that?" Renny inquired in all innocence.
     "Well, I just ... I mean ... I. . ." Flustered beyond words in the
    face of the constable's infuriating equanimity, Elora could only shrug
    her shoulders and give up.

    




     "There's an old saying, Elora," he told her, "to the effect of, what-
    ever the obstacles, love will find a way. You sang a rather emphatic
    song about it earlier this evening, don't you recall?"
     "If I'd been a little more reasonable, Constable, a little less pas-
    sionate-!"
      'You blame yourself for this?"
      "It isn't what I intended."
     "You stir up folks, they don't always go the way you intend. No
    matter how true the message, child, not everyone will believe."
     "I might love my horse," Franjean groused from his perch on
    Elora's shoulder, "that doesn't mean I'll wed the creature."
      "Tell that to the Centaurs."
      'They're Shapers, a bastard breed."
     'Be careful, little master thief. In this city you smile when you say
    that." Renny was smiling as he spoke, but there was danger behind
    his eyes. In appearance and manner, he presented himself as the gen-
    tlest and most easygoing of souls, but that was only a single aspect of
    his nature, the public face that was of the most use in his work. There
    was another part of him nowhere near so pleasant and it had just
    drawn a line that the brownie was not to cross.
     "I'm sorry you had to kill that boy, Constable." For while Khory
    had slain the student facing Elora, Renny had dealt with the one who
    held her.
     "He was a man, in terms of age if not honor. Your decency does
    you credit, Elora, but save both tears and sympathy. He would have
    spared neither for you."
     Another constable arrived with mugs of chocolate, and Elora no-
    ticed that before Renny handed them out, both he and Khory made
    a series of small passes over the tray, each checking in their own way
    to ensure the beverages were safe.
      "Taking no chances?"
     They both looked at her, with an unblinking directness she found
    eerily reminiscent of hunting cats.
     Too damn much in common, she decided of them, then and there, all
    of it deadly.
      They made no reply. Why belabor the obvious?
     "Thom, did Khory tell you. . ." Elora began, and then fell silent,
    dismayed to find that her hands were trembling. She laced her fingers
    together, gripping the mug so tightly her fingers turned as pale as the
    sturdy china, so determined to overcome this sudden bout of weak-
    ness that she couldn't lift the drink to her mouth. "What I discovered

    




    along the frontier?" she continued, staring into the dark pool of
    chocolate as if it was a scrying pond where she might divine some as-
    pect of the future. "I don't believe the Deceiver is our only foe."
     'Dear child," Thom said with a loving tenderness that nearly
    broke her heart, she'd missed it so, "whatever made you think he
    was?"
     Then, and only then, did proper tears come as the shock of the
    night's events at last hammered its way through the bulwarks of her
    pretensions.
     The mug fell from nerveless fingers as once more she accepted the
    embrace of the grave little man who was the centerpiece of her life.
     "It's all right," he said over and over, holding her close with the ex-
    traordinary strength of his kind, so seemingly out of proportion to the
    construction of their bodies. At the same time he stroked her hair,
    while she buried her own face in the junction of his neck and shoul-
    der and held on to him for dear life.
     She snuffled loudly, to signal she was done, and he provided a
    handkerchief. She didn't leave her knees, but stayed with back
    bowed, head bent, unwilling to face her other companions after such
    a display. Until a fresh mug of steaming chocolate entered her field of
    vision, and she tilted her eyes enough to see that Khory was holding
    it.
    
     "What a baby," Elora muttered, disgusted with herself.
     "For being human?"
     'You don't cry!"
     "I'm not human. I'm a demon wearing human form."
     "Wouldn't make that common knowledge," Renny cautioned.
     "Are people afraid of everything?" Leftover distress from her bout
    of grief gave the question a snappish quality Elora didn't intend.
     "What they don't understand, of a certes," agreed the constable.
     'However, like any sensible species," Thom added, "they respect
    powers that have done them harm in the past. The reputations of
    demons is not wholly undeserved, in any of the Great Realms, on ei-
    ther side of the Veil."
     "The fact you bonded with a demon, Drumheller," Franjean ac-
    cused, "to bring that one"-a gesture toward Khory-'into being,
    that's one of the main reasons barrows the world over are closed to
    us now."
     "That isn't fair, Franjean," Elora protested. "Simply because
    demons are dangerous, does that make them inherently evil? Any
    more than a lion, or a shark, or an eagle?"

    




     'Or a troll?" suggested Rool.
      "Or a troll," she agreed. "Strange days," she told herself as much
    as the others, "where a troll can be found possessing more essential
    humanity than a Daikini."
      "Strange days indeed," Thorn agreed. "And getting more won-
    drous all the while."
      "I am right, though," Elora said to Renny as she pushed to her feet
    and took the stool catty-comer to him. "About you and Tam. And
    you're not the only ones." She turned back to the Nelwyn. "Thorn,
    did you know?"
      "It's not something the clans speak of easily, Elora. The Nelwyn
    way is to keep to ourselves, in public and private."
      "But love will ever find a way," Renny repeated.
     "You sound like you're making fun now."
      He smiled sadly at her. "Hardly. Nelwyn and Daikini, elf and Nel-
    wyn, Daikini and elf, the cards have been shuffled every which way
    over the ages. For the best of reasons and the worst, the Realms have
    a lot more in common than many will care to admit."
      "I don't think I've ever seen people with that kind of mixed blood
    before."
     "Having seen so much of the wide world, of course, eh?"
     "Go sit on a tack, Franjean."
      Sputter of indignation from one brownie, amusement from the
    other at his comeuppance.
      'Well, I have seen the world," Thorn said, "a goodly portion any-
    road, and in the main Elora's quite right. Such folk are very few and
    far between. Except in Sandeni."
      "Possibly, Mage, because the city makes them welcome. Our citi-
    zens are free; we're judged one and all by our deeds, not the accident
    of parentage."
     "So how's a body to know their proper place?" demanded Fran-
    
    jean.
    
     "Make your own."
      'Fine." Elora nodded. 'Where does a 'Sacred Princess' fit into your
    scheme of things?"
     "Not as a ruler, Elora. But perhaps a leader. .
      "Therein lies a key difference between you and your adversary,"
    Thorn said. "It's also why he's so blessed hard to resist. The Deceiver
    offers peace, a goal which none can really argue with. He offers
    equality, which strikes a major chord among the Daikini, who've

    




    long felt they were anything but. If you accept the supposition that
    he knows best, it's not so bad a world he holds forth."
     'Why~yy
    
     "I've never been able to shake the feeling there's something famil-
    iar about the Deceiver. Implacable a foe as he is, and dedicated as we
    are to his destruction, I can't think of him as evil. Wrong, that's cer-
    tain, in a fundamental and absolute sense. Cruel, ruthless, despotic,
    pick any pejorative you care to name. But not evil,"
     "Hardly a comfort, Drumheller," Khory spoke up, "if you're on the
    wrong end of his spear point."
     "What would you do, Elora?" Thom asked, to her surprise.
     "I beg your pardon?"
     "You no longer desire to be a bystander. How would you proceed
    from here?"
     Her first instinct was to try something that had already worked, to
    attempt to contact the lords of Greater Faery and achieve a rap-
    prochement with them as she had with their counterparts of Lesser
    Faery.
     She shook her head ' passing on Thom's question for the moment,
    preferring to listen to what the others had to say.
     'Would they consider an alliance?" Thorn asked Renny, and the
    exchange wasn't at all government minister to policeman but rather
    one equal to another.
     "Who are you?' Elora wondered of Renny, searching his features
    for a clue. His mask was far more complete than hers and hid its se-
    crets too well.
     "Why should they?" the constable demanded. "What's in it for
    them? Or rather, what price are you willing to pay for this alliance~"
     "Freedom," she snapped.
     "They already have it."
     "The Deceiver's closing the World Gates, he's stripping the world
    of its magic."
     "And how much contact do they have with this side of the Veil
    anywaye They can find other venues for their amusement. It's the
    Daikini Realm he's hell-bent to conquer, nothing to do with them.
    And should they decide otherwise, should these raiders of yours out
    along the frontier prove to be the vanguard of something more for-
    midable, their goal will be to eliminate the Daikini altogether."
     "The Realms are all of a piece, interlinked one to the other," she
    cried, meeting the constable's imperturbable calm with a fury as

    




    elemental as a demon's nature. "That's why they're represented by
    overlapping circles; what touches one ultimately touches all!"
      'Figure that out all by your lonesome, did you?"
      "That's right!"
     "Well, then"-Thorn smiled lazily and in his eyes was a level of re-
    spect she hadn't noticed before-"we might have ourselves a shot af-
    ter all."
      "You were baiting me!"
     "And quite successfully. You've a temper, Elora. It's a fair chink in
    your armor. Learn to control it better."
     She set down her cocoa, stepped clear of Thorn, and stood to face
    the constable.
     "This war isn't only a conflict of force of arms," she said, putting
    words to the feelings that had been swirling through her throughout
    these past weeks, from the time she left Torquil's. 'But of the force of
    ideas, as well. Losing to the Maizan guarantees the Deceiver's victory.
    Our triumph over them doesn't necessarily assure us of the reverse.
     "You're quite right, Constable. I have nothing tangible to offer the
    Lords of Greater Faery. My army's pretty much standing around me.
    Every monarch who would have sworn me fealty is ensorcelled in
    Angwyn. I have no claim on their successors, and given all that's hap-
    pened since, I'll tell you flat the smart play for them is neutrality. Or
    an outright alliance with the Deceiver. By any objective standard, our
    cause has been pretty much lost from the start." She stifled a smile.
    'But by any objective standard, it's unlikely that Daikini and High Elf
    would mate."
     "If you sing half so well as you speak, Lady Elora, it's no wonder
    you're so popular."
     Renny stood up, at last to his full height, and Elora marveled at
    how effective a stooped back and slumped shoulders could be. He
    was taller than Khory, possessed of a lean, whipcord power that she
    suspected overmatched that of most men two or three times his bulk.
    He held out his right hand, and she took it in hers.
      "I'll do for you what I can," he said.
      "That's a start."
    
     Winter came early that year, far harder than anyone could re-
    member. With it came the Maizan.
     The first frost was hard on the heels of the harvest, and the first
    snow well before the equinox. The storms themselves weren't so
    bad: one blizzard, plus a brace of lesser tempests that added no more

    




    than a few additional inches to what had previously fallen. Roads re-
    mained passable, disruptions to civic life lasted no longer than a day
    or two after the storm.
     It was the cold that killed. Regardless of how brightly the sun
    shone, or how clear was the sky, the temperature rarely rose above
    freezing. All it took was a little breeze to make traveling out of doors
    a bitter and daunting experience, and any sort of proper wind was
    deadly. For the most part, the air remained as dry as a high desert, so
    leached of moisture that the snow crunched underfoot, and therein
    lay a fatal deception. In summer, under high heat and no humidity,
    sweat evaporated off the skin almost immediately; if a person wasn't
    careful, they might become dangerously dehydrated in surprisingly
    short order. Much the same applied now. It was easy not to notice
    how brutal the cold was as it sucked the heat from a body until one
    was already struck with bursts of frostbite or actually began to
    freeze.
     At such a time the value of Sandeni's transit system became
    clearly evident, especially on the prairie, where cable cars ran through
    tunnels. For the most part, it was able to handle the increased traffic.
    As the weeks passed and the weather stayed uncommonly harsh,
    with the greater part of winter yet to come, there were more and
    more expressions of concern. Not so much about the power source,
    though ice upstream had lowered the water levels of the rivers. The
    presumption of the engineers and hydrologists was that the force of
    the flow over the precipice was more than sufficient to prevent the
    falls themselves from ever freezing.
     That confidence didn't hold for the infrastructure of the municipal
    railway itself. Cold affected the grease that lubricated the great driv-
    ing wheels about which the cables turned. The fear was that one of
    them might jam. Depending on which wheel it was, and how quickly
    the maintenance engineers responded, the effect on the system might
    be an inconvenience, or a catastrophe. And hard as that cold was on
    the driving wheels, it took a far greater toll on the cables themselves.
    The weather made the cable stiff, which required more grease to ease
    it along its roundabout track. This in turn required the brakemen to
    clamp their shoes more tightly, to achieve a decent enough grip to en-
    gage the car. Which began leading to failures of the gears in the cars,
    as they broke under the strain, and even of the cables themselves.
      The upkeep was constant, the crews more and more exhausted.
     While none of the rivers was likely to freeze, the same could not
    be said for the city's canals. By equinox they were solid, and some en

    




    terprising entrepreneurs quickly established a growing fleet of horse-
    drawn sleighs to replace the normally ubiquitous water taxis. The
    city mobilized its youth, both middle school and college age, to
    shovel and sweep the streets clear of snow, while at the same time
    taking a precise inventory of its stocks of food and fuel as it became
    increasingly clear that a normal winter's supplies might not last to the
    solstice, much less the following spring.
     Elora was of two minds about the season. On the one hand, she
    was heartsick over the misery it caused. On the other, she couldn't re-
    member when she'd had such fun. This was only the second true
    winter she'd experienced in her cloistered life and she was deter-
    mined to enjoy it to the fullest. By night she and Duguay continued
    to fill the tavern. By day she haunted the professor's library~ search-
    ing the volumes for anything that would be of help. She learned
    quickly to live with disappointment.
     She was welcomed into Tam's home, and that in turn gave her
    entry to Sandeni's mixed-blood community. In Tam's case, the
    crossover had occurred three generations back, beginning with a
    Daikini great-great-grandmother and a Nelwyn sire. The paradox
    was that due to the considerable difference in life spans, she was ac-
    tually able to meet that ancient forebear. He was an iro=onger of
    formidable ability, from an offshoot minor house of the Rock Nel-
    wyns, as knowledgeable in his way as Torquil but lacking that mas-
    ter artisan's subtlety of craft. The talent was unmistakable as was the
    quality of workmanship, but sadly there was no grace to what he
    made. By the same token, it was no small achievement to match his
    skill, no mean privilege to be invited to share his forge.
     The house was an eclectic blend of Daikini and Nelwyn, treating
    each race's traditions with respect but very little reverence.
     "Like wi' metal," Raasay (for that was Tam's great-great's name)
    said, though at the time he was molding glass in his furnace instead
    of steel, "there's a place an' purpose, an' a value, no denyin' that, Fr
    wha's pure." Listening to him took concentration and it was easy to
    see where Tam came by his own broad country accent. But the tim-
    bre of the words had a life and vitality that belied the man's age and
    made him a pleasure to hear.
     "The same while, tha' purity puts a limit on what y' c'n do with
    it," he continued, thriving on his attentive audience as much as Elora
    did on hers. "Gold has beauty~ but it's malleable. F'r a proper piece o'
    fine jewelry, it needs be an amalgam wi' summat a bit more base, t'
    give it strength. Same applies t' iron; good as it is alone, it's better

    




    forged as an alloy into steel. Same Fr blood, I be thinkin'. No more
    shame t' bein' a mix than t' bein' pure."
     "I've heard Tam called a mongrel," she said, huffing beads of
    sweat out of her mouth as she pumped his bellows to keep the fire
    glowing white-hot.
     "Not t' his face, I'll wager." The old Nelwyn spat a laugh at the
    thought, which Elora echoed. All the while he spun the blowpipe,
    gripping the metal as delicately with just the tips of his fingers as he
    might the finest piece of crystal, using his breath down the pipe to
    shape the molten glass bubble growing from the opposite end. At the
    same time Elora, arms bare, her undershirt molded to her powerful
    form by sweat, stoked the furnace with heaping shovelfuls of coal.
     'Never to his face," she agreed with a roguish chuckle all her own.
     "Never had dog nor cat in this house wasn't a mongrel. Street
    saves, the lot. Some had their faults, same as two-legged folk, but
    most was worth the trouble. Tough wee scrappers, too. Spit in the
    eye of any critter what tried t' cross 'em. Pride comes from what
    they've made of themselves, y'see, not what's got handed 'em. Me, I
    got no hands Fr this." Even as he spoke the vase took shape, flashing
    sparkling facets of color as the radiance of the hearth refracted
    through bends and twists in the flowing glass. "I do it Fr a distraction,
    Fr fun like when I'm tired o' hammering. Me da were no better, nor
    his. Craft like y' would na' believe, but nothin' more. But I got a
    great-grandlass, Tam's aunt, looks as Daikini as they come, an' she
    can make pure magic wi' this fire."
     "I've seen her work." In some of the finest shops in Sandeni, at
    prices that made even Elora swallow. She recognized the signature
    design immediately, and burned with silent, secret shame at the real-
    ization that she'd been served with some of that very crystal in her
    tower in Angwyn. And most likely smashed it.
     "Summat o' me, summat o' me dear wife, some spark from who
    knows where. But the result, lass, the result is a beauty I could never
    achieve on my lonesome. Nor from any Nelwyn mate, neither,
    meanin' no disrespect. Not sayin' this is Fr all. I'm sayin', Fr some,
    it's right."
    
     After the blizzard, and before the legions of civic sweepers re-
    turned the streets to vehicular traffic, the city belonged totally to its
    children. Young in body, young at heart, everyone took a holiday, pil-
    ing snow high into blockhouses and staging snowball fights from one
    comer to the next, populating the parks with a whole other commu-

    




    nity of snowfolk, using anything that would slide to cascade with
    shrieks of mingled terror and abandon down every available slope.
    Vendors of hot drinks and soups and stews did a record business that
    splendid day, joy so thick in the air it could almost be touched.
     The next snowfall was more desultory, too dry and powdery to be
    of any real use, the day too cold, the wind too cutting, for more than
    a brief outing. That proved the template for the days to follow, as
    though the first storm had been no more than a tease, a haunting re-
    minder of winters that were once and might have been, but would
    not be.
     As the trolley made its way downtown toward the Citadel, Elora
    hunched in on herself upon the open bench and watched the people
    that they passed. They trudged with shoulders down, like cart horses
    hauling a monstrous heavy load, almost shapeless beneath massive
    layers of tunics and sweaters and cloaks, heads wrapped so com-
    pletely with hats and scarves that only eyes could be seen and then
    only when you were face-to-face. They weren't people anymore, at
    least out of doors, they carried themselves as beasts of burden, as
    wom in spirit as in body.
     Elora still favored the clothes she'd taken off the Maizan sorceress,
    in part because they made her feel sleek and dangerous but mainly,
    thanks to the brownies' efforts with needle and thread, because they
    fit. She'd gone shopping more than once since arriving in Sandeni, de-
    lighted for the opportunity to indulge herself in some conspicuous
    consumption, only to grow out of those purchases within the month.
    It was as if her body had deliberately held itself in check during her
    stay among the Rock Nelwyns and was now taking its revenge.
    Khory still had the edge on her in height, Elora suspected she always
    would, but the pair of them positively loomed over every other
    woman she'd ever met, and Renny had commented one evening that
    they were a close match for the High Elves. All this growth left Elora
    feeling gangly and ill at ease with her body, and she'd never felt that
    comfortable with herself to begin with. Spoiled rotten throughout
    her childhood, she'd hit adolescence as a plump, round face, round
    form, with her vocal cords the only part of her that got any regular
    exercise.
     Today she was stronger than she'd ever been, probably than she'd
    ever dreamed, but none of the disparate elements even came close to
    fitting properly. She looked at herself and saw someone whose legs
    were too long, torso too powerful, shoulders too broad. Where oth-
    ers had soft curves, she was sleekly muscled, modestly endowed

    




    where fashion preferred voluptuousness. She looked like a wanderer,
    with a body good for striding off toward distant horizons, or riding
    horseback if a mount was available.
     She didn't know it yet, but hers was the look of a natural leader.
    Eyes turned to her when she passed as automatically as to a standard.
    That was never more obvious than when she took the stage. Good as
    he was, and that was very good indeed, Duguay could not equal the
    passionate intensity of her performances. When Elora sang of love,
    couples found their hands lacing together, reminded of the best of
    what had brought them together. When of loss, there were tears
    aplenty. And when, as she always did, she sang of freedom, they be-
    lieved.
     Gradually she and Duguay simplified her makeup while at the
    same time crafting a no less striking public persona for her. She kept
    her hair short and spiky and blue black as printer's ink because she
    liked the contrast and it was a style no other woman would dare. The
    argent color of her skin they carefully faded, to create the impression
    that she was just naturally pale. Kohl was used to accent the shape
    and depth of her eyes, blush to further enhance the sharply defined
    bone structure of her cheeks, a shade of lipstick found to match the
    color of her leathers. The result, reproduced on handbills posted
    throughout the city, was a face totally defined by its hair, its eyes, its
    mouth, as unconventional as it was entrancing, with a level gaze that
    inspired trust and a faint quirk to the lips that hinted with her hair at
    a wild twist to her soul.
     No one believed she was in her middle teens, and the stories she
    heard told about herself while roaming the city were so outrageously
    implausible she couldn't wait to tell her friends and share their laugh-
    ter. The best, the most rudely ribald, she worked into her repertoire.
     She even found a way to meet with Thom, though not often, and
    not on any regular schedule. Their meeting place was the professor's
    library, because the university was so huge, its facilities so compre-
    hensively interlinked and generally so crowded that it was virtually
    impossible to follow someone within its walls.
     "Is the weather the key?" she asked one glorious afternoon, her at-
    tention continually distracted from the piles of documents strewn
    across the professor's tables by the crisp and clear sunlight splashing
    gloriously through the top-floor windows. They were a mix of clear
    and stained glass, the one primarily to provide illumination, the other
    to create beautiful patterns of color. The layout of this level was an
    open plan, the only shelves those that lined the wall. The floor itself

    




    was bare, save for desks and chairs. The ceiling had been removed as
    well, allowing an unobstructed view past the massive bracing beams
    
    all the way to the steeply gabled roof.
      'You tell me 7 " the Nelwvn said.
    
    She chewed on a bit of her lower lip, flash-tapping her fingers or
    
    the table in a Arumroll 'T I-ate it when rill answer a 114-don with a
    
    "That's because vou're the one who has to -orovide the answers."
    
     'Meaning you're the one who needs to know. Understanding the
    whv of a solution-the 1)rocess of deduction-is far more importan
    
     "You can, Elora. But how then do you explain it to others?" Thorr,
    leaned forward, that simple act somehow commanding all her per
    
    ceptions to focus on his face so that only his eyes were clear before
    her. She had never seen him more intense, or more serious. "There
    will come a time when you go to those who believe in you and say,
    do such and such a thing for no other reason than that they trust you
    But that trust must be earned. They must know your word is 2ood
    
    I
    
    the instincts sound. And you have to know you're right.
    
     "You must inspire men and women to love you, and though I pray
    the moment never comes to pass, you must then be prepared for the
    day when you send them to their deaths. And watch, as they do so
    
      She blinked rapidly, telling herself it was the sunlight making e
    eyes tear, but her voice was unusually husky as she spoke.
    
    "Then you'd have done better with Anakerie in this role " she told
    
    The moment she mentioned the Princess Royal of Angwyn, she
    
     After the Cataclysm, and due consultation with the monarchs of
    the other Great Realms, Anakerie's father established an order of
    servitors, called Vizards, to serve as bodyguards to the Sacred
    Princess. There would be twelve one for each of the Realms and
    they would go masked, for the honor would be in the deed itself, not
    for being known for it. They would serve for a calendar year. The
    first selected for that first cadre was his own daughter and heir. To
    
    the Kin2's mind he could have bestowed no greater honor.
    
       nakerie didn't see it that way. Barely a teenager, she was unable
    to reconcile Elora's manifestation with the death of her mother and

    




    the disappearance of her beloved twin brother, for all that had hap-
    pened the terrible night of Elora's arrival. She was damned if she'd
    serve Elora in any capacity. She had her father's strength of will and
    his lack of tact, and the padr of them butted heads as suicidally as a
    matched set of mountain goats dueling on the lip of a precipice. He
    was sure she'd yield. It never occurred to him that she'd find another
    way. Anakerie, by contrast, once she saw the fight was hopeless;
    simply ceded him the field. They had their final argument and the
    next day she was gone.
     Within a year Anakerie had found her way to the nomadic Maizan
    and won herself a place of honor among them. They weren't com-
    fortable with strangers but they respected skill and talent above all
    else. For all her tender years she had both in abundance. She grew
    from girl to young woman among them and broke the heart of any
    man who thought he could claim her. Those who wouldn't take no
    for an answer got their skulls cracked for their troubles, even their
    castellan, Mohdri. He desperately wanted to win her heart and had
    his life saved by her instead.
     Though she came to love the Maizan, and look on Mohdri's ad-
    vances with more charity as time went on, Anakerie remained a
    daughter of Angwyn. Her father never forgave her for her flight, but
    he was also too good a war leader to allow such a superb potential
    asset to go to waste. He swallowed his pride and asked her to come
    home, as she swallowed her own hurt and anger when she agreed.
     Then came the night of Elora's Ascension, and the ensorcellment
    of not only Angwyn but all the monarchs who'd assembled for the
    celebration.
     As far as anyone knew, Elora Danan was responsible for the death
    of Anakerie's mother, the disappearance of her brother, and ulti-
    mately the overthrow of her realm in the bargain. By rights, there
    should be a deathmark between the two women.
     The wild card in that deck was Thorn.
     'Anakerie is as fine a general as she is noble a Princess," he con-
    ceded, speaking with great care the better to mask his own powerful
    feelings for her.
     'How noble, Thom," Elora asked gently, "if she willingly serves
    the Deceiver~ She knows him for what he truly is."
     "The Fates grant we get the opportunity to ask her, when this foul
    business is concluded."
     "Don't you dare go all formal on me!"
     'And don't you use that tone of voice, my girl. Now answer my

    




    damn question before this lesson is totally wasted. Is weather the
    key?"
     A quiet chortle floated from the shadows where Khory lurked, so
    still that Elora had quite forgotten her presence: Wherever Thorn
    went, the demon child was never far away, any more than the
    brownies strayed from Elora's side.
     'Sandeni exists on trade," she told him. "The city is self-sufficient
    to a point, but its prosperity and power derive from the goods it ships
    and the services it provides the traders. The roads remain passable,
    the rivers increasingly less so. The flow of merchandise becomes as
    clogged as the flow of water. If storms close down the highways as
    well, some merchants could be in dire straits."
      "That happens every winter."
     'Not to the same extent, Drumheller. I checked the archives.
    There are maybe a handful of years since the founding of the city that
    ice impacted on the rivers to such an extent before solstice or New
    Year's. Traffic's been at a virtual standstill since equinox, near two
    months ahead of schedule. Stroll through the courtyard of the Mer-
    cantile Exchange sometime, even the Cascani are hurting. Everyone's
    hanging on, they don't see themselves as having any choice. Stretch
    out loans, call in favors, do whatever's necessary to survive until
    spring. But suppose spring comes late? Suppose the thaw is sudden
    and violent, and the rivers stay impassable, and the roads are
    flooded? Suppose next year it's just, as cold for just as long?"
      "You perceive a pattern in these events?"
      'The cold doesn't smell right."
      "Ah.11
    
