Once A Hero




Michael A. Stackpole

SPECTRA

Copyright © 1994 by Michael A. Stackpole.

Cover art copyright © 1994 by Kevin Johnson.

ISBN 0-553-56112-X

CONTENT

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue:A Night's Adventure In Jammaq

Chapter 1:An Encounter On The Way To Aurdon

Chapter 2:An Encounter On The Way To Aurium

Chapter 3:Received By The Lords Of Aurdon

Chapter 4:Deceiving The Lords Of Aurium

Chapter 5:The Reason For Coming

Chapter 6:The Reason For Leaving

Chapter 7:The Short Ride

Chapter 8:The Long Ride

Chapter 9:The Magick Of Battle

Chapter 10:The Magick Of Love

Chapter 11:Intrigues In The City
Chapter 12:A City That Intrigues

Chapter 13:A Sylvanesti Amid The Councils Of Aurdon

Chapter 14:A Man Amid The Councils Of Cygestolia

Chapter 15:To Mourn A Man's Passing

Chapter 16:To Celebrate An Empire's Death

Chapter 17:Memories Of Childhood

Chapter 18:Anticipation of Children

Chapter 19:The Hospitality Of A Strange House

Chapter 20:The Hostility Of A Familiar Wood

Chapter 21:The Cleansing Effect Of Fire

Chapter 22:The Fiery Effect Of Truth

Chapter 23:The Empire Of Dreams

Chapter 24:The Emperor Of Nightmares

Chapter 25:Finding Your Place In History

Chapter 26:Carving A Niche In History

Chapter 27:False Goal New Beginning

Chapter 28:True Goal And The End Of Everything

Chapter 29:To Come Home Again

Chapter 30:To Die Far From Home

Chapter 31:For The Greater Good

Chapter 32:The Minority Does Suffer

Chapter 33:The Puppet's Strings Justified

Chapter 34:The Ties Even Death Cannot Sever

Chapter 35:New Tricks For An Old Wolf

Chapter 36:Hatred Fills A Heart Of Ice

Chapter 37:The Hero As A Man
Chapter 38:Bittersweet, The Hero's Reward

Chapter 39:Once More To The City Of Gold

Chapter 40:Old Weeds Bear Bitter Fruit

Chapter 41:Bright Fruit, Cruel Poison

Chapter 42:Slash And Burn

Epilogue:Night's Adventure In Aurdon

About the Author

Dedication

 This book is dedicated to
Jim Fitzpatrick

 As an artist, the pictures he paints are worth far more than a thousand words, and as an author,
his understanding of heroes and heroism laid the foundation for much of this work.

Acknowledgments

 THIS WORK COULD not have been completed without the help or influence of the following
individuals:

Janna Silverstein, Ricia Mainhardt, Jennifer Roberson, and Liz Danforth, who, as the Four Horsewomen
of the Apocalypse, promised me disaster if I didn't get this book right. All four of them endured the telling
of chunks of this tale while I worked on it, and their forbearance was greatly appreciated.

 Dennis L. McKiernan, Aiis Rasmussen, and Kate Elliot, who provided insights into fantasy and
character that enabled me to pick out key points for emphasis. All three of them, in addition to Jennifer
Roberson, are great storytellers, and if you've not read them, you are missing a lot.

Ron Wolfley, Brian and Frances Gross, and Bob and Patty Vardeman, who asked questions and made
me defend points that helped determine the direction and content of this book.

Chris Harvey who went above and beyond the call of duty in locating a Maltese/English English/Maltese
dictionary for me.

Sam Lewis and Brian Fargo who were patient in allowing me to indulge myself in writing the book.

 And, as always, my parents, Jim and Janet; my brother, Patrick, and his wife Joy; my sister, Kerin, and
again Liz, who supplied the support and encouragement that made it possible for me to finish the job.

Prologue:
A Night's Adventure In Jammaq

Midsummers Eve
Five Centuries Ago
My Twenty-second Birthday

***

 THE HIGH-MOUNTAIN night breezes whipped through the dark canyons of the Reithrese charnel
town and greeted me with cold razor kisses on my eyes. The chill thin air whistled and moaned as it
broke around corners and over the myriad gargoyles decorating Jammaq. Not for the first time I
wondered why I had traveled so far to put myself in the heart of a city sacred to a people who, as a race,
had sworn to kill me.

As always, the same answer came to my question: the sword. And that answer satisfied me. Though I
had seen it only once, and on that occasion had felt its steely caress a number of times, I knew the blade
was meant to be mine. And if possessing it required me to chase it to the gates of the Cold Goddess's
Realm or beyond, I was prepared to go that far.

 I shivered in my stolen clothes and let a steamy sigh get whipped away by the wind. Obsession breeds
foolishness the way stale water breeds mosquitoes, and folks would describe our efforts as foolishness if
my Elven companion and I failed in our quest. Still and all, no one else had ever done what Aarundel and
I had accomplished so far in our mission, and I took some delight in that fact even if he did not.

 I winked at Aarundel. "Don't go thinking of it as grave robbing, Aarundel, think of it as . . . as mining ore
for bards to refine into golden song."

 "I never thought it my destiny to be lauded before inebriates in a song titled. 'The True Death of the Dun
Wolf.' " Aarundel tugged the red scarf away from his mouth and hunched his shoulders. That trimmed
four inches off his height, making him shorter than I am. The loose-fitting black natari cassocks we wore
added enough bulk to his slender build to let him pass for a Reithrese, though both of us were too tall to
fool anyone with one eye open and enough sense to recognize Aarundel's pointed ears poking up through
his black hair.

Of course, anyone with that much sense was well away from here.

The Elf's dark eyes glittered in the wan moonlight. "I have half a mind to leave now."

"If you had half a mind, you'd not have come here at all."

The Elf shook his head ruefully. "Clearly my faculties have been atrophied by five years of association
with you."

"I'm thinking it's our dying that has befuddled you."

 "Ah, yes, to be dead in the city of the dead. The concept amused, but the reality has failed to satisfy
expectation." He spat at the nearest building. "This is a foul place."

 "Foul it is, and fairly we will quit it, when we are done." Looking about through the dark-shrouded
streets, I thought "foul" a rather mild adjective, for death haunted the city ofJammaq . The wind kept it
cold, even in high summer, though I had no complaint about that. Growing up in the Roclaws, I had been
born in an unseasonable blizzard and had spent more time walking on snow and ice than in spring-green
meadows.
 With ourselves being the exception, not a living creature walked the cobbled streets in the Reithrese city
of the dead that night. The swirling wind brought with it the rotten scent of decaying meat, and that made
taking every step toward the center of the city a battle. I pulled the natari scarf up over my nose again
and let the wet-wool scent mask the death stench so I could go forward.

 I had no idea what the Reithrese envisioned when they created Jammaq, but I could see what it had
become over the centuries and centuries. Streets ran haphazard through the city, like cracks in ice,
without rhyme and certainly with little reason. The outlying buildings, none over a single story tall,
sprouted corners as a bird would feathers. Odd blocks jutted out, studding the walls with stone thorns so
thick that even a rat would be hard pressed to find shadowed space large enough in which to hide. That
fact had caused my friend and I no end of anxiety, until we both discovered that all but a few of the
buildings were empty, and those that were not, advertised their condition with loud music and thin slivers
of light limning tight- closed shutters and doors.

 If it weren't enough that all the buildings had been blackwashed, each had been decorated in a most
horrible manner. Gargoyles big and small, ancient and new-carved, perched on lintels and hung from
eaves. They grew like warts from the buildings, snarling outward with fearsome fangs bared. Moving
through the night, I could feel a thousand eyes watching us, but nary a one connected to a brain that
could think or a mouth that could raise an alarm.

 The inhabited houses in Jammaq were not that different from their silent, dark companions. Music, likely
intended to keep out the ghostly howl of the wind, pinpointed them even before we saw light. We snuck
past them like spectres ourselves, but the risk of discovery remained low. There was a chance that
someone might look out if we accidently made a noise, but we had taken precautions against discovery in
that event as well.

 Our dark trousers and robes, colorful scarf and sash, and the beaded-leather quitawi dangling from our
right wrists, marked us as members of the natari. Perhaps more feared among the Reithrese than the
ghosts lost in the city's street-maze, the militant guardians of Reithrese religious tradition had a reputation
for brutal, cold cruelty in the prosecution of their duties. They were inviolate, and no one was immune
from their judgment, so everyone avoided them. So arrogant and confident in their roles were they that
the two we waylaid to obtain our disguises had been shocked that we dared strike them.

 We came to a crossroad, and I lashed the quirt against my left palm as I looked around for directions.
To the southwest I could see the tower complex for which we were bound. Towers of all heights and
thicknesses stabbed into the air like a multifingered hand clawing stars from the night sky. The flickering
orange glow from the center of the tower-circle pulsed out enough light to mold the towers themselves
into grasping silhouettes.

 "Do you think the natari have no street signs here to confuse the ghosts, or to earn money guiding
families to their lodgings here and back out again?"

 "More the latter than the former, I would imagine, but not having seen a ghost so far, I think their efforts
in that direction are at least partially successful." Resting his war ax across his knees, Aarundel crouched
down and reached out with a long-fingered hand to push at a couple of cobblestones. "None are loose,
Neal."

 I frowned. The city of the dead had no street signs and few enough landmarks beyond the tower
silhouettes. So far, operating on the idea that the gargoyles were all meant to scare ghosts from the tower
back into it, we had been keeping the stone faces at our back. Here, though, the gargoyles faced us from
one alley and looked away down two roads. The broader street curved off and away, while the narrower
one seemed to continue dead west. Loose stones might have marked which way others had gone before,
but Aarundel's report dashed that hope.

I dropped to my haunches beside him. "Being as how the Reithrese and Elves are both Elder races, how
would you mark them as balancing ceremony with practicality?"

Aarundel's head came up, and scorn echoed through his harsh whisper. "They are a vulgar and
ostentatious race, given to frivolous display."

 "And probably not very pleased with the prospect of spending much time here at their grisly doings, eh?"
I glanced at the weathering of the gargoyles in both the wide and skinny roads. "We'll take this one, then,
my friend. There's enough of a difference that says the wide is new and not for us."

 The Elf nodded and headed off down the narrow roadway, with me quick at his heels. Neither one of us
had much scholarship in the ways of the Reithrese—though Aarundel could manage their angular
tongue—but we knew just enough about their religious fetishes for me to hatch my plot and for Aarundel
to imagine it might succeed. What was born as an "I wonder" teamed up with a couple of "we really
shoulds," and before reason could rear her fair head and dissuade us, we rode for the mountains and
invaded Jammaq in search of a sword.

 The Reithrese, being bound to the goddess of the underworld—called Reithra by those of us who had
no need or desire to know her true name—have some peculiar rites when it comes to the treatment of the
dead. Being like men in all ways except the length of their life, the power they command, and their hateful
nature toward outsiders, the Reithrese bring their dead to Jammaq. They entomb them in the tower, with
lesser folk being stored higher up—further distant from their goddess—and the great and mighty lying in
the bosom of the earth herself.

 A year or so later, weather willing and bandits bribed, the relatives of the deceased return to open the
tomb. They clean the bones and put them in a box to be carried back to Alatun or one of the other
Reithrese cities to be kept in family shrines. Finally, as part of the funeral, the dead's possessions, which
were stored with him in that first year, are auctioned off to the person who can make the best case for
why he should inherit the item in question.

"And no one can make a better case for owning my sword than I," I mumbled as we wound our way
down a snake-twist road.

Despite my words being muffled in the scarf, Aarundel's sharp ears heard my remark. "Your sword?
Khiephnaft was never your sword, my friend."

"It's a fated blade, Aarundel, you've said so yourself. It has to be mine."

 "I must have missed seeing the name Neal Roclawzi in reading the various prophecies concerning the
sword."

 "It's there, unless someone like Finndali has been revising texts, and you know that for the truth." I turned
left onto a broad boulevard that arced on down toward the towers. "Besides, you know Tashayul
wanted me to have it. Cleaveheart is mine; he declared it so during his speech dedicating Jarudin to
Reithra,"

 Aarundel's dark eyes flashed from above his scarf. "That would be a rather broad interpretation of,
'Neal is the last person in the world I want to have this sword!' would it not?"
 "It loses something in the translation." I smiled devilishly. "In the original I'd wager he was more eloquent
in describing how I should get the blade."

"This I believe sincerely."

 Tashayul had no reason to want me to have anything but his undying enmity. The Reithrese people had
once possessed a vast empire that had extended from ocean to deserts and back again. Over the
centuries it had begun to shrink, as nations of men split off and proclaimed their own independence. The
Reithrese contented themselves with a commonwealth for a while, then let a Human empire nibble away
at their borders. Five hundred years ago they even accepted Elven intervention in the affairs of what had
been their empire. The days of Reithrese glory had faded for all time.

 At least it seemed that way to all but the Reithrese. Being long-lived—both because of their nature and
the chaotic, elemental magicks they had mastered—they took an almost Elven view of mayfly Humanity.
In addition to their perspective, they had another thing that made waiting and tolerating all possible for
them. Like a dagger hidden in a boot, they had a prophecy, and this prophecy said their empire would be
born anew.

 Tashayul and his brother, Takrakor, determined through the former's cunning and the latter's magicks,
that they were the individuals fated to reunify the old empire under their leadership. They started a
crusade in which their troops committed atrocities that almost served to eclipse the excesses of the
Eldsaga in their ferocity. The brothers let it be known that they intended to slay or enslave all Men within
the borders of what had once been their empire. Humanity, politically fractured and without leadership,
had no way to oppose them.

 What Men needed was a hero. Having been proclaimed a hero by sayers of sooth since my birth, I
came to see the Reithrese war as the crucible in which I would be tested. We Roclawzi had long prided
ourselves in our warrior tradition, and the Reithrese had never beaten us before in a fight. Because I had
been born on Midsummer's Eve—in a blizzard and beneath a triangle of full moons—great things were
expected of me. The storm, the Triangle, and even one event hiding the other were all omens that could
be taken for good or ill as appropriate and caused me to feel I had been born to be the sort of hero who
could stop the Reithrese. In answering my call to duty, I forged a sword, mounted a horse, and headed
down out of the mountains to lay claim to a legend or to lie still in an anonymous grave.

 It was a time of chaos in which the whole of the world was filled with as many horrors as Jammaq itself.
To the Reithrese, men were not really much more than demi-oxen who could guide their bigger brethren
at the plow. While this did place us a bit higher in the scheme of things than in the average Elven view, it
didn't spare many lives. As I rode west, I heard refugee tales of villages being burned, babies being
drowned like kittens in rivers, and all resistance being crushed wherever a defense was raised.

It took no alchemist to see one thing about the Reithrese probes: they ranged far out and away from the
main battle lines in Ispar. The only good thing about being pointed out as a hero born among a warrior
people is that my training involved heavy doses of military strategy and tactics. To be truthful, among my
people a frightening war cry counts for more than either strategy or tactics, but I enjoyed the study of
both, so I was given as much as I wanted,

 It struck me that while the fight for Ispar raged on, the Reithrese were spending an inordinate amount of
time in the mountains of Esquihir. Not having wanted to head into the world utterly ignorant, I had read of
Reithrese history and tactics. From my reading I recalled a previous and painfully short-lived campaign
by another Reithrese general that had ended in those mountains. His effort had been unremarkable—and
it failed because internal Reithrese politics eroded his support—but he was supposed to have borne a
magical sword said to confer immortality upon the warrior who wielded it and to guarantee that warrior
the winning of an empire.

Tashayul clearly wanted that sword.

That meant I wanted it as well.

 Khiephnaft had been lost to common knowledge, but Tashayul's torturers turned up some clues to its
location. Full of the innocent enthusiasm of youth, I killed horses in my mad dash across Barkol's grassy
oceans, and killed Reithrese in Ispar's southern reaches. Fearful humans gave me shelter and supplies on
my trek. When I let them know that I had come from the mountains with a sword I meant to use to kill
Tashayul, tongues loosened and directions flowed freely.

 Hoping against hope that the foolish youth from the Roclaws might do what no other human had
managed—the Triangle birth working to inspire hope—folks pointed me toward a small Jistani convent in
the Esquihir mountains. They claimed Cleaveheart had been kept by the nuns as a weapon meant for a
champion sworn to Jistan to use in destroying his enemies. I'd never been very religious—the gods are
perverse and like torturing Men with dire predicaments—but I was willing to offer an oath to Jistan if he'd
lend me the blade.

 Of course, I was not alone in wanting to get my hands on that blade. What people told me freely, and
the Reithrese had to torture out of folks, had almost been forgotten by the Elves. For reasons of their
own, they wanted this blade that they called Divisator. Aarundel said that meant "Sunderer," but that was
long after we first met. So, while Tashayul and I raced for it, coming from the east and the west, the Elves
came in from the north.

 I arrived on the site first, and the nuns welcomed me as if I were indeed the champion for whom they
waited. I asked to take possession of Cleaveheart immediately, but the abbess avowed that Jistan had
specified a number of rituals before the blade could be given over to my keeping.

I pressed her on this point. "I'm thinking, good Sister Constance, that Most High Jistan would
understand about the urgency of the situation."

"Were that true, Neal Roclawzi, he would have given us a sign." Her face closed up in all the sign I
needed to know I was doomed to wait.

 Tashayul and his Skull-riders arrived as I was sleeping off a long ride and a full meal. The nuns, given the
choice between death or surrender of the sword and my person, found themselves divinely inspired to
declare me a heretic. This they did while I slumbered. I awoke from a dream about wrestling a snake to
find myself bound hand and foot.

 Standing beside the abbess, I watched from a balcony as a trio of nuns bore Cleaveheart to Tashayul.
"No rituals, Sister?"

"We have had our sign, Neal Snaketongue." The nun eyed me sternly. "If you are truly Jistan's champion,
He, in His divine wisdom, will find a way to unite you with the blade."

Watching Tashayul take practice cuts down in the courtyard, I had a feeling he, too, had a way to unite
me with the blade, causing me to wonder if what I had taken as good omens were not so good after all.
With the dawn's rose light glowing from the long serpentine blade's single razor edge, and the sword
whistling as it sliced the air, wondering became knowing and I knew I'd seen my last dawn.

 Two of Tashayul's guards accepted custody of me from the nuns and brought me down into the
convent's courtyard. I towered over both my warders, but that was to be expected, as Reithrese tend to
be slightly shorter than the average man. Even so their stocky Reithrese builds mocked my gangling limbs.
In the few combats I had fought against their kind, my quickness and reach had made up for what I
surrendered to them in strength. Hobbled by a short length of rope and with my arms bound behind me,
those advantages went the way of my faith in Jistan.

 Coming into the courtyard, perspective on, Tashayul changed and with it changed my assessment of him.
Unlike his fellows, Tashayul and I could see eye to eye, which made him quite remarkable among the
Reithrese. Stripped to the waist, Tashayul moved quickly and smoothly, with thick muscles sliding
effortlessly beneath sweat-sheened skin that had been darkened by long exposure to the sun. His black
hair had been pulled back into a ponytail that fell midway down his spine. Successful cuts at imaginary
foes brought a smile to his face, peeling his lips back to reveal a mouth full of emerald teeth.

 A booted foot applied to the back of my legs drove me to my knees in front of Tashayul. The Reithrese
slashed the blade within a hair's-breadth of my nose, then sheathed Cleaveheart in one fluid, practiced
motion. He took my straight, double-edged sword from one of his human slaves and bared it. He flipped
it over and back, then tested the weight of it in his sword hand. He sighted down the edges of the blade,
then leaned on the sword as if it were a cane and he a Kaudian dandy on a seaside promenade.

 "You meant to kill me with this?" His voice came as hard as his dark-eyed stare, but I caught in both a
theatricality meant to frighten me mightily.

 "You should not be thinking that, m'lord. 'Tis a mountain tradition to be inscribing the name of a warrior
one wishes to honor on a blade." I tried to smile up at him, but one of the guards crashed a backhanded
cuff over my right ear.

 Tashayul frowned at the soldier and shook his head. "I take it the telling of tall tales is another Roclawzi
tradition? Or are you not this Neal of which my spies have told me?" He opened his arms, pointing my
sword skyward, and took in the whole of the aging monastery with his gesture "Is this not the place
where you said you would kill me?"

"I said nothing of the kind, m'lord." I answered him truthfully, for I'd never specified a place for us to
meet. I had been too intent on discovering the resting place of Cleaveheart to make those kinds of
boasts. I had assumed I'd have enough time to make them after I found the blade.

 Tashayul laughed aloud, and I saw the Reithrese lounging around the courtyard smile in response.
"Foolish little Neal, you gave these wretched people hope. They told you where to find Khiephnaft
because they dearly wanted you to destroy me. And then they told my spies where I would find you to
speed the process. Before that, I knew not where to find this wondrous blade. I am in your debt."

I returned his gracious nod. "Well met, then. As you have no further need for my service, we can speak
of repayment at another time." I started to get to my feet, but rough hands pressed me back down to the
ground.

"I may yet have need of your service, Neal." Tashayul handed my sword to a slave. "How old are you,
boy?"

I squinted at the horizon and searched the sky for constellations before the dawn's rosy glow could
devour them, all the while carefully choosing the words for my lie. "This being midsummer and a bit south
of my home, I'd admit to twenty summers." In my travels I'd heard of an augury that a foe a score
summers in age would be his death, so I decided to pitch some fear back at him.

The Reithrese general shook his head and pinched the pale, hairless flesh over my heart. "If I were to
believe that, I would believe you carry Elven blood, for you have matured very slowly. . . ."

An offended voice from behind me cut the general off. "Beware who you slander with your musings,
Tashayul."

 I pulled away from the Reithrese and twisted around to look at the company of Men standing in the
courtyard gateway. At least at first I took them for Men because, from my perspective, their height was
not particularly noticeable. The edge of the sun backed them with yellow-fire, so all I could see were
silhouettes. Only when one moved so I could see the odd curve to his bow and another doffed his
huntsman's hood to let me see pointed ears did I realize the interlopers were Elves, not Men.

From the forge to the anvil, I groaned to myself. At least with the Reithrese I had a chance of being
made a slave. With the Elves, well, the Eldsaga gave me a legion of fates to choose from with the Elves.
Still and all, the Elves and the Reithrese were never known for their cordial relations.

Tashayul folded his arms across his broad chest. "Imperator Finndali, to what do I owe this dubious
honor? Has this Man been threatening to end your life as well?"

 The Elven leader dismissed me with a shake of his head. "Were he worthy of notice—say your
speculation about his blood had veracity—he would be rapeget, and I would terminate his life. The
Consilliarii have taken an interest in this Khiephnaft. I was sent to obtain it for them."

Tashayul's eyes narrowed. "I see. I have a pressing need for it. Do you want it now?" As he asked his
question, his soldiers became more alert. They shifted positions to supply cover from Elven arrows or to
bring weapons to hand easily.

The Elf shook his head with a motion that dropped his green leather hunting-hood back, freeing his fine
black hair. "How long do you need it?"

The Reithrese shrugged. "Fifty years, I think. By then our rule will be restored."

"An ambitious schedule."

Tashayul glanced down at me. "Once we destroy their breeding stock, we expect resistance to crumble.
We learned that from you, in fact."

 Finndali smiled in a way that sent a rime asp wriggling through my entrails. "Fifty years, then. I will have it
from you at that time."

I forced myself to laugh. "You're supposing, of course, the good general will have it at that time. Fifty
years will a lot of battles bring."

"But battles waged against your kind, Man."

I nodded over at the slave holding my broadsword. "Those edges opened Reithrese veins easy enough.
Lest you're mindful of a way to use arrogance as armor, I'd wager he's not got two score ten years left to
him." I did some quick math in my head. "I'm thinking he'll sup at death's table in less than four."

Tashayul chuckled as he shook his head and let mock surprise wash over his face. "Only four years?
How did you arrive at that number?"

 I decided not to tell him that were the prophecy about his death true, I'd need those years to prepare. I
lied instead. "A year each for the conquest of Ispar, Barkol, andIrtysh , which brings you to the Roclaws
four years hence."

"The Roclaws? Do you truly think your mountain tribesmen can defeat me?"

I shrugged. "If they saw you as a serious threat, don't you think they would have sent more than me to
kill you?"

 I heard a couple of the Elves laugh at my question, though a stern glance from their leader silenced them.
I looked at Finndali. "Were I you, m'lord, I would take the blade now. You would find its price dear if
you were to require Cleaveheart from the hand of a Roclawzi."

 The Elf ignored me. "I find these younglings quite dolorous in general, but this one is a particular
annoyance. Too moronic to be properly terrified."

"Pathetic." Tashayul drew Khiephnaft and presented it hilt first to Finndali. "I had thought to vet the
blade's abilities by slaying him myself, but I will grant you this honor."

"Your offer is appreciated and laced with temptation, but it is your blade."

"And you dishonor it," I spat at the both of them. "Turning that fine piece of war-steel into a butcher's
hatchet. Blades are what they learn, and you can't teach warring with an execution."

"Youngling superstition," scoffed the Elf.

Tashayul agreed with a nod. "Silly mountain nonsense."

 "Mayhap be, but my sword learned well the drinking of Reithrese blood." Summoning a contemptuous
scowl to my face, I looked from Elf to Reithrese, then raised my chin to expose my throat. "Kill me. I'll
have no more of the company of cowards who dare not examine the lessons my blade has mastered."

The Reithrese conqueror threw his head back in a hearty laugh. "Is that what you want. Mad Neal? You
want a chance to fight me?"

 "I was thinking I wanted to kill you, but I'll settle for the latter." I shrugged. "Of course, I'm not so close
to newborn that I'd expect a fair fight."

That brought the general around and even appeared to spark some interest in Finndali's eyes. "The fight
has not even begun, yet you already accuse me of treachery?"

 "I'd be more charitable were I not wearing these ropes. I'll be facing a battle veteran with a special
sword."

"Ah, but you were bragging that you had slain a number of my kinsmen."
I frowned. "True. Still, there is the matter of the blade and this fine company you have gathered around
you."

The Reithrese watched me closely. "You have a compromise to suggest?"

 "Since I'm just fighting you, not killing you, I'm thinking that if I pink you with my blade, I should be
allowed my life and a day's ride."

"Else you might be forced to kill me and my warriors?"

 I let Tashayul's sarcastic tone pass unnoticed. "I might take pity on them and only wound them, but I'm
thinking that's the likely result, m'lord."

The Reithrese eyed me up and down, then nodded slowly. "Blood me with your blade and I will give
you four years. Four years to prepare the Roclaws for my wrath."

I swallowed hard and nodded. "Done."

"Good."

"One more thing."

A pained look passed over Tashayul's face. "What is it?"

 I nodded toward the Elven leader. "If my pinking should kill you, Khiephnaft is mine. I want it from his
lips."

Tashayul shrugged. "For the sake of the fight, m'lord?"

The Elf nodded. "Aarundel, his bonds."

 Another Elf left the company of his fellows and approached me. Holding his bow and a nocked arrow in
his right hand, and a bared dagger in his left, he dropped to one knee beside me. The knife's edge made
short work of the ropes. I slapped him on the shoulder, prompting a shudder in his captain that this
Aarundel did not echo.

"My thanks."

Aarundel nodded. "Success in your sanguineous devoir."

 "Enough, Aarundel, return to your place." Finndali opened his hands apologetically to Tashayul. "Youth
and their perception of the world . . ."

 "No matter." Tashayul held out his right arm, and two slaves slid onto it a mailed dueling sleeve. It
covered him from the back of his hand to shoulder, then over his right breast and shoulderblade. A black
leather strap bound it to him across his chest and beneath his left armpit. He moved his arm around, the
rings rustling as he did so, to test how much it restricted his movement. If it did at all, I was thinking, it
was not near enough to comfort me.

 I held my right arm out for similar sheathing, but a slave just shoved my sword's hilt into my right hand.
"Not even a gauntlet?"
The Reithrese shook his head. "You delay the inevitable."

"Here, Mad Neal." Aarundel plucked a green glove from his belt and tossed it to me. "So M'Lord
Tashayul does not disarm him in the first pass. A lesson quickly learned is one quickly forgotten."

 I caught the glove in my left hand and pulled it on. The supple leather felt tight on my hand at first, but
that eased. My fingers had not filled their sheaths fully at first, yet by the time I had worked my sword
back into my hand, the slack had vanished. The glove molded itself to my hand and to the blade's grip.

 I saluted the Elf, then struck an en garde position facing the Reithrese warrior. If I had reach on him, I
was thinking, it would be only an inch or two. In a duel to first blood, the back of the arm is a likely
target. A quick cut, a riposte, or a coupe, and a steel kiss would bring blood. With his armored sleeve in
place, it would take more than a lovetap to win me the fight, and I tried to plan a strategy accordingly.

 The Reithrese gave me no chance to plan. He came at me hard, starting single-handed, then shifting
around to put both hands on the hilt of the blade. His first slash, coming from right to left, mirrored the
one he'd shown me when I knelt before him. I jumped back from it, but felt the blade's sharp caress on
my right shoulder.

 A flesh wound only, it left a flap of skin flopping like an epaulet on my shoulder. The blood it brought
dripped off my arm at the elbow, and the cry it summoned from his men echoed through the courtyard. I
felt the pain and likened it to the sting of a bee, then dismissed it because Tashayul, having stung once,
would sting again and again until I lay dead.

 Another fighter, saluted by the cheers of his subordinates, might have backed off and accepted their
applause. Not Tashayul. He pressed me, sweeping Khiephnaft around in a grand circle that brought it
back down and toward my head. I raised my sword and blocked his cut, then sprang backward, tugging
at my blade to free it. It came after a second's delay that choreographed the rest of our battle.

 Khiephnaft had notched my blade. Roclawzi blade-smiths have no equal on the face of Skirren—which I
can say as the Dwarves dwell beneath the earth—but Khiephnaft cut into it with the ease of a sharp knife
hacking cheese. We both came to the same realization, and I saw what it meant to Tashayul reflected in
his eyes. First he would whittle my blade, then he would pare me down to foolsplinters.

 Double sure I was to die that day, my choices for the rest of my life narrowed considerably. I could die
short or die long. The latter seemed the likelier choice, but it came with pain, which brought it into
question again. Of course, I was thinking, I could share some pain with Tashayul and tarnish his victory.
After all, at sixteen summers I was not the one fated to kill him, but I'd heard of no prophecy concerning
suffering on his part.

 I attacked. Scuttling forward, I slashed low at his forward leg and actually caught him in the ankle. My
blade scarred the leather of his boots, but did not get through to his flesh. Snapping my wrist down and
around, I disengaged from his parry and came up in a circular slash that reached toward his flat belly. He
gave a step, then batted my blade aside with his armored sleeve.

 His blade came up on a wrist-twist cut that had no power, but still looked to slice me from navel to
nose. Ducking my left shoulder, I went down and over in a roll that brought me halfway 'round him. By
the time I came to my feet and backhanded a slash at his legs, he'd spun and parried me hard wide. That
gnawed my blade again and won him back the initiative in our fight.
 With his back to the Elves, he drove hard at me. Twice he came high right, forcing me to take his cuts on
the forte of my blade. Like a woodsman's ax on an old tree, his sword sent chips flying from my blade.
When he came in the third time, I lunged in a stop-thrust that should have spitted him, but he had
anticipated me. He came up short and brought Khiephnaft around in a sweeping cut that trimmed two
inches from the end of my sword.

 I recall hearing that piece of steel clatter, ringing like a bell, on the courtyard floor. I shifted my sword to
my left hand as I recovered, stamp-feinted with my right foot, then advanced with my left and angled a
thrust at his groin. My thrust came slow and clumsy, a final act of desperation.

 Tashayul's parry came hard and quick. He trapped my sword against the courtyard stones, then a final
push with bunched muscles shattered my worried blade. The strength of the parry tore the hilt from my
hand, smashing it down against the stone. It bounced and cartwheeled away, back behind him, toward
the waiting Elves.

 As I had intended from the moment I switched my grip, I pivoted on my left foot and brought my right
foot up and around. The ball of my foot caught Tashayul on the left temple. The blow twisted his head
around and sent him reeling in retreat. He tried to steady himself, but dropped to one knee a half-dozen
paces distant.

 A heavy blow to the small of my back sent me to the ground and all fours. I looked up and heard an
arrow whiz past my ear. It thunked into something behind me that sighed and gurgled and thumped.
Tashayul shook his head and stood, turning to face the Elves behind him. Finndali had already begun to
dress Aarundel down, but the undaunted Elf nocked another arrow with cool dispatch.

 The fingers of my right hand closed on a flat piece of steel maybe two inches square. I dropped my
index finger into a notch between a sharp burr and the old edge of my sword, holding the fragment as I
might a flat skipping stone. I hauled it back, then whipped it forward, not caring if I hit Reithrese or Elf,
but hoping for the best.

 My missile bit Tashayul over his spine. Small though it was, it might well as been the full blade, because
the lower half of his body died as quick as dry wood in a hot fire. The Reithrese reached back toward
the wound, unbalancing himself. He fell onto his spine, dropping Khiephnaft, and just lay there. His
peaceful legs contrasted with the fury on his face and the angry thrashing of his fists.

"Arrest yourselves, or I shall arrest your lives," Aarundel commanded the Reithrese at my back. Without
waiting for orders from Finndali, I saw three more of the Elves likewise bring their bows to full draw.

 "Foul! Base treachery!" Tashayul shrieked from the ground. "He used sorcery on me! I demand you slay
him."

 Still on my knees, I turned and freed a scimitar from the Reithrese body behind me. "I'm thinking that if
there was treachery, it struck me full before it reached you, m'lord." I looked up at Finndali. "Mark you
that it was my blade that blooded him. It was only a small piece of it, mind you, but my blade and his
blood. The fight is ended."

As much as Finndali might not have liked me, I could see he had no loyalty to the Reithrese general lying
on the ground. Had I not deferred to Finndali, he might have ordered me slain, but because I appealed to
him as the arbiter of the battle, he rose to the responsibility and the superior position it assigned him. I
waited humbly for his judgment.
"The veracity of the Man's statement is beyond inquiry." Finndali shook his head as he looked down at
Tashayul. "In your generosity you gave him four years. He shall have them."

 I walked over to Tashayul and kicked Khiephnaft into his reach. "Take good care of the blade, m'lord,
for I'll be coming for it after I kill you. Four years. When I reach my twentieth summer."

I started off toward the convent's stables, but Finndali stopped me. "Roclawzi, how come you to be so
bold, so young?"

 I frowned at the Elf as my stockpile of fear flowed into anger. "I'm thinking, m'lord, that is a question that
can only be asked by a someone who has been watching life for a long time. I'm living my life, I am, and
it's a life that needs bold living. At dawn I had four minutes to live it, and now I have four years, so I'm
not seeing any reason to be rationing my boldness."

 The Elf laughed silently, clearly amused by something I had said. "Hrothdel, come and heal this youngling
so more boldness does not leak out of him."

 An Elven magicker stepped from that company to help me, but I shook my head. "Thanks, but I'll be
seeing if one of the nuns is a tailoress to take a stitch or two in my wounds."

"But you will scar. There is no reason you should be marred."

 "Ah, but there is—without a scar, I might forget. I'm not thinking I suffer hurts so lightly that I'll be
wanting to be unmindful of them." I tossed the Elven leader a salute. "Come fifty years from now, I'm
thinking the price you will pay to get Cleaveheart from my hand is to listen to the recounting of how I got
this scar and that."

 "If your life lasts that long, Neal, the recitation might be diverting." The Elven lord raised his right hand to
shoulder height and waved one of his company forward. "Aarundel, you will travel with this Neal.
Tashayul has given him four years, and I mean that he should have them."

 "I'll not be wanting an Elf dogging my steps." I pulled Aarundel's glove off and tossed it to him. "Many
thanks, virsylvam, for the loan of your glove."

 Aarundel deftly plucked it out of the air. "I will not be a hound to your hare, but if you desire it, I can
teach you more of the Sylvan tongue and make the Reithrese remember the oath their leader made."

 More the smile on Aarundel's face than the look of disgust on Finndali's decided me to accept his
company.

 Truth be told, and not often enough it is, nights on the road had been lonely, and having an Elf as a boon
companion would be an adventure in and of itself. I also gathered, from the whispers and glances of the
other Elves, that more of that company would have loathed the duty than have welcomed it.

"And in return I can teach you how your blade and your arrows can learn, eh?" I smiled and offered him
my hand. "Neal Roclawzi, honored to meet you."

"And I am Aarundel."

 Much dust had settled on backtrails since that day, leading us from Esquihir to Ispar and Barkol and on
to the Roclaws and all the way back to Jammaq in just a handful of years. Aarundel's presence had
saved me more than once from danger, and I'd done the same for him. More important than that, though,
was the friendship we built. If the foundation laid down over the first five years were any indication of
durability of what would come after, all the gods themselves would have to combine to rip the two of us
from the world, because no lesser power could do it.

 Rounding a ghoul-backed corner, we saw the tower. As mausoleums go, I had to admit it was an
impressive structure, if a bit ghastly garish for my tastes. The Reithrese architects had indulged their
passion for pillars and arches, though all of the former looked like bones, and the latter had skulls as
keystones. The rest of the walls had been carved to give the impression that they had been thatched with
ribs, with any gaps patched by boneknobs, odd shoulder blades, and eyeless skulls. Given the necroric
design of the building, the horrified expressions on the faces of the gargoyles staring at it did not surprise
me overmuch.

Aarundel straightened up to his full height and pulled his scarf away from his mouth. "Seeing this
mortuarium, I do not begrudge any Reithrese termination."

 "I'm thinking," I agreed as I tugged my scarf down, "it's not the sort of place I'd be wanting to lay about,
even if for only a year."

The Elf pointed to a tortuous script carved into the lintel above the massive doors. "Granting you dispute
my translation of Tashayul's supposed inaugural remarks, but that indicates that only the dead or faithful
may pass into this place at night."

 "It's a good thing we are dead, then, I'm thinking, because my madness has not extended far enough for
me to be begging favors from the Cold Goddess." I slapped him on the shoulder and ran across the
roadway to the tower. "Come on, it says we're welcome."

"Living or dead, I think the Reithrese would find little to welcome about us."

 Aarundel had a point. After Tashayul's death in the Roclaws, the Reithrese focused their attention on
completing the Imperial capital of Jarudin and did not expand the Empire at all. But instead of thanking us
for the chance to consolidate their gains, they charged Tashayul's Skull-riders with the task of seeing to it
that I was slain. For the purpose of maintaining cordial relations with the Elves, Aarundel's name was not
on any death warrant, but the Skull-riders were not terribly inclined to using methods that would spare
him while killing me.

 Realizing we would not be shed of them—worshipers of a death goddess being rather focused in their
beliefs—on this side of life, we lured a whole pack of them into the Roclaws. With them in hot pursuit, in
the midst of winter and with a blizzard howling around them, we set a trap for them. An avalanche—quite
common in the Roclaws at that time of year—wiped the lot of them out.

 It was assumed the two of us had died as well. The Reithrese failed to realize that the people of the
Roclaws had long before learned how to trigger avalanches and avoid being trapped in them. With the
aid of Roclawzi nobles who hoped to use my status as a hero to their own ends, Aarundel and I escaped
a frozen death and rode from the Roclaws free of hostile pursuit.

 Newly dead—and thereby freed of normal, sane concerns—we set out on our pilgrimage to the city of
the dead.

 Taking a leg up from a shinbone carved into the stone, I peeked up into the death house through an
arched window. Seeing no movement, I hooked a leg over the windowsill, jamming my heel behind a
skull or two, then reached up and used a death's-head's open mouth for a handhold. Hauling myself into
the tower and landing on solid stone on the inside, I helped Aarundel in.

 The inside of the tower stood in marked contrast to the outside in terms of decoration—in a manner of
speaking, anyway. A fair not of columns and vaulted ceilings made the place a forest of stone. We had
come in on a walkway that ran around three sides of the chamber. Steps came down from the center of
the wall opposite us to the sunken floor of the chamber, and heading back up them would doubtless take
us to the tower's main corridor. In the east wall I saw another narrower door that had a ramp leading up
to it. It stood open and led back into the center of the complex. Enough light from the furnaces came
through that opening to provide us with flickering illumination within the death chamber. Voices came to
us through the doorway, but I understood nothing, and Aarundel apparently decided none of it warranted
translation.

 The chamber we were in had a frieze with selected scenes from the history of the Reithrese race. It
started with their creation by the gods, then showed how they had proved victorious over the forces of
the ancient gods in the long war that supplanted the parents with their children. It continued with a
number of other events that had significance for the Reilhrese, then ended with a newly carved piece
nearly a full rod in length. "Look at the frieze."

 The Elf frowned. "Vulgar blasphemy. Look at how the . . . artist has placed the Reithrese above Elves in
creation."

 "Not that, my friend, the last piece." I pointed to the newly added section. "The banner there, lying under
the bulky figure's feet. That's the Green Viper banner of Duke Harsian ofIrtysh ."

The Elf smiled. "Tashayul's last victory. That piece looks movable, too."

 "They just rent this space, not own it." I moved to the right and threaded my way through the pillars. In
the center of the room, with its back to us, a huge stone throne faced the newest piece of the frieze. "I'm
thinking that either we've stumbled onto the right place . . ."

 ". . . Or another of the generals who perished in the Roclaws is here." Aarundel followed in my
footsteps, though being an Elf, he moved more quietly and had less trouble picking out the path through
the half light.

I came around the corner of the throne. "No, this is Tashayul,"

 I shivered as the light from outside flared and I got a good look at what my old enemy had become.
Seated in the stone chair, a skeleton stared at us with empty eye sockets. Wisps of his black hair
decorated his bare shoulders and rib cage, yet barely a scrap of flesh and no trace of muscle remained on
him. Only his jaw had dropped away from the skeleton—it had landed on his lap. A few lost emerald
teeth decorated the bare stone seat between his femurs.

I glanced at Aarundel. "This explains it, then."

"Remarkable."

 Outlining his skeleton in bronze, a metal framework of long and short, straight and curved pieces had
been created for him by Reithrese artisans. Metal posts ran from each and every piece and attached
themselves to his bones at the points where metal bands had been fitted. His femurs each had four
attachment points, the shins and arm bones three, and each vertebra had one. A series of articulated
joints connected the metal bones and allowed them to ape normal movements. It all ended at the back of
his neck and, as nearly as I could tell, the last five vertebrae had been entirely replaced by metal
substitutes.

 "The metal lay close to his flesh except where it pierced it." Aarundel pointed at Tashayul's skeletal
forearm. "I cannot imagine that did not hurt."

I nodded. "Constantly, I'd wager."

"Constantly, I would hope."

"Indeed." I smiled. "This explains a great deal."

"So it does."

 After my escape from the monastery, the Reithrese conquests had slowed for a season. Aarundel and I
both thought having his spine cut had taken the fight out of Tashayul, but then he was back. It was
rumored that he was bigger and stronger. The two of us even scouted his forces during a battle in Barkol,
nearly two years before he reached the mountains, and again inIrtysh . In both places he did seem much
more massive than before. The two of us knew his being up and able to fight could not be possible, but
the Reithrese were masters of vile magicks that might bring dead limbs new life, so we could not really
even guess at what had healed him.

 Aarundel dropped to his haunches and peered up through the rib cage. "You will be unable to see it,
Neal, but a piece of your blade is still lodged in his spine. A blow struck four years before caused his
expiration when you saw a score summers."

"Better it be believed I killed him in a duel than the real story come out."

The Elf shook his head. "Roclawzi vanity. You killed him."

"I did, but expediently, not heroically."

"Heroism is the judgment of ages."

"Then remember me kindly, my friend."

 Aarundel nodded, then froze with his head cocked toward the doorway. "If I have not misheard, your
entrance will have the desired effect right about now."

 Together, our faces bared, we mounted the ramp and entered the larger chamber without attracting any
notice. Referring to the space as a chamber is only half-correct, because it made up the central courtyard
for the tower complex. While at the center it was open to the sky, extending up for five levels from the
ground. Concentric disks, each smaller than the one above it, formed terraces overlooking the courtyard.

 At the courtyard's center, a huge stone ring surrounded what I can only describe as a firewell.
Incandescent gases burned there in pulsed jets that filled the area with the heat of a forge. The ghoulish
architecture had been used in this area with the terraces being bone-thatch, and the blocks making up the
ring looking like compacted skeletons, where skull rested on knees with arms holding leg bones tight to
the chest.
 Opposite us, across an audience of fifty Reithrese individuals, a High Priest of the Dark Goddess stood
resplendent in a cloth of gold robe hemmed to look as if his garment were made from flame. The fiery
glow behind him softened his thick outline and, no doubt, revealed us to him, but either he did not notice
us or took no concern over our presence.

In his two hands he held aloft a scabbarded sword. I did not understand his words, but I recognized the
motions of an auctioneer offering something for inspection and bids. To me, after five years and twenty
yards distant, the sword looked different, but I knew the blade he presented was Cleaveheart and that it
would be mine before the night was out.

Aarundel leaned toward me and kept his voice low. "He says this is Khiephnaft and offers it for bid."

In the center of the crowd a Reithrese stood up. He turned this way and that to nod at the others
present, and gave me a good look at his profile. Though more slender than his brother, he had the same
hungry look in his eyes. His smile, from where I stood, appeared a sparkling black gash on the lower end
of his face, but that was because, as a magicker, his teeth were diamonds. He pointed to the sword and
began to speak.

I stepped forward before Aarundel could grab me and drop a hand over my mouth. "Begging your
pardon, Takrakor, but would you mind speaking in Mantongue? My Reithrese is not that good, and I'll
be bidding against you."

Only the fire's roar answered my request. The Reithrese and Reithressas present all turned to look at
me, with their jeweled teeth not nearly as pretty displayed in shock as they were when flashed in a smile.
Then, all of a sudden, everyone spoke at once in a riot of angry, angular words.

 Aarundel stepped up beside me and shouted in guttural tones to the high priest. The priest considered
the words, while Reithrese gesticulated at me furiously. He then looked down at the crowd and shouted
one word that brought silence. When his head came up, the priest looked directly at me.

"The Elf has said you wish to invoke wirt kalma."

I nodded. "I understood that the determination of inheritance brought with it a truce, else I'd not have
been mad enough to come here."

"It does, but only for those who are meant to be here."

 The priest stared sternly at someone who grumbled from the front row. "Ifyour suit for possession of the
sword is successful, then we will know you were meant to be here and you will be granted wirt kalma."

The murderous stares of the others in the room told me what would happen if I was not given possession
of the blade. "I understand."

"Very well. Takrakor, you were stating the reasons why Khiephnaft should pass to you."

 The Reithrese sorcerer nodded slowly. "My brother was not alone in his desire to reestablish our
empire. This was a dream we had together, and together we realized it. In the time it took me to devise
and implement the plan that put my brother back into the field, our efforts became welded together as
had our dreams. He meant the blade, which is the catalyst for realizing our dream, to fall to me. It is upon
this that I base my suit."
The priest looked up at me. "You, Manchild, state your case."

I smiled easily to hide the snake crawling around in my belly. "I found the blade for Tashayul because
without my efforts, he never would have located it. I fought against the blade, and it drank my blood.
And I cut Tashayul down and when Cleaveheart fell from his grasp, I returned it to him. A year ago I
killed Tashayul and would have taken the blade then, as befitting the spoils of war, but his
Skull-riders—may their frozen bodies one day molder here—brought him and my sword to Jammaq."

I pointed at the sword. "In other words, the blade should be mine—is mine—and I'll be taking delivery
of it now."

 Takrakor shook his head. "My brother did not intend for you ever to gain possession of Khiephnaft. His
thoughts on this matter were quite clear."

"That's because he knew it was meant to be mine." I glanced at Aarundel, and the Elf nodded back. "He
knew it, you know it, I know it, and the blade itself can prove it."

Takrakor's hands flexed. "More treachery from the mountains?"

"Just proof." I looked at the priest. "Unsheath the blade." I dropped my hand to the hilt of the scimitar I
had borrowed from the natari I'd slain and took no comfort from the fact that Aarundel did not see fit to
bring his ax to a guard position. "This better work, Aarundel."

"It will. The priest already knows it will."

 The older Reithrese slowly stripped the scabbard from Cleaveheart's blade. As the leather sheath
flaccidly slipped from the point, I saw a blade decidedly different from the one I expected. Whereas
Cleaveheart had originally been the type of single-edged, serpentine blade the Reithrese upper crust
favored, the blade had straightened. Now a broadsword, I saw orange highlights skitter across two
razored edges, not just one. The hilt had changed slightly as well, and as far away from it as I was, I
knew it would be balanced better than the broadsword I'd left back with the natari bodies and our
horses.

 I didn't know how the sword had changed, but the transformation had not been lost upon the assembled
Reithrese. "You see, when it was meant for a Reithrese hand, it appeared as a Reithrese sword. Now it
is meant for the hand ofMan. " I walked down the short set of steps and through an aisle to the dais upon
which the high priest stood. Heat pulsing out from the firewell tried to drive me back, but I would not be
denied. "My sword, if you please."

His flesh ashen, he gave me the sword. I turned to leave and found myself staring down the length of the
blade at Takrakor's pale throat. "But for the wirt kalma, Takrakor . . ."

"One day, youngling, I will have that sword from your hand and Mankind will scream in pain."

 "Will you, now?" I winked at him and tipped the blade toward the sky. "I'm to give this sword to an Elf
in forty-five years, so you'd best be quick in getting it while it is still mine."

 I stepped around him and rejoined Aarundel. "Before I leave, for I've no desire to tax your wirt kalma,
one last thing: I also lay claim to this empire of yours. Give it to whomever you want, but remember it's
just a loan. Someday I'll collect it."
 Aarundel and I walked back into the tower complex and out through two cold bronze doors. Behind us
angry voices rose and fell in time with the hot glow from within the towers. "I gather wirt kaima is
breaking down?"

"As with their magicks, 'chaotic' and 'elemental' can be used to describe their interpersonal relationships.
As much as they would delight in your termination, they revel in their internecine battles. Even now
Takrakor is defending his right to destroy you."

 "With luck that argument will last for a decade or two." I whipped Cleaveheart's bare blade up into a
salute and felt its cold forte pressed to the flesh of my brow. I brought it down slowly after Aarundel
acknowledged my salute with a nod. "Tell me, my friend, why does Finndali want this sword?"

"The Consilliarii have asked him to obtain it."

I bowed my head to him. "And why do the High Lords of Cygestolia want this sword?"

 I saw reflected in his dark eyes the war being waged between his brain and his soul. He had his loyalties
to me, but they were of recent vintage and might well be unreliable. He also did as he had been
commanded by the Consilliarii and their agent, Finndali. In all the time we had been together, he had
never once returned to his homeland for new instructions. Whether he could or would answer my
question depended upon his assessment of me and, I supposed, my perceived threat to him and
Elvendom.

 A curt nod prefaced his answer. "Divisator is a blade of fate. It has many prophecies concerning it. It
earned its name because of a black event in our history, proving the veracity of one prediction made of it.
It is because of that prophecy being true that we have an interest in how the sword is used in case the
others also come true."

I frowned. "Such as."

His dark eyes narrowed. "The blade will win an empire, but bring tragedy to the Man who wields it."

"Came true for Tashayul." I spun the blade in my hand.

"It was not necessarily meant to apply to Tashayul." The Elf looked back at the Reithrese towers. "That
prophecy could possibly pertain to you, Neal. The Reithrese soothsayers were working from that same
prophecy, but their translation may have been different from ours."

"I don't understand."

 Aarundel shrugged. "Words can be chameleons, and translators can be magicians. 'Empire,' for
example, could be read as 'immortality' or as a confluence of both terms."

"That's not so bad." I spun the blade again. "Immortality or an empire or both? Certainly the fare for a
hero, I'm thinking."

 "Yes, and more likely your get than any Reithrese. They read the word 'man' as a synonym for
'individual.' We believe it meansMan. "

 That sobered me for a moment. "So the Consilliarii want the blade to prevent the winning of a human
empire?"
 "The infamy of the Eldsaga has not escaped us." The Elf opened his hands slowly. "A war with humanity
sparked by a desire for vengeance is not something we wish to see initiated."

My head came up. "But Finndali was willing to give the Reithrese fifty years to destroy us."

 "Ah, but Finndali knew Tashayul was wrong about the sword. After all, he did assign you a bodyguard
to keep you alive until you reached your twentieth summer, did he not?"

Aarundel had a point, and it made me think of Finndali as being far more shrewd than I had thought
before. "Is there any alternate interpretation to the word 'tragedy' in this prophecy, then?"

Aarundel shook his head.

I shook off the chill cutting at my spine. "Then I'll declare it a tragedy if I'm not able to bore Finndali to
death with the tales of my scars in two score five years."

"It would be the height of tragedy indeed, my friend."

 I threw him a wink. "And this 'immortality,' might it not be in tale and song rather than in a physical
sense?"

"It could be indeed."

 "Then, I'm thinking, in deed I'll win it." I rounded the corner of the alley in which we had hobbled our
horses and killed the natari. "Do you think we can ride from Reith before they've stopped their
squabbling?"

"Even if we were to carry our horses from here and not vice versa, yes."

"Dead men do not carry horses."

"Nor dead Elves."

I laughed and swung up onto my horse's back. "Now that we have that settled, let us be away from this
place. It's time for us to come back from the dead and give bards plenty of fodder for insuring we never
die again."

Chapter 1:
An Encounter On The Way To Aurdon

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 THE BANDITS SWARMED over the broken caravan like hyenas tearing at a carcass. Their howls of
glee and yipped calls of triumph echoed through the vale, filling a placid dusk with the promise of a
haunting night. Bright blades flashed red—tinted more by the sun's dying red light than by the blood they
spilled—and left bodies scattered haphazardly on the road. Reduced to black silhouettes as they passed
in front of a burning wagon, the bandits used their horses to herd crying women and terrified children into
the grassy field on the downhill side of the road to Aurdon.

 Exalted in their victory and masters of the chaos they had created, the bandits did not notice the two
riders watching them from the crest of a hill above their kill. Even if they had, Genevera suspected they
would have dismissed her and her companion. No one, assuming sanity and a choice, would be foolish
enough to do more than ride away, and ride away swiftly at that. There were other ways to commit
suicide, and most all of them promised an easier passage into death than attacking a superior force of
bandits.

 She looked at her companion, and Durriken smiled at her. "Only a dozen, m'love." He took the reins in
his mouth and drew his two flashdrakes from the leather scabbard plate on his stomach. Holding one
flashdrake in each hand, he cocked the spark-talons with his thumbs, then winked at her. The
brown-haired man dug his heels into his horse's ribs and rode down into the tiny valley.

 Genevera reached out toward him for a final touch, but her slender fingers just missed her lover's
shoulder. Would you have waited were it two dozen, Rik? From their three years together she knew, had
she asked or urged caution upon him he would have remained there with her, but she also knew she
could never have made such a request. She accepted that as easily as she accepted the differences in
their races, and drank in the fearful excitement rippling through her.

 She followed him into the valley as quickly as she could. Her horse, a roan gelding named Spirit, was not
as game as Rik's mountain pony in traversing a steep slope in the twilight. When Spirit reached the level
grassland that ran from the road to the hills, his long strides regained much of the lead the pony had built
up. Even so, Durriken reached the bandits first, giving Genevera time to begin her spell.

 Durriken thrust his right hand forward as if his flashdrake were a lance. She saw a small spark as the
talon fell, then heard an earsplitting crack as the handcannon vomited out a gout of flame that reached
halfway to the nearest bandit. Durriken jerked his head to the right, pulling the pony back away from the
caravan, then pointed his left hand at another bandit and triggered the second flashdrake.

 As she had seen before, the flashdrakes worked as well as a spell to shift the nature of the battle. The
first bandit Rik had shot slipped from the saddle and fell into the dust without much drama. The sound of
that first shot had a strong effect and prompted half the bandit horses to shy, rear, or run. Rik's second
target sat astride one of the bucking beasts, so when the lead ball from the flashdrake hit him, he
catapulted into the air. Already dead, his limp body did a slow backward somersault, then landed with a
thump on the rutted roadway.

 Rik dropped his flashdrakes and drew the rapier from his saddle scabbard. He brandished the blade as
if he meant to slay the rest of the bandits by himself; then he pulled his pony away and invited pursuit. He
moved off diagonally, heading away from the road, and drawing four of the bandits near the burning
wagon as they came after him.

 Genevera smiled and concentrated for a second. She thrust her left fist toward the wagon, cocked her
hand back, and opened it palm-first toward the fire. She felt a tingle as a bluish spark leaped from her
flesh; then the burning pinprick streaked all but invisible through the air to its target. Yes, it will hit!

 The wagon exploded as everything that could burn, that would eventually burn, ignited all at once. The
ravenous fireball engulfed the four bandits, consuming their flesh and swallowing their screams in its
golden sphere. The thunderous detonation dwarfed the flashdrake's noise, and the hot wind from the hell
it spawned had her long golden hair snapping behind her like ship's canvas in a fiery gale.
 Two other bandits fell from their saddles as their horses reared up in panic. Her eyes adjusted quickly to
the fireball's brightness, allowing her to see shadow-wreathed refugees descend on the fallen men.
Another bandit chose to cross swords with Durriken while the last three galloped out into the night, each
heading for a different point on the compass.

 Durriken's pony stopped and turned quickly as the small man tugged on the reins. As his right-handed
foe bore down on him, Rik shifted his rapier to his left hand and nudged his pony back to the right and
across the line of the bandit's charge. He parried the bandit's awkward cross-body saber slash, then took
him through the chest with a riposte.

 The rapier came away wet as the bandit spurred his horse out into the night. Durriken turned to watch
him run, but did not pursue him. He smiled as he trotted the pony back toward the glowing circle of coals
in the middle of the road. "Lungstuck. Needs to staunch the wound. Someone spells it, he might live."

 Genevera acknowledged his comment with a nod and dismounted. She moved slowly and deliberately
as she slung the canteen over her shoulder and rummaged in her saddlebags for her healing bag. "Were
you injured, Rik?"

Swinging his right leg up and over his pony's head, he kicked free of the left stirrup and slid to the
ground. "Nay, nary a scratch, love." He slapped his pony affectionately on the neck. "Benison here got
his tail toasted." Durriken leaned forward, bringing his ear near the horse's mouth. "He says if the Elven
princess will give his master a kiss, she will be forgiven."

 "I will, will I?" She tucked a strand of golden hair behind her pointed left ear. "Were his master a proper
equestrian, Benison would not have been so close to the fire."

 "Don't listen to her, Benison, she's a sorceress." The slender man led his horse to the edge of the road
and dropped the reins. "Bewitch you, Gena will, as she has me."

Gena caught Rik's smile and returned it, then flicked her head toward the huddled shadows on the
downslope. Her violet eyes saw through the gathering darkness as if it were but a thin fog. For all she
knew of Rik being sharp-eyed for a Man, she knew he would see only crouching silhouettes. She envied
him as he could not see the stark terror in the caravan refugees' eyes, nor read the fatigue in their drawn,
pale faces.

 Rik looked past her toward the figures and broadened his smile. He stabbed the rapier into the ground,
then waved his right hand in a big welcoming gesture. "You're safe now, people. Come up, come up.
Nothing here to hurt you. The bandits are running to the end of the world." He punctuated his comment
with a hearty laugh that brought a smile to Gena's lips in spite of the grim tableau before her.

 In describing the motley collection of wagons scattered along the road, "caravan" was an extravagant
term to use. Four wagons remained more or less intact. One had overturned going off the road, while the
others stood scattered on the hard dirt surface. The oxen that had been pulling them were dead, pinned
to the ground by bandit lances.

 The wagons themselves were all of different design and crude manufacture. A pair were two-wheeled
affairs with a small bed ringed by crooked ribs of old wood. Sticks had been woven between them to
provide some solidity around the base, and torn canvas stretched taut across the heavy load piled in
them.
 The third, like the one that Gena's spell had consumed, had been built like a box and mounted on four
wheels. It required a pair of oxen to draw it and had wooden walls and a flat roof, which even provided
an overhang to ward the driver from the sun. Ropes tied down a lumpy, canvas-swathed load on the top
of it, and a water barrel mounted on the side bled moisture through a cracked stave.

 The last one showed the most work and had four wheels rimmed with iron. Its long, flat bed nearly
overflowed with filled grain sacks. Above them, swinging like gallows, rested highwaymen, crudely built
cages containing chickens and a pair of geese hung from a latticework of stout poles.

 Around each of the wagons, or lying bloody and slumped over the dead oxen, Gena saw the bodies of
the men who fought and died defending the caravan. The pitchforks and scythes they had used in their
efforts lay bloodless on the dusty roadway.

 Gena looked over at Rik. "Farmers heading for Aurdon. That grain should be in the ground, not heading
to market."

Rik crouched next to the first man he had shot. "And these men should be burning in the Outlands."

"Haladina?"

 Rik nodded and peeled the dead man's upper lip back. Gena easily saw the filed front teeth and the dark
dots on the canines that meant each tooth had been drilled and fitted with a small gemstone. "Haladina
they are, or I'm a Centisian noble out hunting marmosets."

 "Haladina raiding this deeply into Centisia? Perhaps now we have an answer to the question of why
Count Berengar Fisher sent for us." Gena turned away from the body as Rik ripped open the tunic and
used a dirk plucked from the bandit's belt to probe the hole his flashdrake had made in the man's chest.
She understood Durriken's fascination with his Dwarven weapons and the destruction they caused. She
even applauded the determined and methodical way he experimented with them; but his willingness to
poke, prod, and even cut corpses left her uneasy.

It is a strange Man you have chosen to love, Gena. She smiled unconsciously as she recalled fond
moments of their time together, then looked up as the first of the refugees came up onto the roadway.
Gena slowly squatted down and focused her smile on a young girl clinging to her mother's hand. The Elf
held her arms open and nodded to the child.

 The little girl ran forward a few steps, her bare feet slapping against the ground, then stopped and
looked back toward her mother. The woman did not look down at her daughter, but continued to stare
at where ashes and embers smoked, hoping perhaps the wagon that had been destroyed by magic would
magically reappear. The darkhaired little girl ran toward Gena again, slowing and stopping shyly before
she got within arm's reach.

"Hello," Gena whispered in a gentle tone. "I am Gena. What is your name?"

 The little girl folded her arms and looked down. She smiled, but refused to look up or speak. Then,
quick as a bird on the wing, her head tipped up and her brown-eyed gaze flicked over Gena's face
seconds before the girl hid her face behind her hands. She mumbled something, and Gena caught enough
of it to puzzle out what had been said.

"Andra? Is your name Andra?"
Peering out from between splayed fingers, the girl nodded silently.

 "I am pleased to meet you, Andra." Gena held her left hand out, and the child took it. Slowly
straightening up, the Elf lifted the girl up in her arms and perched Andra on her left hip. The little girl
giggled, making the first happy sound in the vale for what, Gena would have guessed, had seemed like a
very long time to the refugees.

 As they came in, Gena saw them segregate themselves. The male children, the eldest standing as tall as
Durriken but appearing barely past puberty, and the youngest no more than a year older than Andra,
walked over toward Durriken. They approached him cautiously, clearly curious about what he was doing
and likely a bit afraid of him because of his flashdrakes. As they crowded around him, he looked up and
smiled, then stood and nodded at them.

 "Greetings, lads." He flicked the borrowed dirk down, sticking it quivering into the ground near the
bandit's head. The boys jumped back startled, then stared at the dirk and the man who had so casually
flung it down. "Are any of you hurt?"

 Most remained quiet, but the oldest nodded his head. He turned, and Durriken reached up, taking the
boy's head in both his hands. He spread apart blood-matted hair above the boy's left ear. "Evil gash that,
but closing." Rik glanced at Gena and shook his head, then released the boy and parted his own hair to
reveal a small crescent-shaped scar. "I've one like it, but mine's not a relic of surviving a Haladin raid."

Andra's mother came away from the glowing coals that had been her wagon and curtsied before
Genevera. "That is my daughter, M'Lady Sylvanii. I will take her so she will not offend you."

Gena shook her head and tickled the child beneath her dirty chin. "Your child is lovely and could not
offend me. I thank you for letting me enjoy her."

 Gena chose her words carefully and fought to keep her tone light. The woman's comment to her had
been full of fear, and her careful pronunciation of the Elven name for themselves told Gena that the
woman only knew of Elves through the old tales. She was used enough to being considered exotic in
larger cities, but the reverent terror displayed by the ^n of the countryside sent a shiver running down her
spine.

"Goodwife, are you injured?" Gena held Andra out to her, and the woman hugged her child close.

The woman shook her head and swiped at tears. "No, m'lady, I am not hurt in blood or bone, but . . ."
She looked at where her wagon had stood. "Our wagon is gone, my husband is dead. . . ."

 Gena grabbed ahold of the woman before she could fall down. She lowered her to the ground and freed
Andra from her arms. "Here, have some water. I am Gena, my friend is Durriken." Gena unstoppered the
canteen and let the woman drink long and deep. "How is it that you are here? Where did you come
from?"

 The woman lowered the canteen, and a droplet of water lingered on the lower edge of her lip. "We are
all from Beech Hollow. It is . . . it was a small village in the mountains on the border with Kaudia. You
would not have heard of it, but it was a good place until people started coming through. They told us of
raiders, Haladin raiders. We decided to come north to Aurdon. We wanted to be safe."

Gena sat back on her haunches. "Durriken and I are bound for Aurdon. It is not far, barely a day's ride."
 The woman shook her head. "We can never make it. Our oxen are dead, our menfolk are dead. I have
nothing now. . . ." Her lower lip trembled, and the water droplet washed a clean line down her
dust-coated chin. She drew her knees up to her chest and lowered her face onto them; then her
shoulders began to heave as she wept silently.

 Gena left her there and moved on to the other groups of people at the other wagons. She checked the
unmoving men and boys for any signs of life, but found none. Stories told of how the Haladina pressed a
dirk into the hands of every male child at birth. Haladin men were the product of years of warring against
each other. Killing was their livelihood, and were the dead men here to be taken as a sample of their
work, they knew their trade well.

 Once she had determined she could do nothing for the men, she turned her attention to the women and
children. Aside from being badly frightened and road weary, most of the children appeared healthy, if not
a little too skinny for their height. The women did their best to hold their terror and sadness in. They
wanted to mourn their fallen husbands, fathers, and sons, but they seemed to know that to lose control
would lead to even more disaster.

 Gena agreed with the thought expressed by a number of the women that they had been spared the
sword or lance because the Haladina were planning to take them back and sell them into the seraglios of
the Wastelands. She had her doubts about that, however, as only two of the women—girls, really—were
soft and pretty enough for that sort of life. The other women looked tired and well-worn. Even allowing
for her cultural bias, Gena felt certain that the women had been saved because they had not offered much
in the way of resistance to the raiders.

 Despite the urgency of their reaching Aurdon, Gena and Durriken both agreed in a whispered
consultation that they could not leave the farmers alone. One Haladin band ought have been driven off,
but the possibility that another might be nearby and try to finish the job could not be dismissed.
Moreover, they both knew that people who had been raised in a closed and close community like a
farming village were utterly out of their element on the road in the Centisian heartland.

 "What we need is organization." Rik smiled and gave Gena a quick kiss. "I think we can take some steps
toward that at this very moment."

 Durriken whistled, and his pony trotted over to him. He boosted the oldest boy into the saddle and
pointed out a circular route. "Take Benison out and around so you come up on the bandits' strays from
[the south] there. Approach them slowly, and they'll trot in toward us. Let the pony do all the work, he
knows how it is done."

 As the pony trudged off, Durriken pointed to the rest of the boys. "Quick, now, gather up some
firewood. Make a big pile right over here." Walking away from them, he dug the heel of his boot into the
ground and scuffed out a cross.

"Right here, now. Those what bring the most can help me feed my flashdrakes."

 Durriken stooped and recovered the weapons from where he had dropped them. Blowing dust from
them, he inserted each into the holding straps and crossed to where Gena crouched near Andra's mother.
Kneeling at the sobbing woman's feet, he settled his hands on hers. "Have no fear, goodwife, we will get
you to Aurdon." He stood as the other refugees began to drift in toward the reddish glow and warmth of
the burned wagon. "All we need is a plan, but that is why I am here."

Gena watched Durriken as he began to pace back and forth. She knew him well enough to know he
was putting on an act, assuming a role of brave importance and leadership—a role he hated when he saw
it in others. He was a curious man, in that, when needed, he would slip into roles that he disdained. He
became what he had to become, to do what had to be done.

 "Now we have one bold lad out there on my pony—is he your son?" Durriken gave a plump woman a
smile when she glanced off at the boy on the pony. "A fine youth. He will bring the bandits' horses back
here. That will give us four."

 Another woman, with twin daughters clutching her thighs through thick homespun skirts, shook her head.
"Four horses will not pull our wagons to Aurdon."

 "No, they won't, my good woman." Durriken paced over near the Haladin body he had studied earlier.
As he turned back to face the women, he raised his left hand and pointed off behind them into the night.
"Is that a light? Are the Aurdon Rangers this far out?"

 When everyone turned to look back into the night, Durriken brought his heel down on the raider's mouth
in a quick, sharp blow. He squatted down, using his crouched body to shield the corpse's ruined face
from the women and shrugged as they all looked back at him. "It was nothing, a twinkling star mayhap."

 He pried the raider's broken mouth open with his right hand and worked one of the canine teeth loose.
"Now, as you were thinking, four horses are not enough to get your wagons to Aurdon. Luckily for you,
these Haladina like to decorate themselves." He stood and held up a tooth set with a small sapphire.
"Unless oxflesh is valued beyond good conscience and fair reason in Aurdon, a bandit smile will buy you
a whole herd."

 In silent agreement Genevera and Durriken split the work that needed to be done between benign and
grim. Durriken dragged the bandit bodies off and harvested their valuables in the evening darkness. Gena
encouraged the women to set their daughters to preparing food while she helped wives and mothers
clean their dead and dress them for burial. They laid them out in the grassland beside the road, each
family in turn bidding a tearful and private farewell to their loved ones.

 With a borrowed shovel on his shoulder, Durriken looked at the eight bodies and shook his head. "I
have been glad, over these three years with you, to know your schooling in magick came in the areas of
combat and healing. I have benefited from both, but there are times I could wish for your having other
knowledge."

Gena shook her head. "If I knew the earth magicks, I would tear a hole open for you."

Rik caressed her right arm. "Not that, love. I was thinking necromancy. It would be a just thing for the
Haladina to dig the graves for their victims."

 "That it would." She glanced back beyond Durriken, toward the fire on the road and the people grouped
around it. She saw one silhouette standing away from the others. "The boy who rode your pony . . ."

"Keif."

"Yes, Keif. He is looking this way. I think, if you ask, he will help you dig graves."

Durriken nodded. "I know. He's a brave lad. I will take him with me for the ride to Aurdon, but I will not
have him dig." He gave Gena the half smile that she knew covered a hurt within him. "No boy should
have to dig his own father's grave. I'll spare him."
 She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "It will be a night's work. I do not think many will be
sleeping, but it might help . . ."

 Rik's smile broadened. "Yes, love, I will come to the fire from time to time to let them know I am still
here." He winked at her. "You should tell them one of your stories, one that will banish the terrors. Seems
to me, last night, you told me about a battle waged against the Haladina by that hero . . ."

 "Neal." The hair on her arms rose as she remembered the story, and her smile blossomed as she
remembered how the night was spent after its telling. "Neal Custos Sylvanii."

 "Aye, the Dun Wolf." He jerked his head at the refugees. "I doubt they know much about him—before I
met you, I thought of him as the tragic hero of some dirges—but he's hero enough the way you tell things
to keep the night frights away."

Gena bent down and kissed Durriken lightly on the lips. "Thank you, Rik, for doing all you have."

 "I have the easy part. Killing and burying take no effort. The dead don't weep." He smiled at her and
walked away from the fire. "You have to heal the living. Fortune smiles on them, because you are quite
skilled in that way."

 Gena returned to the fire and gratefully drank in its warmth. She gently refused a wooden bowl of
steaming gruel, then looked up when she saw Keif [pulling] a piece of wood from the pile that had been
collected and testing it for weight. The other little boys looked ready to follow his example.

She smiled. "That is a good piece. Keif, it will burn well."

The boy shook his head. "No, m'lady, I want it in case they return."

"The Haladina?" Gena forced a laugh that caught everyone's attention. "They will not be back."

A woman's head came up. "How can you say that?"

Gena sat down, pulling her crossed ankles in. "The Haladina are a fearsome yet fearful people. You
know, of course, that they had not raided this far north in many, many years—centuries, in fact. Do you
know why?"

Keif shook his head, as did others in the circle of the firelight.

 Gena nodded and raised her voice enough to cover the cough of spade turning earth. "Five centuries
ago, when the Red Tiger fought to rid Centisia of the Reithrese armies and their Haladin mercenaries, he
had a hero leading a company of mercenaries. That hero was Neal Elfward, the Dun Wolf." She pointed
back up into the dark hills. "Very near here it was that Neal destroyed a Haladin army and scattered
them. He won through an ambush and even saved Aurdon itself from destruction. That is a tale for a night
like this, and no Haladina will brave its telling to harm us. . . ."

Chapter 2:
An Encounter On The Way To Aurium

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 IWAS THINKING, as I flew through the air, that being unhorsed by an ambush was not a good thing.
The wisdom of it ranked with my thinking that Haladin plainsmen would have no use for the
thick-forested hills of Centisia. Clearly they did, the main use being to set ambushes for fog-brained
warriors riding hell-bent through the night.

 My weighing more than a bird and having neither wing nor feather to aid me meant my nocturnal flight
ended in a tooth-rattling crash. The ground did its best to swap my spine for my breastbone, but I heard
nothing snap and only a few things creak. The gods, taking perverse delight in complicating the lives of
mortals, let me live with the pain and embarrassment instead of killing me outright. Being ever so
appreciative of their efforts on my behalf, I let the gods carry my somersault into a poor tree and use my
armored bulk to punish it for whatever offense it had given them.

 My hauberk lost no rings in its war with the tree, but it graciously passed all the impact right on to me
through my padded jerkin. Growling out an oath against the sharp stab in my ribs, I pulled in my feet,
rolled back onto my haunches and stood. It surprised me that I managed it, and threw a quick scare in
the Haladina coming out of the trees to dispatch me with a little finger-knife. The fact that I towered over
him made him reconsider and step back.

 I used the time it took him to draw his scimitar to raise my fingers to my mouth and blast out a whistle. I
had been riding point, albeit too fast for being tired and night-blind, so I felt a duty to warn my friends of
the ambush. I had no quarrel with my stupidity being the death of me, but I wanted a place in Fool's Hell,
not False-Friend's Perdition.

The Haladin warrior came in at me with the fearless abandon I'd seen in his people throughout the war
with their masters, the Reithrese. Curved sword slashing in at hip height, he clearly expected to cut me
quick, then scarper off to help his allies kill my companions.

 His blade hit solid and would have cut clean through my hauberk, excepting my mail had been pounded
out of ore by Roclawzi craftsmen who prided themselves on doing proper work. The scimitar skittered
across my belly with a raspy hiss like a snake slithering across a bed of gold coins. I felt the blow and
even grunted as it doubled the aching in my ribs, but I didn't feel the need to die or even let my knees kiss
the ground because of it.

 The Haladina's smile slacked as I lunged forward. He tried a backhanded stroke at me, but I had
already moved inside his range. I let his right forearm smack into my right flank, then I slammed my right
hand into his throat. He gurgled and, spittle flecked his lips while his face turned dark; then he went over
backward.

 Coming down, his head met my left knee. I felt nothing through the knee-cap I wore, but the impact
jarred him hard enough that his little steel helmet bounced off into the night. Soundlessly, his body went
slack. I dropped his body, then took a step back and ground my right heel down onto his wrist, both to
free the sword and to see if he was truly unconscious or feigning it.

 He was out, and just as well, as his shattered wrist would have hurt him far worse than my bruised ribs
did me. I scooped up his scimitar and started running back up the hill. Even though I could not see well in
the dark, the sound of battle provided me all the guidance I needed to tell where I was going.
 The tripline the Haladina had used to bring my horse down had been placed on a good little downhill
run. Had we all been running tight-packed, they would have had the lot of us all in a tangle. Their man at
the line would have cut it, then their horsemen would have fallen on us and we would have been able to
offer little in the way of a fight. The slaughter wouldn't have been worth a bard's chorus, much less a song
all for itself.

 Because I had been running the point a good hundred yards in front of my squad, my whistle gave them
time to slow and time to stop before they fell to the same trick that got me. The Haladina, having learned
to cut with a knife before they cut their teeth, decided to take a run at my people anyway, to see what
they would see.

What they would see was blood and lots of it.

 Cresting on foot the hill I'd descended in air, I hefted the Haladin scimitar. It wasn't my Cleaveheart, but
it was a hard ribbon of war-steel. I'd seen more than enough men and boys who hadn't survived opening
with a Haladin blade to denigrate it. The scimitar's broad sweep robbed me of a lunge, but fighting
cavalry from foot meant the finer points of dueling were denied me in any event.

 The Haladin horsemen had descended on my men thicker than wing-maggots on meat. I had been
traveling with a small, handpicked squad that included a number of my officers. Though they were
battle-hardened veterans all, being caught in an ambush still presented problems. Nighttime and fatigue
likewise contributed to the confusion that greeted me at the top of the hill.

 The ambush, which any leader would have seen as a nightmare, split the night with the ringing of steel on
steel and the cries and shouts of men angry, desperate, and dying. Horses screamed and hooves
pounded the ground, sending tremors up through the bottoms of my feet. The swirling martial maelstrom
made it impossible for me to judge which side was getting the better of the other.

 At my whistle Aarundel had immediately assumed command of the Pack. There were those who,
mindful of the Eldsaga, would have mistrusted an Elf, but not my warriors. They'd too many times seen
him as I did now, giving his Dwarf-made war ax a twist and jerk to free it from a Haladin corpse.
Looking at him, none of us doubted the truth of the Eldsaga, and all were glad he fought with us rather
than against us.

 Being stupid enough to fall to an ambush infuriated me, and I wanted to vent my anger on the Haladina. I
howled out my war cry and settled both hands around the scimitar's hilt. The wolfish call brought a
Haladina around, and he drove at me. With his scimitar pulled back for a running-slash, he'd already
figured where he'd weave my hair into his scalp-coat.

 I raised the scimitar to my high left guard and blocked the slash all but hilt to hilt. The stout blow sent a
shiver through my arms, but the blade stayed locked in my grip. Turning toward him as he rode past, I
cut down with the scimitar. He had already begun to pull his arm back for another slash, so had no way
to parry when I chopped into and through his knee.

 I ducked beneath his weak return slash while his scream drowned out all but the last of Aarundel's
shouted warning. I looked up to see another Haladina bearing down on me. He had a lance centered on
my chest. Off balance as I was, I could have barely managed a weak parry, and my mail wouldn't stop a
horse-lance.

From my right, moving like a scrap of shadow given life by a nightmare godling, the Dreel crossed from
forest to horseman in an eye blink. A humanoid mountain of muscle and fury, Shijef hit the gelding on its
shoulder with one paw, and its haunch with the other. The Dreel's charge lifted the horse from its hooves,
and still driving his legs, Shijef slammed rider and beast into a thick pine on the road's far side.

 Bones broke and metal groaned. A quick slash with the left paw's talons opened the horse's neck,
ending its screams and almost severing the head. The rider likewise screamed, though more from terror
than pain, and earned the Dreel's quick attention. Shijef reached up and closed his right paw over the
raider's head. I turned away before he could do it, but Shijef took great delight in discarding the Haladin
head so it bounced across my line of sight.

 The rest of the band, made up of all my captains save Drogo, and two each of their own company's
men, fed the forest blood, bone, and meat. It worked out to be not so much a battle as a slaughter, given
that the ambush was not that much of a surprise and that the forest eliminated the Haladina ability to ride
fast and make quick attacks. With our superior armor and heavier weapons, a close-in fight left them
nearer to us, and to the goddess the Reithrese revered, than they had wanted.

 After they broke and the half dozen that escaped us rode away, it also appeared that these Haladina had
been hiding in the hills since before the Haladin defeat on the Central Plains. Aarundel and Senan found
their camp back up in the hills and reported they had nothing in the way of supplies. The Elf suggested
and I agreed that they had probably looked to harvest us for our provisions, not realizing until too late we
were a fruit with a thick husk and sharp thorns.

Another long and loud whistle brought my horse back to me. Blackstar got his name because or the
black blaze on his white face. Aside from face and white stockings, the monstrous beast is the color of
midnight all over, and his disposition is not much lighter. He eyed me with a cold anger for having ridden
him into a tripline, but he did not seem hurt by the mishap. It took a low growl from the Dreel to remind
him that worse fates were possible before he allowed me to remount him.

 Blackstar, as warhorses go, did not weigh as much as some of those my company rode, but he made up
in strength and cunning what he lacked in bulk. The fact that he had been trained by Elven masters still
made him a bit skittish of me, but we had reached an accommodation over the two years he had been
mine. If he pleased me, I would keep the Dreel away from him.

 Senan led our squad back to the Haladin camp, which had good water and a meadow where our horses
could crop some grass. As the men made up camp and started boiling dried meat, millet, and wild onions
into something edible, Aarundel and I inspected the detritus of the Haladin camp.

 I poked some very dirty, lice-ridden rags with a stick. "They had been here for a long time, no doubt
about it. They must have been deserters. I know the Haladina do not hold with cowardice, but they
would have welcomed anyone back before the battle on the central plains."

 "I cannot dispute that assessment, but I wonder if these were not more than ordinary bngands." The Elf
concentrated for a moment, bringing his dark brows together as he did so. "I seem to recall having heard
a rumor about one cavalry company having run off with a payroll for the rest of the mercenaries. This
could have been them."

I frowned as I tried to remember details of that story. "That was Dijjal's unit wasn't it? I'm thinking I'm
not missing their departure. If this was them, they fell on very hard times."

 "Traitors are seldom welcome anywhere, and the Haladina have their tradition of death by Eight Cuts for
traitors."
 "True enough." I nodded. "In Dijjal's case I'd not mind seeing him roped to his saddle with his own
entrails, but that's the only time I've not thought Eight Cuts extreme. Your point about traitors is
well-taken, for the Reithrese would not welcome them back, and none of the Man-towns we've liberated
would invite them in."

 Aarundel shook his head. "Save, perhaps, Aurium. Market centers always have a need for gold and
jewels."

"I suppose we will find that out, won't we?"

 The whole of the Man-war against the Reithrese had been full of odd alliances, great heroics, and
brilliant strategies on the part of the Red Tiger. A couple of years after Tashayul's death he led a slave
revolt in south Centisia and took his men into the Kaudian mountains, where they became a bandit band
that harried the southern trade routes. The first I heard of him, in fact, came when a bard added a verse
to a song about me suggesting I'd be heading off to end the Bandit's career.

 I had no such intention because I was spending most of my time with Aarundel, Drogo, and a few others
who formed the core of the Steel Pack riding through the border provinces of Tashayul's empire causing
trouble for the Reithrese. InIrtysh I picked up the Dreel—embarrassing Duke Sture, Harsian's son and
heir, in the process. During that time I heard about how the Red Tiger was becoming bolder in his war
with the Reithrese, but I stayed away because Sture created his Exile Legion and rode off to help the
Red Tiger.

Of course, with Sture forming up his own military unit, I felt a need to do the same. The Steel Pack was
born on my twenty-seventh birthday, and a year later the Red Tiger sent an envoy to me to ask us to join
his war of liberation. I took a vote among the men, and we'd fought for the Red Tiger for the last seven
years.

 The Red Tiger showed a keen sense of strategy in planning out his war. Sture, who constantly agitated
for the liberation ofIrtysh , did not understand that Centisia and Ispar were the keys to destroying the
Reithrese Empire. The Red Tiger did, and worked hard to deprive the Reithrese of their two richest
provinces, because in doing so he crippled them and provided himself with the resources he needed to
defeat them.

 This year we had finally become strong enough to fend off all the assaults on the mountain freestate we
had created, and ventured forth into Centisia. The strategy was to split Centisia in half and trim off the
southern end of it. Toward that end we sent Sture's Legion driving down toward Polston, then had it turn
north at the Aur River while the Red Tiger and I, with the main body of our troops, punched straight east
across the Central Plains.

 Polston revolted against the Reithrese, and they responded by sending Haladin units to lay siege to the
city. Their cavalry units got there quickly on the eastern side of the river, missing Sture's Legion. The
Reithrese and Haladin reinforcements, moving slowly with their supply trains and siege engines, hit Sture
head-on and stopped. Then we slammed into them from the west and broke them.

 The Red Tiger, having crushed the reinforcements for the southern Centisian garrison force, had sent on
three quarters of his army under Sture to lift the Haladin siege of Polston. Sture accepted the assignment
despite its taking his troops further fromIrtysh . As much of a patriot as Sture was, he did tend to enjoy
his time in cities, and Polston had all sorts of things to offer a man with such broad tastes as our Sture.
 The Steel Pack had been sent north along theAurRiver toward the little town ofAurium . The town itself
was less important than its location, which was at the confluence of the two rivers that made the Aur. It
was possible that the Reithrese might ship Imperial troops from Ispar down the river to attack Polston,
and if they were going to do that, the Red Tiger wanted us in Aurium to slow them down. He himself was
bringing the remainder of his army up in our wake, so if we could not hold the Reithrese at Aurium, he
would stop them elsewhere along the river.

 Our primary fear had been—and still was, for that matter—that part of the Haladin force operating in the
Central Plains had retreated north and occupied Aurium. If they had done that, our job would be very
complicated. By pulling a scouting detail from the Steel Pack and running along ahead with it, we hoped
to be able to spot signs of Haladin movement. Still two days' ride out from Aurium, the ambush was the
only hostile force we had run into.

 I worked my left arm around and grimaced at the ache in my ribs. Hunched down in the shadows, Shijef
watched me, his mouth open in a canine grin. He clearly took pleasure in the fact that I hurt, but in him I
sensed some pride that the man who had bested him and had become his master had proven very difficult
to kill. I smiled understanding at him, which disgusted him, and he shambled off into the darkness.

"Aarundel, if the Haladina get to Aurium first, do you think they will sack the town?"

"Their behavior will depend on a number of factors. I largely believe their conduct will be determined by
whether or not they know you are coming after them."

"What difference will that make?"

The Elf smiled. "Were the Haladina raiding at their leisure, they would raze the town after looting."

"Raze it?" I frowned. "It's a trading town. Why destroy it when you can raid it over and over again? The
Haladina are shrewd, they'll see the wisdom in that."

 "They are quite intelligent, Neal, of that there is no question. The trick of it is this, though—if you are not
following them, they will destroy it as a sign of contempt for the Red Tiger and for you."

"And if they know we're coming."

 "You said it yourself, it's a trading town." Aarundel shrugged easily and fished a whetstone from a
belt-pouch so he could apply it to the blade of his ax. "The Haladina will hold the town so they'll have
something for which you'll be willing to trade."

Chapter 3:
Received By The Lords Of Aurdon

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

THE LITTLE GIRL'S scream brought Gena running through the camp. Darting around small family
knots gathered for the noontime meal, she saw Andra standing in the grasses by the edge of the road.
Picked wildflowers lay scattered around the screaming child, and blood dripped from twin puncture
wounds on her right wrist.

 Gena scooped the child up and saw a black serpentine shape slipping off through green grass. She'd not
caught enough of a glimpse of the snake to be able to identify it, but the swelling around the wounds
already told her it was likely venomous. She carried Andra to the roadway and lay her down just as the
girl's mother came running.

"My baby, my baby . . ."

 The woman teetered on the brink of hysterics, and Gena knew she could not let the woman break
down. Having Andra's mother wailing and crying in her ear would shatter Gena's concentration and
distract her so she could not weave the spells that could save the girl. Knowing she had to act quickly,
she put an edge into her voice and turned on the woman. "I need you to fetch me bandages, clean
bandages, now!"

 Her command sent Andra's mother scurrying off, so Gena turned her attention to her patient. The child
thrashed on the ground and cried loudly, and both things threatened to disrupt Gena's concentration as
much as the mother had. Knowing she would get no useful information from the girl, Gena brushed her
fingers over Andra's clammy forehead, casting a spell that dropped the child into a temporary sleep.

 Taking Andra's arm, she triggered a simple diagnostic spell. Aside from reporting puncture trauma to the
muscles, the spell provided Gena with an impression of corruption spreading through the area. She knew
that came from the necrotic processes started by the venom, and acted fast to limit and heal the damage.

Instead of wasting energy on a spell that would cut off blood flow from the arm to the rest of Andra's
body, Gena picked a round stone from the roadway and forced it up into Andra's armpit. She enlisted
one of the girls gawking down at her to hold the stone tight against Andra's arm, knowing the stone
would compress the arteries and veins, temporarily isolating the arm from blood flow.

 Had she known exactly what type of snake had bitten Andra, Gena could have chosen a spell
specifically created to deal with that snake's bite. Instead she had to rely on a spell designed to
counteract most hemotoxic venoms. Pressing her palms against the wound, she invoked the spell, and
warmth passed, from her hands to Andra's arm.

 The diagnostic spell reported the immediate neutralization of the venom, bringing a smile to Gena's face.
"Good, good. You can drop the rock now." She looked up at the people who had gathered around.
"She'll live, and with a bit more work here, she'll be fine."

Repairing the damage to Andra's arm should not be difficult at all. Healing spells worked to speed up the
body's normal healing processes. With a child Andra's age, the magick had no trouble augmenting her
healing rate, and when Gena finally pulled her hands away from the snake bite, smeared blood gave the
only clue that Andra had been bitten.

 Gena stood slowly and fought off a wave of dizziness. Though the spells had been simple, they had taken
something out of her. After a moment or two the dizziness passed, and Gena wiped her hands off with
one of the rags the girl's mother had started to tear into bandages.

As Gena moved away from the crowd—leaving Andra in her mother's care—one of the boys Durriken
had charged with guard duty came running over to her. "You should see this, m'lady." He jumped up and
pointed north-east past one of the wagons.
 Walking around the wagons, Genevera saw distant dun hints of the dust cloud long before she heard
trumpets or caught the scarlet pennants snapping in the breeze. Unable to identify them at first, she
muttered a prayer in hopes they were not Haladina. She had the spells and experience necessary to raise
a defense of the camp, but after treating Andra she needed rest before she could be at her best in
combat.

 The approach to the camp took the riders up a slight incline, which she knew would take the edge off a
charge. That hardly mattered, though, as Haladina seldom fought in unison and would attack from many
points at once. The grasslands, baked golden-brown by the sun, offered her magicks fodder for a fire,
but it would rage out of control and kill her and the people she meant to save as well as their tormentors.
Her defense would have to be more careful, making it that much tougher on her, and she wasn't certain
she was fully up to the task.

Shenan, Keif's younger brother, stood beside her, shifting throwing stones from left hand to right. "What
do you mark them to be, m'lady?"

Gena glanced down at the towheaded boy beside her. "How much can you see?"

 "Cloud, all whispylike. Has to be riders." The boy lowered his voice. "If Neal was here, we'd learn
them."

She gently rested her right hand on his left shoulder and felt tense muscles loosen beneath rough
homespun. She narrowed her eyes and watched carefully, then smiled with relief. "I see banners of red,
with black piping and devices."

 "Flash of gold from the top of one standard, too, eh?" The Elven female nodded. "You have the eyes of
an eagle, Shenan. Just so you know, those are likely Aurdon Rangers."

"How likely?"

 Gena squatted down and pointed at a rider at their head. "I believe that is Durriken riding beside their
captain, so I do not fear another Haladin raid."

The boy's smile broadened, piling up dimples at the corners of his mouth. "Can I tell my ma?"

 Gena nodded, and quite quickly the whole camp had its attention drawn to the approaching riders. She
joined the refugees in smiling at the riders, but she neither shouted nor waved until Durriken cut abruptly
to the right for a slow-count of three, then rode back to the line. With that signal she knew he had come
without coercion or under duress, so she raised her left hand and shouted a welcome.

 Durriken rode a bit ahead of the Rangers and reined up short. Cupping her jaw gently in his
long-fingered hands, he bent down from the saddle and kissed Gena, then winked at her and turned back
toward the others. "Lady Genevera Sylvanii, may I present Captain Floris Fisher of the Aurdon Rangers,
Seventh Regiment."

 Gena curtsied as the Rangers' leader reined his chestnut stallion to a halt before her. Floris rode very tall
in the saddle, with the wings and horsehair plume on his helmet accentuating his height. He glanced at her,
then quickly surveyed the area before returning his brown-eyed gaze to her. He smiled, bowing his head,
but refrained from doffing the steel helm that capped his skull and protected the back and sides of his
neck.
 "I am honored, M'Lady Sylvanii, and very pleased your company has remained unmolested in the time it
took us to get here." Again he looked up and away from her, and Gena smiled as she realized he was
checking to make certain his men had taken up positions to surround the camp. "I detached a company
to go back to Aurdon with the boy to see to the oxen, then asked Durriken to lead us back to you."

 Durriken chuckled lightly, and she saw Floris shoot him a hooded glance. Something passed between
them that she could not decipher, though she assumed it was more because it was a gender-bond than a
secret to be shared only among Men. "The Three-Seventh had been sent out to deal with the raiders we
encountered, specifically because Count Berengar did not want us inconvenienced as we rode to
Aurdon. They caught the main body of Haladina earlier in the day, and those we found were a group
who fled from the battle."

 Gena looked at the black-and-red device painted on Floris's buckler and embroidered on the red tunic
he wore over his gambeson. The downward-pointed equilateral triangular symbol had been split into
three parts, in keeping with the style for most military units. In the upper right section she saw the crossed
arrow and sword that marked the wearer as a Ranger, and the numerals 3/7 decorating the area next to it
clearly indicated this was the Third Battalion of the Seventh Regiment. In the diamond at the bottom she
saw two sleeves knotted above a crossed sword and dagger, which she knew from legend was part of
Aurdon's crest.

Above it all she saw a red-and-black tiger with a striking bird perched on its back. She knew the bird to
be a Fisher and the symbol of Count Berengar's family, but the tiger puzzled her for a moment. It
normally appeared only on Isparian crests, for Ispar alone could rightly claim imperial traditions. Because
of its position on the device Gena knew it stood for the unit's supreme commander, which she already
knew to be Count Berengar.

She smiled sweetly. "Count Berengar is of imperial blood?"

Floris nodded proudly. "He is. The emperor acknowledged the count's mother as a legitimate member of
his family, though she had not been born of a first wife."

"Ah, that is most beneficent and doubtless pleasing to the count," Genevera recalled that five years
before, when she met then Lord Berengar in Filistan, he had not worn a tiger on his crest. "This honor
must have been bestowed recently."

 "A year hence, m'lady." Floris held his head up a bit higher. "The Seventh accompanied him to Ispar for
the ceremony."

Durriken gave Floris a wry grin.

"And doubtless he needed the Seventh to fight his way to the capital."

"It was an interesting journey to Jarudin, Durriken, but we were not hard-pressed despite some
unpleasantries." Floris smiled and wiped sweat from the side of his face. "Once we arrived in Blackoak,
we traveled with the earl's household troops, so the Seventh was able to relax somewhat."

 "The Earl of Blackoak is known for his appreciation of discipline and martial order." His saddle
creaking, Rik dropped to the roadway and stamped the dust from his boots. "Gena, the count would like
us in Aurdon as soon as possible, so the good captain here has offered us some fresh horses and a
company to ride back to the city. It's really not that far now, barely six hours at a fast ride."
 Floris nodded in agreement. "We would have been here sooner, but when Durriken found me, I was
reuniting my squads after they had been chasing Haladina through the hills. We took the night to get some
sleep and repair our equipment in case of fighting this morning."

 "The offer of an escort back to Aurdon is most welcome, Captain Floris, but I find myself reluctant to
leave these good people behind here." Gena looked back at the ragged camp and took heart in noting
the smiles and laughter from the refugees. "Though they appear to be happy now, we just had a scare
with a snake, and they see Haladina in every shadow. I wonder if their joy will last into the night."

 Floris looked the camp over, then nodded. "I understand your feelings, m'lady. I will send a company
back with you, but keep the other two companies here. The oxen and my last company should be here in
a day; then I will bring all back to Aurdon. No Haladina would dare attack a force or over one hundred
fifty men. The welfare of the refugees is now my duty."

 "Then I know their safety is assured. If you will excuse me, Captain, I will prepare my kit and we will be
on our way." Gena smiled, curtsied, and turned away, Rik followed her, leading Benison by the reins, as
she circled around the main camp to the small area she had set up for herself. One of the wagons largely
screened it from the main encampment, affording both her and the Men a polite degree of privacy.

 Rik took advantage of it by catching her arm and turning her around, then enfolding her in a warm
embrace. She lowered her lips to his, once, gently, then again more passionately. She normally would
have been more reserved and would have held back when others could watch them. While no prohibition
on relations between Men and Elves existed, conservative Men often had as much difficulty welcoming
Elven/Human relations as the Consilliarii did. Feeling Rik's arms around her and tasting his lips almost
made her giddy with relief and nearly banished her concerns over other's reactions to their relationship.
While she had been alone in camp, her sense of duty had overridden the anxiety she had felt concerning
Durriken's safety away from her. With the troops taking responsibility for the refugees from her, she
luxuriated in the cessation of pressure and felt happy that her silent prayers to Kyori to bring Rik back to
her safely had been answered.

 Rik broke the embrace and smiled. "As much as I hate being parted from you, I must admit returning
almost makes going away seem worth it."

 Gena reached down and plucked her blue woolen blanket from the ground. "I suspect you had the more
interesting time." She handed the end with the broad red stripe to Rik, then took the green-striped end
for herself. Together they shook the dust out of it, then began to fold it in quarters, making it a narrow
strip. "The children asked for another story, so I told them of another of Neal's adventures—the one
where he bested the Dreel king and made him his slave. Many of the mothers seemed to disapprove,
though."

 Rik nodded as he began to roll the blanket up and move toward Gena. "You must remember, my love,
that Neal's not the greatest of human heroes."

Genevera blinked her violet eyes. "How can you say that? What he did to the Reithrese alone . . ."

 "Love, I've come to see him through your eyes, so I know what Elves think of Neal. True enough, he
was a hero, but to Men weaned on the Eldsaga, well, his alliance with your kind is viewed with
suspicion." Rik held the bundled blanket tight while Gena wrapped a heavy canvas ground cloth around it
and tied it with leather thongs. "The stories you tell of Neal are grand, and I love the way you tell them,
but to many a Man who actually knows them, the tales of Neal Elfward are tragedies to make tears flow
into beer on a long tavern night."
 Gena nodded distractedly. She'd seen the gulf between her image of Neal and the standard Human
image of Neal—if the Humans to whom she spoke knew of him at all. There had been but five Elven
generations born since the time Neal walked the earth and fought his battles, but among Men there had
been at least ten more than that. Here in Centisia, near Aurdon, or up in Ispar, Neal was remembered by
Men, but elsewhere he was as much a myth as the Reithrese or the Dreel.

 Count Berengar Fisher had been one of the few Men she had ever met with a keen interest in Neal. He
had confided in her, when they met, that the standard stories told of Neal Elfward in Aurdon had only
whetted his appetite to know more. She had obliged him by relating a couple of her more favorite tales
and even went so far as to tell him that she had heard them from the lips of her grandfather, the Elf known
to men as Aarundel—a confidence she had not yet shared with Rik.

 "You are correct, of course, Rik." Gena shrugged her shoulders, highlights slithering through her hair like
gilded serpents. "Neal's tradition, among Elves, is tinged with that same tragedy, I think. I suppose my
campaign to emphasize his heroism is doomed to failure."

 Rik tapped the tip of her nose with his index finger. "Well, you have one convert, at least." He glanced
slyly this way and that, his hands resting on the butts of his flashdrakes. "Any man that decides to weep at
one of your stories will have to deal with me."

 Gena laughed aloud, the overture of melancholy banished by Rik's antics. Though she had known him
for only three years, he seemed to be almost prescient in his ability to make her laugh or change her
mood. She had once thought, after a century and a half spent studiously learning her magick, that simple
things could no longer delight her. In a drive to combat that diminution of her soul she had tried to
recover much of the innocence of her childhood and had worked hard to study and gather together the
stories of Neal Custos Sylvanii.

 Yet even that, she reminded herself as she neatly packed her saddlebags, had not been sufficient to
reawaken her sense of life. She petitioned the Consilliari for permission to travel outside Cygestolia, and
they had reluctantly granted it. At the same time they began a subtle campaign to blunt her wish to travel
by telling her all manner of horror stories about the world outside the Elven Holdings—prime among them
the danger that she might meet and believe she had fallen in love with a Man. Far from dissuading her, it
only made her more interested in leaving Cygestolia, and in the dozen years since her departure, she had
felt no desire to return to her home.

And having met Rik, she did not regret her decision to travel in the first place.

Unfolding her saddle blanket, she plucked a thistle from it, then draped the thick cloth over Spirit's spine.
She wrested her saddle from the ground and settled it on the back of her horse. Rik cinched the saddle
up tight while Gena coaxed the gelding into taking the bit and accepting the bridle. She fastened her
bedroll behind the cantle, then laid her saddlebags over the horse's haunches.

 Swinging up into the saddle, she reined the horse around and followed Rik back to the road. There they
lined up with a company of soldiers under the command of a Man whom Floris introduced as Lieutenant
Waldo Fisher. With him in the lead and the soldiers riding behind, they set off for Aurdon.

 Gena found herself taking a slight dislike to Waldo, but she found it difficult to isolate the reason behind
that feeling. He clearly knew his business because he had outriders on both sides of the column as well as
a screen of scouts forward and a squad given to lagging back behind the main body. While short and a
bit broad in the waist—almost built like [all] Reithrese were supposed to have been—he was not an
unpleasant-looking man. The attention he paid to his surroundings marked him as intelligent, for he
constantly looked around and once sent a rider to direct his scouts to investigate the fire-blackened ruins
of a croft up off the road.

 Then she saw it when Waldo glanced over at Rik and the soldier's face soured. It was a momentary
thing, barely a heartbeat in duration, but the expression had carried with it a mixture of hatred and
contempt. It was not the first time she had seen such an expression, but when she had, most often it had
been directed at her—and then only by ignorant Men despising her because of her heritage.

She tickled Spirit's ribs with her heels and came in close beside Rik. "How much did you tell them about
yourself last night?"

The small man shrugged nonchalantly. "Not that much, really. We were all sharing war stories. I
mentioned an adventure or two, but nothing to reflect badly on you."

Gena nodded. She had met Rik through a Nakani dealer in antiquities. She had been invited to the
merchant's estate to see if she could possibly determine the nature of some enchantments on two pieces
of jewelry. She had been told these recent acquisitions were supposed to be Elven, but so seldom was
Elven metalwork seen in the world of Men that the dealer needed her expert opinion on it.

 As the merchant brought out the chest in which the items had rested, Gena had wondered about the
small, silent man who stood behind the fat merchant's chair. His brown eyes seemed to take in everything
and were bright with inquisitiveness, but his tension told in his crossed arms and in his swift attention to
even the slightest wind-whisper or floor creak.

 Genevera instantly recognized the style of the two pieces in the mahogany casket. The merchant lifted
one from its black velvet bed and handed it to her. Hammered out of silver and set with an onyx oval, the
metal bracer had two features that distinguished it for her. From the cuff a strong bit of chain connected it
to a silver ring set with another piece of onyx. The other edge of the bracer, which came to a point almost
four inches from the cuff at the midpoint where the onyx had been set, had silver mail decorating it. Its
mate was smaller and more delicate and had been set with ovals of lapis and opal.

 She considered for a moment how much she could tell them about it without compromising traditions
and customs her people preferred to keep secret. "These two pieces are of Elven manufacture. They are
wedding tokens. This one is for the groom, and the other, which you can see is smaller, is for the bride.
The mail indicates the groom was a warrior. The ring was worn around his middle finger."

The merchant smiled. "And the magicks?"

 She turned the bracer over and back again, and concentrated to pick up traces of the magick worked
into it, even though she well knew what the spell would be. "It is an enchantment related to the marriage
ceremony." She hesitated and the merchant missed it, but the small man caught it. "It roughly calls for the
love between them to outlast the metal making up the tokens; then it prevents the silver from tarnishing."
The magick really did much more and in the hands of an enemy the tokens could become very powerful
weapons if used against those who had worn them; but Genevera felt the Men had no need for that
information.

The smaller man spoke, prompting the merchant to frown, "Is there any way, my Lady, to determine for
whom these have been made? I assume they'd not be abandoned lightly."

"No, they would normally be destroyed if the marriage was dissolved." She turned the bracelet over and
up so she could see inside the cuff. "Ah, there are maker-marks here. Yes, I . . ." She stopped as her
throat tightened. She recognized the marks instantly and bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. "I
know for whom these were fashioned. The pieces are nearly five centuries old. They belonged to my
grandparents."

"Who are now dead?"

 The ghoulishly hopeful note in the merchant's voice shocked her and clearly angered the smaller man.
"They are still alive. I would like to know where you got these."

The merchant looked back at the small man, disappointment evident on his face. "You may tell her what
you wish. I abide by our agreement."

 The smaller man unfolded his arms, depositing the twin flashdrakes on the table, then bowed to her. "I
am Durriken. I supply Frigyes here with things. We've agreed that he can sell anything we can't get back
to the owner or an heir. These bracelets, as I understand it, were found about a hundred years ago by
someone digging in theDeadMountains . Various connoisseurs traded for them, and they recently came
into my possession. But now they're yours. I hope your kin will be happy to get them back."

 "If they do not want them," the merchant smiled solicitously, "I am certain the original owner would love
to regain them."

Durriken snarled at the merchant, and the man sank back in his chair. "Her kin are the original owners.
Sell Polus the imperial goblets I obtained a year ago to salve him, and let Avner console himself with
getting the marble goddess that accompanied these beauties when they left Polus's vault."

Gena looked at the small man. "You're a thief?"

 "Frigyes prefers to call me a Practical Antiquarian, but 'thief' sums it up nicely." He shrugged and pointed
to the bracelets. "I've accepted as my life's duty preventing collectors from becoming too comfortable
with their loot."

Gena came out of her reverie as one of the scouts rode back to the main body of troops. He reported to
Waldo; then the soldier turned to face the two of them. "They found a dead Haladin bandit in the croft.
He had been wounded in the chest. One of yours?"

"Likely." Durriken nodded curtly.

"More of the warrior in you than I would have imagined."

"I do my best to hide it, but there are times it slips out."

Waldo raised an eyebrow at that remark, then faced forward and kept riding.

Gena frowned at Rik. "In these stories you told, did you mention you were a thief?"

 "How they'd have figured that, I don't know." A smug smile and playful wink put the lie to that statement.
"You think that's a problem?"

"Rik, Aurdon is a city founded by and run by merchants!"
"And a bigger den of thieves we'll not likely find this side of Najinda. Merchants are just thieves who
prefer robbing you while making you think you're getting a bargain."

"Rik!"

The thief smiled and patted her left knee. "Don't worry, Gena, I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."

"Promise?"

 "My solemn oath." Durriken placed a hand over his heart for a second. "Besides, until you pass through
the city gates, Aurdon has nothing I want."

 The road itself followed the valley floors as it wound its way through the hills to Aurdon. Waldo, either
impatient to get back to the city or complying with orders, took numerous shortcuts. At all times he kept
his scouts and outriders in place even though their unorthodox route made the chance of ambush much
smaller.

 Riding up and over the hills provided Gena with breathtaking views of grasslands stretching as far as the
eye could see. Farms dotted the landscape, their sod houses looking like warts raised on the bare
hillsides. Gena shivered unconsciously when she looked at them and was thankful Waldo had not
suggested stopping at one. She understood the necessity of sod houses in a land of so few trees, but
growing up in Cygestolia had left her feeling as if dwelling in the mud were somehow blasphemous.

 The sun had begun its descent into the underworld when she saw the first hint of Aurdon. She doubted
the Fishers and Riverens would have enjoyed knowing what her first clue to the city's presence was.
Even before the city itself came into view, she saw a brownish haze hanging at the lower end of the river
valley toward which they rode. Recalling the cloud raised by the Seventh Regiment's approach, she
wondered at first if it might be the oxen being driven back to meet the refugees. That speculation lasted
only a minute longer, dying when a breeze brought to her the woody scent of thousands of cookstoves.
Only then did she realize the haze had been created as the city devoured what were once proud forests
to feed its hunger for building materials and fuel.

 Riding in on the river road, Gena first caught sight of the city as they came around a bend. The moment
she saw the metropolis, she shuddered. The ivory stone used to build the city's walls and largest buildings
reminded her of aged bone. It appeared to her as if the earth's flesh had been gashed open and people
had taken up residence in the wound, reshaping bone to suit their needs. It struck her that her revelation
would have been better suited to a Dwarf, for the gods had used them to create the world—yet she
knew her dismay came from the scarcity of green in the city before her.

 Aurdon sprawled over a half-dozen hills, and three stone ribbons of wall surrounded the municipal core.
The tallest buildings had been constructed within the second ring, and some more prosperous and
ambitious dwellings lurked within the third. Outside the walls, smaller dwellings and various business
establishments had spread across the valley, with a fair amount of the riverbanks near the tri-river
confluence given over to warehouses and docks for servicing the barge trade.

 A trumpet blast from the scouts parted traffic on the main road, so the company made quick time riding
north to the first set of city gates. The guards up on the ramparts looked down at them, but did not
challenge them, nor paid them overmuch attention. Waldo led them off on the first wide street that
headed east and uphill around to the second gate.

The second gate had been placed facing north-north-east, requiring an army that breached the south
gate to fight its way uphill to get to it. The Rangers, save Waldo and his scouts, rode off to their barracks
while the lieutenant continued out and around, leading Gena and Rik to the third and final city gate. After
riding down into a valley between two hills, they rode up again and around to the northwest to make
another uphill approach to the gate.

Rik caught Gena's eye. "I've entered palaces at midnight with less difficulty than this."

 Waldo shot Rik a sharp glance. "I have no doubt you have, Master Durriken. We have built much here
in Aurdon that others covet."

"I can see that, Lieutenant." Rik replied to the man respectfully, not rising to the bait of disdain in
Waldo's voice.

 The guards at the last gate snapped to attention as the group rode through. The pace of travel slowed,
less, Gena thought, because the streets were crowded than because the people lining the streets here
appeared to be a better class of denizen than those choking the avenues and courtyards outside the third
ring. And she marked in Waldo's attitude a change that allowed her to think he was not so much
concerned with riding even these people down as he was with being able to strut importantly before
them.

 As she had come to expect, she became the object of stares and whispers, much to Waldo's apparent
consternation. While the inhabitants of an urban center such as Aurdon doubtlessly would scoff at the
way the farmers had feared her on the road, they, too, woutd feel a trickle of terror if she met their gazes
openly. Gena accepted that the novelty of seeing an Elf for the first—and perhaps only—time invited
study, and she did not hold with other Elves who maintained this proved Men to be little better than the
lowing bovines they tended in fields.

Curiously enough, Gena noticed a certain amount of deference being paid to Durriken. He seemed to
have noticed it as well, because she caught him furtively glancing about, yet he accepted it and even
nodded to one or two women who curtsied as he passed. His reception appeared to anger Waldo—if
his scowl and stiff spine could be trusted to measure his mood—but the lieutenant did nothing to act on
his feelings.

 Waldo reined his mount to a halt before a stone building with the ivory patina of age in the stone walls
and columns. Dismounting, he turned the reins of his horse over to one of his scouts, and two others
came forward to care similarly for Spirit and Benison. Rik dismounted with a flourish, then patted
Benison on the neck. He offered Gena his hand, and she took it less for assistance than the desire to
touch him and be close.

 Hand in hand they followed Waldo up broad steps, between two statues of perched Fishers and through
cast-iron doors a full fifteen feet in height and half that in width. Without introduction or travelogue, he led
them across the marble-inlaid foyer, around the decorative pond in which aurfish swam lazily, and on into
a long hallway in which the spaces between the arched windows were covered by heavy tapestries.
Though she recognized none of the scenes depicted, Gena assumed they came from Fisher family history
because of the way the knotted sleeves played prominently across the top of each tableau, and because
the tapestries themselves were fastened to the wall by iron hooks made to look like the talons of a Fisher.

 Halfway down the corridor Gena began to hear the sounds of fighting, the ringing skirl of steel
disengaging itself from steel. As no shouts of alarm accompanied it and Waldo did not react to it, she
assumed the sound was not alien to the house this late in the day. Waldo turned right and pointed them
through a doorway that opened onto a wide porch standing above a small courtyard surrounded by a
splendid garden.

 Despite all the combatants being covered in studded leather armor and wearing full helms, Gena
recognized Count Berengar instantly. The locks of flame-red hair hanging down from beneath the helmet
only provided confirmation of the conclusion she had based on his tall stature and heavily muscled body.
Clad in black, using a rapier in each hand, he moved with a fluid grace she remembered well from the
dance floor at the reception where they had met.

 The two men he fought worked well as a team, yet remained unable to pierce his defenses. Berengar
kept his blades wide, facing them straight on, waiting for them to choose an avenue for attack. Normally
that would have resulted in his death, but Berengar's extended reach, fast parries, and swifter ripostes
meant closing with him was to enter a sphere of death in which he held sway.

 "M'lord, I have arrived with your guests." Waldo's announcement and a muffled "Hold," from Berengar
brought the fight to a halt. As Berengar handed his blades to a servant and doffed his helmet, Waldo
turned to Rik. "You will surrender your flashdrakes to me now, sirrah."

Gena felt a jolt through Rik's right hand, but her grip prevented his drawing one of the handcannons or
punching Waldo. Rik shot Gena a sharp glance, then almost instantly let his anger go. "I beg your pardon.
Lieutenant? Did you ask to examine one of my flashdrakes?"

"No, I demanded their surrender. It is the law here in Aurdon."

"Waldo! What is this?" Berengar rushed up the steps and stopped several short of the landing, keeping
himself at eye level with Durriken. "These are my guests."

The soldier blinked with surprise. "But the law, it is clear. He . . ."

 "He is my guest." Berengar shook his head and sighed, then looked up at Durriken. "Forgive this
discourtesy, please. Waldo is correct in that it is a law here in Aurdon that only nobles may possess
flashdrakes. I can clearly see these are of Dwarven manufacture, not the poorly constructed imitations
that the Haladina occasionally circulate." The big man looked back at the people standing in the arena
below. "While we have chosen to eschew flashdrakes in favor of more honorable weapons, the law was
passed to prevent commoners and peasants from being harmed by the combustion of inferior examples
of hand-cannons. If you will give me your parole that you will not use them except in most dire need, I
believe we will have no difficulty with your continued possession of them."

Durriken nodded graciously. "You have my word on it, my lord."

 "Splendid." Berengar stepped up to the landing and smiled at Gena. "My dear lady, it is once again an
honor to bask in your radiance." He bowed, then took her right hand and kissed it gently, his moustache
and beard tickling her flesh.

 Gena looked up at him and smiled. "And I, we, are honored to be received in your home. You are
looking well."

"And with you here, I am much, much better." He turned to face Durriken. "I understand from the men
Captain Floris sent back that you are Durriken, a finder of items long lost."

Rik bowed his head. "I am."
 "Fortune smiles, then, that you have come with Lady Genevera." Berengar's glance flicked past their
joined hands, his bright blue eyes narrowing for a moment; then he pointed them past Waldo and back
into the house. "I have arranged for adjoining suites for you. I would have used but one; however, my
parsimonious forebears made the guest accommodations quite small. Please use one as your parlor and
the other as your private chamber."

"My lord is most generous."

"I hope you will think so after we have a chance to speak more fully." A hint of urgency drifted into
Berengar's voice. "As Lady Genevera can tell you, I tend to be more direct than other nobles, and I
know you must be wondering why I asked for her to come here with all haste. I realize you are road
weary and wish to rest, especially after having to deal with Haladina on the road, but I feel letting you
know the reason I summoned you is quite important."

He looked at her quite solemnly. "You know, of course, that Neal Elfward played a key role in the
history of Aurdon."

Gena nodded. "I do."

 "Good." Berengar's eyes narrowed. "I've asked you here because I need your knowledge of him—and
good Durriken's skills will likewise be valuable, I think. You see, I need to unmake what Neal created. If
I do not, a city that has prospered over five centuries will cease to exist inside five years."

Chapter 4:
Deceiving The Lords Of Aurium

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

THE FINAL TWO hours of our journey to Aurium took the form of a nightride. We rode through dark
woodlands and the northern foothills of theCentralMountains . Though we had seen no signs of Haladin
mayhem since the ambush, I let Aarundel ride point and had Shijef ranging through the woods ahead of
him. Aarundel's keen night vision made him proof against the sort of trick that had gotten me, and Shijef s
orders allowed him enough leeway to cause the sort of trouble that would raise an alarm for us.

 The woods abruptly ended in a stump meadow that marked the source of the wood used to build most
of Aurium. While the merchants who controlled the town dared name it "City ofGold " in the Elven
tongue, truth was that the town had been built of tree-flesh and only recently had acquired a building of
stone. It was supposed to have a palisade, which could help in defending it against the Haladina, but I
knew of no local militia or native troops that called Aurium home.

 We rode past some woodcutter camps, and that sparked some optimistic comments from my fellows.
We had all feared that a Haladin force had somehow eluded our detection and laid siege to Aurium.
Given the nature of the Man-town, a torch or two would have had it burning hotter than the firewell in
Jammaq. Chances were, however, that the Haladina wouldn't burn it because of its control over river
traffic.
 Up ahead, on the crest of the last hill leading to the Aurium valley, Aarundel stopped his horse and
whistled. I rode forward and drew abreast of his position. From our vantage point I could see little
because the city lay a good half mile ahead or us in the darkness, but that did not bother my eagle-eyed
companion. Where I saw dots of light in a pool of brooding darkness, he saw much more.

"The gates are open, Neal. There are no custodians on the walls."

 I looked hard out into the darkness but saw nothing more nor less than I expected. The night's breeze
came up from the river and into my face, but I smelled nothing to indicate the lights I saw were the
embers of a fire that had consumed the town. "Does all else look normal?" I gave him a quick smile.
"Excepting the fact it's a Man-town."

 "Absent that consideration, I see a nimiety of normality." Aarundel's face remained impassive, but he let
some amusement bleed into his words. Though we were good friends—brothers born of different
races—Aarundel held himself tightly and seldom let down the fierce Elven facade that reminded others of
the excesses ascribed to Elven Legions by the Eldsaga. When we were alone he would open up, but
being soul-kin meant I understood the part he was playing and why he played it.

 Blackstar shuddered and shied toward Aarundel's horse, which meant only one thing. I looked down to
my left and a half-dozen paces forward. Crouched there sniffing the wind, Shijef turned his nose toward
Aurium. "Lifeblack pools." He raised his head and let out a howl that echoed through the valley.
"Lifeblack floods."

 More than the howl, his words sent a shiver down my spine. Over the dozen years through which I have
suffered my Dreel slave, I learned one fact that was true. Like an old man whose bunions can foretell a
gathering storm, Shijef just out and out knows when violence is building in an area. Given his choice, he
would seek it out the way a lonely man hunts for a smile and a laugh.

 He undoubtedly knew the ambush in the woods was coming, but he did not warn me because he knew
the chances of my getting killed were—in his eyes—minimal. While my death would end his servitude to
me, he was a creature of curious honor. As much as he hated me for enslaving him, he accepted that his
servitude was the prize I won in our contest. As a result, he pledged himself to preserving my life. He left
me to the Haladina on the trail because the man was not a threat, but killed the horseman because he
could have killed me.

 It had taken me a long time to see Shijef as more than a bear and a tiger mixed together with a lot of
anger and a limited vocabulary. Not only was he intelligent, but he understood emotions and concepts
like honor and friendship. I never imagined we would be friends because, unlike Aarundel and me, our
partnership was not one of willing participation. Still, I had some admiration for the Dreel and trusted his
reading of murky and complex situations under the right circumstances.

Circumstances such as these.

I glanced at the Dreel. "Shijef, are there Haladina in the town?"

"Not sandmen." The monster half hopped a bit down the hillside. "Denmen."

 "Civil strife during a war?" Aarundel's saddle groaned as the Elf shifted his weight and reseated his feet in
the stirrups. "Is intervention warranted?"

"It is, I'm thinking." I squeezed my knees together and urged Blackstar forward. Shijef's predictions of
death coming to a place could be deflected or contradicted with proper action. If we could stop
whatever was going on in Aurium, it would frustrate the Dreel, and that would be punishment enough for
what he did to the Haladin warrior. "Being as how the Red Tiger is not wanting a whole Reithrese navy
descending on Polston, saving this inflated barter-post is likely within our duties."

 The fifteen of us rode on into the valley and up to the gates. I put Senan in command and set him to
closing the gates and seeing how secure the town was. The wooden palisade looked in fine repair, but
the open gates bothered me. While I felt fair certain no Haladina had gotten this far north, I had no desire
to have them inside Aurium when I learned I was wrong.

 Aarundel, the Dreel, and I headed deeper into the town. It took neither the Elf's vision nor the Dreel's
deathsight to direct us toward the center of the trouble in Aurium. Most of the town lay quiet and shut up
tight against possible violence. Not a shutter opened as we rode through the muddy streets—the fear in
the air clung like swampscent and smelled not nearly as sweet.

 When we reached the stone building on the top of the hillock at the town's heart, I immediately knew
what had to be going on. Two groups of Men stood on either side of the building's wooden doors. They
had no weapons in hand, and were valiantly doing their best to ignore each other. Our arrival made that
easy, though the eldest of each group stepped forward to give us orders—bringing the two groups of five
into conflict again.

Without a word between us, Aarundel and I reined up just short of the men and dismounted in unison.
Mirrors of each other, we flipped our reins to each of the groups' self-appointed legates. "Obliged,
gentlemen. Now you'll be opening the doors for us."

 "That is not possible," one Man blurted out quickly. His deep flush and hot words told me he was not in
a good mood. He hastily signaled to one of the other Men in his group to take Blackstar's reins. "The
doors are closed until the council makes a decision."

The sounds coming from beyond the doors sounded to me like those from a bloodpit duel, but I'd seen
politics go malignant and become war before. "Good, then we are yet in time. They'll not be wanting to
make a decision before they have had our counsel."

 The Man in front of me moved to block my path. I could see from the emblem crudely embroidered on
the breast of his tunic that he was bound to the Fisher Clan. A bird in flight, it had a fish in its beak and a
purse clutched in its talons. I knew the Fishers to be one of the two clans that lived in and around
Aurium.

 Opposite him, stood his equal in the employ of the Riveraven Clan. Like the Fishers, they took their
name from that of a bird that frequented the tri-river valley. Common wisdom had it that river-ravens
were rats with wings and that Fishers regularly placed their eggs in river-raven nests to be tended. I'd
also heard people wonder if the two clans wouldn't have gotten along well had their forebears been wiser
in their totem-choices, because the two families seemed to everyone outside them to complement each
other.

 "Goodman, I do not doubt you've been given a duty to perform here tonight." I stepped in close to him,
mounting the first of three steps to the level of the doorway. My right hand reached out quicker than he
could see or block, and slipped my dagger, Wasp, from the sheath over my right hip. "Now, you're all
guards, and that's a right proud job to be having."

Flicking the blade forward, I stuck it quivering in the right-side door to the squat and ugly legislatorium.
I'd not expected the blade to stick really—Wasp has all the balance of a one-legged man hopping on wet
ice—but the door's soft wood would have held the blade even if it had backed into place. Behind me the
Dreel yipped appreciatively, and at my side Aarundel just narrowed his black eyes. "What you don't
want to be are dead guards, I'm thinking."

 The combined effect of action and words worked to open the doors faster than a latchkey. The two
gangs of rowdies opened the building for us, bowing low and mumbling very polite greetings in what I
believed they thought was Elven. Aarundel remained as silent and implacable as death, while the Dreel
sniffed at one Man, then another, like a customer sorting fresh fish from spoiled. I recovered Wasp and
[resheathed] it, then stepped through the threshold as if I were bound to see the Reithrese emperor in
Jarudin.

The Hall of Laws had not risen very tall because of the cost of bringing stone in from the quarries
upriver. To make the structure big, the people of Aurium had dug down into the hillock. Whereas
outside, the building only rose a score feet above the ground, within the hall itself a good forty feet stood
between floor and ceiling.

 The excavated area had been paved with smooth riverstone. It seemed to me that what had been born
of economy had turned out to be quite decorative. Three terraces surrounded the central floor. They had
been finished in fancy woods of gold and rich mahogany, adding some warmth to the cold white of the
hillock's stone carapace. Benches and tables provided seating for those who would enact laws. For such
a small town, the Hall of Laws was a thing of which the people could be proud.

 My earlier impressions of the sounds proved more correct than I would have imagined. The three of us
arrived in the midst of what had to be a heated debate. Two young men circled each other in the center
of the stone floor. Each had his left arm bared, as their tunic sleeves had been stripped off and knotted
together to form a short tether. Each man held tight to the tether with his left hand. The loose cuffs stood
up from the knot like rabbit ears and flopped this side and that as the two men pulled back and forth on
the tether.

 Each man held a dagger in his right hand. The blades more resembled filleting knives than they did
Wasp, but each was long, sharp, and pointy enough to reach the heart through the ribs. Each also
glistened with blood which, I gathered from the stains on each combatant's tattered tunic, came from a
series of shallow wounds. Both the wounds and the way the two men moved listlessly told me any
enthusiasm they'd had for the fight had been swallowed by exhaustion and excreted as mortal fear.

 Surrounding them, standing on benches and sitting on desks, nearly the whole of the two clans hooted
and hollered encouragement. I saw the mother of one lad sitting on the side, clinging to a daughter and
crying silently. Uncles and cousins jerked and dodged in sympathy for their clan's fighter, but not a one of
them had lifeleak splotches on their clothes. Older and wiser clan members hung back, occasionally
shouting an obligatory bit of advice, but mostly watching and waiting and calculating what they would do
in the event of whatever outcome seemed most likely.

 Without breaking stride, I sailed down the open aisle dividing the legislatonum left from right. I drew
Cleaveheart cleanly as I came and filled my left hand with Wasp. Before either of the young men even
had a chance to notice me, the sword flashed down and the dagger up, split-shearing the knot. Each of
the fighters spilled backward, flailing sleeve-half waving like the tail on a kite as they went down.

"Foul!" shouted a heavyset, florid-faced man of the Fisher Clan. "Edward was winning. You, Festus
Riveraven, you cheated!" He pointed across the assembly at a slender white-haired man kneeling beside
his family's champion. "These are your agents, but they shall not win Aurium for you."
 Festus Riveraven raised his head and did not even look at me or Aarundel. "Nay, Childeric Fisher, these
are not my agents. You are lucky they interfered when they did, for Rufus would have spitted your
Edward in a minute." He turned to me and kept a snarl out of all but his eyes and voice. "Who are you
that dares . . ."

 Finding as I have in the past that my tolerance for politicians is inverse to their degree of liveliness, I
spoke over him. "I am Neal Roclawzi and this is Aarundel." I looked back over my shoulder at where
Shijef had taken up a post guarding the room's only exit. "He is a Dreel and my command is his will."

Childeric straightened up—no easy task for as corpulent a bulk as I'd ever seen on a man—and eyed
me up and down. "You are the Dun Wolf? You command the Steel Pack?"

Aarundel gently [patted] his war ax. "Sound not incredulous when you address Neal Custos Sylvanii.
Treat him as a lack-honor andI will choose the manner of your punishment."

"I meant no disrespect, Lansor Honorary," Childeric offered in badly accented Elven.

 "And I am near certain Aarundel Imperator did not take it as such. Fisher." I gave him a nasty glare, but
saved half of it for Festus. "Yes, I command the Steel Pack. We have been sent here to prevent Aurium
from falling into Reithrese hands, but it appears there are other troubles here."

Festus waved my concern away. "No troubles that demand your attention."

I raised an eyebrow at his statement. "Mayhap, then, you can explain why you were about turning this
place into a . . . a . . ."

Aarundel smiled easily. "An abattoir, Custos Sylvanii?"

"Thank you, Aarundel Imperator. An abattoir?"

"It is the business of merchants, mercenary." Festus dismissed me with a more vehement wave. "What
happens here is not your concern. It is not your business."

"No?" I used Cleaveheart to link the two bleeding boys with an arc. "Tell me, then, what was it I saw?
Were you trying to show the sharpness of the blades you sell, or was that a prelude to showing how a
poultice you trade in will heal cuts?"

 "You would not understand!" Festus looked to Childeric for a confirmatory nod and got one quickly.
"You are not a merchant, you cannot understand."

 "That may be, but were I a merchant, I know I'd trade in common sense. Here in Aurium it's in sad
supply, and there is a sore need for it." I took a step toward Festus, and he pulled back to where his
seated son formed a barrier between us. "I do know some things, though, and one of them is this: you're
all, the lot of you, trading long in hostility, and that means war, which is my concern."

I shook my head and saw Aarundel give me wide berth. "Now I know, from what you've said, you're
not wanting me to start gathering wool from your sheep, as it were. You want me to stay out of your
business, and I respect that. I have no doubt you merchants have all sorts of your own rules and laws for
dealing with this and that. Well, now, I know there are rules of warfare that I abide by, and I would be
offended if anyone came in from the outside and started breaking them."
 I sank my face into that touch-brow kind of expression that marks long thought with short success. "And
I gather there is another likeness between our professions. Competition is at the heart of it, really. Like
the two of your families competing one against the other. That's the soul of it, and if one side wins, the
other is driven out of business."

Childeric gave me a patronizing nod. "There, Neal, you have the right of it. We are alike but different.
Leave us, and let us settle our differences."

 "Differences, true enough," I said, aping as much of his statement as served my purpose. "Of course, the
difference between being a soldier and being a merchant is that my competition ends up dead. Makes a
right fair mess, too, sometimes." My brow still furrowed, I looked down at the floor. "Pity, I don't think
this will drain well."

Festus shook with anger at my antics. "Prithee, what are you prattering on about?"

 The Elf answered for me. "Even a lackwit could figure it out, Festus: by introducing killing into your
competition here in Aurium, you have become our competition."

"And our competitors end up dead." I smiled as benignly as I could and nodded at the Dreel. "Shijef,
none shall pass you."

 A low, rumbling growl rolled from his throat as his triangular ears came up to attention and he flexed
talon-shot paws. He displayed his fangs for all, and his tail beat a happy tattoo against the door.

 I shrugged as I turned to Childeric. "You understand, of course, why we have to do this. I mean, if you
set to warring by yourself, without our help, why then everyone could just start slaughtering their
neighbors. They wouldn't need us and I'd be obsolete. I would be out of business. My men would go
hungry and their families would starve. No, no, we can't have that."

 Aarundel brought his war ax up and rested it on his right shoulder. "Was I to terminate the Riveravens or
the Fishers?"

"I was thinking that I was to do the young, and you were to start with the old."

 "We cannot do that, Neal, for parents might see their children die, and I would spare them that." The Elf
looked at the two men still seated on the floor. "Then again, that prospect appears to spawn no dolor
here."

Childeric's jaw dropped open. "You cannot do that!"

"Have I a choice?" I smiled benignly at him. "I cannot expect you to understand, for this is the business
of mercenaries, not merchants."

Festus proved a mite sharper than his competition. "You are mercenaries, I have money. I will purchase
your services. We will work together, we will unite."

I sighed deeply. "Oh, now, disaster! Why did you have to do that?"

Festus, for the first time, looked puzzled and just a touch afraid. "Do what?"
Aarundel looked down at the smaller man and slowly shook his head. "You have violated the Codex
Mercenarius." The Elf's voice, kept low and sinking lower, paused long enough to make each of the
Elven words clear, crisp, and razor-sharp to the ears.

 My nod confirmed the worst fears anyone in the room could have had. "You see, neither one of you
controls the government here in Centisia, so—as the Codex Mercenarius makes very clear—you cannot
hire mercenaries. By offering us money you reduce us to alley-bashers and footpads who hurt others for
the purpose of making money."

 Childeric shook his head. "But that is what mercenaries do!" He saw me stiffen and hastily added, "Isn't
it?"

 "Common misconception, actually. Mercenaries are warriors who fight beneath the banner of a nation,
or political subdivision thereof, for the purposes of furthering state policy." I looked at him. "Is a boy who
finds wormy apples in an orchard and sells them to someone a merchant?"

"I should say not," both Festus and Childeric snapped indignantly. "We are professionals."

 "Then don't be lumping cutpurses and rib-crushers with us professionals." I turned to Aarundel and
smiled. "You have studied the Codex more recently than I, Imperator. I do not recall a way out of this."

 The Elf shrugged and, looking up, studied the marble walls and ceiling. "This will make for an
appropriate sepulchre. If everyone could lie down side by side, it would make the work easier." He
casually reached down and plucked a hair from the red thatch on Rufus's head, then let it slide in twain
down the edge of his ax. "Short of a total cessation of hostilities, our course is set."

I nodded, "Yes, there is that." I smiled at Childeric, then pointed Cleaveheart at the leonine woman and
pretty young girl standing behind him. "Your wife and daughter? Good, families should die together."

"Wait, wait." Festus rose from behind his son. "What was this about stopping the fight?"

 I looked at him as if he were a moron. "Clearly, if there is no war between you, you are not our
competition. You would not try to engage our services, so no violation of the Codex Mercenarius would
have occurred."

The slender man nodded curtly. "Then the fight is over. There is no war."

Childeric backed him up. "Indeed, total peace. You are not needed here anymore."

The two of them looked quite smug and self-satisfied with their solution to the problem—not the
problem of their fighting, but of our objection to it. I shook my head. "I may be a mercenary, but I am not
a fool. The instant I leave, you will return to your fighting. You will unite in the face of a common enemy,
but then split apart again. You would play me false."

"No."

 "Indeed, you would not." I slid Cleaveheart into its scabbard, then waved Childeric's daughter forward.
"Come to me, child, do not be afraid." As I made my voice gentle for her, I took the anger I skimmed out
of it and pumped it through my eyes into her father. "'What is your name?"

"Ismere, Lord Custos Sylvanii." Her Elvish fell soft on my ear, and from the hint of a nod I saw Aarundel
make, she pleased him as well. She took my hand, her pale flesh like snow on my darker, scarcrossed
skin. Wearing a dress made of fabric spun and dyed sky-blue in the islands, the slender slip of a girl had
been saved inheriting anything from her father with the exception of her clan affiliation and blue eyes.

 I felt her tremble and smiled, "No need to be afraid, Ismere. I would slay all others before I would cause
you hurt." With Wasp I cut at the seam of her left sleeve and sliced the stitching all the way up into the
armpit. She let her arm hang limply at her side, bringing her right hand across her chest to clutch at her left
elbow.

I pointed to Rufus. "Excepting the blood, he's not hard to look at, is he?"

"No, my Lord."

"Fancy him, do you?"

 In her eyes I saw an instant recognition of what I was going to do. She hesitated for a heartbeat and
started to look back at her father, then just looked at Rufus. She studied him for a moment, then nodded.
With the conviction of someone realizing she was guaranteeing the future through her action, she chose
her words carefully. "I believe him wise, couth, and pleasing."

 I nodded at Rufus. "On your feet, lad." His father made to restrain him, but I shook my head. "Don't you
think, Festus, a funeral would make this day very sad?"

Rufus stood, tugged at the hem of his nearly white homespun tunic and approached. "Yes, m'lord?" He
was wise enough to know he couldn't pronounce my Elven title as well as Ismere, so he did not even try.

"Could you make Ismere happy?"

"I will."

 I slit his right sleeve and knotted their sleeves together. "This is it, then. By the rights granted me in the
Codex Mercenarius, I bind these two and their families together. You will work together until this knot is
severed by Wasp and Cleaveheart. Anyone who tries to sunder this union will have me to deal with,
whether I'm dead or alive. This I vow in the name of Herin."

 My invocation of the warrior god's name in a merchant house brought some mild gasps and got
everyone's attention. In doing that I'd reinforced the idea of lethal consequences if they fought my
solution. "You'll be wanting to have your priests conduct their ceremonies to bless this marriage, but it's
Neal Roclawzi, not the gods, who will harvest any who interfere with it."

I smiled as I turned to the two fathers. "And as for you, because old habits die hard, I want to give you a
bit of a competition to occupy your efforts until this settlement has anchored in your hearts. This was a
wedding. You'll be wanting to put on a feast to celebrate it. And, as I have the Steel Pack on the way
here, you'll be wanting it to be a celebration remembered for generations because of the unflinching
generosity of the hosts."

Chapter 5:
The Reason For Coming

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

GENEVERA BOWED HER head politely as Count Berengar Fisher ushered her into her suite. As he
had suggested earlier, the suite itself barely deserved the name. Wider than it was deep, an archway that
held up the roof nominally functioned to split the bedroom from the area nearest the door. Heavy curtains
gathered at each side of the broad arch and, when drawn, would sever one half of the room from the
other effectively, but would also shield the bed from the fireplace in the north wall.

 Beyond the arch, in the sleeping area, Gena had two small arched lead-glass windows that looked out
into one of the manor's gardens. Spring had not yet brought blossoms to the flowers, but the shrubs and
plants had all begun to produce new growth, blending new green with older green in a display that
pleased her. Since the windows faced east, she knew she would get the dawning sun, and it made her
happy that she would start the day with the sun's warm caress.

 Back in the northeast corner she saw a narrow door, which Count Berengar opened immediately.
Durriken appeared through it and winked at her, then nodded. "Late Imperial furnishings. I am
impressed, my lord, for such things are very expensive now."

 The larger man scratched at the diagonal scar beneath his left eye. "I would accept your praises, Master
Durriken, but we have these antiques because my penurious ancestors never even dreamed of buying
anything new unless something old had fallen to pieces." His massive left hand stroked the carefully
carved scrollwork on the corner of a chest of drawers. "These pieces have served well and would long
since have fallen apart were they not housed in these seldomly used rooms."

 Gena sensed weariness in the way Berengar spoke of his elders, as if he were well and truly sick of
convincing them of one thing or another. She felt it somewhat odd that she could look at the wooden
furnishings in the room and view them as serviceable yet less than appealing pieces, while the two Men
recognized some value in them for their antiquity. She could not be certain, but she felt confident that she
was actually older than most of the pieces in the room—and she hoped this was, in fact, the case with the
straw in the canopy bed's mattress.

"My lord, your statement earlier suggests to me that these pieces might see no more service if we cannot
help you." Gena moved away from the bed and back into the forward part of her room, then seated
herself in a rough-hewn chair. "Can you tell us more of what you want of us?"

Berengar nodded easily and pulled a chair around so he could face her. He started to speak, then
hesitated and pointed at the sideboard. "Would you like some wine? Something to eat, perhaps?"

"Wine, yes, thank you."

"I'll play the server." Durriken waved them back into their chairs. "I can listen while my hands
work—makes my tasks go easier."

 "I am in your debt." Berengar raked his red hair back into place with his fingers, then hunched forward
with elbows on knees. "The union Neal forced on the Fishers and Riverens worked well for a generation
or two. From the start, in memory of his friend, the Red Tiger made the Knott family the representatives
for trade within theprovinceofCentisia . They shared with their cousins and brought all of us the prosperity
that built much of the inner city.
 "The next couple of generations from the Knotts married back into the Fishers and Riverens, then the
line died out when no more male heirs appeared. That's when one of the Riverens made the first attempt
at severing the alliance. He set out to poison one of the Fishers, but ended up a felos-de-se, as I believe
you put it in the Sylvanii."

Gena nodded, then looked up as Durriken frowned over at the sideboard. "Felos-de-se is a person who
dies as a result of some nefarious enterprise of his own execution."

 Rik nodded and handed Gena a silver goblet filled with a ruby vintage. "Stuck himself with his own
fouled needle, did he?"

 Berengar gratefully accepted a goblet from Rik, then shook his head. "Not exactly, Master Durriken,
and that's where the tale begins to bear on why I asked you here. Apparently he had been drinking
heavily to get his courage up and somehow managed to drink the poison he had prepared. Justice, no
doubt, but when they found him, they also found the word 'Neal' traced in wine on the table."

Gena felt a shiver run down her spine. She sipped the wine, letting the hearty, dry liquid wash the road
dust from her throat. "This was not an isolated incident?"

 Berengar ruefully shook his head. "My ancestors immediately assumed the union had been broken by
this attempt to kill them, so they plotted against the Riverens themselves. A Fisher out to assassinate one
of the Riverens tripped and died when he fell down a broad staircase in the Riveren manor. A servant
attracted by the noise thought he saw a shadowed figure moving at the head of the stairs, but when he
rushed up there, all he found was a tapestry commemorating the union—complete with Neal's
portrait—fallen from the hooks that held it up. It's believed the falling tapestry knocked the assassin
down the stairs."

 "Uncommon bad luck, or Neal's ghost is keeping his promises for him." Rik shrugged and leaned against
the back of Gena's chair. "I've no love for hauntings."

 The count's chair creaked as he sat back in it. "Nor do I. Over the last three centuries or so various
members of the Riveren or Fisher families have decided they knew how to sever the knot that binds us,
but they have been considered quite daft. A few died as a result of their plots, while most of the rest
abandoned their plans after particularly vivid nightmares in which Neal himself warned them off."

 He opened his arms. "With that sort of history, I'd never even begin to consider repeating their folly were
the situation not so dire. For years and years the two families have worked against each other, but only in
very open and appropriate ways for merchants. Predatory pricing, yes, preying on each other's caravans
or ships, no. It was a war, but one fought with coin, not sword.

"This changed four years ago, and I am forced to act."

 Gena set her goblet down on the small table at her right hand. "What has transpired that could make you
risk your life against a ghost?"

 "The Riverens started trading with the Haladina. They claim they have done this to civilize the outlanders
and earn protection for their own caravans. They neglect to mention that the riches with which they
secured their alliance have led the Haladina again to raid through what was once the empire. As my
family does virtually all of its trading here in the south, we fall prey to these raiders. We have protested to
the Riverens that the Haladina they harbor in Aurdon here act as spies for the bandits in the countryside,
but they ignore us."
 Rik rested his hands on Gena's shoulders and gently kneaded her muscles. Her quiet groan as his strong
fingers eroded the tightness half hid his comment to Berengar. "A strike at Riveren allies, you think, would
run afoul of Neal's curse?"

 "Especially if the Haladina were being housed on a Riveren estate, for example, yes." Berengar tossed
off the last of his wine, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I think, though, I have a way to bring the
curse to an end. Neal said the union will remain until Wasp and Cleaveheart sever it. I have it in mind to
mount an expedition to recover those two blades, then do the job as prescribed by Neal himself."

"Clever plan, that." Rik returned to the sideboard, then refilled Berengar's cup from an earthenware
pitcher. He turned to Gena, but she deflected him by laying her hand over the mouth of her goblet.

 Berengar drank, then leaned forward again, holding his silver goblet in both hands between his knees. "I
have tried to learn as much as I can about Neal, but his legend is not well remembered here. I must have
a dozen different versions of his actions here in Aurdon, but barely a whisper about him before or after.
Tragedies do not play well here, and the Dun Wolf is mostly remembered as a comical character in the
Red Tiger's cycle of folktales and songs. For this reason I need your expertise, Lady Genevera, and like
as not will need your skills, Master Durriken."

He looked up at her, his blue eyes wary. "Do the blades still exist? Is my plan viable?"

 Gena closed her eyes for a moment and wished Rik had returned to massaging her muscles. "You have
asked two questions, and I have no favorable reply to either at the moment. It does seem logical that the
blades could be used to sever the knot and break the oath, but only if the words have come down true
and if Neal's intent is represented in them. I do believe most stories agree on his oath, so that is a
beneficent omen. As to the other . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "The ending of Neal's life is
overshadowed by his heroism and the tragedy. I will need time to remember details, but I recall at least
one of the blades survived his last battle."

"The sword, Cleaveheart?"

She nodded to the Count. "That is my belief."

 He nodded solemnly, drained his cup, and stood. "That is something, then, and easily enough for now. I
will leave you. Servants will come to prepare for your baths and address other needs you have. This
evening, in celebration of your victory, my father has prepared a formal banquet."

 Gena's breath caught in her throat. "My lord, traveling on horseback does not permit me to bring much
in the way of appropriate clothing with me."

 "Of course not, no, it would not." He smiled easily, and Gena knew her protest had been anticipated
long before she could voice it. "As best I could, from my memory, I found a woman here who closely
resembles you. My family's seamstresses have prepared a gown or two that can be fitted to you in an
instant. They will come after you have rested and made your ablutions."

 Fists planted on his hips, he looked over at Durriken. "As for you, my friend, I think you are nearly the
size of my late brother. I will have someone select suitable items from his wardrobe, provided you do not
mind wearing a dead man's clothing?"

"As long as the boots do not pinch and his shade is not as lively as Neal's, I would not refuse your
generous offer." Durriken bowed toward his host.

 "Ah, another idea occurs to me." Berengar smiled, then worked a silver and star sapphire ring off the
smallest finger of his right hand. "The business with Waldo and your flashdrakes has been gnawing at the
back of my brain. I would not doubt the story has been widely distributed, even this quickly, for Waldo is
a notorious gossip when wounded. My brother Nilus held my title before his death, as well as many
others. His love was a small holding that encompassedLakeOrvir . For your time here I will make you
Lord Orvir, so no tongues will wag over your flashdrakes or your escorting Lady Genevera."

Rik smiled as Berengar presented him the ring. The small man fitted it on the middle finger of his left
hand, then ran the cuff of his right sleeve over the star sapphire set in it. "I am in your debt."

"No, I am in yours." Berengar nodded curtly to Durriken. "If this venture is successful, perhaps I will
make the appointment permanent. If you will excuse me." He bowed again, then retreated from the room.

 Durriken closed the door behind the count, then turned to Gena. "I'm with you in this little task, though
I'm not looking forward to bearding a ghost."

"Neal was clean shaven." Gena flicked her eyes up, then she smiled. "You could be ennobled by this."

 Irritation and distaste flashed through Rik's brown eyes, then he shrugged. "From a slave to slavemaster?
I don't think I will weather the transition well. Perhaps tonight will tell. At least tonight no one will be
offended that one of the Fair Race is escorted by a base barrow bandit."

Gena rose from her chair and stroked her right hand softly against Rik's cheek. "There are nobles of the
blood, then nobles of the heart. You are the latter, and it is my honor to appear anywhere on your arm."

 The seamstresses Count Berengar had engaged to alter clothing to fit Gena worked quickly and well,
clucking and cooing as they tucked the pale-blue satin gown at the waist, ribs, and bosom. Cut with a
low neckline and a ribbon-laced front to draw it tight, the gown fit her like a second skin through the
bodice. She noticed that the gown, aside from mildly restricting her ability to breathe, actually made her
breasts seem somewhat larger, which was no mean feat, as Elven women tended away from the
endowment of their human counterparts.

 "That will assuredly please Rik," she muttered to herself. She smoothed the cool fabric down to the top
of her hips with her hands, then let them brush against the satin as the full skirts flared out and down to
the floor. She took a step forward, then turned quickly, pivoting around to nod at the seamstresses as the
dress molded itself to her long legs. "It is magnificent. I just require one service more of you."

The older, dumpling-cheeked woman smiled nervously. "Yes, m'lady?"

"If you would be so kind, let the sleeves out?" Gena tightened her muscles, and the fabric pulled taut
over her arms. "I fear my peregrinations have fostered more in the way of hard than soft."

"The model for your gown, M'Lady Martina Fisher—a distant cousin of the count's you see—rises at
noon and bathes in mare's milk!" The seamstress's apprentice—Gena thought them enough alike to
believe them mother and daughter—spoke of this Martina with a hushed reverence.

The seamstress did not share her daughter's view of the woman. "Softness comes from never having
done a lick of work in her life. Better she spent her time milking mares than sitting in the milk of mares."
She smiled up at Gena.
"I will have this gown ready before m'lady has finished her bath."

 Once Gena had slipped out of the gown, the seamstress left her daughter, Phaelis, to draw a bath for
her. That process ended up with Phaelis giving orders to other servants to roll a cask into the suite, then
haul buckets of water in to fill it. The addition of hot water made the bath tepid, but after two weeks on
the road it felt quite welcome. Had the water been any hotter, Gena knew, she might have slipped off to
sleep.

Phaelis apparently saw it as her sacred duty to make sure that did not happen. At first she looked
wounded when Gena told her that she was fully capable of washing herself, but she relented and allowed
Phaelis to wash her back and hair. In return the young woman regaled Gena with stories about Lady
Martina and the various swains she set off against each other, most recently Lord Waldo and Captain
Floris.

"Which do you think she will ensnare?"

 "Neither, m'lady, though the two of them won't know that for a long time. She's cousin to them all, but
like tends to marry like in Aurdon, as long as they're not too close-blooded." Phaelis sighed as she
lathered a washing cloth and applied it to Gena's shoulders. "I think she has herself set on winning the
count's heart, though he barely knows she's alive."

 Gena could understand how any woman would find Count Berengar desirable. Tall and handsome, even
with the scar on his face, he had grace and intelligence in abundance. A ferocious warrior, he
commanded the respect of other men, and that immediately set him apart from the rest of the male
population. Combined with his title and fortune, it made him an attractive candidate for husband or lover,
and the competition among women to win him made him yet that much more alluring.

 She had seen it when they met five years before. They had been introduced at a reception, and Gena
had immediately sensed the hostility of the other women when the count had asked her to join him in a
dance. While she had found him handsome and witty, she had taken no steps to advance their
relationship. A liaison between an Elven woman and a Human noble was almost expected, both by
Humans and the Elven oracles who had warned her of the dangers of the world of Men. Because so
many predicted their relationship deepening, Gena rejected the possibility out of hand, and Count
Berengar had pressed no suit upon her.

 It occurred to her, as Phaelis doused her with a bucket of water to rinse her hair, that her steadfast
determination to avoid falling into the most common of traps had left her vulnerable to Durriken's charms.
He had taken her off guard by giving her the jewelry—which she knew had to have been priceless—then
asking for nothing in return. She had pursued him to learn where he had obtained the pieces, and his offer
to help trace them back seemed natural given his avocation.

 The sylvanestii who had tried to educate her about the outside world had been correct in pointing out
that many would be attracted to her if for no other reason than her difference and exotic nature. Gena
had discovered it was quite easy to tell, almost at the instant of meeting, whether or not she would ever
allow a man into her bed. Few were the men who made the list of potential lovers, and fewer still were
those she actually bedded. Berengar had made the former list, but not the latter.

 Durriken had made yet another list altogether. She came to realize, as they traveled together, that he
refrained from intruding upon her because he wanted to preserve the shell within which he lurked. Though
she did not learn the details until later, she knew his initial distance had been born during the time he had
spent as a mine slave in Ysk, a time in which even his own body had not belonged to him. That he was
attracted to her cried out from every little kindness he performed for her and the harsh way in which he
dealt with those who did not treat her with proper deference.

 After two months as traveling companions, Gena found herself wanting to be his lover. They became
lovers and had grown even closer through that experience. Rik opened up to her, sharing some of his
life's experiences. She knew he kept many of the darker moments locked up inside himself, and even the
bittersweet things he presented to her he softened with a laugh or an ironic comment. Despite his
reluctance to let her in all the way, she knew she loved him, and that realization opened a whole other
debate that she consciously ignored.

 The seamstress returned with the gown just after Phaelis had toweled Gena dry and had begun to comb
out her hair. After donning the various petticoats and underskirts that would help the gown retain its
shape, Gena slipped into the gown itself and found the alterations perfect. She commented on the same
to the delight of the seamstress.

Another servant, a woman of Phaelis's age yet more graceful and forceful of bearing, arrived and
ushered the other two women out of the room. She brought with her a wooden case, which, when
opened on a small table to the south side of the bedroom, was revealed to have a mirror on the underside
of the lid and a wide range of cosmetics in the triple tier of trays contained below.

 "Upon hearing of the foresight her son displayed in arranging for your gown. Duchess Beatrix thought
you might require some additional aid in supplying yourself with cosmetics for this evening's festival. I am
Noreen and have been serving the duchess for six years now." Slender and small, with long brown hair
and quick brown eyes, the woman looked at Gena, then at the box, and back again. "Normally I do for
her with my paints what nature itself has done for you. Pity we are still in the winter season, for the colors
are too cold and severe for one as beautiful as you."

 Noreen lifted the three trays out of the box and from the bottom drew a sheet. She draped it over Gena
and the gown, then gently tucked it in, leaving her long neck and the upper half of her bosom exposed.
Noreen selected a powder puff from the case, dusted it with white powder, then gently applied it to
Gena's bare flesh. Once Noreen had moved it from the vicinity of her eyes, Gena looked at her reflection
in the mirror and shivered as the golden color of her skin succumbed to the white powder.

 "M'lady has lovely large eyes." Noreen carefully painted a black line around them, letting the curved lines
from the lower lids arc up toward Gena's temples. She then applied a light blue powder to the lower half
of Gena's cheekbones and brushed it back up to blend with her hairline. More blue dusted the hollow of
her throat and her eyelids, then Noreen rouged her lips.

 As the woman produced a brush from the bottom of the case and began to work on her hair, Gena
smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. The cosmetics had sharpened her features, accentuating a
natural difference between Men and Elves, and enough of her skin tone made it through the white to
prevent her being taken for a walking corpse. She secretly wondered if the women of Aurdon chose to
make themselves look Elven out of some hidden desire to be more than they were, or if changing styles
had simply come around to the point where vulpine decoration just happened to be appropriate when she
came to visit.

 Noreen pulled Gena's hair back into a thick braid, then folded that up onto itself and secured it with two
silver needles. "There you are, m'lady. I do not think my ministrations have dulled your beauty."

Gena smiled. "They have enhanced it."
 "You are most kind." Noreen replaced her brush and the trays and shut the case. She carefully pulled the
sheet free, then looked up behind Gena. "Evening, m'lord."

 Gena turned, half expecting to see Count Berengar, and saw Durriken entering the room on the other
side of the bed. He wore a long gray woolen tunic, edged with silver, that came down to his knees.
Beneath that he wore a navy-blue hose and dark-grey slippers that had elaborately curled toes and a
small bell set at each heel. On his head perched a blue beret with a silver feather in it that matched the
silver belt tied around his waist.

 She started to smile, then covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh as Durriken glared at her. He
looked miserable, and she knew he would have jumped at the suggestion of riding away from Aurdon or
at least slipping out of their clothes and avoiding the festival entirely.

Noreen nodded. "My lord won't mind my saying he wears those clothes better than Count Nilus ever
did. Quite handsome a figure you are, sir."

Rik smiled momentarily. "You are most kind, ma'am."

Noreen curtsied. "Evening, m'lady, m'lord."

When the door closed behind her, Rik scowled heavily. "Bells on the shoes?"

 "I believe they are meant to remind people of the happy time when the winter will be no more." Gena
shook her head. The bells on the shoes had to be especially galling to Rik, because his profession so
relied on stealth for its successful practice. Given Waldo's animosity toward him, Rik had to be feeling
persecuted by circumstance.

 His scowl dissolved into a feral expression of forbidden delight. "If Waldo had these bells put on my
shoes on purpose, what he owns, I will own."

"I do not think that is a very good idea, my Lord Orvir."

 His head came up at the use of the title. "True, I would have to do something more befitting my station.
Of course, that could be almost anything." He pulled off his ring and crossed the room to where she
stood. "I don't know if Berengar knows about this, but it is an interesting trick. This is a genuine slapdeath
ring."

"What is that?"

 "Watch." Holding the ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he twisted the thin cylinder
of scrollwork around the base of the sapphire to the left. Smiling, he flicked the gem up, exposing a small
compartment in the ring. "Barely large enough to hold a pinch of gold dust, yes?"

Gena nodded. "Hardly useful for a hiding place, as a highway man would likely take the ring as well as a
purse."

 "Agreed. Now watch." He flipped the gem back into place and turned the cylinder back to the right. He
continued twisting it after it had locked the gemstone down, and stopped when he apparently met
resistance. "There."
"I don't see anything."

 Rik winked. "You're not supposed to see anything—slapdeath." He rotated the ring so she could see the
section that would lie hidden toward the palm of his hand. Extending upward at a shallow angle toward
his thumb was the tip of a hollow needle barely an eighth of an inch long.

"That ring, if it held poison . . ."

"A pat on the back, a gentle caress, a slap across the face, and someone dies." Rik retracted the needle
with a twist on the scrollwork. "It looks as if Nilus had a reason to expect trouble. As this is a weapon
well suited for use on one's familiars, he expected that trouble from someone close to him."