      "Which you've known from the start."
      "I was paying attention. And my nose is bigger."
     Another soft chortle, which Elora guessed was more at her ex-
    pense than Drumheller's. She shot a glare at where she thought the
    sound came from but wasn't surprised to find that Khory wasn't
    there. It was another of the warrior's exercises, to test her own abili-
    ties as much as Elora's by sneaking up on the younger woman, an-
    nouncing her presence by tapping Elora on the shoulder with drawn
    sword. Elora's challenge, of course, was to sense her coming.
     Thus far, she'd done so only in her dreams. Today was no excep-
    tion.
     "The air had a different taste to it in the mountains," she explained
    to Thom. Actually, she hadn't given this the slightest thought until he
    prompted her, but once he had, all the aspects fell into place like the

    




    final pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. "Silly as it sounds, it was cleaner some-
    how. What I smell when the storms blow off the prairie reminds me
    of Angwyn. It's the same taste the wind had on the ocean, right be-
    fore the Deceiver attacked our boat. It's like the breeze off a mudflat,
    there's something rotten to it."
     Thom said nothing, but merely)sank deep into his comfy chair,
    nursing his mug of cider and urging her on with a pair of upraised
    eyebrows.
     "I have an affinity for fire," she said. 'You, for earth. From what
    we've seen, the Deceiver has hold of the air. Over Angwyn he's cre-
    ated a whirlwind that's somehow sucking every scrap of warmth
    from the air."
     "The technical term, for what that's worth, is 'heat sink.'
     "Whatever. Who knows how powerful that whirlwind's grown
    since we fled the coast? The eagles haven't been past the western
    mountains but what they've heard from migratory species is horrible,
    and it dovetails with traders' gossip in the market and the taverns.
    The whole of Angwyn Bay, land and sea together, is ice. And it's
    spreading farther north and south with every day. It's as if the world's
    suddenly been turned on its end, to make Angwyn the new North
    Pole, and the Deceiver's sending forth glaciers like they were armies.
     "If that's so, maybe this wind and the storms it's brought along are
    his heralds. These are desert winds, Thom, of that there's no mistake.
    They come from a place so cold that every drop of moisture's frozen
    from the air long before it reaches us. The snow we've seen falls from
    the sky that's already here. Which means, on top of everything else,
    we're likely deep into a drought and don't even realize it because it's
    started in winter when no precipitation is considered a blessing."
     She drew herself from her chair and began to pace, strides taking
    her through the elongated rectangles of light and color cast by the
    skylights high above. She was illuminated by a succession of high-
    lights that served to accentuate the dominant elements of her fea-
    tures. She looked wild and untamed, with a strength of spirit growing
    in tandem with her body. What she lacked was patience. So much
    was changing within her, each day brought some new challenge to be
    overcome, a harder reality to cope with. Her frustration came from
    the fact that she could see no end to it. Her life had been shaped from
    birth by forces beyond her control. Now, when she was trying to as-
    sert herself, her own body had decided to betray her, becoming a
    kind of Deceiver unto herself.
     "The Realms are bound," she said, working through the problem
    
    11

    




    aloud, beginning with the fundamentals she already knew. 'The Cir-
    cle of the World, the Circle of the Flesh, the Circle of the Spirit. Each
    of the three of us claims an aspect of the world, that means our ac-
    tions, our use of active sorcery, must have an equivalent effect on it."
    She rushed to one of the tables, shunting books aside until she found
    the tome she needed, quickly comparing a couple of pages with the
    notes she'd scribbled on a separate sheet. She made a fist, pounded
    lightly on the desktop. "The energy that fuels magic is bound into the
    fabric of the world, but the genius necessary to wield it comes from
    the Circle of the Spirit. Mohdri casts a spell to draw all the energy of
    magic to himself, it finds a physical analog by stealing the warmth as
    well. Which in turn makes it harder for his enemies to resist him,
    which brings him closer, faster, to his hoped-for victory. Damn!" she
    cried, and this time there was nothing light about the blow.
      "What?"
     'Don't you see the trap? If we fight him the same way, the en-
    chantments we'd have to employ to seize control of his spell and
    then reverse it can't help but have an equivalent collateral impact on
    the physical world. This isn't a case of Bavmorda waving her arms
    and transforming an army into pigs"-referring to the battle before
    the Demon Queen's fortress of Nockmaar-"and then you and Fin
    Raziel negating it. For you to counterattack with the Deceiver's
    weapons, to face him on his level, might well crack the surface of the
    globe loose from its foundations. And I don't dare think what might
    happen if I tried."
      "That makes sense."
      "What I don't understand are the Maizan."
      "How so, Elora?"
     'Can't they see what's happening? Don't they ever look over their
    shoulders? Are they so busy conquering the world that they haven't
    noticed the Deceiver's destroying it behind them?"
     "Think about who the Deceiver is. To their eyes, he appears as
    Mohdri, their beloved castellan. Their leader, the bond between them
    forged by blood and sweat and steel. Anakerie rides in the place of
    honor at his left, but they only follow her because he wills it so. They
    obey, because she holds her place in his name."
     'He isn't real, Thom, not as we define -it. If I had to pick, I'd say
    his nature was closer to demon than human. He has no physical be-
    ing. From what we've seen he can't even exist among us, much less
    act on our world, without a living, tangible host."

    




     "And for some reason," the Nelwyn said, 'the person he most de-
    sires to play that role is you."
     "Never mind that for now. If we can somehow eliminate Mohdri,
    we force the Deceiver to another host. Or better yet, deprive him of
    one altogether! At least that might deal with the threat posed by the
    Maizan."
     'Been considered, been tried."
     'You never told me!"
     "Success would have spoken for itself. I saw no need to burden
    you with news of failure." It wasn't a happy memory. "I could almost
    swear he knew we were going to make the attempt. If Khory hadn't
    spotted the trap, if Anakerie hadn't smuggled us safely from their
    camp. . ."
     "She saved you?"
     "Don't sound so scandalized."
     "Don't keep springing so many surprises."
     "She isn't our enemy. She never has been."
     "You sound like that worries you."
     "The Deceiver knows so much about everything else. He's famil-
    iar with so many intimate aspects of our histories, our very souls,
    why is he blind here? Or is this yet another trap?"
     "You mean, is Anakerie playing some sort of double game? Only
    pretending to be on our side?"
     He shook his head, with a downcast turn to his eyes that struck at
    Elora as if she could see the vision in them of Anakerie's execution,
    and she knew Thom was envisioning the same.
     "No. My terror
    doesn't matter."
    
    is that he knows she's betraying him, and it
    
    'That's saying everything is predestined."
    "You refuse to believe that?"
    'Every day I'm free."
    
     Everyone complained about the weather. It tainted every conver-
    sation and put folks in a perpetually sour mood. In a season of cele-
    bration, all Elora heard in one form or other were complaints. 'My
    boss is a cow." 'My husband doesn't understand me." "Nobody
    cares." "Work rots." "I got gypped." "Did you see the way she looked
    at me!" "Bloody government!" "Bloody peasants!"
     As the holidays approached there was little active charity in deed
    and even less in spirit, replaced by a prevailing undercurrent of surli-

    




    ness and resentment. The sharp and biting edge that characterized
    the best of Sandeni humor took on an element of active cruelty.
      Even Elora wasn't immune to this pervasive atmosphere of bleak
    malaise, and not simply because she heard her full name used more
    and more as a profanity, the ironic counterpoint to some misfortune,
    as when your house burns down and someone notes that "Elora
    Danan must have blessed you."
      As her own researches in the university library led her only to
    dead end after dead end, her smile came less readily and there was a
    growing wariness to her walk, an air of tension to her carriage that
    manifested itself in a reflexive tendency to respond to the most casual
    and ordinary of interactions as a potential attack. She no longer slept
    well. She didn't want to sleep at all. At some point before waking,
    she'd find herself atop Tyrrel's tor, where Kieron Dineer awaited. He
    would be the dragon sometimes, or she, or both, or neither. Regard-
    less of the permutations, the outcome was always the same. He
    wanted her to kill him, and refused to accept no for an answer.
      She was glad she slept alone, she didn't want anyone seeing her
    when she awoke from the worst of those visions, mouth full of the
    same metallic taste she remembered from Torquil's foundry, skin
    drenched with sweat as if she'd actually been immersed in the ghost
    dragon's flames. Sometimes she was so angry that it would have
    been a horror for anyone fool enough to cross her path. Others, she
    was so heartsick she could hardly breathe through the terrible,
    whooping sobs. Whatever the case, on those nights when Kieron's
    specter came to her, the most she dared after waking was a light
    doze, hardly more than a catnap but nowhere near as refreshing.
      Yet at the same time she yearned for companionship. Someone to
    hold her, comfort her, fill the aching void in her heart and soul that
    had been with her from the moment of her birth.
      One of her'songs said it best, a sad ballad of a child ever depen-
    dent on the kindness of strangers, allowed friends but never a family
    to call her own. She called it "The Song That Never Ends" because it
    had no ending. She never performed it, never did more than croon it
    lightly to herself alone in the sanctity of her room. At those moments,
    when the shadows gathered most deeply about and within her, she,
    couldn't withstand the fearful mixture of anger and loss, aching love
    and betrayal she felt for her mother.
      Her emotions coiled out of her like a serpent, a foulness made al-
    most tangible by their intensity. She hated herself for the rage she
    felt. She knew her mother hadn't abandoned her. She told herself

    




    her mother loved Elora more than her own life, willingly sacrificing
    herself to give Elora a chance for survival, but part of her soul re-
    mained that of the newborn girl who'd barely begun to breathe be-
    fore she was cast away, who never knew why her mother had left
    her alone.
     There wasn't the same animus for her father as she felt for her
    mother. He had no being, none had seen him, none had known him.
    She could not hate what to her had never existed.
     It made no sense, of course. The true object of her enmity should
    be the demon sorceress herself. It was Bavmorda who killed Elora's
    mother, who'd tried her best to do the same to Elora. The infernal
    paradox was, Elora felt sorry for her. Though she'd been only a baby,
    she'd come away from their encounters with a strong residual image
    of her foe. A sense of the woman that was in the beginning, before
    her bright promise had been corrupted.
     That made her hurt all the more, having a greater, truer sense of
    the woman who'd moved heaven and earth to bring about her de-
    struction than she did of her own mother.
     When those moods were foulest, when even the brownies learned
    to keep their distance, her footsteps invariably took her down the
    stairs to the dark and deserted tavern, where Duguay waited. It
    wasn't for his company she came. Whatever he saw on her face
    when their gazes crossed brought the troubadour no satisfaction. She
    would move to the center of the stage, never taking the opportunity
    to shift tables and chairs aside to give herself more room. She ac-
    cepted the space wholly as she found it.
      Then she would dance.
     First, she would define a rhythm. Sometimes that inspiration came
    from without, others were dictated by the beat of her heart. That
    pulse would set up a resonant response,, a minor articulation of the
    spine, a careless flick of the fingers. One motion would inspire the
    next, in ever-increasing complexity, as a solo instrument might initi-
    ate a simple melody and then be gradually joined by the others in the
    orchestra until the tune became a symphony.
     Watching Elora on those dark and terrible nights was watching a
    person at war with herself. There was in her a breathtaking capacity
    for love, made all the more powerful by an equally powerful delight,
    a fundamental sense of wonder that remained a part of her even now.
    Especially now. Yet hand in hand with it ran as primal a rage, as
    though on one side of her was held absolute creation, and on the
    other its opposite, destruction. She stood between them, forced to

    




    balance these polar forces who demanded that she choose one or the
    other when her true desire was to find a way to stitch them together.
     She would leap for the rafters and find a way to cast the illusion
    of holding herself in midair, in defiance of every law of gravity. She
    would race through a sequence of steps so quickly the choreography
    could hardly be seen, much less copied. She dared spins that should
    be possible only on skates, on ice; then, with a sureness and precision
    she never displayed in public, instantly downshift her tempo from
    staccato to legato and embark on a sequence of slow movements that
    in their own way appeared equally unbelievable. She didn't seem hu-
    man in those moments. To behold her was to wonder if she was in-
    deed some statue brought to life, or some purely elemental creature
    somehow made flesh. How else to explain her ability to hold every
    pose~
    ~ Here again came the impulse that she was at war, not simply with
    herself but with all the laws and strictures of nature, as if she could
    shrug them off as readily as any spell.
     Duguay sat in shadows, never touching the goblet of mulled wine
    poured before him on the table. He watched her with eyes like beads
    of jet, doll's eyes, lifeless yet deeper than any abys's. Hunting eyes.
    Hungry eyes.
     He never once tried to join her. Not so much out of the belief that
    he wouldn't be welcome to her dance but from the recognition that
    he had no place in it.
     "You know what I see in him," Franjean noted softly, so softly to
    Rool from their perch in a chink among the rafters. They had no idea
    what they were facing on these terrible nights and so called upon all
    their stealth to make their way to a ceiling hidey-hole that gave them
    a clear view of the room, bringing with them weapons enough to
    turn the place into a killing field should the need arise.
     "A particularly nasty varmint who's found himself on the wrong
    side of the glass from something tasty."
      'Don't much care for him."
      "Never have myself, from the start."
     "What about Elora, Rool?" They didn't have to ask themselves
    what the troubadour wanted, that was plain with every look and
    gesture. Their worry was why he'd made,no move thus far to take
    it. The first time she'd come downstairs to dance, they'd assumed
    him responsible-especially when they found him there before
    her-but it soon became clear he was as bewildered by her acts as
    they.

    




     'Thank all the Blessed Powers she doesn't drink," was his laconic
    response.
     "That isn't funny, Rool! Lummox."
     "Wasn't meant to be. But the principle's the same. And mind your
    mouth."
     'Is she mad, do you think?"
     "Aren't we all?"
     "Rool!" The edge of warning to Franjean's voice was as sharp as
    the edge of fear that underlay it.
     "After all that's happened in her life, she'd have every reason."
     "No less than Drumheller."
     "Agreed. Which is why I'll wager she's no less mad than he. And
    no more."
     She danced until sheer fatigue made her drop. There was no gra-
    cious end to the evening. She was wholly in control one moment, a
    jumbled heap on the rough wood floor the next, her lungs working
    harder than the bellows of a forge to draw in a succession of mon-
    strous breaths, as though she'd just been raised from drowning.
     At last Duguay took an action. With an undeniably sensuous grace
    of his own, he rose from his chair to take Elora in his arms. He cra-
    dled her there a moment, with more emotion to the gesture than a
    child merited, yet less than would be due a lover, almost as though
    he found himself conflicted as to which best applied to her.
     Then, with the propriety of a gentleman, he returned her to her
    room and to her bed. And that was that.
     Elora never spoke of these nocturnal performances, and the
    brownies never inquired, though they made a full report to Thorn
    Drumheller. If exhaustion brought her the opportunity for dreamless
    sleep, that was evidently a price she was willing to pay. Not happi-
    ness in any measure, for anyone involved, but at least a form of con-
    tentment.
    
     Khory had her straight sword, an old campaigner's weapon,
    double-edged and as keen a blade as had ever been forged, of metal
    so finely tempered that years of hard use had left but the smallest im-
    pressions on its bright steel. A simple cross guard protected a hilt long
    enough for both her hands to hold, allowing its use either as a fenc-
    ing rapier or the more traditional broadsword. She could kill effec-
    tively with either a stab or a slash and her formidable strength
    allowed her to handle it with the ease of a weapon a fraction of its
    weight.

    




      Elora held the long sword favored by the warriors of the eastern
    islands. In length, it was a rough match for Khory's blade, but hers
    
    was shaped along a shallow curve, with a single cutting edge. It was
    primarily a slashing weapon, and as such had almost no equals. Both
    -vvornen wore rnail and padding but these weapons were intended to
    cut through both. Their best defense, now as always, was their own
    skill.                                           J
      They stood perpendicular to each other. Elora offered Khory a pro-
    file view, holding her hilt a little above and behind shoulder level so
    that the blade sloped along a downward arc past her cheek to rest
    atop her leading arm. Khory faced her, legs apart, sword in one hand,
    point down, a disconcertingly relaxed posture.
      Both were in boots and trousers and wore gauntlets to protect
    their hands and forearms. Bandannas were tied about forehead and
    throat. They were sodden, and both women were breathing heavily.
    This wasn't the first duel of the day, and to Elora's great delight, they
    both had the bruises to show for it.
      She wasn't here by choice, this was a decision both Renny and
    Khory had made for her and enthusiastically enforced.
    
      'I can take care of myself," she'd protested, when they made her
    their proposal.
      With those words came movement of her own, reflexive and
    blindingly fast, inspired by some cue far beyond the range of rational
    thought or awareness. Her hand leaped to -her traveling pouch and
    emerged with one of the knives carried within, the shortest of the
    curved islander swords. As Khory's straight blade slashed toward the
    junction of neck and shoulder, Elora used her own much like a bar,
    with both hands on the hilt simply to block it. The shock of impact,
    one blade against the other, bounced her from her seat and she turned
    that to her immediate advantage by kicking out against it with both
    feet. Unfortunately, Khory's muscles were a match for her reflexes
    and she cleared the tumbling chair with a powerful leap that landed
    her almost on top of Elora. Elora took a desperate slash with her small
    sword, at the same time trying to pitch herself beneath the table to
    the relative safety of the other side. Khory blocked it with a foot,
    stomping down hard enough to make Elora cry out, though she never
    relinquished hold of her weapon. That didn't matter much as the de-
    mon child casually laid the tip of her sword against the younger
    woman's breastbone.
      "Fighting with furniture." She smiled, and offered Elora a hand up.
    'I like that."

    




     Elora couldn't help herself. She stuck out her tongue.
     "The point is," Renny told her after she'd righted her chair and col-
    lapsed herself into it, draining the glass of water Khory gave her in a
    succession of monstrous gulps, "you have enemies." Before she could
    make any sort of snarky rejoinder, he went on, "And your cover is not
    as all-embracing as you believe."
     'How do you mean~" She thought he was about to say one of her
    companions had betrayed her, and hurried to marshal every possible
    rebuttal.
     'Your secret may be safe from the Maizan, but as you've said
    yourself, there are other forces at play in the world. You stood against
    them at Ganthem's Crossing."
     "There were no survivors, Renny," she told him, and the memory
    gave her no comfort. 'Who's to tell?"
     "Don't talk foolishness, Elora. Greater Faery is the home of the
    Wild Hunt. There is nothing the High Elves enjoy more than a chase.
    The wilier their quarry~ the more determined they become. You have
    to be prepared."
     Khory opened their duel, bringing her sword up and around in a
    sweeping arc that sizzled the air in its wake. At the last moment she
    reversed her hands and the direction of her cut, pivoting on her off-
    side leg to bring the sword around behind her back in an attack that
    struck at Elora's flank rather than her head. It was a magnificent feint
    and Elora had read it perfectly. The crystalline tang of steel on steel
    sounded through the top floor of the library, whose decent width and
    exceptional length made it ideal for such training. At his own desk,
    floors below, the professor rolled his eyes and shook his balding, un-
    kempt head in his hands, asking yet again how he'd allowed himself
    to be drawn into such a chaos. Elora swung her long sword parallel
    to her own body, point to the floor, to block Khory's strike. In the
    same flow of movements, while maintaining the block, she swept the
    two blades up and away, continuing the pivot to use her offside leg
    as a scythe to cut Khory's out from under her.
     She had the satisfaction of seeing the older woman fall, but fast as
    she tried to follow through with her sword, Khory found a way to
    backpedal clear. Again and again, Elora swung at her with all her
    strength, energized all the more by a determination not to be beaten,
    but she couldn't find a way past Khory's guard. Thrust, thrust, parry,
    reverse, slash, slash, thrust, slash, kick, parry, thrust, slash, Elora
    maintained the pressure on her foe with an intensity that would have
    left anyone else gasping, somehow managing to increase the speed of

    




    her attacks as she progressed, painfully aware from past experience
    that she dare not allow her opponent the slightest respite.
     Seeing none offered, Khory seized her own opportunity. She let
    the girl disarm her, at the same time controlling the disengagement so
    that her sword fell where she wanted it. She slapped Elora's blade
    aside and followed up with a brutal sequence of blows to the body.
    Fists to begin with, and then with feet, as Elora tried to open some
    distance between them so that she could once more effectively bring
    her sword into play. A roundhouse kick to the solar plexus doubled
    Elora over, another to the upper body sent her sprawling.
     Before Elora hit the floor, Khory had her sword in hand and was
    on her way in for the kill. Only this time the surprise was hers. Flat
    on her back, Elora parried Khory's hammer blows, lashing out at full
    extension in a series of sweeping attacks that forced Khory into a suc-
    cession of frantic bunny hops, lest she lose both feet at the ankles.
     From that point there was no more delicacy or art to their duel.
    They faced each other at an arm's length and bashed away at each
    other, as though with a pair of clubs, emphasis on upper-body
    strength and reaction time, hardly any at all in delicacy of manner.
    Suddenly Elora shifted gears, totally changing the dynamics of the
    fight to those of a fencing match as she took a step backward and
    lunged. It was a splendid move, until Khory snapped her own blade
    down in a wicked parry that turned aside the attack.
     Where the swords had come together with the shock of steel bars,
    they now took on the aspect of crystal chimes, a succession of taps
    that followed one upon the other faster than a drumroll beating the
    call to arms.
     Then, out of nowhere, a mistake. Elora pushed herself a hair too
    far in a desperate attempt to score against her foe. This wasn't alto-
    gether unexpected, she'd been visibly tiring as the duel progressed,
    though this hadn't significantly affected her speed. The thing was,
    the extraordinary speed of the duel had its effect on both combatants.
    None watching could recall seeing this level of intensity maintained
    for so long. At such a pace there was no time for a conscious assess-
    ment of the situation. Action prompted immediate reaction, any
    strategizing had to be conducted on a separate level of being. The ag-
    gressor had to have a plan, the defender had to intuit that plan and
    determine an appropriate counter while actively and ferociously en-
    gaged in her own defense. At the same time both combatants had to
    remain ever ready to capitalize on any opportunity.
      That, now, was what presented itself.

    




     Elora was vulnerable. Khory responded accordingly. Two mo-
    ments, encompassing far less than a second of elapsed time, and the
    instant Khory committed herself, she knew she'd been suckered.
     Elora spun herself along the length of Khory's outstretched blade,
    hissing as it sliced through padding, mail, and flesh, accepting the
    pain of her wound as a necessary price of victory. She struck the taller
    woman across the face with her elbow, then brought both hands up
    and together on the hilt of her long sword and used its blunt pommel
    as a hammer to deliver an even harder blow. In a real fight, the
    follow-through would have been to sever Khory's fighting arm and
    then, as the woman reeled in shock, either take her head or open her
    body from shoulder to hip. Instead Elora hooked an ankle and
    dropped Khory on her back, collapsing onto her sword arm to pin it
    down and slapping the flat of her own blade across the other's chest.
     She couldn't do any more after that. She flashed a grin to proclaim
    her triumph and let herself topple after her sword, to land all nicely
    cat-curled in a ball by Khory's side, her head resting just below the
    warrior's breast. She was breathing so hard it hurt. Khory, damn her,
    hardly more than normal.
     UI hate you," Elora grumbled.
     "You won."
     Elora pushed herself up to a quasi-sitting position, weight spread
    between a hip and an arm she used to brace herself in total denial of
    the fact that every muscle in her body felt as limp as overcooked noo-
    dles.
     "You didn't fight as hard as you could."
     ,,if I had, you'd be dead." Khory blinked at her, narrowing her gaze
    in a way that made the tattooed design over her left eye appear even
    more hawklike and creating the unnerving impression that Elora was
    truly in the presence of something other than human.
     'I did not fight you to the best of my ability," she said matter-of-
    factly. "But you fought me to the best of yours. You fought on my
    level, Elora, and you found a way to win."
     'Well," Ryn Taksemanyin called from a safe distance, brandishing
    towels and a jug of lemon-flavored water, 'after that display, I sure as
    hell wouldn't challenge either of you. On dry land, anyway."
     'And in the water?" Elora asked him.
     His tone was flippant but the answer deadly serious. "Drag you
    deep and watch you drown before you reached the air again."
     Elora shuddered.
     "That's cold, Ryn," she said.

    




     There was a gauntness to his form that was new to him and he
    carried himself with a gingerly delicacy more common to old men.
    The spell the Maizani had used had been a cruel one and its negative
    effects on him were only intensified by the determination and manic
    ferocity of his resistance. Thom had worked long and hard to repair
    the damage, but the fact remained, he was too far from home. The
    wounds were to his spirit more than to his flesh and true healing
    would come only with his return to the blue-water ocean. There'd
    been discussions of sending him east, to the Chengwei coast, but his
    true home was off Angwyn, now ice-rimmed and as uninhabitable
    below the waves as above them.
     He hunkered down beside the women and handed them each a
    glass.
     "Wyrrn don't fight for fun," he told Elora. "We love our tussles, but
    there's a big difference."
     She stripped off her hard leather tunic, her mail undercoat, the
    padding worn beneath that, all the way down to her formfitting cot-
    ton undershirt, and tossed the lot carelessly aside. She took a step
    away, thought better of it, turned back before Khory had the chance
    to cough a quiet reminder, and gathered up her leavings to place them
    neatly on their racks. Occasionally the habits of her mistaught youth
    overwhelmed the better behavior she'd learned since. Taking proper
    care of her gear and space was her own responsibility. She had no one
    to pick up after her anymore.
     Then, after returning her long sword to its scabbard-a decep-
    tively plain and unassuming piece of work, without the usual oma-
    mentation, whose beauty lay wholly in the quality of materials and
    craft-she held out a hand to Khory and hauled the warrior to her
    feet. They exchanged a formal bow of disengagement and Elora
    stepped through one of the windows to the balcony beyond and
    some badly needed fresh air.
     After the warmth within, given aspects of a steam bath by their
    exertions, the outside chill was a bracing shock. Elora didn't mind in
    the slightest, even though she was bare-armed and in a thin shirt,
    dressed more for the opposite end of the year. There was a steady
    wind from the northwest, stiff enough to make her eyes water, and a
    definite hardship for anyone else.
     She heard the thump of a cloak being shaken open behind her and
    then its familiar weight across her shoulders. It needed no fastening.
    So long as she stayed still, the cut of its high collar would anchor it in
    place.