 Gena nodded as she fastened a silver-leaf pendant around her neck. "I wonder if Berengar knows the
secret of his brother's ring."

"And I wonder if Nilus had other secrets." Rik smiled wryly. "I think that is something I may try to find
out."

"But not tonight."

"No?"

 "No." Gena shook her head as she slipped her hand into the hollow of Rik's left elbow. "Tonight they are
having a celebration in our honor. We will go and act as befits our station. And after that, provided you
are willing to remove that ring, I will see if Lord Orvir is a better lover than a certain thief whose company
I greatly enjoy."

Chapter 6:
The Reason For Leaving

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 THOUGH SHE STEPPED light as a cat bent on mischief, the faint crackle of straw being crushed
underfoot betrayed Yelena's approach. Though I do not often wake quickly, I did so this time, with the
faint tendrils of unease that had wracked my slumber evaporating slowly. Her steps lacked the furtive
urgency of someone on a mission of mayhem, so I let my fists unknot beneath the woolen blanket, and I
opened my eyes.

 A warm smile brightened her heart-shaped face, and her black hair all but glowed from careful brushing.
"I trust, my Lord, you slept well?"

"I have greatly enjoyed the hospitality of the Riveravens here, Lady Yelena."

"So I assumed when you slept away the day without snoring."

"I did?" I rubbed a hand over my face. I recalled having trouble getting to sleep because of all the dogs
barking outside, but once they stopped, the weariness of the journey hammered me into
unconsciousness.

 I returned Yelena's smile politely, so as not to offend her, and to make amends for any offense I might
have given the night before. She had been appointed by Festus to take me back to the Riveraven
longhouse and provide me suitable accommodations for the night, while Aarundel was made the Fishers'
guest. Though fifteen years my junior by the most generous tally of her age, she had seemed willing to
share the pallet to which I had been directed. My refusal, which I based on my being road weary, battle
sore, and a notorious snorer, had been accepted even though I was thinking she had seen it as a lie.

 "You did indeed, my lord Neal." She half turned back toward the center of the longhouse and, with a
sharp, snapped twist of her hand, started two servants wrestling a heavy oaken cask over toward where
I lay. "Your Steel Pack arrived two hours ago and is encamped down by the river. The Elf has seen to
their care and ordered no one to disturb you. I only disobeyed because the sun is but an hour from
slumber, and the festival that you ordered will then begin."

 I worked my left arm around, bringing my elbow to my breastbone, and heard my shoulder pop.
Yelena's eyebrows betrayed her surprise at the sound, but I had become well used to hearing it. The new
twinge in my ribs reminded me of the Haladin ambush, but the pain was not as sharp as I would have
expected. Though I would have preferred to have been awakened when the Steel Pack made Aurium, I
was thinking that Aarundel had not been wrong in letting me sleep. Though I did not heal as swiftly as I
had in my youth, I still did heal, and the sleep had helped a great deal.

 Yelena smiled, her brown eyes lit with a devilish fire. "I thought my lord would wish to bathe before the
festival. The Elf had things sent around from your personal train, in order that you be suitably attired for
this evening." As the servants hauled buckets of steaming water from a cauldron near the central fire,
Yelena drew the curtains that isolated the small area in which we stood from the rest of the building.

 The longhouse itself looked to be four times as long as it was wide, and two sets of pillars running the
length of it split the width into thirds. On either side, up against the exterior wall, rough planking framed
small stalls barely over nine yards square. The planking rose to six feet or so, which cut off most sight and
filtered some sounds from one stall to the next, but hardly made an attempt at privacy. From the grunts
and giggles, gawfaws and moans I could hear around me, the Riveraven Clan did not feel the lack, and to
be honest, after months in the field, I felt closed in.

 Yelena's closeness accentuated that feeling. In the dark of the night, when she had been my hostess, her
invitation to enjoy the hospitality of the Ravens had been at her uncle Festus's behest. He had seen value
in having me bed a woman of his clan and like as not thought it might win him some advantage or
concession or a chance to renegotiate his son's position in the bargain struck the night before. Yelena had
taken the rejection easily, likely pleased that her uncle's strategy had failed.

 Her presence here now bespoke her coming on her own behalf, and it did not greatly surprise me. She
did not seem the sort of woman who would pursue me to prove herself desirable—the intelligence in her
eyes had me thinking she knew her beauty made her a prize. Even had her vanity been pinked by my
refusal to let her share the straw-strewn pallet and thin woolen blanket, she would not have returned to
salve her wound. Doing that would have conceded a battle to me, and in Yelena I sensed no concession
and damned little compromise.

 If she had come for herself, she had come to get what I represented. It wasn't the pleasure of bedding, I
felt fair certain, because aside from one rather bawdy ballad about me and the nuns in the convent in
Esquihir, I had no reputation for being a bold or romantic lover. While not above being flattered by a
woman's appreciation for my meagre abilities at loveplay, I'm not a ram that wants to mount every
available ewe in hopes she will sing my praises afterward.

 To Yelena I represented what visitors to my father's court in the Roclaws had been for me: a window
onto the rest of the world. I was what existed, what lived and breathed outside Aurium. I had defied the
city's clan leaders, bearding them in their own den, and if I could do that, then I could certainly take her
with me when I left. I did not think she saw me as a lover with whom she would remain for all time, but
just someone with whom she could stay until she won her release from the city of her birth.

 All the while I thought this out, Yelena busied herself with supervising the servants filling the wooden tub.
She diligently tested the water for warmth and directed the servants to bring water in sufficient quantities
of specific temperatures in accord with some arcane formula that at last produced a satisfactory smile on
her face. Accepting a small unguent jar and a thick towel from the last servant, she drew the curtain
completely shut. Ignoring the mild laughter from the people in the center of the longhouse, she smiled and
waved me toward the bath. Her husky whisper conveyed a multitude of messages. "Your bath awaits,
my lord. As none of our servanrs would be satisfactory to you, I offer myself as your attendant."

Raising myself up on my elbows, I narrowed my eyes. "Do you know what you are offering, lass?"

She broadened her smile and nodded.

"And do you know why?" My question caught her unawares for a moment. Before she could reply, I
pressed further. "Do you want to know why I'll be refusing you?"

Yelena hesitated, then her smile slackened. "It should have been obvious to me."

 I shook my head and threw back the blanket. "There's no reason you could have known, so don't be
thinking what you're thinking now." I stood, naked, with my joints popping and cracking like Dreel
gnawbones. I saw her eyes widen, and looking down, I knew the purple bruise on the left side of my
chest had been what caught her initial attention. As her focus opened up and she took a good look at me,
one hand rose to cover her mouth.

"My lord, you . . . you . . ."

 Aside from being a bit more furry than most flatlanders, as well as taller and more thickly muscled, the
difference between me and the other males she'd likely seen in a similar state of nudity came in terms of
my scars. Witch women and shamans, hedge-wizards and physickers, are all well able to close cuts and
smooth gashes so as to leave no trace of a scar. Unlike me, the only thing most men took away from a
fight was a tall tale.

 I smiled to ease her distress and crossed to the tub. I sank myself into it, having to scrunch down a bit
and bring my knees up out of the water, but it covered me to midchest and felt warm and inviting. "My
compliments, Lady Yelena." I took a small cake of soap from a shelf near my toes and began to work it
over my left arm.

"How is it, my lord, that the Dun Wolf is so worried and marked?"

 I shrugged. "Well, now, this slice here, on my shoulder, I got from Tashayul when he meant to be killing
me twenty years ago. And this one, the cross there above my left knee, that was a Haladin arrow I won
near seven years past in the first battle I fought under the Red Tiger's banner." Lifting my left arm and
leaning to the right, I exposed my hip. "See that tear there? That was from the Dreel."
"You have so many scars, my Lord, yet there are ways ..."

 "I've collected a tale with each one, my Lady, and in another thirty years I'll be delivering an accounting
to one of the Consilliarii." I smiled. " 'Tis not much as ambition goes, but it is a goal worth striving for."

She kept the horror in her eyes out of her whispered question. "And these scars—they have left you . . .
unable . . . which is why you refuse me?"

 "No, lass, I am able, which is why I must refuse you." I rinsed my left hand, then gently cupped her jaw
in it. The truth, I was thinking, would only pique her interest, not dispel it. That was good, because I'd
never been inclined to share the truth with anyone. No one would have believed it of me, and I knew all
the protests concerning its veracity would only cause folks to doubt it all the more. So, for her, a bit of a
lie.

"How much of the Eldsaga do you know, lass?"

 "I know some of the songs.The Rape of Lucenzia andThe Razing of Malchalach are the most sung here.
The songs are old and well remembered, which is why you are here and the Elf went with the Fishers."
Irritation sent a tremor through her, and fear another after it. "Why do you ask, my lord?"

 I soaped my face, then rinsed it off in a great spray of water before answering. "The songs you cite mark
Elven crusades that destroyed cities and provinces, changing the very map of Skirren. The slaughter will
never be forgotten, but the reason the Elves launched their crusade already has been." I leaned back and
let her soap my knees. "You see, the reason the Elves left Cygestolia was because the people of the
Roclaws had been bound together by a leader who started nibbling away at Barkol. His dreams went far
beyond Barkol, of course, but to the sylvanii his dreams were night terrors."

 Had Aarundel been there to hear me recount history, he might have objected to some characterizations,
but he could have pronounced the rede of it true. "The Elven Legions rode into the Roclaws and
scattered the tribes. I'm thinking they likely wanted us all dead, but the mountains have many valleys and
dales, and territories that the Dwarvenfolk claim as their own. While they granted us no succor, nor did
they let the Elves hunt in their domains, so the people of the Roclaws survived.

 "But now, you see, that in the days when the tribes had been together, many a love affair had
blossomed. When we fled, we fled as tribes, not knowing if lovers lived or died. So among our people
there arose a custom of waiting a year and a month, a week and a day and an hour before considering
ourselves well and truly separated from a lover.

 "Over the years many have been the embellishments to this tradition—a married couple who remove
themselves from each other's company for that time are divorced and free, and mourning for a lost love
lasts that long."

"And you are in mourning?"

 The sympathy in her voice made me regret the lie. "I am, fair Yelena. I had a message from my brother,
and in it he told me the woman I loved had died. Was the falsethaw fever and not caught in time." I fell
silent for as long as I thought right, then managed a weak smile. "The sting of it is mostly gone, but you
remind me of her enough that . . ."

Yelena sat back on her heels. "Forgive me, my lord, if I had known . . ."
I shook my head. "You make me mindful of the good things, lass. Were I younger, and this summer next
winter, I'd not be riding alone from Aurium."

 That pleased her, and her reaction banished the kernel of regret taking root in my heart. "My lord, is one
in mourning allowed to enjoy himself at a festival? Is he allowed to dance?"

I winked at her and smiled. "Oddly enough, the custom is he can only dance with a bath attendant."

"Ah, then it is well you keep to your customs, my Lord Neal, well indeed."

 Yelena abandoned me when I emerged from the bath and dried myself off. I found the clothing that
Aarundel had sent for me and recognized none of it, which meant he had bought it new in the Aurium
bazaar. Aarundel prefers to avoid places with too many humans he does not know—the exception being
his placement in the midst of an enemy formation. At the same time he has a sharp sense of what is
appropriate in conduct and dress, and this he impresses upon me whenever the chance to do so comes
about. The fact that we had acted the bloody-handed mercenaries the night before meant we would have
to be equally gracious at the festival, and I assumed the red tunic he had supplied for me would help do
that.

 His willingness to brave the bazaar mirrored my own willingness to keep Yelena at arm's length. As I
mentioned before, I am not a ram looking to mount a herd, but neither am I celibate or like-gender
attracted. While I enjoy the company of women, I am also aware of Aarundel's isolation from sylvanestii,
for they are more rare outside Cygestolia than mountain women are outside the Roclaws, Making matters
more complicated is the Elven prohibition against coupling with women or Reithressa.

 I dressed quickly despite the ache in my ribs. Though I had no intention of going armed to the festival, I
did home Wasp and Cleaveheart in their respective scabbards and looped my weapons'-belt over my
shoulder. Emerging from my stall, I found Lady Yelena dressed in a gown that flattered her slender figure
and accentuated her bosom. She dipped her left hand through the crook of my right arm without saying a
word.

 I could tell from her smile that while she might respect the tale I had told her earlier, she would make my
choice to honor tradition deliciously difficult. "My Lady, you are quite beautiful this evening, eclipsing
your earlier beauty, I'm thinking." I let my voice carry enough to spawn giggles from others in the
longhouse, and Yelena accepted the compliment with a gentle bow of her head.

 The sun had not set by the time we emerged from the longhouse, so I got a chance to orient myself
concerning the town's internal geography. The legislatorium stood on a hill above a green square with a
statue raised in the center of it. East and west of that square stood two longhouses—one for the Fishers
and the other for the Riveravens. Spreading back from them in a rough wedge were other, smaller houses
and buildings of related clans and servants. To the south, in the direction of the rivers, other homes,
shops, and warehouses bridged the gap between the clan sectors and the wharves. North of the
legislatorium the buildings appeared more ramshackle and less permanent, and I had the feeling that
somewhere in that transient sector was where I would find my company.

 The square itself had been transformed from a muddy flat to something far more in keeping with a
celebration, Brightly colored tents, well patched and road stained, had been set up in a haphazard pattern
to form a rough perimeter around the square. I was thinking some traveling show had entered the town at
a lucky moment, but given the Haladin activity in the area, it seemed likely they had been north of the
legislatorium, waiting for a good time to travel.
 Interior of the tents I saw carts and stalls of the sort I imagined would be found in the bazaar. Their hasty
transplanting narrowed the area near the statue, but still left enough room for a good crowd. Musicians
had set up at the base of the statue and looked to be a mix of the road minstrels and folks belonging to
Aurium itself. In tuning their instruments they sounded like a herd of cats fighting on a bed made of
bellowing walruses, but I was thinking the sound would resolve itself into something dance-spawning
quite quickly.

 I'd gotten a step and a half from the longhouse when the Dreel slid his shaggy red-gray body from a
hollow beneath the building. He crawled up out of a hole around which he had placed fresh-killed dogs'
skulls like merlons and paced beside me. Yelena started when she caught sight of him past my left
shoulder, but forced a yawn. I casually handed him my swordbelt. "If I need this, you will fetch it to me.
Meanwhile, try not to kill anything." Shijef flashed his fangs at me, so I added, "Be trying real hard not to
kill anything."

Yelena shivered. "You have scars from a Dreel bite, yet you keep one with you as a pet?"

"Oh, the scars are from that Dreel's bite." I shrugged. "Besides, he's not a pet, he is a slave."

"Why would you want a Dreel as a slave?"

 "I'm thinking you have a point—they're not good for much." I forced the image of the bouncing head
from my mind. "I did not have much choice. His Dreelband was raiding a village one winter. We had a
contest, he and I, and he lost, so he became my slave."

 "Better that than the other way around." I smiled. "I'm thinking I'd not have been a slave. Dinner, more
likely."

 Yelena took the lead as we entered the square and paraded me around like a groom leading a prize
horse. I played my part, taking a bit of joy from the green-eyed glances shot in my direction by local men
who doubtless had pondered ways to woo her. I wished the men no ill, but I was thinking one night of
discomfort might spur them on to act. Part of me pitied any man who thought Yelena would become his
chattel, but there had to be someone in Aurium who could be her match in spirit and mind.

 As dusk passed into night, torches were lit and the orchestra had appointed a leader. Both Festus and
Childeric made brief speeches about the union of their families. A priest, Jistani by the cut of his hair, said
the words that needed saying; then the musicians struck up a tune, and the wedded couple engaged in a
stately dance. I'd seen it performed more formally otherwhens, but seldom with more sincerity. It seemed
as if both Rufus and Ismere had determined to defy their families by clinging together. If their offspring
were as tough-minded, I was thinking, the union might well last a long time.

 Yelena pressed me to dance when the music shifted to something more lively. Quick and light as she
was, she managed to keep her tiny feet from beneath mine during the Centisian turn. The players then
struck up a Kaudian reel, which I forced her through and showed her that speed in battle can translate
elsewise into more pacifistic pursuits.

 Our scores tied at a dance even, we agreed to let the third dance—a complicated Centisian walking step
with twirls and bows and hop-skips—decide who was better. I kept up close to her level of performance
until the spin right before the hop-skip then bow at the end of the dance. At that point the man next to me
accidently smacked me in the chest with his hand, prompting my bruised ribs to report on their state of
health.
 I worked my way through the last two sets of the dance, then withdrew from the crowd as a young man
whisked Yelena away into the swirl of an old quickstep. Keeping a smile on my face, and my left arm
clamped down to protect my ribs, I headed to the outer edge of the crowd and started looking for
Aarundel. Under normal circumstances finding him in a crowd was easy—both of us were tall enough to
be visible over most other people.

 I wandered halfway around the circle, then spotted him up at the top of the steps of the legislatorium. I
joined him, plucking at the shoulder of my tunic as I did so. "A red tunic? I'm the Dun Wolf, not the Red
Tiger, my friend."

"Red is heroic." The Elf shook his head. "Dun just looks dirty and is not festive at all."

"Your sartorial guidance is appreciated." I looked back down on the varicolored throng pulsing and
weaving in time with the music. "Hard to believe Aurium almost tore itself apart last evening."

 "Humans are quick to anger, yet quicker to distraction." Aarundel's dark eyes watched the crowd, then
flicked toward me. "Our men have been told to be on their best behavior this evening. They were warned
about everything from diseases to slapdeath rings. . . ."

I frowned. "I'm not thinking they have to worry about ringbites here. Polston, perhaps, but this place?"

 "Neal, with the Fishers and Riveravens, the tools of treachery will soon be available here, if they are not
already."

"You have a point."

 Aarundel bowed his head in my direction. "Drogo brought word from the Red Tiger. The Haladin forces
have abandoned the siege at Polston and seem to be withdrawing to behind the Kaudian mountains.
Sture is pursuing them, but he is under orders to let them flee if they do not make war on the mountain
freestate."

I arched an eyebrow. "So they are running in the direction of the Reithrese homeland?"

"Or their own deserts, affirmative. Beltran has decided to winter in Polston despite Sture's urging a strike
north to liberateIrtysh ."

"That explains why Sture is off chasing Haladina away from Beltran andIrtysh ."

 "I assumed you would notice that. The Red Tiger is going to use his armies to help bring in the harvests,
which should endear him to the people. It will also prevent the Reithrese from sending their tax collectors
in." The Elf grinned cautiously. "While there will be battles next summer to contest control of Centisia,
there is no doubt who owns it for this year."

 "Did Drogo bring orders for us?" As I asked the question, I sorted the likely missions to come with a
positive answer. I put being allowed to raid far into Reithrese territory at the top of my list, and far below
it I placed being called down to Polston for strategy sessions. While I admire and very much like Beltran,
the Red Tiger, the thought of spending more than a month in a port city like Polston made me shiver. The
fact that Sture was certain to return to Polston for the winter made me shiver as if I had falsethaw fever.

"Beltran desires us to remain here in Aurium and reconnoiter into Ispar, even advancing as far as the
plains before Jarudin. He wants the Reithrese to believe his next thrust will be to the heart of their empire
and the capital."

 I nodded because that made sense. The Man-force fighting the Reithrese relied on mobility and speed to
defeat the Reithrese hosts. A feint at Jarudin would make the Reithrese reinforce it, expending supplies
and trapping forces in the capital. If we struck elsewhere—preferably a place where they had only
Haladina for defense—we could hurt them badly.

 Beltran understood the problems of controlling an empire and was using them against the Reithrese.
While Sture was probably correct thatIrtysh was ready to revolt and come over, it was too far from the
freestate to be able to have us defend it. And Sture's patriotic feelings notwithstanding,Irtysh was less
valuable than even a town like Aurium.

 I knew I might be a bit harsh in my dismissal ofIrtysh , for Sture's troops fought well, but Sture and I did
not get along at all. He found out, after I had formed the Steel Pack and joined the Red Tiger, that
Aarundel and I had seen the battle in which his father, Duke Harsian, had fallen. He somehow decided
that it was my fault that his father had died and his nation lay in thrall to the Reithrese.

 Aside from the fact that the Roclawzi and Irtyshites had never been allies, with the Reithrese on the
doorstep to the Roclaws, there was no way I could have convinced any Roclawzi to join me in fighting
inIrtysh , even if I felt that was a good idea. The fact that I didn't think Irtysh was important enough to be
liberated, and had no difficulty in voicing this opinion in front of Sture, meant that Takrakor and I would
be good friends before Sture and I ever exchanged a civil word.

Down below I caught a flash of the blue gown Yelena was wearing. "So we will have to spend the
winter here?" I frowned, trying to remember exactly what I had said to her. "I'm thinking that won't be a
good thing."

Aarundel's face brightened as he picked up on the distress in my voice. "She is quite attractive, Neal.
You could suffer worse than to have her warm your winter nights."

 "Aye, my friend, but there are complications. Not being as glib as you, my lies do not allow me much
room to run."

The Elf laughed. "Provide her a quote from the Codex Mercenarius that will remedy the situation."

"For a book you invented last night, I'm thinking we're working it hard." I shook my head. "I tried to
match your wit by inventing a Roclawzi tradition that had me in mourning for a lost love. While celibate
now, I could have taken her in the winter, I said."

 "Arrange for your brother to send you a letter saying the lover who had been presumed lost has been
found again."

"Ah, but I told Yelena my brother had sent a note saying the woman had died of fever."

 "You terminated her? What a cruel thing to do." He gave me a look of Elven disdain, but overplayed it
to the point of absurdity, then began to laugh.

I gave Aarundel a hard stare. "It's all well and good for you to laugh, my friend, but you've not got a
woman setting her cap for you. While she is comely and smart, she is not the one for me."
"Not 'the one'?" Aarundel shook his head. "You listen to the bards who sing too much of romance, Neal.
The idea of a True Love is not realistic."

 "Emotions and reality combining—now there, I'm thinking, is an interesting idea." I folded my arms
slowly. "So how is it that you can have your Marta, and I'm being denied my True Love?"

 I could see he wanted to dismiss my riposte as something I couldn't possibly understand, but he
conquered his reflex and opened his hands. "What we have is vitamor—it goes beyond any Man-thought
of True Love. Moreover, Marta and I have known each other for over a century by your reckoning. We
have seen each other in triumph and defeat, adulation and dejection. Even if examined in human terms,
our courtship would have lasted a decade—a time in which most humans could have consummated and
dissolved a half-dozen marriages, each with progeny as well."

 I could have protested his example, but I saw no reason for punishing his attempt at explaining things to
me. "Just so you know, my friend, I do not begrudge you your vitamor. I'm just hoping someday I will be
as lucky as you. Maybe after the Red Tiger wins his little war, I'll be free to find my Marta, and the Elven
Councils will let you marry yours."

 Aarundel's eyes focused distantly. I had seen that expression before, and I put it down to times when he
was thinking on her and she on him likewise. Somehow they managed this momentary communion no
matter the distance between them, and Aarundel always seemed the better in spirits and humor for the
time spent enraptured.

 A smile spread across his face. "When you find her, Neal, you will know it instantly. Your heart will beat
faster, your stomach will clench. It is as absorbing as battle-madness, but in reverse, because it drives
you toward creation, not destruction."

I shared his smile. "I envy you, Aarundel, and Marta as well. If ever the council lets you wed, I'd be
proud to stand beside you."

"I shall demand it, Neal." We clasped hands and shook firmly, cementing more tightly a friendship
unthinkable by anyone who had heard the Eldsaga sung.

A scream from down below killed the music. Releasing Aarundel's hand, I turned to face the square, but
Shijef eclipsed my view of it. He thrust my swordbelt against my chest and let his talons tickle the bruise
beneath my tunic. "This blade you will need."

The fact that he had presented me the sword in time with the scream came as no testament to his speed.
The Dreel had doubtlessly smelled the trouble brewing below, but felt no reason to warn me. After all, I
had not asked for warning. Just the return of Cleaveheart when I would need it. In the little game we
played, he had won a round.

 Stepping aside, I took in the now-silent square and felt glacier-melt run through my insides. A dark
wedge of armored riders moved slowly and deliberately to drive itself into the circle of people below.
Their huge warhorses shouldered men and women aside as if they were stalks of grain in a wheat field. I
saw Festus and Childeric impose themselves directly in the line of march, but the riders pressed on
through them and their protests before executing a sharp turn toward the north.

 Aarundel and I remained in place as they came toward the legislatorium. Though I had never before seen
the style of armor they wore, I knew from the riders' size and the strength of their mounts that they all
were Elves. That fact had not been lost on Aarundel, which explained why his face tightened. It also
explained why silence ruled the night, with the exception of some gentle sobbing.

I looped my swordbelt over my left shoulder, leaving Cleaveheart's hilt hanging breast-high from beneath
my left arm. I tried to affect an air of bored indifference, but it was not easy. As much as I wanted to
deny them the victory, the Elven riders were impressive. Memories of Eldsaga nightmares skittered icily
up and down my spine.

 The armor they wore, while clearly practical, had been designed for ceremony. It had been styled with
hooks and barbs and horns that contributed to their fierce aspect. The decorations looked odd for the
handful of heartbeats it took for me to identify the problem; then my sense of unease doubled. Instead of
being modeled on an animal's antlers—the way most human warriors would want it—the armor's twists
and curves had been taken from wind-warped tree limbs and gnarled roots capable of crushing stone
through inexorable and inexhaustible pressure.

 The Elves, their armor proclaimed, had the luxury of time with which to destroy their enemies. They
needed not adopt the symbols of predators nor usurp the weapons animals shed to make themselves
more powerful, just as they had moved with careful and deliberate speed through the crowd below, so,
too, could they leisurely slaughter their foes. The Eldsaga had made that very clear, and these Elves had
no intention of letting anyone who saw them forget it.

 The lead rider stopped at the base of the stairs, his eyes level with ours, Shijef started to creep forward,
but I grabbed the scruff of his neck and restrained him. He grumbled and flashed fangs at me, but
remained in place. He subvocalized something he knew irritated Blackstar, then followed it with a
satisfied growl when the lead horse's nostril's flared.

 The lead rider, his identity hidden by the full helm he wore, looked over at Aarundel through the
cross-slit in his visor. "Aarundel Imperator, salus!"

Aarundel's head came up, his face implacable. "Speak in the common tongue. Neal Custos Sylvanii
knows some of our language, but he is not fluent."

"I am not come to converse with him, Imperator."

"But I will inform him of all you say, so I direct you to obviate the necessity of translation."

 "As you will it, Imperator. I am to convey the felicitations of the Consilliarii. Your nuptial petition has
been considered and approved. We are the Lansorii Honorari sent to conduct you to Cygestolia for the
ceremony. We are to leave immediately."

 As much as I knew that news had to have excited Aarundel, I marveled at his ability to keep his
emotions hidden. "Neal and I, and the Dreel, will be ready to ride with you in the morning."

The lead horse shook its head as the rider's grip on the reins slackened momentarily. "We are to conduct
you alone, Imperator. With all due respect to the Custos Sylvanii, his presence was not mentioned. And
we were ordered to leave immediately."

 Aarundel's slight shoulder shift was something I had seen many times and marked his absolute
determination not to retreat from his position. "I am an Imperator; I travel whenI will it. As the groom I
have the right to bring to my wedding those companions with whom I enjoy fraternity. Forget any attempt
at imposing your will on me, Lansor. Those who gave you this mission and promised rewards if I
returned alone and quickly merely meant to make the impossible seem possible and defeat seem
palatable."

 His dark eyes narrowed as his chin came up. "Though I need not explain myself to you, Lansor, I have
reason for wishing to delay my departure. You doubtless refused to mark the celebration through which
you rode, but it is in honor of nuptials uniting the two largest clans in Aurium. I was invited to attend, and
attend I shall."

 Aarundel hesitated for a moment, then let a grin slowly twist his mouth up at the corners. I had no idea
what he had in mind, but I cringed inside for the honor guard sent to fetch him home nonetheless. "As
your arrival has disrupted this ceremony, I will require a service of you. I think it is fitting that we dance
for the couple the way others will dance at my wedding."

 The lead rider stiffened with a clatter-clang of epaulets on his armor. "Imperator, there are some things
that should not be . . . made vulgar."

 "The dance will be dishonored only if you do not perform honorably, Lansor." Aarundel waved the
guards away. "Hobble your horses and remove your armor. You are guests and shall conduct yourselves
as same. Your honor, my honor, depends upon it."

 I remained silent as they reined themselves around to the rear of the legislatorium to dismount and shell
themselves, though I did let Shijef skulk on behind them. When the Elves had disappeared from sight, I
turned toward Aarundel. "Do you actually think they will let me ride with you tomorrow?"

 He nodded solemnly. "After tonight they will be so anxious to be well rid of Aurium, they would let
Takrakor ride with us. The Consilliarii's reaction to your arrival in Cygestolia will be something else
entirely."

 "No matter, my friend." I slapped him on the back. "You can't siege a city until you have arrived at it. To
attend your wedding, I'd even brave another visit to Jammaq."

 "Thank you for being willing to undertake the trek in the face of hostility." We both started down toward
the square. "Let us just hope the reception you get does not make you think you have returned to
Jammaq."

Chapter 7:
The Short Ride

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 THE CELEBRATION IN honor of their victory over the Haladina struck Genevera as less of a festival
than a phenomenon. From the very start, when she appeared at the top of a grandiose sweep of marble
stairs and was announced to the assembly, she felt detached from everything. The music rang in her ears,
as did the applause from the people below, but both failed to reach inside her. She did not quite feel on
display as much as she felt she had entered a contest, but it was a contest which she had no interest in
winning.

She put part of the distance down to Rik's obvious discomfort over the whole situation. Though the
chamberlain announced him as Lord Orvir, Waldo's wagging tongue had clearly been at work. The
shock at hearing that title used quickly faded into clucking and whispers. Gena felt a tremor run through
Rik's arm, then felt him relax as he let out a chuclcle. "Fools ridicule what they should fear."

 Gena recognized the tone in his voice immediately and gave his forearm a squeeze with her left hand.
"Pity them, Rik, for being creatures who allow themselves to be swayed by Waldo."

 He looked up at her sideways, a feral light burning in his dark eyes; then he smiled and it died. "Punishing
the flock for the shepherd's sin is unnecessary, agreed."

 The staircase they descended worked all the way across the rectangular room's narrow southern wall,
sloping down at a shallow angle. Halfway to the ballroom's floor it cut back toward the west and down
again, depositing them in the southwest corner, twenty feet below the point where they had entered the
room. Beneath the stairs a pair of doors centered in the wall led back out to the courtyard where they
had seen Count Berengar fighting earlier in the day. A light breeze came into the room through the doors,
bringing with it enough of a chill to keep most people from standing directly in front of them.

 The north wall had three tall windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling nearly thirty feet above.
The east wall had nine of those windows, but only the first six, those nearest the north wall, had been
glazed with clear glass. The three near the southeast corner had huge stained glass tableaux in them.
Because that section of the wall joined up to another part of the manor, the windows were illuminated
artificially. In triptych they told a story from Aurdon's history, stressing, as would be expected, the Fisher
family's contribution to the city's defense against raiders.

 Three massive gold and crystal chandeliers, each with four smaller satellites, filled the room with a golden
light. It reflected in kind from the gilt walls and the black marble floor. Tables grouped along the western
wall held all manner of victuals and spirits, while smaller tables opposite provided places for people to sit
and converse. A small orchestra had been arranged in the northwest corner of the room. Their music cut
through the Man sounds in the room, pacing dancing guests as they spun and swirled across the center of
the dance floor.

 Gena spotted Count Berengar amidst the dancers with a tall woman who moved gracefully and
sensuously in perfect time with the music. As Berengar spun her, the woman laughed and raised her free
hand to her throat. The gown she wore closely resembled Gena's in design—though it did show off more
bosom—and the skirts lapped like waves around Berengar's legs as they danced.

The dance ended by the time Rik and Gena reached the bottom of the stairs. Berengar bowed to his
partner, then headed straight toward the two of them. That brought a flash of anger to the dark-haired
woman's blue eyes. Gena immediately decided the woman had to be Lady Martina, so she gave her a
politely patronizing smile intended to convince Martina that trailing after Berengar for an introduction
would not be a good idea.

 Berengar bowed deeply to the both of them. "Welcome, my friends, to this modest celebration. In an
hour or so we will raise a toast in your honor—thoroughly embarrassing you, I am certain." A bright smile
lit his face, and Gena saw a bead of sweat roll down his cheek from his temple. "Until then we have food
and wine and the best music to be had in this region of Centisia. Please, enjoy yourselves."

Gena knew that even without resorting to magick, she could have predicted how the rest of the evening
would proceed. When the music began playing again, Berengar waited for Rik to take Gena out onto the
dance floor, but when he did not, the count asked Rik's permission to dance with Gena. Rik consented
graciously, Berengar asked, she accepted, and the two of them moved into the crowd and into the music
as if they had been partnered together for years.

 In retrospect Gena realized that during the dance she came as close to slipping into the party as she
would all night. Berengar's strong right hand at the small of her back provided just the right clues to tell
her when and how and where they would move together. They wove through the throng, whirling in time
to the music, barely avoiding collisions and tempting fate by darting back against the flow. They cut past
the other couples like a ship's prow through light waves, laughing and smiling at the surprised and
distressed expressions on those who parted before them.

 Coming all the way around the dance floor, not unexpectedly did Gena see Lady Martina speaking
closely with Rik. Gena laughed immediately at the idea that a woman barely a tenth of her age would
attempt to show her up by flattering Rik. Elves were by no means above the common tricks used to
embarrass and chasten rivals, but their longevity meant that their methods were often more subtle and
would take decades to accomplish what Men might attempt in one turn on the dance floor. Gena's Elven
perspective made Martina's flirtation with Rik transparent and, thereby, pathetic.

 As Berengar spun her past the other two, Gena caught the quick flash of Rik's eyes. He, too, she saw,
recognized Martina's game and indulged Martina for his own ends. Gena felt a moment of compassion
for the woman because she knew Rik's contempt for pretense. Rik would play with Martina as a cat
might play with a mouse. He would draw her out with smiles, nods and kind comments; encouraging her
to reveal more of herself. Before she knew it, he would have gotten her to betray a secret held in the
strictest confidence. In that moment she would find herself embarrassed at having spoken out of turn, and
mortified over being outwitted by the man she had sought to use for her own purposes.

 Her analysis of the games being played between Martina and Rik closed the window into the festivities
that the dance had opened for her. For the rest of the evening she remained polite, but superficial. She
marked people by their reaction to her. Those who were afraid because of Eldsaga tales she rewarded
with a cold imperiousness that fulfilled their expectations. When someone showed signs of infatuation with
her because of her race, she alluded to experiences that no Man could understand, heightening her alien
standing.

 She dealt most cruelly with those who deluded themselves enough to believe they were fluent in the
Sylvan tongue. She made her replies to them in an older form of the language, then enlisted Rik as an
interpreter. Though he knew much less Sylvan than the people speaking with her, Rik's glib tongue and
quick wit often served to make plays on words. Many presumptuous people wandered away utterly
confused, which brought Gena a perverse sense of satisfaction, yet one about which she felt
embarrassed.

 Soon enough Berengar offered the toast to the two of them, and the assembly drank to their health.
After that she danced again with Berengar, then she and Rik excused themselves and returned to their
chambers. By agreement they met in her room for a final glass of wine, then had a celebration of their
own. And unlike the ball they had left, in this celebration she felt no detachment at all, except for maybe
once, just once, when Rik's hand rested against her back where Berengar had held her, and she
wondered what it would have been like to have the count in Rik's place.

 Gena awoke alone the next morning, but this neither surprised nor distressed her. The one true vice she
had was a desire to sleep late. After a century and a half of rising with the sun as she studied the Arcs
from her grandaunt Larissa, she willfully indulged herself in waking up slowly. For her a perfect day
began with quiet and reflection. She thought about the dream fragments she could remember, then
planned out her day. In Cygestolia she often chose to sun herself in the upper reaches of her family's
home, but she had not done that very often since her grandaunt went excedere.
In the Fisher mansion, which could not hope to rival Woodspire in antiquity or beauty, she contented
herself basking in a sunbeam.

 Rik, she had learned quickly, awoke with feline alertness and a boundless energy. He required noise in
the morning. When they stayed in inns, he would be down in the common room at the crack of dawn,
listening to gossip, trading stories, and offering opinions on whatever the latest news had been. When
they were alone on the road, he would sing songs or whistle. Whereas she luxuriated in quiet to start the
day, he reveled in chaos—seeking it out or creating it as circumstances required.

 Rik had roused himself very early. Kissing her on the mouth, he smiled and whispered, "Last night we
saw the birds that dwell in the top of the tree. Today I want to learn about the moles and voles."

 Two hours later Gena finally swam clear of the sheets and thick comforter on the bed and pulled on the
clothes she had worn on the road in coming to Aurdon. The faint trace of dampness in the blouse's cuffs
told her the clothes had been laundered and, from the scent of them, dried in the kitchen. Her stomach
rumbled once, tentatively, then quieted as she pulled a chair over and sat down in the rectangle of sunlight
coming through one of the windows.

A gentle knocking on the door brought her head up. She could see by the shift in the sunbeam that she
had drifted off to sleep again, but she reawakened more clearly and sharply than earlier. Brushing her
golden tresses back from her face with her right hand, she stood and turned toward the door. "Enter."

 Count Berengar bowed his head as he opened the door. He glanced up at her, smiled, then briefly
looked around the room. "You are awake, good. Where is Durriken?"

Gena shrugged. "Out. He prefers cities and has gone exploring."

The count frowned for a moment. "When do you expect him to return?"

"I do not know. He did not say."

"I see."

"Is this a problem?"

"I suppose not, no." Berengar toyed with his beard. "Could you leave him a note telling him that you
have gone riding with me?"

"I can do that, yes." Gena heard a restrained energy in Berengar's voice, and his movements betrayed an
urgency that he was trying to keep hidden. "Our sojourn, it cannot wait his return?"

"Circumstances being what they are, no. It is but a day trip. I had hoped to leave immediately."

 "I will write the note," Retreating to the bed, she opened the drawer in the night table and removed a
sheet of paper, a quill, and a small capped bottle of ink. She wrote out a suitable message, then folded it
and wrote Rik's name on the outside. Leaving it on the table, she followed Berengar out of the room and
to the stables. There she found Spirit already saddled and standing beside a huge black stallion.

 They mounted up and rode out through the gates. Berengar chatted politely, pointing out items of
interest. What Gena noticed most about his conduct and tour was that everything he said and did dwelt
on a superficial level—a level that they had always moved beyond when speaking with each other. She
suspected Berengar would share the reason for his caution, and she found herself hoping his situation had
not made him an irredeemable paranoid.

 Once outside Aurdon, they headed east and picked up an escort of six riders. Two rode before them,
two behind, and one wide on each wing. They were not clad as guards and appeared to be people just
out on the road, with the pair bringing up the rear leading a heavily laden packhorse. Gena discerned their
connection with Berengar because of their abnormal alertness and the fact that they varied their speed so
that the count never left their sight.

Gena smiled as she turned to him. "I think this would be an excellent time to inform me about what is
going on. We are not out for a simple ride, despite neither of us being armed, are we?"

 The red-maned giant shook his head. "You are most perceptive, Lady Genevera. Captain Floris sent
riders ahead of his column to report suspected Haladin riders in the area. We have pinpointed a number
of Haladin camping grounds. I have a company going out to inspect the nearest of these, and I thought
you would find it interesting to come along."

"And you wanted to verify what you told us about the Riverens and the Haladina."

 Berengar nodded easily, acquiescing to Genevera's deduction. "I asked you here to undo what Neal did
long ago. This will not be an easy task, and while it would please me for you to agree based on my
reportage of facts, I think presenting you some evidence that I am telling the truth is important."

 "What we saw with the caravan was quite convincing." Gena smiled up at Berengar. "The Haladina
clearly are ranging far from their Outlands."

 "True, but that is as much a symptom of the chaos born out of the empire's collapse into the
commonwealth."

 Gena realized that Berengar had thought deeply about the political situation in the remains of the Red
Tiger's empire. In Cygestolia the news of the empire's division by the provinces into a commonwealth had
not excited much attention. That had been predicted since the forming of the empire in her grandfather's
time. The fact that the empire had survived nearly four hundred years was seen as a mark of maturation
by Men, though the bloody fighting that resulted as Men fought for control of their own small domains
eroded some of the gains the humans had made in Sylvan minds.

Berengar pointed at a large building set on the far shore of a small lake. "That isLakeOrvir . You can tell
Durriken you have seen his holding."

 "It looks quite beautiful, and I imagine it can be quite pleasant when the city becomes too hot in the
summer." Gena saw a small thread of smoke rising from behind the manor house. "Does someone live
there? I see smoke."

 "Only a caretaker—an old servant who used to work for my brother in town. He was devoted to my
late brother." Berengar shook his head. "I have suggested he be recalled to Aurdon because of Haladin
raiding, but he refuses to come. He says he is too old for the Haladina to cause problems for him."

"Though the caretaker may not have sense enough to realize it, Haladin raiding is a problem. I will help
you curb it, whether or not the recovery of Neal's weapons is required."
Berengar smiled broadly. "That is an offer I will gladly accept. I do have sorcerers among my Guard
units, but they do not have the skill I understand you displayed in defeating the Haladina."

 Gena glanced down at Spirit and picked a bit of straw from the gelding's mane. "I suspect the telling
about my efforts exceeds the actual event. I also have no doubt that your sorcerers are quite skilled and
efficacious in their magicks. If I have an advantage over them, it is that I have spent far more time learning
what I must know to work the Art."

The tall man shrugged. "I will believe you because I understand nothing of magick." He sighed rather
heavily. "Stratagems and tactics I understand perfectly, politics and mercantilism I have mastered, but
magicks are color to a blind man."

 "Nonsense. You are intelligent. You may not have the talent for magick, but you certainly can understand
its principles." Gena saw the disbelief on his face and took it as a challenge. "Have you a coin? Gold or
copper, not silver."

 Berengar fished in the pouch on his belt and produced a shiny gold piece large enough that his thumb
and forefinger barely encircled it. "Will this do?"

 "It will indeed." As he displayed it to her, she saw a man's profile on one side and a fisher taking wing on
the other. "If you were to flip the coin into the air, as you might to make a choice or decide a contest,
what are the chances of its coming up heads?"

The warrior frowned for a moment, "One in two, if I am not mistaken."

"Correct. So after flipping it ten times, what result would you expect?"

"Five heads and five tails."

"Good. Start flipping the coin."

Berengar laughed lightly and did as she bid him. As the coin first arced up into the air, Gena muttered the
words to a simple enchantment, one of the first taught to all students of the Art. The coin fell back to
Berengar's hand, apparently unaffected or unaltered in any way. It landed with the face up.

"One head."

 Gena just smiled as he proceeded to flip the coin nine more times. Berengar did not appear to become
disturbed until the sixth toss came up heads. For the seventh and eighth he increased the rotational rate
and for the final two he sent the coin higher in an effort to make it land with the bird staring up at him. His
efforts came to naught, and his fingers closed quickly over the coin.

"The Art allowed you to do that?"

 Gena nodded as she wiped a trickle of sweat from her cheek. "One aspect of magick is the manipulation
of chance. With a coin, where the chances of either result are even, the trick is simple and the effort is not
terribly taxing."

Berengar frowned. "But you made a wagon explode. What do coins have to do with that?"

"The wagon's explosion was just an expansion of the chance problem." She saw he had not made the
connection. "What are the chances of a wagon catching fire?"

"Relatively high, I imagine."

 "Correct. Getting it to ignite would have been very simple, but that wagon was already burning, so I had
an advantage. The explosion came about because of the second factor in the Art. What I managed to do
was compact the amount of time it would take for the wagon to burn completely. In effect, I made all of it
combust at once, consuming it utterly. The heat and light it would have given off in the course of hours it
gave off all at once, creating the explosion."

Berengar's brow wrinkled as he pondered what she had told him. "If you can manipulate time . . ."

 "Saying it is much easier than doing it, I am afraid." Gena shook her head. "The difficulties of working
magicks are legion. To work a spell I need to be able to concentrate on the casting. I need raw materials
and I need to have enough personal strength to trigger the result I want. I could, I suppose, make
horseshoes explode, but the amount of personal energy that would require would kill me."

"Personal energy? Anger, happiness?"

 "No, physical strength and stamina." Gena felt a shiver run down her spine. "We do not allow emotions
to become tied up in our magicks—speaking as an Elf now—except in very special ceremonies. Putting
emotions into magick, using them to fuel magick, can lead to a loss of control that benefits no one. It
could even kill the caster."

 Gena shifted her shoulders to ease the uncomfortable feeling. "There are other factors involved in
magick, of course. The Laws of Similarity, Contagion, and Holomorphism bend the laws of probability.
For example, two things that look alike, or are similar, have a natural bond between them. Likewise,
things that have been together are bonded, and an item that is but a piece of another item has a natural
link to it."

"Hence the tales of witch women using a lock of hair or fingernail parings to fashion a love charm."

 The Elf nodded. "Yes, those are the stories, and those things have a slight link, but not an important one.
Hair and fingernails have no blood and no nerves, so their links to the body are very weak. A finger or an
ear or a tooth would have a stronger bond to the person from which it came.

 "That's a bit of a grisly example, but I understand it." Berengar smiled down at her. "Your skill at making
the arcane transparent is impressive."

"But only possible with a receptive and intelligent listener as the audience."

Berengar laughed and spurred his horse forward as their ride took them out of the Aurdon valley. The
outriders closed back up with the two of them, then they forded theAurdonRiver and rode off toward the
north and east. An hour later they stopped to water their horses in a tributary stream, then used that
occasion to distribute the swords carried by the packhorse.

 Armed and armored, they set off again at a gentle trot. Spirit found the gait comfortable and matched the
pace set by Berengar's stallion with little trouble. They made good time, and the route they took seemed
surprisingly well traveled, a fact Gena mentioned to Berengar.

"It is that. Logging teams created this road up into the mountains and down to the other side. Because
the river curves far to the east, and farther yet east because of the way the floods three years ago moved
its bed, using the mountain pass during the spring and summer makes the journey from Polston much
quicker. The Haladin have been hitting caravans coming up through the mountains."

 Their ride continued and brought them up into the foothills of theCentralMountains . The road carved a
muddy brown track on through a high meadow, but halfway through the valley, the riders struck off
southeast and slipped through grasses and into the dark precincts of a forest. As she rode toward it and
the woods swallowed the first two riders, Gena strained for any sounds of ambush, but heard nothing.

 The darker forest realm made her feel more comfortable than the trail and very much more than the city.
She saw signs of a fire that must have swept through the area fifty or a hundred years earlier. For every
fire-scarred giant still standing, she saw ten smaller, younger trees. Though most were evergreens, a few
aspen and birch groves had carved out their own islands on the hillside. Dried orange pine needles
carpeted the ground, but dark-green ferns and bushes sprouted up where sunlight pierced the verdant
ceiling above.

 The riders formed up in single file as they directed their horses onto a game trail. The young trees
allowed for a fairly good field of vision, though the ravines and wrinkles in the landscape could have
hidden dozens of Haladina. The guards kept a careful watch, with half of them resting their drawn swords
across the pommel of their saddles. Their procession moved more quietly than Gena would have
normally assumed Men could, and she knew, were these the ancient Cygestolian forests, the lot of them
could have been taken by Elven Foresters before they realized they were under attack.

 Her apprehension did not slacken as the troops crested a gentle rise and looked down on the campsite.
The center of the small depression had been cleared of trees, which, in turn, had been used to make the
crude lean-tos half dug into the hillside. A narrow footpath leading up and away on the opposite side of
the depression suggested water could be found over in that direction, while another area on the north end
of the gully looked to be where the Haladina picketed their horses. Down the center of the campsite ran
a line of three firepits, bordered on all sides by logs or stones suitable for seating.

 Berengar brought his horse back next to hers and leaned over. "As we thought, a campsite. From the
smoke and ashes I would guess they heard Waldo and his men coming out here ahead of us and fled,
probably off to the north."

The explanation made sense to Gena. If Waldo and his squad had followed the same trail, they would
have entered the depression from the south, so heading out north would have made sense. "Do you think
Waldo and his men have pursued them?"

 Berengar nodded. "He's probably chased them halfway to Ispar by now." He pointed to the campsite.
"Do you want to inspect it?"

"Please."

They rode on down into the bowl and dismounted. Gena crouched by one of the firepits and warmed
her hands over the embers. "They must have left close to dawn, after banking the fire for the night. They
made no attempt to extinguish the fires when they departed."

 Berengar chuckled, hooking his thumbs in his swordbelt. "I have never known the Haladina to be
fastidious or concerned with more than escape when pursued by Aurdon Rangers."

"You have a point there." Gena rose and crossed over to one of the lean-tos. Dark and damp, it smelled
more of woodrot than Man-musk to her, but the worn blankets and scraps of cloth scattered around the
enclosure suggested both human habitation and a quick departure. Everything looked appropriate, but
still something did not feel quite right. She could not identify the incongruities, but they gnawed at her.

 Her apprehension spiked when she turned back toward the firepits and saw the guards had spread
themselves out through the camp. Dismounted, using their swords to stir ashes and poke lumps of leaves,
they had abandoned their previous caution. Even Berengar seemed bored, his eyes unfocused as his mind
drifted.

 Across from her, where the footpath to water curved around a colossal pine, she saw the flash and
heard the snap of a flashdrake's talon falling. As the puff of smoke curling up from the longgunne
evaporated, she saw a swarthy Haladin face break into a fierce bejeweled grin. Even as she gestured in
his direction and screamed a warning, keening Haladin war cries drowned her out, and a dozen of the
Outland warriors broke through the brush to reclaim their camp from the count and his men.

Chapter 8:
The Long Ride

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 IT STRUCK ME, as I rode from Aurium in the company of the Lansorii Honorari, that a Haladin
ambush was the least of my worries. In actuality I felt less in their company than in their custody. Had
they been inclined to trust me, I'm certain they would have left me eating their dust for the whole of the
journey. Because they did not, two lancers rode behind me, far enough back so they avoided my dust,
but close enough to make me turn this way and that to keep track of them.

 Aurium, being the size it was, was a mite small for supporting the Steel Pack for the time we would be
away. While our fighting force numbered four hundred, grooms, armorers, quartermasters, and camp
followers swelled the ranks to near double. Before I left, I struck a deal with Festus and Childeric that
allowed my people to set up camp on the other side of theAurRiver . The Steel Pack foraged for game,
and all excess was sold to the merchants in exchange for grains and other staples. Aurium, in turn, paid
for protection and advice on how to fortify the town against raiders, the net result of all this being suitable
living conditions for my men and a slight profit for the merchants.

 While Drogo gladly accepted promotion to acting commander in my absence, he tried to convince me
that going with the Elves would be my death. He didn't trust them, and given history, I knew well his
reasons. Part of me, deep down, shared his fear for my safety, but my friendship with Aarundel erased
the past. The confrontation at the legislatorium made it clear he was not going to let the Elves sent to fetch
him home give me trouble.

 The journey itself would likely provide all the trouble any of us needed. The distance between Aurium
and Cygestolia was near twelve hundred miles as the crow flies, but given that summer was slipping fast
into the season of ice, not much was flying from the south up toward the north. More to the point, none
of us had wings; as we were ground bound, the journey would take close to two months, and that only if
we pushed the horses as hard as they would go.
 The journey would also take us, albeit briefly, through Reithrese territory. While it struck me as unlikely
that the Reithrese would actually attack an Elven troop; my presence might spur some ambitious
Reithrese on to rash action. I was thinking, given the utter silence that greeted my presence as we rode
off, that the honor guard would gladly give me over to any Reithrese we met. At the very least that would
make me late for the wedding, so I was not looking forward to any confrontation that made my delivery
to the enemy a viable solution.

 Aarundel and I had decided during a late-night conversation that the permission for him to marry Marta
had come because of the headway the Red Tiger was making in his war with the Reithrese. We both
knew that the Consilliarii would love nothing better than having Men bleed the Reithrese while getting
equally bled. Remaining neutral and watching both sides weaken each other meant that the Elves would
not be challenged and not faced with the prospect of another crusade of the sort that spawned the
Eldsaga.

 Not that the Red Tiger's victory might not do just that, of course. Aarundel had pointed out a number of
times that certain actions might invoke the wrath of the Elven nation, so the Red Tiger studiously avoided
them. When Polston fell, for example, the Reithrese priests were allowed to deconsecrate their temples
and withdraw from the city unmolested. Attention to Elven concerns meant that we waged a war which
we kept civilized—no mean feat—and that, in turn, meant we remained in control and actually thought in
terms of strategy and tactics before we hurled ourselves into battle. Even Sture avoided the elemental
tactical mistakes that had cost his father his life and his realm.

 The Consilliarii considered this shift in the way Men waged war to be the result of Aarundel's influence in
our force. It is true that strategy and tactics were something that the longer-term Elven perspective made
possible, but their introduction to our councils was not made by Aarundel alone. I had seen enough in
watching the battles waged by and against Tashayul to see where victory had been snatched from the
jaws of defeat by the Reithrese's superior planning. In doing so I realized that forethought, which brought
with it an awareness of terrain, weather, supply, morale, and a host of other factors, could make a
meagre force far more powerful than it had any right to be.

 The Red Tiger himself came at tactics from an entirely different direction. Having been enslaved by the
Reithrese, he saw their utter disregard for life, and human life especially. In losing friends to carelessness
and cruelty, he saw no reason to win with blood what could be taken by stealth, surprise, and superior
planning. While he saw the Reithrese nation as a giant scorpion preying on humanity, he knew the
Reithrese army—filled out with Haladin warriors—was the scorpion's sting. Eliminating it or its ability to
fight would force the scorpion to withdraw and win him the war more easily than anyone could imagine.

 The Consilliarii's recalling of Aarundel was proof they could not imagine Men learning from past
mistakes. By stripping us of his expertise, I assumed they thought we would collapse after having
liberated Centisia. By withdrawing Aarundel they could claim to the Reithrese that they prevented the
Red Tiger from overthrowing them. If we kept on winning, the lack of an Elf in our midst would free the
Reithrese to use any means at their disposal to oppose and defeat us.

 All of my thinking on this subject occurred in a vacuum. The Elves had decided to ignore me as best they
could, but I'd probably not have discussed all this with them even under torture. Shijef might have offered
interesting comments, but he opted to isolate me as well. He got along no better than I with the Elves, but
he was used to a solitary existence and apparently had decided I should see what it felt like.

We had left Aurium early in the day and headed roughly northwest. We continued on for two hours,
outstripping evidence of human habitation. The Elves and their mounts moved through the forest with a
preternatural ability that included shadows' reluctance to surrender them to light. Even the slight clanking
of their armor dulled in the forest, and as I looked around, I realized I could see only the two Elves
directly in front of me. The rest had disappeared.

 I knew the Elves meant to shock me and inspire fear in me. They succeeded, for I could easily imagine
the terror of people in the Eldsaga when the Elven Legions materialized at the edge of a forest before
riding down some tiny village. I also knew that Aarundel, up there at the head of the line, was allowing his
compatriots' pranks because he would have been surprised if I showed fear. In his honor, and for the
pride of Men everywhere, I relaxed in the saddle and started humming a little tune.

 I resolved to smile as well because the day had dawned bright and even in the deep forest, the sun
managed to warm the air. Slate-gray tree bark broke up the deep greens and bright rust of evergreen
needles present and past. The trail on which we rode wound around, up and down, through various little
hills and along streambeds. I was thinking it was a game trail because it tended to go around things
instead of over them, but piles of mossless stones at certain points along the way told me Men had been
using it recently.

 Mud splashed up from our horses' hooves as we picked our way down a swampy streambed. Clouds of
needle-flies rose up but ignored the Elves in favor of me. Slapping the little bloodsuckers distracted me
enough that I missed the spot where the others had ridden up from the streambed. Blackstar, apparently
likewise immune to the insects, plodded on and started up on the far side of the muddy track. I gave him
his head, and though I saw nothing ahead of me, I assumed I was headed in the right direction.

 Though I had lost sight of them for only a moment and had spent less than a minute in locating them
again, the Elves surprised me when I found them. They had already shucked their armor, unsaddled their
horses, and set up camp on a hilltop plateau. As I came through the circle of oaks that denned the
perimeter of their camp, I wondered at how the trees would have taken root in such a precise pattern.
Once inside, however, the answer to that question seemed unimportant, and I began to feel as if I were
suffering from a morning-after without ever having enjoyed the night before.

 A bit shaky, I swung out of the saddle, and a dizzy wave crested over me. I flailed at the saddle with my
right hand, causing Blackstar to shy away from me when I needed the support. I kicked my left foot free
of the stirrup and braced myself for the Elves' piercing ridicule. Before I could land flat on my back
however, strong hands grasped me under the armpits and steadied me.

 The dizziness vanished when my feet hit the ground. I felt energy pour up from the earth through the
soles of my boots. My toes curled down into claws, and my spine arched back as millions of pinpricks
raced up my body. I wanted to yelp from pain and surprise, but the power froze my throat. Old air
burned in my lungs, but the urgency with which I felt I needed to breathe dissolved as the tingling
bounced around inside my skull, then seemed to explode out through my forehead.

 I dropped to my right knee, pressing my right hand to the ground to steady myself. I swiped with my left
hand at the stinging sweat searing my eyes, then looked up at the Elves gathered at the center of the
circle. They regarded me closely, watching and waiting for something. I snarled at them, then forced
myself erect. I repaid their curiosity with defiance and received surprise back again.

Aarundel clapped me on the back. "I had not realized we were so close to a circus translatio."

"A what?"

He crossed to where Blackstar stood and picked up the dangling reins. "This is a place of great magick.
Magii sylvani wove great spells here eons ago. Had you not been with us, were the perimeter not
disturbed by our recent passage, you would likely not have noticed this place existed. If you had, you
would have most probably decided it was evil and have chosen to avoid it." He led the horse over to
where the others were picketed, and I followed. "That is fortunate because the results could have been
disastrous."

 I frowned. "What are you talking about? What I felt here was not pleasant at all. If that wasn't a disaster,
I'm thinking I don't want to know what would have been."

 Aarundel gave me an open smile. "Among Men, the ability to cope with magickal energies is much akin
to the tolerance for vital libations. With some, evidence your man Gathelus, even a weak drink
profoundly impairs them."

 I nodded. If Gathelus so much as stands downwind of an open bottle of wine, he falls fast asleep. Drogo
and Fursey Nine-finger, by contrast, could use Nakanese brandy as blood and still remain sharp.
"Entering here could have left me senseless?"

 "It could have killed you—in theory—though I knew you would survive." He shrugged casually as he
slipped the cinch strap on Blackstar's saddle. "I know you well enough to know that your ability to
tolerate magicks is substantial."

"How?"

Aarundel tapped his left eye and smiled. "I have seen it. You have made oaths and they have been
verified." He pointed back in the direction of Aurium. "When you joined those two families, you made an
oath, and it will survive. Had you been educated in the Art, you would be, for a Man, a very powerful
magician."

 I shook my head, refusing to believe him. "I'm not saying you may not be right, but I'm thinking you're
counting a lot on an oath not yet two days old."

"You vowed to kill Tashayul, and cited prophecies that came true."

"Luck, not power."

 "Oh, you are Fortune's child, Neal—and your birth beneath the Triangle proves it—but you have power
as well." He glanced back over his shoulder at the other Elves. "They expected you to faint and, if you
had, would have used that as a reason you should not be taken with us."

"You will understand if I say that disappointing them does not cause me much pain." I slipped a halter
over Blackstar's head, then attached the lead to the picket line. "Why are we stopping here? It is barely
noon, and we've a long ride before us."

Aarundel smiled knowingly. "But not as long as you imagine, my friend. Rest here, and we will be off
when it gets dark."

 One of the other Elves called to him, and Aarundel answered quickly in the Sylvan tongue. I smiled and
nodded toward the other Elves. "Go, speak with them. You've been apart from your people for a long
time, and they are an honor guard. They're proud to be here, and we should respect that."

"Thank you for understanding."
I winked. "What are friends for?"

 Aarundel walked off and squatted down at the base of one of the oaks. I leaned back and watched
them jabbering away among themselves. Every so often, though I understood nothing they said, I
laughed, japing them. That generally prompted their voices to sink to whispers until a speaker became
excited enough that his voice rose, and I laughed again.

In their vanity—and their reaction to my laughter—I found Elves far nearer to Men than either side of the
Eldsaga would ever like to admit. That set a great part of me at ease, which is why, seated there with
over a dozen people who had once tried to exterminate my ancestors, I drifted off to sleep.

 I awoke quite alert, which I put down to the power of the magick circle instead of my distrust of my
companions. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I found Shijef crouched at my side. His fetid breath bathed
me with the scent of long-deceased, recently devoured forest creatures. "Seek they steal Shijef." The
Dreel pointed toward the Elves, then flexed his left paw, extending the claws. "Lifeblack pools."

 I frowned as a semicircle of Elves approached us. Each of them wore a silver coronet, two silver
bracelets, and a pair of anklets. The fire burning behind them flashed from the slender silver chain
connecting bracelets up and over their shoulders. Two other looping chains hung from the coronet at their
temples and linked into the shoulder chain. I suspected that similar chains ran up the backs of their legs
and connected as well to the shoulder line, but I could not be certain because of the loose-legged black
trousers they wore.

 I grabbed a thick handful of the mane at the back of Shijef s neck and pulled myself erect. I knew it had
to hurt him, but I wanted that to remind him who was master and who was slave. His appeal to me was
not a request for rescue, but his asking permission to kill as many of them as he could. He knew I would
not give it, but he asked in hopes I might make a mistake.

 "Explain." Standing, I could see Aarundel seated back by the fire. He wore the same silver jewelry as
the others, but had the faraway look on his face that I had come to associate with his communion with
Marta. "I know we share a desire to leave the Imperator in peace at this time, so, please, do not make
disturbing him necessary."

 One of the Elves took a step forward and held out to me a set of the jewelry. "Required to continue the
sojourn. You and it."

 I accepted the jewelry and settled the coronet on my head. All I felt was cold metal against my brow
and the backs of my ears. The catch-bracelets snapped over my wrists easily, which surprised me, as my
wrists are thicker than those of an average Elf. With the anklets dangling down between my legs, I turned
to the Dreel. "Secure them to my ankles."

 Shijef snarled, but bent to the task. His huge paws closed the delicate loops gently even though I know
he would have preferred to take my legs off at the knees. He remained seated on his haunches, refusing
to look up, with his claws tracing odd patterns in the dirt.

I glanced over at the Elf holding the second set of chains. "Give them to me."

 He did so, and I dropped to my knees in front of the Dreel. "Hold still." As I shut the bracelets and
anklets, I made certain to clear all fur from the mechanism so Shijef would not have something more
about which to complain. As it was, the bracelets were a fairly tight fit, and the coronet barely settled on
the crown of Shijef's head. The chains had enough slack in them that I knew he could move normally, but
he affected arm gestures suitable for a man thoroughly bound with chains of lead, not silver.

 As I stood again and brushed the dirt from my knees, one Elf made a comment that prompted laughter
from the others.

"He does not serve the beast, Siric, he prevents you from losing an arm while serving Shijef yourself."
Aarundel's anger lashed out at the other Elves, and over half of them blushed.

 I shrugged and looked beyond them at my friend. "I'd not be thinking Siric meant that comment harshly.
Like as not he's thinking the Dreel is my pet—being as how, of course, only a Man would be dumb
enough to keep a Dreel as a pet."

 Aarundel nodded stiffly at first in acknowledging my point. "It would be like Siric to have forgotten to
ask how a Man might have a Dreel traveling in his company. They might find the tale illuminating."

 "Might be like they would, but enlightenment can wait." I held my hands up and shook the silvered
chains. "Their explanation for our needing to wear these was a bit on the lean side."

 Aarundel frowned at the other Elves, "The chains are attuned to the magick of the circus translatio. They
allow you to use it. You'll see."

I smiled. "I can't wait. All dressed in our riding chains, should we be off?"

"Agreed."

 Our horses had been similarly fitted with soft cloth of silver bands around their fetlocks, with the chains
running along their belly and connecting up into the saddle. A silver plate had been slipped over the part
of the bridle resting on the horses' foreheads, and that had two chains hanging down to connect with the
chain running along the horses' breastbones. Blackstar seemed a bit skittish as I mounted up, but I patted
him on the neck and that settled him a bit.

 One of the Elves—it could have been Siric, but they all look quite similar in the twilight—leaned down
from his horse and set a torch afire in the fire burning at the center of the clearing. Two other Elves
extinguished the fire as Siric moved out toward the perimeter of the trees. He stopped in front of the tree
closest to the northwest, bowed, and muttered something in Sylvan. Then he started to ride to the left,
smacking the torch against the boles of each tree excepting the one where he started.

 As he did this, I noticed two things. The first was that an uneven number of trees circled the clearing.
Like the signs at a crossroads, I learned later, each tree marked one end of a plumb line that pointed to
another circus translatio. While I've not got a merchant's head for figures, I realized that the Elves had an
interesting network of magickal pathways stretching out over the face of Skirren.

 The second thing was that the sparks exploding from every touch of a tree started to trail after Siric as
he made his circuit. His horse ran faster and faster, as if the burning sparks were a swarm of bees in
pursuit. A second and a third time Siric rode the circuit of trees, each time fire-annointing each tree
except the first. As he completed the final circuit, he cut his horse hard to the left, bringing it to the center
of our company; then he turned it and rode at a gallop toward the tree where he had started the whole
ritual.

 The sparks swirled around us, then again followed in his wake. I felt a magickal tug impelling me to
follow him. I hesitated, knowing he was going to dash out his brains when he hit the tree. The other Elves
spurred their horses forward, and I saw the Dreel galloping ahead in the thick of the pack. Only Aarundel
held back, clearly waiting for me, so I touched my heels to Blackstar's ribs, and like an arrow loosed by
a war bow, he shot forward.

 The sparks clustered and thickened ahead of me, hiding the tree behind a golden curtain. As I closed
with it, each spark became a dot again in a black honeycomb that closed over me with the feathery touch
of a cobweb. As I passed through it, each spark stretched out to the length of Cleaveheart and shifted
color from red to blue as I rode past. They dragged at me like an ocean's undertow, then touched my
chains and released me. Free, I felt a moment of nothing before the onset of a pressure against me.

 I met resistance akin to that of a strong headwind, but I could not feel the wind. My clothes remained
still, as if I were not moving at all, yet between my legs Blackstar ran for all he was worth and then more.
I instinctively hunched down against his neck, and I could smell his sweat as he labored so. Even though I
had no trouble remaining in the saddle, each heartbeat brought with it the fatigue that a minute on the road
would have caused.

 That sapping of vitality might have concerned me, but other things served to distract me completely. The
world through which we rode had become the ghost of itself. Whereas we had begun our journey at
night, the sky and the landscape were white. Black pinpricks dotted the sky, and a black ball hung where
I expected to see the evening's first moon. Trees flashed past all whitewashed and spectral, and I felt a
cold chill as their limbs tried to drag me from the saddle.

 I looked forward and back at the Elves and saw them still in color. My flesh remained tan and my tunic
still appeared blood-red. Whatever magicks had been invoked in the circus translatio, we were a
company now set apart from the rest of the world.

 As we rode, miles fell behind us like rain falling in a monsoon. Then, suddenly, the land dropped away
from beneath Blackstar's hooves, but he did not descend to the earth. He pressed on, as did the riders
before me, his hooves striking hard on an invisible roadway. The horse galloped onward, apparently
unconcerned with the lack of visual clues to his location. It occurred to me then that the Elves and the
horses and even Shijef might see things entirely differently from me. If that allowed them to navigate
through this world of white-shadow and lead me out of it, then I'd thank the gods for my companions'
special eyesight and hang on tightly.

 It should have occurred to me—given that when we rode through a tree, no forest branches had stung
me and the land lay well below where Blackstar galloped—that the real world and our passage had very
little to do with each other. This idea finally came to me when Blackstar plunged into a mountain.
Bone-freezing cold filled me, and a shudder even went through my horse. The stone layers flashed by like
a gray rainbow, with cracks and fissures cutting through them like black lightning forks trapped immobile.

 For the briefest of moments we burst through into a cavern. We rode a dozen feet above the floor and
slashed through the cavern diagonally. While the stalactite that bisected me made me think the room was
a normal formation, the afterimages of worked columns and a cowering dwarf told me otherwise. Having
been in a Dwarven stronghold before, I turned to look back, as if my vision could penetrate stone as
easily as we rode through it, but a stone shroud denied me another glimpse of the mountain's heart.

 Flying out through the other side of the mountain, I saw what looked to be black bugs fleeing across a
snowfield. Three wraiths chased after them, and though the whole sight grew smaller as we rode on, I
was able to figure out what I had seen. A trio of shepherds were chasing down a flock that had been
disturbed in the wee hours of the morning. If we looked to them the way they did to us, the shepherds
would tell of ghost-riders raiding them, and I laughed soundlessly thinking that someday I would hear a
bard singing a song inspired by our passage.

 We sped straight across a mountain valley and again entered a forest. I reflexively dodged branches, but
found myself getting sluggish. Lather covered Blackstar's neck and chest, and I felt thoroughly leeched of
life. As Blackstar had come from Elven stocks, I had no doubt that he could go as long as any of the
Elves' horses—I hoped, for my own sake, that I had as much stamina as the lancers themselves.

 A vertical black line appeared impaled on the horizon. I expected it to widen as we pushed on, but it did
not. Wider than a hair, yet barely broader than Cleaveheart, the line hung tantalizmgly just beyond my
reach. It did stretch out, above and below, but trees and rocks, streams and hills flew past on both sides
without affecting it. Yet even though I caught no visual clues that we were getting any nearer to it, I knew
we were.

Suddenly it engulfed us with the enthusiasm of a Dreel shoving food into its maw. An explosive wave of
heat washed over me; then smoke swirled around me and I heard the sound of Blackstar's labored
breathing. I cut the reins to the right, and as the dawn filled the grove with the first hints of color, I ran
Blackstar around and clear of the Elven riders. I heard Aarundel come out from behind me, and a
popping akin to that of a cork being pulled from a jug chased him from the magickal roadway.

I laughed aloud even though my chest ached from the effort of breathing. I felt as if I had ridden for a
month, though it would turn out that we had only covered ten days' distance of normal hard riding.
Blackstar stamped and I immediately swung off his back. "You've carried me far enough, friend."

 My legs trembled but did not buckle, my spine crackled and muscles protested as I straightened up.
Looking about, I saw very weary Elves clinging to saddles or already seated on the ground, but I resisted
the urge to puff up my chest and carry on as if I were not weak as a kitten. Leading Blackstar back
toward the middle of the clearing, I looked up as one of the horses emitted a little squeal and leaped
sideways.

 Shijef lay on the ground in the middle of the grassy circle, huddled over on his right flank. Blood,
black-red at the dawn's first caress, covered his muzzle and paws. He clutched a fluffy ivory bundle to his
chest and snapped and snarled at the Elves staring down at him. If not for the blood and the little black
legs jutting out of the bundle, I would have thought it a pillow or a Dreel-sized toy, but I saw clearly it
was a sheep, quite dead, and, for the Dreel, a prized possession.

Aarundel half fell from his saddle and landed beside me. "How did he procure that sheep?"

 I shrugged and Shijef swallowed, then gave us a gory smile. "Magick Elves have, magick Shijef is." He
howled delightedly, and more horses shied away from him. He bit down through the sheep's skull and
sucked noisily at the brains, which made me give him a wide berth. I led Blackstar over to where an Elf
set up a picket line; then I stripped him of tack and rubbed him down with handfuls of grass.

Having fulfilled my duty to my horse, I stumbled off and collapsed into a heap. Sleep came swiftly, and
mercifully did not bring with it a dream-recital of Dreel gustatory grunts, groans, and squeaks.

 We remained in that circus translatio for three days, which still put us a week ahead of schedule had we
not used so remarkable a method of travel. Discussion of how the Dreel managed to take a sheep on the
ride brought me more into the company of the Elves, as Aarundel indicated I was the repository of all
knowledge about the Dreel. I was not, but I offered a few interesting ideas. That, along with performing a
little bit more than an equal share of all chores, made the Elves used to me and prompted tolerance from
more than half their number.
 The second and third legs of the journey pushed us deep into the vast forests claimed by the Elves as
their gods-given holdings. Being as how I was from theRoclawMountains , where trees were
wind-scourged, gnarly-branched bird-roosts, and that I'd only seen the forests in and around Man-lands,
the Forests of Cygestolia made me feel as small and insignificant as most of the Elves probably saw me.
Where other forests were merely stands of growing trees, Cygestolia was a place where the forest
flourished.

 Before seeing the Elven wood, I was used to forests where one could look up and see a narrow river of
blue sky coursing between treetops. In Cygestolia the trees grew on forever, rooted in the ground at one
end and amidst the clouds at the other. In places, trees grew closely enough together that I could not see
through them, and yet, at other times, wooded vistas extended for miles. The whole of the forest seemed
almost quiltlike in how it shifted and changed—as if in the woodlands tended by the Elves, all the world's
forests could be found.

 With Aarundel or another of the Elves along, I was allowed to explore the areas outside the
grove-circles. Dunlan and Reysawin seemed to detest my company the least, so we talked of all sorts of
things while I rooted around looking for berries, roots, and herbs of various sorts—the Elves were
feeding me, but I'm often as much a meat-gobbler as Shijef, so I laid claim to parts of his kills and
cooked my own food from time to time.

 The Elves all seemed initially reluctant to speak about themselves, so I drew them out by asking
questions about the Reithrese. No love had been lost between those two elder races, so the Elves
proved less guarded in speaking about them—I learned, for example, that the Reithrese have a similar
system of circii translatio, but they base theirs around volcanoes and geysers. As Reysawin commented
and I agreed, the Reithrese system was not very useful, because no one would want to go to those types
of places in any event.

 As we drew closer to the heart of Cygestolia, to the city that gives the whole region its name, Aarundel
mostly and Dunlan a little bit began to instruct me on proper conduct. Dunlan treated me as if I were
gutterkin utterly unschooled and uncomprehending about anything the least bit mannerly. He laid down
absolute rules, which could be summed up as "Do nothing unless specifically invited to do it; and decline
most of the invitations, because they will be offered out of politeness only."

As he knew nothing of my background, I expected him to give me such a simple system of strictures. I
got some of the same from Aarundel, which surprised me, because he had been to the Roclaws and had
dined at my brother's table. I put his occasional curtness down to nervousness concerning the reaction to
my arrival. I knew he wanted me there as a friend, but doing something that might tweak the noses of the
Consilliarii did cause him a little concern.

 Aarundel laid out more carefully the things I could and could not do and explained some of the reasons
behind the strictures, as well as all of the penalties I could incur if I broke them. Most things would be
taken as my being ill-bred, which was a given because of my Humanity, but that would make Aarundel
look bad. At the worst I could be whipped, though Aarundel allowed as how, given I was his guest, I
would likely just be exiled from Cygestolia.

 Only one crime bore a more severe penalty. "Under no condition, no matter the provocation, no matter
the necessities of the moment, shall you touch one of the sylvanesti. Not a babe offered by a proud
parent, not a lady falling faint, not a grandmother dead and in a shroud." Aarundel's dark eyes became
slits. "You must remember this, Neal, for you will be slain and she will be disgraced. If things go too far, if
there is issue, it will be slain and the denied woman will be declared dead among her people."
 I frowned and plucked a ripe blackberry from a thorny bush. "What if a big hole opens beneath her feet
and only I can save her from falling into it?"

"No hole will open, but were one to open, you would let her go. She would want it that way." He
grabbed me by the shoulders. "Promise me you will not touch a sylvanesti."

I nodded and winked at him, "I promise. I'm thinking you're just afraid I'd steal your Marta away from
you."

 "No, I have no reason to think that. What I fear is that you, who know her through me, and she, who
knows you through me, might be so pleased to meet each other that you would hug or touch in an
innocent manner, then both of you would be lost to me forever."

 "I comprehend the source of your anxiety." I frowned. "Now this poor sylvanesti who has fallen down
this hole, I could toss her a rope."

Aarundel shook his head with resignation. "Yes, a rope would be fine. She cannot feel you touch her."

"So if I grabbed her by her belt to stop her from falling, but didn't actually touch her flesh . . ."

 "Neal! This is not a game." Anger shot through his eyes, then vanished. "Forgive me. I know you and
can trust you. Others do not, and therein lies the potential for difficulty."

 "You will never have reason to regret that trust." I slapped him on the ribs, then tossed him a blackberry.
"I will act so proper, your people will be thinking me a bob-eared Elf with an odd accent."

 The final leg to Cygestolia proved as exhausting as all before it, yet our company arrived giddy and
exalted to be at journey's end. Excitement coursed through us, and a couple of the Elves slapped me on
the back in congratulations even after they realized who I was. Aarundel almost immediately sank into
one of his contemplative fugues, so I dragged him from his saddle and put both of our horses up before
lying down to sleep myself.

 Being as close as we were to Cygestolia, it might have seemed a good idea just to ride out to the city
immediately, but we did not for the same reason that using the circii translatio to mount an invasion was
ineffective. The circles and the magical energy inherent in them allowed us to recover from the exertions
of the journey much more swiftly than we could outside their precincts. An army moved in this manner
would be unable to function in a battle shortly after their arrival, and any of us who had ridden out to the
city would have fallen from the saddle asleep before we ever got there.

I awoke from my rest in midafternoon, which was a bit sooner than I had intended and a lot sooner than
my body desired. Still, Aarundel's insistent demands that I wake up cut through the sleep cocoon in
which my consciousness rested, so I sat up and rubbed sleepsand from my eyes. I had planned to ask
him what could possibly be more important than sleep, but the raptured expression on his face answered
me immediately.

 "Come with me, Neal. Come, come." He pulled me to my feet, then waited impatiently as I stretched.
"Neal!" he whispered emphatically and jerked his head toward the north.

 I followed him as quickly as I could, and my eyes slowly focused on a form standing at the edge of the
circle. Even my sluggish brain could determine that the dark-haired, gown-clad person had to be Marta. I
smiled at that realization and picked up my pace, then raked fingers back through my hair to clear it away
from my face.