    




     There was a fair view from the roof, over the skyline of the uni-
    versity to the dome of the Citadel. A glance over the edge showed
    the walkways mostly empty of traffic, the students all in class. Ryn
    stepped up behind her, taking position to block some of the wind.
    She appreciated the consideration but couldn't help a frown at the
    feel of his fur. It had lost a fair portion of softness and luster these
    past months and she could feel bones beneath where before had
    been a cushion of body fat and muscle. There was a smell to him of
    sickness. She'd offered to help, as she had with others, only to dis-
    cover this was a healing that lay beyond her abilities. There was
    nothing wrong with the body, it was his spirit that needed restora-
    tion.
     "It must be hard," she said, "to be so far from home for so long."
     "We're a wandering kind," he replied with a dismissive shrug, as
    if that was all that needed being said.
     "No regrets, then?"
     "I'm here by free choice, Elora. It's a struggle worth the winning,
    with friends worth the knowing. What's to regret?"
     He folded an arm about her and gathered Elora even closer so that
    he was right behind her. "I can't get over how you've grown," he told
    her.
     "Sorry."
     "No no no, that's not what I mean, it wasn't a criticism." He was
    speaking so quickly his words ran over themselves, spurting out be-
    fore his thoughts could sensibly order them. He called it quits with a
    deep breath and a rueful groan.
     'I feel like a piece of taffy," she grumped.
     'Nothing fits?"
     "I guess it's just because everything's happening so fast, all at once.
    I mean I can see the difference. I keep banging into things because by
    the time I get a decent sense awareness of my proportions, they've all
    changed again."
     "It won't last forever, you know."
     "Your word on that, Ryn Taksemanyin?"
     'What do you mean~"
     'Never mind." Then, suddenly: "Do you have the slightest notion
    what-or who-I am?"
     He started to reply with a platitude, but realized she'd set him up
    for just that.
     'I don't,' she said flatly. 'Not like the rest of you." She looked out
    at the far distant horizon and let out all her breath in a great huffy

    




    cloud of exhalation. "I need a place I come from, Ryn, so I can know
    where I want to go."
      "And if that's not possible?"
     'It's like trying to sail without a keel. I can't fight the wind and
    current."
     "Bollocks," he snapped, taking her own pet expletive. "You have
    that place, Elora-a Nelwyn farming village, a Daikini castle, a sor-
    ceress's stronghold, a tower in a great and doomed city. We begin our
    lives as the gods and Fates design us, but a lot of what comes after is
    ours alone to determine."
     "Like being turned to silver?"
     "No more, no less than assuming a coat of fur. Sometimes homes
    have to be built. Sometimes, Elora, dynasties and epochs and sagas
    have to be started. Sometimes, friends have to die."
     "Maybe I'm not up to the job, Ryn."
     "Then you're not."
     They both heard a shout from below and peeked over the parapet
    to see a student race the length of the yard, to disappear into the
    classroom building across the way.
     "You don't know him," Ryn said to her, hazarding a last word. She
    knew full well he meant Duguay, that his concerns about the trouba-
    dour echoed those of the brownies. It was plain to her as well how
    afraid he was that this antagonism would sever the ties that held
    them close, but also how determined he was to speak his piece.
     Her response was in kind. "I don~t know myself," she told him
    with a sad smile. "Yet."
     "The Citadel semaphore's busy," he said, pointing westward.
     "I see."
     The semaphores were big, square flags, mounted on long poles
    that could be swung independently through the whole arc of a circle,
    and together, the two worked in concert to represent all the letters of
    the alphabet. Certain combinations could even establish whole
    words. Given the view from the plateau and the distances involved,
    they were often the most effective means of transmitting messages to
    and from the cataracts.
     "Are the eagles up~" Ryn asked her.
     Elora craned her head toward the horizon, her eyes shifting mar-
    ginally out of focus.
     'Both. Anele's a couple of miles high, I think. Bastian's roaming
    farther out. They have a rider coming up on the last cataract, another

    




    a half day behind, yet another a half day behind that. All pushing
    hard."
     More shouts from the yard, a gathering tumult as every door was
    flung wide and the entire student body rushed into view. Professors
    as well, their dark robes and frantic scurrying reminding Elora of an
    anthill under attack.
     She heard footsteps behind, the uneven tread and strained breaths
    of the professor as he clambered up the last flight of stairs, the still
    and silent glide of Khory's boots.
     "What do you think?" Ryn asked one and all.
     It was Khory who answered, as though this was a moment she'd
    long been waiting for.
     'The Maizan."

    




    -ONPTER
      1 3
    
    IT WAS ALL THE NEWS BY BREAKFAST.
     'A delegation," Duguay reported as he and Elora shared
    the morning meal with Susan and the rest of the staff around
    the biggest table in the tavern. When she arrived, Elora re-
    membered this as being as bountiful as any feast, platters
    laden with fruits and cheese, crackers and breads and jams,
    porridge and raisins and honey, plus whatever was available
    from the stove. The variety remained, but less so the quan-
    tity. Wholesale prices were rising on a weekly basis but
    everyone knew that even a fortune wouldn't matter much if
    there was no food to be bought.
     "To discuss issues of bilateral trade and mutual benefit to
    both parties."
     "Go easy on the coffee," Susan cautioned as Pilar topped
    off her cup.
     'Oh, that's not fair," the other woman groaned. For her it

    




    was as necessary a start to the day as breathing, often far more wel-
    come than opening her eyes.
     Susan shrugged. There were evident signs of strain around her
    eyes, Elora saw, and her mouth as well.
     "Nothing I can do. As far as the highgrove blend is concerned. .
     "Of course," Pilar groused, "my favorite."
      ... what we've got is what we've got. And that appears to be the
    end of it.'
     'I thought the roads were still clear to the south," Elora said.
     "Roads are clear every which way, for the most part,' Susan told
    them. "Provided you can keep self and stock from freezing along the
    way. Wagon train's in, they just don't have the freight we need. No
    crop this year from highgrove. Frost caught 'em. by surprise, sounds
    like they lost everything."
     'The Chancellor's office issued a statement," Duguay announced,
    a trifle exasperated by the interruptions and lack of attention, 'to the
    council and parliament noting that the diplomatic initiatives of past
    months appear to have born fruit and that they look forward both to
    a positive exchange of views and a speedy resolution of any out-
    standing differences."
     "Such as," Elora suggested as she savored the last of an orange,
    ilare you and yours still hell-bent on conquering the world?"
     "That's a bit cynical."
     "In the case of the Maizan, perfectly justified."
     "You don't like them, Elora?"
     "Susan," Pilar asked, her voice touched with apprehension, 'if the
    crops don't come in this harvest season, if the weather's so lousy that
    the plants themselves are crippled, what happens next year? What
    does the city do for food?"
     "What's to like, Duguay?" Elora challenged. "We came, we saw,
    we killed, we conquered, who's next? The Maizan credo and life
    story~ in a nutshell. They're perfectly prepared to share with others,
    provided it's their sandbox, their toys, and only their children al-
    lowed."
     "Is that what you hear, Elora," the troubadour responded, "on all
    those peregrinations to the cataracts down on the prairie, or out be-
    yond the tableland suburbs? Or," he finished pointedly, 'on your fre-
    quent sojourns to the university, hmnh? Learning a lot, are we?
    Bettering ourselves every day, in every way?"
     "What I hear is that people are frightened." For emphasis, she tilted
    her head toward Pilar. "What I know is that thev have fair reason."

    




     "Only two choices available, pet." She bridled at the intentional
    diminutive and shot him a glare to remind him so. His answer was a
    slow smile. "Do you sanction a slaughter of the embassy the moment
    they dismount?"
     "What would that accomplish?"
     'Says here, the Maizan delegation will be led by their warlord."
     "Anakerie?"
     "The same. Strike off her head, you'll no doubt do the body some
    considerable harm. Take time presumably to choose a replacement,
    and who knows, they might not be as good."
     "I assume they're here under a safe conduct, not to mention the
    fact there's been no official declaration of war."
     "Technicafities"-Duguay sighed dramatically, as if the entire ex-
    change was no more than a running joke-"always technicalities. I
    assume then that assassination is quite out of the question."
     "Why are you doing this?"
     'Merely dancing the steps you've choreographed, pet. You out-
    lined the structure, I'm putting it together. You can't ignore them,
    they won't go away, or be wished away. If you won't kill them,
    there's but a sole alternative. Make a deal."
     'Here endeth the lesson."
     "Hardly. But you brought it on yourself."
     "What could Mohdri offer that the Sandeni would accept?"
      "Survival's always a good place t ' o start."
     "The Republic's been threatened before, Duguay, it's never
    yielded."
     "Suppose it came down to a choice: the city's survival or that of
    the Sacred Princess?"
     "What?"
     "She yields of her own free will, or if the city gives her up, all is
    well. But if she flees, annihilation. Tell me, Elora, as a concerned citi-
    zen, would you consider that a fair exchange? One life for a multi-
    tude? Or a fair price, the multitude slain for that one to escape?"
     "This isn't funny, Duguay."
     "Perhaps not. But amusing. And definitely relevant."
      She couldn't believe what she was hearing, she didn't know how,
    to respond, with humor or silence or her fists. She was saved from
    the choice by a summons to the door, where she found an official
    ministerial messenger. A thick envelope of heavy vellum was deliv-
    ered, bearing the official seal of the Chancellor, its very appearance
    reeking of importance.

    




     With a twist of her fingers, she broke the seal.
     "We have a commission," she announced after reading the con-
    tents. 'An invitation to perform at the gala state banquet welcoming
    the Maizan delegation."
     Immediately there was applause from Susan and the others, plus
    cheers and whistles and a toast that clinked mugs with juice tum-
    blers. Duguay looked indecently pleased with,himself, as though this
    was something he alone had brought about.
     "Where is it?" he asked her, acknowledging the congratulations
    and pats on the back and a kiss from one of the women.
     "The Cascani Factor's house, in Kinshire, the borough at the foot
    of Lake Morar.'
     'Will we attend, pet?"
     'Hellsteeth, Duguay, I wouldn't miss this for the world."
    
     Anakerie rode off the plains with less of an escort than Elora re-
    membered Mohdri bringing with him to Angwyn. A company of
    cavalry, numbering an even hundred, and that included their bag-
    gage train. They wore armor, she wore none, though she~ had
    adopted the gleaming jet hues of their own apparel. She rode her
    horse like they were as one and commanded her men with equal as-
    surance.
     The years had scarcely touched her, Elora saw through Bastian's
    eyes. The eagle kept a respectful distance from the Maizan, describ-
    ing lazy circles through the sky well beyond their bowshot. There
    was death between these two races and a hatred even Elora knew
    better than to try to assuage. Among the Maizan it was considered a
    badge of honor for their young men to claim the feathers of a golden
    eagle. The means by which they did so involved the ritual slaughter
    of their captive, in a spell that bound the anima of the eagle's soul to
    that of its killer. The eagles in turn considered the Maizan their mor-
    tal enemies and took any opportunity to exact swift and bloody
    vengeance for their dead.
     Anakerie had rarely smiled when Elora knew her. Now she looked
    like she'd forgotten how and the soul behind her eyes was deeply
    shrouded, keeping both thoughts and secrets to itself. Her height
    wasn't outstanding, it was carriage and demeanor that made her ap-
    pear far taller. Her form was slim, but possessed a whipcord power
    far out of proportion to her actual size. Far more important was a
    phenomenal speed that allowed her to evade the attacks of men two
    and three times her bulk. True, they could crush her with a single
    
    i
    
    I

    




    MI
    
    blow, but by the time they got around to delivering it, they'd already
    be dead.
     Black wasn't the color for her, Elora noted critically. There was
    too much warmth in the faintly bronzed cast of her skin, too much
    life represented by hair the color of polished mahogany, shot
    through with strands and flashes of fiery aubum. The shade re-
    minded Elora of Ryn, of all people, especially since his fur was
    touched by the same autumnal hues. There was no slack to the skin
    over her cheekbones and the lines trailing off the eyes and around
    the mouth were deeply etched. They were calculating eyes, never at
    rest, gauging every situation, seeking out her opponent's every
    weakness,.warily anticipating a surprise attack or deciding how best
    to make one of her own.
      "Is there something perhaps I might help with?" asked the profes-
    
    sor.
     Elora let out a yelp of startlement that burst forth from Bastian's
    beak as a piercing cry. She floundered in her chair, he in the air, and
    with a tremendous wrench she severed the mental ties between
    them, apologizing profusely as the contact faded for the headaches
    such shock would bring to both.
     She blinked over and over again, her eyes so wide and staring that
    she looked like someone in a fit of panic when in fact she was only
    seeing through them the way the eagles did through theirs. For those
    few moments her body seemed to be composed of cast metal. Her
    hands had clamped tight on the arms of the chair as though for fear
    that if she released her hold she'd fall straight up into the sky, off the
    world entire and all the way to the end of Creation. The only part of
    her that moved was the surface of her chest, and that only a little as
    her breath came in staccato huhf sounds, one inhalation after the
    other.
     Gradually her pulse slowed and she found time to take a decent
    breath. Her eyes were closed and she wanted to keep them that way,
    the better to deny the pounding in her temples as yet another field of
    phantom spikeblossoms bloomed beneath her skull. She flexed her
    hands, one after the other, as though this was some new experience.
    Watching her, the professor could have sworn he beheld someone
    who didn't remember how to move. -
     "Please don't do that," she said at last, creasing her eyes open and
    giving the professor a small smile of reassurance.
     'I," he repeated a number of times, clearly flustered and concerned
    by what had happened, chastising himself for not knowing better

    




    and desperately afraid he'd done her harm, "I'm terribly terribly
    
    sorry!
    
     "It's all right. Could I. . . " Now it was her turn to pause and swal-
    low and cough as she tried to speak through a larynx laced as thickly
    with soikeblossoms as her head. She cleared her throat but the best
    
    she could manage was a croak. "Some water, please?"
     "Of course, my dear, right away, right away."
    
     There was a carafe on a nearby table, the water flavored with mint
    the way she loved it. She polished off a tumblerful right away, then
    slumped into the denths of her chair in hones that a wminutes're-
    
    laxation would restore her enough to deal with her ailments
    
     Banishing the headache took more effort than she anticipated. She
    wasn't aware she'd dozed until the clink of china and silverware her-
    alded the professor's return. More blinking as she dragged herself out
    of the chair and to a semblance of wakefulness s the table came
    
    into focus she couldn't help breaking into a smile.
    
    "What's this?" she asked incredulouslv.
    
     "You were kind enough to treat me to tea," the professor ex-
    plained, "when we first met. I thought it was past time to return the
    
     There was a chased silver pot of some antiquity, mismatched with
    a tall stoneware jug filled with steaming water. A pitcher of milk a
    
    bowl of sugar, a pair of mugs completed the service. On a serving
    
    plate was a fruitcake with marzipan icing that she knew was his fa-
    vorite, and one of hers besides. The scones were fresh and were pre-
    sented with a selection of butter, clotted cream and jam preserves.
    There were sandwiches as well, nicely stuffed, although nowhere
    near as elegant in presentation as she'd seen in downtown tea shops.
     He took his tea with milk, she preferred it black with sugar. They
    both reached as one for the same piece of fruitcake, shared a chuckle,
    then shared the cake Elora making sure when thev broke it that the
    
    professor got the larger piece.
    
    "Was it impressive " he asked "the Maizan nrocession?"
    
    Y      I
    
     She cocked an inquiring eyebrow but said nothing, preferring to
    savor the rich taste of her cake and wash it down with a swallow of
    tea. She had decided from the first to take the scholar into her confi-
    dence, and Thom had agreed without the slightest argument. It
    turned out that he and the professor were old acquaintances, who
    
    regularly whiled away an attemoon or evening, when duties permit-
    ted, over tea or brandy and a game of chess Elora's rationale was that
    
    the more the professor knew of her, the more help he could be.
    
    N

    




     "It wasn't so hard a deduction, my dear," he said, though he was
    proud of himself for having made it. 'You're not the only one who
    watches the Citadel semaphore, which is how I knew when they ar-
    rived. I've seen how you withdraw your concentration from time to
    time, evidently to merge it with some other person or creature. When
    I saw you here, I assumed that's what you were doing. P-and here
    he looked shamefaced-"didn't realize what effect my interruption
    would have. After all the time we've spent together these past weeks,
    especially considering all that I'm supposed to know about you and
    the Veil Folk, such a presumption is inexcusable."
     "It's all right. No harm done, to Bastian or me. My own fault re-
    ally, I have better things to do. In a couple of nights we'll be face-to-
    face, Anakerie and U'
      'Is that wise?"
      Elora shrugged. "How much do you know?" she wondered.
     His turn to make the same gesture. "As much as can be read, or
    asked, or divined. Within these walls is one of the greatest store-
    houses of raw intelligence about the Great Realms on the continent.
    I'll wager, even the world. The labor of my lifetime, and a goodly
    score before me, collecting, collating, codifying-all of which is ut-
    terly worthless if we cannot find a way to put it to use."
     As he spoke then, something altogether unexpected occurred.
    Without warning, her eyes brimmed heavy with tears. While her face
    was working fiercely to deny their.presence, the professor gently
    pulled her into his arms and enfolded her in a rough and fatherly em-
    brace.
     "It's all right," he said over and over, useless as the words sounded
    to his own ears. He knew she was crying and in a way these were far
    worse than hearty sobs, the grief and sorrow as naked in her as any
    bared blade, and able to cut just as deeply.
      "All I want are answers." She snuffled but made no move to dis-
    
    engage.
      He nodded sympathetically. "To questions as yet unknown."
     "It's as if the Deceiver knows everything. He has a plan. All we're
    doing is making things up as we go along."
      "Reactive, not proactive."
      "Huh?"
     'Consider police work, my dear. You can either wait until the
    crime has been committed and then track down the malefactors. Or,
    not so easily accomplished, determine what inspires those crimes and
    find a way to head them off before they happen."

    




     'Learn their plans, you mean?"
     'No, my dear, it's not quite so simple. If a man steals because he's
    hungry, find a way to help him earn that bread. Provide a legitimate
    means of winning self-respect, or providing for yourself and your
    family. Let the community know your purpose is to be their de-
    fender, win their regard, earn their trust. Help them, that they may
    better help you."
     "I have a dozen such communities to preach to, Professor," she
    said wearily, pushing away from him and fishing in her pockets for a
    handkerchief. All those tears had made her nose run as well, while
    her face looked so wet and puffy she might just have been slapped by
    a sodden cloth. She waved her hands helplessly. "I don't even know
    what some of them are, much less what they want,"
     "Elora." He looked her in the eyes; she met his searching gaze as
    he used his thumbs as a pair of impromptu towels to wipe her cheeks
    dry.
     "Yes?"
     "Is there anyone else to do the job?"
     She shook her head, suddenly feeling more six than sixteen.
     "I'm truly sorry~" he said, with meaning.
     "What I want sometimes, more than anything, is to run away and
    hide under my bedcovers and tell all the Great Realms to go hang
    themselves."
     "I like that. Those Maizan, are they as impressive as their reputa-
    tion?"
     "Breed 'em big, dress 'em bigger. The armor and the horses help.
    You see them coming, it's like the whole of the Wall is tumbling
    down on top of you. But that's only part of what they do."
     "This you've seen or this you've learned?"
     'Both. Up-country, when Duguay and I were at the fort up by the
    Cascadel headwaters, the Colonel commanding held court with his
    staff every night at dinner, almost like a seminar in tactics." She
    smiled shyly. "I like to listen. I remember what I hear. There are three
    divisions of Maizan horse: heavy brigade, light brigade, and flankers.
    Those who rode in with Anakerie, they're the heavy mob. Think of
    them as a sledgehammer, used to smash the opposition in a mass
    head-on attack. Light brigade focuses on speed, they wear mail in-
    stead of plate armor, quicker horses, lighter spears, to exploit the
    holes in the enemy line opened up by the heavy attack. The flankers
    are harriers. Favorite weapon's the bow. Use them to scout, to hit-
    and-run. They make you so crazy with distractions that you miss

    




    what's happening right in front until it's too late, or maybe goad you
    into some stupid, ill-considered response.
     "Now, that's ideal for open country warfare. And that's all folks as-
    sumed the Maizan were good at. Like looking at a master bowman
    and never imagining he knows how to use a sword. Or better yet"-
    she smiled inside and out at the thought of Luc-jon-"a country boy
    with country manners; would you think of such a lad as a licensed
    scribe?"
      "Most wouldn't, no," he replied.
     'There you have it. The supreme advantage of the Maizan is not
    that they move so fast and hit so hard, but that they do everything
    else required of an army. They have engineers, they understand siege-
    craft, they fight as well on foot. But since that doesn't fit the precon-
    ception, nobody thinks of them in those terms."
     She scarcely touched her mug after she sat down, silent for so long
    a time with her knees folded snug to her body, her heels resting on
    the lip of her chair, that her tea went cold. The professor took it to
    pour her a refill.
     As he did so Elora's gaze was caught by the shape its condensa-
    tion had left on the table. Without a conscious decision or the slight-
    est hesitation, she reached out a finger to repeat the circle once, then
    twice.
      "What do you see?" the professor asked her.
      "Earth, Air, Fire, Water," she rep ' eated, as she had to herself count-
    less times before, labeling the image on the table as she had so often
    in her thoughts, tapping her finger at each of the cardinal points of
    the topmost circle. "The Great Realms of the Circle of the World. Be-
    side it, the Circle of the Flesh: Daikini, Lesser Faery, Greater Faery,
    I'm not sure. And beyond, the Circle of the Spirit, about which I
    know nothing, save that that's where the dragons live."
      "What do you remember from your Ascension?"
     "A big blur." She shook her head. 'Been down that road too many
    times, searching my memory on my own and with Thorn to help me.
    If the images are there, he couldn't find a way to pull them loose by
    spells." She snorted in rueful dismay. "My immunity to magic prov-
    ing itself a two-edged sword.
     "But I don't think the images are there, at least not in any way that
    makes sense like normal memories. The Deceiver hit me pretty
    hard"-she held out her hands to indicate herself-"as you could see
    if it weren't for Duguay's disguise. In the process he chewed up my
    memories pretty thoroughly. I was under his glamour most of the

    




    time anyway, I had eyes pretty much only for him. I remember
    Anakerie's father but I couldn't describe the man to save my life.
    Same with Cherlindrea. The only face that's firm is the dragon." Her
    own face suddenly twisted, and she took a quick, convulsive swallow
    of tea, gasping as the raw heat scorched her throat. "Kieron Dineer.
     "And the Deceiver killed him," she finished.
     "Is such a thing possible?"
     "Take my word. I was there."
     "To be honest, I don't much credit their existence."
     "In a world that's chockablock with all the denizens of Greater
    and Lesser Faery, not to mention sorcerers of all sizes, shapes, and na-
    tures, how can you doubt it?
     "Trust me, Professor. Dragons are real. And mortal, at least in
    body. I can't seem to get Kieron's spirit-strange." She took a more
    restrained sip as she considered this new thought. "I never considered
    it before but we were never introduced, so how do I come to know
    his name? Anyway"-having no answer, she decided to move on-
    'he haunts my dreams. We're always on Tyrrel's tor and he always
    wants me to kill him again." Another thought, another longer pause
    that turned her mouth downward into a frown. "And Duguay's al-
    ways there to interfere."
     "Your partner, the troubadour?"
     "You don't like him either?"
     "I like looking people in the eye, my dear. It makes me nervous
    when I can't."
     She tapped the tabletop again, taking refuge in a return to an ear-
    lier stage of their conversation by marking the cardinal points of the
    circle she'd drawn below and to the left. 'I remember animals at the
    Ascension. No, wait, they were people, robed as avatars to represent
    them. Makes sense. After all, one circle is the world, the next ought
    to represent what lives on the world. The flesh. Daikini are a Realm,
    they get their place on the Second Circle. Or should the animals go
    first? Do they fill in this missing slot then?"
     "You don't sound convinced."
     "I'm not. It's like, all of a sudden, I have too many pieces for the
    puzzle. Daikini is right. Lesser Faery-brownies, fairies, Nelwyns,
    trolls, boggarts, and the like. Greater Faery, encompassing the Do-
    mains of Elfland and Faery. They all belong."
     'Your animals complete the circle."
     'No, they don't." With each thought, as they cascaded from her
    lips as fiercely as water down the cataracts, her tone grew more firm,

    




    her manner more certain. She was onto something. "Animals are of
    the world, just as Daikini are wholly of the world. They're a Domain
    of a Realm, a lesser aspect of a greater whole, the same as brownies
    and fairies and Nelwyns are Domains of the Realm of Lesser Faery. I
    said as much to Rool once but never made the connection. They had
    no business being represented like that at my Ascension, but there
    was a perceived need to fill all twelve slots in the Great Circle and no
    one knew the true order-or nature-of things.
      " See, Professor?" Again she indicated the circle, excitement ener-
    gizing both voice and manner. 'Start with the World. Move on to the
    Flesh: Daikini, wholly of the world; Lesser Faery, mainly of the world
    but with a step beyond the Veil; Greater Faery, of the Veil but with a
    step still in the world. The final stage has to be something, someone
    wholly beyond the Veil, the jumping-off point for the next circle en-
    tirely, whose only connection to the flesh and the world has to be the
    spirit, as its name says."
      "Which is?"
      "An altogether total mystery, except that at some point we find
    the dragons."
      'Could they represent your missing link?"
      She shook her head. "No. Dragons and demons, they're outside all
    the realities, they transcend all the rules. That's why they're only sup-
     posed to come to you in dreams Her voice trailed off and she
    sagged back in her chair, indicating herself in wry humor. "Case in
    point.
      'Circles are a great image," she said. "All I seem to be doing is go-
    ing 'round and 'round in them."
      "Have another piece of cake, you'll feel better."
      She did, in both regards, and then she thought some more. She got
    to her feet, drew her sword from its scabbard, and while the profes-
    sor watched with eyes almost as saucer-wide as hers had been she
    battled shadows from one end of the floor to the other.
      When she was done, he applauded until she quickly shook her
    head for him to stop.
      "That was magnificent," he protested.
      "Khory is magnificent," she told him. "I'm competent. A modicum
    of skill, but no art." A memory touched her. "Like the grandfather of
    a friend of mine. He was saying. .
      "Yes," the professor prompted.
      "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, setting aside the sword and walk-
    ing stiff-legged with eagerness along the line of shelves she had ap-

    




    propriated for her own use, to hold the books she was using. "Some-
    thing," she told him over her shoulder, "another friend told me.
    About a legend, of a race called the Malevoiy."
      "Umm. Black leather cover," the professor called out, "almost big
    as you. Silver chasing, three straps, somewhat the worse for wear, a
    little further toward the comer there."
      "Got it!' she cried exultantly, and then grunted with the effort
    needed to carry the book to a table.
      'What's this leather wrapped around, anyway," she demanded of
    no one in particular, "lead?"
     "I'm surprised you've no one to help."
      'They're all working for Thom tonight, even the brownies.
    Duguay's down in Kinshire, talking to the Factor about our show."
      "Those old scribes had their ways of keeping their work from be-
    ing stolen. Were I some thief, I'd choose booty I could carry~ not
    something that weighed as much as me."
      The cover, once unbuckled, made an audible thump when she
    heaved it open. Here, Elora had to sigh, and not with exertion. The
    writing was indecipherable.
      The professor adjusted his spectacles, which left them perched
    precariously at the end of his nose, and slipped the middle pair of his
    fingers down what she assumed was a table of contents, making
    comments whose ambiguity nearly drove her crazy before he let out
    a squeak of accomplishment and folded over a thick sheaf of pages.
      "Here we are," he announced, and then asked Elora, 'What did
    you friend say, about the Malevoiy?"
      She had to think a moment to get it right. 'That they could speak
    firsthand of the dawning of the world, but that no one's knocked on
    their door in living memory."
      'Interesting turn of phrase, that."
      'Why?"
      'They were, so it says here, the first of the races to step wholly be-
    yond the Veil."
      'What do you mean, 'step'? As in from the world?"
      "Could that be why the Realms are linked by circles? To imply
    that their status can change? Oh, that would be delicious, to find the
    High Elves of Greater Faery suddenly banished to this side of the Veil.
    Serve them right, in their arrogance."
      'Professor, do you know what's happening along the frontier?
    Greater Faery's been raiding the outland settlements. Suppose ban-
    ishment isn't the change of status they contemplate, but conquest?"

    




     'Well that wouldn't be at all pleasant, for either side. The
    Malevoiy are the oldest of Faery," he said flatly, and then his eye-
    brows rose. "And they are apparently as feared on their side of the
    Veil as some of the Veil Folk are on ours. Could they be the progeni-
    tors of demons?"
      "You tell me, you read the language."
     And so he did, to the best of his ability, long into the night as their
    tea turned cold and their cakes stale. With reading came inspiration,
    which sent him to another floor in search of some title to pursue a
    phrase that had popped out of nowhere in his thoughts, while Elora
    scrambled through a pile of notes and pages of her journal to satisfy
    a notion of her own. She wasn't sure which was more daunting, that
    for all her work there was still so much that remained unknown even
    within these walls, or that in these past weeks of effort she'd man-
    aged to discover so much.
     When the professor returned, he found her dancing, an elegant
    skitter-step routine that was accompanied by the hum of a random
    tune interspersed with phrases he recognized from her researches.
    This time he didn't interrupt.
     She looked fearfully embarrassed when she caught him out of the
    corner of her eye. 'As a kid," she explained in a great rush, "I wasn't
    allowed to do anything. I like being physical, I like moving, it estab-
    lishes a bond between my mind and my own body, the same way I
    use my InSight to merge with Bastian. Sometimes I can dance my
    way to an inspiration."
      "Any luck?"
      "I'm still working on it. And you?"
     "The Malevoiy texts make reference to a World Gate, and you'll
    never guess where."
      "Don't, please don't say it's somewhere in this building."
      "It would be useful."
      "You mean it is?"
     "Good gracious no, whatever gave you that idea? No ' it's some-
    where within the environs of Sandeni, up here on the plateau. But of
    course that was ages upon ages ago, when the Malevoiy were mani-
    fest on both sides of the Veil."
      'The ley lines have moved, the Gate won't be active. Will it?"
     He huffed a sigh. "I honestly don't know. But there's something
    else I've found."
    
    This volume wasn't nearly as impressive as the Malevoiy chroni-

    




    cle. The binding was torn, as were a number of pages, and there was
    water damage throughout.
     "There was a flood," the professor told her apologetically. "Base-
    ment storage, below water level, a weakness in one of the retaining
    walls, an unholy mess. See here, though"-and he pointed to an il-
    lustration-"what do you make of this?"
     "A Daikini country dance, what of it?"
     'Look at the border illuminations, Elora. I know the ink's faded
    but I also know what I see. Is that not the frame of a World Gate?"
     The breath went out of her, all at once, so suddenly she had to grip
    the edge of the table to keep from swaying. The professor sensed her
    distress, took her with an arm across her shoulder, and held her close,
    which is when she noticed they were very nearly of a height to-
    gether.
     Without slipping loose from his grip, she stretched arm and torso
    along the table to pluck up the "bestiary" Luc-Jon had sent her.
    There was no hesitation about which page to turn to and she
    slapped the open book beneath the illustration the professor had set
    before her.
     The sigil in her volume and the one atop the illumination were the
    same. As they were for the image seared in Elora's memory from
    Carig's rogue Gate.
      "Is there a name, a reference to any being?" she asked.
     'This is a story of some kind, an entertainment." The professor
    clearly disapproved. "There is reference to an otherworldly being, but
    not a hostile one. His role is benevolent, one might almost consider
    him a force for creation."
     "A name," she prodded further.
     "He is called the Lord of the Dance. Wait." The professor's voice
    tightened with concern as he flipped further through the book. "I
    may have spoken too soon.'
     'How do you mean?"
     The framing illumination was the same, though significantly more
    damaged than its counterpart. A tremendous amount of detail had
    been lost from the illustration as well, but what could be seen con-
    veyed totally the opposite impression of the one before. That had
    been a celebration of joy, this was one of transcendent horror, as far
    removed from the other as could be conceived.
     "Which is it?" Elora demanded. "When I first saw this sigil, the en-
    tity it represented was being Summoned as an agent of destruction,
    
    i
    
    I

    




    yet you've just been telling me something completely different, that
    it works for creation."
     , Can't it be both?"
      "I don't know!" she cried, and was immediately sorry for her out-
    burst.
      'Realms exist within the circles, and Domains within the Realms,
    that is the structure of things."
     "Try telling that to a demon, they hate structure of any kind."
      "Chaos is a state of nature. Is it merely a Domain or a Realm unto
    itself?"
      'We know the dragons are a Realm," she said. "Else why would
    Kieron have been at my Ascension?"
     'The references aren't to a single entity."
     "Hninh?"
     'To do his work, the Lord of the Dance needs a partner."
      "There you are," Duguay called in hearty greeting from the top of
    the circular stairs. "I have been looking for you so hard, my pet."
      His smile was as glorious as a spring sunrise, filling the room with
    a warmth and radiance Sandeni hadn't seen since snowfall and might
    not ever again.
     Elora didn't notice. At long last she had eyes only for his.
    
      Cascani House, as it was called, was chosen for both banquet and
    discussions because it was recognized, by all the parties concerned as
    both neutral territory and safe ground. Not only did their reputation
    for scrupulous honesty and fairness in business dealings make the
    Cascani ideal hosts, but more important their Rules of Hospitality ap-
    plied to all their guests. For so long as company remained beneath
    their roof and in no way transgressed that hospitality, no harm would
    come to them. To that cause, Factors pledged their honor, their for-
    tunes, and if necessary their lives.
      Sandeni troops ringed the wall that surrounded the large, com-
    fortable mansion and the square that opened off the main gate. The
    house itself stood atop a crookback bluff that jutted out into the
    Morar like a solitary tooth, providing a magnificent view eastward of
    the Wall and the falls, as well as an equally impressive panorama of
    the first cataract. That meant, unlike most residences, which were
    oriented parallel to their main courtyard, this house was designed
    perpendicular to it. Instead of the formal rooms branching off on ei-
    ther side of the reception areas, guests proceeded to them along a
    straight line. The layout, with its towering windows, played to the

    




    visual strengths of the scene. Regrettably, it also made the building a
    devilish pain to heat and in this harsh a winter that proved no small
    task. Two huge hearths blazed away in the formal dining hall, com-
    bining their efforts with a succession of vents along the baseboards
    that admitted hot air pumped out from a pair of holocausts in the
    basement.
     Officers of the Sandeni Constabulary manned the gate itself, com-
    plemented by Cascani Household Guards, who in turn were comple-
    mented by Maizan at the entrance to the house itself. The mood
    overall was wholly professional, and if an undue amount of attention
    was focused on the Maizan, with hands ever so casually close to the
    hilts of swords or knives or cudgels, everyone was tactful enough to
    take no overt notice or make a comment. As the saying went, "The
    lion may be housebroken, but those are still a damn fine set of jaws."
    No one wanted to be bitten, even by accident.
     Elora wore her leathers, her tartan warcloak flung diagonally
    across her chest and over the opposite shoulder and down her back
    in the highland fashion. With Duguay by her side she crossed the
    square in long, leonine strides as if the land itself were hers. When
    she blossomed from the shadows and the massed torch6res of the
    gate caught the hues and shadings of her painted features, she
    claimed the instant and absolute attention of every figure present.
     It was a superb meal and Anakerie had proved to be an utterly
    charming guest of honor. She sat at the high table with the Chancel-
    lor and the Cascani Factor, her ranking officers interspersed at a
    dozen other tables among representatives of the council, the parlia-
    ment, the business community, the trading and banking community,
    the diplomatic corps, and anyone else with influence enough to wan-,
    gle an invitation.
     As severe as she'd appeared during the procession through town,
    she was utterly resplendent this evening. She normally wore her hair,
    for convenience in battle, in a thick, single plait that touched the base
    of her spine. Tonight it hung undone, swept sharply back from the
    right side of her face, then over and around the crown of her head
    into a glossy fall of color that draped across the opposite shoulder and
    breast. On her forehead was a circlet of pure silver that had been
    handed down from mother to daughter in her family for countless
    generations, whose only ornamentation was a sigil of woven knot-
    work marked with four precious stones. Ruby, emerald, sapphire in a
    triangle surrounding the dominant element, a delicately faceted, per-
    fectly cut diamond. The knotwork itself was difficult to see because

    




    of the modest size of the sigil itself, but close examination would r
    
     Only Anakerie knew it was the most artful of forgeries. The orig-
    inal she'd given to Thom as a keepsake, a pledge of feelings neither
    
     About her throat was gold, a torque of Maizan workmanship that
    proclaimed both her rank and her relationship to their castellan. It
    was said that once donned, this collar could never be removed, sym-
    bolizing an eternal bond of fealty and devotion. At each end were set
    a pair of exquisitely carved fire chips, a rare form of ruby that used
    the warmth of living bodies to generate a radiance all its own. The ef-
    fect wasn't terribly apparent in a room with ambient light but in
    shadow they gave the disconcertin im ression of two sets of glaring
    
     Her gown was off the shoulders, a shallow scoop neck that hinted
    at the hollow of her breasts, long-sleeved and cut as much for com-
    fort as for style. It was a gown that moved easily on her, but that left
    no confusion as to Anakerie's status. Its color was a blue so rich it
    shimmered in the light as though its threads were actually spun crys-
    tal. Every so often a wayward beam struck one like a prism and found
    
    itself shattered into a myriad of component colors.
    
     The entire assemblage was on their best behavior, true feelings
    locked away in the recesses behind tightly shuttered eyes or masked
    by ready smiles and glib exchanges. The,laughter was genuine, be
    cause many of those present knew how to work a room, and which
    jokes were appropriate for the occasion. Among the direst of enemies
    there were always topics of common ground: the best way to train a
    horse, or hunt wild boar, or that most hoary and venerable of stand
    bys, the weather. Here, the Maizan even found themselves the objec
    of some expressions of genuine sympathy; for hard as the winter was
    proving in Sandeni the general presumption was that it must be far
    
                I
    more brutal on the open range.
    
     Dinner was served, and eaten. Toasts were made, and returned
    Light conversation, especially at the high table, marked the beginning
    f forthcoming negotiation as Anakerie and the Sandeni Chancellor
    tried for a better sense of the other. They weren't talking positions,
    or terms, nothing of any substance pertaining to the conference to
    come. This was far more important. They had never met, they knew
    of each other solely by reputation, their goal tonight was to divine
    some insight into how the other thought. Was it an intuitive mind or
    a linear one, given to rational deduction or leaps of flash and fancy,

    




    calmly imperturbable or prone to excess? Did he play a deliberative
    game of chess, did she prefer a timed game? Did they prefer chess at
    all, or poker?
     There were discreet questions about Mohdri. He had actively led
    the Maizan until the fall of Angwyn, in the forefront of every major
    battle as well as every negotiation. He'd been seen rarely since.
     Anakerie smiled, a surface expression honed and perfected by long
    practice, that gave not the slightest hint of her true thoughts or feel-
    ings. Three years ago she had seen Mohdri fall, impaled on the horns
    of a stag, crushed beneath the body of his fallen, dying horse. The
    wounds were mortal, yet within the hour of that moment she saw
    him on his feet, directing his troops, apparently fully recovered. When
    she first met Thom Drumheller in the dungeons below her father's
    palace, he had told her of a deadly threat to the life of Elora Danan and
    the safety of her kingdom. She hadn't believed him. Looking into
    Mohdri's eyes after that final battle, when Thom and Elora had made
    their escape, she realized that she was looking at a masquerade. The
    body was Mohdri's, every gesture and word identical with the man
    she had once almost loved, but the soul was something else. She un-
    derstood then why Thorn called his adversary the Deceiver.
     Although he had a body and the temporal power it commanded,
    the Deceiver made little use of it. He gave the governance of the
    Maizan to Anakerie, but although she'd earned a place among them
    as a child, the only girl ever to do so, and distinguished herself in a
    score of campaigns, she had to prove herself to them all over again.
    She was glad to do so. Those duels proved the ideal outlet for the
    rage and grief over the loss of her city and her father that threatened
    even now to consume her.
     This was none of her making but she swore to make sure as few
    would suffer from it as was humanly possible. In the past the Maizan
    had been excellent conquerors but poor rulers. They were forever los-
    ing through ignorance and plain stupidity what they had fought so
    valiantly to take. She set out to change that. She established a code of
    justice that was fair to all, and found the warriors to enforce it hon-
    estly. Again and again she pounded through the thick skulls of her
    generals that there was more honor and glory, and ultimately profit,
    in taking a city whole rather than in ruins. The farther they expanded,
    the harder it would become to control the land they already held. To
    succeed, to survive, the Maizan needed loyal allies at their back. It was
    a hard lesson for a people whose paramount precept had always been
    to trust no one outside their own.

    




    12~111NAIYI.04___~
    
     Through all the work, the battles with those foes determined to
    fight, the deadlier struggles within her own ranks, one face comforted
    her. Not the one she would have expected to strike a flame in her
    heart, not in a million years. She could number the times they'd met
    on the fingers of a single hand, yet she knew his face, the gentle ra-
    diance of his soul, would be a comfort to her till she died. His was the
    face she searched for as she rode into Kinshire, as she had made her
    entrance past the guests. She knew he was in Sandeni, she had a vol-
    ume of comprehensive reports from field agents as testament to that.
    At the same time she was glad he wasn't here.
     As Anakerie, she loved him. As Warlord of the Maizan, she was
    his sworn enemy. By direct order of the Castellan himself, he was to
    be slain on sight, he and all his companions. Only Elora Danan was
    to be taken alive and unharmed.
     Despite the best efforts of her spies, however, and her cadre of
    Black Rose assassins, the Sacred Princess was apparently nowhere to
    be found.
     Then the Household Chamberlain appeared and with the third
    rap of his seven-foot staff of office on the polished floor, conversation
    quickly faded,.ushered away by a hurried flash of whispers as those
    who knew what was to come gleefully alerted those who did not.
     Duguay led the way, gloriously colored, a rainbow walking, so be-
    decked in bows and tassels and ribbons that one clueless wag likened
    him to a drapery shop. He took large.steps, confident of his feet's
    ability to take him anywhere he wanted to go, and the broad smile
    he gave the audience along with a languorous bow of greeting made
    women swoon and even the pulses of a few gentlemen beat a hair
    faster. Then, a reverse of position and a second bow, to the patrons
    of the night's entertainment at the high table. The Chancellor and the
    Factor acknowledged with nods of the head, but Anakerie had eyes
    only for the cloaked and silent figure that seemed to glide in behind
    Duguay.
     At the sight of her, Anakerie went very silent, very still, so small
    and subtle a change in her demeanor that only one other figure in the
    hall noticed.
     As if on cue, or in answer to a call that only she could hear,
    Anakerie's eyes lifted from Elora and fixed on that other.
     In that gaze was a message meant for him alone. It was a smile,
    and from where he stood well hidden against the farthest wall, Thom
    Drumheller replied in kind and in full measure.
      Duguay and Elora had been working with the household musi-

    




    cians since receiving the invitation. From their station in the corner
    the fast-paced beat of a dumbbell mallet on the stretched leather head
    of a tiompan burst forth, calling on Elora to dance the reel. For the
    next few seconds, while the beat of the drum established itself, she
    remained still as a piece of carved stone, every aspect of her hidden
    beneath her hooded cloak.
     With the closing of that introductory measure, the drum was
    joined by uilleann pipes and a bagpipe as well, to cheers and applause
    from various Cascani scattered through the assemblage who recog-
    nized the tune. From stance and manner it seemed to Anakerie, as to
    everyone else, that Duguay would lead off the performance, but that
    sudden crescendo of music ignited a like explosion of movement
    from Elora. In a single, sweeping motion that sent her into a leaping
    full circle, she cast the cloak from her shoulders into Duguay's arms
    and claimed the dance, for herself.
     Her gown was the same shade as her leathers, the night-washed
    scarlet of the Black Rose, the color of blood spilled in passion. It was
    in two parts, hung low on her hips with a bandeau top to cover her
    breasts. It had body and weight, draping itself artfully along the line
    of her body when she moved against it, and flowing outward as well
    in graceful circles. As with Anakerie's gown, Elora's was stitched
    with crystalline thread, giving it the same capacity to refract the light
    that struck it, the difference being that in Anakerie's case the effect
    made her appear all the more regal. For Elora, she appeared to be shot
    through with either blood or flame.
     The patterns on the cloth had been replicated on her body paint.
    To those who'd seen her before, she had never looked more elemen-
    tal. For the others, they beheld the vision of some otherworldly be-
    ing, no doubt from far beyond the Veil, who had joined them for the
    evening. If appearance alone wasn't enough to convince them, the
    dazzling athleticism, the terrifying audacity of her dance more than
    did the trick. To watch Elora Danan that fateful night was to behold
    music made flesh. Each separate note struck its resonance in her body
    and called forth an equivalent response. There was no lag between
    inspiration and execution. She and the musicians were more in sync
    than the figures on an automaton, and shot through with a passion as
    fiercely beautiful as life itself.
     But she was merely the prelude. Seemingly without warning,
    where the dance had been a solo, suddenly it was a duet. If anything,
    the movements became more daring, more intense, more passionate,
    the two figures playing off each other as well as the music. Gasps
    
    1!

    




    were heard, some cheers, rounds of spontaneous applause. Many a
    breath was held and not an eye left the two partners.
    
     Except for Anakerie's which found Thom again and shared with
    him the unspoken realization that what they were witnessing was
    more than mere dance. The Maizan Warlord had known her destiny
    since she could walk. She'd learned lon.R aRo to recoRnize a duel
    
    Duguay led then Elora then he again then with a playful whoop
    
    I      Y        I
    
    of laughter that found an enthusiastic echo in the audience, she
    seized the role back. When next he claimed ascendancy, however, it
    was plain that it would not be easily relinquished. This time there
    was no contest between them. He cast her in the subservient role and
    she accepted, and when he spun her to the side so that he might fin-
    
     If there was any tension, no hint of it showed when they steppec
    forward to take their bows. The moment the music struck its fina
    chord most of the house was on its feet, raising hands and cheers tc
    the rafters and clamoring for more, a request the performers werf
    
     Duguay held center stage and had the audience entranced. His
    jests made them laugh, his music was a delight, he'd never been bet
    
    ter. All the while Elora remained off to the side, sitting on her ankles
    in the eastern fashion with her feet folded under her, her guitar held
    upright at her side in a manner that reminded Anakerie of a warrio
    
    At Duguay's conclusion, the applause was generous, meriting a
    
     Then, in her husky, broken voice, she began to sing. A cappella
    unaccompanied, about two lovers. Two lives, rich with promise, that
    would ever remain unfulfilled because of one woman's twisted am-
    bition. Her voice alone provided the frame and foundation of the bal-
    lad, she wanted nothing to distract from the images she was crafting.
    With the opening refrain, somehow all unnoticed, she slipped the
    guitar into her lap, plucking single strings, then chords, then striking
    
    an impatient percussive beat on the body of the instrument with e
    
     She painted a vivid picture of a land and a time where life had e
    come warped and twisted: under the rule of the Demon Queen, plea-
    sure came no more from joy in the wonders of the world but in the
    delight of another's pain. Power abjured responsibility, became an

    




    end unto itself, the purpose of achieving it was to achieve more. The
    goal was to triumph, to become the absolute zenith of all things, and
    any hindrance to that end was to be destroyed. So fell the father, so
    fell the mother, so would have fallen their only gift to the world, their
    daughter, had a midwife not spirited her away.
     The Demon Queen was not so easily deterred, and the song be-
    gan to increase its tempo ever so slightly. The gentle midwife, too,
    made the supreme sacrifice. But the child found another rescuer, the
    unlikeliest of heroes, whose heart and courage bore no relation to his
    stature. Through his efforts, with the help of dearest friends, the
    shape of their part of the world, mayhap the world entire, was
    changed for the better.
     As for the Demon Queen, she met the end she'd planned for the
    baby, ultimate obliteration.
     Someone began to clap, only to belatedly realize that the song
    wasn't done. The tiompan drummer was beating out a complemen-
    tary rhythm, taking his cue from the pattern of Elora's own handslaps
    on the guitar face.
     She continued her theme, singing of another time and of two sets
    of lovers where before there'd been but one. Here again, Anakerie
    sought out Thom, because when he had been her prisoner she had
    bonded briefly with his mind and soul, and she knew from that brief
    union that one of the pairs of lovers was Thorn and his Nelwyn
    beloved. They had won the good fight and looked forward to the
    joys such victories bring. So full of dreams, so rich with promise.
     A jangling chord, a moment of stillness, a harshly spoken sentence
    from Elora.
      "The world split asunder, and they died."
     She forged ahead with a driving, relentless pace, painting the pic-
    ture of that lost and lonely child, once more cast adrift, pursued by a
    foe even more implacably ruthless than Bavmorda, centerpiece of a
    struggle that appeared just as hopeless.
     Only there was a difference. The child was not a child, and her
    champions no longer had to fight alone. If destiny, through whim or
    cruel design, had chosen to set its mark on her, she would seize des-
    tiny by its throat and teach it she was not to be trifled with. Too
    many had suffered, too many had died. She might be defeated but
    their sacrifice had stripped from her forever the right of giving up.
     This was not a war about placing any Sacred Princess on a throne.
    It was about the freedom to choose your own path, and take respon-
    sibility for all that followed.

    




      She stopped again, in mid-phrase, but no one dared utter a sound.
    She hadn't left her knees, yet it seemed as though she could fix her
    gaze on every other eye in the room and take their full measure.
      She sung once more of lovers, and then the refrain, 'We will be
    free. "
      She sung of dreams, and then the refrain, 'We will be free.'
      She sung of dragons, and then the refrain, 'We will be free.'
      She sung of hope, and then the refrain, "We will be free.'
      With each repetition, the tempo increased, the passion and the in-
    tensity. When she sang the fourth refrain, another voice from deep
    within the crowd joined her. With the fifth, she had a chorus. By the
    sixth, every voice in the room that wasn't Maizani.
      The one she heard best was the one she'd hoped for all along,
    even though she knew that given the opportunity in battle, Anakerie
    would try her level best to kill her. The Warlord's lips barely moved
    and she sang so quietly that neither figure flanking her heard a word,
    but Elora heard it all.
     'We will be free.'
      She built to a last crescendo and with the final refrain rose with ef-
    fortless grace to her feet, holding her guitar high as though brandish-
    ing it like a standard before an army, letting those four words pound
    at walls and windows like thunderstones before a final crashing
    chord brought her song to its end.
      'We will be free," she sang with full voice and with all her heart,
    even as the force of that singing tore ather throat like claws, "and we
    shall!'
      The cheers before were nothing. People were on their feet, ap-
    plauding, whistling, stomping, hollering, the front rank of Cascani
    surging forward to engulf both Elora and Duguay, chanting the refrain
    to her song like a chant as they hoisted them up on communal shoul-
    ders, the better for the rest of the crowd to see. Among the Maizan
    were a couple of glum faces, not because they were displeased by the
    song but, contrary folk as they often were, because they, too, had
    found themselves caught up in it, bellowing that fateful refrain as
    heartily as the citizens of Sandeni they'd come to conquer. 0
      At the high table the Cascani Factor was on his feet, slamming his
    big hands together. The Chancellor stood more deliberately, to offend
    his guest. Anakerie sat a long moment, then allowed herself a regal
    smile that acknowledged the singer's skill and her incredible audac-
    ity. Then, the last in all the room, she, too, rose from her chair and of-
    fered up a proper and polite round of applause.

    




     "My lords," the Chancellor cried, using the voice he turned to
    whenever debate in narliament got a bit too rambunctious "ladies
    
    and gentlemen, I crave your indulgence a small while longer. There is
    something"-and this he directed more to Anakerie-"I should like
    you to see before we end this night's festivities. I hope it will put our
    
    forthcoming discussions in their proper context.
    
     "There's no need to show me the Wall," she said with relaxed
    charm as he led her among the crowd to the eastward-facing bank of
    
    windows. "It's been in my face for far too long."
     'I don't doubt it."
     The Chancellor beckoned to an aide, who proceeded to summon
    Duguay and Elora over. "A magnificent performance," he told them.
    
    "I especially liked your final song."
    
    'The Chancellor is too kind," Elora said with a shallow curtsy.
    
     Anakerie took a slow measure of the girl. Her eyes were on a level
    with Elora's nose, which wasn't so terribly bothersome unless the irl
    wasn't done growing.
     ",bdlow me to Dresent Anakerie Warlord of the Maizan."
    
    Another curtsy, deeper and more formal, a gesture of authentic re-
    
    'Your Royal Highness,' Elora said
    'That's a title I don't use anymore. The unspoken conclusion lay
    
    between them: for a realm that no lonaer exists.
    
    The aide returned and whisnered in the Chancellor's ear.
    
    "Ah. Snlendid. We're readv."
    
    "For what, may I ask?"
    