 At that point I knew Aarundel saw in me more of a friend than even he would have imagined. I had been
riding for two days and a fortnight and looked it. Worse yet, I smelled like it. My beard had not been
razor-slain since leaving Aurium, and while my tunic had been washed and wrung out twice since then, it
looked more ready for burning than wearing. I had imagined washing up and preparing a proper image
for when I met his Marta, but that chance had gone the way of the sheep Shijef had stolen.

 None of my concerns would have mattered at all to Aarundel. His Marta had come out to see him, to
welcome him, and he wanted her to meet me. I hoped, as I hurried along, that she loved him deeper than
the hole I wished would swallow me up, because it would take a lot of love to excuse my pitiful
appearance. Then again, if she didn't love him that much, scaring her off at this point would be the best
thing I could do for him.

 Slowing just a hair so I could pare the grime from beneath my fingernails, I approached the couple. I
stopped short a good Man-length from them and shifted so I'd be more downwind than up. Holding
hands together, they were lost in each other's eyes and didn't notice me until I cleared my throat.

Aarundel blinked, then blushed a bit and extended his left hand in my direction. "Doma Marta, this is
Neal Roclawzi, the one I have named Custos Sylvanii. Neal, this is my heart-twin, my vitamoresti. Lady
Marta."

I bowed deeply to her. "This is an honor I have long awaited."

"The honor is mine, Custos Sylvanii."

 For the next two seconds we said nothing and appraised each other. I know I got the better of the
exchange, for her exquisite beauty meant I could have watched her for a good long time without
complaint. Tall enough to look me even in the eyes, she had a slender grace and noble bearing the equal
of which I had never seen before. She wore her dark hair shorter even than Aarundel or me, and it
molded itself to her head and the back of her neck with tight curls. Her blue eyes and bright smile made
me feel welcome and told me she well understood how the hardships of the journey had left their mark
on me.

 I looked over at Aarundel. "My friend, until this day I have envied you nothing. Now I envy your
tremendous fortune in sharing love with this sylvanesti."

 Aarundel laughed aloud and kissed Marta on the forehead. "I shall do all I am able to be worthy of your
envy, my friend." He smiled at Marta, then looked beyond me toward the glade surrounding the circle.
"You did not tell me she rode out with you."

Marta nodded. "While you slept, she decided to gather herbs and flowers."

 Aarundel's smile grew and he waved his left hand. "Neal, it is also my pleasure to present to you my
sister, Larissa."

I turned back toward the rustling in the brush with an easy smile on my face and laid my eyes on the
most beautiful female the gods had ever blessed with life.

Chapter 9:
The Magick Of Battle

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 THE SMILE ON the Haladina's face died when his flashdrake failed to fire. Gena concentrated for a
second, then opened her hands in his direction. A burning spark sped at the man with the straight-line
accuracy of a bee. It swerved once, at the end, darting down from his face to the powder horn dangling
near his waist. The magickal ember pierced it, melting the Haladina's look of surprise into a mask of
horror.

 The powder horn's explosion launched the raider into the air. His longgunne fell one way, and, trailing
thick white smoke, his limp body went another. From the corner of her eye Gena saw him hit the ground
and bounce loose-limbed and bloody.

 Knowing he was dead, she turned her attention to the four Haladina racing in at Berengar. A disorienting
sensation passed through her as she turned her head. She recognized it as the aftereffects of casting two
spells in haste, but that did not stop it from upsetting her balance and driving her to one knee. Her right
hand closed on sand and pine needles as she caught herself.

Forcing nausea away, she prepared another spell.

 Before she could cast it, the swiftest of the Haladina had reached Berengar. The smaller Haladina yipped
his war cry, but Berengar drowned it out with a roar that would have pleased the tiger on his crest. The
count caught the man's overhand saber cut on the forte of his rapier, then pivoted on his left foot and
snapped a kick at the Haladina's leg. Berengar's right heel hit the man on the knee, snapping it straight,
then carrying through to break it back in the other direction.

 Taking a deep breath, Gena concentrated and felt power pulse down her arm and into the handful of
dirt. She raised it up and threw it, releasing it in an arc going from high right to low left. Her arm fell
leaden to her side. Exhausted, she shivered and watched as her sand spray hit two of the remaining
Haladina bent on Berengar's destruction.

 The ribbon of sand slashed at the men as if it were a stony whip. The very tip of it swept away the
furthest man's ear and polished to shining the metal trinkets hanging on his vest. He found himself
involuntarily twisted back to his right. His momentum carried him forward, but the broken rhythm of his
steps caused him to falter and fall to his knees at the outer edge of Berengar's sword-arc.

 Vertigo twisted her insides, but she saw the man closer to her stopped in midrun. Air exploded from his
lungs as the sand-scream lashed his torso. The sand ate through his woolen vest, the tunic below it, and
the flesh beneath that like strong acid. Gena thought she saw white ribs, then the man's legs flew out from
beneath him, and he landed hard on his back, obscuring her view of his ruined chest.

 The last Haladin raider rushing in at Berengar suddenly found himself alone instead of being the left flank
of a united front. Berengar sidestepped to his right, then pivoted out of the way of the Haladina's weak
cross-body slash. The second that blade passed, Berengar whipped his blade across the back of the
Haladina's legs, slicing through muscles and dropping the man screaming to the sand.
 A thrust through the throat finished the one-eared raider. Berengar looked up from him to the other man
felled by magick, then jogged over to where Gena knelt huddled against the ground. She let her head
drop down as he approached, heard the sound of his rapier being thrust into the sand, and felt his strong
hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt. Lady Genevera?"

 She coughed and wiped the sweat from her brow with her right hand. That smeared dirt across it, a fact
that registered in her mind, but seemed decidedly trivial as Berengar's bodyguards finished the last of the
Haladina. "Just tired. Combat casting is usually not difficult. If you have some preparation. Ambush
means reacting without much forethought."

 Berengar smiled and helped her sit upright. "If not for you, I would be dead. The Haladina with the
flashdrake would have killed me." He glanced back over his shoulder at where the man's smoking body
lay. "How did you save me?"

 Gena smiled weakly. "The first spell taught to any student of the Art, for obvious reasons, involves
extinguishing fires. Rik has explained to me and showed me that what happens in a flashdrake is fire
building up behind the ball. Being familiar with the idea, and having discussed it before, I just put the fire
out."

"Then you put fire in his fuel box."

Gena nodded and licked sweat from her upper lip. "That was easy. Making fire is the second spell most
magicians learn."

Berengar laughed lightly. "And the sand?"

"I would have thought you too busy to notice that."

"I have forced myself to be aware of everything on a battlefield. Awareness is the key to winning." He
gestured behind himself. "At this end of the field we have five men down, three dead, and two badly
wounded. At the other end I have two wounded men and seven Haladina dead. Had I not been aware of
what was happening, I would have helped my men finish off the raiders before coming to speak with
you."

"I am impressed."

"As I am with you. Now, about the sand."

 Gena sighed heavily. "I improvised with a spell used to enchant arrows to carry further from bows. It
expands the time during which they accelerate from release to leaving the bow. My mistake came in that
the spell is normally used on a dozen arrows or so, hence the requirement in energy is low. In my use,
which was sloppy and hasty, each grain of sand became an arrow. While each required less energy than
an arrow, there were far more of them." Looking down at her hands, she laughed. "If my hands were
bigger, I could have killed myself."

"Can you ride? We can stay here if you need to rest."

"I will be fine after a moment." Gena shook her head. "Thank you."
"My duty, honor, and pleasure, Lady Genevera."

 One of the bodyguards came over and stood beside Berengar. "Begging pardon, m'lord, but you left
two alive. Do you want me to take care of them?"

"If you please, yes, Darrian."

Gena looked up. "I can still help heal, if you wish. I am getting my strength back."

Berengar shook his head. "Darrian will finish them, not patch them up."

"Kill them?"

 "Yes. If I take them prisoner, I have to feed them. They will provide me with no useful information. If
ransomed, their parole will be worthless because they wiil come back at me." Berengar frowned heavily.
"I know it seems barbaric—something from the time of Neal, perhaps—but the only thing the Haladina
understand is death. They are not civilized. If you are to be understood, you must speak to them in the
manner which they will understand."

 The count stood and walked over to where his men dragged the Haladin bodies into a rough line. Gena
wondered at how the man could order their deaths so casually, then bother to kneel and straighten their
limbs. Berengar saw to it that each dead man's hands clutched his sword hilt to his chest, after the usual
manner of Haladin burial. He did not allow his men to take the gems from their teeth—both in burial and
the lack of looting he paid the Haladina more respect than Rik had.

Gena shivered again, but not from fatigue. She had long heard the argument about what the Haladina
might or might not understand, but before, it had always been directed by members of the Consilliarii at
Humanity as a whole, not just the Haladina. Though the discussion had raged for centuries before her
birth—had raged since the time when the children of the gods saw fit to create Men—as she had grown
up, Berengar's ideological counterparts among the Elves were seen as being trapped in the past, They
made up the majority of Elves who had chosen to travel excedere and abandon the mortal world for the
gods' paradise.

 She had often tried to understand their arguments, but no one raised in her family could have agreed with
them. Gena did concede that Humanity often acted without forethought and due consideration, but she
argued often and long that what might be seen as a racial trait did not include each and everyMan. Those
she most often debated quickly learned to bait her by dismissing her points with the phrase, "Neal Gustos
Sylvanii aside . . ."

 The shift in attitude among Elves concerning Men had been far simpler to accomplish than changing
Berengar's mind would be. While it was true that since the time of Neal, Men had not encroached on
Elven territory, Berengar saw the Haladina as an immediate danger to his family and his future. As one of
her teachers had commented, "The theory of a thing is often easier to comprehend than the doing of it."
The threat Berengar felt to family and home from the raiders meant that he reacted in the most direct and
forceful way that he could to forestall and defeat that threat.

 She hugged her arms around herself and rubbed some warmth into her upper arms. Berengar's concern
for seeing that the Haladina were buried marked him as more complex than a man who hates solely on
the basis of difference. He respected the Haladina and their traditions. He did not allow his men to defile
their bodies. The graves they dug might not be as deep as they would be for his own men, nor would he
raise a monument to mark them, but he would not just leave them for the wolves, either. He honored his
foes in defeat.

 Gena stood up and wandered out to where Berengar examined the Haladin flashdrake. Though it had to
have been quite heavy, the count handled it easily and studied it closely enough that he did not hear her
approach. When she came into his circle of vision, he looked up and smiled, then frowned quickly and
shook his head. "A horrible weapon, this."

 He held it out for her inspection. It looked to be as long as Durriken was tall and had a pitted gray
octagonal barrel with a silver bead mounted on the tip as a sight. The stock and foregrip had been made
of the same type of wood, but were in two pieces. Silver straps bound the foregrip to the barrel nearly
halfway along its length. The stock, which had been inlaid with bits of ivory and had a silver butt cap,
joined the barrel at the last quarter of its length and housed the trigger and talon mechanism. The ramrod
was missing, but a hole drilled lengthwise in the foregrip and another at the nose of the stock marked
where it should have resided.

 "I have witnessed the type of wounds they are capable of inflicting, my lord. I would agree that they are
horrible. By the same measure, however, the wounds caused by an arrow or crossbow bolt or even a
sword are likewise horrible."

"Yes, but their use requires skill and training." Berengar brandished the gunne. "This requires no skill.
There is no honor in using it."

 "I would imagine, my lord, that the first stick-wielding man hit by a thrown rock uttered the same
refrain."

Berengar laughed aloud. "A point well made and deeply taken. I know Durriken uses flashdrakes, and I
do not mean to imply he has no honor. His are Dwarven. His possession of them is a mark of respect of
him by the Dwarves and, from what I understand, their respect takes a great deal of earning. This, on the
other hand, is a poorly constructed Haladin imitation. Had you not quenched the fire in it, it likely would
have exploded in the Haladina's face."

 He looked ready to break it and bury it, but Gena stopped him. "I believe, my lord, if we bring it back to
Durriken, he might be able to tell us something about it. It could be important, especially if more than one
in a dozen Haladina are supplied with them."

"That is a good idea." Berengar dispatched two of his men to round up the Haladina horses while the
others finished digging the graves with the steel caps taken from two of the dead raiders. Berengar took
his turn digging, which surprised and pleased Gena.

 The burying of the dead and the ride back to Aurdon proved quiet work, and Gena did nothing to
prompt conversation. She let her body regain its strength on the ride back, and the leisurely pace the
group adopted guaranteed the sun would set an hour or two before they made it back to the city. She
suggested stopping for the night atLakeOrvir , but Berengar vetoed her idea, pointing out that stopping at
the unused manor house would raise great alarm among those people expecting them back in Aurdon.

 She quickly imagined Rik's reaction and bowed to Berengar's wisdom. He reassured her that despite the
string of Haladin horses making them look like a caravan of horse traders bound for the city, he expected
no more trouble. "We will be home soon enough, m'lady, hale, hearty, and for your part, I hope, rested."

 As she rode, she watched Berengar and slowly integrated the different pieces and sides of him she had
seen. From her earliest meeting with him, she knew him to be well mannered, gracious, handsome, and a
student of folklore. Of his intelligence there was no doubt at all. His summons told her he was concerned
for his family and for the people of Aurdon. The way he treated Rik marked his generosity, and his
harshness in dealing with Waldo paralleled her own dislike for the little man.

 In battle he was a worthy heir to the Red Tiger, matching the legendary leader in size, coloration, and
demeanor. In the sparring match she had witnessed on her arrival in Aurdon, she had seen a man quite
skilled in all the finer points of dueling. At the Haladin camp he had proved singularly efficient at killing—a
remorseless and implacable foe. Even so he had shown respect for his enemies, honoring them as valiant
combatants, not treating them as soon-to-be-carrion.

 Fitting all the pieces together, Gena found herself comparing each against a standard she had not realized
she held in her mind. At first she thought she might be judging him in comparison to Durriken, but were
that so, she knew she would find stranger and greater differences than she did. She also knew that
Durriken would appear, in many ways, to be the lesser of the two men, and she knew that was not true,
for there was no real way to compare them.

 But if she was not comparing Berengar to Durriken, who was she using to measure him? Not the Red
Tiger. She knew next to nothing about him. He was a footnote to the adventures of her grandfather and
Neal Custos Sylvanii. Neal? She knew that was the right answer to her question, but it struck her as
wrong as well. She only knew Neal from legends and songs—no man could compare favorably with a
legend.

 Despite that impossibility, Berengar fought hard. He showed the same willingness to pitch in and help his
men that had made so many loyal to Neal. They both were intelligent and fierce fighters, and they both
had long careers fighting the Haladina. Each man thought about more than just himself, and did things to
stabilize not only his time but the future.

They are much alike. Gena shook her head. Is there anything Neal did that Berengar could not do?

 It took her a moment, but when she thought of it, she found she could not replace her mental image of
Neal with that of Berengar in the same position. A little laugh escaped her, and she felt relieved that in the
twilight no one could see her blush. "No," she whispered to herself, "no, you are far too proud. Count
Berengar Fisher, to have survived admittance to Cygestolia."

Chapter 10:
The Magick Of Love

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 THE FIRST THINGS I saw were her eyes. Larissa met my stare openly, yet not defiantly nor haughtily.
She appeared as surprised at our meeting as I was. In that first unguarded moment I saw something flash
through her hazel eyes, a light I expected to be covered quickly by a superior disdain or a frightened
withdrawal.

The light blossomed in her large eyes to accompany the smile growing on her face. While her features
were unmistakably and sharply Sylvan, from the pointed tips of ears jutting up from thick golden hair to
her eyes, cheekbones, and jaw, the smile softened them. It made her more a vixen than a distant and cold
sylvanesti. It would have been easy to read in her eyes and smile an invitation—an invitation I desperately
wanted to see but knew she would not offer and one I could never presume to accept.

 My mind echoed with the words Aarundel spoke in Aurium concerning how I would know I had met my
True Love. My heart pounded in my chest with the force of a giant's footfalls. My stomach did not so
much clench as it felt as if Shijef had bitten half of it away. I wanted to speak, but words would not come
to my mind, and breath stayed dead in my lungs. I wanted to turn away, to stop staring, but my muscles
would not obey me. I could do nothing.

Nothing but return her smile.

 She had stopped, Larissa had, a dozen feet in front of me. As tall as I am, she looked as lithe and
slender as Marta, but she was to Marta as a woman is to a bare slip of a girl. While Marta had certainly
been beautiful to look upon, there was something about Larissa that made me want to study her and
memorize her. I wanted to possess her, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally and spiritually as
well.

 This realization collided directly with all the instruction I had been given in Elven custom. It collided with
my memories of the Eldsaga. Part of me wanted to dismiss this longing as nothing more than lust. Though
the blue-grey homespun gown she wore was meant for riding and woods-walking, it nonetheless flattered
her. Broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist and flat stomach. Her hips curved into long tegs,
and as the breeze molded the skirts to her legs, I could see by her muscles that she was no soft palace
creature.

 Another part of me screamed that any thoughts, any wild fantasies I might construct around us, were
sheer insanity. Though she appeared to be ten years my Junior in age, she had to be centuries older than I
was. I could be of no more interest to her than a child is to me. The fact that I was her brother's friend
meant she noticed me. To expect anything beyond that, to dare interpret any sign as something significant,
would lead to my death and her disgrace.

 All the while these thoughts battled back and forth through my brain, my smile grew. I knew two things
as absolute truths that I accepted as easily as I accepted the certainty of the dawn or of my bleeding
when cut. The first was that I had met my vitamoresti and that I was doomed by our meeting. The second
was that the only thing that could save me would be her turning away and rejecting me.

If she did that, I knew I would go mad, but madness I could handle.

Her smile grew in counterpart to mine, and I knew I was lost.

 Aarundel slapped me on the shoulder. "Despite his lack of elocution, Larissa, Neal is a very intelligent
and entertaining man. And a warrior without human equal."

 "So I would expect of a warrior who succeeded in defeating death and wresting Divisator from
Jammaq." She bowed her head respectfully, breaking eye contact for the first time. "I am honored to
meet you, Custos Sylvanii."

 Her looking down released me from whatever spell had paralyzed my brain, body, and tongue—and I
marked her strength at having been able to look away. "The honor is mine, Doma Larissa," I clipped my
words off as I killed the urge to step forward to take her hand and raise it to my lips. I wanted to say
something else, to compliment her, but our races stood so far apart that even the most innocent comment,
offered lightly as a jest, could be taken as a mortal insult.

While my restraint pleased me, it was made all that more difficult by the realization that Larissa had
unconsciously freed her right hand from the basket she carried to permit me the common courtesy of
kissing her hand. She shifted the half-filled basket from her left hand to right forearm and refused to look
up at me. Instead she shifted her gaze to the side, then up and back to look at Aarundel.

 "Our kith and kin await you at Woodspire, my brother." She smiled at him and nodded toward Marta.
"Go, the two of you. Take my horse so you both may ride. I will conduct Neal to the city."

 For all the caution Aarundel had shown in speaking to me of the consequences of contact with a
sylvanesti, he abandoned his sister to me without a second thought, I could not blame him, for Marta's
presence distracted him greatly. Moreover, he saw Larissa as his sister, making the mistake of placing
her in a gender other than female. I had seen that problem with all manner of males, and I dearly wished
Aarundel would not fall prey to it, because I was not certain I was worthy of the trust he was showing in
me.

 As Aarundel and Marta mounted up and rode off down the road leading deeper into the woods of
Cygestolia, I turned to watch them depart. "Your brother is very fortunate. He has a beautiful fiancee and
a kind, considerate sister."

 "Considerate?" She laughed lightly, likewise turning to watch them ride away from us. "You draw
conclusions from very little evidence, Custos Sylvanii."

 My eyes sharpened as I looked down. "I don't believe so, Lady Larissa. You spoke to your brother in
Mantongue, even adopting words that are not derived from the Sylvan language, to send him off. You
referred to your family home as Woodspire, when I know it is more properly rendered Conussilva. And
you refer to me as Elfward, even though the title your brother conferred upon me has not been ratified by
the Consilliarii."

 "You are easily as intelligent as my brother has reported." Again she laughed throatily. "And as intelligent
as Finndali has often complained you are."

 "Not really intelligence, my Lady, just animal cunning." I smiled, not daring to face her. "If you wish, I will
carry the basket for you on our walk."

"That is a kind offer."

 She started to extend it toward me, but I shook my head. "It will be a pleasure to serve you, but I have
been well warned about my conduct. Perhaps if you set the basket down and step away from it, I can
save both of us difficulties."

 Larissa did as I requested, moving away from the basket with a fluid elegance that threatened to birth
fantasies about the two of us moving together so effortlessly. I reached down, scooped the woven basket
up by its wooden handle, and smiled. "I'll try not to touch any of the plants you have gathered lest I make
them unclean."

"Your grasp of our traditions is admirable."

I laughed. "Some things were made admirably clear to me on the journey here."
"Excellent." She paced beside me, easily matching her strides to mine. "Then you have a full
understanding of why we, you and I, are doomed beyond any hope of redemption."

 Her statement, made so conversationally as to have been a remark about the sunny day, took my breath
away. I stopped dead in my tracks and shook my head. I doubted that I had heard her words, deathly
afraid that whatever she had actually said had been translated into what I had wanted to hear in my head.
"I beg your pardon."

She walked on past me, then looked back over her shoulder. "When were you born, Neal Roclawzi?"

I blinked and started after her. "Thirty-five years ago."

"The date, what was the day?"

 I shivered. "Midsummer's Eve, beneath the Triangle." At my birth all three moons had been full and
arranged so the smallest stood midway between, and above, the other two. That omen, which occurred
only once in every two and a half centuries, had been taken for ill or good depending upon which
soothsayer had spoken last. Many, Aarundel included, had used it as a sign that I was marked for
greatness, but I generally considered it a fell sign.

Larissa nodded slightly, sunlight riding the waves in her golden hair. "We share that, then, though my
nativity came two hundred and fifty years before your own."

I arched an eyebrow at her back. "Is that why . . . ?"

 She shrugged and waited for me. "It could well be the reason we are doomed, but I doubt it is the
reason we have been brought together." Larissa smiled carefully, thoughtfully, and clasped her hands
together over her stomach. "What you felt, Neal, when you saw me was but an echo of what I felt when I
saw you."

 "How? How is it possible?" I gestured wildly with my arms, spilling half the basket's contents. I squatted
immediately and started to gather things up, and Larissa did the same. "I am a Man and you are
sylvanesti! This cannot be."

She shook her head. "Even the Eldsaga tells of unions between Elf andMan. "

"Rape and lust have nothing to do with love."

 "True, but if those can exist, why not love?" She caught me with her eyes again, and I could not muster a
counter to her argument. "And if love can exist, why not the greatest of love, why not vitamor?"

 I broke away from her stare, then found myself watching her delicate, long-fingered hands plucking
leaves and flowers from the road dust. I longed to reach out, to hold her hands in mine. Inside I found
myself willing to die for that pleasure, but utterly unwilling to destroy her with my selfishness.

And in that I found the proof that she was absolutely correct in her reasoning.

 "No, no, this cannot be happening." I stood, my fists clenched in frustration and disbelief. "You cannot
feel anything for me. I amMan. I am Roclawzi!"

"Why can you, a Roclawzi, feel something for me, and not the reverse?" Larissa rose as well, leaving the
basket on the ground between us. "My people rode yours down. You should hate me."

"You did not ride with them; you were not yet born at the time of the Eldsaga." I shook my head. "I have
no reason to hate you."

 She smiled triumphantly. "If you have no reason to hate me, then I have no reason to hate you." She
raked her hair back and across, away from her face. "In you I find the greatest love."

 Conflicting emotions raced back and forth through me. I felt the buoyant euphoria that comes with love,
and part of me wanted to sweep her up in my arms regardless of the consequences. I realized I had
begun to cycle through the same desire from which I had broken free moments before, so I ruthlessly
overrode it. Even so, as when all the water is scooped from a muddy hole, bright and cheerful emotions
slowly started filtering back into me. Before I filled again, I possessed a clarity of mind that I determined
to employ immediately, before it was lost to me.

 "Lady Larissa," I began slowly as I bent to retrieve the basket, "you must see how impossible this is.
Even if I allow that what I feel is not some residue of the remarkable journey I have taken, and even if I
allow that you feel what I do, that we, together, feel what your brother and Marta feel for each other, our
situation is hopeless."

She nodded in agreement quite emotionlessly. "This I do see, Neal of the Roclaws. I also see I cannot
deny what has passed between us."

 I shook my head. Somehow we both moved into the eye of the emotional storm surrounding us. As we
walked through the forest toward Cygestolia, the world around us melted away. I found myself aware of
nothing save her words, her face, the rustle of her gown as she walked along. Even as those things
enchanted me, I stripped away all but the cold logic of our conversation, and I wrestled with it as if
grappling with some abstraction of Dreel fury.

 "I want to know you, Larissa, learn about you. I want everything promised by your smile and the fire in
your eyes. I want to know what makes you laugh and cry. I want to know how you can view this with
such calm, and I want to know how your strength can keep me from going mad." I laughed briefly,
forcing tension from me and into the sound. "I want the knowledge of you that I have of myself, and while
the thought of succeeding in my quest to gain it pleases me, I dread that success."

"Because of the consequences imposed by Sylvan law?"

 "No." I felt a chill run down my spine. "No, because I am afraid I would lose myself in you and our
cultures would destroy us."

Larissa reached out and caught the handle of the basket. "Then you know my fear. And you know my
hopes."

 Though mere inches separated our hands, and our fingers could have touched without effort, almost by
accident, neither one of us made that accident happen. I realized in that instant that what we were talking
about was more than sexual. It was more than just lust or emotional hunger. Without knowing how I
knew it, I recognized in Larissa another part of me. She was my complement. It felt as if the gods had
torn us apart eons ago. They cast her into a sylvanesti body born beneath the Midsummer's Eve Triangle,
and then, as an afterthought, they planted me in a Rociawzi body born under the same sign centuries
later. Whether by malice to ensure our destruction, or by compassion, thinking we would never meet,
they had kept us apart.
And now, united by chance, yet other things conspired to keep us apart.

 The realization that I wanted more than mere physical union with her set aside carnal desires. I wanted
all that she was, which meant that physical concerns amounted to only a small portion of what I meant to
explore. Once I knew her emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually, then the other would and could be
important. Indulging sexual urges would have parted us once again, and I determined, at that moment,
that nothing and no one would ever do that while I had breath in my lungs and blood in my veins.

I glanced over at her and smiled. "I'm thinking we are in serious trouble."

"More so than you know." She returned my smile, and my heart felt ready to burst. "Until this day I have
been sleepwalking through my life. Now I am awake and alive."

Nervous, giddy laughter exploded from me. "Exactly."

 Her smile shrank a bit into a satisfied smirk, then she bowed her head and extended her left hand
forward. "It is my pleasure, Neal Roclawzi, to present to you the city ofCygestolia ."

 I have no doubt, given the way my heart beat in my chest and my smile peaked up near my eyes, that
anything she had shown me would have been magnificent. The Sylvan metropolis exceeded that by a
league or three. As ugly and forbidding as was Jammaq, so did Cygestolia feel sacred enough to have
been the womb of the world itself.

 The city stretched down and out through a wooded, serpentine valley. Flashing like a quicksilver ribbon,
a crystalline stream bisected the valley north and south, yet pooled into an azure lake in the center.
Islands studded the lake and provided enough ground to support huge, ancient trees. While I did see
stones of all sizes, shapes, and hues throughout the landscape, none had been used as building material.
They were decoration, and rare was the rock that was not home to moss or a flowering plant growing
from a crevasse or recess.

 In the coastal jungles of Najinda I had seen villages built on stilts and others constructed high in the
jungle bowers. Until I saw Cygestolia, I had thought of the Najindese as living in the trees. I immediately
realized I had been far too generous in my thoughts, for the Najindese lived among the trees.

 The Elves lived in the trees and with the trees. A dark-green canopy covered entirely the city precincts
on either wall of the valley. The canopy broke over the stream and around the lake, allowing for enough
sunlight to strike the lake shore and promote some agriculture. The island-based trees all grew together
to form a green mushroom structure over the center of the lake. Long branches on the central trees grew
out like spokes from the island hub and joined with similar branches from the trees on the valley walls.

 From where I stood everything seemed normally proportioned; then I noticed people walking along the
branches, passing high above the lake's mirror surface, from the island outward and vice versa. At that
point I realized I had misjudged the whole city, for it was much larger and more titanic than I had first
imagined. Whereas among the Najindese a tree would house a single family, the entire population of
Aurium could have taken refuge in just one of the Cygestolian giants.

 Larissa gestured toward the city casually, as if dismissing the vision, though I caught the way pride in it
lifted her chin. "It may look a thicket to you, Neal, but it is simple to navigate. Trees, as you can see, are
grouped in districts, as befits good growth, and are named after their most prominent feature. Conussilva,
for example, is located in the Seven Pines district."
"Pinusseptem. Aarundel told me." I smiled. "The city is gorgeous."

 I followed one branch as it led back into the trunk. Side branches provided a screen of foliage, but I saw
where an Elf entered through a hole in the bark. Above and below that level I saw other openings and
spied Elves moving through the trees like a line of ants. If each tree housed only a dozen Elves, there had
to be hundreds of thousands of them, and that seemed all the more remarkable because they all gathered
in this one spot instead of, as Men and the Reithrese had done, spreading out over the face of the world.

Larissa tugged on the basket. "We should go on to Woodspire. Your arrival was not expected, but it
was not unanticipated. We have lodging for you and even for the Dreel."

 I looked around to see if Shijef had been following us, but I did not see him. As I turned back to face
the city, a half-dozen hooded Sylvan warriors slipped from the brush before us. Larissa did not seem
concerned and did not release the basket, so I let it go. The Elves bore longbows and two had arrows
nocked. One of the Elves stepped forward as the others spread out in a semicircle behind him. His face
hidden by the hood, the leader said something in Elven, and I recognized it as a challenge from the tone,
though the words meant nothing to me.

 Larissa laughed and let the basket swing innocently in her right hand as she approached the leader.
"Who am I? I would have thought the answer to that question would be obvious to you."

 The leader nodded toward Larissa and allowed her to approach him as he turned and challenged me
again. "What Man dares enter Cygestolia?"

 I smiled, perhaps too broadly—like a newbeard-boy trying to impress his first love—and let a growl
enter my voice. "I am Neal Roclawzi, Leader of the Steel Pack, Killer of Tashayul, Bearer of Divisator
and named Custos Sylvanii by Aarundel Imperator. I have come as his guest for his marriage."

"Beneath the grime you are hard to recognize." The leader bowed his head. "You may pass, Neal
Roclawzi."

 Larissa, having reached the leader's side, frowned impatiently. "So formal? That's hardly like you." She
reached up and tugged down his hood. Fine black hair framed a face I thought I recognized. "He is a
guest, treat him as such."

I squinted at the Elven leader. "Imperator Finndali?"

 He nodded and Larissa laughed. "Yes, Neal, this Sylvan warrior suddenly struck dumb is Finndali.
Imperator and"—her eyes flashed dangerously at me—"he who is my husband."

 Chapter 11:
Intrigues In The City

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

THOUGH THEY ARRIVED back in Aurdon near midnight, the Fisher estate appeared as active and
alive as if it were midday. This struck Genevera as odd until Berengar pointed out that farmers had begun
to bring in shipments of winter wheat that required warehousing, resale, and shipment to points
downriver. "Commerce seldom allows one time to rest."

Gena nodded. "An idle merchant is a starving merchant."

"Bravo!" Berengar helped her down from Spirit. "You are recovered from the ordeal?"

"I am, my lord, thank you." She half curtsied to him. "Shall we take the gunne to Durriken?"

 Berengar frowned for a moment. "I am certain Durriken would prefer, at this hour, after this absence, to
greet you in private. I must report to my father and uncles what we have seen and done. If you wish, we
can delay his examination of the weapon until morning."

"Can we afford the delay?"

 "You are correct, of course. It might be unwise to take that liberty. An hour, then?" Berengar smiled
encouragingly as they mounted the steps to the mansion entrance. "That would allow me to escape my
kin after a short time, which I would prefer to do. Awakening them will not put them in a good humor,
and I doubt the news will improve their disposition."

"An hour, then." Gena turned and worked her way through the building's maze of corridors to the door
of her chamber. She knocked lightly, first twice, then once, then three times, in a signal pattern that
Durriken had taught her. She waited a heartbeat or two after the end of the knocking, then opened the
door.

Durriken sat in the bed, one candle burning, with a flashdrake propped on a sheet-shrouded knee and
pointed at the door. As she entered, he tipped the weapon toward the ceiling. "It is good that you
knocked, for I had fallen asleep waiting for you."

"I know better than to surprise you in your sleep."

 "Especially here in Aurdon, for there are many, many surprises about." He set the flashdrake down on
the bedside table and folded the sheet back on her half of the bed. "Was your ride of interest?"

 "I believe you would consider it 'remarkable.' " Gena swung the door shut, then crossed to one of the
chairs and leaned heavily on it. "Count Berengar will be here within the hour to show you a longgunne
taken from a Haladin raider."

"Are you hurt?" Rik stood and swirled the sheet around himself, looping it around his body and up over
his right shoulder. "One raider implies many more."

 "A dozen, and, no, I am not hurt, though I am still a bit tired." She came around and sat down. She said
nothing as Rik poured her a cup of wine, then pulled a chair up and sat facing her with their knees
touching. Gena obligingly drank, then set the cup down on the table. "I cast spells in haste and suffered
for it."

"From the beginning, Gena."

 She sat back and drank again, then told Rik all about the journey and the ambush. She sensed an
irritation in Rik whenever she mentioned Berengar, but she knew him better than to imagine it to be
jealousy. Rik managed to remain near neutral as she described the elaborate lengths to which the Count
had gone to keep the goal of their expedition secret. His attitude definitely soured as she described the
ambush.

"Berengar should have been more watchful."

 Gena shrugged. "This is true, but we were to link up with Waldo and his people at the camp. When we
arrived, it appeared that Haladina had departed quickly when they discovered Waldo's men in the area."

"Only to double back and ambush you."

"Which is not Berengar's fault." Gena took Rik's hands in her own. "He was as much at risk as the rest
of us—more, since they devoted nearly half their force to killing him."

 "That does put a different complexion on things." Rik sat back, slipping his hands from her grasp. His left
arm went around his chest and his right hand cupped his chin. "There is more going on here in Aurdon
than Berengar has told us, I think. I had thought him the person orchestrating things, but this indicates he
is but a pawn and expendable."

"What do you mean?"

 Rik leaned forward again and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I went about in Aurdon
today, into the lower rings. I wandered and listened a great deal. It seems, from what I heard bandied
about among those who are not Fishers or Riverens, the battling between the two clans is cyclical. It
usually begins as some sort of trade war, with each side undercutting the other until one begins to bleed
gold. At that point the tactics escalate into sabotage. That means anything from arson to thievery.
Everyone knows who is doing it and why it is being done, and the families are scrupulous in seeing to it
that no one gets hurt physically."

Gena made no attempt to conceal her surprise. "I thought Men set great store in the saying, 'Cut off the
head and the snake dies.' "

 "Oh, we do, but both families greatly fear Neal's intervention. Berengar didn't tell us the half of the
difficulties assassins have had over the years. Each one of the cycles eventually rises to the point where
someone tries to kill someone else. The would-be murderer always runs afoul of his own plans, and Neal
is always implicated. I think, now, that they look for Neal a bit too hard, hence they see his ghost in
everything. If a bird flew over and a feather fell from a wing and caused the murderer to die of a sneezing
fit, someone would note that some story had Neal possessing or shooting or admiring a bird like that."

"They find obscure facts to justify their fears."

 "So it seems. These cycles tend to run one per generation and a half. In that time, enough people forget
the consequences of the last one, and enough new people have come of age to imagine they can be just
that one step smarter than any of their ancestors."

Gena frowned. "Do you think that is what Berengar is doing?"

 "I don't know. I thought it possible, but two factors play against it. The first is the fact that he could have
died in the ambush. He is no fool, and if he were as ambitious as those before him, he would never have
put himself in the sort of danger he faced today. Moreover, he never would have allowed you, his key to
success, to be risked."
 Rik narrowed his eyes. "That line of thinking, of course, is new. What had made me think Berengar is
being truthful is that the Riverens really are trading with the Haladina. There is a small Haladin section of
town, and trade there is brisk. The Riverens hit upon a strategy that works perfectly for both the
Haladina and themselves. The Riverens brought a number of Haladin artisans into the city and set them to
the task of creating Haladin fabrics and jewelry with new fibers and materials. Whereas the Haladina had
never seen silk before, their people are working with it now. As a result you can purchase a silk cloak
woven and colored in traditional Haladin ways."

Gena smiled. "They have created a unique item that the Haladina themselves cannot produce on their
own."

 "And which Centisian artisans cannot easily match. The Riverens then gave a great deal of these
products to their trading partners up and down the river. Because the items were rare and bestowed as
gifts, they had an added value. They became very fashionable and highly sought after. The Riverens
started selling these new wares and have a very hungry audience waiting for them.

 "The net result is that the Riverens are slowly outstripping the Fishers. While the families were equal and
united, Neal's vow helped maintain the balance. The alliance with the Haladina has given the Riverens an
advantage. If the Riverens were to tell their trading partners that they will get no more Haladin wares
unless they stop trading with the Fishers, the Fishers would be badly hurt."

"Why haven't the Riverens done this already?"

 Rik spread both of his hands wide and shrugged. "I don't know. I believe Neal may be part of it—a
couple of the Riveren elders are real metaphysicians, and they are arguing that cutting the Fishers off from
trade would kill them, unleashing Neal's wrath upon the family. I suspect the Riverens will slowly start to
cut off trade in small towns first and see what happens."

 Gena finished the last of her wine, savoring the dryness. "If the Riverens are being that cautious with
trade tactics, would they be pushing the Haladina to raid throughout Centisia?"

 "That question assumes that the Riverens control the Haladina. The Haladina may be one people, but
they spend more time fighting each other than they do fighting outsiders. The fact that Haladina are living
in Aurdon may just have reminded others that the world does not end at the edge of their desert. While it
is persuasive to suggest that the Haladina are raiding to help their kinsmen in the city, I have no evidence
of that. Tomorrow, on the other hand, may change that whole situation."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm going to look around in the Haladin district."

Dread coiled in her stomach. "Is that wise?"

 "I am not worried." He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at the bedside table. "The Haladin
community is quite peaceful, and I have my flashdrakes to keep me out of trouble." He brought his hand
down and tapped the ring Berengar had given him against the table. "And I even have the rank needed to
keep them."

"I hope both keep you safe."
 "I'd trust more in the flashdrakes than this rank." Rik smiled carefully. "Lord Orvir died in a riding
accident four years ago. It happened about the time the Riverens had started trading with the Haladina.
The Fishers claim he broke his neck when his horse didn't make it over a stone fence. They say he was
being pursued by Haladin raiders. Others say he was riding away from Neal's ghost, an idea which
carries with it a whole host of complications."

Gena reached out and caressed his cheek with her right hand. "You will be careful?"

Rik kissed her palm. "More so than you can even imagine."

 A knock at the door interrupted what might otherwise have ended up in bed. As Gena rose to answer
the door, Rik left through the passage into the adjoining suite. Swinging the door wide open, she invited
Berengar in and waved him to a chair. "Wine?"

 "No, thank you." The count looked around the room as he sat down, then rested the longgunne on the
table. "Durriken is here, yes?"

 Before she could reply, Rik returned from the other room wearing a pair of breeches and carrying a
small cylindrical canvas parcel. "Good evening, my Lord." Rik set the parcel on the table and untied the
string binding it shut. As he unrolled it, the weak candlelight reflected brightly from the silvery tools he
revealed.

 Gena lit and brought two candles to the table as Rik picked the gunne up and examined it. "There is a
charge in the barrel, Rik. I quenched the fire with a spell."

 "Ah, so it did work!" Setting the weapon down, Rik pulled a small flat-bladed screwdriver from one of
the canvas pockets in his tool kit. Using it like a pry bar, he worked it under the strip of metal running
over the barrel and around the stock. Warping the metal slightly, he managed to ease the band forward
to where the stock narrowed; then it came off easily.

 Rik asked Berengar to anchor the stock. Carefully jiggling the barrel, Rik loosened it and slid it from the
groove cut into the stock. Keeping it tipped up so none of the powder would spill out, he freed it from
the stock and indicated with a nod that the count could return the stock to the table. Rik lowered the
barrel to the floor, muzzle first, and leaned it against the table.

 He exchanged his screwdriver for a wooden probe that had been whittled flat at one end. He dug it into
the breech end of the barrel and smiled. "Most of the charge is here. You worked very quickly, Gena."

"She saved my life."

"Possibly."

"I saw what happened. There is no question of it."

 Rik nodded as he dug some of the unburned powder out of the barrel and placed it in the palm of his left
hand. "Coarse ground and poorly mixed, with too much charcoal and not enough nitre." He flicked his
hand toward one of the candles, and the mixture flashed as it flew through the flame. A white thread of
smoke rolled up toward the ceiling while a few sparks landed on the other side of the candle. "At the
range Gena described, the bullet would have hit you, but not terribly hard."

"You mean it might have gone halfway through, not all the way?"
"Exactly."

"Forgive me if I do not find that much comfort."

Rik laughed. "Forgive me for being so callous. I have undertaken a study of what effects flashdrakes
have on their targets." He ran his thumbnail around inside the rim of the breech. "Just as well he had poor
powder, the metal has started to fracture. One full charge or two and this gunne would have exploded."

Berengar smiled and looked up at Gena. "Is that not what I told you?"

"It is indeed, my lord."

"Which is precisely why we restrict these things here in Aurdon." The count tapped a finger against the
gunne's silver butt-cap. "I gather you are not impressed with this weapon?"

 "I believe you have archers who are more of a threat than anyone armed with one of these. It is poorly
made and poorly supplied with powder. It is likely more a status symbol among the Haladina than
anything else. Its being found in the possession of a Haladin raider would not alarm me, especially"—Rik
nodded toward Gena—"with so able a mage as an ally."

The count smiled in agreement. "I already owe her my life. If things go as planned, my family and Aurdon
will be in her debt as well."

Chapter 12:
A City That Intrigues

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 LARISSA'S STATEMENT CAUGHT me by surprise and, in retrospect, should have sunk into my
heart like a dagger. I am not entirely certain why it did not. I would have thought the giddy feeling in my
chest would vanish, sucked down into a sinkhole of pain, but that did not happen. The good feeling
lingered, blunted a bit, but still there, nourished by Larissa's smile and utter lack of deceptiveness.

 A philosopher or poet would likely go on about his emotional turmoil, or agonize over the lack of same,
were he in my position. I had already determined that we would never consummate our love. That
physical union was unimportant to me and avoiding it the only way I could be certain that I would live and
she would not be exiled by her own people. In light of such considerations, the fact that she was married
made no difference at all. In fact, her marriage might even allow her greater freedom, since the idea that
she would cuckold an Imperator with a Man had to be an outside possibility in the Sylvan mind.

 I must also admit that the idea that Finndali's wife loved me was intriguing. Finndali and I lost no love
upon each other, so any discomfort he felt when his wife was in my company would not bother me at all.
If it ever turned out that I did not survive long enough to give Finndali an accounting of my scars, the scar
that Larissa's love for me might leave on his heart would have to suffice as my revenge.
 That sounds all cold and calculated. In fact all these thoughts flashed through my brain like ghosts
through a haunted castle. Given my exhaustion and the fierce power of love for Larissa, the world had
taken on an unreality that made me wonder if everything was a dream or a nightmare.

 Larissa gave me no time for wondering. "Come along, Custos Sylvanii, you are awaited at Woodspire."
She waved her left hand idly at the line of soldiers, and they parted like light drapes before a breeze. I
smiled at Finndali, took away a scowl in the exchange, and followed Larissa.

A few steps beyond the line I caught up with her again. "I am surprised Finndali Imperator remembers
me. We have met only a time or three, and the last meeting must have been a decade ago."

 "The impression you created on those occasions has kept you fresh in his mind. In the same way, my
brother's association with you—an obligation from which he was released after Tashayul's death—has
caused a great deal of curiosity about you." She smiled easily as we moved into the towering groves that
were Cygestolia. "There are those who believe you a powerful magus who has ensorcelled my brother
into slavery."

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe my brother is shrewd in his judgments of Men and fortunate in his choice of friends."

 Our conversation lapsed as we strolled into the city itself. Within its confines I learned the true immensity
of the settlement. Trees bigger around than Man-castles predominated, and the city existed on a number
of levels. Those whose occupations demanded easy access to the ground—farmers, herders, and
soldiers, for example—were ensconced no more than thirty yards up. So the divisions progressed every
thirty yards or so, with ascetics, philosophers, artists, and the mad dwelling so high up that their homes
swayed in the breeze and brushed the moons at night.

When we reached Woodspire, it occurred to me that each of the massive trees was akin to a
Man-lord's castle and the surrounding village, but instead of being spread out, it spread up and beyond.
The other trees in that sector of the city were further holdings of the family who ruled the area, just as
other villages within a fief were owned by the lord in charge of the county or barony.

 We entered Woodspire at an opening between two roots. The narrow entrance belied the enormity of
the hollow within the tree. Inside, in a wooden cavern that towered a good twenty feet above the ground,
horses had been stabled and even some pigs had been penned. Elves moved to and fro from the tree's
core. Around the edges of the cavern, where the floor had been dug down about ten feet below ground
level outside, I saw tunnels into which grooms and swineherds were carting manure, presumably to help
sustain Woodspire.

 As we entered, I wondered how such a huge tree could survive with such a hollow at its base, but a
moment's observation answered that question for me. The first thing I saw was that a central cylinder
rose from the earth to support the heart of the tree. Since trees grow from the heart out, as long as the
center had not been worked or worn away, the tree could continue living and growing. Given the size of
Woodspire, the hollow's presence clearly had not hurt it.

 The tree's exterior had the normal amount of bark one would expect on a titanic pine. The interior
surface of the tree had developed a thinner, almost transparent bark that sealed and protected it. The
faint stickiness I felt when I ran my hand over it made me mindful of sap or varnish, and the inner bark
also reminded me of birch-bark because of how it curled up in a couple of spots.
 Larissa noticed my interest in the tree's interior surface as we walked toward the central core. "The trees
are maintained by two groups; the woodwives and woodwrights. The former use their skills to heal
damage done by pest, storm, or disease to the trees. With their skills and magicks they help the tree
repair itself. The woodwrights shape the tree and coax it into all manner of shapes and configurations.
Where a stonemason might carve a gargoyle from a block of stone, a woodwright facilitates growth into
that same sort of pattern."

As she spoke, we drew closer to the central core of the tree. "Woodspire is two thousand years old and
has been possessed by my family for all that time. It is not the eldest of holdings in Cygestolia, but it is
one of the most elegant." She smiled carefully. "And the first to host aMan. "

 She stopped before one of many cylinders faintly visible through the crystal-bark. Where she touched
the core, a dark circle began to spread out. It grew as wide as the cylinder, then extended up and down
about half again that distance, forming a lozenge-shaped opening into the cylinder. Above and below,
floor and ceiling, I saw amber disks. She stepped through the opening and onto a disk and I followed her
example. Despite the cramped surroundings I managed to refrain from touching her.

 Larissa caressed the interior of the cylinder, and it closed down. I immediately began to feel
uncomfortable and cramped—though her presence did render the experience tolerable. When the
opening closed completely, I felt a lurch, then we slowly began to move upward. Raising my right arm, I
rapped a knuckle against the ceiling, then smiled at Larissa. "This is crystallized pitch."

She nodded, with a sly grin on her lips. "As your body has veins and arteries, so a tree has tubes through
which sap moves up and down. Woodwife magick makes it possible to move within these tubes. We do
have a stairway worked in the bark on the outside, but I thought you would find this more interesting."

"Indeed." I stood up again. "So are you a woodwife?"

"No, though there is nothing ignoble about that profession. My gifts are directed elsewhere—I am a
healer."

"Of animals?"

 "Of living creatures, though I prefer mammals to lizards and fish. Had I been there when you collected
any of your wounds, you would not have scarred."

 "Ah, but I collect scars the way others collect scalps or prizes. They are my mementii hellicus. When it
takes time to heal, one has more to remember." I shrugged. "Besides, were you to touch me to heal me, I
would be slain, so your handiwork would be wasted."

"Your point is well-taken." She laughed lightly. "I will then offer my skills only if your horse or the Dreel
needs them."

"Your generosity is most kind and welcome."

 Our ascent through the tree slowed and stopped. Another hole opened in the tube to allow us egress.
When we left it, the cylinder in which we had traveled slowly dissolved. The ceiling liquefied and
descended toward the floor. It melted away and rose up. Between them the twin liquid fronts expelled
the air from the tube. The inner bark sealed itself over, and I found myself in a circular chamber with a
slightly rounded floor and a towering dome vault above.
 Lozenge doorways opened out of the two chamber walls, defined on either side by dark bands within
the wood. I knew that they allowed access to other chambers within the flesh of the tree, because I
would have to cross against growth-ring lines to reach the exterior, whereas moving with them as they
curved through the wood would keep me on the same ring within the tree.

 The woodwright's art is reflected in the two dominant features of Sylvan architecture. Curves are
everywhere. While a Man would have created a room as a square, here they were shaped from circles
and cylinders, ovoids and capsules. The same sort of twists and curves that gnarl trees are reflected in the
curious branching of corridors or eccentric curves of alcoves and hideaways. As I followed Larissa from
the entry chamber through the turns of the corridors, I marveled at the artistry of the woodwright who
had shaped it, but I was thinking that I was being worked deep into a maze I could never unravel.

 Woodwrights shape both the flesh of the tree in which they live and wood that is used for furnishings.
Because of this it is possible to find in a white-pine chamber a full set of redwood furnishings. Woods are
even fitted together so that a cherry panel provides trim, or oak defines a doorway in a cedar home.
And, again, woodwrights are not limited to simple concerns of functionality: ebony and cedar might easily
be combined to create a tiger stalking through a room. All those decorations for which men use paint,
woodwrights accomplish with a rainbow of woods.

 Nowhere did I see metal worked into the wood for utilitarian or decorative purposes. Shelving and
hinges were grown in. Except where a polished silver mirror hung in an alcove or an object of antiquity
stood on a pedestal grown up out of the floor, all the metal I saw came in the form of jewelry on the
Elves.

 Interior lighting came from small alcoves and channels at the upper reaches of the walls, where luminous
mosses glowed and splashed their light across the ceiling. In larger chambers the same mosses were
grown behind thin veneers of wood to illuminate designs or just to provide more light. While I did not feel
any heat from the light, the whole dwelling place felt warm.

 Larissa led me to a grand chamber easily ten yards high and half again that wide. Vaulting arches linked
fluted columns grown out of the walls, providing an illusory strength that made me comfortable. I knew
that the whole tree was quite solid, but seeing features that I easily recognized both put me at ease and
made me wonder, somehow, if they had been produced for my benefit. Given the way they would have
to have been created, I decided they were not created for me alone.

 That thought collided with another immediately. Larissa said I was the first Man to set foot in Cygestolia.
I had no doubt she had told the truth, which meant her family had planned, at some point, to create a
room that a Man would find familiar. The only reason to do that would be to welcome a Man into their
home. This made them unlike most Elves, but I knew that from my association with both Aarundel and
Larissa.

 A trio of Elves waited in the room to greet me. Larissa set her basket down on an oaken table, then
curtsied formally. She spoke to them in Elven first, then turned toward me and smiled. "These are my
parents: Thralan Consilliarii and my lady-mother Ashenah. And that is my grandfather, Lomthelgar."

I bowed to Ashenah first, then to the two Sylvans. I took a chance and bowed to Lomthelgar first, then
Larissa's father. The older Sylvan chuckled and commented in Elven, but I could not understand him.
Thralan returned my bow formally, then smiled at me.

"The respect you have shown my father reflects well upon you."
"It is but a fraction of the respect I hold for Aarundel."

 It took both of them a moment to decipher what I said. Their not being used to Mantongue was less a
problem than my using the name Aarundel to refer to their son and grandson. Because of the magick
inherent in names, and the magickal trouble that can be wrought if one knows a person's name, Elves
who travel the world, or who traffick with people outside their own family, adopt a new name for their
journeys and affairs. That much Aarundel had told me, but he had not revealed to me his true name. In
fact, I did not even know his family name.

 Aarundel's parents looked to be only slightly older than Larissa and her brother. Their flesh appeared as
seamless as Larissa's, and neither her father's golden hair nor the jet-black of her mother showed any
hints of white creeping in. Their age, which I put at five centuries, only revealed itself in their calm grace
and formality.

 I would not have known even where to begin to look for signs of physical aging were it not for the
presence of Lomthelgar. His skin had started to take on the consistency of crystal-bark. The lines in his
face gathered around the corners of his eyes and stacked up on his forehead, though an unruly mop of
iron-gray hair half hid many of them. His dark eyes remained bright and watched me carefully, but I
sensed no suspicion or distrust in his attention.

 Thralan nodded easily after a moment. "Our son is quite impressed with you—as evidenced by his
bringing you here. This room will be yours to use during your stay here. The daybed there in the corner
should serve you well. Behind the screen is the lavabrium, where you may attend to your personal
needs."

"Thank you."

 Ashenah smiled graciously at me. "We will leave you now so you may sleep. We know how tiring travel
can be."

"You are most kind."

 As they left the room, the weight of weariness crushed down upon me. I dragged myself over to the
daybed and tugged my boots off. I lay down for just a moment, because I fully intended to wash before
sleeping, but found I could not rise again. Sleep came swiftly, and I surrendered to it heart and soul.

His breath only slightly sweeter than when we left Aurium, Shijef awakened me. "They come." I heard
no urgency in his voice, but his prodding me with Cleaveheart's hilt suggested trouble.

I shook my head to clear away the last of the sleep-dregs. "How did you get here?"

 "Here you were, here I came. Climbed, did I." Suddenly self-conscious, he chewed at some sap matting
fur between the pads of his left forepaw. "At the master's feet the slave is supposed to be. And bring
things."

 Concerned by the fact that in my half-awake state Dreel logic made sense, I sat up just in time for
Ashenah and Lomthelgar to enter the room. The old Elf immediately dropped to his haunches to study
the Dreel at eye level, while Ashenah looked at me above both of them. "You must prepare yourself.
You are to appear before the Consilliarii." When I did not move immediately, she added, "My son needs
you."
 I vaulted over Shijef's shoulder and slipped behind the screen Thralan had indicated earlier. In the small
cylindrical enclosure I found a pedestal topped with a basin of water, a larger wooden cistern suitable for
bathing, and what looked to be an ingrown lidded bucket for collecting night soil. Lifting the lid, I saw the
bucket had a bottom made of amber just as had the conveyance that brought us up from the ground. I
made use of the device, then washed quickly in the basin.

 Returning to my chamber, I found that Ashenah had gone away and the Dreel and Lomthelgar had
reached enough of a rapprochement to allow the elder Elf an opportunity to pick through the luggage the
Dreel had brought for me. Lomthelgar tossed me a blue tunic Aarundel had bought me in Polston and
another pair of trousers.

"Appropriate."

I nodded and quickly dressed myself. "Why the urgency?"

"You are aMan. " He shrugged. "And not aMan. "

Lomthelgar's words came easily enough that I knew he could have spoken volumes, but preferred to
keep his own counsel. "I'm ready. Are you leading the way?"

 "Yes." He popped up to his feet and headed off into the corridor maze with a speed that belied what I
would have expected from someone old enough to be Aarundel's grandfather. Lomthelgar had to be at
least three quarters of a millennium old, yet he moved with the speed of someone much younger. Even
knowing that Elves do not age as do Men, I did not expect to be led by an Elf who forced me to hurry.

 Lomthelgar led me from Woodspire out along a huge branch to where it braided together with another
tree. Elves shied from me as if I were a leper while we passed, but a certain number of them drifted in
our wake as if unable to escape the current of our passage. I found it amusing, and I sensed the old Elf
did as well. Shijef snarled, growled, and barked at those who followed us too closely, which put him in
as happy a state as I had seen since he killed the Haladina in the forest

 We went from one tree to another toward the center of Cygestolia. In no time we passed over the lake
to the trees grown together on the islands. Once through the initial outer foliage screen I could see a
massive bowl-shaped depression in the heart of one tree. Branches led up and out from around it, and
we traveled along one toward it. Other branches had been woven together above and around the circle
to provide for a spectator's gallery, which appeared to be slowly filling.

 Below us Elves crowded the bowl and argued loudly. Had I seen stalls and wares, I would have thought
myself looking at a marketplace. Without evidence of mercantilism, I was left only one other guess. "The
legislatorium?"

Lomthelgar nodded. "It is good that you are such a quick thinker."

"Why?"

"My grandson has announced to the Consilliarii that he has chosen you to be his vindicator. He would
have you stand with him during the nuptial ceremonies."

I frowned. "And that has inspired such a heated debate?"

"No. You see, Neal Roclawzi, the vindicator must dance with the vindicatrix—in this case Larissa. The
dance would require you to touch her." The elder Elf looked down at the assembly. "The debate is over
whether or not they should wait for the crime to occur, or should just kill you now."

Chapter 13:
A Sylvanesti Amid The Councils Of Aurdon

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 AWAKENING ALONE FOR the second time in two days disappointed Gena. After Berengar had left
them, she and Rik had made love. She had felt a desperate need to be with him and to share his strength.
As always he had been kind and attentive and had focused far more on her needs than on meeting his
own. Rik had purposely told her to lie back and ignore him, while making the latter half of that directive
impossible.

 Ecstasy had boiled up and over in her, leaving her flushed and exhausted. She remembered sleepily
having told Rik that she would reciprocate in the morning. He had laughed and hugged her, and she
realized now that he had known how truly tired she was. A glance over at the window showed her the
sun already positioned for midmorning.

Groaning, she closed her eyes again, then pulled Rik's pillow to her. She crushed it to her chest, jamming
her nose down into it to drink in his scent. Her groan shifted to a sigh and ended with a little laugh. "Good
hunting, my hero, and hurry back," she whispered, "for I am in your debt and wish to discharge it
promptly."

A timid knock at the door made Gena pull the sheet up around herself. "Come."

 The seamstress's apprentice Phaelis pushed the door open with a hip as she hefted two steaming
buckets of water into the room. "Begging your pardon, m'lady, but the count was hoping you would be
joining him for a noontide audience with the Fisher Elders?"

 Gena recalled Berengar saying he thought the entire Fisher family council would want to hear her story.
"It would be my pleasure."

"I will inform the count of that, then. And would you be wanting some breakfast, yes?"

"I would."

 Phaelis disappeared back out the door, having left the buckets in the middle of the floor, but Gena only
laughed to herself. While waking up alone was not how she would have preferred to start the day, the
residue of the previous night's lovemaking had left her in a giddy, goofy mood that had been utterly alien
to her life within Cygestolia—and comfortably familiar since her association with Durriken. She knew
many reactionary Elves would have thought her conduct demeaning to all the sylvanesti, and that just
made it that much more attractive.

 Gena labored under no illusions that Rik was somehow her vitamora. Finding a True Love was
considered more of a miracle than anything else, and finding it among Men all but impossible. Having
seen her grandparents together, she suspected that having a vitamora could come close to providing
mood elevation on an almost constant basis. While she assumed she would find that almost intolerable,
the closeness of her grandparents was something she very much hoped she would one day experience.

 She also realized the chances of her dream coming true were small, so she took her pleasure where she
could find it. Because of their long lives and the very real possibility of alienation between partners, Elven
marriages were more for alliances between families than any enshrinement of sentiment. Liaisons between
people who found themselves infatuated with each other were not forbidden, and with children coming by
choice and not by accident, carnal pleasures became a gift to be shared, not property with restrictions
placed upon it.

 Gena knew her relationship with Rik would not last forever. At the very least she would outlive him by
centuries, and that very fact frightened many sylvanesti away from even considering a human as lover.
They saw as a tragedy the investment of emotions in any relationship that might be terminated after only
twenty or thirty years. Gena knew, and Rik had reinforced the idea over and over again, that perspective
might not make twenty years or twenty minutes seem very long, but existing in that place and that time
could make it seem like forever. With Rik she had enjoyed enough "forever" moments to make the
inevitable loss more than worth it.

 Phaelis returned, rolling the bathing cask into the room. She wormed it between the two buckets without
causing them to spill, then set it up in the corner. Emptying the two buckets into it, she nodded and
headed out for more water. She came back quickly enough with more, and after a half-dozen more trips
had filled the cask to a suitable bathing depth.

 Genevera slipped into the bath and allowed the woman to wash her back. As Phaelis did this, she
nattered on about all sorts of court gossip, including the latest news about Lady Martina. Gena made all
the properly attentive noises, which kept Phaelis talking. Though Gena did not really know any of the
people being talked about, she found it fascinating that news of liaisons that would have been treated
matter-of-factly among her people were scandal-fodder among Men.

It is not surprising that some of us find them so venial, so easy to dismiss.

 As Gena dressed, Phaelis went off and prepared her a breakfast. She brought back a small loaf of fresh
bread, some cheese, and two apples that had been put up before the winter. The first apple proved a bit
mealy, so Gena followed it with most of the bread. The second apple tasted better, and she used a bit of
the cheese as spice for it.

 Wearing black breeches and an emerald-green tunic belted at her waist, Gena followed the servant sent
for her by Count Berengar. The man led her through the mansion's hallways and to a large room nearly
twice as long as it was wide. The ceiling, which had frescoes decorating it, rose up to the height of fifteen
feet or so. False arches and marble pillars marked off the side walls in six separate groups, with paintings
depicting mythological battles framed within the sections.

Four tables had been arranged in the room. Three, each eighteen feet in length and made of stout oak,
had been arranged to form half a hexagon facing the door. The last table, which was smaller and made of
darkly stained maple, faced the central table directly. Count Berengar sat at it while older men occupied
places behind the other three.

Berengar stood as Gena entered and pointed her to the chair next to his. "Thank you for coming. I will
need you to verify what I report about our encounter yesterday." He dropped his voice into an apologetic
whisper. "My elders are all sticklers for detail. Last night I spoke with key members, but now everyone
wants to hear what happened. They all know, but all must hear."
"I understand."

Berengar gave her a smile, then turned to face the man seated in the tallest chair. "If it pleases all my
Lords, I have grave news."

The gray-haired, long-bearded man Gena remembered from the reception as being Berengar's
granduncle Kellin nodded. "Proceed."

 "Yesterday, not much past this time, I led Lady Genevera into a Haladin campsite. My cousin Waldo
had preceded us with a patrol, and we found evidence at the campsite of a hasty retreat by the Haladina.
We assumed that Waldo and the Seventh Rangers had scared the raiders off. Unbeknownst to us, the
raiders doubled back and a dozen of them ambushed us. If not for the very powerful magicks Lady
Genevera employed, I would be dead and my men would have died along with me. Because of her
intervention, our forces suffered only minor injuries while slaying all of the Haladina."

 As he spoke, Count Berengar moved in front of the table and imploringly put his case to his Elders.
Gena heard passion in his voice and watched emotions knot his fists. While telling the Elders that she had
saved his life, his tall, strong bearing and swift hand motions left no question that had she not been there,
the Haladina would have paid a dear price for taking his life.

 "There is no question, my Lords, that Haladin activity has continued to increase in Centisia. Lady
Genevera and her companion drove Haladin raiders from a caravan, and we all know that such predation
is more common than any of us would care to admit. We also know that the Riveren's harboring of
Haladina here in Aurdon means that both our enemies have united. The Rrveren are employing the
Haladina to destroy us. This is a technique Neal Roclawzi did not anticipate—had he done so, the
Haladina would be facing a foe more implacable than our Rangers."

 Gena recalled Rik's explanation of local politics. While she admitted to herself that Berengar was
probably correct in his assessment of the situation, she wanted to hear from Rik concerning the
conditions and dispositions of people in the Haladin neighborhoods of Aurdon. Everything she had heard
and seen so far did seem to indicate that the Riveren were working counter to what Neal had forced
upon them back in the days of her grandfather's travels. If everything were as Berengar presented it, then
Neal's vow was working against Neal's intentions.

 One of the Elders, a man with only a little white distributed through his brown hair, frowned at Berengar.
"You have dealt with the problem at the campsite, yes?"

"Yes, but that is dousing a spark when a fire rages."

 The leader of the Elders held up a hand. "Berengar, Theobold, you both are racing toward a discussion
that is, as yet, built on nothing." That quieted the two of them, so he turned his gaze on Gena. "Lady
Genevera, did the events unfold as Berengar related them?"

"Yes, Duke Kellin. A dozen of the raiders ambushed us."

"Was there provocation?"

 Gena frowned. "Aside from our being in their camp? No, unless you consider the apparent fact that they
recognized and concentrated upon killing Count Berengar. This is not to say that they were sent
specifically to assassinate him, but they did focus their efforts on him."
 Berengar nodded quickly. "And just as they recognized me, they could recognize any of you, or your
children, or servants. We are at war—there is no mistaking that."

 Theobold shook his head. "If we are at war, then we must do as you have done and destroy those who
attack us. In this case, that is the Haladina."

The count laughed. "You argue that killing the arrows is justified, but killing the archer is not?"

 "You have yet to prove to me who the archer is!" Theobold looked over at Kellin. "My Lord, Berengar
once again suggests that we are threatened with harm by the Riveren Clan when we do not know this is
true. We have discussed all this before. Even if his argument is true, Neal will prevent us from striking
back, so all of this is futile speculation."

 "It was, until now!" Berengar turned back to look at Gena, and she saw triumph burning in his eyes.
"Lady Genevera has indicated that it is possible to recover Cleaveheart and Wasp. With them, severing
the knot and breaking the hollow vow is possible. I believe this is vital if we are to survive and prove
victorious over Riveren perfidy. It is not a question of aggression, but of defending ourselves."

 He pointed at Theobold. "As my uncle has so aptly noted, we have no proof that the Riveren are not
working against us. I would suggest that giving me your blessing to undertake recovery of Neal's
weapons will not precipitate problems. While I am gone, and I would expect to be gone for the summer
at the very least, we can undertake a study of who is aiding the Haladina who prey upon us. If the
Riveren are guilty, then we will deal with them. If not, Cleaveheart has drunk Haladin blood before, and I
will not be averse to bringing Neal's brand of war to them in our defense."

 Berengar had lowered his voice and strung the words together mellifluously. His audience, save one,
clearly appreciated the way he had worked around Theobold's suggestion that he was out to precipitate
trouble. Gena could see how the other merchants took to heart Berengar's point that his mission would
benefit them no matter who proved to be behind the Haladin raids. Even Theobold seemed to consider
the expedition seriously, though Gena thought that might be because it would remove Berengar from
Aurdon for a time.

She smiled to herself. Perhaps Theobold is the mastermind Rik is looking for.

Kellin stroked his beard, then looked up at her. "Lady Genevera, is it possible to recover these
weapons?"

 "I believe it is, my Lord. I do not know where the sword actually is, but I know some of the places it is
not. Count Berengar might be generous in suggesting he would have it by the summer, but by the end of
the summer I believe we would know where it is."

 Kellin nodded slowly. "I am inclined to send you off on your hunt, nephew, but there are details to be
worked out amongst the elders here." The man broke off as the chamber door opened and a breathless
servant ran in. "What is it?"

The servant fell to his knees before the duke. "Forgive me, sire, but there has been a murder."

"Who?"

"Lord Orvir."
Theobold shot from his chair. "Rattlebrain, Lord Orvir has been dead for years!"

 "No, my Lords, not Berengar's brother, the new Lord Orvir." He turned and looked back at Gena,
sending a jolt through her. "You know, the man what came with her. The thief. The Haladina have killed
him dead."

Chapter 14:
A Man Amid The Councils Of Cygestolia

Late Summer
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-fifth Year

***

 THE DEBATE DULLED a bit as Lomthelgar led me down into the heart of the bowl. I gravitated
toward Aarundel, who flashed me a quick smile before anger recaptured his features. His father stood
beside him wearing anger and parental concern in about equal amounts on his face. The Dreel padded
behind me, but rose up on his rear feet to tower above and around me as if he were to me what a hood is
to a cobra.

 For my part, I felt a glacier moving through my guts. Save Aarundel, his family, and Shijef, I'd nary a
friend in the legislatorium or the galleries above it. Finndali appeared to be a focal point for Aarundel, and
the argument raged between them, sibilantly thrust and parried in the Sylvan tongue at a rate far faster
than I could ever have understood. Hate-filled glances at me needed no translation, however, and
Jammaq began to seem positively friendly in comparison to Cygestolia.

Lomthelgar's silver eyes narrowed; then he smiled in a world-weary way. "Finndali argues that, as a
Man, you will dishonor his wife, so you must die now to save her. Ryslard and Stisel say that because
you are a beast, you cannot be vindicator." He canted his head to the side. "My grandson is more a
warrior than a politician."

 And he is quicker than I am. Even as I thought that, the two lines of attack laid themselves out in my
brain in very simple terms. The Beast argument simply wanted to block me from the nuptials. If successful
it would embarrass Aarundel for his choice, and probably do some damage to Thralan's position as one
of the Consilliarii. That attack, then, was directed more at him than at me.

 Finndali's case bored in on me completely. If I were to touch Larissa, as one tradition demanded and
another forbade, I would die and she would be exiled. Aside from the dislike that had sprung up between
us so long ago, Finndali stood a good chance of losing his wife. As wars have been fought and murders
plotted to prevent the same, his action here made a lot of sense. That it also fed his anti-Human hatreds
made Finndali's stand that much more palatable to him.

 The thing was, of course, that the two arguments tripped each other up. I raised a hand. "Might the
target of this discussion speak?"

 A sylvanesti in gold-cloth robes, seated in a throne grown up from the base of the floor, shook her head.
"You have no standing here. You will be silent."
Lomthelgar stepped out of my shadow. "Calarianne, I would speak."

"I recognize . . . Lomthelgar Consilliari emeratus."

 The old Elf opened his mouth, but only a sharp, crow-like caw emerged. Clutching at his throat, he
coughed, then whispered hoarsely, "My voice is gone. Neal Custos Sylvanii will speak for me." He
slapped me on the shoulder with surprising strength and propelled me a step forward.

 "Begging your pardons all, I'm gathering that there are two cases being raised against me. The first is that
I'm a beast—no better than the horse I rode in on or the Dreel standing aback of me. I figure I could ask
you all to examine the record of my dealings with Aarundel or with other Sylvan warriors, and we could
start with Finndali Imperator and work on through the honor guard you sent to bring Aarundel here for
his wedding. What they said, though, would be argued as opinion, having no weight, and therefore, I'm
thinking, would be dismissed out of hand."

 I tried to keep my voice low, and I purposely picked words that came more from Mantongue than had
been brought over from the Elven. I wanted them thinking me simple so they could underestimate me.
From Aarundel I had learned that Elves are fiercely proud but intellectually honest, and the latter trait
overrides the first when they collide. I admired that, sought to do the same, and to make it save me in this
instance.

 "There is a more simple proof, however, and you all know of it. The fact is that Lady Larissa, being a
healer as she is, could minister to my horse, the Dreel, a bull, or a ram and not suffer for it at all. Were
she to touch me, even by accident in the course of her duties, I would be slain and she would be exiled.
So, while there is no penalty for treating a male animal, a male Man is a different thing. In fact, that is the
core of Finndali's very argument, so you cannot endorse his argument without disallowing the beast
argument."

 I saw a number of heads being nodded and whispers being exchanged, which I took as a good sign.
Aarundel's face had brightened considerably, which helped buoy my spirits, A glance back over my
shoulder showed me both Lomthelgar and the Dreel had crouched to their haunches and were chattering
back and forth—the idea of their plotting anything together bothered me—but neither of them appeared
to be displeased with my performance so far.

 I looked over at Finndali. "The problem is, of course, that you also cannot endorse Finndali Imperator's
argument without endorsing the animal argument. It assumes that while I am more than an animal—in
accord with your laws—that I cannot think on a level higher than that of an animal. I know that to touch
any sylvanesti will cost me my life, and despite being here, I'm not looking forward to the day I stop
breathing. Moreover, I've promised Finndali to turn my sword over to him in thirty years, and that's a
promise I mean to keep.

 "I am not an animal, so I can understand your laws and I can abide by them." I pointed off vaguely in the
direction of the setting sun. "There are lands out there in which I have observed and lived within all
number of laws and traditions. Among the Najindese, for example, I did not eat atalatha fish despite
having grown up fishing for and eating them in the Roclaws. According to the Najindese the fish will
cause your soul to wander the rivers upon death, so they don't eat it. Though I did not share that belief, I
respected it."

Finndali shook his head. "Your sensitivity to the mores and laws of other Men does you credit, Neal
Roclawzi, but it does not change the fact that our mores and traditions require the vindicator to dance
with the vindicatrix or the nuptials are invalid. If you touch her, you will harm her, and our law allows us
to take action to prevent the willful harming of one party by another."

 "So you will kill me?" I shook my head. "I'm thinking sending me out of Cygestolia would be an easier
solution."

Larissa's husband shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, within our traditions a wedding is a time for all strife to be
put aside, so exiting a guest is not permitted."

"But killing him is?"

"The law is the law."

 "As it is in other places." I glanced furtively at Aarundel and kept a smile on my face. "In the Roclaws, as
Aarundel Imperator can attest, we, too, can be circumspect concerning contact between men and
women. For example, we have a dance, the kerchief dance, in which men and women are allowed only
one link; a kerchief stretched taut between them. It is a dance that requires skill, for any slackening of the
kerchief is considered bad form. Even so, it is a powerful dance and one that would honor your nuptial
ceremony."

Our years of association allowed Aarundel to pick up on the fact that I had just lied through my teeth. "I
have seen it. Neal is quite good at it, in fact."

 Finndali shook his head. "Man-dances mean nothing. At your wedding the torris will be danced. The
torris includes touching, therefore Neal will harm Larissa, therefore he must die."

My head came up. "The dance includes touching? What if we were to dance it without touching?"

Finndali's eyes widened at my suggestion. "You might slip."

"But I tell you that I will not. I tell you that I have no intention of slipping."

"If you touch her, you will harm her."

 I smiled. "But you may slay me beforehand onlyif you know I intend to do Larissa harm. I have told you
that I do not intend to do her harm. I know my place. I understand your laws. I would not hurt her
because it would hurt my friend and his family to have her exiled." I thumped my right fist against my
chest. "I'd sooner rip my own heart out than harm her."

Finndali's eyes smoldered. "If you touch her,I will rip your heart out."

"And I will bare my breast to you to do so." I pulled myself up to my full height, "That is all immaterial,
however, because you cannot kill me for intentions I do not harbor. That is your law."

 The legislatorium erupted in a legion of Sylvan voices. I heard a lot of things, including Lomthelgar's
chuckling, but above them I heard Aarundel's voice as he shouted down the opposition to his wedding
plans. "There, you have all heard it from Neal's own lips. He is a Man and he knows his place. Yes, he is
my friend, and I have proclaimed him Custos Sylvanii, but he is not so unwise as to arrogate himself. He
would never think himself worthy of any sylvanesti, let alone my sister. He understands and respects the
gulf between us, he respects our culture as we should respect his. Do not let your prejudice blind you or
make him into a monster who would despoil our sylvanesti. He is a Man, a wise Man, and would not
dare dream of dragging one of us down to his level by visiting abominable acts upon her."
 Aarundel's words sank arrowlike into my heart and pinned it painfully to my spine. I understood
everything he said, and I knew how he meant it, but somehow I had never expected to hear such things
from his lips. In the time we had traveled together—an eye blink for him, but my entire adult life—I had
grown closer to him than any other living being, even my brother. We had shared good times and bad.
We had fought side by side, staunched each other's wounds, and done insane things to save each other
from situations that were beyond reasonable hope.

 If I had a sister, I would have thought nothing of marrying Aarundel off to her. The person I knew him to
be came first, his race came later. I did not think of him as an Elf, but as my friend, my confidant, my
co-conspirator. I would have been proud to have him in my family, and for that reason, I was filled with
pride when we set off on our journey to Cygestolia.

Because I thought of him as my equal, I assumed the reverse was true.

 His curiously split attitude slammed me in the face. Here he was willing to put his reputation and his
honor on the line in arguing before the Consilliarii that I should be allowed to be his vindicator. In doing
that he openly proclaimed me his best friend, a person in whom he had no doubts. He trusted me and
honored me with the selection, and that honor and trust I held dear.

 Yet, at the same time, among his own people he set me apart. He held me at arm's length. He praised
me and honored me above all of the Sylvan Nation by his choice, yet he still felt it was right and suitable
to point out that I was still just aMan.

More's the pity, he likely did not know he had done anything to hurt me.

 Worse yet, I was thinking, I held similarly conflicting views of other Men, including some in my
command.

 Calarianne stood. "The argument offered by Lomthelgar is correct and persuasive. We are not the
Reithrese. We do not revel in morbidity. Executing the Man for a crime he has not committed and has no
intention of committing would be an act of veneration for the Dark Goddess. We shall not be party to
such action."

She looked over at Aarundel. "Your selection for vindicator stands. You will be well represented."

Lomthelgar popped up from his crouch and spryly stepped closer to the center of the chamber than
where I stood. "Listen well, for this is the First Time: as another's voice, he speaks for himself."

 That announcement, which I could not understand, started a new debate, and I found myself wanting to
be away from all the noise and the voices. I worked my way to the right to where—as I had seen from
above when entering the legislatorium—I could gain access to a stairway spiraling down the massive oak
that held the seat of Sylvan government. I wanted very much to be alone, and, by chance or out of fear, I
met no one as I traveled to the ground.

 The stairs were long, and I managed to do a lot of thinking on the trip to the island below. The island
itself was deserted, and sitting there between two small rootlets of the grand tree, I managed a lot more
thinking. I didn't like all of it, but I've found that when you finally sit down to do the thinking that must be
done, chances are there's not much of it that will make you smile.

"I have been told what my brother said. I am grieved."
I looked up at where she stood with one hand still on the bark banister of the stairway. "Why? He said
what he saw as the truth."

"But you have been hurt by it."

 I gathered my knees to my chest with my arms and smiled without looking into her eyes. "The hurt was
in the hearing and because of what the words have made me think about. It is difficult to discover you
have been deceiving yourself."