     'You may well, my lady. You know, my founding great helped lay
    the first foundations of this city. He was a bricklayer, charter member
    of the guild."
     'How nice,"
     'But he knew the great truth about this place
    
     'Which my founding great-a quaint phrase that, Chancellor-
    also recognized about Angwyn the instant he saw the Bay and the
    King's Gate. What of it?"
     "It's true, our location plays a major role in our prosperity. But
    there's another leg we stand on, and I thought this would be the ideal
    
    opportunity to present it to you "
    
     Anakerie's officers stirred nervously, drawing a bit together and
    slipping through the crowd to vantage points where they could bet-
    ter defend their warlord in case of trouble. They had no obvious
    weapons on them but they were prepared and more than ready to

    




    improvise. Most likely a futile effort, they knew, but they planned to
    go down swinging and not alone.
     The Chancellor made a hand gesture to his aide. "Alert the sema-
    phores, Nerys."
     Despite the cold, the windows, which also served as towering
    doorways, opened to allow those who wished out onto the lawn.
    Elora led the small charge, and wasn't surprised to find Anakerie close
    behind, though the Angwyn Princess was gathering a heavy cloak
    across her shoulders while Elora herself remained bare and unpro-
    tected.
      "You'll catch your death like that, girl," Anakerie cautioned.
      "Your Highness is too kind."
      "There's room to share."
      Anakerie held the cloak open.
     For a moment the two women faced each other, tension plain be-
    tween them. Then Elora repeated the shallow curtsy she'd made in-
    side.
     'I am in your debt, Anakerie," she said lightly as she stepped be-
    side the Warlord, into the comforting shelter of her cloak.
     'Good. Someday I'll hold you to it. Tell me, Elora, what's the big
    surprise.
     'Blessed if I know. Oh!" The exclamation came in response to the
    lighting of giant torches, mounted on the end of the semaphore arms.
    The two women couldn't see the signal tower directly, since it stood
    on another headland closer to the 'cataracts, but its fires burned in-
    tensely enough to shine right through the wide-open rooms of Cas-
    cani House.
     That cry of surprise and wonder proved but the first of many, as
    people scurried hither and yon across the yard, mindless of the cold
    as they rushed to catch sight of the line of torches which were light-
    ing in sequence along both shores of Lake Morar, all the way from the
    cataract to the falls.
     In the distance, the spectacular waterfalls were defined at night by
    the phosphorescence of the water itself, cascading off rocks during
    their descent or when they crashed into the lake below. Either way,
    the trails appeared as haunted, pale silver on blackest indigo.
     The double line of torches reached the base of the towering cliffs
    and there Elora, suitably impressed, assumed would be the end of it.
     Then was heard a collective gasp, from a score and more of watch-
    ing mouths, with pointing, outstretched arms to match, as a second

    




    line of torches appeared atop the Wall itself, stretching south toward
    the Shados and north beyond the point of easy sight.
     It has to be miles, Elora thought, and marveled at the logistics of the
    enterprise, to get so great a number of Sandeni's pugnaciously opin-
    ionated citizenry to volunteer for anything, especially when it in-
    volved standing in freezing cold on a bleak winter's night.
     The Chancellor wasn't done yet, for in the far distance out across
    the prairie, colossal bonfires burst simultaneously into flame atop
    each of the Three Maidens.
     From the darkness Elora heard a voice begin the closing verses of
    her song, followed by the refrain. Another voice joined, and then an-
    other and another, until the entire lawn was filled with her music.
    The next refrain, though, was taken up by voices outside the wall and
    it quickly spread down onto the beach, where soldiers stood at re-
    laxed attention. They sang, too, as did the torch holders on the shore,
    and in a surprisingly short time, those atop the cliff as well.
     It was a memorable sight, one every person present knew they'd
    carry as a treasured memory to their grave, thousands upon thou-
    sands of people, holding lit torches in the chill winter darkness, until
    even more amazingly they all broke into song. The final refrain of
    Elora's anthem. She didn't know if they could see her from on high,
    she didn't rightly care as she strode to the tip of the promontory and
    threw up her hands as an exhortation for more joyous noise.
     The wind was against her but still she heard laughter and good
    cheer and the crescendoing lyrics of her song.
     'My people have spoken, milady," the Chancellor said, leaning
    close to Anakerie so he could make himself heard. 'We are a free peo-
    ple, this is a free and independent land. And will remain so evermore.
    Tell that to your castellan.'
     The smile she returned to him was just as diplomatic. In her eyes,
    though, was a terrible sadness.
     "We all have dreams, Chancellor," she replied as she looked to-
    ward the small, deceptively slight figure of Elora Danan. "Come the
    dawn, however, we must deal with the world as it is."

    




    j2
    
    14
    
    ELORA DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE.
      The official guests departed in good time and smart order,
    though there was some agitation among the Maizan when
    Anakerie decided to stay awhile longer. They considered
    every town that wasn't theirs hostile territory and preferred
    their visits kept as short as possible. They kept to themselves
    and stayed mainly inside Cascani House.
      Someone had lit a fire on the promontory and a small
    group gathered to share some wine and watch the lights
    sparkle atop the cliff. Quite a number had planted their burn-
    ing torches on the Wall and despite the occasional gaps the
    sight remained impressive.
      "How many you think?" wondered Ryn, who'd snuggled
    himself so close to the flames that his fur was actually steam-
    ing In all the excitement earlier, no one noticed him clamber
    out of the lake and hide himself onshore. It was the first time

    




    she'd ever heard him complain of being cold and Elora was concerned
    he might set himself alight in his desire for warmth.
     "Up there?" She shook her head. She still wore her costume, want-
    ing to prolong the sense of power and grace she'd achieved during her
    performance. Duguay had produced the carryall satchels with their
    belongings and, most thankfully, her own tartan cloak, which was
    slung over her shoulders and under her backside both to keep her
    warm and to provide somewhere dry to sit upon the ground.
     She tried to count but quickly gave up in favor of a single, spoken
    "Lots."
     Someone offered a beer, but it took only the merest sip to remind
    herself why she didn't drink the stuff. She preferred her bread baked,
    sometimes toasted, never brewed. She was content with water, with
    the company, with the view.
     Morar was the first lake below the falls, and the greatest, larger
    than the five that followed put together, better than three miles wide
    and near a dozen long. According to local legend, it was formed when
    a promontory rock calved off the face of the Wall to strike the earth
    with such terrible force that it opened a huge fissure that in turn be-
    came the basin floor of the lake. The land rose at the western end to
    form a headland to the cataracts, and those same tales claimed that
    the rocks jumbled there were the leftover summit of the original
    fallen pillar. Which was a neat trick, when one considered that the
    length of the lake was better than ten times the height of the rock
    that supposedly made it.
     That was the nature and delight of legends. Truth was quickly rel-
    egated to the status of an afterthought, if not forgotten altogether.
      Hearing that, and thinking of her own life, Elora had to chuckle.
     The lake district was as thickly settled as atop the plateau, in a
    scattering of separate villages and townships. This close to the Wall
    there were no great farms, but every house had a plot of land suffi-
    cient for a garden, some even for an orchard. The earth was rich and
    water abundant. The only real drawback was the lack of fresh game,
    as the ever-encroaching settlements drove local animal life farther
    away.
     The moon had just cleared the Wall, looking for those briefest of
    instants as though it rested precisely atop the two topmost spires of
    the Citadel. Its light lay across the surface of the water like a swath
    of silver paint, in a shade that matched Elora's skin. From this dis-
    tance, and in this light, Elora could only make out three streams of
    water, and two of them came together halfway down the crag. The

    




    third she recognized as the Paschal, dropping straight and true as a
    plumb line to Morar below.
      "It sounds like thunder," she said, with the same still reverence
    she'd use in a church.
     'You get used to it." Ryn nodded.
      There was a mild explosion of talk, thickly laced with profanities,
    from around the far side of the bonfire, which turned out to be a
    group of ministerial aides enthusiastically lampooning the talks their
    superiors would begin on the morrow.
      The opening Maizan position (absolute surrender) would be re-
    jected as wholly unacceptable by the Sandeni, nor in all likelihood
    would the Maizan think much of the initial Sandeni response (Go to
    hell, dog robbers!). For the week following, the trained and motivated
    professionals on both staffs would bustle back and forth, presenting
    appropriate position papers, trading on nuances, seeking out the
    slightest room to maneuver, looking for someone to bribe or better
    yet blackmail, angling all the while for a resolution both sides might
    be able to live with. In the meanwhile many intemperate and highly
    provocative remarks would be exchanged (off the record, thank you
    very much) by both sides regarding each other's ancestry and/or
    amorous proclivities.
     Then a deal would be struck.
      "Or," someone said casually, managing with one phrase to kill all
    the laughter and good humor the comedic tirade had generated,
    'there'll be war."
      "I'd call the Maizan demented," Ryn said with a lazy stretch, "if I
    didn't know what drives 'em."
      "We don't know what drives them, Ryn," Elora retorted quietly,
    though given the roar of the crackling fire and the noise opposite
    from the drinking party it was doubtful even normal tones could be
    overheard. "That's the trouble.'
      They heard laughter, inspired by a series of not terribly inventive
    japes that under the circumstances were accepted by one and all as
    screamingly funny.
     'How do you tell a generous Maizani offer from a nasty one?"
      'You can have your severed head served on a plate, my good man,
    or set on a pike before the city gate as food for crows."
     'How utterly charming," Elora said with a sour expression.
      'The jest or the commentary? What did you mean before, 'We
    don't know'?"
     "Plain words, Ryn, plainly spoken."

    




     'Humor me, I'm sick."
     "Don't say that!" she snapped.
     He hunched himself around, his expression serious, and she
    yearned to see him as she had during that madcap flight from
    Angwyn. She'd never met anyone so instantly comfortable, never
    told him that she often thought of him as her stuffed bear made flesh.
     "I've been a churl and a swine lately," he said. "I owe you my life,
    Elora, and I never made the time to offer a proper thank-you."
     "That's all right."
     "I was raised better than that."
     'I only wish I could have found a way to set things right."
     "You can't save everyone." Her eyes began to flash and he held up
    a temporizing hand. "Rather, not everyone can be saved. Is that bet-
    ter?"
     'Not much. Not really. And you'd better not number yourself
    among them, do you hear?"
     'And obey!" Unspoken, amusedly, went the addition most dread
    and royal high-and-mighty-ness!
     "Why hasn't he found me, Ryn?"
     He knew full well she meant the Deceiver. 'Count your blessings,
    if you please."
     "Was I that well hidden among the Rock Nelwyns? I mean, if you
    listen to him I'm the ultimate object of his desire. Here's a creature
    possessing such power he can ensorcell Angwyn and the monarchs of
    the Twelve Great Realms. He slew a dragon, he set Cherlindrea's sa-
    cred forest ablaze, why does he come after me with surrogates? He
    posted a reward, for goodness' sakes!"
     "Perhaps he's not so impressive as you think. Or perhaps he needs
    his power to keep Cherlindrea and the others enchained?"
     "Interesting supposition. And that's my point. After all this time
    what do we truly know? He's not Bavmorda, of that I'm sure. This
    war is not about the acquisition of power for its own sake or for per-
    sonal self-aggrandizement. He has a goal and a purpose and we can't
    fight him effectively until we know what it is."
     "Ask Keri, why don't you~" He gestured toward the house with
    his chin. 'She's standing over there on the veranda." His smile broad-
    ened, as if in acknowledgment of a private joke. "She sits on one side
    of the bench, Thom on the other, trying to make the world think
    they're simply sharing a common space. She's Mohdri's warlord, re-
    member, bet she's privy to all his secrets."
     "Don't talk silly. That's as dumb a notion as the jokes they're

    




    telling. And stop using that name, she hates that, she used to box my
    ears in Angwyn whenever I did."
     "The Princess Royal struck the Sacred Princess?' He sounded de-
    lightfully scandalized.
     "I think it was a matter of defiance of her father, and of putting me
    in my place. I was pretty unbearable."
     "You're looking thoughtful again."
     "What are you staring at, rude boy?"
     "You, actually. That's a becoming costume.
    
    77
    
     "Duguay's design." Ryn's feelings about that name were plain and
    immediate, as was her response. "Oh, don't start, Ryn," she pleaded,
    taking him by the hand, "please, not tonight, it's too lovely a night,
    don't spoil things."
     "Very becoming," he conceded. "A compliment to the woman
    who wears it."
     She flushed so fast, so intensely her skin felt like it was glowing.
     "Tell me more," he said, "about the Deceiver."
     'I'd like to," she said. "I've got to tell it to Thorn and I'm pretty
    nervous about it. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who un-
    derstands, but then I think, these past months, maybe I'm the only
    one who's had time to look. The rest of you were too busy doing.
     "The Deceiver is the catalyst, the preeminent current threat, but
    he is not what this is all about. It's the Realms, you see, twelve com-
    ponent aspects of a single whole-like parts of a body-trying to
    pull themselves apart in different directions. If the Deceiver hadn't
    kicked them all in the teeth by lopping off their titular heads in
    Angwyn, I'd stake my title that most of them would probably be at
    war by now."
     "I thought your Ascension was supposed to stop all that."
     "Ryn, you saw me then. Would one word from my mouth have
    the slightest credibility? Would I have even cared? I looked around
    that hall and the first thought that came to mind was, now at last I
    get my own back!
     "The Deceiver is an opportunistic infection, the disease is the
    Realms' refusal to live together."
     "You can't force them to, Elora."
     "Then we have to close the World Gates, just like the Deceiver'~
    doing, and sacrifice those Realms as a doctor might a gangrenous
    limb to save the patient. There may be battles by armies, but the war
    itself is for the hearts and minds and souls of the people."
     "Good luck winning them over, my girl."

    




     "I'm not Anakerie ' I can't run an army. But I can make people lis-
    ten, Ryn. I can make them think and feel, and possibly even learn."
     "One soul at a time~"
     "If I have to. That's the other difference between us, the Deceiver
    and me. He's a monarch, as much as any of those he's ensorcelled. He
    orders, others obey. The change he brings the world crashes down
    from above. I'm starting at the bottom, with ordinary people. His
    way is faster, my hope is that mine will last."
      "Until the world freezes, anyroad."
     His ears quirked, ever so slightly, and he went completely still.
     "Do you hear that?" Elora wondered to him softly.
     "Hard to distinguish over the competition."
     "It sounded like a hunting horn."
     Ryn was about to scoff when a piercing cry of alarm brought them
    both around to behold Rool running flat out toward them across the
    lawn.
     "Elora!' he called. And then, impossibly, louder still, "Elora Danan!'
     The hubbub around the fire vanished as if a switch had been
    thrown or a door slammed shut, until one querulous voice inquired,
    "The Sacred Princess? Here~"
     "Rool," she cried, "what have you done?"
     "Someone answered him?" they heard. And then: "Who's over
    there?" And then, the words all tumbling one upon the other, too
    many voices speaking at once, "No one but that ragm.op of a Wyr."
    "Isn't that the singer, what's-her-name?" 'Her name's Elora.' "Her
    name's Elora!" That last was a shout, followed by the clatter and
    thump of too many bodies trying to untangle themselves into coher-
    ent motion at once, with no thought and less coordination.
     In the meanwhile Rool had reached Elora and hurled himself to
    her shoulder.
     'Go!" he roared to them both. 'Don't question, don't argue, just
    go! Can't you hear that bloody bedamned horn, now go! Y'
     They were on their feet and moving in mid-harangue, faster with
    every step. The Ryn Elora remembered would have been to the
    house like a shot. Instead she had to hurry him along.
     The horn sounded again, far louder than before, and underlying it
    was the sound of hoofbeats.
     'What the hell is that?"
     She would have stopped and turned for a look in the direction of
    the sound, many others did, but Rool started shrieking in her ear and
    she hardly slackened her pace.

    




    7 0
    
     "You remember Ganthem's?-" he told her.
     'I'll never forget," was her reply.
      "You aren't the only one. The difference is, High Elves never for-
    give."
      The first horses of the Wild Hunt cleared the boundary wall of the
    estate as Elora and Ryn reached the steps of the veranda. She labeled
    them horses because that is what they most closely resembled, but
    these were no horses, any more than the riders could be mistaken for
    human. The animals gibbered with rage and hunger and she thought
    for an awful moment that she was being chased once more by Bav-
    morda's Death Dogs. In that moment it was clear to her where the
    Demon Queen had acquired that damnable strain of hunting hound.
      The horses struck the earth with hooves composed of three huge,
    hooked claws, each step gouging terrible wounds in the ground as a
    foretaste of what they would do to prey. Realizing their peril, far too
    late, those still on the lawn began to run.
     None survived more than a couple of steps.
      They fell beneath those awful hooves, or the fangs that filled these
    animals' mouths instead of a ruminant's flat teeth, or the gleaming
    crystal blades of the riders. There was blood as they fell and screams
    strangely after, as though the souls of the slain were being dragged to
    some hideous fate.
      A sword was leveled in Elora's direction and a squad wheeled
    with such precision, making a right-angle turn without losing a single
    step, they might have been mounted on turntables. Ryn took her in
    his arms, and before she could protest, much less struggle, he hurled
    her across the patio and through the nearest open doorway.
     Then he turned to face the onrushing charge.
      He thrust a bench into the path of one, hoping to trip the beast,
    but its unearthly agility allowed it to spring over with ease. He
    didn't stop to think, events were happening so quickly, the battle
    erupting with such sudden and extreme ferocity, that by the time
    he'd done so he'd be dead. The Wyr ducked under a second beast
    and unhorsed its rider, whose neck made a satisfying and final krak
    when he landed.
      Sadly, numbers and his own debilitated state worked against him.
    Even as Elora clambered to her feet inside, a horse delivered a fear-
    some body blow, ramming its chest into him. He went flying, an-
    other rider drawing blood with a sweeping slash of his blade, another
    mount finishing the job with a rake of its claws as Ryn crashed un-.
    moving to the steps.

    




     A whole host of voices screamed their protest at that sight. Elora's
    was one, but her outcry was nothing compared with the one uttered
    
    by Anakerie as she charged down a flight of stairs.
     'A sword ' she bellowed as she would on anv battlefield
    
    'The Danan," one of the riders called out in a glorious tenor.
    
    'Where lies the Danan?"
    
     Elora had already been seen. As she pitched herself clear of its path
    a horse burst through the glass doorway, filling the air with a shower
    
    of glittering and deadly shards. Neither horse nor rider appeared af-
    fected by the impact, and any hope Elora entertained that the animal
    might have a harder time on the polished floor were instantly dashed
    as its claws nunched through the gleaming tile as if it were rice naner.
    
     Duguay had brought her traveling pouches with the cloak and
    she'd automatically strapped them on. Now, scrambling to find foot-
    inR of her own and keep track of the attackers, she thrust a hand in-
    
    side, to come up with her long sword.
    
     'Anakerie," she called, in a fair approximation of the Warlord's
    combat tones, and threw the weapon to her, while drawing its com-
    
    panion mid-length blade for herself.
    
     With a wild grin and a war cry to match, Anakerie leaped into the
    air for the sword. She was spinning as she caught it, completing a full
    revolution by the time she touched down again, using the momen-
    tum of that movement and the speed she built up to add to the force
    of her first blow.
     It took the nearest horse across the neck and without pause sliced
    deep into the rider as well. Shock made him jerk the reins, so that
    both he and his mount collapsed into a sideways crash that sent them
    skidding across the floor, the rushi torrents of their lives staini it
    scarlet behind them.
     Elora stood staring, a little bit of shock, far more disbelief, at the
    sight. It wasn't the brutality of the moment that startled her but the
    sheer beauty of the slain elf knight. As a race, they were at least a
    head taller than the tallest Daikini, attenuated creatures whose gen-
    eral resemblance to Daikini served to make them even more unreal to
    the eye. His armor was hide sandwiched between a lacquer laminate,
    the pieces fastened together by an intricate array of brocade ties.
    Somehow, though the armor was as hard to the touch as steel plate,
    it followed the specifics of the wearer's form so that it appeared al-
    most skin-snug. Underneath, for padding, was a quilted jacket, with
    .baggy trousers to match. The fundamental elegance of the being it-
    self was sustained through every aspect of its being, whether clothes

    




    or weapons. Form was wedded to function on every level, to create
    an appearance of consummate loveliness.
     To look at these warriors, it was hard to see them as a threat. They
    were too beautiful.
      For many, that was a fatal mistake.
     Elora was still for all of a matter of seconds, and that was nearly
    her last mistake as well. A warrior aimed his sword at her back, the
    young woman sensing his presence a fraction too late, turning to face
    him too slowly to save herself.
     Rool's arrow struck at the elf knight from Elora's shoulder, Fran-
    jean's from the upstairs landing, striking him one after the other with
    all the fierce life energy the brownies could imbue them with, fueled
    by their rage at this attack and their even more desperate concern for
    Elora's safety. The elf flew off his saddle as though he'd been lasso'd
    from behind, hammered backward onto the wall with such force that
    he cracked his armor if not his bones. He was hurt but far from fin-
    ished, and struggled up from where he fell, his face twisting with rage
    and pain and exertion.
     Rool nocked another shaft and let fly, but he'd used too much of
    his life force in that first reflexive response. The arrow he fired had
    hardly more energy than an ordinary flight, and even though the
    parry was ugly, the elf was able to bat it aside with his sword. He
    swung for Elora and just as she had done in her training duels with
    Khory, her own curved blade rose to check him. He was faster than
    any Daikini, even bashed and battered as he was, but Elora had
    honed her skills against the demon child, whose speed was beyond
    belief. There were none of the harsh sounds of contact between steel
    blades, this engagement like the others raging throughout the room
    and yard beyond was marked by a succession of sweet chimes as
    metal struck crystal.
      Before this exchange was done, Elora knew she had him.
      "Yield," she called to him. 'Lay down your weapon."
     He nodded shallowly, curtly, let his sword fall. Elora didn't want
    to take her eyes off him or lower her guard, so she called on Rool to
    tell her what was happening behind her back.
     That was what the elf was waiting for. He had no respect fQr
    Elora's abilities, even though they were proving better than his own,
    it was the brownie he regarded as the only legitimate threat. As soon
    as Rool looked away, knives appeared in both his hands as if by
    magic, though in fact they'd come from spring-loaded sheathes
    strapped against his forearms. With a sideward sweep of the leg, he

    




    struck at Elora's wrist to slap her sword aside. That done, he meant
    to bury both his daggers in her unprotected back.
     Except that she was turning even as he was, reacting only the
    barest instant behind him. A kick intended to break bones and possi-
    bly disarm her made only the most marginal contact as she folded at
    the knees, dropping at the same time into a crouch.
     Here, the elf's height worked against him. He couldn't bend quite
    as fast and his own momentum made it that much harder to reverse
    direction. Suddenly he was the one who was vulnerable, Elora spin-
    ning through a single revolution like a top.
     There was no time. For hesitation, for second thoughts, for any-
    thing. Both combatants were committed to a course of action that
    could not be recalled.
     The elf began to mouth a curse, but in Sandeni they were little
    more than words. The last thing he saw was Elora's face. There was
    no rage in her, only a great sorrow.
     Her aim was as true as Anakerie's as she stabbed upward through
    the side seam of his breastplates, beneath his ribs, into his heart.
     There was no time to react to his death, a sweep of her gaze
    across the room conveyed the whole of the situation.
     Anakerie stood alone on the veranda, straddling Ryn's body, her
    gown ruined by dark stains on the glorious blue fabric, the sword
    Elora gave her whipping through the air faster than any eye could fol-
    low, her body moving only slightly slower as she stood her ground
    against every warrior that came against her.
     Within the ballroom was an ever-more-chaotic melee, a mad mix
    of struggling bodies, shouts and screams, the clash of blades and fists.
      'Where's Franjean," she demanded of Rool, "where's Thom?"
     She didn't dare use her InSight to find them, she needed all her
    wits to stay alive.
     "Maizan!' she heard, and saw Anakerie's escort, armed and ar-
    mored, charging on foot into the room like a cresting wave, shoulder
    to shoulder. They had no shields, but they wore steel head to toe and
    accepted no foe from either side of the Veil as their equal.
     Warriors came together with an audible crash and the form of bat-
    tle dissolved instantly into a myriad of individual combats. The
    Daikini would seem to have the key advantage, since the very sub-
    stance of their weapons was anathema to their opponents and in this
    crowded and relatively confined space the elves would not be able to
    utilize their extraordinary speed. The Maizan assumed as well that
    the elven armor would be no defense against their scimitars.

    




     To their surprise, and very quickly their horror, that proved not to
    be the case. Faery armor could be broken, but only with a tremen-
    dous effort, and while that blow might prove successful, it left the
    warrior who delivered it exposed to other attacks. The enemy in
    front was not the paramount threat, but the two who struck from ei-
    ther side.
     The opposing forces could not be more different, in appearance
    and in style. With the entrance of the Maizan, the Daikini appeared
    as dark, brutish shapes, workmanlike and graceless, stamped from a
    single mold. By contrast, though the elves fought in concert they
    never lost their individuality, or the phenomenal grace that made this
    appear more like a performance than a pitched and bloody battle. No
    striking cobra could hope to match their speed, and their strength
    beggared description. Blows from the Maizan that would have slain
    any other foe too often spent themselves on empty air. Before that
    luckless warrior could recover himself his life was done. Or a pair of
    hands would close on some poor man's head, with long, elegant fin-
    gers you'd think would have trouble cracking an eggshell. There
    would be a moment of dread realization, when the Daikini so caught
    might mistakenly believe he'd just been clamped between the jaws of
    some vise, and then a twist of those delicate wrists would break his
    neck.
      The Maizan were valiant, they were skilled, they were doomed.
      Khory Bannefin saved them.
     She wore no armor, save a shirt 'of fine mail beneath her leather
    tunic. She faced the elves with a sword in either hand and a look of
    wild joy on her face. Fast as the elven warriors were, she proved
    faster, her thrusts and parries an ongoing masterpiece of precision.
    Not a move was wasted, nor an opportunity missed. She killed for
    herself, she drove her foes onto the swords of others, she took so
    great a toll in so short a time that the elves had to fall back a few steps
    to try to regroup.
     She gave them no chance, but lunged forward to bury the point of
    one blade in a naked throat, pivoting sideways to stroke her edge
    across another's shoulder to nearly sever his arm, backhanding her
    second blade to parry an attack, following through and completing
    her turn with the first blade to open her foe across the hips. The elf
    dropped, yowling in agony, ravaged as much by the touch of her steel
    as the actual damage she'd inflicted with that dreadful wound until a
    following Maizani finished him. By then, Khory had moved ahead,
    to another duel, another victory.
    
    ~NIII

    




     Thorn used no blade, but fought with a quarterstaff twice is
    height that reminded Elora of the rod the Lord Regent of Lower Faery
    had carried on Tyrrel's Tor. He was hard to reach with swords, though
    short enough to be stomped on, but he never let his adversaries come
    close enough to try~ With a fair speed of his own, and an uncanny ac-
    curacy, he stabbed out with the point of his staff as though it was a
    lance, at ankles and knees and groin, blows meant to harry and possi-
    bly cripple, and if his attacks doubled that unlucky warrior over so
    that his head came in range, Thom would shift his grip on the pol-
    ished ironwood and slap the elf down with a sharp clout to jaw or
    skull. At the same time Franjean kept up a harassing fire of his own,
    conserving his energies after that initial burst to save Elora, intent not
    so much on inflicting mortal harm as on distracting as many of the
    
    elves as r)ossible so that other hands mieht finish the iob.
    
     One set of those hands belonged to Renny Garedo, and Elora saw
    at once that he was being especially hard-pressed amidst a pile of still
    forms who were more Daikini in Sandeni and Cascani livery than
    they were warriors of Greater Faery. He'd led his men as well as they
    had fought, which was with all the courage any leader could hope
    
    for, but his very presence seemed to inspire the elves to a manic -
    
    rocity, as though his existence was an insult that couldn't be bome.
     Renny made no attempt to escape, or join forces with other de
    fenders. Quite the opposite. He used the elves' focus on him to draw
    
    them away from more valuable targets, making plain that he consid-
    
    ered his life fair exchanRe for those of Thorn and Elora
    
     There were only a few Maizan left, but they were advancing
    steadilv on to the veranda. The flow of battle had swirled Khory to
    
    the side, placing her closer to Thom and Renny.
    
     She didn't attempt to use her speaking voice. After her perfor
    mance, there was precious little of it left. Even in top-notch condi-
    tion, she wasn't sure she could make herself heard over this din. She
    didn't like using mindspeech with Khory. Each contact brought with
    
    it a reminder that the human structure of her thoughts was only a
    surface construct. Beneath it, like an ocean beneath an ice field, was
    something deep and dark and wholly unfathomable, whose essence
    was the deadliest entity known to the Twelve Realms. That wa
    why, in this battle, Khory proved as much a lightning rod as Renny.
    The elves sensed the dual nature of the demon child and saw this a
    an opportunity to revenge themselves on a race they hated almost a

    




     There was no time for doubts, or hesitation. I'M M-ts had to give
    birth instantly to action or they were of no use.
      'Khory," Elora called in mindspeech. "Bring Renny -.0 Thom, stay
    with them both."
      There was no entreaty to what she said. As _79141rere with Rool,
    these were royal commands, and meant to be u~- M
      She heard no acknowledgment from Khory, ;*-4gMd none. Trust-
    ng the warrior woman to do what was right, Elora imned her atten-
    tion the other way.
      Rool had heard her instructions. He had his own oaoughts about
    them.
     'Best you join 'em, Elora, safety in those swords."
      She kept her silence and let her body answer for Wer. She'd taken
    hardly a step before Rool realized her intent and _~ullabaloo'd a
    protest.
      "Are you demented, girl? Stop this foolishness, this instant, before
    we're both of us for the high jump!"
     "I won't let you die today, Rool."
     "What about you?"
     "Anakerie's fighting on her own! I can't leave herr"
      'She's a trained professional, you silly nit, this is what she was
    born to do!" In his agitation, the brownie cast aside .111 sense of pro-
    priety and tact, saying whatever came to mind and contemplating
    worse in a vain attempt to deflect Elora from her MIstrong course.
      Franjean heard the outcry. In this close a Ujjg~ what one of
    them saw the other instantly knew, and he wasted -sxei time in telling
    Thorn. They all recognized the danger but there %ma-.1 nothing to be
    done about it. The press of bodies arrayed against them was too
    great, they had to secure their own position first.
     Elora sent a chair skidding across the veranda, *.%RR:Iing one elven
    warrior in time to turn a fatal stab into a nasty -.4 W that glanced
    messily off the bones of Anakerie's back. As though the move had
    been intended all along, she reversed her grip on _19ter sword and
    stroked its tip across the elf's throat. Blood felMITM M1, life fled, and
    she brought the curved blade around and up to parry ahe thrust of an-
    
    on him from the side in a tackle that pitched him ieo a tangle ~f
    bushes. Again without missing a beat, Anakerie -mexped up one of
    the elven knives and hurled it at him with a 318'Mffl.~is flick of the
    wrist.
     "What are you doing here?" she snarled at the %lo&ger woman as

    




    they stood shoulder to shoulder over Ryn's still form, their blades
    weaving a daunting, deadly pattern before them while Rool did what
    he could from his perch atop Elora's shoulder.
     "I thought you needed help."
     "Your help, singer? That'll be the day."
     "We stay long enough, Highness, that day may yet dawn."
     How long they fought, neither could tell. A clock might tell them
    minutes and they would say it lied, because to them it seemed like
    hours passing. They were hard-pressed from every side, even after
    they were joined by the two or three Maizan to fight their way to the
    veranda. The sights and sounds and smells, every physical sensation,
    blurred and distorted in Elora's perceptions into a ravening pande-
    monium that stripped the moments of their consequence. She lost all
    sense of herself as a being, and worse, of those she fought as well.
    They became objects, as did she, and the fact that flesh opened when
    she cut it and blood spilled and eyes turned glassy lost its meaning.
    She fought as fiercely as she was able because her life was at stake,
    and that of friends and comrades, but that was a truth her body knew
    far better than her mind.
     Then, from nowhere, disaster.
     An elf, already cut to the quick by Anakerie, deliberately impaled
    himself on Elora's shorter blade. His hands closed about her, one on
    an arm, the other to her crotch, and with a tremendous heave he
    threw her to the lawn. Too late, Anakerie brought her own blade
    across his body in a blow of equal power that separated head and one
    shoulder from the rest of him.
     Elora landed badly but forced herself to her hands and knees, tak-
    ing a quick bearing so she'd know the best way to scuttle, first
    thoughts not for herself but for Rool. She called aloud with mind-
    speech and felt her heart contract when he didn't reply.
     She heard an outcry from the veranda, saw Anakerie's charge to
    her side blocked by a mounted elf whose animal quickly gutted one
    of the Maizan with its foreclaws. She heard the approach of other
    horses but had hardly begun to move before she felt something light
    as gossamer fall across her lower legs. An instant later a scream of real
    pain was torn from her as those nigh-weightless strands cinched
    themselves so tight she thought her bones would splinter.
     She tried to move but the best that could be managed was to flop
    about like a landed fish as she caught sight of bands of glittering en-
    ergy burning on the surface of her flesh.
     "I have the Danan," she heard, and saw an elf dismount.

    




     "Kill the bitch," shrieked another, still on horseback.
     "That is not the plan, nor was it the task set before us."
     "A pox on both. We've lost too many this hunt, she's not worth
    the price!"
     "And what is a Wild Hunt, my friend, if the quarry proves us easy
    prey? You are more than wrong, her courage this night is proof of
    that. The Danan is beyond all price. And soon she will be ours."
     From a pouch, the elf withdrew a ring big enough to fit Elora's
    neck as a collar. It was gold, four fingers broad by half a finger width
    deep, etched with runes and sigils that flashed a sickly lime fire from
    some impossible depth and made her nauseous as she tried to gain a
    proper sense of them.
     It broke in half in his grip, like any ordinary piece of jewelry, but
    to Elora it registered like some dreadful predator baring its fangs be-
    fore its prey. She struggled against the bonds that held her, cast about
    frantically for something to use as a weapon. She caught sight of
    Rool, sprawled unmoving on a shattered flagstone, and as quickly
    looked away for fear her eyes would lead the elves to him while he
    was helpless. The elf thrust the collar forward to ring her neck with
    it, and looked down on her pityingly as she blocked him with her
    hands. She didn't try to hold him by the arms, but instead put both
    hands against the collar itself, trying with all her might to push both
    it and elf away.
     The stalemate didn't last.
     To her horror, Elora felt the metal beneath her fingers soften. It
    was too close for her to see, but desperation cast forth her InSight,
    giving her a fragmented, kaleidoscopic vision of the scene through
    the eyes of both her attackers. The collar began to flow like putty,
    sending forth questing tendrils-all suffused with that sickly radi-
    ance-around her gloved hands, through the spaces between her fin-
    gers, to reach almost languidly toward the exposed column of her
    throat. Without any knowledge why, the certainty came to Elora that
    the moment one of those strands touched her, encircled her, her fate
    was sealed.
     A brace of brownie arrows bludgeoned the elf on horseback with
    the force of a battery of thunderstones, his lacquer breastplate shat-
    tering from the irresistible blows, as did the heart and bones be-
    neath.
     At the same time Elora heard a bellow of raw rage together with
    the whistle of something solid through the air, saw from the topmost
    tilt of her eyes the looming shape of Thom Drumheller as he swung

    




    his quarterstaff like a bat with all the strength in his compact Nelwyn
    form. The elf's skull broke from that monstrous impact as readily as
    his companion's armor, and then another figure crossed Elora's vision
    as Khory's blade passed before her in a blur of motion to sever the
    dead man's hands from his falling corpse. With a cry of her own,
    Elora pitched the collar as far from her as possible.
     "It's all right," Thom told her as she scrabbled for purchase on the
    slick and trampled grass. "It's all right," he repeated over and over,
    gentling her as he would any panicked child, as he had his own when
    they were frightened.
     Yelling for Khory's assistance, for once making no mention of her
    antecedents, Franjean made his way down Thom's sleeve until he
    could leap to the nearest level of steps and race to his comrade's side.
     'The elves?" Elora asked, the best she could manage a raw and
    husky whisper.
     "They're done," Anakerie replied, where she stood alone.
     They were all of them a sight, scored with blood, and some of that
    their own. Their clothes were a ruin, stained with sweat and filth and
    tom in the bargain. About them all was the stench of death, an
    awareness of the lives they'd taken, but more of the fact of their own
    survival. None could quite believe it.
     "What," Elora tried again, 'happened here?"
     'What better way to win a war," Thorn noted idly, as if they were
    having a discussion over dinner at Black-Eyed Susan's, 'than to strike
    off your enemy's head and possibly claim their greatest talisman,
    their true hope, for your own?"
     "Murder me, you mean?" Anakerie asked him, taking a moment
    to see for herself that he was whole and relatively unharmed. Their
    glance lingered only moments on one another, and the touch of his
    fingers to hers as she passed was even briefer, but both spoke vol-
    umes.
     "You, and the Chancellor, the Factor, as many of the notables as
    could be put to the sword. It worked at Angwyn for the Deceiver,
    why not here as well?"
     "There are those who learn from history," she said in grim appre-
    ciation of the stratagem, "solely in order to repeat it."
     With a terrific wrench of the legs, baring her teeth in a howl to
    match, before any of the others could make a further move to help,
    Elora broke the bonds that held her. The effort left her panting, in a
    spasm of shuddering sobs that she buried along with her face in the
    folds of Thom's robe.
    
    q

    




     "That was a tanglefoot web," Renny noted to no one in particular.
    IlThose can't be broken."
      "It's magic," Khory told him. "Can't hold her."
     Renny held up the collar they'd tried to affix about Elora's neck.
    "This is magic, too. It's a Slave Ring. It binds the wearer, body and
    soul. They're said to be worth a King's ransom."
     "Keep it away from me," Elora cried out, as did Thom, with a dif-
    ferent pronoun.
     "If this has been keyed to you, Elora," the constable said, "it's a
    danger for as long as you live. Unless you find the Mage who made
    it and have him release the binding spell."
     "Destroy it, then." She hunkered herself closer to Thorn, gathering
    her sore legs snug beneath her for their protection.
      "To be honest, I don't know if that's possible."
      'What's the danger, if she's immune?" Anakerie asked.
     "This is old, milady," Renny told her, and the others as well. "None
    can relate its origins, all that is known is how to bring it into being-
    by means so foul I will not relate them-and then make use of it. You
    saw how she fought, her soul knew full well what it faced here. She'd
    have accepted death before this collar. The Slave Ring is an abomi-
    nation, as is the fiend who commissioned it. Neither is to be trifled
    with.,,
     Elora turned tear-streaked cheeks to Thom. "The wheels have no
    hub to anchor them."
      He nodded. "And so begin to spin ever more fiercely out of con-
    trol.YY
     ,,And that's your role, little Sacred Princess," Anakerie mocked
    from up by Ryn as she tended as best she could to his wounds and
    tried to make him more comfortable, 'to hold things all together~"
     'There's a pattern to all things, damn it," Elora flared, Anakerie's
    gibe bringing her to her feet. "A structure."
     "An order, I know. You talk like Mohdri, and make about as much
    sense. Listen to him long enough, you find yourself wanting to be-
    lieve he really does mean best. A little present pain, to balance against
    a future of prosperity."
      'Except he's wrong."
      'And you're right?"
     "The circles interlink because the world is one. Actions and reac-
    tions, each affect the other throughout the whole. The air turns cold
    and Daikini suffer. But so does Lesser Faery, and who knows, perhaps

    




    the dragons do as well. In every tale, every history, they're spoken of
    as the source of genius, of inspiration. Theirs is the Realm we visit in
    our dreams. But if there are none of us to dream, what becomes of
    them? If there are no dragons to inspire our dreams, what ultimately
    of us?
     "The Wall exists, that's a plain fact, and the Daikini of Sandeni had
    learned to live with it. As the Cascani have learned to live with the
    Wyrrn. As an elf and a Daikini did so Renny could be born. It's not so
    hard." She looked across the garden, eyes brightening with tears she
    would not shed at the sight of so much carnage before they finally
    came to rest on the collar in Renny's hand, 'If you give yourself a
    chance."
     She blinked her eyes clear and fixed them back on Anakerie. In
    three quick steps, she stood before the Warlord and all took note that
    when she scooped up her long sword and held it at the ready,
    Anakerie made no move to stop her. It was strange then, to think that
    their aspects had suddenly reversed, the Warlord, who was twice
    Elora's age, becoming more the child.
     'What's happening?" Elora asked in a quiet, measured tone that
    Anakerie knew well, having used it often herself. It had nothing to do
    with being royal, but everything to do with leadership. "What have
    you done?"
     "What I'm supposed to," Anakerie replied with a wan smile. 'Find
    a way to win. That's why I have spies. So I would know the Chan-
    cellor's 'surprise'-that little demonstration on the lakeshore and the
    cliff-almost as soon as the idea was presented to him."
     She didn't move, as though she herself had suddenly become en-
    meshed in a tanglefoot web, and while she spoke in a military
    monotone, her eyes grew ever more haunted with the realization
    that she had committed an offense that was unforgivable.
     "With so many people on the Wall, and every eye on us out here,
    who's to notice what's going on behind their backs?"
     'You're talking of the populace, not the military," scoffed Renny.
    "You can distract them as much as you like, the army will still be pre-
    pared."
     "We have our own sources, Anakerie,' Thorn agreed. 'We'd know
    of any mass troop movements."
     "Who said anything about 'mass/ peck?" The word was normally
    an insult, one that Thom did not tolerate. From her lips, it was an en-
    dearment and an old joke between them. "And who says this has

    




    anything to do with Sandeni?" That was to Renny. "Elora under-
    stands better than I, I wish I'd realized that sooner. Sandeni is a bat-
    de, Mohdri wants to win the war."
      "How?" Elora demanded of her.
     "He's been drawing all the magic of the world into himself. If he
    becomes preeminent, if all power derives from him, then so will ab-
    solute control. He can define the relationships between the Realms,
    establish a peace, and then enforce it. The best way to do that, he be-
    lieves . . ."
     'No," Elora breathed, thunderstruck, as comprehension came to
    her.
     '. . . is by claiming the power of the dragons. At the very least,
    there won't be a sorcerer in any of the Realms-maybe the lot of
    them combined-who can actively defy him."
      "What's that to do with Sandeni?" Renny asked.
     "There's a World Gate," Elora said. "More ancient than the city,
    some believe one of the most ancient in the world, a portal to the
    Realm of the Malevoiy. The lords of ancient Faery who do not come
    to earth, as we Daikini who are wholly of the earth do not go to
    Faery. Who have to be the gatekeepers to the Circle of the Spirit.
    Where is it?" The question came in a rush of words as she grasped
    Anakerie by the shoulders. "Where's the damned Gate? Tell me!"
     "I don't know! Truth, I didn't want to know. I want the war to end,
    I want no more blood and no more suffering, on either side of the
    Veil." She broke Elora's hold on her to sweep her arm around, en-
    compassing the battle site. "Mohdri is a horror, something twisted
    and unnamable, for all his shadow plays at benevolence. He may
    mean well, I believe he's forgotten how. There's an anguish in him
    that undercuts his every goal." She looked suddenly from Elora to
    Thom, then down at Ryn. "He has no faith, in himself least of all. But
    for all of that, the Elora Danan I thought I knew was no match for
    him, even with Thorn Drumheller by her side.
     "I was raised to wear a crown," she said at last, proudly for all her
    sorrow. "I have a people to care for. I don't have the luxury of fight-
    ing a lost cause. Except that may be precisely what I've done.
     "I'm sorry," she said, meeting Elora's eyes. "I should have had
    faith."
      "I had none," Elora said as gently in return. "But I learned."
     She faced the others. "Whatever madness Mohdri has planned, we
    have to stop it."

    




    I
    
     "The problem is," Renny commented, "the Castellan's forces
    know where they're going."
     "They may not be the only ones, but we have to get up to the
    tableland."
     "The cable car-!"
     "Too slow! Horses," Elora cried, "where are horses, we need
    horses!"
     "Our mounts are in the stable," Anakerie said. "Take them."
     "And what of you?" Thom asked, taking her hand in both of his.
    She was sitting on the topmost step, Ryn's shaggy head resting on a
    pillow improvised from the cloak of one of her slain escort. She'd
    bundled the Wyr snugly in her own.
     "I'm not a free agent."
     'Nor is this a hopeless cause."
     She smiled. 'Oddly enough, I wasn't speaking of the responsibili-
    ties of state. I mean those of blood."
     Ryn tightened his grip on her other hand, though a baby's would
    have been stronger.
     "Keri," he husked, his voice a ghost of itself, as he very nearly was,
    "don't do this!"
     "Hush," she told him, flashing her eyes back and forth between
    him and Thom. 'And don't call me that, only the one I love can call
    me that."
     "Dissembler," Thom said. "As I recall, only your brother. could."
     'Mixed blood," Ryn said weakly, 'don't only live in Sandeni.
    Shamans among the Wyrrn read prophecy as well as anyone; they
    knew the coming of Elora Danan would herald a time of change,
    and great danger. They had an indication of the role Angwyn was to
    play in those events. Our mother was Wyr, and though she loved
    our father from the moment she first saw him, she believed it a
    hopeless love because of the difference between the two races. A
    shaper spell was used to cast her in the semblance of a Daikini, and
    she set forth to win the heart of Angwyn's king. He never knew that
    his firstborn was pledged to the service of the Wyrm. Should
    prophecy come to pass, one twin would remain on land, while the
    other would be spirited away to sea, in hopes that whatever fate the
    Cataclysm presaged, one of them might survive to unite and lead
    both kingdoms."
     "You never knew?" Thorn asked of Anakerie.
     She shook her head. "When the Black Rose captured him and en-

    




    chained his soul, that was my revelation. Wounds to the flesh we
    don't share, but our spirits ...
     "I have to take him home, Thorn. I have to find our home. Then
    I'll see about our destiny."
     "We're all of us lost souls in that regard, Anakerie. Cut loose from
    all we've known, the better to build anew."
     "You'd better go."
     "I'll find you again, Keri."
     "In better days, I pray."
     They said no farewells, save for a kiss that started small and
    
    quickly blazed with a passion fierce as any signal bonfire.
     Already mounted, Elora met Thorn at the front, and reached
    down to take him by the arms and set him on the saddle before her.
     'Hold on," she warned as she kicked the animal into motion, "this
    won't be a fun ride."
     Seven of them departed Cascani House at a gallop on a quartet of
    horses-Thom and the brownies riding with Elora, while Khory Ban-
    nefin, Duguay, and Renny Garedo rode alone-past a host of folk
    rushing in the other direction to offer what belated assistance they
    could to those within the grounds. More than once they were chal-
    lenged as they made their way as best they could out of Kinshire, but
    Renny's badge of office cleared the road. Elora wasn't surprised to
    find Duguay waiting, utterly unscathed. She would have sent the
    others to find him if he hadn't been there.
     The road was clear and straight along the shoreline, and these
    were horses bred to eat the miles. They quickly settled into a steady
    lope that wasn't as fast as an outright gallop but which could be
    maintained for hours, and raced through the chill night toward the
    Wall.
     "I need your help, Thom."
     "Asked and done, child."
     "The horse is yours, I need to cut loose."
     He understood her shorthand, and as she cast her InSight up and
    over the crest of the plateau, he applied his own to the thought
    processes of their mount, offering reassurance more than guidance as
    they sped along their way.
     Elora shot faster than any arrow, closing her mental eyes on horse-
    back, opening them miles farther ahead to find herself staring at a
    paper-strewn tabletop, badly lit by a scattering of candles amongst
    the detritus of too many meals taken at the work space.
     The professor had dozed off. Having no time to wake him and ex-

    




    plain, she quietly usurped control of his body, first by puffing out
    every light so he wouldn't inadvertently set the library afire, not to
    mention himself. One flame had been a little too close to a sleeve for
    comfort. Darkness was no impediment for her, MageSight worked
    quite effectively even through another's eyes.
     She found his notes about the Malevoiy, and smiled with his lips
    to discover a current map of the city in their midst. He'd laid out a
    grid system, charting the change in aspects over the centuries, to de-
    termine the likely position of the Gate when the Malevoiy were ac-
    tive and then relate it to the present day.
      The answer made perfect sense.
     There were other things she wanted to check as well, which took
    longer than she expected. From the desk where she preferred to
    work, she found the wom old storybook the professor had discov-
    ered. She had no access to her journal-that hung from her waist
    within the apparently boundless confines of her traveling pouch-so
    she had to make do with memory and whatever rough scribbles
    she'd made at the table. Luc4on's 'bestiary," though, she'd left be-
    hind with the professor and she quickly flipped through one book,
    then the other. The last illustration in the storybook was of a wed-
    ding, a bright and joyous affair so well delineated she could easily
    imagine all the figures coming to life before her. As with the others,
    a orld Gate formed the ornamental frame of the picture. A hand-
    some man and a lovely woman danced with riotous abandon on its
    threshold.
     She pursed the professor's lips and sighed as she turned to the ear-
    lier images. The final sigil was incomplete, but sufficient remained for
    her to determine a significant difference between it and the ones that
    preceded it.
     Elora felt the tug of Thom's awareness on her own. The riders
    were approaching the funicular terminus.
     Page by page, resisting the Nelwyn's summons, she leafed through
    the bestiary, until she found what she'd been after. The match for the
    sigil in the storybook, save that it was complete in every detail, on
    the page directly following the symbol for the Lord of the Dance, the
    one that Carig had etched into his own Gate to summon that entity.
     Before she left the professor, she walked him over to the couch
    that was tucked against one wall. It had seen its share of years and
    the embroidery was a touch threadbare, but the down pillows were
    still plush and the stuffing intact. To sit on it was to discover an irre-
    sistible desire to rest and many's the drowsy afternoon, with the sun
    
    I

    




    illuminating dust motes in the air and warming the room as toasty as
    any solarium, when a momentary catnap had turned into a proper
    sleep. She stretched the old man's body out full-length, and used his
    hands to arrange a wool throw as best she could around him. Then
    she let him rest. . .
      ... and returned to the chase.
     There was quite a commotion at the station, soldiers everywhere,
    constabulary as well, every defense fully manned. No one had ex-
    pected an attack by the elves, and no one wanted to be caught by sur-
    prise again. As before, Renny's badge got them through, with some
    help as necessary from a judicious presentation of Thom's own chain
    of office. They learned that the Chancellor and his party had been
    evacuated to the plateau, only that now reports were coming down
    of trouble there as well.
     "We have to get up top," Renny urgently told one of the officers.
    "When's the next car?"
     "Regular service has been suspended," was the reply. 'We're run-
    ning as needed."
     Under escort, because Thom was connected with the Chancellor's
    office and someone had just attempted a blanket assassination of the
    government, they made their way across the bustling promenade.
     A shout rang out, echoing in the cavernous space, and they found
    themselves met by Tam and Rico.
     'Wha's all this, then?" Tam inquired, figuring that since they were
    mostly familiar faces he might actually get some proper news. 'We in
    a war~"
      "They won't let us up top to go to work," Rico explained.
     "We don't have time to explain, I'm afraid," said Elora. 'We have
    to get up top ourselves."
      "Mebbe we c'n hitch a ride," Tam suggested.
     "No point," the sergeant commanding their escort told them.
    "Trolley service is suspended as well until we get this situation prop-
    erly sorted out."
      "That could take a while," Rico noted sardonically.
     "It'll take," the sergeant said heavily, as sergeants do, 'as long as it
    takes."
     Suddenly Elora spoke up. "How familiar are either of you two
    with the layout beneath the plaza?"
     "Me, not so much," Rico confessed, "but Tam did a stretch in
    maintenance and repair, working on the big wheels."
      "They're with us," she said, and no one questioned her decision.