 Larissa walked away from the trunk of the tree, then settled herself on the ground two body lengths
away from me. She arranged her skirts delicately, and I drank in the beauty of her until I realized how
dangerous it could be. As if sensing my thoughts, she deflected me with a question. "How is it that you
consider yourself deceptive, when I have heard nothing from my brother or you to indicate this is so?"

 I tightened the grip of my hands on the opposite forearms. "When I left the Roclaws two decades ago, I
left with nothing but the horse between my legs, the clothes on my body, and the blade at my belt. I
wanted it that way. I wanted nothing—not because I was spurning my homeland or because I hated my
family. I wanted nothing so that all I did, all I became would be because of me. I wanted to be different,
not burdened with possessions and titles and lands. I just wanted to be Neal Roclawzi, a warrior known
across the face of Skirren for the things I had done."

"An admirable goal, and one you have accomplished."

 "An admirable goal, but one I have not attained." I shook my head. "I own little more than my horse, my
armor, my weapons—and I thought I had succeeded. Here, however, I have learned that I have
acquired many things that I didn't realize I had gathered, and I realize that I have wanted many other
things."

 I tipped my head back and looked up toward the legislatorium. "Up there I learned that I had acquired
an inflated view of myself. I learned that I wanted to be considered an equal by your brother and your
people, and I realize that I was foolish or vain enough to think I was worthy of such consideration."

"You are."

"Thank you for saying that, but yours is a minority opinion." I bit back pain. "The damnable thing is that
your opinion is the only one that really matters to me right now."

 I wanted to reach out to her, take her and hug her, to leech serenity and warmth from her, but I stopped
myself. "Aside from wanting to be elevated to standing within an elder race, I find I also want you, but
total success in that regard will be fatal."

Larissa smiled slightly and blushed, then plucked at a piece of clover growing amid the grasses. "You
heap upon yourself too many burdens, Neal Roclawzi, and you do not take stock of your successes.
You are the first Man ever to walk in Cygestolia. You are the first Man ever to be accorded the honor of
being a vindicator. You are the first Man ever to argue within the legislatorium and the first to win a
victory there."

"But all of those things are an offshoot of my being the first to visit."

"However, the fact of your visit did not bring with it any of the others. Those are mantles you have won,
and no one will ever take them away from you." She closed her right hand into a fist. "Ten of your
generations from now there will still be Consilliarii in the legislatorium who will remember you and your
words."

 She rose onto her knees and leaned forward; her long-fingered white hands sank deep in the
greensward to steady her. "To you, to the rest of the world, the Sylvan Nation appears to have one mind
and one voice. It is defined for you in the verses of the Eldsaga. We are a cold, superior people who
place no value on Humanity. This is how most Men see us, and it is not without good reason that they do
so. Half a millennium ago our troops marched forth to destroy the fledgling empire your ancestors had
created. My grandfather has told me tales of that time, horrible, brutal tales. Through them I know why
Men fear us, and because of them I admire your courage in coming here and your bravery in befriending
my brother.

 "My family is not like all others here. The chamber in which you sleep was built nearly four centuries ago
when Lomthelgar ordered it fashioned after the halls and castles he had seen and razed. While others
crusading through the Eldsaga saw Men as half-witted beasts whose civilization was nothing but a crude
imitation of our own, my grandfather felt the truth was otherwise. Others looked at the things that were
similar between Elves and Men, then decried Men for being unable to match us—making us superior and
consigning Men to inferiority. My grandfather looked at the differences and used them to mark Man's
creativity. He fashioned your chamber in homage to what he had seen, and as physical proof of his vow
to get all of us to see in Mankind what he did."

 Passion and bitterness wove through her words as she explained things to me. "Though we were taught
that Men were worthy of respect, that is not what made my brother respect you enough to bring you here
and make you his vindicator. You earned that respect in his eyes. You have proved to him that
Lomthelgar was right. In your argument in the legislatorium, you proved to many others that at least one
Man is capable of thought and worthy of respect."

I nodded briefly. "But not worthy of his sister?"

 Larissa clutched her hands together over her heart. "I cannot tell you that I would consider you worthy
of any sylvanesti if I did not feel the love for you that I do in my heart. If my brother had come home with
a woman he had won, I cannot say that I would welcome her. Inasmuch as my feelings for you conflict
with how I would treat another Man and a sylvanesti being together, I know the attitudes that would
condemn them are wrong. Because they are wrong, I know I must change them, but change does not
come immediately.

 "As much as I want to go over to you and embrace you, I will not and cannot." Frustration seaming her
brow, she frowned heavily. "I know the laws that keep us apart are wrong, but to flaunt them also seems
wrong and would serve no purpose but to have you terminated and me exiled. Others would point to us
as an example not of an injustice, but of justice done because we proved ourselves unable to respect the
laws of society."

 Everything she said bored into my chest through the wound Aarundel's words had opened, but they did
no more rending and tearing. They touched me deeply and awakened the part of me that I let loose only
in battle. I began to reshape my perceptions along the lines of combat, spying out strengths and
weaknesses along the enemy line. I ran through dozens and dozens of strategies in my mind, all the while
my competitive and predatory hunger growing more and more ferocious.

 I saw my situation paralleling that of the Red Tiger's war to overthrow Reithrese overlords. As I fought
in his army, I did not fight for myself—I fought for others. I fought for generations of Men who would
someday remember us only as characters in songs half-forgotten and best left unsung. I fought so they
could live lives dictated by them, not to them.

 So it was here in Cygestolia. I fought here so the whole of the Elven Nation would see in my example
what Mankind truly was. Though I knew us deserving of respect, I also knew I had to earn it. That meant
I had to do battle in their arena, by their rules, as much as it would hamper and hurt me.

It would be the true test of a hero, a challenge unlike any other.

A challenge before which I would not surrender.

 I smiled as I stretched my arms and legs. "It is my understanding, my Lady Larissa, that as vindicator I
am to be your partner in a dance—a dance in which we will not touch. Despite that handicap, I want my
performance to be worthy of your people, your brother's wedding, and above all, my partner. Will you
find me someone to instruct me?"

 She smiled and rose to her feet. "My grandfather has already volunteered to be your teacher. You have
a week in which to learn the steps to the torris."

I stood and waved her toward the stairs ahead of me. "Then let us go find him and get started. This I
vow: in a week's time your people will see a dance they will never, ever forget."

My prediction almost came true in a way I had not intended.

 The torris is not a simple bow-and-wheel-your-partner dance with four steps that are repeated over and
over. It's symbolic of a number of things, from life and nature to Sylvan history to bits and pieces of the
lives of the dancers and the lives of those for whom they dance. I know of at least three different schools
of swordsmanship that contain fewer independent moves than the torris, but I have to admit that I never
worked so hard to learn them as I did this dance.

 The different parts of the dance were individually very difficult for me because many of them relied upon
a flexibility and fluidity of motion I could not easily reproduce. Lomthelgar, with wisdom born of eight or
ten centuries of life, managed to draw parallels between some of the motions and things I might do in
combat. Very quickly I found the dance built up of encounters in a series of shadow-fencing duels. Not
only did this approach make the whole thing possible for me to master, but also allowed me to feed my
defiance directly into my lessons.

 Lomthelgar started me learning by using the Dreel as my partner. Shijef seemed as enamored of the
pairing as I was, which provided me the perverse delight in commanding him to follow Lomthelgar's
orders. There were one or two moves—the low sweeping ones—which the Dreel performed with more
skill than I did. This made Shijef happy and, therefore, intolerable at certain points.

After only two days Lomthelgar pressed Shijef into other duties. Given two sticks, the Dreel was to beat
out a consistent rhythm. This he did without fail, which allowed me to get down the timing for the steps.
Lomthelgar also had me count to myself in sets of six, so I found myself hitting my steps correctly even
when Shijef sped up or slowed down to confuse me.

 By the final day Lomthelgar brought Larissa and me together to dance, but he did not allow us to see
each other. First I performed blindfolded, and then she did. Lomthelgar hemmed and hawed, picking out
little problems in our performances, but I knew from his criticisms that we had succeeded in learning
apart how to dance together. And the next day we would each see the other dancing, and that, in and of
itself, would make the dance more special than even I dared imagine.

 My duties as vindicator were not limited to learning how to dance. Aside from being fitted for
appropriate clothing and taking meals with various kin and allies of Aarundel's family, I had to assist him
in the forging of the insignii nuptialis he would give Marta during the ceremony. Marta's brother would
forge the wedding token for Aarundel, but both Marta and Larissa would help him, and both of them had
a far better idea of what they were going to do than I did.

 The process began at a forge set back in a rocky cavern on the eastern side of the Cygestolia valley. A
smith smelted down silver-bearing ore and poured it into a baked-clay mold that made two silver bars,
and two rings, with a long strand of threadlike silver twisting between them. We watched him fill the
molds one day, then returned the next when he shattered the mold and severed the two sets of silver
pieces.

 Aarundel and I, because we were to work on the gift being given to Marta, obtained the smaller of the
two sets and only a third of the silver thread. The piece we would create for her would be more delicate
than the piece being given to Aarundel, which did not mean it would be any less work. Had the task of
creating the item been left to me, I would not have known where to begin, but my friend did. As he
noted, one nice thing about being so long-lived was that each elf-child had the chance to study different
trades for years, obtaining a level of expertise a Man could only get over a lifetime, just to choose yet
another career to make his life's work.

 The first thing he set me to doing was making a short length of silver chain. Aarundel handed me an iron
pipe roughly a quarter of an inch in diameter. Fixed to one end was a cross bar and running
perpendicular to it was a groove cut through the top of the pipe. Viewing the pipe from the end made it
appear to be a broken circle. The gap between the two sides of the circle ran straight down the cylinder
and the edge appeared to be slightly worn.

As instructed, I coiled the silver thread around the pipe and wound it tightly. Satisfied with my work
when I showed it to him, Aarundel handed me a device that looked akin to an arrow with onty half a
broadhead on it. I inserted the broken arrow into the pipe, fitting the triangular blade into the slot. With a
hammer I gently tapped it down, and the blade cut each turn of the thread. Once through, I turned the
whole assembly upside down, and two dozen links of silver poured into my left hand.

 These I linked together, closing them with a very small set of tongs. By the time I had all that done,
which shouldn't have taken so long except that it required more delicacy than my normal work, Aarundel
had sized, filed, and set the ring with two small lapis ovals. He drilled a small hole between them and
linked the chain in there at that point.

"Half-done," he announced proudly.

 I had my doubts, because we had the armlet yet to finish. I assisted him in working it by holding the bar
of silver in place while he hammered it into a sheet, and by positioning the crimp-molds correctly while he
raised an edge around the whole armlet. He decorated the armlet with four oval gemstones: opal north
and south, lapis east and west. The drill produced a hole near the cuff, into which we ran the chain's last
link.

 Aarundel smiled as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Drawn from the same metal, yet shaped by different
hands and forces, they are just like Marta and me. We come from one people, yet we have been
hammered into who we are by all manner of forces. In the wedding we shall be magically bound together,
and our marriage will last as long as it takes for the metal to wear away to nothing on our flesh."
 I tapped the bracelet at the end opposite the cuff, where the edge came to a gentle point. "Good thing
the metal is thick, for a love like yours should take forever to die,"

"Spoken truly as a vindicator"—he smiled—"and as a friend."

"My honor." I nodded and slapped him on the back. "Are we done?"

"One more thing." Aarundel turned the piece over and, using a small gouge, worked his mark into the
metal. "There, I have signed it. Now you must."

 I worked carefully and inscribed the six-line symbol for the Roclaws, then added my initial in the heart of
the mountain. "Satisfactory?"

 Aarundel looked at it and laughed. "When my grandfather was young, the mark of the Roclawzi was one
that inspired terror and hatred. I am glad it now betokens a friend."

"A friend to the death, Aarundel. No one and no thing will stand between us."

"Agreed, unless," he smiled slyly, "you fail at the torris. In that case, I will have to kill you."

"Do not worry on that account." I quickly ran my right hand through one of the complex twitch-jerks that
made the dance difficult. "If I fail, I will kill myself—if embarrassment does not kill me first."

Elven wedding traditions are different from those of Men in a number of ways that I found annoying. The
bride and groom spend the week before the ceremony apart, except for when they meet to see the silver
poured for their wedding tokens. Aarundel and I attended a number of functions with his in-laws, to the
point of all but living with them. From what Aarundel told me, a great deal of the conversations involved
politics and other things of concern to the Elves.

 My job during these gatherings was to stand around and look the part of the vindicator. This meant I ate
a lot because I could not understand what was being said. I also needed a lot of energy for my dancing
lessons, and it would have been rude of me to refuse food. In fact, the various hosts and hostesses
seemed to be relieved to be able to deal with me as easily as setting a bowl of something in front of me.

 Sylvan cuisine is not bad, but it's not Man-food. Because they view fire as that which makes metal
malleable, and because cookfires would use up an incredible amount of wood. Elves prepare food in an
unusual way—though the results are quite remarkable and very edible. They combine all sorts of
vegetables and herbs and spices together in huge cauldrons, pour over them juices and vinegars and let
them marinate. Things added to this plant-mash right before serving are crispy, and meat soaked in it
becomes tender and delicious without firing.

 Breads and the like were also available, and quite good, but I understand less about their preparation.
All I know about cooking bread involves mixing up a dough, scraping as much as possible off my fingers
onto a flat rock, and trying to keep the fire around the rock going without getting too much charcoal in
the bread. I think the Elves steam a lot of their bread, and I've heard talk of silver sun-ovens, but I was
not overmuch concerned with pursuing more information about bread. Aarundel might have lived long
enough to learn how to be a silversmith and a warrior, but I was too old to become a cook.

 The night before the wedding, Aarundel and Marta were brought together in seclusion within a new
chamber in Woodspire. As they contemplated their lives together, I was taken by Lomthelgar to the
grassy, bowllike depression where the ceremony would take place the next day. Trees gave way above
it, allowing me a clear view of the starry sky. Without realizing I had been uncomfortable, I found seeing
the sky set me more at ease. Being trapped within so many trees is difficult for someone raised in the
mountains, where trees are sparse and summer is the season when mud lakes cloak themselves with a
grass thatch.

 The elder Elf sank down on his haunches, and Shijef huddled behind him like a swollen shadow.
"Vindicators guard this ground against violators."

 I nodded. "Tomorrow, I know, I dance. What else?" Lomthelgar gave me a lopsided grin. "Vindicate." I
frowned as the Elf and the Dreel shared a chuckle. "I should have known you two would become allies.
You are united by a common enemy—me."

Both of them sobered. "Master you are, enemy you were."

Lomthelgar patted the Dreel on the shoulder. "And you are my vindicator as well."

"What?"

The Elf stood and shook his head. "You are to be left alone here. Good evening, Custos Sylvanii."

 Lomthelgar led the Dreel from the circle, abandoning me at its heart. I dismissed their comments as
mischief and nonsense and began to see to my duties as vindicator. I looked the area over by first
walking the perimeter of the [heart], then working my way up along the edge of the amphitheatre. It might
have started as a natural formation, but the Elves had clearly worked on it and had shaped it. From a
military standpoint it was a disaster to defend, but in the heart of Cygestolia the likelihood of an invasion
approached the likelihood of my ever setting foot again in Cygestolia after the wedding.

 Once I had satisfied myself with the military details of the situation, I sat at the upper edge of the
amphitheatre, with my back to the woods, and other thoughts began to [come] to me. Because Larissa
was for Marta what I was for Aarundel, we had been kept apart except for the pouring of the silver and
the dancing. She had sent me flowers once by her grandfather, and I sent her back a garland I'd woven,
using Shijef as my envoy, but that summed the total of our contact over that week.

I did not know where she would be stationed as part of her duties, but I dearly wished she could be
here with me. It was not that I felt lonely without her, but that I felt so much more complete in her
presence.

 I began to wonder why Lomthelgar had brought us together to dance, yet kept one or the other of us
blindfolded while we did so. I understood parts of it, of course. By seeing her I became used to the
distraction of someone moving opposite me. Larissa's grace and elegance came as a marked contrast to
the Dreel's shaggy, brutish movements, and in watching her I knew we would be very good at the
ceremony.

 In dancing opposite her while blindfolded, I learned two things. The first was that I had to concentrate
on the timing and remain locked in thrall to the rhythms. The torris, for me, was more deadly a game than
even the visit to Jammaq. One slip, one accident, one gust of wind blowing one strand of her hair against
the back of my hand, and I would be slain outright. Never before had I placed myself in a situation where
the most innocent of errors could kill me. Any wavering from the discipline that Lomthelgar had taught me
would doom me and the sylvanesti I loved.
 Blinded, I learned one other thing, and that realization made me wonder how much Lomthelgar knew
about me and about his granddaughter. In challenging fate and death I was not alone, and in that most
dangerous contest I had to trust absolutely and completely in my partner. Had I been asked if I would
trust Larissa, if I could trust Larissa, I would have shouted my willingness to do so from Jammaq to the
heart of the Haladin Outlands and back again. After the dance, though, I did not have to take her
trustworthyness on faith; I knew, I had proof, that she would perform her part in our lethal dance
perfectly.

 I am not normally a daydreamer, walking about all moon-eyed. It's not said to be good for one born
under the Triangle, for the moons will stare back at such, but the rest of the night passed in contemplation
of things past and present. I found myself wandering through memories that I would have liked to have
shared with Larissa, and in their remembering I wondered if I hadn't already told her of them. If the
feeling of contentment I experienced thinking about her approached what Aarundel knew when thinking
of Marta, then I envied my friend even more than I had imagined.

The night passed quickly and with the dawn's light Lomthelgar came and fetched me back to
Woodspire. I ate a breakfast of pure water and plain bread, then slept a bit. After two or three hours of
peace, the Dreel awakened me so I could wash. By the time I had cleansed myself and dried off,
Lomthelgar finished laying out the clothes I would wear for the ceremony.

 My tunic and hose had been cut from soft, shiny silk and dyed the iridescent color of emeralds. The
fabric's light weight made me think it would be cold, but the silk warmed against my flesh quite quickly.
My leather jerkin, gloves, and boots had all been dyed a light grey, lighter than dusk but darker than
curing-smoke. The boots came to my knee and the tops flopped down; the gloves came to midforearm.
The leather garments had been a bit large, but sized themselves instantly, as had Aarundef's glove during
my fight with Tashayul.

 Because I would be asked to dance, I removed Cleaveheart's scabbard from the belt I normally wore
and affixed it to a longer belt that I looped diagonally over my torso. A second, more narrow belt
threaded through the first at my left hip and buckled around my waist. The grand result of all this fussing
was that Cleaveheart hung across my back, with the hilt jutting up above my right shoulder. Drawing it
would be difficult, but I anticipated no trouble, so that did not concern me very much.

 The other reason I was not concerned about my ability to draw Cleaveheart was that in my role as
vindicator I was to bear Aarundel's favorite weapon. The Dwarven battle-ax rose to the height of my
shoulder when I placed the butt end on the ground, and the broad curved blade all but eclipsed my chest.
The wickedly hooked raven's-beak on the opposite side of the head actually looked more cruel than the
ax blade itself, but I knew the blade's razor edge could chop through armor and warrior easily and
[erfi-]dently. The spike at the top of the weapon might have been considered overkill, but it made the ax
also function as a lance, which was important in a cavalry company.

 Suitably attired, I followed Lomthelgar back to the amphitheatre and look my place at Aarundel's side.
He wore black except at his throat, where an azure scarf had been knotted. He smiled when he saw me,
then composed himself as gentle piping began from somewhere behind us.

 The amphitheatre had changed in the short time I had been away from it. A small wooden altar had been
raised at one edge. Looking like a tree stump, the altar had been shaped so that the feet resembled roots,
and aside from the impossibility of it, I wondered if it had been grown in that spot in the hours since my
vigil had ended. On its flat, polished surface rested a red velvet pillow which bore both insignii nuptialis.

Behind us, both on the flat and on the hillsides, many Elves had come to the celebration. All of them
wore bright costumes, and I noticed, as I looked around, that the only green I saw in the whole place,
aside from that which I wore, came in the few spots where the underlying grass peeked through the
crowd. Paranoia over being the only person wearing green began to nibble at my mind, but I decided
such thoughts were not part of my duty as vindicator, so I dismissed them.

 The piping picked up in pace as the bride and her entourage entered the amphitheatre. They came up
and over the berm at a point just barely on the far side of the altar. In the lead came an Elven priest I put
at Thralan's age, though the white of his hair almost made me second-guess that estimate. Following him
came Thralan and Ashenah, walking hand in hand. They wore black yet did not have blue to lighten the
severity of their clothes. Still, the smiles on their faces left no doubt that they were very happy.

 In their wake came Sidalric and Marta's mother, Grationa. They did not walk hand in hand as parents,
but her hand rested inside the crook of her father's elbow. Vincelan, Marta's father, had chosen to go
excedere, which meant he was unable to attend his daughter's marriage. I did not have a clear
understanding as to what it meant to go beyond, but his departure had been spoken of in a mixture of
reverence and sadness that made me think it was not the same as being dead, but close.

 Aarundel's parents came over and stood behind us, and Marta's people stood opposite them. The piping
stopped, then started again with a more sedate tune and I felt the attention of those gathered in the
amphitheatre swell. Coming up over the crest of the hill, Larissa appeared in silhouette for a moment;
then she started her descent. As did I, she wore emerald-green chased with black and looked utterly
ravishing. I felt a jolt run through me as our gazes met, and relief as we both looked away—she gazing
toward her brother while I glanced back up the hill to where Marta stood.

 Aarundel's sharp intake of breath put into sound what I felt as I saw Marta descend the hill. Wearing an
azure gown the same color as the scarf around Aarundel's neck, she strode forward with grace and a
regal bearing. A black scarf trailed behind her as if a pennoncel proclaiming her link with
Aarundel—though of that there was little doubt, She radiated happiness and love so brightly, and
Aarundel reflected it so completely, that had I been standing between them, I felt certain I would have
burst into flames. Everyone else seemed to sense the heat and the power of their vitamor as well, for the
whole community was drawn together like a thirsty herd of antelope around a cool, clear lake.

 The priest at the altar raised his hands and laboriously spoke in Mantongue. "As a community we come
here to recognize and celebrate the union of this Aarundel and this Marta." Shifting to the Sylvan
language, he spoke again, likely repeating much of what he had already said, but filling it in with
ceremonial words that made the bride and groom smile.

 The priest looked beyond them to Aarundel's parents. "Is this your son, free of obligations to another?"
They nodded, and he turned his attention to Marta's mother and grandfather. He spoke to them in
Elven—his foray into Mantongue only for my benefit. When he received a similar nod of assent, he spoke
to Larissa, and she gave him short answers that prompted Aarundel and Marta to look at each other and
blush.

The priest focused on me. "Neal of the Roclaws, vindicator, is this Aarundel known to you?"

"He is."

"Is he free of obligations and committed to this union?"

"He is."
"And has this place remained inviolate through the night?"

"It has."

 My replies seemed to satisfy him, so he pushed on through the ceremony. At points he lapsed into
Mantongue, and given the selection of things he allowed me to hear, he wanted me to understand both
the sanctity of the situation and the incredibly long tradition of which I had been made a part. This
consisted mostly of theological recountings, many of which I had heard before in slightly different forms,
but with an emphasis on why Elves were greatly superior to Men.

 "In the time before all time, Levicius and Alosia, the sky and the earth, became aware of each other. In
this awareness came knowledge of their divinity, and in their wisdom they created the Dwarves to shape
the world and the Elves to shape all that existed within the world. All that their creations brought forth
were manifestations of their love for each other. Lest the world and their love become stale, they also
brought forth another race, those who now claim the mantle Reithrese, to husband the elemental forces of
Chaos, to inflict change upon their world so that it could change and grow and become more perfect.

 "In time, through the pleasure of their creation, Levicius and Alosia chose to share their world with
children born of them, not created by them. Kyori and Jistan came first, then Bok, Chavameht and Herin.
Last came Reithra, who, in her jealousy against her mother over the love of her father, shaped her hatred
into death. Thus began the first rebellion.

 "Kyori and Jistan fought on behalf of their parents and won a truce with their siblings that forced Levicius
and Alosia to go beyond. In the war of the gods, the Elves had defended the gods who had created
them, and in that defense won the right to attend their creators in exile. The Dwarves, who remained
neutral, were not touched by Death in the fullest first blush of its power, so now elude it still. The
Reithrese embraced it and now it defines them."

 Never before had I heard names put to the parents of the gods, and the antiquity of the Sylvan Nation
made itself manifest in the Elves's knowledge of those who had birthed the gods that now ruled the
world. The timing of the creation of the Reithrese also explained some of the animosity between them and
the Elves. To the Elves they were created later, making them inferior. The Reithrese must have held that
because they were created to change that over which Elves and Dwarves had been given dominion, they
were the superior people. Their subordination in service to a lesser goddess meant nothing from their
twisted point of view, I was certain.

 Speaking in Mantongue again, and addressing only me, the priest continued. "Kyori and Jistan married
and saw among their siblings the seeds of strife. In their wisdom they created Men and gave them to the
others to use as soldiers so wars that could be fought on Skirren would not be fought in the heavens. Bok
created the Dreel as his playthings, the Dwarves chose Herin as their patron, and Chavameht took pity
upon the beasts, leaving only the Elves true to the first gods and above that which had been born in or
through the Rebellion."

 Feeling firmly fixed in the Elven cosmology down with snakes, slugs, and the occasional Dreel, I forced a
smile on my face. It was not the first time I had seen a priest use a ceremony and his position to correct
an evil in the world, though it was the first time I had been singled out as that evil. The smile at first felt
wooden, but more life poured into it as I figured that if he didn't like my presence at the ceremony, he
was absolutely going to hate the torris. After all, co-opt my friend's wedding day for your purposes, and
you deserve all the pain you can get.

Having decided I was chastened or an idiot or both, the priest ignored me. For the rest of the ceremony
he spoke only in Elven, but with his hand motions and the cadence of his words I could tell he was
reciting prayers and formulas designed to bring Aarundel and Marta together. At appropriate moments
each of them stepped closer to the altar and each other until they stood side by side in front of the priest.

 Aarundel lifted his wedding token and slipped the ring over the middle finger onMalta 's right hand. She
did the same thing to him, then they clasped hands and let the bracelets clang against each other. Larissa
came forward and grasped the armlet dangling from her brother's ring, and in imitation of her I started
forward, but Lomthelgar held me back and took my place. I stiffened for a moment, then realized how
closely I had come to destroying Aarundel's happiness on his wedding day.

In unison Lomthelgar and Larissa slipped the armlets in place, and a great cheer went up from among the
Elves gathered there. Lomthelgar smiled knowingly at me as he retreated. "You spoke as my voice, I
worked as your hands."

 Aarundel gently enfolded his wife in a hug and kissed her deeply. I watched, not out of any voyeuristic
fantasy, but because I could not bring myself to look past them at Larissa. I wanted to, but I knew I had
to refuse. If I gave in, I knew I could lose myself in her, and that would shatter the composure I needed
for the torris. Without it I might do to her what I almost did to Marta.

 Around us the amphitheatre came alive. Some of the people filed away while others moved down to the
flat and spread out blankets. They seated themselves on the ground while Aarundel's family retainers
moved among them presenting pitchers of wine, bowls of vegetable stew, and small loaves of
soft-crusted bread. All of the guests accepted the food with thanks, it appeared, but they did not partake
of it immediately.

 Before the altar, retainers lay down a huge black silk sheet. The bride and groom centered themselves
on it; then four smaller sheets in azure were set to cover each corner of the black diamond. Larissa and I
were pointed to the sheets on either side of the couple, while the four parents sat behind them. No one
sat on the sheet in front of them, and I assumed that was to symbolize children, or perhaps in the case of
a second or third marriage, the children from previous unions would occupy that place of honor.

The bride and groom were served last, and I wished they would take a drink of their wine, because my
nervousness had me bone-mouthed. I waited patiently for them to act; then I felt Lomthelgar's hand on
my shoulder, "Before they will begin the celebration, you must dance."

I nodded. "You'll be proud."

The elder Elf smiled. "The dance is everything. As it goes, so will go their life together."

I felt a shock as he said that; then I nodded and steeled myself to do the best I could. I already knew I
was prepared for the dance. I had trained enough that I could perform it blindfolded. If my torris would
predict the future of their marriage, I would make it perfect.

 Leaving the ax in its place, but still wearing Cleaveheart over my shoulder, I stood and walked around
the sheets until I stopped directly in front of the bride and groom. I bowed to them, then turned to the left
and bowed toward my partner. Squaring around again, I smiled at Aarundel, then executed an
about-face and paced away from him and his bride until I stood two steps beyond the center of the circle
on the flat ringed with Elves. I did not look back, because I knew Larissa would be similarly bowing to
her brother and his wife, then moving to take her place opposite me. Back to back, though separated by
a Man-length, we were together to dance for my friends and her kin.
 The pipers started the torris melody slowly, perfectly in keeping with the tempo Lomthelgar had used in
instructing me. I moved to my right, curving to take up a quarter of a circle. Had I been an Elf, Larissa
and I would have been touching shoulder blades. As our arms extended, we would have laid them out
against each other and interlaced our fingers. Our hands would have risen toward the sky together, and
our dance would have burned with the fire we both felt inside.

Apart, that could not happen.

 A sharp, shrill note spun both of us about, like wild animals spinning to snarl at a pursuer. We froze for a
second, barely a heartbeat, both because the dance demanded it and because, for the first time, we
locked eyes in the dance. At that moment the resolve I had built up in myself to remain under control
evaporated. I saw passion blossom in her eyes, and her lips pull back in a snarl to mirror the one on my
face. There, turned inward, we knew the world consisted of us and those opposed to us. Wordlessly we
agreed that if we filled the dance with the impossible love we had for each other, Aarundel and Marta
would be that much more blessed: denying what we felt for each other, would deny them the perfect
torris, and that we would not do.

 Our hands came down from above our heads and around and up until our fists closed in our lines of
sight. Whirling away from each other, we opened our hands as if to cast out to those gathered around us
what had passed between us. Some may have comprehended at that moment, others never would, and I
looked for hostility I could devour and use to fuel me.

 The music picked up in pace, but the pipers began to follow us instead of the other way around.
Spinning, leaping, and turning, we orbited each other in perfect unison. I held my hand out to guide
Larissa through a pirouette, and though two feet separated us, she moved as if I had propelled her. As
she whirled down into a crouch and I arced over her in a long leap, she snapped her head back and
whipped her golden hair less than a foot from my hip and flank. Landing on my knees and sliding on my
side, I spun around and came upright at the same moment as she did, each of us with our hands
outstretched and moving as if we had risen together.

 We both came forward until mere inches separated us. I turned to the right and she to the left, as a pair
facing Aarundel and Marta. We ran at them, then stopped as one and reversed ourselves. Spinning
outward, our hands passed within an inch of each other's stomach, her hand flashing past a second after
mine.

 I had stopped counting and had stopped listening to the music. I cared no longer for what the dance was
or was supposed to be. I knew it was just us, we were the dance. Apart, yet touching each other on a
level deeper and more potent than physical, we flowed through the rest of the torris. We laughed aloud
and smiled at each other, our eyes blazing with the giddy excitement of love and the fear-tinged
exhilaration of playing on the edge of oblivion. One false move, one miscalculation, and the thrilling sense
of defiance would crash into defeat. It didn't matter that I forgot steps and improvised others. I knew
where Larissa would be, and I managed not to be there at the same time. I could see her and hear her,
and I could feel her as if we were bound together with a million strings. Puppets and puppeteers both, we
controlled and worked with the other, transforming the torris from a dance in celebration of love and
union to a dance of love and union.

All too quickly and yet after much too great a time, the music ended and froze both of us in place at the
heart of the circle. We stood so close that I could feel her breath upon my face, and I feared a single
droplet of sweat might roll down my nose to connect us. If that happened, I knew I would die, but I did
not care, because my heart felt full to bursting with such joy and contentment that death did not frighten
me—I had milked everything possible from life—death would just crystallize the moment and allow me to
exist within it forever.

 I thought it was my heart beating madly when I felt the first tremor ripple through my body. I started to
sway and realized that if I fell, I might fall into Larissa. Fighting a growing disequilibrium, I threw myself
backward. Still working in synch with each other, I saw she had done the same thing, and we both
laughed like children at the embarrassment of it all. Rolling from my back into a sitting position, I winked
at her and wanted to say something, but what I saw between us made me silent.

 The ground where we had stood had begun to blur the way a bowstring quivers after the arrow has been
released. Individual blades of grass merged with others as the ground began to vibrate very quickly. The
tremblings increased in power as their speed slowed, and I watched a six-foot circle of earth ripple back
and forth as if it were water. As a circle of little wavelets closed on the center, a spike of dirt shot into the
air. A small grass-studded ball pulled free of its crest and hung at head-height for a moment, then fell
back to the earth. It merged with the dirt without a splash, though stalks of grass, roots and all, danced
across the waves and settled outside the circle.

The earth within the circle began to boil. Lumps rose up like bubbles in broth, but when the muddy dirt
over them retreated, they revealed stones from the size of my fist to one bigger than my skull. As they
bounced out of the circle, I scrambled back on my hands and feet, then stood and looked over to see if
Larissa was safe. She nimbly danced back out of the way of a stone, then smiled at me and returned the
wink.

 The dirt circle shifted from a deep, dark brown to a reddish color, then geysered upward. I raised my
left hand to shield my eyes, but the dirt remained solidly locked in a column. It began to spin fast and
faster, akin to the dustwhirls I'd seen in the Centisian plains, but did not move from the spot to which it
appeared rooted. Then it all swirled down and resolved itself into a varicolored cloak fastened with an
agate clasp at the throat of a Reithrese sorcerer.

 "I bring you greetings from the Reithrese Nation." He hovered in the air and slowly turned a circle,
studying the Elves as they came to their feet. His circuit complete, he faced forward again. His eyes
narrowed as he saw me, then his lips spread apart to reveal a diamond smile. "You I find in the most
unusual places, Manchild."

 "Nor had I expected to see you here, Takrakor." I brought my right hand up to Cleaveheart's hilt, but
did not draw the blade as Aarundel came up beside me. He placed himself in the way or any drawcut, so
I assumed he wanted no violence, and his having left his ax behind confirmed that assumption. "It seems
we only meet at ceremonies: here a wedding and at a funeral in Jammaq."

"Such circumstances will change in due course, Manchild."

"Pity, I like Reithrese funerals."

Aarundel held up a hand to silence me, "Neal, he is here as a guest."

I blinked. "You invited Takrakor to your wedding?"

 My friend shook his head. "An invitation is always extended to a representative of the Reirhrese people,
for marriage is change and they are the masters of change."

 "Marriage is also the death of solitary life." The Reithrese ran his tongue from crystal fang to crystal fang.
"We are the masters of death."
I smiled. "Ah, there's a truly appropriate sentiment for a wedding."

Aarundel sighed and looked up at Takrakor. "It is seldom that the Reithrese accept the invitation."

 Takrakor shrugged easily. "Could we ignore the wedding of one who has proven a fierce foe? Not only
do we celebrate your nuptials, but we celebrate your coming life here, in Cygestolia. Your retirement
from the battlefield will remove from us our concern for your safety among Men."

"The Haladina have hardly been a threat to Aarundel." I smiled at him. "Were I you, I'm thinking I'd be
more concerned about the safety of Reithrese among Men."

 The sorcerer's red eyes tightened down into bloody slivers. "I have not forgotten your antics, Neal. Not
at all. You could but hope I would forget." He waved me away with an idle hand, and I felt a light breeze
buffet me. "I will not let you spoil this joyous occasion among your Elders, youngling."

 He clasped his hands together for a moment, then spread them wide apart and sprayed out a rainbow of
gems that carried from Larissa's feet to mine. "These are for you, Aarundel, and your bride, Marta. Your
skill as a jeweler is not unknown to us, and any gift you craft for her will be enhanced by her beauty."

 Aarundel knelt and held up a blue diamond as long as my thumb and half that wide. "This would be
reckoned a fortune even in Dwarven halls, Takrakor. Your earlier words could cause one to construe
this as a bribe for me to remain here in Cygestolia."

 The sorcerer's eyes flared wide for a moment, then returned to normal size as Takrakor smiled. "They
are offered in friendship and fellowship, Aarundel, not as a bribe. We know you do not want to leave
your bride for the war trail. And do not take it that I think you a coward easily swayed by wealth into
staying here. I no more think that than you should imagine that the Reithrese fear an Elf consorting with
Men."

"Then we share comprehension?"

"I believe we do."

 "Good." Aarundel smiled carefully and raised his voice so all could hear him. "My wife and I, last night,
came to an understanding. After a fortnight I will again travel from Cygestolia and continue my work as a
warrior."

As the people murmured together in shock, Finndali came up from behind Larissa and rested his hands
on her shoulders. "You were not granted permission to marry so you would leave again."

"And no condition was placed upon my return here to marry. You and the Consilliarii may have decided
marriage would keep me here, but that was not my decision." Aarundel hesitated for a moment and
glanced at his sister before continuing. "You have met Neal Custos Sylvanii. You all saw the torris. In his
dance and in his conduct here you have seen why I have come to call this man friend. As Neal has come
here to stand by me in my world, I will again travel from Cygestolia to stand by him in his. To do less
would dishonor my vindicator."

 Takrakor's bass laughter cut through the buzz of Elven voices. "Very good, Aarundel, wonderful. I told
them that you would not be gelded in Cygestolia. The Cold Goddess will eat your soul as eagerly as any
other."
I eclipsed Aarundel's body with my own. "I'm thinking we can test that theory whenever your troops
decide to come out and fight in front of their Man-mercenaries."

The sorcerer's cloak began to decay as his anger wore away his control. "When I choose to fight,
youngling, you will once again long for the days of fighting the Haladina."

"That could well be true, Takrakor," I growled at him. "Until then I'll content myself with remembering
how easily your brother died."

 The Retthrese sorcerer snarled in anger and started to sink toward the ground. With a downward
snapping of his wrists and windmilling action of his arms, he again raised the cloud of dust. Either because
he had lost control, or because of deliberate contempt, the sandstorm lashed out and scourged me on the
left side of my face. I went down on one knee and felt the blood starting to trickle from a gash on my
forehead, but I drew Cleaveheart and had it poised for a thrust into the heart of the whirling cloud. The
dust funnel collapsed in on itself, leaving only the dirt hole in the center of the clearing.

 The Reithrese wizard had vanished, denying me a chance to make his clan yet more angry with me. His
gift of gems remained scattered over the ground. I wished they had been his teeth and it had been my fist
that had sown them there, but such evil thoughts were scarcely the proper things for a vindicator to be
thinking at his best friend's wedding.

 I pressed my left hand to my forehead to staunch the blood flow. Looking up, I saw Larissa move
forward to aid me, but her husband held her back. Horror washed through her eyes—not at what she
had almost done, but what custom would not allow her to do. I gave her a smile to let her know I was
not seriously hurt, then nodded as her husband tried to turn her away from me.

Aarundel knelt beside me and took a look at my wound. "A little cut. Nothing really."

I laughed lightly. "And this was an event I was thinking I'd not need a scar for remembering."

 "But if anyone was going to get hurt here, I would have assumed it would be you." He took the scarf
from around his neck and wadded it into a bandage. "Here."

"Thanks." I could see he wanted to say something, but words or his voice failed him. "Had you told me I
might be hurt, I might not have come."

He smiled politely, then took Marta's scarf from her to tie his around my head. As he leaned in close to
knot the cloth, he kept his voice low. "Neal, in the torris, you and my sister . . ."

A shiver ran down my spine. "We did not touch. Not at all."

"No, no, I know that." Aarundel stared at me. "What passed between you, what drove you . . . it was
obvious. Do you know what it means?"

 I looked down and felt drained of energy. "Takrakor could have made a lot of Elven allies by having
taken my head clean off?"

The Sylvan warrior shook his head. "It means that I am very happy for my sister and my friend."

"Thank you."
"And," he added grimly, "if you violate Elven law in this matter, when I kill you, I guarantee it will be
without pain."

Chapter 15:
To Mourn A Man's Passing

Early Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 "WHERE, MAN?" COUNT Berengar grabbed the servant by the front of his tunic and lifted him from
the floor.

"Northwest of the Low Market, m'lord, in an alley behind the Haladin leatherworker's shop."

 Berengar dropped him and raced from the chamber. In shock, filled with disbelief, Gena shivered, then
scrambled to her feet and trailed after him. She wanted to shout to him to stop or slow down, but a
growing hole inside her trapped the words. Her mind conjured all sorts of grotesque and hideous pictures
to coincide with the servant's phrasing, "killed him dead." As she ran down the hallway, the images
became stranger and stranger, layering eons of decay and abuse on a man who had been alive and with
her only six hours previously.

 It could be a mistake! Her training in wizardry overrode her emotions. The servant had seemed positive
in his declaration of Durriken's condition, but what did he know of life and death, injuries and recovery?
The servant might have assumed Rik dead when, in fact, he still lived. With her abilities and magic, she
could strengthen Rik. She could keep death at bay. If the barest spark of life remained in him, she would
nurse it into a bonfire that would bring him back to her.

She reached the courtyard in time to see Berengar's back as he rode out the gate. Gena turned on the
nearest groom. "Saddle me a horse. Get two. You will take me to the place where Rik lies."

The youth looked flustered. "M'lady, I cannot . . ."

"Do not incite my fury." She grabbed a handful or his tunic and propelled him toward the stables. "Do it,
do it now! My patience grows short." She curled her voice down into a sinister croak, hoping to invoke
memories of Eldsaga atrocities to speed the groom.

 Though he ran off to comply with her command, her anger did not remain under control. It exploded in
her as she saw Rik telling her he was not worried about his trip into the Haladin section or Aurdon. How
could you have been so stupid? How could you have done this? Her anger coiled with betrayal. You
should have known! I should not have let you go!

 Again her intellect attempted to intervene. She knew that she could not have stopped Rik even if she had
wanted to. He always had been independent despite his devotion to her. And he had always been a risk
taker, as the late fight with the Haladin Raiders had proven clearly. She knew that he had been smart
enough to decide there was no threat, but bold enough to have gone ahead into danger if he felt the
reward warranted the risk.
 She realized in an instant that her anger came from the surprise of losing him so soon. Somewhere in the
back of her mind she had seen staying with him as he grew old. That prospect held horror for other
sylvanesti, but she had embraced the idea because the person Rik was would only get better with age, no
matter what happened to his physical shell.

Unless he dies young.

 The groom led two horses from the stable, and Gena vaulted up into the gray horse's saddle. She stared
down at the groom as he mounted his horse, then let her impatience erode what little control she had left.
"Lead the way!"

"I don't know where you want to go, m'lady."

Gena snarled, then concentrated. "Low Market, in the alley behind the Haladin leatherworker. Go, go,
we will see a crowd, I am certain."

 The groom touched his heels to the horse's ribs, and Gena whipped her reins across the horse's rump as
it went past. She sent her mount after the first horse, cursing the groom's timidity and the roundabout
travel the siege gates forced upon them. Everything and everyone conspired to slow her when she knew
her magick might be all that could save Durriken from death.

 The city flew past in a blur, then they reached the street off which the alley ran. The crush of the crowd
made continuing on horseback impossible. Gena leaped from the saddle and waded into the crowd. Half
a head taller than the largest of the people in the street, she forced herself through to where Aurdon
Rangers held a perimeter around the alley-mouth. She did not care who she thrust aside or stepped
upon. All she knew was that she would not be kept away from Rik and she would deal harshly with
anyone who sought to stop her from reaching him.

She burst through the Ranger line. "Rik? Rik?"

Berengar whirled around from his station at the edge of the alley and stepped toward her. "Lady
Genevera, no."

"I have to see him."

"No!" Berengar caught her wrist. "Don't go there."

She tried to pull free of his grasp, but could not. "Unhand me!"

 "No!" Berengar pulled her to the side and trapped her against the adobe wall of the leatherworker's
shop. "He's dead, Gena."

Despair swallowed her anger. "No, don't say that. I can help him."

"No one can help him."

"You don't know that." She pounded a fist against Berengar's chest. "He might not be dead."

Berengar secured her other wrist and pressed her back against the wall with his body. "Gena, he is
dead. I have seen death. I know."
"I have magick."

"I know, but it can't do him any good."

She bit back an agonized wail. "Please, m'lord, please. I must see him."

 "No, Gena, no." She saw him fight for control of his own emotions. "You don't want to see him like
that."

"I need to see him, please."

 "Gena, Durriken wouldn't want you to see him that way." He gathered her wrists together and held them
against his chest in his right hand. He looped his left arm around her shoulders and hugged her close.
"Allow him the dignity in your memory that the Haladina denied him in death."

 The compassion in Berengar's voice broke through and eroded the urgency and resolve that had held
pain at bay. She gripped Berengar's shirt and brought her head down to her hands as the tears started.
"It's my fault. I should have been here with him."

 "No, no, you cannot blame yourself. His death here is no more your fault than your death would have
been accounted to him had we died yesterday." The count stroked her hair. "You would have done
anything to save him, and he would have done the same for you, but not being there does not make you
his murderer. Had you been here, I might be mourning the murder of two friends."

"Why did it happen?"

Gena initially resisted, then allowed Berengar to move her away from the alley. "I don't know why, but I
do know we will find those who did this. My best people are dealing with it. They will bring the . . . they
will bring Durriken to our home and he will be interred in the Fisher vault."

"I do want to see him, to say good-bye."

"I know, I shall see to it."

Gena lifted her head and kissed Berengar on the cheek. "Thank you." She shivered and nestled beneath
his arm, availing herself of the refuge he offered until a cart came to carry them both home.

 Genevera found herself surprised to think of Durriken as being so small in death. Except for a folded
towel covering his loins, he lay naked on the gray granite-topped table. His body had been washed and
his limbs straightened so that she could almost have imagined him to be sleeping. She stared at him,
wishing and hoping his hairless chest would begin to rise and fall again, but from the chalky pallor of his
flesh, she knew that would never happen.

Berengar stood with his back to the door. "The city's mortician thinks this odd, but I told him this was an
Elven ritual."

 "It is that, really." She slowly made one circuit of the table. "Unlike Men, we return our dead to the earth
unencumbered by tokens and trophies of their mortal existence. Those who loved the deceased are
asked to soothe their hurts; then we release the dead from any obligation they had to us."

She started to reach out toward Rik, but she hesitated. Death being so uncommon among her people,
yet with so many dying back in the time of Neal, the ritual had become sacrosanct among Elves. She
wanted to honor Rik for the person he had been inside, ignoring utterly his mortal shell, but she knew
countless Elves who would take more offense at her honoring him in this manner than they would at her
having slept with him.

Apostasy and heresy are no strangers to my family. She shook her head. It is right to do this.

 She extended her left arm, lowering her hand, and allowed the tip of her middle finger to trace one of the
purple cuts on Rik's chest. The first extended three inches from his breastbone up toward his throat and
similar wounds scored the flesh beneath each breast. Identical diagonal cuts marked his chest near his
shoulders and the lower edges of his ribs. The last laceration was the worst; a long, ragged crescent cut
that had opened his belly.

 The part of her inclined toward being clinical cataloged the likely damage done by each of the smaller
cuts. The Haladina preferred the curved jambyfa dagger for close work, and she knew each of the cuts
ran down and in to meet in Rik's heart. He would have died quickly, almost without pain, but as she
touched each hole, she could feel the outrage Rik had known as his life ebbed away.

Clinical detachment dissolved in an ocean of memories.

 Gena forced away the few bad ones, releasing Rik from his part in any negative thoughts. She clung to
those wonderful and wondrous visions of the time they had spent together. It seemed such a short time,
yet she had never felt they would end. Cloaking her wounded soul in the happy times, she let go of the
last bit of resentment—that of having been abandoned by Rik—and looked up as Berengar spoke in a
gentle voice.

 Berengar slowly shook his head. "The Haladina refer to that form of death as tmemja tal-karti. It
translates as 'Eight Cuts,' but each blow has significance to them. They reserve it for traitors."

 Bile rose in her throat as she touched the start of the curved wound on Rik's stomach. Her fingers found
cold, waxy flesh where so often she had felt only warmth before. Rik's stomach had been flat, but now
gapped slightly open at the wound. Deep inside it she could see the blue-white rope of his bowels.
Though Berengar had tried to shield her, she had heard the rumors about how the Haladina had looped
Rik's intestines around his neck, draping them over him like an obscene bloody garland.

 Clenching her teeth, Gena forced herself to trace every inch of the wound. She felt its cruelty and
choked back her anguish and fury. She knew Rik would never have screamed in pain, but would have
just glowered in anger at his assailants. She vowed she would not dishonor him by breaking down, even
though her throat hurt with suppressed emotion.

You will be avenged, my love, by my action, because of my love.

That wound salved with her vow, Gena looked up at Berengar. "Why would they think Rik a traitor?"

Berengar would not meet her eyes. "Who can know the minds of the Haladina, my lady?"

 "You need not spare me more pain, Berengar, for it cannot be worse than what I already feel." Gena
touched the corners of Rik's mouth and gently brushed her fingers across his split lips. His right cheek
and eye bore livid bruises, and a small cut had a curious right-angle twist to it, as if it had been made by a
ring. She raised her hand to her lips, kissed her fingers, then again touched Rik's lips.
"He betrayed no one. They could have taken him as a spy for your family, I suppose."

"That might explain their killing him, but not in this manner." Berengar hesitated, then frowned. "I have
heard a rumor . . ."

Her head came up. "What rumor?"

 "A disturbing one. I had heard disturbing stories about Durriken and his vocation. I accepted him on the
strength of his traveling with you, but . . ."

 "You wonder if Durriken was playing some game on the Riveren side of things?" Gena shook her head
adamantly and let fire play through her voice. "I may not have known Durriken long by Elven standards,
but I knew him well. I knew everything about him because he opened up and shared himself with me."
Her voice caught as she realized there had been many things she had not shared with Durriken, and she
wondered if he knew she had held things back from him. "He would not have betrayed us, my Lord. Of
this I am certain."

 Berengar nodded once, curtly. "Then that is no longer a consideration. I do not know how their minds
work, but the Haladina killed him and the Haladina will pay." His expression slackened for a moment,
losing its fierceness. "That is, they will pay if you still feel able to undertake the trek for which I
summoned you here. Without Rik, well, there is no onus upon you to do this thing. I can understand if
you wish to mourn. I do not know enough about the Sylvan culture to know what you will do in that
regard."

 Gena nodded. "We mourn privately, at moments in which we feel a closeness to the deceased. Death is
not as common among us as it is here, and seldom does it come prematurely, so there is not often that
much regret." Looking down at Durriken, she brushed hair from his forehead. "I have so much to regret,
and so little to remember."

 Berengar extended his left hand toward her and opened it. "Perhaps this will allow you to remember
him."

 From his palm she drew Lord Orvir's ring and the silver chain to which it had been married. "My Lord,
this was your brother's ring."

 "No, it was Durriken's ring. I gave it to him and promised that I might give him the land grant that went
with it if we succeeded. He gave his life in pursuit of our enterprise, so I deem it right that the title has
passed to him, for however brief a time," The count shrugged uneasily. "The rest of Rik's effects,
including his flashdrakes, are in your room here. I separated the ring only because I wanted you to realize
that I meant for you to have it in his memory."

 Gena slipped the chain over her head, past her ears, and let the ring rest between her breasts. "I thank
you for your kindness." She closed her right hand around the ring and waited for it to warm at her touch.
"I think there is no question that we must go forth with your plan. Neal Elfward fought against the
Haladina throughout his life. No one who forged an alliance with the Haladina should be safe beneath his
protection."

 Berengar nodded in agreement and folded his arms over his chest. "Do you know where Cleaveheart
is?"

"Not beyond question, but I think I remember its having been entrusted to my grandfather at the time of
Neal's death. He and my grandaunt conveyed it to Jarudin."

Berengar smiled. "The imperial capital? Do you think it is still there?"

"I don't know, but that is the last place I know it has been." She glanced back at Rik, then nodded. "We
bury our dead, then go to find Neal's weapons so we can avenge them."

Chapter 16:
To Celebrate An Empire's Death

Early Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Five Centuries Ago
My Thiry-seventh Year

***

 BATTLES DURING THE spring following Aarundel's wedding brought the final consolidation of
Centisia under the Red Tiger's banner. Swinging up to the northeast, we nipped off a bit of Ispar, then
retreated quickly as the Reithrese responded with a battalion of Reithrese Dragoons and a virtual horde
of Haladina to hunt us down. The Reithrese did not follow us back into Centisia, though their allies did,
and we sent the Haladina running back across the border after we'd left a quarter of their number
bleeding on the north Centisian plains.

 After that victory Sture renewed his call for an expedition toIrtysh . The Red Tiger said he would
entertain the idea of that strategy and—in accord with a plan that Sture knew nothing about—I pulled the
Steel Pack out of the Red Tiger's force in a fit of pique. We headed back toward Aurium, then slashed
on into the mountains on the Kaudian/Esquihiri border to wait.

 Word of the strike atIrtysh got out very quickly, and the Reithrese started shifting forces toward Ispar to
harass our lines. Despite reports of new Reithrese activity to the north, Sture continued in his
preparations for the expedition. When he was ready to go, he met with the Red Tiger for one last time
and was given the news that he was going nowhere.

The Red Tiger wheeled his army around and drove hard into Kaudia. With the Exile Legion to guard his
back, the Red Tiger pushed into the central reaches of Kaudia, and the Reithrese scrambled to oppose
him. They brought Home Guards in from Reith and put up a spirited defense.

 The Reithrese garrison and their Haladin allies held and fought well until the Steel Pack shot west and
looped down south. We ended up well behind their lines and successfully raided a paymaster's caravan.
As with all good mercenaries who have not been paid, the Haladina fighting in Kaudia began to look at
returning to their homes. The Reithrese pulled back to defend key fortresses in the northwestern parts of
the nation while the Steel Pack returned with our booty to the Red Tiger's freestate.

 Both sides wintered in position; then with spring we brought the Exile Legion up and pushed sharply
north. We skirted the line of Reithrese fortresses, but kept enough skirmishers out that the Reithrese
didn't dare abandon them to attack us. As a result we stood poised for a hard march through Esquihir
and Batangas to Reith itself. The Reithrese began to move troops from Ispar into Esquihir to press us
from the north. Aarundel sent a message to Cygestolia demanding that passage through Elven Holdings
be denied to them, so the Consilliarii immediately granted the Reithrese the right to come around the
mountains and down. They swung wide a bit, venturing into the Batangas bulge to resupply after the long
march. By the middle of summer they were prepared to send us back through the mountains into
Centisia.

 While battles are actually won or lost in the field, things done outside battle can almost guarantee the
outcome before the first arrow flies or the first man falls. Aarundel and I both agreed that the Consilliarii
would do anything they could to punish him and me for our audacity. He had defied them in rejoining the
Red Tiger's army, and I dared love a sylvanesti without acting like an animal that they could destroy.
While they hated the fact that Larissa and I were as heartbound as Aarundel and Marta, they also
respected the fact that I fully observed their laws, so they had to find other means to destroy me.

 The request to bar Reithrese passage through Elven lands came largely because the Red Tiger's plan
would be ruined if the Reithrese moved into the Hiris mountains. Likewise, Aarundel's demand that our
army be allowed the same sort of passage was denied, making it clear to the Reithrese that they had us
trapped against the Hiris mountains. While I would not have seen that as a great threat, since our army
could melt away into the mountains and another Human army could not stop them, the Reithrese and their
wizards saw things entirely differently.

 As the Reithrese armies pressed us north and east, their Haladin allies cut us off from a southern retreat
to the freestate. We pushed back into the Hiris mountains, and, wary of being trapped the way Tashayul
had been in the Roclaws, the Reithrese advanced carefully. Using small scouting parties and relying
largely on wizards, they decided they had us precisely where they wanted us until spring. Employing their
formidable elemental magicks, they brought winter early to the Hiris range, filling all the passes, leaving
the Red Tiger and his rebellion trapped in a high mountain-valley forest.

 Their magicks were potent indeed. Winds howled demomcally and blew away any lingering summer
warmth. Snow fell heavily during the days, then the night brought such bitter cold that the snow froze over
into a crust. The day following such a freeze would bring rime-tinged winds that drove corn-kernel ice
crystals across open meadows in the winter equivalent of desert sandstorms. Because of the time of the
year, bringing winter to the mountains early was not terribly difficult, so the Reithrese wizards put a great
deal of effort into bringing us the worst winter ever seen right there in the mountains.

 The reason they were so willing to brutalize us with the weather was because they truly believed they
had the entire Human rebellion trapped in the mountains. What they really had was a volunteer force of
just over two thousand individuals, including two score of our sorcerers, who agreed to make it look to
the Reithrese as if a much larger force were in that valley.

 The soldiers in the force divided their time between setting up ambushes for Reithrese scouts and
maintaining the appearances of a camp suitable for housing an army fifteen times the size of the mountain
force. They did that by pitching tents and maintaining fires—both difficult tasks in the unnatural winter.

 The sorcerers worked more subtly to annoy the Reithrese. Since Reithrese magickers are powerful, they
tend to hold their Human counterparts in contempt. Our sorcerers used that arrogance against them by
weaving concealment spells that functioned on multiple levels. The result was that any Reithrese sorcerer
trying to use his powers for reconnaissance ended up with an incredible amount of spurious data and
reports. Thus the Reithrese could not sort the truth from fictions concerning our army.

This heroic effort bought us the time we needed for the Red Tiger's plan to work.

The snow in the passes, which was so easy for the Reithrese to dump on us because of the seasonal
proximity to winter, would, for the same reason, be impossible to melt away until spring approached.
That meant that in trapping us, the only way the Reithrese could get to Jarudin would be to move back
through the Elven holdings, or down and around through Kaudia and up through Centisia. In blocking the
mountains, the Reithrese had cut themselves off from the most direct route back to Jarudin. However
they ended up going back to the capital, it would take too long for them to counter our grand plan.

 The army itself had pushed on hard through the Hiris mountains and had reached the Ispari side before
the snows began to fall at all heavily. Aarundel and I remained in the mountains to organize the camp
while the Red Tiger regrouped and rested the army in a valley two hundred miles south of Jarudin. There
they brought in an early harvest, built siege machines, then slowly moved north toward Jarudin—the
capital.

 Once we were satisfied about the situation in the mountains, Aarundel and I used the Sylvan circii
translatio to rejoin our forces. The trip that time proved even more tiring for me than before, but we had
two days to recover before the army caught up with us. More remarkable was the Dreel's ability to
accompany us on the trip despite his refusal to wear the silver chains that Aarundel and I needed to
travel.

"Magick I am," he hissed, tapping his chest, "things I need not."

 As much as I wouldn't have minded leaving him behind in the mountains, I was glad he came through. In
fact, he seemed less tired than either one of us. While he did not steal a sheep during the journey, he did
hunt down a stag when we arrived, and having to sup on venison did my recovery no harm.

 Within a fortnight, at the culmination of two long, bloody years of fighting, the Human host reached
Jarudin. An inelegant sprawl of local redstone, imported marble, and, for one tower, Reithrese basalt, the
imperial city had been designed by Tashayul as a monument to the vitality he had once known. With his
death the grand drive to finish the city had faltered, so Reithrese architecture gave way to Human as the
walls surrounding the city were completed.

 Tashayul's death hurt more than the desire to complete his capital. Without Tashayul's leadership, the
Reithrese Nation broke into antagonistic political factions. While there was still a strong,
imperially-minded contingent—led by Takrakor—the opposition groups appeared to wield enough
power to prevent further expansion. The Red Tiger felt, and I agreed, that if we could take Jarudin away
from the Reithrese, the imperialists would be terribly embarrassed and might be consumed by their
isolationist foes in Reith.

 Toward that end the Red Tiger's army stood arrayed around the imperial city. Sixteen thousand
Centisian warriors made up the core of the army, with three thousand in light cavalry, two thousand
archers, and the rest distributed among pikemen, swordsmen, axmen, and irregulars. Despite their name,
the latter troops were the best, being huntsmen and errant warriors classed as bandits or heretics by the
Reithrese Empire. Sture's Exile Legion added a thousand light cavalry and some well-drilled infantry. The
rest of our infantry were farmers, who, despite two summers campaigning, had been more at home
harvesting crops for the march north than waiting to lay waste to Jarudin.

 The light cavalry formed the wings of our host, with the infantry and archers in the center. In front of
them was the Steel Pack and the newly formed Steel Hunt. With my blessings and support, Drogo had
split from the Pack and formed up his own heavy-cavalry company. Being from Centisia himself, he
picked more of his countrymen to fill the ranks, and they all pledged their personal fealty to the Red
Tiger. While they were not quite as fierce as the Pack, I took pride and pleasure at having the Hunt
behind us.

The fact that we had arrayed ourselves in a classic battle formation must have astounded the Reithrese in
the city. They had massive walls between us and them, and enough supplies in the city that they knew
they could wait us out. Even if our catapults and ballistae, onagers, and trebuchets were able to cast
stones or shoot missiles over the high walls, the damage done would be minimal, and magick could be
employed to destroy the most offensive machines. Their troops, who seemed to enjoy standing on the
walls and shouting taunts at us, were clearly not of a mind to sally forth and give us some sport.

 Ours was, to their eyes, a halfhearted attempt at sieging an impregnable city. They could easily wait us
out and send for troops to lift the siege if we became a nuisance. They grew contemptuous enough of us
to let Human traders come out to sell us various wares and intelligence about the city itself. The only
chance we had of taking the city would involve a miracle, and both sides knew it.

The Red Tiger sent a runner to bring Aarundel and me his tent. The miracle was at hand.

A giant of a man, bigger than either Aarundel or myself, Beltran greeted us warmly and poured each of
us a goblet of wine. "Tonight we dine at the emperor's table."

 "I can hardly wait," I lied as I acknowledged Sture's half nod in my direction. I gathered, from the
redness on the tips of his ears, he had been again at Beltran about a special mission for his Lightning Elite
cavalry or using his coal-mining sappers to bring Jarudin's walls down. "How nice to see you again, my
Lord."

 "The pleasure is all mine, Neal." Sture, while not a small man, was shorter than any of the rest of us in the
room and used a woolen cap to hide the fact that his black hair had thinned dramatically in the last three
years. His brown eyes glittered with intelligence, but there were times I wondered if he was actually able
to see beyond the tip of his long, slender nose. "I wish your Steel Pack the best of luck in the coming
assault."

 If I could have bottled the tone of his voice, I could have used a drop of it in Jarudin's wells to poison
the entire population. Ignoring him, I smiled at the Red Tiger. "Plans have been finalized, then?"

"I believe everyone understands his part in this." Beltran gulped his wine and swiped the excess from his
bushy red beard with the back of his left hand. "Will you be ready to ride in an hour?"

I nodded. "The Pack will. What is our target?"

 The Red Tiger moved to the table sitting in the middle of his tent and used his goblet to pin down one
corner of the map he unrolled. Sture held down the other side and studied the map as if he could change
the writing on it by force of will alone. "The Steel Pack will go in at the Dragon's Tower. You will have
the Veirtu riders coming after you." He shifted a finger along to point at a separate tower. "The Steel
Hunt and I will hit theGriffin 's Tower at the same time."

The plan made sense. The octagonal city, as I could see from the map, had been laid out like a wheel
with theImperialTower at the hub. Each of eight main roads led out from it to the eight main towers on the
walls. Entering the city at the Dragon andGriffin towers, we would pass through the quarter of the city
given over to Men. We hoped that our fellow Men would not be as hostile to our attack as their
Reithrese masters, which might let us get deep into the city before we met serious resistance.

I looked up at him. "You expect the Veirtu to draw their sorcerers to us?"

 "I agree with Neal's skepticism on this point." Sture's head came up and he nodded condescendingly
toward me.
 "My Lightning Elite is a mounted force that has sorcerers more fully integrated into it. We would be a
lightning rod—no pun intended—for any sorcerously inclined defenders."

Aarundel grabbed the back of my belt, preventing me from stepping forward to throttle Sture. "I believe,
Duke Sture, you mistake Neal's question. He was not doubting the Pack's ability to work with the Veirtu,
merely wondering what the Red Tiger's intent was in attaching them to our unit."

 The Red Tiger, having ignored Sture's comment and Aarundel's reply to it, nodded grimly. "I know that
will make it difficult for you, Neal, but the Veirtu should be able to offer some protection. If the sorcerers
cannot raise the walls again, the rest of our host can get through and the battle is won. Both of our forces
have to push on through and head straight for theImperialTower . The more effective we are in drawing
the Reithrese to the heart of Jarudin, the more likely our success."

Aarundel studied the map, then nodded. "Speed, then, is our armor and spear point."

"And the Lightning Elite is the swiftest cavalry we have, my Lord."

Beltran sighed. "I agree, my Lord, which is why I have designated it to consolidate our gains once the
Pack and Hunt are through the gaps. If your men fail, we will be trapped with no hope of victory."

 "I understand, my Lord." Sture studied the map a little longer, then looked up wearily as if certain of a
coming disaster.

"Speed is vital, Imperator, as it has been throughout our war." The Red Tiger lifted up his cup, and the
map rolled up into a tube, slapping against Sture's fingers.

"When next we meet, my friends, the Reithrese capital will be ours."

 "Provided the towers come down," Sture muttered. Beltran confidently plucked a small piece of marble
from the table, tossed it in the air, then caught it in a fist. "They will fall, Sture, they will fall, and when they
do, the empire goes with them."

 The tactical application of magick in combat is very difficult for reasons that are relatively simple to
understand. As with sword fighting, for every strike there is a parry. In magick each spell has a
counterspell. The efficiency of a sorcerer, or the skill of the swordsman, determines success, but with
magick it takes a lot of energy to accomplish a result, so having it countered could be quite debilitating. A
wizard capable of throwing a spell only once is akin to an archer with only one arrow. If he misses, he
becomes useless.

 The best use of magick in our assault would have been to cause huge upheavals of land at the base of
the walls to bring them down. Aside from the fact that none of the wizards on our side, including the
whole lot of the Veirtu, had sufficient power to do such a thing, that plan had problems because the
Reithrese had already laid counter-wards against that kind of spell. In effect the walls were immune to
magickal attack, which accounted in part for the incredible confidence of the defenders.

 The Red Tiger had worked out a way around their wards. Magick considers part of a stone the rough
equivalent to the whole stone itself. Mages call this the Law of Holomorphism. It says that a part is
considered a model for the whole, and the larger the part, the stronger the link.

The little stone the Red Tiger had shown me in his tent had been brought out from the city by one of the
traders and had come from either theGriffin orDragonTower . Had the Reithrese wards not rendered
them proof against it, magick could have been used to crush the small stones, thereby crushing the larger
ones. Because we had to use other methods, Beltran had dozens of such small stones married to far
bigger stones with a little mortar. Those larger rocks were loaded into our trebuchets and made ready to
shoot at the walls.

 The spell created by the Red Tiger's wizards was cast upon the smaller piece of stone attached to each
missile. To avoid a counterspell working against it as it approached the magically warded walls, the spell
itself would function only until the stone had reached the apex of its arc. Until that point the magick would
alter the flight of the missile to keep it flying on a course that would reunite it with the piece of the wall
from which it had been taken. As it began to fall from the sky, natural forces would guide it into its target,
so no magick could cancel the spell and spoil the rock's aim.

Though not as powerful as an earthquake, I was willing to gamble on it's effectiveness. The spell had
been tested while the siege machines were being built and, so I was told, had worked very well. Fursey
Nine-finger and Gathelus had watched the tests on behalf of the Pack and agreed to the plans the Red
Tiger had laid out at the start of the campaign, so I saw no reason to hold reservations about the magick.

 Then again, I did make double and triply certain that Sture had not managed to secret a rock in my
armor as I prepared myself for battle. Assaulting a fortified city is one thing, but tempting fate with magick
is another altogether.

 Aarundel came for me just as I finished dripping wax onto a folded parchment and pressed the butt cap
of my dagger down to seal the missive. Flipping Wasp around, I returned it to its sheath in my right boot.
"I want to entrust this to you. Send it to your sister if things go badly for me out there."

 Aarundel held his hand out for it. "As I have in each battle before, I will hold the message for you and
return it when the hostilities are terminated."

 I shook my head. "I appreciate your confidence, but this is far nastier a battle than we have faced
before. In the open field the Steel Pack is a force to be reckoned with. Breaching a wall is something else
entirely."

 "The nature of the task matters not, Neal." Aarundel slipped the message into a pouch on his swordbelt.
"You wield Divisator. You are destined to win an empire. Until then I harbor no trepidation concerning
your safety."

"The sword didn't do much to protect Tashayul."

"He deluded himself with an ambitious reading of a flawed translation."

"I hope your translation is better."

"I have the prophecy in the original."

 I stood in a rustle of mail. Had we been riding into combat against another line of heavy cavalry, I would
have donned a full suit of plate armor. In a charge the sheer weight of heavy cavalryman in collision can
shock, stun, or even kill an enemy, which is why few troops choose to become the target of the Steel
Pack. In addition to the weight, the full plate helps turn Haladin arrows, which, at close range, have an
annoying habit of sticking into ring mail.
 If things went as planned, we would be fighting in the city, so I chose to armor myself with my Roclawzi
ring mail and supplemented it with a limited amount of plate. The combination would not sacrifice mobility
or speed if I had to travel on foot, and yet it would keep me safe. My hauberk covered me from
midforearm to midthigh and included a hood that protected the back of my neck and my ears. To that I
added bracers, gauntlets, greaves, cuisses, and knee-caps. I decided against armoring my feet because I
wanted a good feel for the stirrups in case I had to kick free of the saddle, but I did add a toe spike to
my boots in case fighting became far closer than I hoped.

 Cleaveheart rode on my left hip, and I chose to carry a small target shield on my left arm. I planted a
steel cap on my head because I had less confidence in the prophecy than Aarundel and because only an
idiot would go into battle without a helmet. Even a glancing blow to the skull can put a man down, and
being knocked senseless in this fight would mean death.

 I followed Aarundel from the tent to where our horses waited. Once again the nature of the fight we
would face had forced a choice when it came to armoring Blackstar. I decided to encase him as
completely as practical in metal. The steel chamfron had two ram's horns curling out from just in front of
the ear holes and ring-joined plate made up the crinet and cuello armoring his neck and throat
respectively. The peytral had a spike in the center, and the wings came back to cover Blackstar's
shoulders as far as the saddle. Flanchards hung from the edges of my saddle to protect his ribs, and they
joined with the crupper covering his flanks, thighs, and rump. The armor added nearly a hundred and fifty
pounds to our weight but guaranteed his safety in case the prophecy did not.

 I pulled myself up into the saddle without assistance. Despite the fact that my armor weighed at least half
what Blackstar's did, it was not deadweight and, therefore, did not tax my strength to move. The day
men start wearing armor so heavy they cannot get into a saddle without aid is the day I go into battle
naked except for a big stick with which to knock them from their mounts and a small dagger to finish
them off. In the battle between strong and swift, swift wins every time—provided there is room to run.

 Thrusting aside my misgivings about a city not providing much room to run, I accepted a lance from one
of the grooms and reined Blackstar around. In riding over to where the Steel Pack awaited me, I rode
past the Veirtu. They recognized me and set to howling and hooting in a way that I might have found
mocking if I didn't know who they were. As it was, I just howled like a wolf back at them, and they took
that gesture in great humor.

 The Veirtu go into battle all but naked, though they use weapons more powerful than sticks and ltittle
daggers. They worship Chavameht and claim to be possessed by one or more of the many animalistic
spirits that are that god's servants or avatars in the world. They gravitated to the rebellion against the
Reithrese more because I'm known as the Dun Wolf and Beltran is called the Red Tiger than out of any
real hatred of the Reithrese. Warrior-priests all, they wear the skins of their particular totem spirit, use
bows, and in close combat wield knobby war clubs that are painted up with all sorts of strange and
arcane symbols. They also employ strange battle magicks that do not have great range, but tend to leave
their targets with gaping and horrible wounds akin to those one would find if the target had been mauled
by wild animals.

 Fursey Nine-finger rode up to me as I joined the Pack. "I see we have the screaming idiots following us.
It's for real, then?"

"It is. We're theDragonTower . Form up in double file, on me."

 Fursey turned and repeated my orders. Each of the five companies formed up in double ranks forty
riders long. With Aarundel at my side and the Dreel loping along on the left, I started us out at a walk on
a serpentine course that would parade us at the extreme edge of range for Jarudin's mangonels. We
would ride parallel to the walls, as we had done at this time for the past four days, and if we were lucky,
we would again attract a crowd of defenders watching and laughing at us.

 Out ahead of us the Steel Hunt performed a similar parade maneuver. From behind, as we drew
opposite theDragonTower —so named because of the dragon motif used for the gargoyles festooning
it—a trumpet sounded from our lines. The sharp snap of axes chopping through cord, and catches being
slipped, presaged the mighty groan of wooden catapult and trebuchet arms as they bent to their duty. In a
whirring whoosh akin to a quick breeze rising, huge boulders flew skyward and arced up high above our
heads.

 Our siege engines, because they were larger than those mounted atop Jarudin's towers and battlements,
had both a greater range and a greater capacity than those used by the defenders. The stones they
hurled, some spherical and others rectangular quarry blocks, spun lazily, end over end. As the first
passed the apex of its flight, another trumpet blast sounded, and the whole of the Steel Pack turned to
face the walls. When that first stone hit, we began our advance.

 The initial strike against theDragonTower hit low and hard. Though the missile shattered when it
struck—pieces rebounding and tumbling back out toward our lines—portions of several foundation
blocks crumbled right along with it. Two more boulders pounded into that same area, enlarging the
wound. The thunderclap of their hammering shuddered through me. Though a growing cloud of dust
obscured the base of the tower, screams and shouts from the people in it told me severe damage had
been done.

 The next three stones hit higher. One bounced off the top of the wall, reducing an onager to flinders and
the men tending it to bloody memories, then fell down to wreak havoc in the city below. The other two
did not hit so well or dramatically, but the tower wavered under their blows. More people screamed, and
black cracks ran a geometric zigzag through mortar up the front of the tower.

 The last four stones hurled came down on target. One hit the tower near the top, breaking off finials and
merlons as if they were teeth. The other three crashed down through the dust at the tower base. Splinters
and fragments from them flew back out of the dust. The stones' impact sounded hollow, and I guessed
that they'd actually punched through the tower's exterior. That had been the plan, and if it worked, the
tower should come down.

Down it came.

 The cracks running up the front of the tower spread out like plant roots. Dust shot from the windows
and arrow slits as the tower's internal structures broke away. Support for them eroded from the ground
up, creating stresses that ripped them apart. Through the dust I could see blocks and gargoyles beginning
to fall away one by one, then that became a cascade and finally an avalanche of stone. As if
theDragonTower had been built from glass, it collapsed in a rumbling roar that shook the ground. With a
dust cloud billowing out like fog, the tower's stone flesh fluidly spilled out into the field as if it were a
stony carpet being rolled out to greet us.

 A great cheer rose from behind us, but the warriors in the Red Tiger's army knew the battle had not
been won with the fall of one tower. As we spurred our horses into a trot, one whole unit of archers
came running out behind us. Armed with longbows, they sent shaft after shaft over our heads and down
into the gap. At that range none of us expected the arrows to have enough force to pierce armor, but
soldiers on the other side would take cover sooner than test that idea with their lives. For similar reasons
a number of our smaller siege machines had been loaded with stones ranging in size from thumbnails to
fists. Our soldiers used them to sweep the walls and gap to force defenders down.

 The stones that had been used to build the walls had varied in size, shrinking in accord with their distance
from the ground. As the tower came down, the stones ground against each other as if they were pressed
together in a giant mill. The leavings from the stones high up filled the spaces between the larger blocks,
which did not move much, creating a crushed-gravel roadway. While it was not level, and oily smoke
poured up from pockets where things burned below, it provided solid enough footing that Blackstar took
to it without any hesitation and only a slight slackening of speed.

 I cut Blackstar back and around a marble midden as Shijef dashed past. He leaped from the stone
mound to the broken edge of the wall and clung there as if he were a titanic, rabid squirrel. Tail twitching,
he dove down, and I lost sight of him just before I crested the hill. A blood-curdling scream of triumph
rang from the walls, followed by frenzied shouts that ended in gurgles and moans.

 Up and over I went, the first of the Steel Pack's riders into Jarudin. Blackstar slid down the far side of
the wall's ruins, then sprang forward to flat ground. He shied to the left, moving away from where the
Dreel yodeled in delight. Shijef shucked a Reithrese warrior from his steel carapace, carrying away more
than just metal as he did so. Blackstar's movement brought me into range of another warrior perched on
a rooftop. He screamed some oath at me and leaped, but I reined Blackstar around even closer to the
house and caught the airborne warrior on the point of my lance. He curled up around it and clattered to
the ground like a tin pot.

 I released the lance and drew Cleaveheart. Giving Blackstar some spur, I drove forward downDragon
Street . Riding clear of the dust and smoke from the collapsed tower, I split one man's skull with an
overhand blow. Aarundel rode another man down, then stabbed him with the spike on his ax before
reining up beside me.

 Dragon Streetled a mile straight on to theImperialTower . Every quarter mile between the wall and the
city hub, where the three ring roads cut across the street, it widened out into a square, at the center of
which stood a fountain or monument. If we were to meet resistance, it would be at one of those points,
so the faster we moved in, the less likely we were to be stopped. As nearly as I could see, no one had
formed up to oppose us, but the Reithrese had barracks deep enough in the city that I had no doubt we
would yet run into stiff resistance.

Aarundel pointed his bloody ax to the west. "GriffinTowerhas fallen."

Fursey rode up behind us. "First Company is through."

 I nodded. "Form up eight abreast." Looking up, I saw Shijef running across rooftops, leaping
street-wide gaps as if they were cracks between cobblestones. With so much death he had to be all but
out of his mind with glee. I knew that if I saw him hanging from the eaves like a gargoyle in Jammaq, I'd
be getting near trouble, and that little bit of information might be just enough to keep me alive.

 Out of the corner of my eye I saw something further down the street. Instinctively I brought my shield up
and felt something hit it hard. A cruciform broadhead pierced the steel, but did not pass entirely through
the shield. As I lowered the shield, the Reithrese archer turned and started to run. Aarundel yelled at him
in Reithrese, and the warrior started hollering back when the Elf's words reached his ears.

 I tipped the shield toward me to get a good look at the shaft buried in it. "It was lucky I raised my
shield."
"Prophecies are not easily frustrated."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, that Reithrese should have known enough not to waste the arrow, then."