    




      "Lookin' not so bad," she told Tam as they boarded one of the
    huge freight elevators. The clutch was engaged, and with a sharp jerk
    they began their ascent.
      "Damn th' man's hands, don't he know nothin' 'bout his proper
    work~'
      "Leave off, lad. Not everyone's good as you," Rico cautioned with
    a smile.
      "I'm not tha' good, Rico, but he should be better!" He finished
    with his voice in a moderate shout, pitched so the funicular brake-
    man could hear, one professional to another. Then, to Elora, in a
    calmer tone: "Wha'cha need o' me, then, eh?"
      A simple enough request-was there any underground access to
    what was called the 'enchanted isle."
      Rico whistled. "Don't ask much of a man, do y', 'lora. Supposedly
    worth a body's life to even set foot on that place, much less stage an
    outright break-in."
     "Does that mean no?"
      "Na' quite," said Tam, to the amazement of his friend. "There's a
    tunnel."
      "You're sure?" Elora had to know. Otherwise their only way in
    was over the bridge.
      "There's catacombs, y'see, deep under," Tam explained. 'A proper
    rat's nest if y' don't know the way."
     "And you do," Renny asked of him.
     Tam shrugged. 'I was young. I was curious."
     "What about all the protections that place is supposed to have?"
      "Give over, Rico," Tam told him, with a collegial thump. "Them's
    what applies only to pure-blood Daikini, not mongrel mixed-bloods
    like me. Passage got found when they built the plateau terminus. Did
    it the hard way, too, some poor yob or other stickin' his head where
    it weren't allowed an' catchin' the chop fort. Architects figured
    pretty quick what had to be overhead, so Raasay volunteered to go
    walkabout through there, make sure nothin' nasty weren't hidden."
     "As opposed to things that decapitate you?" Elora wondered.
     'Gargoyles, they do make proper watchdogs."
     'No one's ever crossed one twice," Renny agreed.
      "So Raasay did the lookin' an' made the story part o' the family
    hist'ry.'
     "You know the story?"
     "How else you figure I satisfied my curiosity, eh?"
     'The gargoyles weren't too pleased to see Elora when she crossed

    




    the bridge up top," Rool said as Tam fished a set of keys from his kit
    bag and threw the bolts on an otherwise nondescript iron-banded
    doorway.
     "Got more than a mite twitchy, they did," echoed Franjean as the
    door swung wide.
     "There could be trouble!" they chorused in unison.
     "There won't be," Khory said as she stepped over the threshold,
    sword in hand.
     "Khory, wait," Thom called out, hurrying after her, with Elora,
    Duguay, Renny, and the two others close behind. "No! You can't
    slaughter them for doing their duty!"
     "I won't have to, Drumheller," she said. "Someone's done it for
    me."
     The tunnel led them beneath the moat that surrounded the island.
    It was braced and shored by massive timbers, like any excavation but
    none of the surfaces had been lined. Walls and floor and ceiling were
    a mix of rock and earth, which left a perpetual dampness to the air as
    moisture leached down from the river. At the far end, after making
    their way a moderate distance, the tunnel opened into a chamber that
    might once have been a storage cellar of some house or other. The
    change in atmosphere was marked, the dank environment of the tun-
    nel giving way instantly to air that was both warm and dry.
     The gargoyles, the two Elora had marked on the cenotaphs at the
    bridge plus others from the gables, of the various houses on the island,
    all lay shattered on the dusty floor, their remains strewn about with
    a vengeance that suggested this hadn't been an easy victory.
     This was as far as Rico decided to go, as he had no Veil blood in
    him and less skill with any weapon, and family waiting besides.
    Renny would have preferred sending Tam with him but he was
    needed as their guide.
     Elora expected to find something upright, in the manner of the
    Gate that Carig tried to form. Instead they came upon the largest
    chamber of the lot, whose walls formed a circle twenty feet across.
    They stood above it on a balcony, midway up the wall, from which
    a line of steps etched into the wall itself wound around the circle to
    touch bottom directly beneath them. The floor looked utterly nor-
    mal, big inset blocks of paving stones coated by the dust of ages.
      "No footprints," Renny said. "No sign that anyone's been here be-
    fore us."
     "Got lost, maybe?" Franjean interjected hopefully.
     "He's been and gone," Thom said, going to one knee right at the

    




    I
    
    edge of the balcony and gazing over the edge with an intensity that
    would put the eagles to shame. Tam stretched his torch past him to
    illuminate the chamber as much as possible for the Nelwyn, unaware
    that MageSight rendered such solicitude unnecessary.
     "'He'?" Elora inquired.
     'The Deceiver. I suppose we should be flattered. He thinks so
    much of this enterprise that he's come on it himself."
     'How could this be?" Tam wondered. 'There isn't any magic in
    Sandeni, tha's fact, sir."
     "There's some," Thom told him. "Sufficient to sustain the gar-
    goyles and make comfortable any of the Veil Folk who choose to visit
    here, but otherwise you're right. There's nowhere near the power re-
    quired to open so ancient a Gate."
     "Unless you've spent three years amassing the energies of half a
    continent," Elora said.
     "There is that," Thorn agreed. "And brought the necessary cata-
    lysts with you."
     "What do you mean?"
     "See those alcoves." He pointed. 'There are twelve in all."
     "With statues standing watch." She nodded. "They look like
    they've been here as long as the Gate itself, they're wom away to al-
    most nothing."
     Thom shook his head. "Dust they may appear, Elora, but an hour
    ago I'll wager they were as alive as any of us. A dozen sorcerers to act
    as proxy for the Realms themselves, with himself as surrogate for
    YOU."
     "Has he taken everything from them?" She spoke in barely a whis-
    per, not wanting to comprehend the enormity of what had been done
    to these twelve souls.
     'All they are, all they were, all they ever hoped to be, in every as-
    pect of their being. Only those shells remain, formless, featureless.
    This is the end result of the Rite of Ultimate Oblivion."
     "How could he do such a thing? How could anyone-?"
     "For the right prize,' Renny said softly, closing his hand on her
    shoulder in comfort, "some men have no limit. To courage, or de-
    pravity."
     "We have to follow,' she said.
     'Is that possible?" Renny asked.
     'We shall have to see," Thorn said. "But this is as far as you can
    go, Constable, and you as well, Tam.'
     "I'm game f'r more, master, if y'll have me."

    




      "Hold that hope, Tam," Elora told him as she gave him a hearty
    embrace of parting. 'We're bound to need it somewhile."
      "What about this one?" Renny asked, gesturing to Duguay, who
    was lounging patiently against the wall.
     "He's with me," she said.
      "We're together," was Duguay's reply, and if his words didn't
    make plain what that meant between him and Elora, his glance left
    them no illusions.
      Renny didn't think much of that notion, nor did Tam, but there
    was nothing either could say on the matter, especially considering the
    circumstances.
     'You've been quiet," Khory mentioned to the troubadour.
     "You're quiet all the time."
     "That's my nature, master jongleur."
      'I have what I want. I'm where I want to be. What more is there
    to say?"
      'Didn't see you make much of an effort at Cascani House," called
    one of the brownies, the first time either had addressed him directly.
      "I sing and I dance, little friend," and he executed a modest but
    lovely step-tum, step-turn that closed with an arm outstretched to
    Elora. She swept her offside leg around in a shallow arc that billowed
    out her skirt, as lovely a move herself, but made no attempt to take
    his hand. In fact, her move seemed more along the lines of a parry
    and disengagement. As the energy of his gesture crested toward her
    like a wave, she simply slipped to the side and watched it pass her
    by.
     .Fm ready," Thom announced. "Elora, stand by me, please.'
      'In a moment," she told him, and turned to Renny Garedo. 'Rool,
    Franjean, you're to stay with the constable."
     "The devil you say," snapped one.
     "The devil we will," echoed the other.
      "This isn't a request," she said, with a quiet steel to her voice that
    would have impressed Anakerie. 'You're both hurt, and where we
    go. "
    
     "Our place, Elora Danan. . ." Rool began.
     "Is on your shoulder," Franjean finished.
     "Not this time."
     "We stay. . ."
     ". . . but that one." A dagger look toward Duguay.
      "Yes," she said simply, and with that word brought all discussion
    to an end.

    




    I i
    
     Rool kept his eyes locked on Elora's, searching her gaze with his
    own as if to determine whether she was speaking her own mind, or
    some thought planted there by Duguay. At the same time Franjean
    rounded on Khory and bared his teeth at her in an expression that
    was dauntingly fierce for one so small.
      "You!" he snapped at the demon child. 'Keep her safe, I charge
    
    you.YY
     'Her and him both," she replied, indicating Thom as well. "You
    see me again, warriors, you'll see them.'
     Elora clasped her hand about the constable's forearm, in a war-
    rior's salutation. With heads as high and backs as straight as their
    wounds would allow, the brownies made their way across to Renny,
    one staying tucked in the crook of his elbow while the other clam-
    bered all the way to his shoulder.
     She took up her position by Thom's right hand, Duguay stepping
    immediately to Thom's left, with Khory a full stride behind Thorn,
    sufficient clearance to draw her sword while she remained close
    enough to actually do some good with it.
     Thom held together the fore- and middle finger of his right hand
    and began a tracing in the air, the symbol Elora had showed him from
    her research, that of the Malevoiy. In their wake a trail of autumnal
    fire, energies of scarlet and gold, traced the air as though he was leav-
    ing a path of burning oil on a field. The strokes were sure and clean,
    executed with an uncanny precision, and from the start a shape was
    discernible. With each additional stroke of the foundation sigil, the
    room began to vibrate as power was awakened and coalesced within
    the sleeping stones.
     Even as Thom hurried to complete the pattern that initial burst of
    fire began to fade.
     "I was afraid of this," he muttered, "I can't sustain the manifesta-
    tion.'
     Unbidden, Elora slid right behind him and set her hand on his
    with her own fingers extended as his had been. With an ease of long
    familiarity, InSight merged them into one, allowing his skill access to
    her strength, and she felt her blood burn as he began again. His hand
    was larger than hers, though he was a bit more than half her height,
    his fingers longer and more delicate, though they possessed the
    strength to heft boulders. Not so long ago, her skin was far smoother,
    unmarked by any toil. Now she wore nicks and tiny scars, calluses
    and scored nails, all testifying to the strength she possessed and the
    work she'd done to earn it.
    
    0

    




     Together they repeated the pattern, with an occasional flash of
    teeth from Elora as the requisite power was drawn swiftly and sud-
    denly from her in tidal surges that announced their presence with
    painful cramps. This time the sigil lasted until Thom was finished,
    and blazed brightly afterward.
     "Well," he said, surveying his handiwork with not a little pride.
    "That's done."
     'Nothing's happening," Elora noted.
     "A key's no good unless you fit it to its lock," Thorn said.
     He grasped the sigil by its outer edge and Elora raised her eye-
    brows to see that it remained solid to the touch as he plucked it from
    the air and held it in one hand. The fire didn't have the power to burn
    him, which seemed strange to her because she could feel its intense
    heat on her bare face and shoulders and belly.
     Thorn took the sigil and tossed it lightly like a plate, to the precise
    center of the room below.
     "Shall we go?" he invited them all, and led the way to the circular
    steps.

    




    A. P T C R__",
    
    ELORA WATCHED THE SIGIL AS THEY DESCENDED. INI-
    tially it rested on the ground without having the slightest ef-
    fect on the dust and stone beneath it, making not even the
    slightest indentation, which made her wonder if a thing could
    exist yet have no physical substance.
     Then things began to happen on both sides of her. At spe-
    cific intervals along the stairway, Thorn would describe a
    new set of sigils on the wall. He needed no assistance from
    Elora for this, the manifestation of the key sigil apparently
    generated sufficient power to sustain the secondary symbols
    by itself. At the same time the texture of the floor gradually
    began to alter as well. A darkness spread outward from
    where the key sigil lay, the way ink might through water
    from a startled squid. The floor turned black, and then shifted
    beyond that color to something altogether more intense,

    




    which reminded her of the obsidian pillars that flanked the bridge to
    this Faery isle.
      The last step was more like a small jetty, providing room for them
    all to stand. Above them, in a rising spiral around the whole circum-
    ference of the room, the secondary sigils seemed to glow from some-
    place within the walls, as though the energies Thom had called forth
    radiated from the essential fabric of the stone. The same held true for
    the key sigil. Viewed from the balcony before they started their de-
    scent, it appeared to float on the floor as something distinct and sep-
    arate. Now, having reached what they thought was its level, it had
    sunk beneath the surface, its radiance suffusing the whole of the ob-
    sidian pool.
      There was no movement to the substance of the pool, but it
    gleamed with a luster to rival the polished lacquer armor of the High
    Elves. Elora didn't resist the impulse to peer into its depths in search
    of a reflection. Disturbingly she found one, but it wasn't at all like
    gazing into a mirror or any other kind of reflector. There was a qual-
    ity of three-dimensionality to the face that gazed back at her, and
    more intriguing, a solidity that almost convinced her she was looking
    at a vision of Elora that was just as tangible and real as she was her-
    self.
      She saw another step, shimmering at ankle depth beyond the jetty
    platform, which she realized would place it below the level of the
    real floor. Before Thorn or the others could voice any opposition, she
    took that step, and then the one beyond, and so forth, in a steady
    gait ...
      ... only to find herself ascending a circular stairway to emerge
    from a pool identical to the one she thought she was immersing her-
    self in. She looked about herself in sudden startlement, catching a
    glimpse of her reflection looking up from the steps below, and won-
    dered if the pair of them had simply switched places, in violation c"
    every natural law she knew.
      She waited what she hoped was a decent interval but none of tlae
    others emerged to follow her. She considered going back but desired
    first to see what stood atop the steps.
     There was quite a difference. Where Daikini worked in wood and
    stone, the architects of this most ancient of physical Realms used
    crys"a 1 1 in t~laeir construction. As drab as the other side of the Gate had
    been, these walls were composed of the most gloriously intricate mo-
    saic, a multitude of tiles, none larger than a fingernail, as meticulously
    cut as they must have been richly colored when first emplaced. There

    




    was a quality to the air that made all her physical senses register
    things far more intensely. She beheld more shades to every hue than
    she had names for, yet she could perceive each with a clarity that was
    almost painful. Sadly, that only made the diminution of the tiles all
    the more poignant. Time had worked on them as it does on all things,
    weathering them away, stealing their intensity, until they remained
    as no more than shadows of the splendor that once had been.
     This chamber was open to the air, though she wasn't sure if that
    was the original intention as she beheld fluted crystalline columns ris-
    ing in graceful arches to form a twelve-paneled dome above her head.
    She assumed the pillars were carved, as they would be in a Daikini
    construction, but as she drew closer she wondered if they had grown
    instead, to be shaped and pruned into this shape as an arborist might
    design a tree.
     Most, she saw from the first, were broken, leaving chunks of stone
    in jumbled heaps around the pool.
     Elora emerged from the top of the spiral staircase into a realm of
    perpetual twilight, a ghostly radiance that struck her as light that was
    gradually losing the ability to glow, forgetting this fundamental
    essence of its nature as people of a certain age begin to misplace the
    details of their lives. The landscape thus illuminated was barren in
    the same disturbing way, chockablock with the shapes and forms of
    existence yet marked everywhere she looked by a transcendent
    weariness, as if the very act of maintaining physical coherence was
    more trouble than it was worth.
     Once upon a time this might have been a site of angular cliffs and
    dynamic vistas, but weather and sheer age had worn away most of
    the sharp edges, Daunting it may have been, but now the dominant
    impression was surprisingly tame. There wasn't much in the way of
    open ground, either, as though someone had swept through here long
    ago and smashed every imaginable promontory, natural or otherwise,
    wholly to rubble. Or perhaps they'd simply collapsed of their own
    accord.
     There was age here, in the stones and earth and air, a quietude
    that had existed for longer than any of the races they had known
    could possibly remember,
     'My-oh-my," she said as softly as she dared, comforted by the
    sound of her own voice, disturbed by the fact that it had no reso-
    nance. Sound traveled as weakly through this ancient air as did I~ht,
    and she suspected a fulJ-thj-c>dj,,,),r02,rW0(IIyg0 uAeard beyond a
    Aandspan's distance.

    




     'Ancient beyond our comprehension," she murmured to herself,
    and incredibly weary of all that history, but not yet done. Dreamers
    seeking the source of dreams. Is this the world that's forgotten how,
    or simplv run out?" Her voice was tinged with a gentle sadness.
    
     The new voice made her jump, her startlement coming from the
    eerie flat quality of those tonalities as much as from the fact of them
    
     At first she feared she might have imagined this, because none o
    her senses, not MageSight nor InSight, revealed a sign of the speaker.
    Then, in a way that trickled rime ice the length of her spine, a form
    seemed to disengage itself from a standing stone. Without apparent
    
    motion of any kind it glided from stone to stone toward her.
    
    Thou ask't too much of senses.
    "What else have I to go on?"
    What indeed? Thou art the Danar
    
      '11'm here, yes. Tell me, is this the fourth station on the Circle o
    the Flesh~ Are vou the firstborn race of elves that have gone wholl
    
      "In honor and, I hope, friendship, I bid you greeting." She mean
    what she said, every word, yet something about the moment, some
    
    thing about the man, wouldn't allow her to relax her guard.
    
    The shape ghosted a smile, revealing a gleaming flash of predatory
    
    teeth that set her heart to po~.Tnding.
     'I've come to ask your help."
     That is known to Us.
     'So vou're not as far from the worl
    
    We care little for such belief. That We exist is sufficient
    
     Only it wasn't that she F ~,.,v plain as daylight, and sensed as well
    that dreams in this realm rr.,;,-ht not be as tired and lackluster as she
    
    Thou art the first to find the wav to Us, in an aae
    
    "You use the royal plural, have I the honor of addressing the liege

    




     We are. We were. We shall ever be. Thou art the Danan. Thou
    dost come before Us as supplicant, beseeching Our aid.
     "The Realms are in danger."
     How can the pieces hold fast, without a center to anchor them?
     "I was hoping you could tell me."
     Ah. And for this boon, what price? Wilt set thy kind, the Daikini,
    beneath Our yoke, to do with as We will and serve Us as We please,
    in perpetuity?
     She rose, in no way matching the ethereal stillness of the
    Malevoiy's movements but with a grace and power uniquely her
    own.
     'That's the bargain I'd expect from a minor Domain of elves," she
    said, sensing that the creature had been serious about his terms, and
    yet at the same time the whole exchange was a source of consider-
    able amusement.
     Such were We, once, though Our Domain was in no way minor.
     This, she decided, is going bloody nowhere. In that same thought, she
    decided to call it quits.
     "I thank thee for thy hospitality, dread lord," she said. "I'll find my
    own way home."
     Twelve rings affixed on three, to be bound entire by one, that is
    the scheme and riddle of things, Danan. To thee falls that task of
    binding, if thou hast heart and skill and daring. To tame the world is
    nothing, for We have done so. To tame the flesh, the same, for We
    have done that also. But to transcend, to reach to the Realm of spirit
    and beyond ...
     "You've done that, too."
     When the world began, We were. When the rock of Creation split
    asunder to cast forth its multitudes, We were. Much have We seen,
    much more would We see.
     "Then why don't you~"
     There must be a balance. It must be restored. Thou art the key.
     "So I gather."
     We hold forth thy destiny, Danan. Wouldst claim it? Wouldst em-
    brace Us?
     There was ice throughout her body, in every particle of her being,
    as though her nerves had just been sluiced down with a bucket from
    an arctic mountain stream. She didn't understand how her heart
    could manage such a beat and not explode from the effort, or how
    one portion of her being could be so terribly cold while her blood
    generated such heat that her entire body was sheened with perspira-

    




    tion. She felt stretched, worse than on any rack, each tendon articu-
    lated, yet in absolute paradox she had never felt more at one with a
    place or a moment.
     She would die here. She would kill.
     It would be good.
     Elora descended to the pool and, once again, without the slightest
    quirk of dislocation found herself climbing an identical set of steps, as
    if she and her mirror image had instantly exchanged places to con-
    tinue on their way.
     Thom and Khory and Duguay were waiting.
     "Elora Danan," Thorn called as he reached out to snatch her to
    clear of the pool and onto the jetty, "what have you done? Thank the
    blessed you were only gone an instant."
     "It was longer than that, Thom."
     "Drumheller," Khory noted, "look at the pool. Your sigil's
    changed."
     "A gift," Elora told them all. "A token. Of ... respect. A favor
    granted, against a future favor in return." She took a deep breath and
    was a little surprised to find she didn't tremble. Quite the opposite,
    in fact, she felt unnaturally calm. 'I've met the Malevoiy."
     Duguay, she noted, had no overt reaction to her news.
     "You asked their aid?" Thorn demanded of her.
     Khory kept her distance, quietly gauging Elora's stance, as though
    she alone knew what had been offered and was waiting to learn
    Elora's response.
     She shook her head. "It assumed I would. It offered me my des-
    tiny. I got the impression I was as important to its survival as to the
    other Realms."
     "Of a Realm, of a circle, all are bound, little Princess."
     She nodded to Khory. "So it said."
     'Was there a reply?" from Thorn.
     'It made none. Yet." She didn't like the Nelwyn's tone.
     "And his price?"
     'If it was serious, the price is too high."
     "We may need that help, Elora, to fight the Deceiver and Greater
    Faery both."
     She shook her head and let that slightest of movements stir her
    into a modest pirouette on the ball of one foot.
     'All the stories-the tales and the legends used to terrify the chil-
    dren of every known race-they're all true," she told them. "The
    Malevoiy are predators, in the fullest sense of that word. The Wild

    




    Hunt we faced tonight, my friends, that's but the palest echo of what
    the Malevoiy did. Hard as it may be to see now, in their prime they
    were the embodiment of passion, driven by a hunger as red and raw
    as the world they made their home."
     She looked from Khory to Thom to Duguay, to see in their eyes a
    pale reflection of the part of her soul the Malevoiy had touched.
     "They want those days again," she said. From Khory, she drew a
    steady, assessing gaze that carried with it a resonance of what she'd
    felt from the Malevoiy. Strangely, it reminded Elora of Luc-Jon's
    wolfhound, and with a start she realized that she was perceiving a
    vestige of the woman whose body Khory's spirit inhabited. Like the
    wolfhounds, this ancient warrior had been a foe of the Malevoiy, as
    implacable, as dedicated, as formidable. She had fought them, she
    had shed their blood and brought an end to lives that otherwise were
    immortal. And herself been betrayed and murdered for it, by one she
    loved.
     "They want me to bring them to pass," she said. From Thom, a
    sense of shock and horror that was almost physical as the moral cen-
    ter of his being caught up with the moment and he came to realize
    all that had transpired. So easy, she thought wryly, to mark a set of cir-
    cles on a tabletop and check off each of the Realms in turn, like running down
    a shopping list. We imagined physical risks and physical dangers galore, old
    duffer, we never took the leap, to consider the consequences of our encounters
    with the Realms of the Spirit, Or the price.
     And this is only the gateway! Who knows what wel/I find beyond?
     Without warning, Duguay snapped out his hand to catch Elora's
    by the wrist and draw her into a pair of sweeping circles.
     "This place is death, pet,' he told her. 'You don't belong."
     "Where would you prefer?" she responded with a sultry smile, her
    manner suddenly a match for his, as though a spark had just been
    struck to bone-dry tinder.
     "Master Faralom,' snapped Thom, 'release Elora, at once!"
     Lazily, with supreme self-confidence, Duguay swung her through
    a last pirouette and looked over his shoulder toward Thom with a
    gesture and expression of studied disrespect.
     "You don't get it, do you, peck?" For the first time he used the in-
    sulting diminutive for Nelwyns, and he meant it to hurt. 'Malevoiy
    have no claim on her, nor do you. She's mine. Always has been, al-
    ways will. This is destiny."
     He never released his hold on Elora, though the grip was no more
    than fingertip to fingertip, and continued to guide her through those

    




    7
    
    empty turns, a piece of vacuous choreography meant solely to
    
    "I lead, she follows, we dance. There's the end of it
    
    "Wrong," she said, the quiet strength of her voice leaving the trou
    
     They faced each other, unmoving, and then, with a discreet
    shimmy of the hips and no sense whatsoever of how she accom-
    plished it Elora's belt and traveling pouches plopped to the stone. A
    similar flick of the shoulders divested her of her tartan cloak leavin
    her dressed as she'd been for her performance in Kinshire. She
    flashed a hint of teeth in a vredator's smile that brouLht an answer in
    
    7
    
     With a snap of the wrist, she spun herself into his arms, her bod)
    pressed against his, and it was plain right then and there how mucl
    difference half a year had made. When they'd first met, for all her har
    diness, she was small and a lot more tentative than she would ever ad
    mit. Height had come to her since, and breadth of spirit to match tha
    of her powerful shoulders. She had a swimmer's build, but he
    strength was disguised by the sleek and elegant line of her body.
     The girl had been no match for him, she took her lead from him.
     In Duguay's arms, she was a woman, who faced him as an equal
     She set the dance and in a twinkling the pair of them had spur
    
     With a cry of mingled grief and rage the like of which he hadn'
    uttered since he beheld the shattered, scarred landscape that had once
    held the proud fortress of Tir Asleen and more beloved friends than
    he could easily number, Thom snatched up belt and pouches and
    plunged after her, uncaring of risk or destination. Khory followed a
    
     They came too late-the Princess, the Mage, the Demon, the
    Dancer-to the summit of Creation, the Realm of the Dragons.
     In size, the caldera of this ancient mountain dwarfed even the
    Wall, and small wonder, considering the bulk and dimensions of the
    beings who called it home. The four of them emerged from the line
    of steps to find themselves facing a veritable ocean of soft sand that
    would have stretched farther than the eye could see were it not for
    the jagged escarpments that loomed on every side, as though all the

    




    world you could see on a normal day was in truth but a minor part
    of some other world that was unimaginably greater.
     In this place of wonder, they beheld desolation.
     All was ice. The sand glittered with shiny crystals of frozen water,
    the rock was coated with hoarfrost, the air so cold each breath seared
    the lungs. The assault had come so suddenly, so savagely, the drag-
    ons had no chance to defend themselves or even to escape. About the
    four of them loomed the most monstrous statues, the entire commu-
    nity of these great and noble creatures, caught asleep or awake, in
    moments of relaxation or activity, hurled in that awful instant from
    vibrant life to frozen oblivion.
     Thom didn't need to ask who was responsible. This sacred place
    had been defiled by the same foul enchantment that had claimed
    Angwyn and destroyed Tir Asleen.
     Elora didn't seem to care.
     She was off the rock in a wild leap, Duguay following, the pair of
    them swirling like dervishes across the trackless miles of sand with-
    out a care as to how inappropriate they looked. They danced to mu-
    sic none but they could hear, and while Thom had to acknowledge
    the evident passion of their performance, it was as nothing compared
    with the abyssal cold that had claimed the dragons.
     Whatever Duguay had done, whatever choice Elora had made, he
    had to take a stand.
     He called Elora's name, but the young woman ignored him as she
    and her partner joyously described apparently random patterns to-
    gether across the sand.
     There was poetry to their motion, for anyone with wit to look and
    grace to care. She would lead, then yield to him. He would cast her
    like a spinning blade into the air and use the momentum of the catch
    to send them off in a totally new direction. She would twist in and
    out of his grasp with the unbridled sinuosity of an eel.
     While Thom watched, appalled, these two unleashed the fullest
    measure of passion. They were fast, they were slow, they took plea-
    sure in the abundance of a touch and the total absence of it. In this
    single dance, they held forth to one another the cherished intimacy
    
                             uguay, using his title for the
    
                             ,ave from the beginning, my
    
    i

    




     "I want to dance, Duguay, as we never have before."
     "To what end, pet?"
     "I want to bum. I want to find the firedrake in my soul and turn it
    loose. I want to light a furnace in this crater that no cold can stand
    against. I want them to be free! I want Mohdri dead!"
     "It can't be done."
     "Don't tell me that!"
     'I tell you what is true."
     "No! We can end this madness, here and now."
     "Will you slay hope as well, Elora?"
     She lost a beat, her feet snagging in the sand, and nearly fell, to
    find Duguay no longer in her arms but Kieron Dineer, the dragon
    who had died for her, once more wearing his human aspect.
     "Kieron?" she stammered.
     'Don't look so shocked," he said with a merry laugh. "Magic
    place, magic race, whose province is the Realm of Wonder. For us, es-
    pecially here, all things are possible."
     "Then save yourselves."
     "We're doing our best."
     'I don't understand. Where's Duguay, what's happening?"
     "He's in your arms, as you are in his. But you have thoughts be-
    sides, and memories-and dreams. They are part of this as well."
     "You shouldn't have died, Kieron." Her voice broke as he gathered
    her into his arms. "You shouldn't have died for me."
     A// things die, little dancer, change of voice, change of figure, taller
    than she and broader in every dimension with a thick shock of hair
    the color of jet and eyes that sparkled. He had a light dusting of beard,
    as much salt as pepper, and the shape of his bones marked him in-
    stantly as Kieron's sire. There was a crinkling about his eyes that
    spoke of a man who loved to laugh, and a gentleness to their depths
    that spoke of a kindly nature. His strength was self-evident and, she
    guessed, was matched by courage. She must have thought too loudly
    then, because she made him laugh.
     A brave catalog of merits, my child, I am flattered.
     "You're Calan," she said softly, respectfully, remembering his
    name from Thorn's tales of their sole encounter.
     I am Calan.
     "I want to stop the Deceiver."
      And so you must, for much depends on it. Broad shoulders, but a young
    heart to bear such a burden. Fate does not always choose kindly.
     There was a flash of sadness across his eyes, a remembrance that

    




    brought him pain, and she wanted to stop a moment, to tell him
    everything would be all right. Instead she put a surge of joy into her
    dance, whirling him after her in a circular four-four pattern that had
    iust become all the rage in Sandeni. The elder dragon seemed much
    
    amused by her inspiration.
    