"So I scolded him while he fled."

 Fursey returned with his men right behind him. I let them file around us to take up a forward position. As
the Second and Third companies came through—commanded by Senan and Ross—they positioned
themselves behind the First Company. Four and Five slipped into the smaller streets east and west
respectively. I put Gathelus to the west because he had worked with Drogo before, and let the new man,
Benedict, have our eastern flank.

 Riding up to the front of the Pack, I saw no change in activity during the five minutes it had taken for us
to get inside. As the Veirtu started through the gap, I led the Steel Pack forward. For the first quarter
mile we might as well have been parading through Polston, because we ran into no trouble and even had
Humans in the windows cheering us on. I forbade the men any shouting or accepting of flowers or jugs of
wine and picked up our pace.

 Our advance into the second ring of the city was marked by a distinct change in architecture and
inhabitants. Leaving ramshackle and widely disparate human dwellings behind, we rode into a sector of
the city that housed the Reithrese lower classes and their Human allies.

The buildings had been constructed in a blocky style that had strength but no artistry. The houses had
been gaily painted and gaudy drapes covered windows, but still seemed lifeless.

 Not so the intersection with the second ring road. A Reithrese officer rallied a small patrol and two
dozen Haladina to take up a position between us and the intersection. That made tactical sense, given
that his position would allow any reinforcements to come from the ring road or fromDragon Street . Not
knowing if he had troops following him, I had to admire his dedication to duty.

I also had to go through him.

 Raising Cleaveheart, I waved my men forward and let the Steel Pack do what it does best: charge. Less
than four hundred yards separated us from the defenders, so we cantered forward for roughly half that
distance. I expected the defenders to break just at the sight of us, but stupidity or arrogance kept the
Reithrese in their place, and Haladina admiration for the jewel-grinning warriors overrode their better
sense.

 Three hundred yards, then only two hundred fifty. As we approached, I could feel the blood start
pounding in my temples. Blackstar impatiently tossed his head, and I found myself chuckling in a most
sinister way. Aarundel raised his ax and screamed out an inhuman challenge. I squinted, trying to see if I
could pick out individuals I could identify as sorcerers. I saw none and knew, as we passed the
two-hundred-yard mark, it wouldn't have made any difference if I had.

 Slashing down with Cleaveheart, I squeezed Blackstar with my knees and sent him into a gallop. The
first rank of the Steel Pack surged forward, using Aarundel and me to fill in the gaps. Steel-shod hooves
struck sparks from cobblestones. The rolling thunder of hoofbeats echoed down theDragon Street
canyon. Arrows loosed by the Haladin horse bows glanced ineffectively from armor. Clutching the reins
in my left hand and pulling my shield in tight to my chest, I howled like a madman and plunged forward
into the defenders.
 I had no chance to strike a blow, because the initial impact blasted the Reithrese officer back. Blackstar
had hit his mount in the shoulder, tipping the horse up and back over on its rump. It twisted to the side,
rolling sufficiently to pulverize the officer's leg. Bucking and leaping, BlackStar pushed forward, eager to
get at the Haladin ranks. His efforts carried us clear of the officer and on into the Haladina.

 Riding lighter mounts, wearing boiled-leather or strip-scale armor, the outlanders were no more suited to
withstanding our charge than they were to enjoying a harsh winter. Horses screamed, nostrils flared, and
eye whites poached brown eyes as Haladin horses scrabbled ineffectively to retain their footing. Some
managed to turn after an initial shock, then another horse would hit them broadside. Shrieking curses,
riders slashed at our horses while trying to control their own mounts. Cleaveheart fell silver and rose
crimson as I cut a man from the saddle to win free of the roadblock.

I knew that I had to keep riding, because to stop or turn would have been as suicidal as the stand the
defenders had made. The Steel Pack would roll over me as easily as it had them, and I had no intention
of dying beneath the swords and flashing hooves of my own men. We had a mission to accomplish, and
with each jarring hoof-fall I came one stride closer to completing it.

 I raced into the middle intersection and saw, to the east, a troop of mixed Reithrese and Human pikemen
running forward to set up another roadblock. I never even considered turning my riders to face them. A
charge against set pikemen would be suicidal, and they could set up in the time it would take us to cross
the two hundred yards to where they ran. But they were not between us and the tower, so their threat to
us was minimal.

 It became even smaller when Benedict and Five Company burst from the alleys and streets to catch
them on the flank. Buildings swept that battle from my sight as I rode on. To my left, inside a hundred
yards, a Reithrese longbowman stepped from a shadowed alley to shoot at me. Before he could loose his
arrow, a furry shadow detached itself from a building across the way and in one bound carried the archer
back into the blackness from which he had come. I heard no scream, but riding past, I saw blood
anointing both sides of the alley.

 The third ring of the city had buildings and homes that appeared more elegant and graceful, despite the
rigidity of squared designs. Recessed doorways, open balconies, and hints of interior courtyards marked
this as a more affluent section of the city, and I would have been willing to bet that we were the first
free-Men to ride down the streets since its construction. It may well have had a beauty that I could have
appreciated, but with the architecture being so inhuman, all I felt was the unsettling, unfocused threat of
being an invader in an enemy stronghold.

 At the last ring intersection I saw a knot of figures setting up, and their actions intensified that hostile
sensation. Cloaked in black, with variously colored sashes, hems, and hoods, a dozen people stood
whereDragon Street opened into the last courtyard. Several of them touched hands; then as they spread
apart, a bluish line of lighting linked their hands and glowed out through their eyes. Others took up
positions behind the sorcerous line, with two even climbing into the geysering fountain. The water began
to form itself around them, encasing each in a shifting, spiky rainbow armor.

 Even a hundred yards away I could hear the energy crackling and humming between them. I had no
doubt their line would be lethal, but short of its instantly evaporating everyone who touched it, it could not
stop us. I guided Blackstar directly at one of the sorcerers in the vain hope that he might be a weak link
holding the chain together. I tightened my grip on Cleaveheart and for once hoped Aarundel was right
about the prophecy's prophylactic properties.

Suddenly, from the eastern side of the square, a volley of arrows raked over the Reithrese. The
centermost sorcerer in the line fell transfixed by a half-dozen Veirtu arrows. The energy linking him with
the other sorcerers blinked, then died in a stink of ozone just before our whirlwind charge blew into the
square.

 The Veirtu, who had moved beyond Benedict's men as they fought with the pikemen, had flanked the
sorcerers and had knocked the linchpin from the defense of the square. More arrows shot in at the
water-warded sorcerers. The fluid armor caught and shunted aside arrows, but had no such luck against
Veirtu magicks. I saw water rent as if by claws and one of the two sorcerers go down with most of her
abdomen sliced open.

 One or two of the Reithrese did cast spells at us. I felt the heat of a flamewall materializing behind me
and heard the screams of riders at my back, but the fire winked out as Aarundel harvested the
Reithressa's head with one long swipe of his ax. A bolt of lightning missed me, but struck another of the
Steel Pack, and somewhere else an explosion cast a horse and rider high into the air on the left flank.

 We rode on, a metal tide rising to the heart of the city. The lack of resistance over the last quarter mile
had me wondering what we would face at theImperialTower . A number of scenarios ran through my
mind, the most dire of which placed a sorcerous bodyguard for the emperor raising magical wards
around the tower itself, but I doubted it. I suspected that even more troops than we had dared imagine
had been summoned away from Jarudin to prevent the conquest of Reith. The sorcerers we had ridden
over had not been that powerful, and I began to think that more trust had been placed in walls and
defensive spells than was prudent for the emperor.

 As we rode, theImperialTower loomed taller and taller. It reminded me of Jammaq in that on its faces
had been carved countless little scenes. These depicted everyday life, laws in action, history and
folktales, in an illiterate's monument to the empire and people that put it together. And while it did not
have the profane displays and elements found in Jammaq, to me it felt no less malevolent. The life carved
into its flesh was not life as it naturally occurred, but life as the Reithrese intended it to be. The fact that
Humans appeared at the bottom of the tower and Reithrese occupied only the upper precincts sent a
not-so-subtle message to the conquered people of Ispar.

It was a message I wanted to expose as a lie.

 We came into the central promenade surrounding the tower and saw the Steel Hunt arriving at the same
time. Our troops began to rein up, and I saw the Red Tiger himself leap from his saddle to run up the
stairs at the two sentries stationed there. Taller than either one of them, with his red mane flowing back
from his head, the man who would be emperor ran at the Reithrese soldiers with a broadsword in each
hand and roaring laughter falling from his throat.

Behind the soldiers the tower's huge iron doors slowly began to close in an effort to keep us out.

 Without a second thought I jammed heels into flanchards hard enough for Blackstar to feel it. The horse
took the stairs as if they were level ground. One of the guards turned toward me and I flung my shield at
him. It sailed through the air and bounced up off the steps at him. He parried it, but dealing with it
delayed him enough that he could not stop me. In a clatter of hooves on basalt, Blackstar crested the
steps and plunged on through the narrowing doorway.

 I kicked free of the saddle and twisted down to the ground. I let myself go to one knee and continued
my spin, with Cleaveheart whipping out from left to right two feet above the floor. A Reithrese warrior's
slash passed over my head while my cut took his left leg off at the knee. He went down screaming and I
came up quickly. I parried a thrust back to my right, then smashed my gauntleted left fist into another
soldier's face.

 He reeled back, spitting out a fortune in broken teeth, and bumped into the two Man-slaves working the
windlass to close the door. One of them turned around and jumped on his back, while the other cowered
in place. "Throw it wide open," I shouted at him, then spitted the Reithrese. "You're free men now.
Where's the emperor?"

The slave who had jumped the Reithrese pointed to a sharply arched doorway. "He's in there, waiting."

 I ran toward the archway as Aarundel rode into the entryway and the Dreel edged in around the door.
"The emperor is in here."

 A shiver ran down my spine as I entered the long, narrow room beyond the archway. Aside from flames
dancing in the pit-fire at the far end and in the circular firepots built high up on the walls, nothing in the
room moved. Squares of prayer carpet had been piled along the wall split by the doorway and were the
only furnishing in the room. They helped me identify the chamber as a Reithrese chapel.

 Six black pillars shaped like giant femurs held the ceiling aloft. As I looked up into the vaults, I noticed
they had been curiously shaped. With reddish highlights slithering across the relief like snakes, it took a
moment or two to put the shape above me together. Overhead, as if I stood within a giant sarcophagus,
the ceiling had been carved as a mold for an effigy. Though rendered in reverse, I recognized Tashayul's
form—the metal skeleton surrounding him providing a big clue for me.

Silhouetted against the firepit located beneath Tashayul's eyes, the emperor leaned on a sword, waiting.
Even encased in blackened mail, he appeared taller and a bit more slender than the average Reithrese
warrior. The set of his shoulders marked resignation, but I did not know if that concerned having to fight,
or having to die. As his head came up, I saw gold glints from the crown he wore.

"So, it is you, Neal." He slowly shook his head. "You have indeed earned your nickname: Sikkatura."

I smiled. "Sikkatura?"

Aarundel slipped through the door and stood at my right. "It means 'annoyance.' "

 The emperor laughed. "The Elf gives you the polite translation." He straightened up and waved me
forward. "Come to me, Neal, let us fight. If you win, the empire is yours. And when I kill you, I shall have
Khiephnaft and shall build the empire anew."

I shook my head and walked down the aisle between columns toward him. "If you win the sword, I trust
you will ward your capital more appropriately?"

 "There will be no need, once we have sent every last Man to the goddess." He turned his back to me
and dropped to one knee before the firepit. Bending his head forward reverently, he slid the tip of his
blade into the lapping flames and intoned a prayer aloud. "Bierek dmir Tieghi, Alia falz maraminn Hajja
ta'dejjem."

 Rising and turning to face me, he brought his sword up in a salute. What had been a black blade before,
now only served as the core of a sword edged with indigo flames. I saw lettering on the blade begin to
glow. I recognized the letters as being Reithrese in origin, but their meaning and importance I could not
begin to fathom. As the emperor brought his sword down into a guard, the flames brightened, and dull
red tongues played off the tallest spikes.
I closed my left fist around the latter half of Cleaveheart's hilt and kept the blade between me and the
Reithrese emperor. Until I knew what the sword could do aside from burn, I could not take the offensive.
Likewise I needed to gain a feel for the emperor's skill. Had I approached him the way the Red Tiger
went after the sentries, I'd have been spitted and roasted with one lunge.

 The emperor obliged my taste for caution and came in faster than I expected of him, but not so fast that I
could not counter his attack. He feinted a head-high slash, then whipped the blade down and around my
parry. Twisting my wrists around, I managed to invert my blade and stop his attack, but not before the
edge of his blade sliced a piece out of my right greave. I felt the heat against my shin and heard the metal
clink on the floor, but I'd jumped back out of range before another little cut could do to bones what that
blade had done to my armor.

 Cleaveheart had weathered the parry without so much as a nick, so whatever the magick was that
allowed the sword to chop up my armor, it had no effect on my sword. That was good because with my
armor being useless, we would be reduced to a battle of skill. The emperor had skill, there was no doubt
about it—as Aarundel had noted in Cygestolia, having a long life allows one to learn a lot about a
subject.

 The emperor came at me again, lunging low, then flicking the blade up and around in a cut meant to
carve a furrow through my chest. Pivoting on my right foot, I drew myself out of line with the attack. Two
hands on my hilt, I chopped Cleaveheart down, momentariiy trapping his blade against the floor. He
pulled back, and I whipped my sword up in a quick cut at his throat.

 He twisted around and went down, eluding Cleaveheart's sharp kiss by an inch. The flat of his blade
slapped across my flank, and half-melted armor rings tinkled as they bounced off the floor. I jumped
back from that hellish sword as the burning sting started in my side. My retreat gave him time to roll to his
feet and step away from the smoking impression his sword had made in the floor.

"As always, Manchild, time is on my side."

"Neal, give him to me." The Red Tiger stood in the archway, bloodied blades at the ready.

 "No, the emperor is mine." I raised myself up to my full height and struck a single-handed guard with the
tip of my blade pointing down toward the emperor's knee. I opened my mouth as if to speak, then
advanced a step, extended, and lunged. The emperor batted my blade aside, then snapped his blade
down and around in riposte aimed at my heart. I brought my left hand down and slapped the white-hot
blade away with my gauntlet. I felt the searing kiss of hot metal against the back of my hand, so I flicked
my hand forward like a cat ridding its paw of water and threw the gauntlet at the Emperor.

 He slashed his fiery blade back through the space between us, cutting the gauntlet in half. The cuff flew in
a fluid blob to splash steel-gray against one of the pillars. The incandescent hand, leather straps burning
merrily, struck him in the middle of the chest and dripped down the front of his ring mail. The quilted
gambeson beneath it began to smolder. The emperor retreated quickly to escape the smoke rising in his
face, but his swift movement only made the fabric burn faster.

 A quickstep to my left and he came into range again. I brought Cleaveheart down in a heavy cut that
caught him on the left shoulder. Rings snapped apart, and he screamed as I chopped down through
muscle and bone. He tried a halfhearted cut at my midsection, but I slid Cleaveheart free and parried him
strongly. Shifting my sword to my left hand, I brought my right fist up and caught him in the mouth,
smearing crimson across his white face and chin.
 He staggered back, then collapsed. He sat down hard enough to jar the crown from his head, but he
retained his sword. Tears filling his eyes, he tried to roll up to his feet, but the punch still had him too
unstable to be able to manage it. He slipped again and tried to regain his balance by burying his sword in
the floor. It sank into the stone as if cutting through nothing more substantial than water, so it did not help
steady him,

 Unbalanced, he released the blade. That quenched its flames and froze it in place, but he had fallen too
far from it to use it to lever himself to his feet. He crashed back to his buttocks, then rolled over onto his
ruined left shoulder. He screamed, arching his back, then went limp. The smoking cloth sent a gray
column toward the ceiling, where it gathered into a cloud and filled the face of Tashayul.

 I leaned forward and scooped the crown up with Cleaveheart's tip. I slowly turned and was surprised to
see the Red Tiger had advanced from the doorway. He looked at the crown and then me and back at the
crown again. Straightening up, with both swords at the ready, he looked me in the eye, saying nothing,
yet saying everything by raising one eyebrow.

 Back by the door Aarundel held his ax at the ready, and the Dreel tensed in the shadow of a pillar.
Between them stood Sture, the captains of my Steel Pack, and the Steel Hunt's Drogo. I saw them study
the both of us and I knew their thoughts. Though I had fought beneath the Red Tiger's banner, the Dun
Wolf was his equal in song and legend. I wielded Cleaveheart, and as everyone knew, the man who
possessed that sword was destined to win an empire. I had killed this emperor, and I had been
responsible for Tashayul's death. While the Red Tiger might have inspired the uprising against the
Reithrese, no man, not even Beltran, had a more legitimate claim to the crown than did I.

 All I had to do was slip it from my sword and place it on my head. Beltran might fight me for it, or might
pledge his fealty to me. Through that simple action I would become the most powerful Man on the face
of Skirren. I would become the hero of heroes. I would be the liberator of Mankind, and everyone,
including the Elves, would have to respect me. They would have to deal with me as an equal. They would
have to please me, placate me, and that could mean they might even give me Larissa.

 The stink of blood and burning wool cut through the idyllic fantasy my mind began to weave around her
image.

 I looked over at the Red Tiger. "There is a prophecy that says he who wields Cleaveheart will win an
empire."

He nodded stiffly if solemnly.

"And so I have." I flipped him the crown. "I have chosen to win it for you."

Chapter 17:
Memories Of Childhood

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

DURRIKEN'S DEATH AFFECTED Gena in ways it took her a long time on the road to sort out. She
recognized almost immediately the utter irrationality of her becoming angry with Rik for having died on
her. His death spoiled the dreams she had not even realized she harbored until he was killed, and she felt
betrayed by that. Knowing that such resentment was not logical did not help abate it, but did let her feel it
coming on and shunt it aside before it could prompt behavior.

 She also felt pain at Rik's loss and found herself quick to take offense at even the slightest hint of disdain
for him. Within hours of his death the Fisher family suffered another loss; Waldo was found dead, the
victim of ingesting poorly prepared mussels. His body had swollen up, and his tongue turned purple as it
filled his throat and cut off his air. He literally strangled to death in the night on his own tongue, and she
found that death fittingly ignominious for a man she detested.

 The tears cried for Waldo annoyed her because she felt there should have been much more of a display
for Rik. She found herself unable to cry in public and knew that her upbringing made public displays of
grief and emotion as alien to her as the custom or burying valuables and favorite items with the dead.
Among Elves those things were shared out as keepsakes. She almost laughed when one Fisher
proclaimed the family vault proof against grave robbers, because Gena believed if Men refrained from
interring jewelry and other such things with the dead, no thief would bother even to try to break in.

 Looking up ahead of her on the road, she saw Berengar gently shift his weight with each step his horse
took. She owed him a debt of gratitude because he had insisted that Rik be buried before Waldo and in
a place considered more honorable within the tomb. That had brought arguments, but Berengar would
not be denied. She smiled as she recalled him telling a reluctant relative, "Gainsay me, you scheming
snake, and instead of Neal Elfward,I'll be haunting your nightmares."

Gena gave Spirit a touch of her heels and brought her horse around the string of spare mounts and pack
horses to Berengar's side. "My Lord, I owe you an apology."

Berengar feigned polite surprise easily. "An apology?"

Gena nodded. "We have been on the road for a week now, and I have been singularly poor company. I
have returned silence and apathy for your care and concern for me."

 He shrugged his broad shoulders eloquently. "You have had good reason to be quiet. You have suffered
a loss."

"As have you."

 "Waldo? Yes, he was a loss, but I was not as close to him as you were to Rik." Berengar hesitated for a
second, then frowned. "Not wishing to speak poorly of the dead, but Waldo was pusillanimous and
prickly. He traded more on our family name than he did on his own deeds, and he judged people not by
their own worth, but the worth of their position in the world. I think I actually liked Rik more than Waldo,
and if offered a choice to summon one of them from the grave to join us here, I would choose your
friend."

"You are most kind in excusing my behavior."

 "Actually, Gena, your silence has allowed me to think about our mission and all that attends it, well away
from the pressures and politics of Aurdon." Berengar looked back over his shoulder to the south, where
Aurdon lay seven days back down the road. "Away from the city, traveling into the heart of this decaying
empire, I am becoming aware of how petty and trivial our struggles are."
"How so?"

 "Here, were I traveling in the company of Aurdon Rangers, our journey would be taken as an invasion
from over the border. There, in Aurdon, my name and my family can get things accomplished in an
instant. Here, in Ispar, my crest would mean nothing if a Red Tiger were not standing on top of it." His
blue eyes flashed with amusement. "Realizing that something which you value is worthless outside a very
small, confined place is humbling. And, of course, this whole discussion must seem very silly to you
because of the chronological view your longevity affords you."

Gena started to deny his claim, but the wary way in which his eyes began to narrow stopped her. "There
once was a time when what you have said would have been accepted by Elves as akin to a natural law.
The struggles of Men were seen as battles between herds of animals. They were interesting and even
diverting, but they were not seen as causing much in the way of permanent change in the world."

"Until Neal."

"Neal did influence our way of looking at things, yes." Gena wiped some sweat from her brow with the
back of her left hand. "Some Elves, my great-great-grandfather among them, thought Men had been
dismissed too lightly. Neal proved a boon to those wishing to advance that view. Men, and their actions
before and since the time of Neal, have proved that view to be correct."

 "Even so, the snarling battles between Men cannot be seen as being nearly as important to Elves as they
are to those of us involved in them."

 "That is a valid point, but one that cannot stand without analysis. Take, for example, the situation that we
are riding now to correct. There are those among my people who might argue that the Fishers and the
Riverens fought five hundred years ago and they are fighting now, so that Neal's effort to keep the peace
failed utterly. To suggest, however, that the failure means his attempt should never have been made is
wrong and even dangerous."

 Berengar nodded slowly. "So your perspective over time suggests that anything which waxes will wane,
like the tides rising and falling."

Gena smiled. "That is an excellent example. The fact that the tide will reach the same low point in the
night that it saw in the morning does not mean the beach will not be wet at noon."

 "I see that holding for natural forces, but Human enterprises?" The count looked around at the rolling
green meadows covering the hillside up which they rode. "If that idea is valid, then it might be imagined
that the Red Tiger's empire will rise again."

 Gena frowned. "I suppose that is true, but things do not necessarily run in circles, though they may be
cyclical. For example, we know there will never be another Reithrese Empire to conquer. If the empire is
to become powerful again, it might be as a federation of strong provinces.

 "Or a strong leader may rise up and reunite it under his leadership." Berengar shook his head. "The one
thing that I have not liked about having been placed in the imperial line is the amount of politics into which
I have been thrust. My family branch broke off from the main line four generations back: my
great-grandfather was the emperor, though my great-grandmother was scullery maid or some such. My
mother's uncle managed to convince Hardelwick, the current emperor, to legitimize our line. All that did
was get my two cousins killed, it seems. I am hoping that I am far enough removed from things that I
won't be a target."
"I hope you're not a target as well. This uncle who got your line legitimized, he is the Atholwin we are
going to visit?"

 "Yes. He is my mother's uncle. We used to come up here, my brother Nilus and I, in the summers to get
away from Aurdon during the humid season. Just over the rise we can see the town ofBlackoak with the
castle at the other end of the valley." He hesitated for a second. "In fact, if I remember correctly, on the
down side of this hill is a grand old oak in which my brother and I built a tree house. We hung a rope
from one of the branches and used to swing on it while pretending we were soldiers preparing to storm
the castle."

Gena flicked a horsefly off Spirit's neck. "You speak of that time as if you treasure it."

 "I do." He turned to look at her with curiosity in his eyes. "It is easy for me to remember my childhood,
because it was not that long ago. I remember things like running and laughing, my first taste of a raspberry
tart, and the first time I ever fell in love. It occurs to me that while I envy you your long life, I think I
should feel the loss if I were to be so far removed from times of simple pleasures."

 "Such memories do not fade, no matter the years." Gena took time to look around as she considered
how much she wanted to tell him. Still stung by the fact that Berengar knew things about her that she had
not shared with Durriken, she chose to husband facts for the moment. "Among the Elves, children are a
rare and blessed event, with the gulf between parent and child often being measured in centuries. Even
so, because we have such a long life, as adults we are not so pressed to accomplish things that parents
cannot take time to nurture and enjoy children. A child is, in essence, property of the family into which he
is born. When my brother and his wife conceived and bore a son, all of us raised him, from
great-grandfather on down."

 She smiled at the count to soften the blow of not telling him everything. "My great-aunt, before she went
beyond, spent a great deal of time with me, despite having duties to her husband's family. From her I
learned what I know of magick as well as much about Neal Elfward. From her and my grandfather I
learned of him directly, whereas all you have are stories that have been told and retold until they no
longer resemble the truth."

 "I know that, yes. Still, the stories have some validity. For example, I know of Neal's love for Elvenkind
from the stories. I even heard of a story sung in Najinda that tells of Neal's true love for an Elven maid. Is
that true or an example of exaggeration?"

Gena shrugged the question off, avoiding a direct answer. "In those days, for Neal to touch a sylvanesti
would have resulted in his death and her disgrace."

"Not so today, I take it."

Gena blushed. "No, not so."

 "I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean to embarrass you." Berengar hunted for the proper words. "Your
affection for Durriken was obvious yet circumspect. I didn't know . . . not that I cared . . . well I cared,
but I did not wonder . . ." He blushed in turn. "Forgive me. This is none of my business."

"You are forgiven if you wish, but I did not count it a fault against you." Desirous of moving away from a
discussion of her personal life, she smiled at Berengar. "How long is it since you last visited your uncle?"
 "I was a child when last I spent any real amount of time with him, but most recently I was here when I
traveled to Jarudin for our family's investiture." Berengar shook his head slightly. "The years have not
been kind to Atholwin. His health was declining then, and I do not imagine his sons' deaths have
improved things very much. It will be interesting to see him again."

 Gena looked up as they came over the hilkop. Hoping to burn the melancholy note from Berengar's
voice, she pointed to a huge budding oak halfway down the hillside. "There, is that the tree you
remember?"

 "Yes, yes it is." Berengar's face brightened. He touched his heels to his mount's ribs and started to trot
toward it. "There, on the eastern side you can see a couple of boards .Still in the branches. Likely not our
fortress, but another. Uncle Atholwin must have great-grandchildren who still play in those boughs."

Gena laughed and rode after him, then reined back when Berengar raised his left hand. "What is it?"

"Something we never had in that tree."

 Closer in, swinging from a limb jutting north, Gena saw a stretch-necked corpse. She rode forward and
worked around to the east to keep the wind coming from her back so she'd not smell the body. By the
look of the flesh and the clothes, it had been hanging there for the better part of four days, for the
weather had been dry and hot and the corpse showed every sign of being desiccated by the wind and
sun.

 Drying had tightened the lips to reveal a meagre collection of yellowed and rotting teeth in the dead
man's mouth. His eyes were gone and a raven perched on the branch above him. It had a bit of
something in its beak, but flew off to the north when she came in too close for the bird's comfort. "There
is a sign on his chest."

Berengar rode up beside her and studied the corpse as it slowly twisted around and back again. "The
Truth is life. In life he lied, now he is denied the Truth."

Gena shivered. "That's not the sort of acorn I would hope my oaks would produce."

 Berengar focused his eyes further down the valley. "This is not the same place I remember from last
year. . . . I mean to say, we have come to Atholwin's holding, Blackoak, but the village looks smaller,
and the roof is gone from one of the castle's towers."

"Yes, but there are still people down there, and fresh pennants flying from the other towers."

 "True enough." Berengar took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "Let us ride to the castte and see how
things stand there. If Atholwin lives, there will be an explanation for this."

"And if he does not?"

"That, Lady Genevera, could also explain this."

 They rode around the village instead of through it, keeping to a huntsman's trail that had partially returned
to the wild. The bridge over the dry moat had a few rotted timbers in it, but the patches proved strong
enough that their horses did not punch a hoof through. In drawing nearer the gray stone structure, Gena
did see that the smallest of three towers had fallen into disrepair, though the walls looked strong and were
manned by soldiers in livery that Berengar identified as belonging to his mother's uncle.
 Two young grooms accepted their reins in the small courtyard, and an elderly servant answered the
sergeant-at-arms call for someone to attend them. The old man, stooped with age beneath a pate
festooned with thin threads of gray hair, smiled when he saw Berengar. "Come, come, Count Fisher. My
master is expecting you."

 Berengar and Gena exchanged surprised looks, but followed the man nonetheless into the musty, dark
building constructed around the base of the main tower. Torches burned in every fourth sconce,
providing just enough illumination for Gena to pick her way around haphazard barricades and caches of
weapons stored in shadowed niches. She could see no rhyme nor reason to any of it except to wonder if
the master of the castle feared a coming need to defend his home even into the hallways.

 The servant led them into a small room with moldering tapestries covering all the walls. Across from
them, behind a thick oaken table set with a pair of burning candles, a wizened old man sat huddled in a
huge chair. His pale flesh had faded past the white of his hair and long beard to the point where it
appeared blue in some places and ivory in others depending if it covered meat or bone. Most of it
covered bone, leaving Gena with the impression that she stood before a skeleton encased in glass.

 One hand rose as if a puppet's limb being manipulated by an arthritic puppeteer, and the long-nailed
finger that came out to point at them quivered. In a voice not much more stable than the finger, the old
man croaked, "So you are Berengar Fisher. My spies told me you were coming."

 As if on cue, a raven descended from the blackness overhead and landed on the table. Its talons
scrabbled against the wood as it walked forward, its head bobbing. It twisted its head to peer down into
the heavy goblet on the table; then the bird swung around to face them. It cawed loudly, and the old man
started as if he had drifted off to asleep after speaking.

Berengar took one step forward. "I am Berengar Fisher, pleased again to be in the company of Earl
Blackoak."

 "Is that so?" The man's cloudy blue eyes barely seemed to move, and Gena wondered if he could even
see her in the gloomy light. "Then you will indulge me, nephew."

"As you wish, uncle."

 Gena heard noise in the hallway and glanced back to see a number of the castle's soldiers gathering at
the threshold

 "If you are Berengar Fisher, then you are an assassin. Tell me how you will slay me." The old man's eyes
sparked with energy "And tell me truly, for I will know if you lie, and you will not like the consequences
of trying to deceive me."

Chapter 18:
Anticipation of Children

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year
***

 ASHIVER RAN down my spine as I again stepped into the Reithrese chapel at the base of
theImperialTower in Jarudin. Though the month since I had fought here had wrought many changes in the
city and the world, the burn scar on the back of my left hand reminded me how close I had come to
dying. While I was not so certain that the average member of the Elder races was that much tougher than
the average Man, I knew the elite among the Elder races had great power, and I wondered how long I
would be able to defy such people without paying for my audacity.

 Xerstan, the balding, bulbous architect whom the Red Tiger—better known now as Emperor Beltran
Primus—had assigned to designing new constructions and renovations, bowed his head to me as he
entered the room The yellowed light given off by the tallow candles illuminating the room made him look
jaundiced, but I preferred that to the bloody pallor that the now-dead fires had spread across the room
when I first saw it. "Forgive my being late, Lord Neal, but my apprentice was tardy in making the wax
impressions of your dagger."

He held Wasp out to me, and I returned it to the sheath at my right hip. "I trust, then, that the emperor
has agreed to the plan we discussed?"

 The small man nodded confidently. "He is still of a mind to fill this room and seal it for all time, but your
idea has piqued his sense of irony. Preparations will take a year, though if things go the way the first
month of conquest has gone, we may be ready by spring." He walked past me and squatted awkwardly
beside the hilt of the emperor's sword. "I do not know if I am comfortable with this being here, or if I
would feel less so if we removed it. It was rather nasty as I understand it."

 I scratched at the twisted flesh on the back of my hand. "I think leaving it here is appropriate." I glanced
up at the effigy of Tashayul. "Strikes me as appropriate that it should have burned out in roughly the same
spot as Tashayul's heart. I think it requires a prayer to Reithra to activate, and I'm thinking I've no desire
to hear such a thing uttered in earnest here."

 "May the gods grant everyone your wisdom in that matter. Fortunately I don't think there is a Reithrese
left in the city, so this will not be a problem."

 He was correct. The Red Tiger had declared martial law immediately and dealt harshly with looters and
vandals. Because Jarudin was a northern city, the Reithrese population tended to migrate back to Reith
for the winters, and a great number of them had taken time to travel with the army that had moved
through the Elven Holdings to trap us in the mountains. As a result, the Reithrese population remaining in
the city was relatively small. The empress gave Beltran her parole and led the remaining Reithrese back
toward their homeland with no more than they could fit on wagons. Haladina rode as their guards and
departed in good order.

 I had not expected things to go as well as they had. Sulane, the imperial widow, accepted Beltran's
terms quickly, as if she had anticipated something harsher. Aarundel said she'd heard stories about my
intent to make her my wife, prompting her to leave as quickly as possible. While that rumor might have
been a contributing factor, I assumed she agreed because Beltran asked only one thing for ransom for her
and her people: time. In return for five years of peace, he let her go.

 The Human population in the city moved from their hovels into the grander homes of their Reithrese
masters, but that migration likewise worked on a system Beltran had devised. That the transition went
smoothly made me thankful once again that I had avoided temptation and had given him the crown. Not
only was he a leader, but he was thoughtful. He considered laws and policies, their implications and
problems, before imposing a solution.

 The trade of time to the Reithrese was a brilliant example of his forethought. He knew that time meant
nothing to them. Five years would pass before they noticed, but it would be seen among Humanity as a
veritable eternity. It would allow him to consolidate his grip on Ispar and to promote revolts in Barkol
and Esquihir, while Sture headed off toIrtysh to liberate it. Thousands of Human children would become
world-aware with a Human empire dominating the world's geography. They would take pride in it, and
when the time came, they would rise to defend it.

 Likewise, his system for parceling out homes worked to bring people together and make them mindful of
the sacrifices endured in winning the empire. The grandest houses were given over to his allies and
commanders in repayment of their service to him. A whole section of the Inner Ring was set aside for the
Mountain Men, and everyone was looking forward to the spring and their liberation from their icy prison.
Aarundel and I were given homes in that area, but I declared mine the Roclawzi embassy and sent word
to my brother that he should send an ambassador or two.

 The rest of the homes were given out based on the number of years individuals and families had been in
thrall to the Reithrese. An effort was made to redress the losses of those who had seen their homes
destroyed, their families slain, and their wealth stolen by Tashayul's host. Disputes arose and there was
some fraud, but Beltran and his judges cut through all, meting out justice swiftly and sharply to those who
deserved it, rewarding honesty and redressing tragedy wherever they found them.

 In many ways I think the two most difficult cases for the Red Tiger to deal with were Aarundel and
myself. Sture had been easy to appease. Newly freed Irtyshites who had been brought to the capital by
their Reithrese masters swelled the Exile Legion's ranks to nearly double. With Beltran's blessing, Sture
left amid fanfare to liberate his frozen homeland.

 Aarundel studiously sought to downplay his role in the affair, but did accept a home and a title. Beltran
sought to reward him with more, but Aarundel continually refused. Finally the emperor offered to write
and send to Aarundel's kin an accounting of his exploits, and the Elf relented with the proviso that the
Red Tiger would no more press him on the matter of reward.

 The Red Tiger could understand, with Aarundel being an Elf and all, why he might refuse Man-offered
honors. I confused him more when I turned down his request to become his warlord. He wanted to bring
the Steel Pack into imperial service as one of his two bodyguard companies—an idea to which I agreed
after polling my Men and discovering they wanted that as well. I granted him that pleasure and nominated
Fursey Nine-finger to replace me. Other than that, as I told him, hot food, a warm bed, and cold ale
would be more than enough reward for me.

 That was not sufficient for him, however; he advanced a number of reasons for his opinion, and I had a
hard time disagreeing with any of them. If I did not accept some sort of position, it would be assumed
that I had repudiated our alliance and it could be taken that I had no confidence in him. Moreover, I had
become a symbol of the revolt, as had he, and order had to be imposed over things while it still could be,
or the rebellion against the Reithrese might fall apart without any preparation for the battles that would still
come.

He pointed out, for example, that a number of very idealistic young men had taken to burning the backs
of their left hands with brands and glowing irons to ape the scar I had from killing the emperor. The Red
Tiger and I agreed this was nonsense—and regretted the clumsy ones who managed to burn their hands
off—so we established that the soldiers in Emperor's Own Steel Pack were to wear a branded leather
glove on their left hands in honor of Lord Neal, Knight-Defender of the Empire, and that they would not
take kindly to anyone lampooning this tradition outside their ranks. As the brand they used the six-lined
rune for the Roclaws, which didn't look anything like my scar, but reminded people of me anyway and
got their point across.

 Being so honored both gratified and terrified me. I must admit pleasure at how readily the men of the
Steel Pack agreed to wearing the gloves. What the Red Tiger and I had created as the solution to a
problem, they embraced proudly as a newborn tradition. A greater troop of warriors I could not imagine
commanding, and I admit to feeling a thrill when I heard ballads sung in our honor.

 I had agreed to the title only because the Red Tiger trapped me into it. If I had no title, then the honor
the Steel Pack showed me would be thought a fraud, and I would dishonor them by refusing a title. I
bargained hard, so the purview of the Knight-Defender of the Empire was to go where I wanted, do
what I wanted, all the while answering only to the emperor himself—that latter coming only if I wanted to
answer to him, too. The position included a stipend, which I didn't want, but it proved useful for keeping
Shijef in sheep so he'd stop eating dogs and cats.

A messenger skidded slightly as he rounded a corner and burst into the chapel with youthful exuberance.
He sucked in a great breath as he regained his balance and tugged his tunic into shape. "My Lord
Knight-Defender . . ."

"Neal will do, there." I squinted at him. "Clarmund, is it?"

He looked surprised. "Yes, sir, my Lord. Ah, my Lord, I have been sent by the emperor to request your
presence in the imperial audience hall. An embassy has arrived, and he deems it important for you to be
present."

 I smiled. As much as I eschewed anything that had the vaguest hint of officialdom about it, I had been
looking forward to seeing whomever my brother might have sent to represent the Roclaws in the imperial
court. Not having spent much time in the Roclaws since Tashayul's death, it occurred to me that I might
not have any clue as to who the ambassador might be, or where that person stood amid the various
Roclawzi factions, but seeing a fellow countryman would be a joy nonetheless after all this time.

 I followed Clarmund out from the chapel and around to the staircase that spiraled up and around the
tower. It had a twin on the far side with which it danced around but never intersected. That stairway had
been cut more broadly and had been decorated with carvings that must have excited the Reithrese.
Mercifully the Red Tiger had their artwork covered with tapestries, and not a few rugs hung to the same
end. While that stairway served well for formal parties going to the second level of the tower, I preferred
the plain servants' stair, because ostentation makes me itch and you can't beat a servants' passage as a
place to pick up great gossip.

 The imperial audience hall had been designed and decorated by a Reithrese who appeared not to have
been as lugubrious as the chapel's architect. The whole room had a woodland feel, with columns carved
to look like trees, their branches spreading out and up to form the ceiling vaults. The ceiling rose high
enough to break up through the next level, and little viewing galleries had been carved within the branches
so anyone in the chamber above could took down upon the proceedings. The walls had been painted
with pastoral and woodland art, though the creatures represented ran long toward predators, and more
than once Men were pictured as the object of a hunt.

 Though I should not have thought it odd of a people who have gems for teeth, the throne was a
remarkable piece of work. Fashioned from a smoky quartz, the throne's back appeared to be a giant
incisor. The seat and arms were shaped from molars, and two long, upturned fangs arced up and out to
curve above the emperor. The fittings that joined all of these teeth together were gold and set with
gemstones which, I knew from previous examination, were Reithrese teeth and were rumored to have
been taken from Tashayul's rivals for power.

What I did not know, and really did not want to know, was if the giant teeth were carved by artisans or
had graced the mouth of something far too big to make me comfortable.

 The chamberlain was about to announce me, but I waved him to silence and wandered down through
the stone garden to where a small delegation of four stood speaking with the emperor. I recognized
Aarundel but didn't question his presence initially, because he had met my kin in the mountains. His
presence made sense. It was not until I saw him gesture with his right hand that I realized in it he held the
hand of the woman standing next to him. I mentally revised that to sylvanesti next to him and felt my heart
begin to beat faster.

Beltran looked up and eased the crown back on his head. "Ah, my Knight-Defender hath arrived. You
know him, of course, Ambassador."

 The Elf standing opposite Aarundel on the left side of the throne turned and nodded in my direction. "He
served as vindicator for Aarundel when he and my granddaughter Marta were wed." His voice remained
neutral, but I felt a bit of respect when he inclined his head toward me. "I am pleased to see the Reithrese
have not yet harvested you."

 "And I am pleased to see you again, Sidalric Consilliari." I stopped and bowed formally to him. As I
straightened up, I smiled at Marta. "And you. Lady Marta." Turning back toward Sidalric, I racked my
brain to remember Marta's mother's name, for I felt certain she had to be the veiled sylvanesti attending
the ambassador. Grationa, that's it.

 As I started to speak, the sylvanesti stepped away from the ambassador and, with hands sheathed in
fawn leather, raised the white veil she had worn. Words died in my throat, though my mouth did remain
open. I blinked, twice and again, then forced myself to resume breathing. "Doma Larissa, I am honored."

 "It is my honor to be in the presence of the Knight-Defender of the Empire." She gave me a smile that
set my heart to burning more fiercely than the old emperor's sword ever had, and I hoped it was a fire
that would never go out. "Tales of your bravery and ferocity have reached even unto Cygestolia."

I coughed into my hand, then shook my head. "My Lady, you are far too wise to believe even a portion
of them, for you know they are nine parts lies to one part rumor."

 Larissa just smiled serenely. "But even if those rumors were nine parts exaggeration, the one part truth in
them would make you more than worthy of the praises sung in your name."

"You are most kind, my Lady."

 Beltran clapped his hands. "You are indeed special, Lady Larissa. I have fought for a month to get Neal
to acknowledge his part in our victory, and he evades it as if praise were a whipping. You tame him with
a glance and a turn of phrase."

I gave him a stare of pure poison. "She's had years of dealing with stupid animals. Majesty."

"Centuries, actually."
I clutched my chest with my left hand. "And in all that time, never so deftly did you wound one so
deeply."

"I'd vouchsafe never had she dealt with one so contrary as my Knight-Defender."

"I believe you will recover, my Lord." She smiled at me teasingly.

"Your words are balm to my wound, my Lady."

 "Wit and charm from Neal?" The Red Tiger scratched at his beard. "My Lady Larissa, you are a miracle
worker. Though I regret being parted from your company, I might suggest you minister to my
Knight-Defender in the stone ocean on this level. And you, Aarundel, if you would care to show your
lovely wife yet another part of this tower, the ambassador and I can begin some discussion of issues
common to his realm and mine."

I bowed deeply toward the throne. "Then, myLiege , I beg of you leave to escort Lady Larissa to the
ocean."

Beltran frowned. "I believe I prefer reluctance to satire."

"Your wish is my command."

"Get out of here, Neal!" he shouted in mock command. "My Lady, go with him, cure him if you can, and
give me back the Neal of old. If you cannot, this one you may keep with my compliments."

 Though built by the Reithrese, I found the stone ocean interesting. The room in which it had been placed
had been constructed to appear to have been rough-hewn out of black basalt. The floor had been
covered to a depth of nearly a foot with knucklebone-sized marble stones of the purest white. Big jagged
hunks of azurite and turquoise decorating the floor erupted through the white stone ocean like fangs
tearing through flesh. I knew they were meant to be islands, but because of the throne, the tooth image
stuck in my mind and would not go away.

 A mahogany shoreline hemmed the ocean in and provided enough of a walkway for observers to circle
the ocean and study it from all angles. Caretakers—once slaves, now respected freemen and part of the
imperial household—raked the marble stones into patterns that corresponded to constellations or
anything else that struck the caretakers' fancy, I imagine. The patterns were not openly representative,
but held shapes the way clouds do when you take the time to look at them on a lazy afternoon.
Depending upon the angle and your mood, the still waves of the stone ocean could form anything.

 I had taken to spending a lot of time there. I appreciated the quiet, yet liked being nearby in case a
question arose upon which the emperor might like or tolerate my opinion. I also know the stone teeth and
the white stones reminded me a lot of the Mountain Men trapped to the south and also reminded me of
my home. I found I did a lot of thinking in that room, which is not a bad thing in and of itself, but having
spent my life preferring action to contemplation, it marked a new and slightly scary change.

Larissa's face brightened as she passed through the threshold. "Oh, this is magnificent."

I blinked away surprise. "You like it?"

"It is beautiful. Of course I like it."
"But it's so devoid of life, I thought . . ."

She stopped and looked at me. "You spend a lot of time here, do you not, my vitamora?"

I nodded.

She smiled and stretched out her arms. "I can feel your presence. This may once have been a Reithrese
place, but you have made it your own. And as you love this place, so do I."

 We sat down in silence, studying the flow of stones. Though no signal passed between us, I knew we
were letting our eyes track across the same frozen waves and swirls in the pattern. As we traced our way
through the ocean's currents and eddies, the two years since we had seen each other evaporated.

 "It has been so long, yet it feels as if we danced together yesterday." I wanted to reach out to her, and
started to, then withdrew my hands. "It is very good to see you again."

 Her chin came up and her eyes sparked with mischievous fire. "We have seen each other since then, my
love. There have been dreams."

I blushed. "The dreams, I remember many. I often feared for my life if I mumbled in my sleep, since your
brother and I often shared a tent or a room during the campaign. Never did I dare tell him about the
dreams."

"Nor did I speak to my husband of them."

I frowned. "You speak as if we had the same dreams."

 "We did, Neal." Larissa knelt on the floor and delicately shifted a stone from the crest of one wave to
the next. "This is but an aspect of being vitamorii. My brother would never have noticed your midnight
whispers because likely he was sharing dreams with Marta. At least, she says it was so."

 I smiled, but felt cheated. Had I known those dreams were more than just my imaginings, I would have
clung to them more tightly and fought to remember them. "I had no idea."

 She pressed a gloved finger to her lips. "Nor do any of the others. If they imagined we shared dreams,
there is no telling what the reaction would be. This is our secret."

"Agreed." I leaned back against the wall. "How is it that you have come here?"

 "When Beltran's missive arrived in Cygestolia, the Consilliarii decided to send an ambassador to open
relations with this new Human empire."

I did not conceal my surprise. "That is a change from the last time they dealt with a Human empire."

 "And that change is largely your fault, my vitamora." Larissa plucked at a fold of her skirt and smoothed
the cloth against her thigh. "Your example helped blunt the forces that wanted a second crusade."

"Of that, then, I am thankful. Still, that explains why Sidalric is here. Why have you come?"

 "I had no choice." She adjusted the folds in her brown dress's skirts. "As vindicatrix, I had to be present
at the time when Marta presented her Petition of Fecundity to the Consilliarii."
"Her what?"

Larissa nodded, her eyes narrowing for a moment; then she smiled. "When Levicius and Alosia created
us, they gave little thought to reproduction. For them it was sufficient that there was a mechanism by
which we could increase our number. They chose, therefore, to make Elven women fertile for the period
of a month or so after ingesting the fruit of the apple tree."

"Apples?"

 "Not the red and green fruit you know, but a special apple with golden skin that grows in a single grove
in Cygestolia. Because we have long lives, we determined that access to that fruit should be limited and
only those who have done something remarkable should be allowed to bring offspring into the world.
This is why Elven children are rare and treated as a great gift to the parents and to both of their families."

 Part of me thought that tyranny; then I remembered seeing hordes of children running through the streets
with no one to tend them or care about them, and I wondered if the Sylvan system might not have
advantages. "Marta has petitioned the council to be allowed to have a child?"

"She has, and the Consilliarii have granted the petition." Larissa shrugged. "As much as they might like to
deny it, Aarundel's exploits here in the Manworld have been remarkable, and having a child will mean he
wilt not venture from Cygestolia for the next half century."

Half century? She said it so matter-of-factly, yet I knew I would be dead and gone before that time had
passed. "So you accompanied Marta here so she could tell her husband about the petition grant?"

"Yes, and for another reason."

My spirit buoyed up. "And that was?"

 "I am the vindicatrix and you are the vindicator. As we stood with them at their wedding, it is our duty to
stand with them when they are given the golden fruit."

I folded my arms over my chest. "But we don't have to be there for the conception part, right?"

 Light Elven laughter filled the room, forever banishing the last bit of gloom from it. "No, we do not,
though remembering those dreams, were my brother to require instruction, you would be an excellent
tutor."

I fought to keep a blush from my face. "I tend to dream larger than life."

"What harm fantasy if it gives pleasure?"

 "None." I laughed to myself, then rubbed a hand over my face. "So is the ambassador speaking to the
emperor about where the ceremony will be held?"

"I do not know, but of what concern it would be to the emperor I don't know."

"Larissa, the emperor owns this city. Everything is his concern."

"Ah," she smiled, "I see your confusion. No, he is not speaking to the emperor about that aspect of the
ceremony."

"Then what are they discussing?"

 "Among other things, the ambassador is conveying to the emperor a request from the Consilliarii." She
innocently tucked a lock of golden hair behind her left ear. "The presence of his Knight-Defender is
required in Cygestolia for a ceremony, and Sidalric is requesting permission for you to travel there with us
immediately."

Chapter 19:
The Hospitality Of A Strange House

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 GENA WATCHED IN stunned silence as Berengar shifted his shoulders to loosen them. "Being an
assassin come to slay I' you, uncle, I will cause to be brought here a company of nubile girls who will
sorely test your virility. I will give you a week, no two weeks, for you to exhaust yourself."

The old man's jaw gaped open ever so slightly. "Two weeks of wenching would not slay me."

Berengar shook his head. "I know that, uncle, but after the two weeks, when you lay in your bed, I
would sneak up and tell you that your wife was again alive."

 Atholwin's eyes widened, and Gena thought for a moment that his heart had ceased beating; then he
began to laugh aloud. His laughter reminded her of the raven's call, and the black bird joined its master in
cold mirth. "Hildegarde! The sight of her alive nearly slew me, so after forty years in a vault she would be
my death. You win."

Berengar bowed his head. "I win only because my mother is not here."

"There are many who are not here." The old man's voice drained of pleasure, and he seemed to refocus
his eyes on Berengar in a way that made Gena uneasy. "Who is this you have brought with you? Have
you a wife now, Berengar?"

 "No, uncle, I have no wife, though were I to marry, I could think of worse matches." The count turned
and gently guided Gena forward with slight pressure on the back of her elbow. "May I present Lady
Genevera of Cygestolia."

"An Elfess?"

 Berengar frowned slightly at the use of the clumsy term. "Yes, uncle, she is Sylvan, and a companion in
an important quest. We are bound for Jarudin."

 The old man nodded for a moment, then his head froze in position and his eyes focused distantly. Gena
felt uncomfortable because his eyes looked beyond her, as if into a world she could not sense and could
not influence. "Elves have not been about in the land for a long time. Last one I saw was with Neal
Elfward."
She started, and Berengar gave her elbow a gentle squeeze. Gena looked up at him and he shook his
head slightly. His eyes promised an explanation, so she controlled further reactions to the old man's
words.

"Uncle, we have ridden a long way. If you would grant us the hospitality of your home."

 "Yes, yes." The old man clapped his hands inaudibly, but the servant who had shown them in appeared
as if summoned by magick. "Tobert, take them to rooms. Give my nephew Osberic's room and this
Elfess, give her Mildred's room. They will join me for supper, so we will have the best of the house."

"As my lord wishes." The servant bowed toward them. "If my lord and lady would follow me."

"Until this evening, uncle."

 The old man nodded, then slipped into another fugue that left him staring at the goblet on the table. The
raven cawed defiantly and hopped to the man's shoulder. Gena shivered and gladly left the room.

 The upper floor of the main building had not been cluttered with debris and weapons' caches, but it
seemed only slightly less forbidding than the hall below. In her room Gena found a layer of dust thicker
than that which the road had deposited on her boots. Dust kittens followed in her wake, snatching
playfully at her heels before they rolled beneath the bed. The bed itself, with musty sheers and sour straw
mattress, creaked horribly when she sat upon it. She imagined the whole thing collapsing, bringing all four
posts and the canopy they upheld down on her as if they formed a snare.

Berengar gently knocked on her half-open door. "May I?"

Gena nodded. "Please, and you might want to close the door."

 "Agreed." He started to sit in a chair, then tipped it forward and banged it against the floor to knock free
most of the dust. "I had heard stories about Atholwin, some of which I related to you, but I did not think
things had gotten this much out of hand. His sons' deaths have clearly hurt him, but he's harmless, I'm
fairly certain."

 She arched an eyebrow at him. "Forgive me if the Man hanging in your oak does not reassure me of
that. When he asked you to tell him how you would kill him, I started looking for a way out."

 "Yes, I can imagine how odd that appeared." Berengar seated himself and slowly stroked his beard.
"Uncle Atholwin has forever been obsessed with inheritance, death, and ancestors. I don't know why, he
just has been. He used to tease my brother and me with his 'secret knowledge' of our plans to do away
with him so we would inherit his holdings. I know he did this with his own sons and grandsons as well, so
it was not isolated behavior."

"Nonetheless, it is ghoulish."

 "True, though I guess I always just saw it as an eccentricity." He sat forward and rested his elbows on
his knees. "His obsession led to his petitioning the emperor to legitimize our line. I don't think he did that
to give him or his descendants a reason to try to overthrow the emperor as much as he wanted it to be
part of his legacy. I think he felt our gratitude to him would mean that he would live forever in the annals
of his family,"
 That made an odd sort of sense to Gena. "But you said before, that his sons had been killed because of
throne politics."

"Well, that is the rumor, I don't know that for certain. Still, there are a number of families with imperial
holdings that take claims to the throne seriously. The legitimization of our line has effectively distanced
older families from the throne, since we descend from one of the more recent emperors."

Gena frowned. "Your uncle seems to think he met Neal and Aarundel."

 "Atholwin was a scholar of folktales and legends in his younger days. I learned all that I know of Neal
from him during the summers I spent here. Atholwin thought it his duty to keep Neal immortal. Like the
emperor, he has sought and cataloged a great deal of information about the history of the empire and its
establishment. Since uncle always willingly shared his information, and corresponded voluminously with
the current emperor, the emperor looked kindly upon the suit to legitimize our line." Berengar shrugged.
"At least, this is my belief."

"So you are suggesting your uncle's mind is failing him?"

 "I think he so loved stories of the past that he is now retreating into them. It is a pity, really, because he
was quite witty and charming. His wit, for example, spawned the assassination game, which you
witnessed. The object was to come up with the most entertaining method for killing him." Berengar
chuckled lightly. "My brother Nilus was given to elaborate devices and grand plots. I usually appealed to
Atholwin's vanity and had greater success."

 Gena walked over to him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I am sorry the Man you remember is being
lost to you. For us, when an Elf reaches an age where he tires of this world, he travels beyond and begins
a new life there. We are spared watching our relatives age so severely."

 Berengar patted the back of her hand. "What is this 'beyond'. I have heard it mentioned at various times
concerning Elves, but I do not understand it."

 Gena folded her arms and began to pace as she considered how much she could tell him. "In the time of
the gods, when the children opposed their parents and drove them out, the Elves stood by the parents.
As a reward we are allowed to pass from this world into the place where the gods have taken up their
exile. It is a parting from our kin, but it is not as sorrow filled as death because we all know we will meet
again there, when we go beyond ourselves."

"If you are not slain in this world."

"Correct."

Berengar glanced up at her. "Men are barred from this place?"

 "That is also correct. I do not know if children of mixed parentage would be allowed to go or forced to
stay because none have survived to the point of asking to go beyond."

The count sat back and smiled slightly. "So those Elves who believe Neal's influence has destroyed
Sylvankind do have a place where they can retreat from Men after all."

 "True, but I do not think Neal would gainsay them that sanctuary." Gena smiled as she remembered
something her grandaunt used to say when speaking of Neal. "Neal Elf ward was a hero for this world.
Not a hero for Men, but for the world itself. He would be happy nowhere else and would begrudge no
one what they had, if they would permit him and his world to remain at peace."

 "It sounds as if the world now has not changed much since his time." Berengar stood and headed toward
the door. "Let us hope we can change it for the better before his dream dies forever."

 Gena used the two hours between Berengar's departure and the call to dinner to rest. Dreams came to
her in broken pieces that included a gang of men wearing masks and white robes dancing around the oak
tree while a man twitched at the end of a rope. That scene brought her awake in a cold sweat. She tried
to sort through the symbolism in the images, for she did not believe the dream prophetic or clairvoyant.
She decided she had imagined the scene at the tree in the worst possible way, and clad the men in
ghostly white robes because they had to have been vassals of Atholwin, and she already saw him as a
living spectre of a man.

 She washed up in a basin and changed her clothes, using her old blouse to wipe the dirt from her boots,
then went down the stairs. Tobert met her at the bottom floor and conducted her to a dining hall, which,
though many times larger than the audience chamber she had first entered, had been illuminated by only
four more candles.

 He seated her in the middle of a table over two Man-lengths long and a quarter that in width. Berengar
sat at the end of the table on her right hand, with Atholwin and his bird taking up the other end. Tobert
brought the food in seven courses, though, sum and total, what he served each of them would have filled
only two normal plates. Gena thought, at first, that she might have been slighted because of a mistaken
belief that she did not eat meat, but she noticed Berengar's rations were as small as hers, and both of
them were given food in generous proportion to that which was placed before the master of the house,

 While possessed of a healthy appetite normally, Gena did not regret the meager amount of food offered.
The soup, a largely vegetable dish, came thin and neither hot nor cold. She understood that its being
springtime meant fresh vegetables were rare, but the grit of sand beneath her spoon as she ate made her
wonder why the food had not been washed before preparation.

 She picked at what was served and largely contented her stomach by consuming some potatoes that
were small and odd looking and only slightly mealy. The bread likewise proved edible if bland, but the
slatherlard was rancid, so she avoided it. She was offered a tiny cut of a greasy meat that Tobert called
"rock rabbit," but she gently refused it, having no desire to learn what rat or squirrel tasted like.

 Atholwin hardly ate at all. He spent most of his time talking, and chances were, when he remembered to
eat something, the raven had already consumed most of what had been served in that course. The old
man showed no affection for the bird, nor gave any sign he even noticed it, yet Gena sensed a bond
between them. The old man would stop all speech and movement until the bird shrieked, bringing him
back to the present with them.

 His nattering proved easy to ignore, primarily because Earl Blackoak's cellars contained superior
vintages. A different wine came with each course, and the better ones actually made up for the paucity of
food and the state of the cuisine. Gena took care in drinking because she did not want to be drunk when
it came time to sleep in this strange place. Berengar and his uncle consumed their wine with much more
enthusiasm, and the more intoxicated Atholwin became, the more sensible and coherent was his
conversation.

With uncharacteristic strength he hammered his fist against the table, then thrust a finger toward
Berengar. "You are here to kill me. You want it all yourself, don't you, boy?"
 Berengar smiled at first, then became wary when the angry tone in Athoiwin's voice cut through the wine.
"No, uncle, I do not want you dead. I came here to see you because I am traveling north."

"Spying for Hardelwick are you? He doesn't trust me, though I have pledged my fealty to him. I'll see
you swing for this betrayal, Berengar."

The vehemence and energy in the old man shocked Gena. "My lord, Berengar speaks truly. He is not
here to kill you."

The old man turned on her, his eyes frighteningly clear. "Lies! I have my sources. I know his mind and
yours. Betrayers both, now and forever."

"Uncle!" Berengar threw his napkin on the table and came around to Gena's side. "You have had too
much to drink."

"I am not powerless, Berengar." The man's eyes widened, and spittle gathered at the corners of his
mouth. "You will see. You and the sylvanesti witch. You plot against us and you will pay!"

 Tobert stepped from the shadows and helped Atholwin from his chair, then passed him into the keeping
of two soldiers. The raven took one last morsel from his plate, then flew off into the shadows in the
room's vaults. Tobert shivered and slid his master's chair into place.

"I must apologize for him, my lord and lady."

Berengar straightened up and folded his arms. "Is he normally like this?"

"It has been getting worse, my lord. This outburst, it is not unique. This time he directed it at you, but
often he rebukes the shades of his sons Osberic and Analdric for their plots against him. Please, wait here
a moment."

Gena looked up at Berengar as the servant disappeared. "What now?"

"I don't know, but I do not like the idea of my weapons' being in my room."

 Tobert returned with an old bottle and two tiny glasses. "Your uncle is considerate when not in one of his
moods. He specifically told me to make sure this brandy was served tonight. It is very good and will help
steady your nerves." He looked off in the direction the soldiers had taken the old man. "I will get some
into him later and make arrangements for you to leave by first light so this encounter is not repeated."

 Gena accepted the brandy and forced herself to sip it. It did taste very good and warmed her throat and
stomach. She watched Berengar quaff his drink, so she followed suit with the remainder of hers. Tobert
then led them from the dining hall back to their rooms.

 "Please, do not think harshly of Earl Blackoak. He remembers many enemies without remembering they
are dead."

"We understand, Tobert. Lady Gena and I will be ready to ride at dawn."

Gena bowed toward Berengar and bid him a good night before retreating to her own room. Once she
had closed the door, the musty, dusty room made her think of a tomb. She got herself ready for bed and
lay down, but her mind remained active enough to hold sleep at bay. Every creak and windsigh sent
shivers down her spine. Her reactions disgusted her because she knew she was far too old to be
cowering in bed like a scared child.

 She got up again and remembered how Rik's presence had made her feel secure no matter how
unsettling or difficult a circumstance had been. Things could be worse, he'd say, unless we take steps to
make them better. She smiled at the memory and decided to take his advice to heart. After some
preparation, which included sliding the chair beneath the doorknob, she returned to bed and surrendered
to sleep.

"Arise, Sylvan witch, and look upon the instrument of your death!"

 Gena's eyes came open, and her breath caught in her throat. A half-dozen men in white robes stood
around her bed. Three of them, two at either side of the head and a third far back at the foot, remained
motionless and bore thick black candles with odd sigils worked into them. The names wavered and
capered in perfect synchronization with each other. With each flicker she felt the ebb and flow of energies
that blocked her ability to concentrate enough to work magick, and she knew that as long as those three
men remained magickally linked, she would be powerless.

 Within the triangle, two men with silver swords flanked Atholwin. The old man, whose limbs showed
none of the signs of the weakness or palsy she had seen earlier, held a wavy-edged dagger out for her
inspection. The raven on his shoulder made no sound, but its eyes glowed with an unholy red light that
splashed bloody highlights over the blade's razor edge.

 "We saw betrayal in you, witch, and that will not do." The old man cackled, and his lips quivered as he
raised the blade and leaned forward. "Betrayal is lying, and now you must be severed from the Truth."

Chapter 20:
The Hostility Of A Familiar Wood

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

***

 DESPITE THE DESIRE by the Elves to leave immediately, Emperor Bettran Primus talked Aarundel
into being feted before we departed. While the formality of the feast, and the lies called testimonials,
made me twitch, I genuinely enjoyed myself. And when the Steel Pack lined the road leading out to the
east so our party had to pass beneath their crossed lances, my heart swelled with so much pride, I
thought it would burst.

And even the emperor wore a branded glove on his left hand when he saw us off.

 The ambassador remained in Jarudin along with his servants and a dozen Lansorii. Another dozen
Lansorii accompanied us on the road and, to an Elf, they seemed less than pleased to have me along. The
Dreel filled out our party and we traveled light because, using the magical Elven pathways, our journey
would take only four days to reach the edge of the Elven Holdings and another week to reach Cygestolia
itself.
 We departed from Jarudin early in the morning and rode east despite Cygestolia being almost due west
of the Capital. The nearest grove in the Elven network lay to the east not more than twenty-five miles, so
we took our time reaching it. Our party actually spread out on the road, with a half-dozen warriors as
point and flank guards and six as the rear guard. The fact that Shijef ranged far and wide through the
woods surrounding the road did not appear to attract their notice, nor did Larissa's and my riding slowly
and trailing the whole company.

 The two of us did not talk much on the ride, but not out of fear of being overheard, for the Lansorii
stayed as far away from us as they could. We didn't need to speak as we rode through sun-spotted
forests and beside gurgling streams. It seemed enough that we were sharing the experience of the ride
together. I drank in every detail I could of the landscape and would have gladly used it to replace my
recollections of all the battles I had fought during my life. My martial past seemed but an illusion when
Larissa and I were together.

 When we reached the grove, I set up a campsite removed from that shared by the Elves. While
Aarundel, Marta, and Larissa—especially Larissa—were solicitous toward me, the other Elves clearly
wanted as little as possible to do with me. Aarundel was so happy to be with Marta again, I don't think
he noticed their attitude toward me. Though I could not blame him for their feelings or for his ignorance of
them, I did feel a bit abandoned. Seated alone, poking deadwood sticks into a fire, melancholy began to
smother me like clouds descending on a mountaintop.

 The Dreel sat himself down on his haunches across from the fire and watched me with scintillating red
eyes. "Alone you are now. Alone am I, by your doing."

My head came up. "You are alone because you entered a contest and lost."

"And lost you have here, Dreelmaster Neal."

I raised an eyebrow. "Lost, have I?"

Shijef nodded solemnly. "In war you live. Wither in peace, you will. Aarundel leaves and you die."

"Ah, you have become a soothsayer, have you?"

 A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and I saw the flash of bright claws, but the Dreel remained where he
sat watching me. "Defeated I was, and abided by our bargain I have. I will. You my master are."

"But you could now defeat me."

"Could. Will not. Lost once I did." Shijef shook his massive head. "Not again. My master I will survive."

 I said nothing because I knew he was correct. At best I had another decade or two in my life. I could
already begin to feel myself slowing down. I went to sleep with one series of aches and woke up with
another. When Aarundel and I had begun to run together, we were both long, lean, and strong, and he
had remained that way, but I had become scarred and old and slow. I was dying by degrees, and
Aarundel had been too polite to call this fact to my attention.

 The Dreel felt under no obligation to spare me the truth, but I marveled at the fact that he did not exploit
my weakness. He could have slain me at any time and run off, but he abided by his bargain. In fact, I
found I had more confidence in his service to me than I did of the Reithrese's abiding by the deal made
between Beltran and Sulane. I felt confident Shijef would stay with me until my death freed him, and the
majority of my traveling companions felt that would come sooner rather than later.

 Larissa appeared not to share that opinion. She came to me in dreams that night, and we once again
danced as we had at the wedding. Wearing the same riding clothes we had worn during the day, we spun
and whirled and danced along the trail leading away from Jarudin. Despite the both of us wearing gloves,
we never touched. We just moved about each other, slicing across each other's paths in an intricate
weave of flirtation and teasing seduction in which I felt not slow nor old nor as if I were dying.

 In the morning she and I shared secret smiles and readied ourselves for the journey through the circus
translatio. We said nothing to each other, but our chuckles appeared as irritating to the Lansorii as they
were pleasurable to us.

Our nonverbal communication continued, even on the ride from Ispar to the fringes of the Elven
Holdings, and though not a word had passed between us, when we arrived at the grove on the far side of
our ride, we led our horses away from it and on for a short distance before stopping.

Exhausted, I dropped to my knees beside a small woodland stream and splashed cold water in my face.
She knelt beside me and pulled her hair back with her left hand as she lowered her face to the water.
Larissa drank deeply, then licked away the crystalline droplet hanging from the center of her lower lip.

Sitting back, I watched her, then laughed. "Thank you."

She wiped water from her chin with her right hand. "To what do I owe these thanks?"

 "For being you." I slowly levered myself to my feet, and my knees popped audibly. "Yesterday I heard
my joints groan and snap and I felt old, but that was when I was apart from you. In your presence I am
rejuvenated. I know it is only temporary, but it is enough for me."

 I snagged Blackstar's reins and patted the beast on the neck. "I think I will make camp up over there, in
those rocks. It seems a likely place."

 "No, Neal, let us work our way down this brook. Where it curves around that hill there is a small pool
and a clearing. There is grazing for the horses, and the copse beyond it will yield enough deadwood that
you can kindle a small fire."

I turned and looked at her, then on up to where the others made their camp in the grove. "I had hoped
not to be so far removed from you."

"The clearing is large enough for two." The dusk's growing shadows hooded her hazel eyes. "If you
would permit me to join you."

My heart began to beat faster as an icy viper coiled in my stomach. "But what would they think?"

 "They will think what we already know." She gathered up her horse's reins and started to lead the
gelding down the path along the stream. "My brother trusts us both implicitly. He knows us better than
we know ourselves. He knows that though we might wish it to be otherwise, we will not violate the laws
that divide us."

Aarundel's words to the Elven Council rose from my memory to stung me as I followed her. "Your
brother told the council that I knew my place and that I would never dream of dragging a sylvanesti down
to my level by visiting abominations upon her. He said I knew I was not worthy of you." As I repeated
his words, I felt the hurt they caused me throbbing anew. I tried to keep the pain out of my voice, but I
knew I had not succeeded when I saw it reflected in her face as she turned back to look at me.

 "My brother regrets those words." She looked up at the sky through a hole in the forest canopy. "He has
given them a great deal of thought, and he knows that what he said was wrong. He knows that on an
intellectual level and believes it fervently. You know he would give his life for you."

I nodded. "And nearly has on occasions too numerous to count." I sighed. "That is precisely why it is so
difficult for me to reconcile his actions with his words."

 "Please understand that our family is noted and even reviled for my grandfather's belief in the equality of
Humanity. He filled our father with his belief, which is why Aarundel was never recalled by my father and
enjoined from continuing his adventures with you. My father is even more opposed to anti-Man prejudice
than Lomthelgar, and he did his best to instill his beliefs in us, his children."

 I bent down and plucked a yellow daisy, then Larissa took it from my hand and tucked it behind her left
ear before continuing. "What my father did not realize was that we had a whole culture that had
retrenched itself behind anti-Man revetments. Before Lomthelgar, everyone had been anti-Man, so no
laws to petrify that altitude were necessary. As Lomthelgar began to make Elves think about their
prejudice, legislation slipped into place to prevent the denaturing of our Elven heritage. My father, in his
early years, was considered all but heretical. As Aarundel and I grew up, we were merely seen as
peculiar for our attitudes. The placement of laws meant we were not a threat; therefore, we were not
pressed as hard to defend our beliefs as Hicalan had been, which means we did not consider them as
deeply as he did."

I began to understand where she was going with her explanation. "You're saying your brother accepted
me as an equal without realizing exactly what that meant?"

"Yes, my love. He never considered what it would mean if you were to fall in love with a sylvanesti. He
might have risen to your defense, but your being in love with his sister came utterly unexpected to him."

"Both because you are married and are his sister."

 "Yes. As his sister I am sexless, and in being married any sexual needs are assumed satisfied." She
shrugged.

"Everything struck too close to home for him, and he redacted without thinking along the lines our culture
had defined for him."

 The stream curved around a hillock and widened into a placid pool. We led our horses across the
stream itself and to a grassy plateau that, in the spring, would be flooded by the stream. The long grasses
had gone to seed and rustled underfoot. A couple of logs had been deposited on the flat by previous
floods and gave us a good start on a camp.

 I used grass by the handful to rub Blackstar down; then hobbled him where he could graze and drink as
much as he wanted. Larissa did the same for her horse, Valiant, then helped me gather up stones for
creating a firepit and the branches with which to fill it. As we worked, our conversation detoured from
the serious course, but both of us knew he would return when we had no more tasks to deflect us from
the thought it demanded.
 Shijer showed up just as I got the fire started. He casually tossed a dead quail at my feet, then slunk off
into the [s^d^wing] shadows to gnaw at a second, larger bird. I checked the quail to make sure it was a
fresh kill and not carrion, then dressed it out, plucked it, and arranged a spit from which I hung it to roast.

 Sitting there on a water-worn log, I looked from the fire at Larissa. "It strikes me, Lady Larissa, that
come spring there will be no sign we were ever here. One simple and the snows in the mountains will
guarantee that easily, and all this will be swept away. Time will do that with me, as well."

She smiled. "You will never be taken from my memory, Neal. I could not forget you, my vitamora, the
warrior who refuses healing and does not acknowledge defeat." She laughed lightly. "You have not made
yourself easy to forget among my people. The council was surprised when you gave the crown to
Beltran. Many had predicted you would keep it yourself and be coming to Cygestolia to destroy us.

I shook my head. "That was never a consideration."

Her eyes flashed in the firelight as juices from the quail dripped down and sizzled on a stone. "Why did
you refuse it? You are a leader of men and could have been emperor."

 "I may be a leader, but I am not an emperor." Even though I knew I would tell her anything and
everything she asked, I hesitated for fear my admonition would make her think less of me. "In the
Roclaws my brother, Jarlath, rules. He is two years my senior, yet only half my size physically. By the
time I had seen my sixth summer, I towered over him and could best him in any sport and give him a
good match in games of strategy and thought. By the time I was ten years old, I could defeat grown men
in combat, and using a spear and Wasp here, I slew a snow-wolf that winter. As I grew older, there
were many soothsayers who predicted I would become a great leader and hero."

"And they were correct."

 I nodded. "That they were. Roclawzi nobles saw me as the leader who could rebuild the Roclawzi
Empire your people destroyed in the Eldsaga. I was groomed for that task. I was raised to believe I was
fated to do great things in the name of Humanity. I would be the instrument through which Men
recaptured that which had been stolen from us. Of course, my brother remained an impediment to this
plan, but I was young and did not realize it." I shook my head. "I wanted to believe all that was said of
me, and I almost did. . . ."

Larissa's dark eyes looked through me. "But you love your brother."

I smiled. "You inhabit my dreams and know my mind."

"I know your heart, my love, and I do not think you could bear your brother any enmity."

"But you don't know my brother."

 "Yes, but I see how you have become Aarundel's friend. He would not accept you if you were false or
fickle, and your loyalty to him and to Emperor Beltran tells me enough about you to conclude what I
have."

 "My brother is a thinker. Whereas others looked at the Roclawzi past and sought ways to recreate it, he
saw that our empire had been destroyed by forces from the outside. He looked for ways to make certain
the people of the Roclaws could prosper without inviting another invasion by your people or the
Reithrese. He determined that trading with the Dwarves and with other nations would accomplish this
goal, which many of our nobles saw as an abandonment of our warrior heritage."

 I looked deep into the fire, down to where the flames had no color and the coals below glowed bright
red beneath onionskin flesh of white ash. "He came to me, when I was sixteen, and outlined his plans for
our people to me. He asked my opinion and told me that he would abdicate any claim to the throne in my
favor if I thought he was wrong. He didn't care about power or ambition, he just wanted to do what was
best for our people. He put his future and their future in my hands, and I saw I could not handle them."

 I glanced up and my eyes slowly recovered, bringing Larissa into focus and form. "I told him I was
bound off to be a hero, one who would make the Roclaws proud. It was his job, I told him, to make
certain the Roclawzi still existed to sing my praises. We agreed to that division of reponsibilities. I fled the
land where politics almost turned me against my brother." I shrugged my shoulders. "Many of the
Roclawzi lords who wanted me to supplant my brother were very angry with me, which made me more
than glad to have tangled them in their own web of [cfacmes]. With that as my nearest entry into politics,
I had no desire to be the emperor."

Larissa smiled at me. "I would not have guessed that the explanation. Even with all my brother has told
me."

"Even your brother does not know about that. Aside from my brother and me, you are the only one who
knows."

Shijef took that moment to audibly crunch a bone between his teeth.

 I smiled. "So there it is. Neal Roclawzi left the mountains to become a hero. He left not to win an empire
for himself, but to avoid having to lead the Roclawzi to ruin."

 "Then he has satisfied that ambition." Larissa broke a stick in half and tossed both pieces into the fire.
"Has he other ambitions?"

 I watched the sparks from the fire spiral upward until they died. "I had none until I met you, but I fear
Sylvan law will prevent me from satisfying them." I shook my head. "For the longest time I assumed I
would meet someone with whom I would have a brood of children and live out the twilight years of my
life. Now that I have met the person with whom I would like to do those things, I cannot. I suppose I will
have to return to the mountains and teach my nephews all the things I had intended to teach my own
sons."

Larissa's faintly bemused expression slackened slightly. "You have no children?"

 "Despite all you have heard about the proclivities of Men, I have none I know about." I shrugged. "Given
that plotters almost turned me against my brother, I was reluctant to provide them bastards of mine that
they could use against him or his heirs. I always supposed I would father children someday, but the war
against the Reithrese preoccupied me; then I met you, and since then no woman has kindled more than a
flicker of interest for me."

"I thought, I did not know . . ." She seemed at a loss for words and still filled with distress.

"What's wrong?"

 Worry-furrows creased her forehead. "I realized just now that because of me you will have no children
to carry on your tradition."
I shook my head. "Fortunes of war."

"No, do not say that." Worry melted into stern resolution. "Among the sylvanii, children are a privilege
granted the few by the many in acknowledgment of their contribution to the world. My brother and
Marta are being so honored because of what he has done fighting side by side with you. The thought of
your line ending with you . . .

"For me to deny Humanity your progeny . . . this is unthinkable."

 "But I have no interest in getting children on any woman. Were you and I able to create a child, that
would be an honor and a child blessed in so many ways that even the gods would smile upon him. And I
understand the importance you see in children, but if our lines cannot be mated, I will not overmuch
regret dying without heirs of my blood."

 "But, Neal, while you and I may never be able to be together, your son and my daughter might be able
to be together."

 My heart felt twisted around inside my chest. The idea of a child of mine and a child of hers being able to
share what we could not filled me with happiness. Yet the happiness came with a bittersweet tinge as I
realized it meant she would have a child with Finndali and I would have to [counrfe] with someone other
than her. The only time before I had felt a similar conflict in my heart came when I first rode away from
my home, abandoning it so I could preserve it for the future.

 I swallowed away the lump that had risen in my throat. "I understand what you have said, and I
acknowledge the wisdom of your thoughts." I opened my hands helplessly. "I just don't have any interest
in selecting a woman to play broodmare for me. I . . . I don't know."

 She gave me a little smile that melted away the anxiety [flssad] confusion nestled in my breast. "I will find
someone you. I will find you a mate who loves you as much as I. When you are with her, it will be as if
you are with me."

"You can't do that."

"I can, and I will because I love you too much to let you [i] out of the world. Perhaps I am being selfish,
but I do not have to acquiesce to what others say is inevitable."

"Such as my aging and withering away in front of you?"

 Larissa nodded once, her golden hair sliding down to veil her face. "I knew that could happen when I
first saw you, but by then it was too late. I accept the pain that will bring me because it will be nothing in
the face of the joy knowing and loving you has brought me. What we have together is too special to
allow it to be hampered by laws and customs, superstitions and fears. Our love will transcend it all, even
if it takes generations to do so."

 The passion in her voice filled me, and had Shijef not splashed his way out into the pool to remind me of
his presence, I might have crawled across the clearing to her and courted death. Because of his
intervention, I remained in place and poked the roasted quail with a finger. "It seems done. Are you
hungry?"

She nodded. "Yes. I will eat and then, I think, sleep."
I smiled. "Yes, sleep, and perhaps a dream."

"One dream?" Larissa feigned a pout. "Dreams, my love, very sweet dreams."

I woke with a start as the Dreel shook me to consciousness. "What?"

"Lifeblack floods." He pressed Cleaveheart's hilt into my hand. "The grove."

I threw back my blankets and stood. "Keep her safe."

 Shijef growled as I started to run off. "That's a command, Shijef!" I shouted back over my shoulder as I
sprinted into the night. Wearing only my breeches, I splashed through the stream. Its cold bite turned my
bare feet into blocks of ice. The chill night wind puckered my flesh and burned my throat as I gulped
down air. My ears strained for the sound of steel on steel and screams as I ran, but I heard nothing, and
that fact worried me.

 Running in the dark along a path that meanders through a forest is not the fastest or wisest way to get
from one point to another. Thick roots clutched at my feet and ankles, bringing me down again and again.
Each time I fell, I bounced back up and continued on, my speed only slightly abated. When I saw large
branches in my way, I ducked beneath them, but countless of their smaller, skeletal kin scourged me over
the length of my journey.

 I crested a hill, then took a rolling tumble down the other side into a small valley barely twenty yards
from the circus translatio grove. I concentrated on keeping Cleaveheart in my hand as I somersaulted
down through brush and bracken and somehow missed solid collisions with moss-covered stones and the
few thick trees on the downslope. At the bottom I regained control of my body and huddled in a crouch,
waiting for a reaction to my noisy appearance.

Again I heard nothing, and goose pimples rose on my skin, though they were not caused by the cold
breeze caressing me. Slowly, moving in fits and starts and going as quietly as I could manage in the
midnight blackness, I moved to the grove. While my ears and eyes failed me, my nose did not, and even
before I broke through the circle of trees, I knew what I would find. As I entered the grove, the moon's
wan light carved a nightmare from the darkness.

 Elves lay twisted and strewn around the clearing in various boneless poses of death. Ambushed while
they slept, most of them were naked, and those dressed wore no more than I did, save one. He had
managed to pull on one boot before two arrows crossed in his skinny chest. The four or five—no, it was
four, but one was in two pieces—showed signs of having been cut down by swordsmen. The copious
hoorprints in the soft sward had so chewed the land that I could not clearly identify how many horsemen
had attacked them, but I would not have been surprised to know two dozen or more had been in on the
assault.

 I squatted next to one of the arrow-slain bodies. The shaft and fletching were familiar to me from
countless battles with the Haladina. I rolled the body up and over onto its side, the flesh still warm to my
touch. One of the broadheads protruded from the Elf's back, and the appearance of the barbed tip
confirmed its Haladin manufacture. I eased the body back to the ground, then stalked through the
clearing, counting.

When I reached a dozen, I ran out of bodies. I went back through the camp and reconfirmed my count.
The Lansorii were dead, all of them, slaughtered while they slumbered after their hard ride through the
circus translatio. On the edge of the Elven Holdings they had not bothered to set out pickets, and
Aarundel would have been too preoccupied with his wife to have noticed.

 "Neal!" Larissa appeared at the edge of the clearing with the Dreel rising behind her like a shadow. "By
the gods!"

 Her hands rose to cover her mouth as she drifted forward, and I opened my arms to offer her a safe
haven. In that moment I needed her as badly as she needed me. I saw her tears glisten in the moonlight,
and I wanted to brush them from her cheeks. I reached out to do that, but the Dreel swept her out of my
grasp.

"Shijef?"

" 'Keep her safe,' your command was."

"Then you should not have brought her here."

"In my care, safe she is."

 Anger erupted in me. "Then keep her on the edge of the grove. That is my new command, slave!" A
third time I searched the camp, picking and poking through the collapsed tents and discarded blankets. I
listened for any sound of life and looked for any clue beyond the obvious concerning the identity of those
who had laid the ambush. And I looked for my friend and his wife.

 I don't know how long I searched, but by the rime I returned to where Larissa sat, the Dreel had found
her a blanket. She rested with her back against the bole of a tree, her knees drawn up and hugged tightly
to her chest. Her cheeks remained wet, and a few strands of her golden hair were pasted to her face with
tears.

 I tossed Aarundel's ax at her feet. "Your brother and Marta are not among the dead. I saw no blood
among their belongings, though there were quite a few arrows in their tent."

"Did they run off?"

 I knelt and patted the ax. "If they had run, this would not have been left behind. Aarundel never would
have run from Haladina without a weapon in hand. He also would have run toward us, to warn us. There
are tracks leading away from here that I will follow in the morning. The attackers, it appears, started an
area search, but abandoned it quickly. I'm thinking, though, I'll not find your brother or Marta out there."

"Why not?" Her question came wrapped in hope.

 "A lot of things, some I probably won't recognize for days, but I know a couple of things that aren't right.
Some of the wounds are bloodless, which means they were inflicted after death. The Haladina have never
been neat and orderly when fighting, but they don't beat up on corpses as a rule. More important, though,
there's not a single Haladina lying out there, and I'm not going to believe your Lansorii couldn't account
for at least one of them, even in an ambush."

"But who would do this? Would the Haladina risk adding to the Eldsaga by raiding here in our lands?"

I shook my head, then balled my fists against my desire to stroke her hair and kiss away her tears. "This
was an act of cruelty—as cruel as the laws that keep us apart right now—and an act of revenge. The
Lansorii died because your brother dared fight beside me to overthrow Tashayul's empire. He and Marta
were taken as hostages so they can be traded for something of incalculable value." I raised Cleaveheart
and watched the moonlight skitter down its unblemished edge. "With this sword comes a means to win an
empire, and those who staged this raid mean to have it in exchange for the lives of your brother and his
bride."

Chapter 21:
The Cleansing Effect Of Fire

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 THE RAVEN ON Atholwin's shoulder hopped into the air, and as it spread its wings, it began to
change. Feathers melted back into black flesh that stretched taut between the bony fingers of the demon's
batwings. Its head expanded and fattened while flattening. Its two eyes swam up into the center of the
forehead and merged, then split apart into three eyes that formed a triangle pointing down at the serrated
beak. The bird's feet remained the same, but the body and legs changed to become more
anthropomorphic. Little infant arms sprouted from its sternum, vestigial limbs that could only clap and
grasp and, at points, looked as if they were part of a baby trying to fight its way to freedom from inside
the demon.

 Gena recognized it from descriptions given of the foul creatures that had served Reithra. It was a
ferghun, a demon from some obscure pit of her inferno that seduced men through their fear of death,
promising them much and denying them everything in the end. Such creatures, as nearly as she could
determine, had not been seen on Skirren since the fall of the Reithrese, and the presence of this one
meant Atholwin had dabbled in dark practices best left forgotten.

 Fear sent a jolt through her that burned away the magical fog generated by the syncopated candle
flames. With a deliberate speed that seemed ever so slow to her, she brought her hands out from beneath
the thick bedding, flicked the primer covers off, and thumbed back the talons on Durriken's flashdrakes.
Stabbing the first handcannon forward, she pulled the trigger and braced as the talon sparked into the
primer pan. After a heartbeat or perhaps two as hers raced, earsplitting thunder followed a bright flash
and gout of smoke.

 The first ball took Atholwin clean in the chest. It made a neat round hole over his heart amid the
peppering of unburned powder that flecked his robe. The old man sighed explosively, then seemed to
collapse in around the wound, while his dagger twisted and bobbled up out of his grasp. His body flew
back into one of the two swordsmen behind him, but before they could collide with the candlebearer,
Gena fired the second flashdrake.

 The shot blew straight through the ferghun and the muzzle-flash burned a ragged hole through the center
of the beast. It screamed in the voice of the raven, wrapped in anguish and threaded with madness, then
began to dissolve from wound outward. Behind it the candlebearer snapped forward in an abrupt bow as
the ball took him in the stomach. His candle dropped, the flame dying seconds before he did, and Gena
felt her ability to work magick return.

 Dropping the flashdrakes in her lap, she grasped the heavy coverlet and threw it forward to entangle the
lone standing swordsman at the foot of the bed. Without moving from her place, she swung her hands
wide and gestured at the two remaining candlebearers. Even as their eyes cleared and focused on her,
the black candles they bore immediately and completely combusted. Each man reeled away in a flash of
light, with singed hair stinking and white robe burning.

 The first swordsman regained his feet as Gena rolled from the bed, but never got a chance to close with
her. The door to her room disintegrated beneath a powerful kick. Berengar, his eyes blazing, swept into
the room, turned the swordsman's thrust with a casual parry, then riposted with a slash that carried clean
through the left side of the man's chest. A recovery and a lunge sent the entangled swordsman stumbling
back into a human torch, and the both of them crashed against the wall. The tapestry hanging there
immediately caught fire, and flames leaped from it to the canopy over Gena's bed.

"Come on, this place is a firetrap!"

 Gena scooped the flashdrakes and her old clothes into her satchel, then picked up her boots and ran out
behind the count. As big as a bear and growling in a suitable manner, he stalked through the house
awaiting attack. She followed behind him with a spell or two in mind to use if any more demons opposed
them, but they reached the courtyard unmolested.

 "Wait here." Berengar turned to head back into the manor, but black smoke had already begun to pour
out of the doorway. He ducked his head and disappeared into it, then came running back out coughing
loudly and swiping tears from his eyes. "Too much fire."

"It was a tinderbox. Lots of debris and old wood."

Berengar smeared soot across his face. "When I heard the flashdrakes go off, I came running. Now my
boots and clothes are burning up there." He scowled for a moment, then looked from the building to
Gena and back. "You said the first spell every magicker learns snuffs fires. Can you?"

 Gena shook her head. "Magick I can work, but miracles, no." She reached out and pulled him back
away from the building as burning wooden shingles crashed down amid a shower of sparks. "Let it burn,
all of it, then scatter the stones and salt the earth."

Berengar looked strangely at her. "What happened in there?"

 "I'll tell you as we get our horses and get away from here. Maybe in the stable we can find you more
than just breeches to wear."

 The count nodded, and they did find an old polish-stained shirt amid the tack in the stable. They pulled
Spirit and Teague from the stable and got their packhorses out as well before the fire spilled over to
engulf that structure, While they worked, Gena told Berengar of what she had seen in her room and
shared with him the conclusions she had drawn from her experience.

 "If I had not chosen to load the flashdrakes and keep them with me because I felt frightened, I would be
dead right now, because they knew how to neutralize my magick. I think the ferghun would have supplied
them with that information—it is rumored that those demons know a great many things, including facts
hidden in the past or lurking in the near future."

Berengar shook his head slowly. "A ferghun? I cannot believe . . ."

 "Believe it, Berengar, I saw it. Its presence there with your uncle suggests he let his studies of folklore
and legend carry him too far." Gena found her anger growing hotter than the fire consuming the castle. "It
is known that some of the Haladina worship the Cold Goddess, but I had thought civilized Men would
have found her a detestable mistress."

"It was not his fault, Gena."

"How can you say that? He would have murdered both of us."

"He was a frightened old man, haunted by ghosts. It is not surprising that he sought assurances from the
Goddess of Death concerning his fate and that of his sons."

"The Cold Goddess is a curious mistress to court if you want sanctuary against death. She and her
people are abominable!"

 "But you remember that, we do not." Berengar raked hair from his face. "Time wears away the cruel
edges of history. Your grandfather fought against the Reithrese, so you have the tales directly from him.
You know how horrible the Reithrese were. We do not. Men hear only the seductive tales of power that
will make us the equal of the Elder races. For an old man, one who has seen his dreams of immortality
evaporate, that is very seductive. I'm certain he felt he could master her."

"Another myth disproved."

 "Yes, yes, you are right, Gena, but he was sick and not thinking correctly. Had he been the Atholwin I
had known in my youth, he never would have dabbled in Reithrese magicks." Berengar shook his head as
he led the horses through the gate and away from the burning castle. "It is odd, of course, that in his
ravings he was correct; we did kill him."

 "But we did not go there to kill him." Leaving Spirit with Berengar, Gena slipped away behind a tree to
change from her nightdress into traveling clothes. "We did not betray him, merely stopped him from
murdering us, so accusing us of being betrayers was wrong."

"Point well-taken." Berengar took a deep breath and seemed to slow down. "Please, forgive me, I am
overwrought."

Gena smiled at him as she returned from changing. "It was a difficult ordeal for us both."

 "Let us hope we face no more in the future." He swiped a hand over his face, then yawned. "Castle
there, burning hot / roasting and toasting all the clothes I've got . . ."

 Gena laughed at his rhyme, and that brought a smile to the count's face. "So, Berengar, do we press on
to Jarudin, or do we go back to Aurdon and resupply ourselves?"

He frowned and thought for a moment, then nodded. "We go on, if that appeals to you. We are almost
halfway to our goal, and a return to Aurdon might mean that my Elders change their minds about our
mission. I would rather fail in Jarudin and return than fail here and return."

 "I understand. I have a little gold, and if we forage while on the road, I think we should be able to make
it to Jarudin. If we need more, we will put you to work spinning rhymes in taverns for food and lodging."

Berengar groaned and hauled himself into the saddle. "I would sooner flaunt the Emperor's justice as a
highwayman than sing for my supper."
 Gena mounted Spirit and brought the horse alongside Berengar and his horse. "That may be well and
true, but when we get to Jarudin, explaining away bad rhymes and worse songs might be easier than
dodging reports of criminal activity, especially when it comes to getting us an audience with Hardelwick."

 "As always. Lady Genevera, your beauty is exceeded only by your wisdom." Berengar laughed lightly
and gave his horse a touch of his heels. "Let's find a place where they will trade food for song and pray
we get the better of the bargain."

Chapter 22:
The Fiery Effect Of Truth

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

***

 THOUGH I HAD slept for nearly a day and a half since my arrival in Cygestolia, I felt very tired as I
stood before the Elven Council. Every seat in the council amphitheatre itself was filled, and Elves of every
description clung to the branches and boughs above and around it. The story of the massacre and our
unescorted journey back to the Elven capital had spread firefast through the city, and everyone wanted to
be present when the council summoned me.

 I suppose that it should not have surprised me that I had been brought to the council with a charge of
misconduct against me or the death penalty hanging over me. I should have been used to it. In fact, as
much as I abhorred politics, I had to admire the way the charge had been laid so there would be an
excuse to destroy me if I proved to be as much a threat to Elvendom as some feared I was.

 I breathed in slowly, pleased with the calmness I felt dwelling inside me. "My answer to the charge that I
engaged in physical contact with Lady Larissa is that the charge is false." I glanced to my right where she
stood with Lomthelgar and Shijef. "I charged the Dreel with the duty of keeping her safe."

 I let an edge slip into my voice. "Even at the moment when she saw the slaughter, in a moment of horror
when any two living creatures would search out a companion for comfort and reassurance in life, he kept
us apart. We abided by your law even in a situation where that law stripped us of all that makes us living,
breathing, feeling creatures. Your law robbed us of the most basic consideration and compassion. As
[unjust] as the law was in that situation, we respected it. On this you have my word, as well as that of
Lady Larissa and the Dreel."

 Most of the Consilliari met my defiance and anger with defiance of their own, but when Larissa nodded
toward me and gave all of them a stern stare, some shrank back from it. Whispers from the gallery
buzzed and hummed above me. Though the words escaped me, tones of shock and outrage did not. I
could not tell if they were directed at the law or my audacity, but I took heart in my ability to provoke a
reaction among a people who saw me as little more than an animal.

 Thralan stood at his place in the council. "Calarianne, so there is no stigma upon my daughter, I demand
these charges be dismissed by acclamation." Lomthelgar capered forward. "Second!"

The sylvanesti overseeing the proceeding nodded. "If there are no objections . . . seeing none, I have it
that the charges are dismissed without opposition."

 She raised her staff to bring it down and adjourn the session, but I raised my hand. "Wait! I must speak
to the council on another matter."

 Calarianne hesitated and another of the Consilliarii rose to move that I be allowed to speak. Thralan
seconded the motion and it passed on a voice vote. "The council will listen to you, Neal Roclawzi."

 I bowed my head respectfully to her, then looked up the Elves facing me. "I understand that it is believed
Haladin raiders slew the Lansorii and carried Aarundel and Marta away. I must inform you, lest the
reputations and abilities of those Lansorii and my friend be slandered, that the Haladina did not kill them.
The Reithrese did."

 "What proof have you of this?" A black-haired Elf stood in the front row. "By all accounts you arrived
too late to see the raiders."

 "I've been thinking on the problem all the while we traveled here." I held my left hand up with the palm
facing me and my fingers all splayed out. I curled the smallest under saying, "First off, there were no
Haladin bodies present, and there is no way at least one of them would not have died. And, without a
doubt, the Haladina could have carried off their dead, but they're not much of a mind to do that when
there is so much loot."

The Elf nodded carefully. "But the bodies were not looted."

My ring finger curled down. "Another atypical fact about the fight. I'm thinking I've never seen a
battlefield where the Haladina didn't make off with as much in the way of booty as they could pile on their
horses. Elven armor and arms were left behind, as well as the personal effects of the slain Lansorii. The
Haladina would have treasured those things, for they would have been seen as powerful both among the
Haladina and as symbols of their skills to their Reithrese masters."

The Elf let a sly grin steal across his face. "Perhaps you scared them off, Neal Roclawzi."

 I shook my head and tucked my middle finger down. "Any Haladin raider who had just succeeded in
slaughtering an Elven patrol wouldn't be frightened by a half-naked man with a sword. They had bows
and could have feathered me while I stumbled about in the dark."

 My index finger came down. "This all contributes to why I know the Reithrese staged the raid. I heard
nothing of the fight, which meant it was over before the Dreel awakened me. The Dreel remained
unaware of the fight until all the killing had been done, which tells me that some powerful magicks had
been worked to keep the attack quiet and secret. Those same magicks point out how your Lansorii
could have been taken so quickly. Also I found evidence of a limited search of the area. That meant they
were looking for Larissa and me. The attackers obviously knew who we were, and had they been willing
to spend more time in your forests, I'd likely not be here."

 My thumb came in, leaving me a fist. "What happened that night is this: two dozen Reithrese warriors
approached under cover of powerful magicks. Because they can see as well in the dark as you can, there
was no need for torches, which meant there was one less clue as to their approach—and the Haladina
would have had to come with enough torches to set the whole forest ablaze. They slew most of the
Lansorii with arrows, then herded the rest together. When they determined I was not there and no one
would tell them where I was, the Reithrese cut down all the survivors save Aarundel and Marta and
carried them off."
"Your arrogance knows no bounds, Neal, if you suppose the Reithrese hate you so much to slaughter
Elves to get at you."

 "You're a fool if you think I believe it's me they want." My fist pounded down on Cleaveheart's hilt.
"They want this sword because they think it can be used to restore Tashayul's empire. Had I been there,
all of us would have died, you would have launched a new campaign to destroy the Haladina, and the
Reithrese would have offered to help you destroy Mankind."

Another of the Consilliarii stood. "Your tale is fanciful, Neal, but untrue. The Reithrese have already sent
us a message of condolence for the deaths and have promised to turn over the Haladina who did this
once they determine who they were. They are being most cooperative."

 "Of that I have not a doubt, Consilliari, because those leaders with whom you correspond likely do not
know who did this. More correctly, they suspect but are without proof. Without proof, or without
pressure from you, they will not act just on the off chance that the person who planned this deed
succeeds in having me trade the sword for his two hostages."

"Impossible! The Reithrese would never condone aggression against us."

 "Why not? What would stop them?" I folded my arms across my chest. "They play the long game, the
same way you do. Five hundred years ago, at the time of the Eldsaga, Lomthelgar's ideas about Men
were blasphemy, yet little by slowly, I'm thinking, enough Elves softened in their views that you enacted
laws to codify and punish what would have been unthinkable before he began to share his insights. In the
same way, the vast majority of Reithrese might shudder at the thought of conflict with the Sylvan Nation,
but if this act of aggression is not punished, they will begin to assume they risk nothing attacking you. The
barrier between you and their lust for power and greed will be worn down."

"As you say, Neal, we play the long game. If your fantasy were true, we would have much time to deal
with it."

 I thrust a finger at the speaker. "It is true you would have a long time to deal with it, but my friend and his
wife would not. Every second they spend in Reithrese captivity is an eternity. That's the problem with you
long-lived beings, and the advantage of being a mayfly. You have perspective, but I have urgency. I am
impatient—I will not tolerate my friend, my brother, remaining in captivity for a moment more than I must.
In fact, I ride tonight to free him."

 The Elf folded his arms across his chest and scoffed at me. "You speak as if you know where Aarundel
is being held and the identity of his captor."

 "I do." I pointed off south by southwest. "Aarundel and Marta are being held in Jammaq. They are
Takrakor's prisoners, and he wants this sword in exchange for their lives. That's why there have not been
ransom demands from this mythical band of Haladina. Takrakor knows I know what he wants, and I'll
see to it that he gets it, though not in the manner he expects."

Lomthelgar cackled aloud. "Mark him, this is the Second Time—he speaks in his voice for himself!"

 The leader of the Consilliarii struck her staff to the wooden floor once, quieting the hubbub Lomthelgar's
remark had provoked, "What you have said is disturbing, Neal Roclawzi, but you are mistaken if you
believe we will give you permission to act against the Reithrese in this matter."
"With all due and sincere respect, Calarianne Consilliari Primus, you are mistaken if you think I came
here to ask permission. I'm telling you what I'm going to do because I'm going to use the circii translatio
network to get me to Jammaq and back again. My explanation here is a courtesy, not a petition."

"No one will teach you how to activate the magick."

I shook my head. "I have already learned, from Lady Larissa, to facilitate our return here. She did not
know I might have other uses for what she taught me."

The first Consilliari to question me again rose to his feet. "We can stop you."

"How? Execute me? On what charges?"

He smiled. "I move we reconsider the misconduct charge against Neal Roclawzi."

 Thralan shot to his feet. "Impossible, it was dismissed by acclamation and cannot be brought up for
reconsideration because of that fact."

I smiled over at Lomthelgar, who had come up with that bit of strategy in our discussions earlier in the
day. "You cannot stop me, which is good, because Takrakor is not known for his patience."

 The declaration sparked a heated debate and not a few shouts from the gallery. I watched it rage, but
because I did not understand the words, I gained more from visual cues than I did from the angry voices.
In the heart of the council older Elves exchanged grim glances. They looked at me, then quickly away,
and finally one of them nodded solemnly.

 This older member of the Consilliarii stood. Though his white hair and slightly thick middle would have
had me dismiss him as a threat in combat, he moved with the energy of a snake coiling. "I am Disantale,
and I applaud your instruction in our laws, Neal. I applaud your respect for them. I value your bringing to
our attention the need for urgency in action, as well as your taking us to task for the unjust nature of our
laws concerning Men."

 As Disantale spoke, I felt a cold dread start to crystallize in my stomach. The council had grown quiet as
he spoke, and apprehension seemed to condense in the air. I wanted to run because I knew, as much as
he was praising so would he damn me, and I wanted nothing to do with a condemnation delivered so
coolly as this.

 "Neal, your presence here has impressed me, as have my son's reports of your exploits. If you are
exemplary of Men, perhaps we have misjudged them and you. I offer you a bargain in return for your
cooperation in this matter."

I felt pressure close on me tighter than Shijef's jaws. "I cannot be swayed from my course, Disantale
Consilliari."

 "I am known for being persuasive. Hear me out." He pointed down at a group of Elven soldiers, and I
recognized Finndali among them. "If you abandon this quest, my son will divorce his wife and we will
repeal the law that keeps you apart from Lady Larissa."

His words hit me harder than any punch I had ever taken, and were far more effective in driving my
breath from me. My stomach imploded and I felt my heart begin to ache. I began to fold up around my
middle, and I did sink to one knee, but I used my left hand to stop myself from collapsing. Despair and
joy warred in my brain as dreams came to life and sought to erase what I could remember of Aarundel.

Finndali stepped forward stiffly. "I willingly pledge obedience to the decision of the Consilliarii in this
matter."

 I hammered my fist into the floor. "You bastards. You sanctimonious, superior, scheming monsters." The
emotional turmoil in my head and gut converted instantly into anger, and I let that anger fill the void in my
body. "I already know you hold me in contempt, but to think me so simple and so easily manipulable . . .
How could you? Is it arrogance or just cruelty that makes you think I would jump at this offer?"

 I rose from the floor slowly and straightened up to my full height. "I'm not a dog to be thrown a bone.
You greatly dishonor Doma Larissa to cast her as that bone. I am well used to being an object of scorn
to you, but to show her such disrespect is unworthy of even your kind. Had I not a pressing engagement,
I'd use Cleaveheart here and now to slay the lot of you."

 I shook my head, still fighting to clear Disantale's words from my ears. "With one hand you offer to
make me worthy of Lady Larissa under your law, but to receive that boon I must refuse to save her
brother. Were I to agree, I would no longer be worthy of her. And you, those of you who think of Men
as oxen with thumbs, you would be victorious. I would have shown that I was willing to trade friendship
for the embrace of sylvanesti thighs. And you would have denied us the chance to have children, so this
tasteless compact would have died when I did."

 I laughed and wiped away tears. "You know, if I accepted this bargain, I would be worthy of your
revulsion. The thing of it is that none of you would hate me as much as I would hate myself.

 "I am not an animal. I cherish all those things that you believe ennoble you as a people. I cling more
tightly to personal friendship and loyalty than you do. It is not a peculiarity of Man or a man, because I
know had I been taken, Aarundel would be speaking these same words to you. He would even risk your
denying him and Marta the child you used to lure him into this trap."

 I opened my hands and arms to take them all in. "So there you have it. I, Neal Roclawzi, Elfward,
Knight-Defender of the Empire of Man, refuse your offer. I am bound for a cold, dangerous place to free
my friend and his wife. You may take that as a sign of madness. Many of you will. But I'd rather be mad
and away from here, than sane and living among a people that could offer such a shameful bargain to
block the rescue of one of their own."

 Larissa met me in the chamber I had been given in Woodspire. I was busy stuffing a blanket into
saddlebags, so I did not see her at first. When I looked up, I saw her lower lip tremble, then white teeth
bit at it to still its quivering.

 I could not meet her gaze. "I want you to know, Larissa, that your brother almost lost out today. I
almost chose you over him. Please, do not think my choice, my deciding to leave, means I love you any
less." Frustration balled my fists.

 "You had no choice, Neal." Her words came calm and certain, and she did a good job of covering her
pain, "I much wanted you to choose me, and I hated myself for that. I love you for the fact that you were
strong enough to keep from capitulating to them."

 I shook my head. "Unchecked arrogance cannot be rewarded." I looked at her again and found I could
have lost myself in the dark pools of her eyes. "I don't ever want to be apart from you, but I will not
sacrifice your brother for our happiness. I'll be back soon, with them in tow."
"I was thinking that I might accompany you on your quest. They might need a healer. . . ."

 "You may be correct, but so was the Consilliarii. If I were to lead Elves, even one, into Jammaq,
whatever happens down there could kindle a war that your council wants to prevent." I grinned wryly
and sat down on my cot. "Having just come through a war, I cannot blame them for their caution. By
going alone, with no sanction from them, my actions can be denied. Succeed or fail, stay or go, the
Consilliarii wins as long as conflict with the Reithrese is not heightened. The Reithrese cannot assign to the
Consilliarii blame for anything I do. Best case for the Council is my death in a successful rescue."

"But that would leave Divisator in the hands of the Reithrese, and they will destroy the empire."

I shrugged. "True, not the best case for Men, which is why the council and I have our differences."

Larissa shivered. "I cannot stand the thought of you alone in Jammaq."

I grinned. "There will be plenty of Reithrese to keep me company."

"That is not what I meant."

 "Alone he will not be." The Dreel squeezed past Larissa in the doorway, then sat in the middle of the
floor. "Together we travel."

"I travel alone, Shijef. This is my fight."

The Dreel thumped his chest. "Slave I am, master you are. Lifeblack pools."

I narrowed my eyes. "Listen to me, Shijef, for master I am. Your master. I'll not be having the Reithrese
hunting down the Dreel for sport because you joined me in a mission that fails."

Shijef flicked both of his paws forward to ward that suggestion off. "With Shijef, fail it will not."

I snarled. "With Shijef I am not. I expressly forbid you to follow me. That is your master's command!"

His agate eyes all but shut. "Keep Larissa safe?"

"Keep her safe. Do that, Shijef, please. That, too, is an order."

 The Dreel bellowed angrily, then growled at me as he stalked out of the room. Larissa looked at me and
raised an eyebrow. "He is not happy."

 "That's because he wanted to go along and kill things, not because he wanted to protect me." The
second I said it, I knew it was not true. "He will see to your safety."

"I would rather he saw to yours."

 "You need not worry about me, vitamoresti." I slapped the scabbard on the bed and smiled. "I've got
your father sending a message to the Red Tiger requesting the use of the Steel Pack by the
Knight-Defender, and I imagine that many Reithrese agents left in Jarudin will mark their departure at my
request and relay that information to Jammaq. Takrakor will assume I'll come with an army because only
a idiot would travel to Jammaq alone, and that means I'll have the element of surprise on my side."
"Will you be careful?"

"As careful as I can." I shrugged and smiled to reassure her. "Don't worry, I will return."

She shivered. "How can you say that?"

I winked at her. "Remember, the gods are perverse when playing with us lesser races. What will hurt
more, my dying in Jammaq, or my seeing you again knowing that the Consilliarii will never consent to let
us be together?"

"You trust in the gods more than I do, I think."

 "No, in your love I trust, and in this blade," I smiled as I stood and shouldered my saddlebags. "Of the
gods I just hope that if they notice me, they find me diverting and let me live just a little longer so I can
endure that much more [future.]"

Chapter 23:
The Empire Of Dreams

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 IN RETROSPECT, GENA thought, having lost most of their possessions to the fire at Castle Blackoak
had been a blessing of sorts. At various times, as she had grown up, her grandfather and grandaunt had
both mentioned that the gods were perverse and would do all they could to make life miserable for mere
mortals. This had clearly been a case of their meddling, and though Gena did not find traveling
inexpensively that much of a burden, it clearly wore on Berengar.

 On the road before the fire Berengar had not been soft or particularly prickly, but there were little rituals
of civilization that he liked to observe. Each evening, for example, he had brewed tea and always made
an effort to select aromatic woods to burn while his water came to a boil. He was not experimenting to
find a new source of pleasure, but clinging to an old pattern of behavior because it helped define who he
was.

 Gena knew, from stories and observation, that Men fought hard to carve out strong identities. Elves,
with their long lives, were content merely to live, while Men seemed determined to build around
themselves some sort of legend that would live on beyond them. Berengar had been no exception to that
rule, and while he had his baggage and the trappings of an Aurdon noble, he acted much as she imagined
he would have.

 She looked up ahead at where the count rode in front as they neared a small forest. He still sat up in the
saddle, but the steel shaft that had straightened his back had softened. He had tied his hair back with a
strip torn from the hem of his shirt, and the ends of the cloth flapped in the light breeze like pennants over
his right ear. Bare leg showed between the hem of his breeches and the low-cut leather shoes he had
won in a game of knucklebones. He moved stiffly, still bruised from their village visit three days before
because the local tavernmaster would not pay for song, but did offer them lodging and food if Berengar
could best the local champion in a bare-knuckled fight.
 As if he knew she was watching him, he turned slowly in the saddle and looked at her sideways with his
still-blacked left eye. The swelling had gone down, and the edges of the bruise had turned a jaundiced
yellow, but his eye remained bloodshot and rimmed with purple. "I have been thinking, Gena, that you
are a bad influence on me."

 "Me?" Gena feigned surprise and urged Spirit forward with her knees. "How, pray tell, did you reach
this conclusion?"

Berengar half shrugged but stopped as a grimace seized his face. "All this talk and thinking about Neal is
what prompted me to fight with that monster back in Elmglen—I think I wanted to impress you with my
heroic ability."

 "And you did, my lord." She glanced down at his scabbed knuckles. "I never expected you to get up
after he knocked you down the second time, and no one in the village thought you would send him down
with a single punch."

The count grinned and brought his right fist curling up ito a short uppercut. "It was a good punch, but
only one of many . . . on both sides. I've not been so stiff since I fell down two flights of stairs as a child."

Gena shrugged. "I offered to fix you."

 "You did, and I refused." He laughed, then cut it off abruptly and hugged his left arm to his ribs. "I
thought that I could show how tough I was by letting my body heal naturally, without magick."

 "My lord, even Neal was not that foolish." She smiled at him. "If you wish, when we stop for the night, I
could help you with the pain."

 The count paused to consider her offer, then shook his head. "No, I think the worst of it is over, and I
think it is good that I let it linger. Traveling hurt and living hand to mouth gives me a perspective I have
not had before. Take, for example, the caravan that you and Durriken rescued from the Haladina. When
I heard of them and when they arrived in Aurdon, I pitied them. Now, after this, I think I begin to
understand them."

 "It is not without good reason, my Lord, that people are often enjoined to consider other perspectives
when making a judgment." Gena looked around at therolling meadows and woodlands. "In Cygestolia
there is nothing even close to this sort of open territory. It is difficult for most of my people to imagine
anyone wanting to live outside a forest. In fact, I cannot think of but a few Elves who would have
accepted the lodgings we did last night."

 "Yes, spending a night sleeping in a sod house was interesting. I think, before arriving at my current state,
I would have looked down upon those people. While they were a bit crude in their manners, their hearts
were generous, their wisdom sound, and their concern for two travelers rather inspiring." He shook his
head. "They even had dreams for the future, of expanding their farm and providing enough for their
children and children's children."

"I think that admirable."

"As do I."

"Then why the shake of your head and the beetling of your brow?"
 The count's expression lightened immediately. "Oh, I was not thinking ill of them or their plans. What had
me confused was Neal again. When he and the Red Tiger entered Jarudin, the tales say that Neal killed
the Reithrese emperor and took the crown."

"Yes, but he gave it to the Red Tiger."

"Why?"

"Why?"

 "He could have had an empire. He could have shaped it in ways that would have made it last for all time.
He could have made himself into a hero for Humanity, one that would not have been so easy for us to
forget." Puzzlement again knotted Berengar's brow. "I don't understand his choice."

"Is that because it was a bad choice, or just the choice you would not have made in his place?"

 Berengar chuckled carefully. "I had not separated those questions, and I guess I assumed since his
choice was not my choice, it was by definition a bad choice. Had he chosen to keep the empire, I might
have been able to trace my lineage back to him, not the Red Tiger. He had his chance at eternal fame and
passed it by."

Gena nodded sympathetically at first, then hesitated. "I do not know Neal's mind, but I wonder if he did
not think the Red Tiger would make a better ruler than he would."

"Perhaps, but to pass up a chance at being able to make your dreams for the future live—and I know he
must have had them, every man does—I guess the ability to let that chance go by is what makes him a
hero."

 "It may well be that indeed." Gena ducked her head beneath an oak branch as they rode into the forest.
"Since you would not have made Neal's choice, what would you have done had you won the crown?"

"A good question, that."

"You yourself said every Man has dreams for the future. What are yours?"

 Berengar looked straight ahead and focused distantly. "Had I been in Neal's place, I would have moved
swiftly to consolidate the empire and bring it under a strong central rule. The Red Tiger did bring it
together, but only because he was the only power in a vacuum. He contented himself in making
arrangements with local strongmen instead of imposing his view of the empire from the top down. As a
result, it was only ever really a confederation of states, and as you have seen, it has broken apart into the
commonwealth within the last century."

 He waved his hands at the surrounding countryside. "Even here in Ispar the instability is palpable—my
late, unlamented uncle being just one example of how badly things have gone awry. You are right to
condemn his dabbling in forbidden knowledge, but you must understand that when things become so out
of control, Men search for ways to gain control. My uncle chose incorrectly, but the need for stability and
control cannot be disputed.

 "Stability and control would have been my keys." He turned toward her, and she saw his eyes alight with
an inner fire. "In a year I would have brought Barkol, Ludhyna, and Ysk into my empire, and that would
have provided me with enough forces to take Kaudia. I would have pushed on through the Haladin
Outlands and Quom to destroy Reith."

"My kin might have objected to so strong a Human presence,"

 "But your people are not stupid. Our war would have been with the Reithrese and, more important, my
empire would have rebuilt and structured Human settlements. Your people rode out on the Eldsaga
crusade because Men were encroaching on Elven homelands. Under my rule the old borders and
remnants of Reithrese political structures would have been swept away. Isn't it ridiculous that we now,
after five centuries, still call the imperial capital by the name they gave it? The Red Tiger, while he did free
us from the Reithrese, left us culturally enslaved to them forever."

 Gena laughed. "There are Elven cartographers who believe you have stayed with the old names as a
courtesy to them."

 "That's an interesting perspective." Berengar shook his head. "Perhaps it comes from being raised in a
merchant's house, but I would have organized the empire in a manner that built economic ties between
regions and promoted both economic and cultural growth. I would have permitted ethnic and social
identities to remain distinct while sublimating nationalism within pride for the empire. Strict laws and swift,
sure punishment for violations would guarantee a lawful society that would, in turn, promote harmony and
increased economic strength."

"But once one part of your empire determined that its economic best interest lay in another province or,
worse yet, the Elven Holdings, you would have a serious conflict."

 "Not at all. We have ridden for half a day, and aside from the croft we left this morning, we have seen no
sign of Human habitation."

"Aside from this road."

 "True, and were I emperor, there would be many more of them. They would be wide and well built
because commerce demands swift and certain transport. Each province would have market centers. With
land grants and tax amnesties I could promote immigration to new areas of the empire to create growth. I
would have an army that would keep the Haladina in their deserts and put down any internal conflicts.
And had I been Neal, your people and I would have had only one conflict."

Gena raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Berengar grinned despite a split lip. "The sylvanesti he loved would have been my empress."

 A thrill shot through her as she read more into his statement than his words contained. She had always
seen him as attractive and flirtatious, but Durriken's presence, and then his memory, had seemed to keep
them apart. Their current conditions and the attention they demanded had pushed larger issues away and
had created a bond between them that could have easily slipped into more than mere friendship.

 Gena immediately began to poke and probe her own feelings toward Berengar, subjecting them to
intellectual scrutiny in hopes of killing them. Merely considering her attraction to Berengar seemed to be a
betrayal of Durriken, both on her part and by Berengar. She resented that intrusion on her, yet she knew
that mourning a dead man forever would only destroy her. She had seen that before and resolved she
would not fall into the trap.
 Her attraction to Berengar did not wither away under examination, but neither did it blossom into the
all-consuming passion of vitamor. It remained a seed, not yet sprouted, content in dormancy. Gena
realized that their current situation was too odd and strange to provide a solid foundation for a
relationship, and she dared not risk her friendship with Berengar by surrendering to his charms in such an
atypical setting.

She recovered herself and smiled carefully. "That would have created quite a conflict with my people,
my Lord. You must recall that five centuries have passed since Neal and the syivanesti were in love.
While my culture now permits what it denied them, it does not encourage it and barely tolerates it."

Berengar nodded. "This I understand, though I can dream of your Elders finding my arguments
persuasive."

"Indeed, they might well have." She laughed and winked at him. "But if you have dreams of being
persuasive, I would focus them away from Elves at this point."

He frowned for a second, then let himself laugh. "And upon what would you focus them?"

 "Hardelwick, the emperor." Gena narrowed her eyes. "After all, he must be convinced that you actually
are who you say you are, and to entrust Cleaveheart to you. They way we look now, you will have to be
more persuasive than even Neal could ever have dreamt of being."

Chapter 24:
The Emperor Of Nightmares

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

***

 INEVER FELT so alone as when I rode from Cygestolia to the first circus translatio. I had said all my
good-byes at Woodspire and at the base of the tree had been given five horses in addition to Blackstar.
Three were laden with supplies, and all had been outfitted with the same sort of silver chains I wore. I
was told by the groom who gave the horses to me that they were meant as a gift to the Man-emperor in
Jarudin, but I knew that was a fiction that would make it easy for Aarundel's family to deny ever having
given me any aid in my quest.

 No one accompanied me to the grove. No soldiers along the way showed themselves. Shijef, whom I
expected to wheedle and whine until I consented to his going with me, stayed away. Riding out from the
city inhabited by virtually immortal beings, one of whom I loved with my whole heart and soul, I felt
incredibly small and insignificant. That was how they saw me, and how the Reithrese saw me, and part of
me knew they were right.

 But it is the small pebble deep down in a boot that can hobble even the greatest of warriors. I smiled as
my brother's old defense to criticism about his size came to mind. My success, if I was to have any,
would come from the fact that I would be in Jammaq before even the Reithrese thought it possible, and
even more so if they accepted the bait concerning my recall of the Steel Pack. If I had any luck at all, as
a small pebble I would pass into their nation unseen and remain unsuspected until far too late for them to
do anything about it.

 The now-familiar wave of dizziness passed over me as I entered the grove. I led the horses around so
they strung out one behind another; then I drew Cleaveheart. As I had learned in traveling with Larissa, a
torch was not needed to activate the magick, just a touch and the repetition of an Elven phrase: translatio
mysterioso arcanum nunc. I started before the tree that would send me south, then circled the grove,
touching all the other trees, save that one, with my sword.

 The torch used the first time I had traveled this way had given off sparks, which had cycloned around
inside the grove to provide a wall through which I passed. Cleaveheart did not produce sparks per se,
but rang loudly and clearly. The notes manifested themselves physically as spheres of differing colors,
multiplying with each blow. The low notes, thick and blue, drifted toward the ground while the sharper,
high notes darted about as if they were yellow and red hornets. All of them shivered the chains, binding
me and the horses to the magick.

As I rode around, the sound built as if ten, then a hundred and a thousand swords, pealed in discord and
unison. On my third circuit I reined Blackstar around, then drove him straight at the tree I had neglected.
As I dashed forward, the sound grew louder and louder until I could feel the notes tremble through me.
The spheres melded together into a rainbow wall through which I burst at the point of near deafness, and
on into the network I rode with the sound receding behind me.

 The network dragged on me, and I wondered if my plan was doomed to fail. I knew Takrakor was not
a fool. Despite the Steel Pack's recall, he would realize that it was possible for me or a troop of Elves to
head down to Jammaq on a rescue mission. While other Reithrese would be negotiating with the
leadership in Cygestolia, giving him a gauge on how much of my suspicions the Elves believed, he had to
assume I might try something. He could discount much Elven participation since the only Elf likely to
instigate trouble in conjunction with me was his prisoner, but as the raid had already proved, Takrakor
was nothing if not calculating.

 The network had three groves between Cygestolia and Reith. At three days of rest to one day of travel,
that put any rescue attempt at a minimum of a week and a half. A longer time would be logical to expect,
because the nearest grove lay nearly 120 miles from Jammaq. If he assumed we would take two weeks
to get to Jammaq, he would not be considered overconservative in his thinking.

 This was the reason I had decided to push as hard as I could. What I intended to do had been
described as possible by Lomthelgar, suicidal by Thralan, and necessary by all three of us. When I
reached the next grove, I would get off Blackstar, tie him to the end of the string, and mount the next
horse. I would repeat that process a second time at the grove after that, and wind up in Reith in less than
a day. From there, if I could do it, I would ride into Jammaq, free Aarundel and Marta, and ride off with
them. Our supply horses would double as mounts, which meant, if we abused the network and ourselves,
we could reach the edge of the Elven Holdings before Takrakor would expect a rescue attempt being
made.

 At least that was how I hoped it would go. The distance between Jammaq and the nearest grove did
concern me, but before I worried about escape, I wanted to have the rescue completed. While I knew
Takrakor was a cunning and ruthless adversary, I also knew he was not omnipotent, and I counted on
that fact to guarantee our ability to flee.

 Riding alone into enemy territory, even along a magickal highway, is not generally considered a way to
earn a retirement pension. In thinking about what I wanted to do, I realized that Takrakor was not as
powerful as I first thought, and that Tashayul had been limited as well. Before he had obtained
Cleaveheart, Tashayul had controlled an army, but not one large enough to let him secure his empire.
Until he had the sword in hand, resources had been denied him. Once he had it, and had the prophecy
reading in his favor, support in Reith had been more forthcoming, which was why he had been able to
fulfill his destiny.

 Internal politics in Reith, as with Elven politics in Cygestolia, doubtlessly placed limits on what Takrakor
could do. In taking Aarundel and Marta, the Reithrese sorcerer had made a bold bid for power that
could just as easily doom him if it came to naught. If it won him Cleaveheart, he could find as much
support for his imperial ambitions as had his brother. If his bid failed, the political powers in Reith could
disown him and kill him or turn him over to the Elves for justice.

 I was betting my life on the idea that Takrakor had acted without sanction or knowledge of most or all
politicians in Reith. I knew he had at least two dozen individuals with him when he staged the raid that
took his captives, and I could not imagine him handling many more than twice that number if he wanted to
keep the operation a secret. As Jammaq remained abandoned for most of the year, it made a logical
hiding place for the captives, and I already knew Takrakor felt quite at home there. I also felt certain he
would be there because he would want to force me to return the sword to the place from which I had
obtained it.

 What everything boiled down to was this: I would face fifty or so Reithrese, including at least one
powerful sorcerer, in the city of the dead in my attempt to free my friend and his wife. If I succeeded or
failed, the most likely result was that the Elves and Reithrese alike would insist my mission had never
existed and that things I said about it, if I survived, were the ravings of a lunatic.

Such are the privileges of being a member of an Elder race.

 The first transfer worked well. I had dismounted before the last packhorse came through. Though my
limbs felt leaden, I untied Blackstar and attached him to the end of the string, then hauled myself into the
saddle of the second horse. Not having carried more than a saddle on its first run, it had not worked
incredibly hard, though it looked back walleyed at me when I gave it some spur. I applied sword to tree
again, and within two minutes we were into the network.

 The second leg dragged on more slowly than an old drunken veteran's war stories. My sense of urgency
concerning the rescue had made it possible for me to switch mounts, but having to sit still for what felt like
eons eroded my strength. My head kept bobbing down to my chest as I dropped off to sleep. The shock
of my chin hitting my chest would bring me awake again, and I shook my head to clear it, but I continued
to get more mush-minded with each passing second.

Seeing the third clearing all dark and swirling in the white-for-black world through which I rode alarmed
me and burned away the fatigue enfolding me. Peering into the depths of the inkstorm, I saw no one and
nothing, but I prepared for trouble nonetheless. Something was definitely not right.

 As we came through a tree on the north side of the clearing and normal vision returned, I saw
immediately what had happened. A whirling cyclone of reds, browns, blacks, and greys rioted about. For
some reason I could not fathom in my tired state, the grove was active, and as nearly as I could
determine, the outgoing tree was the one I had intended to use.

 I reined back immediately and brought my horse in beside the next horse in the string. Without touching
the ground, I switched mounts, then drove my new horse forward into the correct tree. In an eye blink
we were off again as the warm, musty wall of earth-tone colors gave us passage.
 As I used my belt to tie myself to my saddle, I wondered how the Elves had managed to hide a circus
translatio terminal grove in Reith. I did not remember seeing very many trees on my first journey there.
Most of those had been single, wind-scoured, and twisted trees defiantly clinging to rocks no
self-respecting lichen would have called home. I tried to let my concern over this point alarm me enough
to make me alert, but my body could not muster enough energy to allow me to panic.

Before we got there, I fell asleep.

 As much as charging into enemy territory alone is stupid, arriving exhausted is even more so. Apparently,
when I arrived at the appropriate point, I functioned well enough to unsaddle my horses, water them, and
tear open a bag of grain for them before I wandered off to collapse. I say "apparently" because I have no
conscious memory of doing that, but when I awoke, I saw that it had been done.

 Upon waking I also saw how and why the Elves had been able to maintain a circus translatio terminal
within Reith itself. I awoke in a subterranean cavern of considerable size with a huge gash cut in the
ceiling. Bright, cold sunlight poured down through it and the raindrops dripping from the edges misted
enough for a rainbow to fill part of the air above me. Below the gash, placed carefully to take full
advantage of the sunlight, was a grove of miniature trees. I recognized all of them and for the barest of
seconds wondered if I had not been transformed into a giant through my misadventure.

 I realized quickly enough, of course, that the miniature trees were the product of woodwifery. They had
been grown specially and probably maintained carefully to provide the link needed to give Elves access
to the interior of Reith. The cavern itself, with a pool collecting downhill from the grove, provided water
and the cover needed to conceal at least a hundred warriors and their mounts.

 I checked the horses and found all of them in good health. Though I had no way of accurately judging
the time, I estimated that I'd slept for at least twelve hours, maybe more, and decided I would wait until
the sun went down before moving on toward Jammaq. In the meantime I put more food out for the
horses and scouted out the tunnel that led to the outside. Confident I could lead horses through it in the
dark, I returned to the cave and slept some more.

 The nicest thing I can say about the countryside in Reith is that it is as equally beautiful at night as it is in
the day. More so, actually, because at night there is enough heat radiating from the broken, black rocks
to fend off the nightchill, whereas in the day it would have baked me. Mile after depressing mile of
pulverized landscape would grind down anyone's resolve to continue, but nighttime seriously limited my
circle of vision, so I was spared the brutal tableau.

 Reith did have a lot of caves. I had no trouble locating sufficient housing for myself and my mounts. In
one I found bones and in another I found feathers, but aside from those things, I saw nothing even
approximating a sign of life. Given my status in the country I thought that a good thing.

 Reith is a nation made of mountains and more mountains, yet it is not like my homeland. The Roclaws
are old mountains; while Reith is a land still in the grip of volcanic upheavals. At night I could see fire
glowing in numerous mountain-tops. The hiss of steam or the bubbling plop of mud-flats filled the night
with unsettling sounds. Sulphurous fog choked me and made my eyes water from time to time. It was
such a foul place I had no difficulty seeing why the Reithrese would want to win an empire that would
allow them to live elsewhere.

 It took me three days to reach the outskirts of Jammaq. I left my supplies and three horses in a cave
outside the city, then led Blackstar and two other horses with me into the city itself. I fastened a set of
silver chains to each saddle so we could slip them on whenever we had a chance during our ride away,
even though I expected us to have at least three days on the road before we reached the cavern—if we
reached it. I stabled the horses in one of the sidestreet mansions and headed out on foot for the last part
of my journey.

 I armed myself with Cleaveheart and Wasp, the latter homed in the top of my right boot. I slung
Aarundel's ax across my back, with the head at my left hip. I had chosen to wear studded leather armor
for two reasons and did not regret the choice. After the grueling ride I relished the relative lightness of
that armor. More important though, ring mail's incessant rustle, and the metallic ringing in my ears caused
by a coif, would have made my stealthy advance through the city of the dead impossible.

 Autumn brought to Jammaq even more of a chill than it had known on my last visit, but I did not mind.
Back then, in my youthful bravado and stupidity, I had come to beard the Reithrese in their own den. I
felt confident that all the prophecies about me—both those others told and the ones I wove myself
into—would protect me. I could not have failed to carry Cleaveheart away, so confident was I in my
immortality.

 Now, well into the autumn of my life, I felt a kinship with the city of the dead and comfortable in its
sepulchral chill. In each leering gargoyle I saw an enemy I'd ridden down or slain with the sword I now
bore. Having killed so many people did not necessarily make me a citizen of Jammaq, but it did confer on
me visitor's privileges, and I meant to abuse those very privileges before the sun came up. A few more
Reithrese would come to rest in Jammaq, and the living would depart.

 A cold breeze cut at my face right then, and I realized I found a subtle strain within a great truth. As I
had explained to Larissa, the gods were perverse. What I realized as I stalked toward Takrakor was that
Reithra was the most perverse of all. She knew I was in the city and easily could have warned those who
waited for me, but by betraying them and allowing me to send them to her, she let me feed her. That
amounted to an act of worship toward her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to be counted among
her acolytes.

 Having placed my trust in the perversity of a perverse goddess, I should not have been surprised to see
what awaited me at the mausoleum from which I had liberated Cleaveheart. In the dozen and a half years
since I last saw it, a portico had been added to the building. Broad, circular steps led up to a landing that
allowed access to the rest of the building. Four pillars carved in the shape of intertwined Human and
Elven zombies upheld a roof. The figures making up the pillars were paired Man and Elf, male and female
and like-gendered, mocking Elven laws and decorum with their crudity.

 The merlons on the roof itself made the edge appear to be a huge jawbone, and it had been set with
massive diamond teeth, the value of which was incalculable. Standing tall over the incisors in that jaw,
Takrakor gestured, and all around me torches flared to life on the surrounding buildings. "Welcome to
Jammaq, Neal Elfward," he shouted as light poured into the small courtyard before the mausoleum. "You
have arrived far sooner than I expected. My allies, whom I invited to witness your submission to me, will
be disappointed."

"I'd beg your pardon, Takrakor, but had I known you had a ceremony planned in my honor, I would
have been more considerate."

 "Considerate, yes, I believe that is how I often characterize you." The Reithrese sorcerer bared his
diamond teeth in a soundless snarl. He regained control of himself and shook his head. "You possess
something I mean to have."

I raised Cleaveheart into a guard. "Come here, I'll give it to you."
 "Droll, Neal, and pathetic." Takrakor reached down out of my sight and dragged Marta to her feet by
her hair. She did not cry out, nor did she move to defend herself, in the wavering light that poured
through the teeth I could not see her clearly, but the gauzy garment she wore revealed a lot or flesh that
appeared almost as pale and mushroom-hued as that of the sorcerer who held her. "You recognize
Marta, of course."

I said nothing.

 The sorcerer shifted his grip to the back of her neck, then brought her face down to his. He kissed her
savagely. Her jaw shifted down as he forced his tongue into her mouth, yet she did not push him away or
struggle. I wondered at why she did not fight him or do something, and then, when a pitiful, animalistic
wail filled the courtyard, I thought finally she had returned to her senses.

 Then I realized the sound came not from her but from the black door in the mausoleum. A tall, slender
figure marched and stumbled through it and across the portico to the head of the stairs. He stood tall and
quivering, while twenty feet above him Takrakor abused his wife. I saw Aarundel tense and try to move
from where his feet had been rooted to the stone, but his efforts went unrewarded.

"Run, Neal. It is lost."

 Aarundel's harsh plea barely made it past his clenched teeth, but it brought a sharp laugh from the
Reithrese sorcerer. He released Marta, and she remained standing behind him, his spittle running down
her chin. Takrakor licked his lips, then smiled diamonds at me. "He wants you to run because I have
given him a choice. To save his wife, he must slay you and give me your sword. To save Marta, you must
slay him and leave me Khiephnaft."

I shook my head. "No bargain. I want both of them, alive, and away from here."

 The Reithrese laughed loudly, but I could tell he forced it. "Do you think that if you rescue them, the
Elves will be kindly disposed toward you?" He reached back and caressed Marta's breasts. "Do you
think they will consent to let you touch a sylvanesti the way I have? Is this what you hope?"

"What I hope is that you've cleared up your affairs, because it looks as though I'll be killing you to take
my friends back home."

"You jump ahead of yourself, Neal. If you do not kill Aarundel, or he does not kill you, I will slay Lady
Marta here." He extended his left hand, and a dagger slid from his sleeve into his grasp. "It will be
quicker than she deserves, but it will happen."

"Is this what you hope?" I mocked him.

 "It is what I know and what I will cause to happen, even if I die." His face darkened and his voice took
on a cutting edge. "I have already sent a message to certain of my brethren in Reith telling them I have
Khiephnaft. They are coming here, now. Even if you were to kill me, there is no way you would be able
to get your friends out of Reith. It is over, Neal Roclawzi."

"Strikes me those were the words I used in talking about your brother dying in the Roclaws."

 Takrakor snarled and flicked his right hand in my direction. As if a puppet on invisible strings, Aarundel
leaped from the portico and charged at me. He wore Reithrese ring mail, though his head remained bare.
The barbed Reithrese scimitar in his right hand whistled as he swung it back and forth through the air.
Hatred burned in Aarundel's eyes, but his brows slanted back toward the sides of his face as if he sought
forgiveness for what the sorcerer was forcing him to do.

 I noticed something wrong with Aarundel, but his first onrushing attack gave me no time to figure it out
or to exploit it. He brought the sword down in an overhand blow. I parried high and normally would have
swung around wide to the right to get my body out of line with his cut, but Takrakor's control took the
edge off Aarundel's speed. I pivoted quick and tight to the right in a move that caught Aarundel's hip on
mine and sent him up and over in a midair flip.

 He crashed hard to the ground on his back. He hesitated there for a second, giving me a chance to split
his skull from nose to crown, but I did not press my attack. I let him roll over to his stomach and
scramble to his feet because that first pass had told me a number of things. If I could sort them out, I
might be able to avoid killing Aarundel.

 Aarundel was never a great swordsman—his weapon of choice was the ax that I wore on my back. I
was better than he was at swordplay, and I had a magickal sword as well. Cleaveheart had already
notched his sword when I parried him. I could easily do to him what Tashayul had done to me in our
fight, which would leave Aarundel unarmed and vulnerable.

 The Elf came at me again, but I parried his attack aside and forswore a riposte. Whipping my blade up
and around in a grandiose slash, I rained three quick blows down at Aarundel's head and shoulders. He
managed to parry each one easily enough, but each cut carved another piece from his sword. Like a
woodsman notching a tree before felling it, I worked on Aarundel's sword with two other attacks, then I
moved in close, bound his blade, and pushed him away.

 What I knew about magicks could have filled a thimble and left room for an ocean, but I did remember
that the small stones taken from the towers in Jarudin had a link between them and the towers from which
they had been removed—a link that made magick possible. Takrakor's control over Aarundel meant he
had to be linked to the Elf in some way. If they had both worn a similar crown or something else that
bound their brains together in some way, the source of the connection would have been obvious. As it
was I could not see Takrakor well enough to notice anything odd about him, but I spotted the difference
on Aarundel as we stood face-to-face before I pushed him back.

 Between his eyebrows, up against his forehead, I saw a scab barely an inch long and a lump beneath
Aarundel's flesh at that point. I knew that had to be the focus of Takrakor's link with my friend, and as
the Elf came back in toward me, I dropped my guard to invite a lunge.

 The point of his blade shot in at my heart, but I twisted to my left and raised my sword arm up and over
his lunge. As Aarundel overextended, my left fist arced out in a punch to the right side of his head. That
staggered him and he began to fall sideways. I brought Cleaveheart down and sheared through his blade,
then hooked his heels with my left foot, dumping him to the ground.

 I pounced on him instantly and sat on his chest. I trapped his arms with my knees, then pressed
Cleaveheart's pommel straight down on his forehead. The lump did not shatter, but the flesh split anew,
and a thin sliver of a diamond tooth sat like an island in a welling pool of blood. Smearing crimson across
Aarundel's forehead, I brushed the tooth fragment away and stood.

 Takrakor stared down at me, furious. I shifted Cleaveheart to my left hand and filled my right with Wasp
as the sorcerer started his turn toward Marta. I whipped my arm forward, sending Wasp up and up
toward him, but Takrakor took no notice of my action. Intent on Marta, he brought his dagger up, aiming
it for her soft belly.

 Wasp skipped off a toothy merlon and tugged at the shoulder of Takrakor's cloak before bouncing off
into the tower's shadows behind him. The sorcerer looked back at me with disdain, his knife frozen for a
heartbeat. "Know that what happens now is what you have wrought."

"Neal, save her!"

"I can't!"

 Looking up as I was, I saw it descending before Takrakor had even the slightest inkling of his peril.
Leaping down from a perch higher up on the mausoleum tower, Shijef flew through the night and landed
short of the gap between Takrakor and Marta. The Dreel's left arm stabbed forward and swept back. It
caught Takrakor in the face and battered the sorcerer back into the shadows. With his right arm Shijef
gathered Marta up, then the beast vaulted the toothy balustrade and landed in the courtyard with the
grace and stealth of a cat.

I shrugged the ax off and tossed it to Aarundel as the Dreel ran over to join us. "Set her down, Shijef,"

 The Dreel did as I instructed. "One claw, Shijef, carefully." I pointed to the scab line on Marta's
forehead, above and between her staring eyes. "Cut the lump out. Easy, very easy."

 The Dreel produced one razor claw and carefully re-opened the wound. As with Aarundel, the skin split
cleanly and revealed a piece of one of Takrakor's teeth. I was about to order the Dreel to flick it away,
but Marta blinked and raised a hand up to pluck it from her brow. "Leave this to me."

 Had I been of a mind to argue with her about collecting souvenirs, I would have demanded she discard
it, but the arrival of a half-dozen Reithrese warriors from within the mausoleum demanded my attention.
Clad in mail similar to that which Aarundel wore, they bore swords and bucklers. They looked tough, but
were coming at us from a direction in which we did not want to go.

"Shijef, I have an order for you. Will you obey it?"

"Obey always I do."

"You disobeyed me by following me here."

"Followed not, preceded." The Dreel smiled most horribly. "Obeyed I did."

 The third grove being active with the colors of his fur suddenly made sense, as well as did his absence at
my departure. It also explained how I managed to dismount and care for my horses upon my arrival in
Jammaq without remembering any of it. "Do you smell the horses?"

"I do."

"Get Marta to them, and Aarundel." I glanced at my Elven companion. "Get going, I'll hold these clowns
back."

 Droplets of blood etched dark lines around the corners of Aarundel's mouth. "The Reithrese are more
than just your enemy. Shijef, get Marta away from here."
"Go, Shijef, now."

The Reithrese approached us almost casually, as if already confident of their victory. I brandished
Cleaveheart. "This is the sword that stole your empire. Are you brave enough to take it away from me?"

 Before any of them could answer, I darted forward. Wrapping both hands around the hilt, I brought it
across in a waist-high slash at the nearest of them. My foe dropped his buckler down to parry me, then
screamed as Cleaveheart sliced through the small, round shield and took the lower half of his arm with it.
His right arm had already started to come up in a thrust at my chest, so I spun inside his arm, brushed his
attack aside with my right shoulder, and shifted the grip on my blade. With my back to his chest, I
reversed Cleaveheart and thrust it back past my right hip and through his abdomen.

 Letting gravity and his fall pull the dead man off my blade, I freed my right hand from Cleaveheart's hilt
and appropriated my victim's own blade. Continuing my spin, albeit late and slow, I came around and,
with the borrowed sword, swept aside a lunge at my midsection. I kicked forward with my right foot,
catching the swordsman in the stomach. Breath exploded from him as he fell back. I split his skull with an
overhand blow from Cleaveheart.

 His brains had barely spattered the cobblestones when the third warrior came in quickly. He wanted to
use his speed to defeat me and feinted at me with the dagger in his off hand. As I had with Aarundel's
sword, I slashed Cleaveheart through it, then down into the warrior's left leg. He screamed as he went
down, but caught himself on his hands. That presented his neck for me perfectly, and I did to him what I
would have loved to have done to Takrakor.

My work done, I looked over at Aarundel. Two of his foes lay in a pile, and most of the third in another,
with scattered bits between them. "Good work."

"And you."

 I pointed to the dead Reithrese. "I assumed Takrakor had two dozen when he killed the Lansorii. Where
are the rest of them?"

"I have no idea. I think some were sent as messengers, but the rest should be patrolling the city to keep
Takrakor's enemies away."

I brought my sword up into a guard as I heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. "Mounted. This
will be difficult."

"Anything to let Marta get away."

 But Marta had not gotten away. With her bangs brushed back from her bloody face, she rode the lead
horse into the courtyard, bringing Blackstar and the third horse behind her. Shijef jumped down from a
rooftop, squatted on the cobblestones, and flicked dust and pebbles at the dead Reithrese. Aarundel ran
over to his wife and hugged her around the waist, then mounted his horse.

I hauled myself up into Blackstar's saddle and patted the beast on the neck. "I have horses off to the
north."

Shijef sniffed the air in the direction. "Lifeblack pools."

"We may have to chance it. North is where we can reach the circus translatio."
 The Dreel shook his head. "Lifeblack deeply pools." He pointed toward the east and on around the
compass. "And there. And there and there and there."

Aarundel frowned. "Surrounded. Takrakor's allies must have taken his announcement seriously."

 I raised Cleaveheart in my right fist. "This sword is mine, and a lot of lifeblack will pool before it's pried
from my hands."

 Marta held her fist out. "Whoever is coming is very anxious. I can feel through this bit of tooth that more
than one person is trying to magickally communicate with Takrakor."

I looked over at the Dreel. "Did you kill him?"

Shijef looked crestfallen. "Broken, not dead."

"Dammit." I looked around the city "There has to be a way out of here."

The Dreel's race brightened, which normally is not a good omen. "TheElven Way . Roadfast."

"We need the grove for that." I turned to Aarundel as we all snapped ourselves into the chains we would
need to use the circus transiatio. "There's not a grove here in Jammaq?"

"In this necropolis? No."

"Use Roadfast, not grove."

 I frowned at Shijef. "We can't use Roadfast without a grove, and the nearest one is three days' hard ride
from here."

"We need to do something," Aarundel pointed to the north. "I hear riders out that way."

The Dreel rose up to his full height. "Use Roadfast."

"We can't."

"Can."

"How?" I looked at Dreel as if by willpower alone I could make him understand. "We need the magick
of the trees."

"Magick the trees have." Shijef pounded both paws against his chest "Magick I am.'"

 The Dreel started off at a dead run around us. He circled us once, and the colors in his fur began to blur.
On the second circuit he moved so fast that I had difficulty following his movements, and on the third only
the intensification of the colors in the circle when he passed allowed me to see him.

 When he got back to the point where he started, he stopped again instantly. His arms looped out to
circle us all, then pull us in toward him. Blackstar fought against his touch, but I looked up and saw
Reithrese riders pounding down toward us from the north. I spurred Blackstar forward, and he plunged
on into the Dreel. The color wall parted, and once more I found myself in the odd place the Dreel named
Roadfast.

 As the familiar weariness began to pull at me again, I looked back and saw Aarundel and Marta riding
behind me. Back beyond them I saw Shijef's shadowy form. Any attempt at figuring out how he could
possibly be moving with us on a pathway for which he was the entry point threatened to overwhelm my
senses. Facing forward again, I contented myself with feeling safe for the moment and smiled as I
imagined Larissa's expression when we all arrived, once again safe, in Cygestolia.

Chapter 25:
Finding Your Place In History

Spring
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 DESPITE THE GREY haze hanging over it and the ragged sprawl of mud, wooden, and stone buildings
surrounding the walls, Genevera could see beauty in the Imperial capital. The bits and pieces of Reithrese
architecture yet visible added an exotic touch to what clearly was a thoroughly Man-wrought city. She
knew there had been extensive reconstruction after the fire that took place around the time of her birth,
but natural weathering had taken the edges off new buildings and gave them the same grimy patina that
marked even older constructions.

 Berengar and Gena entered the city through the southern gate and immediately headed toward the
second circle and the immense bazaar. There they managed to bargain their way into far fancier clothing
than any they had obtained on the road—though none of it seemed to Gena quite good enough for
visiting the emperor. Closer to the palace itself they took rooms at The Branded Hand and used the inn's
bathing facilities to wash away the road dust.

 She would have preferred waiting until the next morning for making their attempt to see the emperor, but
Berengar's impatience warred with his solicitousness toward her, making him edgier and less predictable
than a wounded bear. Dressed and perfumed, they hired an open carriage to take them to the palace.
The choice of action over patience calmed Berengar, and he grew silent as the palace loomed closer.

 The central tower itself had not been damaged in the fire, but reconstruction had allowed the emperor at
the time—Rudolf, the grandfather of the emperor from whom Berengar's family claimed descent—to
expand the Palace. He added a series of rectangular buildings that surrounded the original tower, though
to what purpose Gena could not imagine, because the Reithrese tower easily had more habitable space in
it than Woodspire or the Fisher mansion in Aurdon. More curious, given the fact of the tower's size, was
the continuing construction on the buildings surrounding it.

 The coachman let them off at the gate, then moved off a short distance to wait. Gena took this as an ill
omen, but Berengar seemed barely to notice. As she adjusted her green cloak and woolen head scarf,
the count strode boldly to the nearest of the soldiers standing at the gate. "I am Count Berengar Fisher of
Aurdon in the province-state of Centisia. This is Lady Genevera of Cygestolia. We are come on an
important mission to speak with His Sovereign Majesty, the emperor."

The soldier looked from Berengar to Gena and back. He appeared unimpressed, but turned to walk
back through the gate. Berengar started to follow, but the man held his left hand up to stop him, while
dropping his right hand to the hilt of his sword. The count stopped, his smile dimming, while the man
disappeared. He returned quickly enough, leading an older man who stood not quite as tall as Berengar,
but was decidedly more stout than Gena's companion.

 The new arrival, a sergeant according to the armband he wore, ignored Berengar and walked over to
Gena. The scent of garlic reached her before he did, and with the swipe of his gloved left hand, the
sergeant removed the last trace of his dinner from around his mouth. "Drop the scarf, missy, let me see
your ears."

 "This is an outrage!" Berengar's shout came with enough anger that in a bar it would have spawned a
fight in an instant.

The sergeant shook his head. "Best be having your boy be quiet or we'll steel-leech him."

 Berengar's eyes blazed, but Gena raised a hand. She removed the head scarf, then raked her hair back
from her left ear. "Is this sufficient, Sergeant, or do you wish to touch it?" She twisted the ear sufficiently
to have torn the pointed top off had it been prosthetic. "I am one of the sylvanesti."

 "So your patience and help here confirm, my Lady." The sergeant cocked his head toward Berengar.
"And you will vouch for the likes of him?"

"I will and do."

He turned toward Berengar. "Claimant or pretender?"

Berengar blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

The sergeant sighed. "Do you wear the tiger over your crest or not?"

"I do."

 "There we go." The sergeant waved both of them after him. Once inside the gate the man led them past a
small guardhouse and pointed them to a doorway. "Go in there. Find yourself and you will find the
emperor."

Gena could see the tension rising to an explosion in Berengar, but she bled some off as she touched him
on the arm. "Come, my Lord, let us see if we have a clue to the puzzle we have been presented."

 Berengar exhaled audibly but said nothing as he nodded and followed her through the doorway. Beyond
it they found a small, relatively featureless room. They entered through a door in the south wall.
Doorways to the east and west led back out of it. In the center, on a stone dais, stood a scale model of
the castle surrounding the tower. Twenty-seven small golden circles marked different points on it, and
each circle had a number engraved on it.

 Gena could not figure out what the numbers meant, though she did notice that they grew larger the
further they were located from the room in which they stood. She also saw that only half of the new
construction had been marked with them. "This is quite curious."

"Hmmm," Berengar grunted. He had barely glanced at the map and instead peered up along the walls
near the ceiling. "Look, the name of every emperor has been carved into the wall, along with a number to
designate his position in our history. See, it begins with Beltran Primus and ends with Hardelwick."
 Gena looked up and saw the number twenty-seven carved beneath Hardelwick's name. "I think I have
an idea. What was the name of the emperor from whom you claim descent?"

"Aufrey. He is number twenty-four."

 Gena looked down at the model of the castle. "Twenty-four, here it is. We go east." Without explaining
she grabbed Berengar's hand and led him off through the eastern doorway. She felt him resist at first, then
he moved with her willingly. As they passed through numbered chambers with doors to the north and
south, they increased their speed, but held back from running.

 They stopped in the chamber with "24" carved in the center of the floor. To the north, carved on the
wall, they saw the names of Aufrey's legitimate children, save that of his eldest and heir, Caselmund. That
name had been inscribed over the lintel leading into the next chamber. A doorway stood open beneath
each of the other three children. The centermost opened into a chamber, while the other two led to stairs.

 To the south they saw four doors, and above the second Berengar pointed toward a name, "Loreena,
that is the woman from whom my line descends."

 The door beneath her name stood open. Gena also noticed that of the four doors on that side of the
room, only one other had the name actually engraved in the wall. The other two names had only been
painted on the wall. Gena suspected their impermanence had something to do with the strength of the
claim to the royal house, and could easily mark the difference between descendants being able to wear
the tiger or nor.

" 'Find yourself,' the guard told us." Gena waved Berengar on toward the door.

 Berengar preceded her, then led her around a sharp corner and up some stairs to a second floor. The
both of them had to stoop, since the ceiling rose to a height of only five and a half feet. Along the walls
she saw more names carved above even lower doorways, and Berengar led her on through one. Up
more stairs, through another two rooms, up one more flight, and Gena began to fathom how the twists
and turns had been laid out. Primary heirs remained on a level with their forebears, lesser kin and
bastards went up a level. In a couple of places she saw doorways that had been bricked up, with names
scraped from the rock.

 A tight spiral staircase took them up into the smallest of the chambers in which they had yet found
themselves. A lantern set on the floor illuminated Berengar's name and, beside it, that of his dead brother.
Squatting back away from the lantern, a man in a cloak like puddled shadow clapped bony,
long-fingered hands. "Quicker than most." He laughed, slightly sarcastically. "But not as fast as the most
hungry."

 The man moved like a spider as he crouch-walked over to where Berengar and Gena hunched with their
spines pressed to the ceiling. "You are Berengar Fisher and you are Genevera of Woodspire, of
Aarundel by Marta and through Niali."

 Gena made no attempt to hide her surprise. "You are well informed. Majesty." She dropped to one knee
and bowed to the gangling man.

Berengar aped her. "This is an honor, Highness."

"I am certain I believe it is as well, Berengar." Hardelwick dismissed Berengar without a second glance.
He settled back on his haunches and, resting his knobby elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together.
"I am so glad you are here. There are many things I must ask you and discuss with you. In the fire we lost
records, which is part of the reason we have this monument to our posterity as an ongoing project. You
should be able to bridge some chasms in our knowledge." The long-faced man smiled quickly, his dark
eyes flashing with reflected lantern light. "With your help, I believe I can salvage much of the empires
early history, and especially details about Neal Roclawzi."

"I would be happy to be of any service to you. Highness."

 Berengar cleared his throat. "Imperial Majesty, we have come to you on a mission that is most urgent
and of the utmost importance to Centisia and the empire itself."

 "Yes, yes, I am certain of that, Berengar. Interesting that you come to me with a mission as opposed to
come begging one. Quite a nuisance, that is, thinking up quests for those who wish to etch in stone what
we have only in paint here." Hardelwick combed the few remaining strands of his hair across his balding
pate. "With Elves it is so hard to tell, but I would not put you a day over two hundred years. Is that
right?"

 Gena nodded, impressed with the man's guess. "I am a little older than that, but I have spent a century
studying magicks, which has left me relatively isolated concerning news of the world. I do know my
history, though, and I have a particular interest in Neal Roclawzi."

"Inspired by your grandfather?"

"Grandaunt, really. My grandfather often spoke of his friend, but there were some memories he chose
not to share."

"This grandaunt, she would have been Larissa, Aarundel's sister?"

Gena nodded. "She was."

 The emperor reached out and took Gena's hand. "You will have to see one of the things that survived
the fire. It is a small painting made from the time when Beltran, the Red Tiger, feted Neal, here in Jarudin,
and your grandfather and grandmother and grandaunt were here. I am certain the artwork does not do
her justice—none of them in fact: the emperor looks as if he has a potato for a nose when he should look
like Berengar here—but I know you will appreciate it."

"I would like that very much, sire."

"MyLiege , if you please." Berengar frowned and eased himself down onto his other knee as well. "Our
mission is very urgent. Once we complete it, we can discuss history or anything else you wish."

 The emperor casually brushed Berengar's statement aside. "You of Aufrey's brood have always been
impatient, and it never does you any good. Impatience killed Atholwin's sons and has him dabbling in the
ways of Reithra."

Berengar's jaw dropped. "You know of my uncle's foul practices?"

 "Know? Certainly. He tried to hide it, but not that hard, because he wanted to brag about having
information I did not. He did have some useful things, of course, but nothing I could not have found out
without enslaving myself to a ferghun."
"You knew of that and did nothing?"

"Why should I do anything? Your uncle still had historical information to give me. Still does."

Gena shook her head. "Not anymore."

The emperor's eyebrow came up. "Dead?"

She nodded. "Fire. It started when he tried to murder me.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear." The emperor shivered. "Nothing salvaged, was there?"

"No, dammit, we almost died." Berengar's eyes hardened. "How could you have let a threat to the safety
of the empire like my uncle exist? Reithra worship has been proscribed since the birth of the empire!
How could you ignore your duty to the empire like that?"

 The emperor sighed heavily. "Impatience, impatience. When Beltran won the empire, and while his heirs
sustained it against threats internal and external, they required direct control of everything. Since that time
a bureaucracy has built up and sustains itself. All that I am really required to do is to sign taxation decrees
and deny leave to warring nobles to attack their neighbors. This I do, and do willingly. My passion,
however, is recovering the history we have lost, for it is my duty to maintain our proud traditions as
completely and accurately as possible."

Berengar rubbed his hands over his face. "But you should know how corrupt and broken down things
have gotten out there. We have Haladina raiding in Centisia."

"And you have the Aurdon Rangers to fight them."

"But we, the Fishers, pay for them when the Rangers are maintaining imperial security."

 The emperor shrugged. "Their budget is but a tenth of the money your elders and the Riverens withhold
from my tax collectors. Oh, don't look so surprised, Berengar. You knew they were underreporting trade
and production, and if you didn't, you're more stupid than even I would have imagined."

 He released Gena's hand and scuttled around to face Berengar more fully. "I know wearing the tiger
above your crest has filled you with all sorts of ideas about the empire and imperial traditions, but it is the
fabric of fantasy. If I were to force your Elders to correctly report what they have earned and send me
my due, they would chafe beneath my rule. As it is, I have set tax rates at double and triple what I need
to sustain my army and other imperial functions, because I know half to two-thirds of the money
collected in my name will never reach me. In turn, because local nobles do not want imperial scrutiny,
they handle all but the most major of problems. I do not mean to disillusion you, but the first emperor
was, really and truly, the last heroic emperor. Since his time we have been little more than accountants
because the Empire has not required more from us than that."