      The circles turn, Elora, like wheels, he told her. That is the way of things,
    Eternal and immutable That cannot be stopped. But the direction can be
    changed,
     "That sounds like something Mohdri would say."
     You are more alike than vou know.
    
    'Don't be so cruel. You're supposed to know everything, be every-
    
    thing-how could you let that monster take you by surprise"
    
    Is that what havvened here? Trulv?
    
    "Always questions," she exploded in fury, "always riddles!"
    
      Some things are best earned. What comes too easily is too often taken for
    granted, as a right. To bear the title of Sacred Princess is not necessarily to de-
    serve it, Look about you, my child, tell me what you see.
     "Desolation."
      In that moment it was as though she'd been cleaved by a splitting
    wedge. Elora splintered, a part of her continuing gaily along with
    Duguay in her arms while a separate aspect stood stock-still upon the
    sand, her mouth forming an 0 of astonishment as she turned herself
    in a slow revolve, her eyes searching the magnificent forms en-
    tombed in ice about her. She'd been so caught up in the dance, and in
    her fury at what had been done here, she hadn't noticed an underly-
    ing sense of tremendous age, almost a weariness of s irit beside
    
    ,xrkirk i-ko onn"i n~ f-k.- &A~J,-Vni was qz no4jii
    
      The spirit form of Calan stood beside her, to all appearances a
    Daikini in the prime of middle age. It was his eyes that gave the lie
    to that illusion, for within them was a depth that had no bottom, the
    accumulation of wisdom and folly, of sheer experience that Elora
    found wholly beyond her comprehension. These were eyes that
    could have seen the first dawn of Creation, this was the dragon
    whose fires could have ignited stars across the whole of the celestial
    firmament.
      "No " she breathed as a sense came to her of what transpired
    here.
    
    loss.
    
    You cannot save what is already doomed, Elora.
    
    "NoP A keening wail that mingled denial with a terrible sense of
    
    All things have their allotted span. The struggle is not for the lives that are,

    




    but for the hopes and dreams that yet will be. You and Duguay are Lady and
    Lord of the Dance; you have a purpose. Now that purpose must be chosen.
      "Mohdri!' Thom bellowed again, even louder than before, in a
    voice and with a passion that would have done a dragon proud.
      "I'm here, peck," said the Deceiver.
      In form and feature he remained perfection. A sculpted body,
    whose face was defined by a succession of sharp and savage planes.
    Dark hair and darker eyes, every aspect of his being complemented
    by the abyssal hues of his armor. It was said in battle that Castellan
    Mohdri always emerged with his armor unscathed and pristine be-
    cause any drop of blood that fell upon his person was instantly con-
    sumed. To face him in battle was to cast away all ties to life, because
    in single combat the lord of the Maizan could not be beaten. To try
    was death, not only of the body but of the soul as well.
      Thorn had no knowledge of what the man had been like before
    the Deceiver claimed his form, but as far as the years since were con-
    cerned, he was prepared to believe every story. Like all Maizan, Moh-
    dri carried a multitude of weapons, though the only ones in plain and
    constant view were the swords and assorted lesser blades he wore on
    his belt. As for the rest, chances are they would never be seen until
    the moment they took your life.
      "Bastard," Thom cried. 'What have you done?"
      "What I swore from the start. I am not the enemy, peck." The
    words were evenly, clearly spaced, as though to a backward child. 'I
    am salvation."
      "Not from what I see." The Nelwyn swept his staff around to
    show the frozen figures about them.
      "Your vision was always limited. The Realms are at each other's
    throats, someone must teach them all their proper place."
      "You, is it?"
      "My destiny, Drumheller. My curse! I have fought my whole life to
    bring about this moment, I have beheld suffering the like of which
    you cannot comprehend, much less endure, I have sacrificed-!" He
    never told Thorn what was sacrificed. It didn't matter. Mohdri's eyes
    were wide, the expression in them so achingly familiar to the Nel-
    wyn that Thom was a full step forward in a reflexive gesture of com-
    fort before Khory's hand upon his shoulder restored him to a
    semblance of his senses.
      "And I will not be denied," the Deceiver said.
      "I deny you," Thom said.
      "So you've said. What of it?"

    




    I
    
     'I am Thom Drumheller," he said, drawing himself up proudly to
    his full height and letting his voice ring out as if it alone would prove
    sufficient to wake these ensorcelled creatures.
     'I remember you with a kinder name."
     'How can you remember what you've never known?'
     'Let that be my mystery. Leave," the Deceiver said with such res-
    ignation in his voice that Thom thought he saw this as a scene he'd
    played before, "and live."
     The Nelwyn didn't move, save to hand Elora's belt over to Khory
    together with an injunction that she clear away.
     She didn't listen, of course.
     The demon child let fly a pair of knives and drew her sword to fol-
    low. Mohdri slapped them aside and met her with a bared blade of
    his own. Steel rang over the ancient sands and Thom had a sudden
    surge of hope as he saw that, for all Mohdri's considerable reputation,
    Khory was better. This was no duel of finesse and elegance; the two
    warriors hammered at each other with both hands, blades flashing
    faster in the crystalline light with every exchange of blows. Neither
    gave the slightest ground, the one found wanting would be the one
    to fall.
     It should have been Mohdri.
     With a terrific sequence of thrust and parry, Khory brought her
    weapon around a hair faster than his could follow. The swords
    snagged at the hilt and with a fierce twist and yank, the Castellan's
    hands were empty. Then, as if bored by the whole encounter, he
    struck with a casual sideswipe of his arm that sent her crashing to a
    pile of rocks nearby with the terrible sick sound of impact that spoke
    of bones breaking.
     Thorn lashed out with all the sorcery at his command and for a
    while thought he, too, had a chance. He clapped fire from his hands.
    Mohdri shunted it aside, but only just. He brought the sand to life to
    entomb the Deceiver, only to watch that prison crumble to nothing-
    ness. He called lightning, he used all the raw elements of nature, he
    mixed spells with a madcap invention that defied sanity and, because
    they were in a place where no boundaries existed to divide dream
    from reality, watched them explode to bilious life.
     He found no limit to his sorcery and summoned forth his talent in
    ways he'd only dreamed. He gave full vent to rage, to grief, to hatred.
    He made lances of solid air and laced their cores with poison, He con-
    jured creatures of such magnitude and horror that the sight of them
    alone was enough to shrivel heart and soul. He hunted out the dark-

    




    est parts of himself and cast them forth to battle, without restraint,
    without mercy. He used every aspect of his imagination in the only
    place there was where dreams could be manifested as the most
    deadly and destructive reality.
      When he was done, shaking from the effects of so violent and
    thorough a purging, on his knees because his legs wouldn't hold him,
    clutching desperately to his staff to keep himself at least a little up-
    right, he felt a strange sort of peace, like a house too long sealed,
    where all the windows have been suddenly thrown wide to admit
    the first sweet-scented breeze of spring.
      He knew he hadn't won. He suspected he hadn't done the De-
    ceiver the slightest lasting harm. He'd used all the weapons of his ad-
    versary, realizing as he did so that his adversary had to know them
    better. He found the Drumheller who lived without any form of con-
    straint, who had no moral center, who was more a demon than any
    creature so named. He went to the place within himself where no
    sane man would dare to go and let loose the part of him that could
    do evil.
      If he lived a thousand lifetimes, or found a way to walk from
    time's beginning to its end, he would never do so again.
     There was no fear in Thorn's eyes as he watched the Deceiver
    emerge from the smoke and flame of his-Thorn's-conflagration. It
    might have been a trick of the eye, but it seemed to the Nelwyn that
    all those elements of foulness torn so ' brutally from his own soul
    swooped and eddied around Mohdri like boon companions.
      To his surprise, he felt sorry for the man. Bavmorda was evil, that
    was plain fact, like the morning sunrise. Here, though, was someone
    who spoke of doing good, who yearned with all his heart for a bet-
    ter world, yet to accomplish it had embraced the most hideous of
    powers.
      He wanted to tell Mohdri but knew it would be a waste of breath.
    Hearing, the Castellan most likely would not believe. And worse, be-
    lieving, he would not care.
      He cast about for Elora, wishing there was some way to spare her
    what was to come, and shook his head in wonderment to see her and
    Duguay dancing still.
      "I knew about the skin, of course," said the fiend, referring to Elora
    with a pleasantness Thom found disconcerting, as though they were
    old, dear chums having a teatime chat, "but what has she done to her
    hair~ Elora Danan, I am so disappointed. No matter," he finished with
    that same companionable air. "When I have what I require from the

    




    girl, no more than is mine by right, all this nonsense will be speedib
    
    UDo not do this," Thom begged
    'I take no pleasure in it, believe m
    
    "Then find another way. If your goals are noble, why not use n
    
     "Elora!' cried the Deceiver then and if the tone of voice wasn't
    enough to stop the dancers in their tracks, the sight of his sword up-
    
     "I am the Danan," Elora replied, as though she was introducing
    herself to some stranger. Slowly, proudly, every inch a monarch in her
    
    own right she turned from Duguav to face her nernecic
    
     Thom's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, because i
    suddenly seemed to him that he was looking at a stranger. Th(
    wildest elements of Duguay's paints had faded, allowing her natura
    
    argent tones to reassert themselves, interrupted by the violent colo
    of her skirt and top, equally dramatic slashes of color to accent h
    and eyes and the blue-black tangle of her hair.
    
     She looked savage but that wasn't the wonder of it. Seeing he
    standing in the heart of the caldera for the first time since he'd
    found her in the bullrushes he had the sense that she had found he
    
    Mohdri didn't see it, or refused to understand. He chose to relate
    
    to her still as a pesky child.
     It            ly
    
      Will you never leam? tie hissed, giving way to an anger that bor-
    dered on the irrational as he strode toward her. Neither's gaze was
    still, each of them searching the other's face for something neither
    
    had a proper name for.
    
    "I'm stubborn " Elora told him as he an roached
    
    'I am Salvation.
    'Go to hell!"
    
    "This is my chance to set things right," Mohdri cried
    
    "How?"
    
     "The dragons are the dream. Take it away-or rather, place it un-
    der proper control-and the Realms become manageable. Nothing
    will change, because all within them will have lost the capacity to
    conceive of such a thing. A balance will be achieved and, once
    achieved, maintained. When the time is right, growth will be appor-
    tioned as needed. Society will have order. The future will be pre-
    
    served."

    




     'What future?" cried Elora, aghast by what she'd just heard.
    "You're talking about another kind of death!"
     "I've seen death, girl. Believe me, this is better. And wherein am I
    cruel here? What you condemn as slavery, others might label peace.
    None will resent their place in the scheme of things because none will
    have the slightest inkling that something better is possible. Because
    that judgment requires a leap of faith, of logic, of imagination-that
    my control of the dragons will deny them. It requires the capacity to
    dream."
      "That's obscene."
      'Don't you judge me, Elora Danan, you haven't the right."
      'I am the Danan. I will fight you."
      The Deceiver lashed out to catch her by the throat.
     "You are nothing. You are a memory, soon to be expunged as I
    would cauterize a rotting wound."
     Elora heard the opening stanza of the Spell of Dissolution, felt
    those silver moonglow tendrils reach out from the Deceiver's con-
    sciousness to hers. There was fear at their touch, but not the terror
    she'd felt the night of her Ascension. The image came to her of Khory
    in their duels together and most important of that last confrontation,
    when skill and talent and above all desire had coalesced to allow her,
    for those minutes, to stretch herself to the demon child's level.
     She remembered the firedrakes, of how gloriously they slipped
    through the warp and woof of reality, without a care for any of the
    boundaries imposed on them by subjective or objective reality. They
    went where they pleased, and if something barred their way, they
    found a different path that either led them around the obstacle or to
    somewhere wholly different.
     So it was here. The spell reached out for her but she wasn't there
    to be ensnared. She made the substance of her soul molten, as im-
    possible to grasp as quicksilver, able in the process to confound the
    leading elements of Mohdri's spell, to tangle them and disrupt the
    cohesive patterning so integral to the proper dissolution of her per-
    sonality.
     It wasn't salvation. For a confrontation on this magus level,
    Thorn's power and his resources weren't sufficient to win the day, as
    his duel with Mohdri had most cruelly demonstrated. She wasn't
    even that good yet, or truly that strong.
      She didn't need to be.
     She reached her arms past Mohdri, felt the electric tingle of
    Duguay's touch.

    




     Music swelled in both of them, he led, she followed, with the
    Castellan between them. The problem with casting a spell is the
    amount of concentration it takes. Casting one of Dissolution requires
    a tremendous amount, so much so that Mohdri was forced to with-
    draw deep inside himself to properly wield the necessary powers. He
    had to take especial care with Elora, far more than Bavmorda did
    when she attempted the same rite. She wanted the child annihilated,
    body and soul. Mohdri needed the body intact. That required preci-
    sion.
     He in no way left himself vulnerable. Any overt threat, physical or
    mystic, would snap him from his trance in an instant and be dealt
    with almost as quickly. But this was a dance. There was no danger
    here, how could there possibly be?
     Together, the three of them retraced the steps already laid out by
    Elora and Duguay. Seemingly, it was a random pattern of move-
    ments, with nothing special about them. Only from a dragon's per-
    spective could the truth be seen. They had marked the floor of the
    caldera with the sigil Elora had found at the end of the storybook, in
    effect crafting for themselves a monstrous World Gate. As Carig had
    etched one symbol as a Summons, so was this in turn a Banishment.
    The Dancer comes to the world alone, he claims a partner, and on the
    rarest of occasions, the pair of them return to his domain together.
    For Elora, once she realized the Deceiver's ultimate destination and
    intent, this seemed the only choice and a sacrifice she was more than
    willing to make.
     As Elora and Duguay repeated their dance, with the Deceiver
    between them, they left a trail of power behind, as volatile as oil.
    Its climax would be the spark that set it alight, and the energy of
    that blaze would pop the Gate open wide. Mohdri would be carried
    with Duguay and Elora to Duguay's domain, there to remain
    forever. He might find a way out, but she doubted it, since she
    would remain to bar his path, For all the Deceiver's power, her
    senses told her that he was still fundamentally human, grounded on
    too many basic levels to the Circles of the World and the Flesh to
    long endure that of the Spirit. That the same applied to her, that the
    same dissolution of self would ultimately claim her, was a fact she
    chose to ignore. Was this her purpose? She didn't know, she didn't
    care, what mattered was the victory. Ending the threat of the De-
    ceiver. For whatever followed, the Realms could settle their own af-
    fairs.
     Why is Duguay stnifing? she thought, and said, softly, so as not to

    




    break the seductive rhythm of their dance and disturb Mohdri. "Why
    are you smiling?"
     "At you, pet, who dare so much and know so little."
     "Some of the bravest deeds spring from rank ignorance."
     'See to your friends. I will finish here."
     She didn't comprehend for a moment and stumbled over a toe. No
    lasting harm done, Mohdri appeared well and truly caught up in the
    flow of their movements, responding to Duguay's cues as readily as
    Elora.
     'What?" she stammered. "What?"
     'You have a destiny. And I an obligation. I would have died at
    Ganthem's Crossing but for you."
     "Does corporeal death have meaning for such as you?"
     "The spells those High Elves meant to cast would have held me for
    a time. That time would have been unpleasant. Now that debt is
    paid. In truth, I hold in my arms what was desired from the start."
     "The Spell of Dissolution-!"
     "Has no power over the likes of me. You are much desired, my
    pet, but needed more elsewhere. Go now. Quickly."
     He released his hold on her hands and, in that same blink of time,
    gracefully brought Mohdri around to face him so that they were arm
    in arm as he and Elora had been. The young woman stood stock-still,
    uncomprehending, and watched them twirl away, moving faster than
    they had before.
     She turned back to Thom and crossed the distance to him at a
    dead run to find him ministering to Khory.
     "Get to our World Gate," she told them.
     Duguay and Mohdri were dancing faster still, a waltz fit more for
    demons than for human beings, and Elora felt a pang of loss at the
    thought of the glory she was missing. The climax of both dance and
    spell was near.
     Elora took a step toward them.
     Something wasn't right.
     Another step, ignoring Thom's call, shaking her head at a stabbing
    discontinuity of vision as InSight yanked her to another place rich
    with a giddy excitement unfelt for too long a time. Elora staggered,
    wondering if this is what it was like to be one of those daredevils
    who go off the Wall in a tub, determined to make the plunge into
    Morar and live to tell the tale. Her breath went out of her as though
    she'd been punched. She looked around frantically, seeing not the
    caldera of the dragon's volcano but another vision overlaying it, some

    




    grand and royal celebration with music and dancing and she, as al-
    ways, the belle of the ball.
     She put one foot before the other, faster with every step, wishing
    for wings to cover the distance to Duguay and Mohdri more quickly.
     The dance was interacting with Mohdri's spell to strip away illu-
    sions, it wasn't what he intended, Duguay couldn't help himself.
     To her horror, Elora realized, He's dancing with Mohdri the way he
    would with me!
     They stopped, all of a sudden, Duguay taking a step back in re-
    flexive surprise, Mohdri staggering himself, wrapped in confusion,
    part of him screaming of danger while another yearned plaintively for
    the waltz to start again.
     Mohdri raised his head, only it wasn't his head any longer. The
    Deceiver's mask had been tom away.
     What Elora beheld was her own face.
     Older, so much older, skin touched with gold instead of gleaming
    silver, hair the vaguely remembered shade of strawberry blond. Not
    so ready a smile anymore, and lines etched deep wherever lines could
    go. It was a face that had never known physical hardship or privation,
    whose fiercest struggles had always been on the battlefield of the
    soul. Win or lose, she had paid a terrible price.
     It's a lie, Elora wanted to say, desiring more than anything to shout
    it to the highest point of the heavens. What else to expect from a crea-
    ture called the Deceiver?
     Yet it explained so much. Knowledge that no one else could have,
    and the power over Elora herself that came with it. The ability to an-
    ticipate events: small surprise if they had already happened to her at
    some point in the past.
     Their eyes met, across an expanse of sand.
     'You're not me," was what finally emerged.
     "If I fail," her older self replied, "I am."
     The horror to Elora was that the other woman believed it, with a
    certainty as irrefutable as the turning of the world.
     411 can't let you do this," she said, sure of neither thoughts nor
    emotions any longer but willing to trust her instincts all the same.
     "You can't stop me. The power is already mine, the dragons are lit-
    de more than ghosts." Her smile was cruel, made worse by the fact
    that Elora could see in it a portion of her own. "They were little more
    than ghosts when I arrived. Their day is done, their lives but shad-
    ows, for me to claim as my own. I am the Sacred Princess, such is my
    right!"

    




     Elora searched for Duguay but the Deceiver struck first, with a
    force and ruthlessness that made Elora gasp. She lashed out at him
    with a veritable forest of energy waves that drained the Dancer dry
    at the touch. In that twinkling, Duguay's corporeal host was reduced
    to a husk, but the Deceiver didn't allow the cord of his existence to
    snap. She held him prisoner, spirit lashed tight inside that casement
    of dust while she drew his power to her.
     Instinct sent Elora into a leaping backward spin, a sudden move-
    ment that caught her by surprise as much as the Deceiver. She arched
    over her back in midair to come down straight as any spear into the
    core of the sigil she and Duguay had so carefully wrought. As she
    landed she called forth all the fire in her soul, the passions she had
    barely begun to tap, the dreams she would not allow the Deceiver to
    steal away, and shot them into the ground like a bolt from heaven.
     She thought the sigil would ignite like something set afire, with
    flames racing helter-skelter outward from the center. All its elements,
    though, flared to life as one, filling the crater with a soft, golden ra-
    diance.
     At the same time Elora hurled herself at the Deceiver, colliding
    with a tackle hard enough to bounce that armored figure to the
    ground. She straddled the villain's chest, calling on all the hours she
    spent at Torquil's forge, all the emotional intensity she'd learned by
    Duguay's side, and she heaved. Up and over the Deceiver went,
    bouncing once as she landed within the boundary of the sigil.
     Little fool, she heard in her own mind, in her own voice, as though
    she was talking to herself, would you doom us all?
     Elora had no answer, only determination, and an acknowledgment
    that this was a price she was prepared to pay.
     The face might have been hers but the body remained as strong
    and vital as Mohdri's. The Deceiver lunged for her, Elora pitching her-
    self aside in a frantic crab scuttle, only to be brought up short by a
    collision with a glowing ribbon of energy thrown up by the sigil. As
    Elora watched, the ground began to melt away along the pathways
    she and Duguay had made, the radiance rapidly arcing from gold to
    silver to a blue-white glare so penetrating that it made the flesh of her
    arms transparent as she held them over her eyes.
     You think you've won, the Deceiver snarled, but you have not. You
    would match yourself against me, Elora Danan?
     The radiance was eating away steadily at all the plots of ground
    within the sigil, yet the Deceiver didn't appear to mind. She stood as
    she might on a set of battlements, surveying the approach of some

    




    enemy she was about to destroy. The thought amused her, the battle
    meant nothing to her. She had no doubt of the outcome.
     Learn now, the Deceiver proclaimed, how futile is that enterprise.
     The Deceiver cupped her hands one over the other and a ball of
    energy popped into being. From it curled snakelike tendrils, painfully
    reminiscent of the ones Elora had seen wrapped tight around Ryn
    Taksemanyin's soul by the Maizani sorceress, only these were far
    more foul in origin and far more deadly in effect. It had a stench to it,
    this spell, and Elora's hand went to her throat as the image of the
    Slave Ring came to mind.
     There was one tendril for every dragon, and the young woman
    knew that the slightest touch would mean their doom. They had
    been encased in ice to hold them, to sap their physical vitality and
    weaken their will to resist, as the Deceiver had done to all the as-
    
    10
    
    sembled monarchs in Angwyn years before. This was to finish them,
    to steal away their souls, the essence of their being as a race, to some
    secret place of the Deceiver's, to be doled out in portions as she saw
    fit. Or most likely, never to be seen again.
     No more laughter, no delight, no dreams of things that never were.
     One dragon stood paramount among their number, on a crag that
     omed above the head of the caldera, and when Elora's eyes sought
    his, she knew this was the true form of Calan Dineer.
     "I don't know what to do," she cried, despairing that he would
    hear. "I don't know what to do.1'
     She remembered the Malevoiy, how it stretched its sibilants the
    way people think a snake might talk, of how for all its age it found
    delight in the thought of killing.
     She would kill, it told her gleefully.
     It would be good.
     "No," she wept, and took no notice of the fact that one of the De-
    ceiver's spell strands was reaching for her, and more back toward
    where Thom and Khory lay watching.
     In her mind Elora forged a spear. It was a work of wondrous
    beauty, with an edge that could cut spirit from flesh, for that was its
    purpose. It came from the forge of imagination white-hot, a shape-
    less blob of incandescence, to be taken in her tongs and hammered
    and pounded and honed, the metal folded again and again and again
    until there wasn't a substance in creation that was proof against it.
     Elora worked quickly because there was no time, but she re-
    mained true to the craft that she'd been taught. In every way, when
    she was done, this was a creation to be proud of.
    
    I

    




     A vision of her stood tall within her mind, bouncing the spear a
    few times to gauge the heft of it.
     She looked at each of the dragons in turn, knowing their peril, but
    determined to fix each and every visage indelibly in her memory.
     While she lived they would not be forgotten.
     In her imagination, that vision of herself reared back and let fly the
    spear.
     And because this was the Realm where imagination could be
    made flesh, that spear took tangible form that selfsame instant. She
    and Calan were separated by miles, but that didn't matter. It wasn't
    the strength of her arm that propelled the shaft, but of her will.
     Calan lifted his great head to the sky, as did the others in kind, and
    in a voice that made Elora's heart leap to her throat, the dragons cried
    their defiance here as they did in the story she told back at the fort, a
    whole lifetime ago it seemed.
     As one, they called out, Freedom!
     And like that ancient hero, they died.
     There was a light too impossible to be endured. There was the
    heat of all creation being bom. There was sensation that could not be
    described, as an entire generation of dragons was returned in that ter-
    rible instant to the celestial fires that gave them birth.
     Elora saw it all, heard it all, felt it all. She stood at the heart of the
    holocaust, but was not consumed. She felt the substance of the De-
    ceiver melt away, but knew that meant nothing. Her adversary
    would not be beaten so easily. In this place the Deceiver was spirit
    made flesh, an animate projection of her will, brought to life in part
    by the sacrifice of the twelve Maizani sorcerers who'd opened the
    Sandeni Gate. The corporeal form of Castellan Mohdri was no doubt
    safely bunkered deep within Maizani territory.
     With measured tread, Elora crossed the whole of that great
    caldera, now hollow and empty for the first time in living memory.
     Unsure of what they'd find, or what to do, Thorn and Khory fol-
    lowed, giving wide berth to that portion of ground where the sigil
    had been drawn and the World Gate opened. It appeared solid
    enouLyh but neither was of a mind to test it.
    
     They too had beheld the Deceiver's true face. To Thom the sight
    was a stab through his heart, made worse by what Elora had done
    
    The dragons were the soul of the world, they stood at the summit
    
    of the Third Circle of Creation. Now they were gone.
     Elora Danan met them halfway, a vision in silver with robes th

    




    color of blood, as wild and elemental as the first spring of a newbom
    world.
     She walked proudly, happily, and on her face was a smile that
    spoke of a whole world of possibilities, In each arm, she carried a
    dragon's egg.
     The past was done. In her charge, as freely accepted as given, was
    the promise of the bright, new future yet to be.

    




    CHRIS CLAREMONT is best known for his seventeen-year stint on
    Marvel Comics' The Uncanny X-Men, during which it was the
    bestselling comic in the Western Hemisphere for a decade; he
    has sold more than 100 million comic books to date. His novels
    First Flight, Grounded! and Sundowner were science fiction best-
    sellers. Recent projects include the dark fantasy novel Dragon
    Moon and Sovereign SevenTM, a comic book series published by
    DC Comics. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
    
    GEORGE LUCAS is the founder of Lucasfilm Ltd., one of the
    world's leading entertainment companies. He created the Star
    Wars and Indiana Jones film series, each film among the all-time
    leading box-office hits. Among his story credits are THX 1138,
    American Graffiti, and the Star Wars and IndianaJones films. He lives
    in Marin County~ California.

    





    





    




    0
    
    I I

    





       


    9 780
    
    STLE REGION LIBRARY
    
    US $22.95 / $29.95 CAN
    
    ISBN 0-553-09597-8