 Berengar sat silently for a moment and Gena thought him completely depressed. She recalled the
enthusiasm with which Berengar had outlined how he would have put the empire together had he been
Beltran, and she knew that Hardelwick's apathy toward the empire's maintenance had to be a shock.

 The count shivered, then looked up at the emperor. "I understand what you have said, at least on the
surface, and I am certain I will come to understand more as I think on it. Which I shall do. However, that
has no bearing upon our mission. Consider my request as that of a minor noble who does not wish to
impose on His Imperial Majesty, but has no other choice."

Hardelwick nodded wearily. "What is it you ask of me?"

 "I, we, have come here to request that you make available to us the sword and dagger Neal Roclawzi
used five centuries ago." Berengar opened his hands. "Certainly you know where they are, and we need
them most seriously."

 "A mission to find Cleaveheart and Wasp?" The emperor sounded almost surprised and definitely
amused. "Perhaps it is fated that you come here with that request, for I have recently learned of the
sword's resting place. Due to Atholwin, actually."

"Yes? Yes? Can we have it?"

Hardelwick chuckled lightly as he shuffled toward the stairway. "You're welcome at having a go at
getting it, but I'm not certain there is a Man or Elf alive who can actually lay hand to it."

"I can."

 "So we will see, Berengar." The emperor patted Gena's leg. "Come, my dear, follow me. You will enjoy
this."

"Is there a specific reason for that. Highness?"

 "Oh, I believe so." The man nodded as he perched on the edge of the circular opening and extended his
legs down into it. "After all, magickal wards that have lasted for five centuries are not common, and these
were well woven. You can take pride in Larissa's handiwork, and we shall both be there to applaud if
Count Berengar can defeat the spells she laid down."

Chapter 26:
Carving A Niche In History

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

***

 THE DREEL'S MAGICK somehow superseded the nature of the circus translatio network and brought
us directly to the grove outside Cygestolia. Upon arrival I did not feel nearly as weary as I had in my
outbound trip, but I was not, by any measure, well rested and full of energy. We all managed to dismount
and lead our horses from the grove, but before we left it, Aarundel used the blanket tied to his saddle to
cover his wife's near nakedness.

 As she huddled beneath it, my friend turned to face me. "We shall not speak of what Takrakor did to
her, or the state in which you saw her. There are those among my people who would view that as an
offense equal to your having touched her, and they would erase your gallantry in a foolish act meant to
salvage the honor of the person you almost died to save."
I nodded. "I saw nothing, and I defeated you through a subterfuge."

"You need not go that far, my friend." Aarundef's eyes grew distant. "When I first met you, back when
you fought Tashayul, I thought you brash and arrogant in the things you said. You bragged about
becoming a hero, and like a hero, you did not back down when faced with Reithrese and Elven scorn. I
knew then that I had no desire to fight you, ever, for you would defeat me. And I also knew you would
become the hero you prophesied yourself to be."

"Not without you at my side."

 Shijef lifted Marta into his arms, and I took charge of her horse in addition to Blackstar. Elven warriors
slipped from the surrounding woods as we approached the city, but their challenges to us died as they
realized who we were. With Aarundel and Marta both having bloody streaks on their faces, and me with
a week's worth of grime and a splattering of Reithrese blood on me, we looked a suitable sight to have
come back from the Reithrese city of the dead.

 Word spread quickly that we had returned to Cygestolia. I fully expected the surprise I saw on many
faces, but I read fear on so many more of them. It did not appear to be focused upon me—the fear,
though the surprise came fully in my direction—leaving me to wonder why the Elves would find terror in
the return of two people presumed dead by the Consilliarii.

 Lest I leave the impression that our homecoming was met with sour looks and silence, I must note that it
was not at all. Everyone cheered once they were over their initial shock. Aarundel quickly found himself
unable to translate all the questions and comments directed at us. Laughter, catcalls, and applause
followed us as we made our way from the grove to Woodspire. There loyal family retainers relieved us of
our horses, and we were taken up to our chambers.

 Once there I washed quickly, then collapsed in my bed. I had hoped to see Larissa before dropping off
to sleep, but I thought it best that I had not. Given the growing state of euphoria in which I found
myself—spawned because snatching my friends from Takrakor's fair was quite a feat—I might well have
swept her up in my arms and have given her a proper welcome.

 As I found in my dreams, she'd feared throwing herself at me, so she had stayed away as well. And
forced herself to lie down to sleep so that we could be together in the heart of a city that wished to keep
us apart.

 I saw little of Thralan and Lomthelgar because the Consilliarii met in almost constant session from the
time of our return. I could only guess at the type of discussions that kept them going so long, but after my
last encounter with them, I was not of a mind to go there and see if my conclusions were correct. More
important, I knew that their ideas and their wishes would really not make a difference in what I saw as
the course for the rest of my life.

 I spent a great deal of time away from most of the Elves during the first week after our return. Aarundel
had been obsessed with the fact that Takrakor had taken both his and Marta's wedding tokens, and set
about making new ones. I accompanied him to the smithy and worked on a project of my own under his
able tutelage. Neither of us spoke much, but that didn't bother me. He was thinking of his wife and their
ordeal, and I was thinking of my future and the likely events to unfold in it.

I knew the Reithrese and the Elves might be able to come to an accommodation concerning the
kidnapping, but I also knew that I would never be able to escape retribution for my part in the
desecration of Jammaq. The Reithrese could easily brand Takrakor a renegade and deliver his head on a
stake to satisfy Elven sensibilities. My problem lay in the fact that enough Elves viewed me with the same
disdain as the Reithrese. While I might be considered inviolate while in Cygestolia, I would be fair game
outside the Elven Holdings.

 I could not spend the rest of my life in Cygestolia. I was not one to cower in safety when faced with a
threat. Moreover, the Reithrese merely had to press the Red Tiger, and I would come out to oppose
them. They knew that, I knew that, and I felt certain most of the Elves knew that. Without much trouble
at all the Reithrese would be able to dislodge me and destroy me with impunity.

 Oddly enough, I did not find the idea of once again fighting the Reithrese all that disquieting. Even if the
Elves didn't see it, I knew the Reithrese would never be at peace. Men had taken their empire away from
them. We had defeated an Elder race. We laughed at their retreating troops, and they had to rely on our
good graces to escape. We shamed them in a way that they could never allow to stand. Just as a man
would never abide a dog that tricked him and stole food from his table, so the Reithrese would have to
punish their rebellious inferiors.

I had no doubt that the next ten or twenty years would spell the end to Humanity or to the Reithrese.
One way or the other we would be wiped out, or they would all die off. We could not live together.
Perhaps the long Elven perspective could have allowed us to see a way to peaceful coexistence, but Men
did not have it, and the Reithrese did not use it. The rebellion and overthrow of the empire had been an
overture to genocide.

 Just as I had felt a duty to go free Aarundel, so did I feel a duty to be with my fellow Men to oppose the
Reithrese. I harbored no illusions about a long life sinking into glorious old age. I had chosen to tread the
Hero's Path, and my journey was not yet at an end. Had I the freedom to marry the woman I loved,
perhaps I would have wished my journey had ended, but facing the consequences of my choice would
still not have been removed from me.

 Of course, there always was the possibility that the Consilliarii had been locked in battles over whether
or not they would grant me dispensation to marry Larissa, but I doubted that sincerely. If they were to do
that, they would more tightly bind me to them, which would increase the chances that they could be
brought into the Man-Reithrese conflict. More than likely, it occurred to me, they were devoting
themselves to figuring out how to punish me for leaving three horses meant for the emperor in Jammaq.
Surely that was a crime for which someone could claim my head.

 After a week my work at the forge was finished, and at the same time the Consilliarii summoned me to
appear before them. I agreed to go to them, but instead of dressing in my finest clothes, I wore the
leather armor that I had used in Jammaq. I belted Cleaveheart on and left Wasp's empty sheath tucked
inside my right boot. Regardless of what they were going to say to me, I intended to let them know my
thoughts and plans, and the reasons behind them.

 Calarianne, the sylvanesti overseeing the Consilliarii, did not hide her surprise when I came to the council
armed and in armor. "Welcome, Neal Roclawzi Elfward. I trust you do not think you will be required to
defend yourself here."

 "I do not, Doma Calarianne. I felt it fitting that I come dressed for war because I know I will be leaving
soon to conduct a war." I bowed my head to her. "However, I suspect you did not summon me to
discuss my sartorial preferences."

"You are quite correct in your supposition, Elfward." She looked away from me toward one of the
Consilliarii standing before her. I recognized him as the first Elf to oppose me when I said I was leaving
on my rescue mission. "We have brought you here, Elfward, to reward your bravery."

 The Consilliari bowed first to Calarianne and then more formally to me. "You are aware, Neal Roclawzi
Elfward, that the title Custos Sylvanii is one that we bestow upon other races and peoples in whom we
trust and whom we admire. Aarundel of Woodspire, as was his right as an Imperator, bestowed that title
upon you and, at the same time, petitioned this body to ratify his decision. His petition has been granted,
making you the first Man ever to earn that title. Henceforth you will be known among us as Elfward, and
any that would bear you malice because of your Humanity or your birth in the Roclaws are enjoined to
set their animosity aside, or be forced to reside apart from us."

 Despite his obvious reservations, the Consilliari spoke the words sincerely. I felt a lump rise in my throat,
and that surprised me. I had spent so much time expecting and living with hostility from the Elves that
having even this begrudged acknowledgment of my worth unbalanced me. A smile came to my lips
unbidden and I tried to kill it, but I failed because I found it mirrored on more Elven faces than I ever
would have dreamt possible.

 Calarianne nodded her head. "Thank you, Vorrin Consilliari. Neal, it has come to our attention that in
your recent adventure you lost a dagger that had seen much service with you. While we know we cannot
replace it per se, we offer you this inferior substitute, lest it be said we do not know how to show
gratitude."

 Marta stepped forward and walked across the flat of the chamber toward me. On a satiny blue pillow
she bore a dagger that looked as closely as I remember to be Wasp's size, shape, and design. Of course,
Wasp had been rusty steel with fittings of brass, while this had a blade of silver-washed steel, a
crossguard of gold, and a gold pommel with a diamond set at the very end of it. As I reached for the
blade, I felt a slight tingle, and Marta nodded to me almost imperceptibly.

 Her voice came in a whisper. "The diamond is the one you saw taken from my brow. I have worked a
spell onto the blade. I know there is nothing that will keep you and Takrakor apart, so this magick will
help bring you together."

 "To my advantage I am certain." I netted the blade and relished its improved balance over that of Wasp.
"The better for throwing."

Maria smiled. "The better for not missing."

 "Thank you." I reversed the blade and tucked it into my boot sheath. I bowed to Marta, then
acknowledged all the Consilliarii, "Now I no longer feel naked."

"This pleases us greatly, Elfward." Calarianne smiled warmly at me. "As a Custos Sylvanii, Cygestolia is
open to you. Thralan Consilliari has said that your chambers in Woodspire will be available to you
whenever you need them and for however long you require them. We would like you to consider
Cygestolia your home."

"That is a most gracious offer, but I cannot accept it." I reached into a pouch on my swordbelt and
pulled from it the silver bracelet I had labored to create over the week. "Cygestolia is the home of the
Elves. I am not an Elf. I cannot remain here.

"This bracelet is what I am." I ran my thumb across the runes I had scored into its surface: Man,
Mountain, Sword, Luck, and Friend. "Crudely made, just like me, and nothing in comparison with Elven
majesty. It defines me completely and even has errors made in its manufacture, which lets you know I
have a grasp on my worth and importance in the world."

 I let the bracelet dangle from the fingers of my scarred hand. "Rather pitiful, I know, especially from your
point of view, but it serves its purpose well. And that purpose is for it to remain here, so I will not be
forgotten. When I leave Cygestolia this time, I don't count on returning."

 I took a deep breath, then continued. "The Reithrese are out there. They will be looking to do to Men
things so horrid that the Eldsaga will pale by comparison. I don't say that to inspire you to destroy
Humanity before they do. I want you to know that savagery in the name of racial superiority is not your
talent alone. I have seen the Reithrese at practice, I have heard stories, and I saw what Takrakor did to a
party of your Lansorii. What comes will be lifeblack delivered in oceans."

 I looked around the room, trying to meet as many pairs of eyes as I could. "You and the Dwarves and
the Reithrese are all Elder races, but I do not hate you because of it. Hatred is too strong an emotion to
be wasted on harmless differences such as race.

"Malevolence, however, deserves hatred. The Reithrese are malevolent. So it is that I hate them. I
know, even as I stand here, they are preparing to destroy Humanity—if not this year, then next, or ten
years from now or a century from now. They can and will destroy us because they choose to hate us
over simple things. Perhaps that is a good definition of malevolence: hatred based on arbitrary and benign
differences."

I held my arms open. "You have seen Mankind in me. Men have hopes and dreams, Just as you do. We
have the petty and cruel, as you do, but we also have the noble, the kind, and the wise. We are not
Elves, nor shall we ever be, but that does not mean we should be butchered by the Reithrese.

 "My urgency, the urgency that sent me out to Jammaq, tells me that there is no room or time for
compromise with the Reithrese. After they subdue Men, their suspicions will fall on you and the Dwarves.
The Reithrese place themselves in service to death. There is no living in harmony with them. There can
only be fearing when they will strike."

I let my hands sink back down by my side. "I am going to war. I am going to fight the Reithrese. When
you judge my actions, do not look at me as a madman, but remember I am Custos Sylvanii. Do not ask
why I choose to oppose the Reithrese, but remember I act as a Man and as a friend of the Sylvan
Nation."

Lomthelgar stood out from the line of Elves near the front of the room. "This is the Final Time! In his
voice he speaks for all others."

 I did not understand the significance of the elder Elfs comment, but its effect on the Consilliarii was what
I would have expected had he up and tossed a hornet's nest into the center of the room. Angry shouts in
Elven echoed back and forth. Calarianne hammered her staff against the chamber floor a half-dozen
times, but that only cut the volume of the discussion, not its virulence. Finally things calmed down, and
two Elves were chosen to speak on whatever subject was at hand. The first went on at great length and
with incredible eloquence, though I didn't understand a word of it, whereas the second man pointed at
me, made a quick statement, and sat down again to a round of applause from the gallery and most of the
other Consilliarii.

 Calarianne polled the body and the side with the long-winded speaker lost decisively. She made a
pronouncement, then looked over at me. "You are a curious man, Neal Elfward. We offer you hard
choices, and you accept their burden without complaint. You offer us hard choices, and we are forced to
fight before we accept the burden. It is maddening to many of us that centuries of discussion dissolve
beneath your urgency and passion."

I wasn't certain how I should reply to that remark, so I said nothing.

"It is the decision of the Consilliarii that the Legionnairii Sylvanii will assemble and march on Reith for the
purpose of destroying the Death-lovers. As you have protected and rescued us from them, we deem it
our repayment to you to end the scourge of the Reithrese for all time."

I stood stunned for a moment; then I smiled and bowed to the Elves. "I am honored at your choice.
When do we leave?"

Vorrin stood forward. "This is our battle now, Elfward. Your part in this is finished. You will not go."

Lomthelgar opposed him. "Vorrin Consilliari, Neal is the Man who has spoken with Three Voices."

"Superstition. It does not apply."

 Thralan shook his head. "If it did not apply, Vorrin, why did it make you change your position from your
earlier votes on this subject?" He ignored the Elf's stammered defense. "You understand the significance
of this—all of you do. This is the reason, the last sign. Because of him we embark on the Second Great
Crusade. You deny this because it marks a time of chrysalis and you do not wish to face all that entails."

"He is aMan. This is a War of Elders."

 "He is Custos Sylvanii and, therefore, not to be dismissed for his Humanity." Thralan pointed toward me.
"Neal wields Divisator. By his hand the snake will lose its head."

Vorrin hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "We cannot chance Divisator falling into Reithrese
possession. He could lose it."

"I'll tie a lanyard from my hilt to my wrist."

Lomthelgar clapped at my suggestion and a few other Elves laughed. Vorrin became furious. "And if one
of them takes your arm? What then?"

 I stared right back at him. "Then I place my trust for the world and the future in the hands of the Elven
Legions. If each warrior fights only a tenth as well as Aarundel Imperator, a thousand swords like
Cleaveheart could not delay the destruction of the Reithrese. Mark me, Vorrin Consilliari, auguries and
prophecies, signs and fears be damned. I will be there to destroy the Reithrese. The question for you is
this: will you wait here to be told later how the day was won, or will you fight at my side and guarantee
victory?"

Chapter 27:
False Goal New Beginning

Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

***
 GENA FOLLOWED THE emperor back through the generations of Berengar's family to the main
imperial line and then on deeper to his own chambers. When they reached the corridor with vaulted
ceilings, Gena straightened up, as did Berengar, but Hardelwick still hunched a bit. While older than
Berengar by a good bit, Gena did not think the Man so old that his skeleton had begun to deteriorate.
She decided, instead, that his hunch came from long years spent poring over manuscripts or haunting the
corridors of the stone genealogy.

 The emperor's own chambers confirmed her guess concerning his stoop-shouldered posture. If not for
the profusion of two items she would have thought the room belonged to a soldier who could only be
comfortable in the spare, spartan surroundings of a campaign tent. The bed, wardrobe, desk, and most
chairs were little more than pieces of wood hastily cobbled together. Functionality superseded form, and
the desk itself looked solid enough to support the weight of the whole palace.

 The two things that dominated the high-ceilinged room were books and mirrors. Shelves had been built
into every wall, and bookcases started to form a labyrinth in two corners. Every available surface, save
but one chair and the center of the desk, had books stacked on it, around it, or above it. The sour scent
of the straw in the mattress mingled with the more powerful, musky scent of a Man, making Gena
wonder if—absent the necessities of entertaining visitors—the emperor ever left the room.

 The mirrors hung all over the room, suspended from the ceiling by slender cords. Other cords secured
them one to another, and anchored them to the shelves. None of them were low enough to provide the
emperor with a good image of himself, though she suspected the man hardly cared how he looked when
or if he dressed for a special occasion.

 She also felt a spell woven into the room. The sensation of the spell was maddeningly familiar, but it took
a quick, surreptitious casting of a diagnostic spell to tell her what it was. When she got the answer to the
mystery, she smiled and blushed. "Of course, a fire-dampening spell. You do not want to chance losing
these books."

The emperor nodded distractedly. "Exactly. No fire in this room."

"And the mirrors, they collect the light from the windows and direct it to your desk."

 "Yes, Genevera. I work from dawn to dusk, while there is light." The emperor pulled himself up to his
full height. "These tomes contain all I have been able to reconstruct of the empire's history. That shelf
there, those half-dozen books, those are all I have been able to collect about Neal. I have some
questions for you, if you don't mind. . . ."

"Highness, you were going to show us something?" An edge crept into Berengar's voice. "Cleaveheart."

 "Yes, yes, that's it." The emperor, hunched over once again, waved them on through a door that led out
into the courtyard and the Reithrese tower. "I'd not have found it again if your uncle's vague hints about
Reithra worship had not made me compare some accounts from the time of the empire's founding. Of
course, the story of Neal having destroyed the Emperor's Legion of Immortal Bodyguards in battle right
here is well-known, after which he killed the emperor himself and crowned Beltran on these steps, but I
have always been suspect of it. An architect at the time, Xerstan was his name, kept a diary concerning
his projects, especially the ones involving changes to the tower here. He had copies made for his family
and prospective clients, which is how I happen to have his account, since the original was likely lost well
before the fire."
 The emperor led them up the steps to the doors of the tower, but required Berengar's help in opening
one sufficiently wide to permit them entry. The darkness inside threatened to stop them in the entryway,
but Gena conjured a floating witchlight sphere that gave off a cold blue light as it preceded them through
the quiet halls. The place felt quite dead to her, but grit grinding beneath her feet and a profusion of
shovels, picks, and axes leaning against the walls made her think the tower saw a certain amount of
activity from time to time.

 "Xerstan mentions meeting Neal and undertaking for him, with the emperor's blessings, a special job. He
refuses to give any details about that job, citing confidentiality and honor. He notes, in another place,
having helped Lady Larissa of Woodspire complete a monument to Neal, but I found no record of such
a thing being created, or any sort of public event being held to memorialize Neal—at least none at which
Lady Larissa was present. Xerstan, who was something of a moralist, also devoted a number of pages to
the foul business of Reithra worship, and he took great delight in pointing out the tricks and oddities built
into the Reithra chapels, one of which every good Reithrese maintains in his home for her worship."

 The animation on the emperor's face as he spoke made him seem more alive than ever before, even
despite the washed-out, bone-white pallor the witchlight poured into his face. Berengar's impatience
narrowed his eyes, and Gena felt convinced he would have swatted the emperor had the man not been
leading them further into the dark tower. Gena smiled at the emperor and found she was not forcing it at
all, because she actually did find the man's information fascinating.

 "Xerstan said each chapel had a firehole. He notes this was a circular pit anywhere from three to six feet
in diameter. Plain ones extended down for twice their diameter and were kept burning by the family
tossing wood, coal, rubbish, bones, and anything else that would burn down into it. Some of the more
sophisticated ones tapped into natural gas vents to keep them burning, and more than one pit actually led
down into subterranean tunnels that could be used for a variety of purposes."

Berengar could contain himself no longer. "How does this pertain to Cleaveheart?"

 "Always the impatient ones." The emperor stopped and lilted his head to be eye to eye with Berengar.
"It occurred to me, Berengar, that Xerstan said every Reithrese dwelling had such a chapel and such a
firepit, but I had never seen such in this tower. Xerstan reported that he had learned all he knew about
Reithrese chapels by destroying them, which led me to believe that if there had been one in here, he had
destroyed it. I began poring over architectural drawings of this tower and remeasuring everything, and I
found where the chapel used to be. Therein, I believe, I have found Cleaveheart's resting place."

"You could have said that in the first place."

 "Those who only want answers will never learn how to find answers." The emperor yawned, covering his
mouth with the back of his left hand. "I have had men excavating the chapel. Wizards I brought in said
they felt two foci for magick, so we dug to them first. I think you will find both fascinating. Come."

 The emperor held aside a huge tapestry, and Gena saw an opening where bricks had been knocked out
of the wall in a haphazard pattern. She sent the witchlight in first, and it revealed a low, narrow tunnel
shored up with stout timbers. Gaps on the sides showed her that the architect had used almost anything
as fill for the chapel, including broken masonry, bones, dirt, and metal that had been reduced to rusty
streaks. Dust clung to everything, and Gena regretted ever having changed out of her road clothes.

 At the far end the tunnel opened out into an area that had been entirely cleared of debris and cleaned up
substantially. She could see details on the walls, and as she sent the witchlight upward, she got a shock
when it revealed a face looking back down at her. She kept the witchlight up there until the emperor
emerged from the tunnel. Berengar followed him, rubbing at his forehead.

 The emperor looked up. "That, I believe, is the face of Tashayul. He is carved up there, akin to a pate
mold." The man laughed lightly. "I believe this is the room in which Neal killed the emperor, and I am
certain the irony of having Tashayul watch it all was not lost upon him."

Berengar folded his arms. "Why do you think the fight was held here?"

 Hardelwick shrugged and aped Berengar by folding his arms. "As Lady Genevera has likely already
noticed, there are two sources of magick here. One is this sword, which is the blade the last Reithrese
emperor used to defend his empire." The emperor toed the hilt and blade protruding from the floor. "He
failed to do so."

Berengar dropped to his haunches. "Nice blade."

 Gena brought the witchlight down and smiled. As the light circled the blade, the sword's shadow
retreated before it, as if the sword were a sundial in a world gone mad. Berengar reached out toward the
blade, but refrained from touching it before either Gena or the emperor could warn him away.

 "Very nice blade. Depending upon the story, according to my uncle, this sword became a dragon or
screamed out a death song or blazed with fire." The count dug his thumbnail into the stone near the blade,
and it flaked up rather easily. "I would guess fire?"

 The emperor nodded his head. "Very good. I think it was fire as well—that story predominates the tales,
though the dragon story is a better one, I think."

 Gena summoned the witchlight over to the object, from which she distinctly sensed powerful Elven
magick. Six feet in diameter, the circular piece of white marble had been set flush into the basalt. Elven,
Reithrese, and Human runes spiraled out from the center to the edge. She reached down to touch the
words and feel them slide beneath her fingers, but before she could do so, the stone shimmered, as if a
reflection in a pond that had been disturbed by a rock being dropped into the center of it.

"What was that?"

 Gena looked up at Berengar. "It is a simple ward, but I suspect it is meant to keep casual and
inexperienced sorcerers from attempting to disturb the stone. The image we see here, the one that rippled
when I touched it, is a glamour, an illusion. What we see is nothing like the surface of the stone beneath it.
Glamours are often woven into Elven spells that are meant to last for a long time. It presents an image
that does not age and does not change, which is suitable for a memorial."

 The emperor knelt down and carefully moved his index finger around above the spiraled runes. "I cannot
read Elven or Reithrese, of course, though I do recognize them. The Man runes are an archaic form. I
believe they come from the Roclaws. The Roclawzi ambassador does not have a linguist with him, but he
has sent a request back to the mountains to send one to me. I can make out some of the message, but the
fragments do not make much sense."

 "The Elven is older, but I can still read it." Gena concentrated, canting her head this way and that to
follow the line of script, "Glory does not lie within. Merely a sword that did win / An empire washed in
blood. In the name of the common good. Let he who puts hand to hilt. From sacred duty never wilt. An
empire won will yet fall / If not governed for the good of all."
"I had less than a third of that."

"Not great poetry."

Gena looked over at Berengar. "Less the fault of the poet than my retranslation of something likely
written in Mantongue and translated over into Elven. I would say it is rather common in terms of a burial
warning."

 "Yes, but how many burial sites are warded by Elven magick?" The emperor smiled as he dipped his
finger down and the image rippled. "Quite potent, this magick."

Gena nodded. "I agree, which means it is keyed."

 "Keyed?" Berengar frowned. "Is that different from using some sort of fuel to power the spell, as you
explained to me after the ambush?"

"Ambush?"

"Haladina, Excellency, and the reason for our mission."

"Ah."

"To answer your question, Berengar, yes and no. If you will recall, I described to you a spell that
worked on arrows to increase their speed and power."

"The one you used on the sand."

"On sand?" The emperor leaned in toward Gena. "Fascinating."

 "Yes. That spell was keyed to arrows after a fashion, but it worked with the sand and could be made to
work on rocks or spears or any other sort of projectile weapon." Gena pointed to the stone circle. "This
spell, because it is protective, is keyed magickally. It is, in essence, a lock that requires a specific key or
set of keys to unlock it."

"I need Cleaveheart. Can you unlock it?"

 Gena thought for a moment, then nodded her head. "I know I can, but doing it without the key will be all
but impossible. If Larissa cast this spell, and I feel enough of her in it to make me think His Majesty was
right in saying she was the author of it, I should be able to learn what the key is. With that I can break the
spells and we will recover the sword."

She shrugged. "Getting that information, however, is not going to be easy."

Berengar stood. "No expense is too great, Lady Genevera. You know that."

"It is not expense that worries me." She sighed as heartache and anxiety washed over her. "It will be
difficult, and those who have the information may not want to give it to me."

"I will convince them."

Gena almost laughed, "You are persuasive, my Lord, but even the emperor could not guarantee our
getting the help we need."

"I don't understand." Berengar frowned. "Why will this be so difficult?"

"To get the key we have to travel, my Lord." Gena looked down and shivered. "To Cygestolia, where
we will have to convince those who knew Neal and his wishes to betray his secrets to us."

Chapter 28:
True Goal And The End Of Everything

 Early Winter
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Thirty-seventh Year

***

 THE ELVES BEGAN assembling their host immediately. Word went out by means mundane and
magickal telling the warriors, archers, lancers, Imperators, and sorcerers to assemble for the Reithrese
campaign.Sparks constantly shot from the forges of Cygestolia, making that section of the city glow as if
the Reithrese were forcing a volcano up through it.

 I was informed that the assembly would take place near the borders with Barangas and Kutchtan. It
made sense from the strategic point of view because that would put us closest to Reith while allowing us
to remain in Elven lands. We would march through Batangas, its vast plains making for swift travel and
allowing our horses to feed on grasses, which meant we did not have to carry with us as much in the way
of supplies. In addition, the Human population of Batangas was largely nomadic and would be able to
move out of our way.

 Use of the circus translatio to move troops had been ruled out. There was no need for speed or
stealth—the Elves wanted to give the Reithrese every opportunity possible to gather together in defense
of their nation, because they wanted them all in one place. Besides, a genocidal war is not something to
be undertaken in haste. I did not doubt we would prosecute the war, but I think all of us wanted a long
march in which to embrace the responsibility.

 The host would proceed in three columns. The main column, the one to which I would be attached,
would go directly in at Alatun and lay siege to the city. The other two columns would guard our flanks
and then sweep down to seal the country and destroy all the Reithrese trying to flee. None of the
Reithrese would be allowed to live, a concept that made my nights sleepless as I considered mothers and
babies falling under the sword.

 While uncomfortable with that idea, I came to terms with it on the journey. My brother's plans for the
Roclaws looked at moving us away from a warrior tradition and toward a more constructive and
productive trading base, but his choice to make the people of the Roclaws peaceful and prosperous
would not stop the Reithrese from destroying them. Any Reithrese left alive after this would have such a
hatred for Elves and Men that retribution, as justifiable as it would seem, would become the core of their
lives. And while the survivors, were any permitted to survive, might be small in number, there was no way
to underestimate the regenerative or reproductive powers of the Reithrese.

My sleeplessness over this point isolated me from Larissa. As Finndali's wife, she spent her waking
hours making preparations for him to go off to war. I did not begrudge him her service, I envied it. For
my part, I had Shijef and Lomthelgar attending me, but neither of them could offer me the comfort she
could, though both did prove distracting.

 Finally, in the wee hours before we were scheduled to ride from Cygestolia to the rendezvous point, my
restless peregrinations took me to the empty Consilliarii amphitheatre and there I found her. The
moonlight that snuck through branches glowed from her face. She wore a gown of silver, trimmed with
lace at bodice and wrists, that left her shoulders bare where her long golden hair did not hide them.

 Even when we danced, even in our dreams, I had never seen her look so beautiful. She saw me, and the
dour expression on her face lightened. It never reached full joy, but her being able to change a grim frown
into one of mild concern made me smile, and that brought another degree of relief to her face. Had I died
right then, I do not think I could have died happier.

 I bowed to her. "I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to see you this night." I looked out at the city
in the trees. "Everyone is consumed with family concerns tonight, which is expected. Your family has
been very kind to me, but this is their night to be with Aarundel and Marta. I would have thought you
would be with your husband tonight."

She glanced down. "I was."

I nodded, covering the pain that simple reply stabbed into my heart.

"I'm sorry, Neal, if that hurt you. I would spare you hurt, but I want no secrets between us, no distrust."

 I walked toward her. "I trust you completely, in that which you tell me and that which you do not. Not
needing secrets between us does not mean they will not exist, by intent or omission. I love you, so
nothing you could do would hurt me." I laughed aloud and looked around at the empty seats. "Can you
imagine what would have happened to me if the Consilliarii were here when I said that?"

"Could anything they chose to do be worse than the choice they gave you three weeks ago?"

I shook my head. "It could not."

Larissa slowly began to circle me, and I turned to keep facing her, but she held her hand up. "Stay still. I
want to remember you here, tall and strong, ready for battle."

"Should I be smiling, or do you wish the face I will give the Reithrese?"

"You will always be smiling in my memory, Neal of the Roclaws."

 I fumbled with the pouch on my belt and removed the bracelet I had created. "I made this for you, for it
truly is all that I am. It is not much—the same goes for me—but the bracelet and I are all yours." I held it
out to her.

 She completed her circle and delicately took it from my fingers. Two inches, one, separated us, yet
remained a gulf as wide as all the oceans. My heart pounded, and inside I wanted to reach out to pull her
into my arms. I wanted to hold her so closely that I would never forget the press of her body against
mine. I wanted to smell the night air through her hair and taste her lips on mine. As my gaze met hers, I
saw she wanted the same thing in that same instant, yet both of us held back, restrained by laws created
in the very place where we stood alone and unwatched.
I released the bracelet and looked down. "I'm going to die out there. You know that, don't you?"

"Don't say that. You could survive."

"Lies should not be our fantasies, Larissa. We both know I will not be coming back here."

In silence she slipped the bracelet onto her right wrist, then raised it to her bosom and held it there with
her left hand. "That is . . . it is the nightmare with which I have lived since the decision was made to go to
war."

 I swallowed hard. "I don't fear death, really. I resent it, because it will take me away from you, but I
know there is no way I will survive this campaign. If no one else dies, I will, because the Reithrese cannot
let me live. And I am willing to trade my life in order to make sure they are destroyed."

 "I resent it as well, Neal." She smiled sheepishly. "I have fantasized about stealing away in the supply
train that will care for the army. I would be there to heal you when you fall."

 I looked down at my burned left hand. "And deny me another scar to explain to your husband in
twenty-nine years? This is a collection of which I am not proud, and had I felt your healing touch at the
start of my career, a collection I might never have allowed myself to assemble. Now? I think the time for
stubborn old fighters like me is passing."

"And employing my art to save you would doom you."

She nodded solemnly to me. "I would gladly accept exile, but I will not be the instrument of your death."

"And I would not rest easy if I knew I had caused you to be sent away from your people." I looked
down. "Though leaving you will tear my heart out, I cherish the time we have had together, the dreams
we have shared and the joy we have known."

She smiled. "I love you, Neal, and will forever."

 "And I love you, Larissa, and will love you forever." Wordlessly, but by mutual consent, we lay down
there on the floor of the council chamber, slept, and dreamed together of forever.

 The forest was alive with Elves as we gathered in the morning to ride out. The Cygestolian contingent
was to be twenty percent of our force and Aarundel conservatively numbered it at twenty-five thousand
individuals. Five Legions, each breaking down into fifty companies with one hundred individuals in it, the
Cygestolian force combined two Lansorii legions, one each of light and heavy infantry and the last a mix
of archers, engineers, and sorcerers. Each company had its own bright banner, and the Elves gathered in
hollows and on hills, in glens and in meadows, to say good-bye to their loved ones.

 I sat ready to ride with Aarundel's company, in a legion commanded by Finndali, so I was honored to
have Calarianne, Thralan, Lomthelgar, and other important Elven officials present to see us off. Most of
the conversations took place in Elven, but the tears and brave words carried their meaning to me easily. I
had been part of this sort of scene all my life, and this time I was reminded of the occasions I had ridden
from the Roclaws in search of adventure.

"If I might intrude here for a moment," I announced cautiously. I looked over at where Shijef squatted in
deep conversation with Lomthelgar. "I have something I would like to say, and I can think of no other
group of witnesses I would rather have present."

 Everyone quieted and looked at me. "Shijef, I have not been a perfect master, nor have you been a
perfect slave. You have disobeyed me as often as I have given orders that should not have been obeyed.
While desiring my death, which would mean your freedom, you have ever kept me safe. And in my most
recent misadventure, you saved Marta when I could not."

 The Dreel stared up at me, his garnet eyes unblinking. "Shijef, we embark on a war to forestall forever
the domination of one race over another. Into such a war, for such a cause, I will not take a slave. I free
you now from any and all obligation you have to me. Go, you're free." Shijef dug at the earth with a claw,
but said nothing. I smiled at him. "Go, go on, get out of here. Go home."

The Dreel frowned. "No more my master are you?"

"I am not your master. Go home."

"If no more my master, why orders give me?"

 Mild laughter rippled through our assembly. Aarundel, frightening in his dark, sharp-cornered armor,
pointed off east toward the hills ofIrtysh where I first met the Dreel. "You may go away now. You are
free."

"Free I am, free I have been." The monster pawed his own chest. "Stupid I am not, you I understand.
Understand you me. I not the Reithrese love. What they would do to Men, they do to Dreel will. Slave I
have been, and have no more, ever. If Elves will have a Man in their army, a Dreel they will have."

The Elves, along with me, were speechless. Shijef tapped his chest, then walked over and pounded my
breastplate over my heart. "Have the same heart, we do, you and I. Pledge, do I, to you what compelled
was before. My line and your line, friend and allies are, for all time."

 I reached up and held his paw to my chest. "We have the same heart, you and I. I accept your service in
return for mine and that of my line."

 The Dreel laughed, which made Blackstar shy; then Shijef pulled away and sat down again with
Lomthelgar. I saw Aarundel's parents and Marta gathered near him, and other families saying their
farewells to their warriors. I felt utterly alone and isolated for a second; then I heard her voice and reined
Blackstar around.

"Neal." Larissa smiled up at me. "I have something for you. A gift for a gift."

 I noticed, as she extended her hands toward me, she wore the bracelet I had given her. She held a
braided circlet of golden hair up to me. I pulled my gauntlet from my right hand and leaned down. She
slipped the circlet around my wrist and, using the blue ribbon that had been woven into the braid, knotted
it in place.

I raised my hand and caught the scent of her from the hair and the ribbon. "I thank you, my Lady. Its
medicinal properties are working already."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "Medicinal properties?"

"Clearly you have woven some of your healing Arts into it, for it eases my heartache straight away."
Reluctantly I again shut my hand away in its prison of leather and steel. "Just remember, we have had
forever together."

Larissa nodded carefully, "If you come back to me, we will have it again and again."

"It wouldn't be enough."

 "No, but it would be superior to any alternative." She took a step back and looked over at Finndali. "I
should bid him farewell."

 I nodded and watched her go to him. As she walked over to him, she began to move stiffly, and they
seemed to treat each other very formally. Yet, at the end of their conversation, he bent over—to kiss her,
I suppose. I don't know because I turned away and started to concentrate on the horrible realities of the
coming war.

 A thousand miles separated Cygestolia from Alatun, and we crossed it at what could almost be
described as a leisurely pace. Elven foot soldiers, by virtue of their longer legs, make better speed than
their Human counterparts, but even so we planned on taking two months to make the journey. With
every step closer to Reith we knew the Reithrese were preparing for us, but that was as we intended it to
be.

Our ranks swelled when we reached the rendezvous in the southwestern bulge in the Elven Holdings.
There our fighting force grew to over twenty-five legions, making it more than triple the Man-force that
had rebelled against the Reithrese. For every three individual soldiers, two other Elves came along with
us as support. They handled everything from the preparation of food and tending the sick, to sharpening
our weapons and shoeing our horses.

 After five weeks we had penetrated halfway into Batangas. In that time I had learned a great deal of
Elven and Dreel—one of necessity, and the other so Shijef and I could both stave off boredom when the
Elves ignored us. About that time Elven scouts came back and reported a mounted Human force
approaching from the northeast. They said the warriors rode beneath a banner with a left-handed glove
and mountain rune on it. Finndali granted Aarundel and me leave to ride out to the Human force, and we
welcomed the Emperor's Own Steel Pack to our number.

 Their arrival actually solved a problem I had caused for Finndali and other Elven leaders. While they
were bound to have me with them, they had severe reservations about having me in combat. Even the
creation of a lanyard to keep Cleaveheart with me did not seem to address their concerns. When the
Steel Pack arrived, they installed me at its head and then designated my unit as reserve.

 There was grumbling about that in the Pack, but it died down as we drew closer to Reith. The weather
turned cold, but very little snow fell on the plains. Ahead of us, dead to the south, we saw the mountains
of Reith, but not well because of the heavy clouds cloaking them. During the day not being able to see
our destination helped lower tension by keeping it distant. At night, even a hundred miles away, Reith
became very close and very threatening.

 In the dead of night bright, brilliant flashes of light would transform the clouds into luminiferous beasts
with wispy tentacles just waiting to pluck us from our saddles. Lightning, red and green and other colors
unnatural and unusual, shot through the sky. Distant thunder echoed and rumbled toward us, turning Reith
into a land where the very stones seemed to be preparing to grind us down.

Aarundel reported that the light and noise, according to Elven sorcerers, were meant to make it difficult
to read the truly powerful spells being woven by the Reithrese. When I likened the show to the magical
equivalent of gilded parade armor, my men took to watching it as if it were a drama being unfolded on a
distant stage. Each night they wove a different folktale around what they saw and by the time we had
gotten near enough that thunder sounded close by when lightning flashed, even the Elves seemed to have
some respect for the bravery my Men exhibited.

 We entered Reith through a mountain defile that the Reithrese should have defended. They stationed
scouts in and among the mist-haunted rocks and canyons, but they never struck at us. I do not know if
they felt we were not vulnerable, or if some twisted sense of Reithrese honor demanded they allow us to
assemble on the battlefield before Alatun, but they missed an opportunity to slow us down and hurt us. It
was not until the final battle was joined that I saw why they did not meet us there and, perhaps, why they
did not feel they needed to.

 Though only fifty miles separated us from Alatun, the clouds prevented us from seeing it. We posted
small forces out in front of our host to warn us of any Reithrese attack. Those troops knew that if the
Reithrese did press us, they would die well before any help could reach them. The Elves given those
missions appeared to accept them without question, and I gathered it was something of an honor by the
way Finndali rejected my offer to take a turn as we moved forward through Reith.

 For two days we advanced cautiously. Fog shrouded us every inch of the way. Tinged with yellow and
smelling of rotten eggs, I decided it was not wholly natural, and the testy nature of some Elven sorcerers
told me I was not wrong. The last night we camped not ten miles from Alatun, but aside from thunder and
a lurid red glow pulsing through the night, we had no way of telling where the city was.

 I looked up as Aarundel entered my tent. I held out two letters for him. "I wouldn't want this battle to go
any differently from any other. You will see these are sent?"

 "As always, though I trust you will take them back from me and see to it yourself." Aarundel pulled up a
camp stool and seated himself. "I want you to know I have argued with Finndali to let your unit go with
mine in the first twave. I did all I could, but I could not convince him."

I shrugged. "He could open a chicken and read in its guts that my leading will make all the Reithrese fall
down and die of laughter, and he'd not let me go first. He has his reasons."

 "I know. I just did not want you to believe I had reasons why I did not want you along with me." He
clasped his hands together and looked down at them. "There have been times, my friend, when words I
have spoken have betrayed what I feel in my heart for you. It is not easy to shed centuries of thoughts
and ideas. I know I have hurt you in this, and I wish to apologize."

 "No apology necessary, because there are times when your words have told me exactly what was in
your heart. In Jammaq, when you told me to run and again when you asked me to save Marta. In those
two things I heard what you truly believe." I reached out and grabbed him by the back of his neck, then
brought my forehead to rest against his. "We are brothers beneath our skin. We're not perfect, but
brothers nonetheless, which means, I'm thinking, we understand."

 Aarundel smiled, then sat back, and my hand slipped from his neck. "Then you will understand when I
tell you that upon our return, I will do all that is possible to see to it that you and my sister can finally be
together."

 I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat, so I just nodded to him and smiled, all the while fingering
the braid circling my right wrist.
 Morning came cold enough to make fog when I breathed, and I thanked whichever god made wool that
I had clothes to place between me and my armor. Over the quilted jacket and breeches I wore full plate.
It had been made for me in Cygestolia, so bore the spikes and spurs the Elves favor. In addition, the face
mask I wore had been fitted to me perfectly on the inside, but on the outside I appeared to be a snarling
wolf. I had smiled when I first saw it, and even now it prompted a grin, because in this brass-washed,
steel suit I truly became the Dun Wolf.

 The Elven host assembled along a front over a mile wide. The battlefield sloped gently up toward Alatun
over harsh ground. The earth, which had been baked by the summer sun, developed a thin film of
slippery red clay because of the heavy fog. The plants that grew there were all needles and spikes,
though some sprouted yellow or white blossoms. Big boulders dotted the battlefield. While insufficient to
form a breastwork, around them the battles would swirl and eddy, and in their shadow, bodies would
pile up.

 Elven pikemen held the center, with cavalry wings and archers to back them up. Our supply train
retreated, but not too far. Had there been sun, it would have glinted from a hundred thousand helmeted
heads. As it was, the fog ebbed and flowed, revealing and stealing away whole portions of our line.

 From the other side, out in the sea of fog, I heard a trumpet blare. As if a theatre curtain, the white fog
began to lift, though in its wake rose up a bloody mist that hugged the ground. As the fog began to
dissipate, I saw shadowy forms move through it. Without reference points I could not determine their true
size, but that mattered less than trying to account for their odd shapes and strange gaits.

 Then quickly enough there arose from our side a buzzing, as those who could see the Reithrese army
communicated with those to the rear. As far back as I was, I could make out nothing of substance, and
by the time I translated what was being said, I could see it for myself.

 What the Reithrese lacked in numbers they made up for in incredible power. Creatures of every
imaginable size lurked among their ranks. I saw giant figures carved from stone marching into place in the
line among normal Reithrese soldiers. A whole company of scimitar-wielding cavalry skeletons brought
their cadaverous mounts into place behind a unit of Reithrese Dragoons. Hordes of small, Man-like things
nailed together from scrap wood and animated by magick held spears at the ready.

 These were the least of the forces arrayed against us. As the fog burned away, I saw huge creatures with
eight and ten legs, built of bones, hundreds and thousands of bits of ivory, bound together through magic.
Hundreds of Reithrese archers, not all of them living by the looks of them, rode the spines of those
behemoths. Similar but smaller things made of scrap armor and weapons walked upright like men, but
were shaped like hedgehogs with swords and scythe blades forming their quills and claws. Just one of
those animated, metallic creatures wading into an infantry formation would decimate it, at best costing the
Reithrese the life of the sorcerer riding in the thing's chest, magickally commanding it.

 Try as I might, I could not see Takrakor among the forces arrayed against us. I knew he had to be there,
and I knew I would kill him, but locating him among fifty thousand of his countrymen would be no easy
task. I would have thought he would command one of the bone-monsters, or a steel hedgehog, but
discerning the identities of the sorcerers manipulating them would have to wait until the things had been
destroyed.

 Trumpets sounded loud and brassy amid the Elven forces, and the infantry began a slow advance. All
along the line they moved as one. Green and gold pennants flew, emblazoned with Elven slogans and
runes. The pikemen in the front lowered their pikes to accept any Reithrese charges, but the other side's
cavalry appeared disinclined to engage the foot soldiers. Behind the infantry and flanking it, the Elven
cavalry moved up.

 The Steel Pack remained in place, and Shijef stationed himself twenty-five yards in front of us as if to
fend off any Reithrese assault that got through the Elven host. Despite the nature of our opposition, I did
not fear their winning through to where we waited. What I did experience came down more to a fear that
treachery awaited the Elves and a general feeling that I would not be able to save them.

 A hundred yards separated the Elven infantry from the wooden puppet men. Reithrese cavalry shifted
restlessly, bright banners twitching listlessly in the nearly breezeless morning. The Elven pikemen pressed
on, but their formation shifted subtly, with part of their central ranks holding back in a tighter knot. The
Reithrese guessed at what was about to happen, and blaring trumpets sent horsemen forward. Their
skeletal allies galloped into the fray as well, and the matchstick men lunged forward into the infantry
formation.

 The wooden men did little damage, but managed to weigh down the pikes used to keep live
foes—especially cavalry—at bay. From the left the Reithrese cavalry charged in at the infantry.
Hoofbeats thundered across the plains as red mud splashed like blood on the legs and bellies of the
horses. In counterpoint the voices of Elven Lansorii raised in war cries dwarfed the Reithrese cacophony
as they countercharged.

 The Reithrese horsemen hit the infantry on the left flank. Their lead elements crushed the opposition and
penetrated a quarter of the way in toward the heart of the formation. Horses screamed and reared up,
blood flowing from their mouths and nostrils as if they were figures in a grisly fountain. Some pikes took
them and their riders at the same time, but most failed to strike anyone. Reithrese riders pushed forward,
urging their horses on as if stemming a rising tide. Had the impetus and momentum carried on, they might
have gotten to the group of people they sought and done serious damage.

 They did not because the Elven countercharge hit the cavalry wave on the flank and sheared it off. Elven
Lansorii, transformed into metallic demons in their inhuman armor, sank into the Reithrese unit like a tent
stake into soft earth. The force of their charge deflected the Reithrese effort, directing both Elves and
Reithrese into the army of kindling warriors. The bloodmist swirled, and in the thick of it I saw Aarundel's
ax clearing an arc in front of him.

 The skeletal horde bore down on the Elven infantry. The wind whistled eerily through their empty rib
cages, and their jaws bounced up and down as if they were shouting as loudly as the Elves, but no lungs
meant no war cries. Instead the clitter-clack of their bones, barely heard as more than an annoying buzz,
announced them.

 The knot of Elves at the core of the infantry started to glow. A golden nimbus surrounded them and
brightened, then shot out a nova-flare. The fiery lance burned a swath through the skeletons eight men
wide and a hundred yards deep, leaving two rows on each edge and two ranks in the back untouched as
the rest of the horde went from bone to smoke in the blink of an eye. A second jet of magickal
energy—this one blue and unfolding into a blanket—washed over what was left of the undead cavalry.
As if water, it eroded whatever held the skeletons together. Momentum tore them apart and scattered the
bones over the battlefield,

 As hedgehogs moved forward, and more sorcerers advanced with their bodyguards, dread began to rise
in me. I looked up at the battlefield and beyond it to Alatun itself. Something told me the key to winning
the battle lay therein. I knew instantly that I could ride in there and win the day. No more Elves would
have to die. No Elven women would mourn lost kin and lovers. And the gratitude the Elves would
bestow upon me, it would be without end and without restrictions.

 All this came to me subtly, and I accepted it the way I accepted as fact that the sun would rise the next
day. I drew Cleaveheart casually, as if I meant to inspect the blade for nicks and cuts I knew I would not
find on its edge. I knew I could easily slip away from the Steel Pack and ride around the Reithrese army
to Alatun. Nothing could keep me from getting there and fulfilling my destiny. With Cleaveheart and the
dagger Marta has given me, I thought as I reached down for it, I will not be denied.

 I felt a sting at the base of my skull when I touched the dagger and wondered for a moment if she had
not somehow tricked me into carrying a weapon that would harm me. Quickly enough, though, I sorted
out the flash of betrayal I had sensed and realized that she had given me a gift more precious than she had
imagined. The dagger set with Takrakor's tooth had just saved my life and that of the army.

 The spell she had placed on the dagger provided me with an instant and intuitive knowledge of
Takrakor's location. It was not overly specific, but I knew he lurked in Alatun, and I could feel him
waiting there for me, I realized that the thoughts I'd had about how I could win the battle had come from
his mind. Like a spider in a web, he had used his magicks to lure me in. Had I not known, had the tooth
and the magick that bound it not told me where Takrakor awaited me, I would have ridden into his trap
and handed Cleaveheart over to him without much of a fight indeed.

But I did know, and that meant I could thwart him.

 I raised my hand and nodded at my trumpeteer. He blew a call that brought my Men to life and directed
their attention to me. I pointed to the city, then gave Blackstar a touch of my heels. "To Alatun and
victory!"

 "To Alatun and victory!" they shouted as they rode after me. Shijef sprinted on ahead of us, harsh hissed
laughter serenading us on our mad ride toward the Reithrese city.

 As we swung out around the Elven lines, I knew what Finndali and others must have been thinking. At
first they would curse me, for I was committing part of their reserves in a mad romp of dubious value and
questionable efficacy. Our goal, as an army, was to destroy the Reithrese, not take territory from them,
so capturing the city meant nothing. Its loss might blunt their morale, but how much can the fighting ability
of magickal automatons and stone warriors depend upon emotion?

 Down on the battlefield the armies closed. Golden lightning met black shields as magicians vied with
each other to destroy and protect troops. Steel hedgehogs scratched and clawed their way into Elven
infantry units. Sleetstorms of Elven arrows washed over the huge bone constructs, thinning the ranks of
the archers riding on their backs. Giants of stone and ivory stumbled, charges faltered, and units
collapsed, yet always the forces pressed forward, throwing reserve units in to replace those who had
fallen.

"When we get to the city," I shouted at Fursey, "close the gates and hold them against the Reithrese. Cut
off their retreat."

 He nodded to me and we raced on. With each stride I could feel myself getting closer and closer to
Takrakor. Each vibration pounding up through the saddle and into me marked off the time before I would
destroy him. His magick grew stronger as I approached, coaxing me onward, and Mana's magick
centered me on him as if I were an arrow that had been launched at a target. I would not miss, I knew
that, and I could not wait until my target and I became one.
 Before us the city's gates lay open as if she were a caravanserai whore eager for our business. I turned in
the saddle, and through the mist roiling behind the Pack I saw one of the behemoths begin to disintegrate
beneath a withering Elven assault of verdant and blue magickal spears. Its skull exploded as the
sorcerous energy engulfed it, and I saw what looked to be the burning body of a Reithrese magus ejected
from the conflagration.

 The explosion echoed from the black walls of Alatun, chased by a confusion of horns bleating out
commands to soldiers on both sides. Skittering across the low grey sky like an aurora, a purple energy
shroud originating from the Elven side of the field played through the air between the city and the
Reithrese lines. It illuminated and caused to glow numerous lines of power streaming out of the tower
central to Alatun itself. I saw those lines shift and the glow vanish as the top of the gate eclipsed the tower
and Blackstar pounded up to the city's entrance.

 Off to my right the Dreel leaped from the ground and scrambled nimbly up and over the soaring
battlements while my horse and I charged straight down the cobbled expanse of the main street. Behind
me a trumpet sounded, reining the Steel Pack in so they could command the gate while I raced on. I felt
Takrakor's derision for their effort drown beneath a wave of avaricious joy as he caught sight of me
speeding toward the tower. Emotions twisted through his brain too quickly for me to identify consciously,
but they made the hackles on the back of my neck rise as I rode up to the base of the black tower at the
city's hub.

 Cleaveheart in my right hand and the dagger in my left, I vaulted from Blackstar's back and ran as fast as
I could up the steps to the open doorway. The tower itself, though weathered and decorated in an
archaic and chaotic style, reminded me of theImperialTower in Jarudin. I knew immediately the newer
tower had been modeled on this one. Likewise would Takrakor model his fight against me on the
emperor's defense of his title. Not that the sorcerer would fight me with a sword, but he would turn the
site of my greatest victory into the place that would host my greatest defeat.

 I sprinted directly toward where the chapel was in theImperialTower , and I saw the flash of a rainbow
cloak lapping at the doorjamb as Takrakor headed in there before me. I reached the threshold
unopposed and at first glance was struck by the nearly identical structure of the chapel here and the one
in Jarudin. From femur columns to firepit and braziers, the rooms looked to be twins of each other. Then
I looked up and saw the only difference between them.

 Takrakor, silhouetted against the flames of the firepit, beckoned me forward. His diamond grin glinted in
the bloody red light from the braziers. "Come in. I have remodeled this place in honor of you."

 Where his brother's intaglio had graced the ceiling of the chapel in Jarudin, I saw my own likeness in this
place. It showed me torn and bleeding in a number of places. Broken bones poked through naked flesh,
and a huge portion of my skull was missing. It looked as if I had been drawn and quartered, then hacked
and trampled. I had also been emasculated.

My voice echoed from within the mask. "I'm thinking that if that's an honor, then I'd just as soon be
killing you without any ceremony." I took a step toward him. "You want Cleaveheart, now you'll have it."

 The sorcerer brought his hands back against his chest. Suspended from a harness, Wasp lay in a sheath
pressed against the sorcerer's breastbone. Aside from a black kilt edged with gold, leather sandals, and
his rainbow cloak, the Reithrese was naked and seemed almost powerless. His slender arms and skinny
chest proved him to be no physical threat to me, yet the moment he touched my old dagger, I felt powers
gathering around me.
 "Oh, I will have it, but only after reality mirrors my art." He raised his left hand and extended it forward,
his fingers splayed. His body shook as if in the midst of a convulsion, then his fist closed and I felt a titanic
hand grip me. It lifted me bodily into the air and held me as if I were as weak as a new-whelped pup. My
armor groaned and my chest grew tight. Breathing deeply sent daggers through my chest. Every muscle in
my body spasmed, and my limbs drew themselves in toward my torso.

 Takrakor glanced upward, then shook his head. "Not at all a match." He brought his left hand down and
touched it to Wasp, then used his right hand to pry his little finger out straight. As he did that, my left leg
came down and almost touched the floor. Straightening his thumb brought my other leg down, two fingers
brought my arms out at my sides, and his middle finger brought my head up.

 He gently cuffed the edge of his right hand over the tip of his left middle finger, and my head snapped
back as if I had been punched. My helmet flew off and my mask fell away, but I heard no clatter of their
landing against the floor. I tried to turn my head to see if they hovered behind me, but I could not move at
all. I hung there, crucified, my ears still ringing from the magickal blow.

 Takrakor held both hands out in front of him at arm's length with palms facing each other. He kept them
spread apart as if they lay on either side of my chest, and when he curled his fingers in as if making a fist,
I felt his nails dig into my back. I coughed in spite of myself, and he laughed, then slowly pulled his hands
further apart.

 My Elf-made breastplate tore down the center and spine as if cheap cloth. He continued to move his
hands sideways until a gap three fingers in width formed. My pauldrons stopped progress at my
shoulders, so the sorcerer yanked down with his hands once, twice, three times until the leather straps
snapped crisply and the armor fell away.

 Each tug ground my shoulders around in their sockets. My body gave with the pulling, but his magick
held my arms in place. I felt things shift and heard things pop, then pop again as my left shoulder noisily
returned to its place in the socket. I wanted to scream, but the pain in my chest stopped me from drawing
in enough of a breath to allow me even a weak whimper.

He must have seen my jaw working, because the pressure that kept me breathless eased. "Scream if you
wish, Neal—I will hear your screams. I will delight in them, and I see no reason to delay my
gratification."

I coughed again. "Not a scream."

"You will."

 I wanted to say something foolishly brave or tough, as did all the heroes of song and legend when in such
dire straits, but I could think of nothing. I could not even muster a stoic air, which I am certain would
have inflamed him more than insolence. I had grossly underestimated his power and was paying heavily
for my stupidity. Even so, I had no intention of giving him satisfaction by admitting that fact.

 I could feel his puzzlement through the dagger in my left hand, and I let it fortify me. Every minute he
spent changing me into the image hovering above me was one more minute in which his powers were
denied to the Reithrese army.

 Takrakor hooked his fingers over into claws, then raked both his hands down. Finger-width rents
appeared in the armor on my legs, and it fell away in a curled, twisted tangle. On the bracers and
vambraces he took more time. In them he cut a spiral that left them hanging like a ribbon on my arms. He
carefully tugged that ribbon off, letting the metal uncoil across my flesh. Blood dripped from countless
cuts on my arms, and sweat burned into them.

With the wink of an eye he made my gauntlets disappear, yet my weapons remained in my hands.
Except for my tattered boots, scraps of the gambeson and breeches I had worn, and the circlet of
Larissa's hair on my wrist, I hung naked and gore-spattered before him. My stomach pushed out toward
him with each labored breath I took.

 I looked up at him. "Why don't you take the blade and be done with it?" I'd like to think I asked the
question in hopes of luring him in close where I could strike at him, but I cannot say it was so. Held there
and stripped so completely while I remained impotent to stop him, I felt worn and tired. I had told
Larissa that I would not be coming back, that I would die in this campaign. So this was it, and I was
willing to give up. I had been beaten by this Reithrese sorcerer, and I knew my time was at hand.

 "Take it?" He shook his head slowly. "No, no, no, Neal Elfward, Neal of the Mountains, keeper of
Cleaveheart, Scourge of the Reithrese, Murderer of Tashayul and Butcher of Jarudin, no. I will not take
it. You will give it to me. You will want to give it to me."

 His thumb and little finger came in on his left hand, and my knees immediately bent so I hovered in a
kneeling position. He nodded his head slightly, and magick slammed me down against the floor. I felt my
left ankle snap as it curled beneath me. The pain shot up along my leg, and I reached back with my left
hand to touch the ankle; then a numbness entered me at the base of my spine. In the same instant I
realized that he had freed me from the grip of one magick, then had used another to render my legs
lifeless.

 "There, now you know what my brother felt for the last bit of his life." Low laughter roiled from his
throat, but the snap and whispered roar of the fire in the pit behind him swallowed it quickly enough. "I
would have preferred to hold you as before, but a greater magick requires me to resort to a lesser one.
And do be assured, though your legs are numb and useless now, I will let them share in your body's
agony."

 He stared down at me as he raised his hands. He folded thumbs and fingers into fists, then brought his
index fingers out. He crossed them, middle knuckle against middle knuckle, right over left. "You will find
this very painful, and the only way to end it is to offer me Cleaveheart." He raised his hands toward his
face and placed his crossed fingers against his skull, where he had inserted the bit of tooth on Marta and
Aarundel. Then, facing me, he whipped his fingers apart.

 Pressure like a mule kick hammered me right below my breastbone. It drove the air from my lungs, then
the pain started. I felt the panic of being unable to breathe, but the blow forced me back enough that my
chest stretched and I involuntarily pulled some air in. As I leaned back consciously, to breathe more
deeply, lightning-like agony stabbed through my chest and brought me forward again.

 I looked down and saw a cruciform bruise forming between and below my breasts. The two lines barely
an inch in each direction, where they met marked the focus of the pain. I hugged my hands to my chest,
pulling my face back so the blades would not slice me up, but touching the bruise only increased the pain.

 "It will hurt more if you rub it." Takrakor stared at me, his voice strained with exertion. "Over the next
twelve hours, unless I stop it, that spell will slice you into four parts." He rolled his eyes up to look
toward the ceiling. "I will ease the pain for you if you give me the sword."

Anger and fear and frustration came through the dagger to me as he spoke. Despite the pain and my
weariness, I found his conflicting emotions fascinating. How was it that I was able to trouble him when he
had me in so disadvantaged a situation? I could understand his wanting me to endure the mental torture of
surrendering the blade to him—his treatment of Marta had displayed his cruel streak—but he seemed to
need me to submit to him.

 His confusion and need sparked in me the one thing he did not want. I thought I had detected a
weakness in him, and that gave me hope. That hope and my pain twisted through bitterness into defiance.
If I was going to be tormented, so would he be, and I could do that by refusing him over and over again
until I died.

"I will never . . . surrender . . . this sword . . . to you." I forced myself to control my breathing.

 "Bold words." He brought his right fist down like a mace, and an invisible fist smashed me to the ground.
Stars exploded when my forehead hit the floor, and blood started flowing from my nose. "You will take a
long time to die, Neal."

I snorted, spraying blood down my chest. "And you will never . . . ever . . . get my sword."

 Outrage spiked through the dagger, and Takrakor flailed at me from across the room. I could no more
keep track of the blows than I couid move to avoid them, but few hit solidly. After his flurry petered out,
I felt as if I'd been tossed around in the hold of a ship in the midst of a storm, but other than a twinge in a
rib that got hit twice, I wasn't that much worse off than I had been before.

 Takrakor stood back and folded his arms to his chest to consider me. In doing so he touched Wasp
again, and I saw him smile most cruelly. My physical pain grew, and a new, sinister influence started to
creep into my mind. Whereas he had been subtle before, teasing out thoughts that I wanted to believe,
now he moved in to disrupt my thoughts and weaken my resistance to him.

 He keyed on my frustration and despair, and I felt a smug superiority trickle in through the dagger I held.
He had briefly lost control, but when he regained it, he knew I was a thing beneath him. He could compel
me to give him the sword, and that would not do for him. If he peeled my mind like an onion, soon there
would be nothing left to defy him, and the second this course of action suggested itself, he pounced on it.
My frustration at being unable to strike back at him became twisted, and he used it to slice away options
and plans as they came up, isolating me from anything but submission to his will.

 Takrakor stepped closer to me. Our proximity [tjpth] increased the power of the link we had and
heightened my frustration. Having my arms free and not being able to hit him when he was across the
room was one thing. Remaining impotent to strike as he crept closer and closer was entirely another.
With each step he ground my spirit away beneath his feet, and I could do nothing but watch my life leak
away from the wounds he opened in my mind.

 He used my frustration against me and slowly warped every memory of past victories to which I clung. I
used them as armor for my sense of hope, and he peeled it away layer by layer. My defeating his brother
in our first fight became nothing more than a fluke, something that would never be repeated in a million
years. The emperor had died less by my effort than by his own foolishness because he remained behind
when the wisest of Reithrese had abandoned Jarudin.

 Takrakor used his own special knowledge of events to show me how hollow my life had been. I saw
myself through his eyes at Aarundel's wedding and felt his derision at my pitiful arrogance that day. With
each step nearer multiplying the strength of our link, he managed to deconstruct my life, making each
victory the calm before a Reithrese storm that would destroy Mankind. Each thought he changed, every
remembrance he destroyed, cut away at my ability to resist his will. While he did come closer to torture
me, I knew he would not close within Cleaveheart's striking range.

 Agony racked me as he hit my last line of defense. He burrowed into all my memories of Larissa. He
clutched at them, pawed them, and soiled them. He showed me images conjured from dreams where he
substituted a rutting goat for me, then let me live through each and every tableau from Larissa's point of
view. He turned everything all around until he got to the point where he started to make me believe she
saw me as her perversion.

 I pressed my hands to my temples, and enough anger flowed through me that my fists should have
crushed the hilts of my weapons. Takrakor, sensing victory, pushed harder and harder. He rearranged
things so I would think that Larissa, seeing herself soiled and degraded, would kill herself—already had
killed herself in shame when I gave her the bracelet over which I had labored.

That did it. Standing barely five feet from me, he pushed one last time and broke through. He touched
my hope and I acted.

 I smashed the hilt of the dagger into the floor, shattering the fragment of his tooth. Takrakor screamed in
mortal pain. Both hands shot to his jaw as he reeled away in agony. He stumbled back and half fell,
screaming anew as I pushed off the floor and ground the little pieces of tooth into dust.

 Pins and needles shot through my legs and new pain slammed up through my left ankle as I lurched
forward. I staggered as a man drunk and dying. Clenched against the pain, my teeth ground against each
other. With the diamond broken I no longer could feel his emotions, but the expression on his face as he
scrambled to his feet needed no magic for translation. In his eyes I saw fear. And the reflection of
Cleaveheart.

 I whipped the blade across his chest with all the speed and strength my desperation could muster. I hit
him solidly and would have split him in half, but my blade caught on Wasp. Takrakor spun away from
me, more from the impact than by his will. A scarlet froth and big bubbles marked where I had cloven
ribs and torn a lung. Blood dripped from his mouth and nostrils and sprayed out in a spiral as he
pirouetted around.

 I stumbled to my knees and barely caught myself with my hands. I saw his blood splattered across the
floor and heard the swish of his cloak as he fell back. I heard a muffled thwump, then the scraping of
metal on stone. As I looked up again, I saw the last of his legs and the soles of his sandals as his body
slid down through the hole to the firepit. For a second the room went dark, then sparks rose up. I
watched them float toward my battered face on the ceiling, twisting around and flopping onto my back as
I did so.

The stone felt cold, but the blood on my back and chest burned. I raised my head enough to see that the
bruise on my chest had grown a half inch in all directions; then I lay down. Looking up at the image
Takrakor had fashioned of me, I reveled in the fact that though I knew I was dying, I was not dying
defeated. As black oblivion swept over me, despite the pain, I managed a laugh that I intended to ring in
my ears through eternity.

Chapter 29:
To Come Home Again

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 WITH EACH MILE closer to Cygestolia, Gena felt a sense of urgency building in her. When she first
felt it, barely a week into the month-long journey, she dismissed it as spillover from Berengar's
nervousness. At his insistence they had borrowed four horses from the emperor and money enough to
see them through the trip to Cygestolia and back. Seeing Cleaveheart's resting place had focused
Berengar tightly on his goal of obtaining the blade, and she knew his anxiety came from not knowing what
was happening back in Aurdon.

 As the sensation grew in her, she managed to name it. Homesickness. She had been gone from
Cygestolia, wandering the face of Skirren, for a dozen years. For an Elf that amount of time passed in an
eye blink, yet she felt a growing hunger inside her again to see the groves and vales of her homeland.
Whereas before she returned, she would have dismissed Cygestolia's importance to her, as she drew
closer, she wondered seriously why she had left in the first place.

 Now, well inside the domain claimed by the Elves, she wished she had the implements necessary to use
the circus translatio. She had not taken such things with her when she rode away because she was
uncertain she would ever want to return. She slowly began to realize that her time among Men had worn
on her because she had constantly been treated as a threat or a prize to be won. Never had she been
given time just to be herself, and Cygestolia became a sanctuary where she could do just that.

 No, not never. With Durriken I found sanctuary. She nodded to herself as she remembered hours and
hours spent languorously entwined with her Human lover. When they were together, he treated her with
deference, but she knew he would have acted so with any female, sylvanesti or Human. Rik had a way of
looking into people's hearts. He pushed past what they appeared to be, or what they were supposed to
be, and saw what they were. In his arms Gena had been able to be herself, and, she realized, as long as
they had been together, she had not been looking for sanctuary anywhere else.

 Berengar still remained solicitous and polite to her. Small kindnesses such as complimenting her on meals
when it was her turn to cook or taking on more than his share of the heavy lifting and carrying marked his
concern for her. Their conversations, after all the time they had spent on the road together, had grown
deeper and more philosophical, yet somehow divorced of emotion. They even spoke of what it would be
like if they were to become lovers or to actually marry, but that conversation seemed concerned more
with cultural customs and mores than the attraction they felt to each other.

 And there was an attraction. Gena blushed when she thought about it, less from prudishness than from
her feeling that she was betraying Durriken in some way. She gave Berengar chances to approach her,
and clues that she would be receptive to his advances, yet he did not act upon them. She was interested
in the way he watched her sometimes at night—Men generally being forgetful at how good Elven sight is
in the dark—but he held himself apart. She gathered it was from a sense of duty to his family—his
willingness to marry for an alliance as much as for love—and she chose to respect that.

 She also acknowledged that his focus upon their mission put her off at times. Durriken had been
positively Elven in his attitude about time; his sense of urgency had not been driven by the passage of
hours. Rik desired the correction of past wrongs—as with the return of Marta and Aarundel's wedding
tokens to them—and was willing to take the time needed to make sure his missions would succeed.

 In his single-mindedness concerning Cleaveheart, Berengar exhibited what Elves found least desirable
about Men. Even so, she had no doubt he would be able to control himself when he reached Cygestolia.
She smiled. Berengar will charm everyone he meets. Still, some Elves might balk at turning Cleaveheart
over to a Man, and that was a possibility that made it hard to predict how Berengar would react in the
long run.

 Cygestolia had not much changed since she had been away. The groves appeared to her eyes to be
more stately and grand than any Man-home she had seen. She felt a sense of anxiety slip away as once
again she saw the island with the council tree on it. She smiled and pointed toward that island.

"Do you see that stone structure there, at the base of the tree?"

Berengar nodded. "Surely all the Elves in Cygestolia do not live in that one small house."

 "No," she laughed. "We live in the trees. You will stay in my family's home, Woodspire. You will have
the chamber Neal used when he stayed here."

"Thank you. So what is that building?"

"That is Neal's tomb."

He sat up taller in his saddle and shaded his eyes with his hands. "Yes? Could Cleaveheart be in there?"

 Gena shook her head. "No. I have seen inside, and I saw no weapons of any kind. We came here
because my grandfather and grandaunt made a journey from Cygestolia after Neal's death. I believe that
trip was made to secret Cleaveheart away."

 "You said your grandaunt had gone 'beyond.' " Berengar frowned. "You cannot do that and return with
the information, can you?"

"No, but my grandfather still lives, and he might know what the key to Larissa's spell is."

 Gena led Berengar through the city to the Seven Pines district and on to Woodspire, Elves took their
horses and their baggage from them at the base of the tree; then they entered the tubes and rose through
the heart of Woodspire. Wordlessly she guided Berengar through the tree and smiled when she reached
the chamber that had once been home to Neal Elfward.

 "Grandfather!" Gena ran across the room to where Aarundel slowly rose from sitting on the edge of
what had been Neal's bed. It occurred to her that he had not been moving so slowly when she went
away, but by then she was in his arms and reveling in his hug. "It has been far too long."

"It has, Genevera." The old Elf stroked her hair. "You are a tonic for an aged, one-eyed Elf."

She felt a tremor run through him. "What is it?"

"You have brought a guest."

She slowly released Aarundel, then turned and nodded toward Berengar. "Grandfather, this is Count
Berengar Fisher of Aurdon in Centisia."

Aarundel nodded slowly. "You look the image of the Red Tiger. Seeing you there, I half expect to see
Neal himself come around the corner."
Berengar bowed respectfully, then smiled openly. "It is an honor to meet you; Aarundel Consilliarii. I
have long thrilled to the stories of your adventures with Neal. Your granddaughter believes that you can
help us with a problem that has brought us over two thousand miles."

Gena suppressed a frown because she would have preferred to ease into the discussion rather than deal
with it so quickly. She tried to hide from her grandfather her displeasure with Berengar, but he gave her
hand a squeeze.

 "Remember, my dear, I rode with Neal. I understand." Aarundel waved Berengar to a chair and again
eased himself down on the foot of the bed. "What is this problem?"

Gena, still holding her grandfather's hand, knelt at his feet. "Do you remember Aurium and the first night
you and Neal arrived there?"

The wizened, white-haired Elf slowly smiled. "Neal forced a peace on two families there. Riveravens
were one and the Fishers the other. Did that peace not last, my lord?"

 Berengar shook his head. "Not truly, Consilliarii. Over the years the oath Neal made has kept our two
families from destroying each other, but it is constantly tested. The intervention of his ghost, so it is said,
enforces what he began five centuries ago. The Riverens—what you knew as the Riveravens—have
recently entered into an alliance with the Haladina, and this threatens my family. We would strike back,
but Neal enjoins us from doing so."

 Gena looked up at Aarundel. "Neal said the two families would be joined until Cleaveheart and Wasp
severed the knot he fashioned from the sleeves of two people. It is time for the knot to be severed, so we
are out to recover the blades."

Aarundel shook his head. "Your effort is doomed to failure. The blades cannot be recovered."

"But we saw where Cleaveheart is hidden." Berengar frowned heavily. "Lady Genevera says she can
undo the magick if you will give her the key. It is vital you do so."

"My lord, were she to ask and I were able to accede to her request, I would do so, but I cannot."
Aarundel drew in a deep breath and sighed wearily. "Before Neal left Jarudin for the last time, he had
made arrangements to hide Cleaveheart away. He wanted the architect—Xer-something it was . . ."

"Xerstan," Berengar offered.

"Xerstan to create a vault that could only be keyed by Wasp. A cast of Wasp was made for this
purpose, and Wasp was used to key the spell that Larissa created to ward the vault." The Elf shook his
head. "The cast was destroyed after use."

"And what of Wasp?"

"It was lost to the Reithrese in Jammaq, though Neal said Takrakor had it at Alatun."

Berengar shook his head. "Jammaq? Alatun?"

 "Places destroyed centuries ago. You reckon the passing of the years from the date of their destruction.
This is the four hundred and ninety-ninth year since the annihilation of the Reithrese. Wasp has not been
seen since then, which means there is no way to recover Cleaveheart."
 "There must be another way." Berengar hammered his right fist into his left palm. "If there is not,
everything is lost."

Aarundel shrugged. "Larissa, who cast the spell, is no longer here. Breaking that spell is possible, but it
would take Gena here a century of specific and concentrated study to be able to do so. I gather you have
not the time to wait for that."

 "No, no I do not." Berengar growled and scowled. "I can't believe Neal would have been so stupid to
have keyed Cleaveheart's hiding place with a simple, ordinary dagger that could have been broken in a
fight or during a meal."

"Perhaps it was not stupidity, my lord Count, but caution."

Gena stroked her grandfather's hand. "And perhaps he had another way to get at the sword."

"That could be, Genevera, but I would not know. Only Neal would."

 Gena slowly stood. "This I realize, which means I have little choice if I am to help Berengar save his
family."

"I see no choices at all for my family's salvation."

Gena shook her head in Berengar's direction. "But there is one, Berengar, and the one we shall use
because there is no other." She looked down into her grandfather's eye. "Tomorrow I intend to open
Neal's tomb and bring him back from the dead."

Chapter 30:
To Die Far From Home

 Autumn
Reign of the Red Tiger Year 3
Imperium Year 1
Five Centuries Ago
My Last Year

***

 THE JOLT FROM the wagon's wheel hitting a rut stabbed a fork of pain through my chest and brought
me to consciousness. I coughed, spreading the pain evenly through me. I opened my eyes and wondered
if I had gone blind; then my eyes focused, and I saw stars and moons in the heavens above. Either I was
alive or the paradise promised by Jistani prophets fell decidedly shy of ideal to my way of thinking.

"Neal, are you awake?"

 I turned my head to the right and saw Aarundel sitting hunched over with his back pressed against one
side of the open wagon. The edge of the blanket covering me also covered his feet. He had raised his
head above his knees, and I saw a thick bandage wrapped around his head. Blood had soaked through
it, especially where it covered his right eye.

"Awake, my friend." My tongue felt thick in my mouth. "Water? Did we carry the day?"
"Healer, here, water." Aarundel snapped his fingers and pointed at me.

 An Elf turned from another wounded Elf and knelt between Aarundel and me. He supported my head
with one hand and pressed the nipple of a wineskin between my lips. I drank a little at first, bracing for
the pain when I swallowed; then I took more. Finally I nodded and the Elf took it away.

 Aarundel smiled wearily at me. "We were victorious. After you closed the gates, their magickal support
from the city stopped. We crushed their army when their magick allies fell apart. We found you in the
chapel and a cabal of dead Reithrese wizards higher up in the tower. I was told they were torn up."

I coughed out a laugh despite the pain. "Shijef . . ."

"I've not seen him, but it was probably the Dreel."

I nodded. "He knew I could kill Takrakor."

"Did you?"

"Returned the favor he did me." I tried to pull the blanket down so I could look at my chest, but my
hands didn't seem to work too well. "He used a spel! that will draw and quarter me."

Aarundel rested a hand on the healer's shoulder. "Cletine, can you counter it?"

 The redheaded elf shrugged. "I know how to heal wounds. Dispelling other magicks is not my forte. I
could try, but it might take me years of study before I would even have a chance at succeeding."

"Fret not, friend Cletine." Another cough racked me. "I'll not be having magick heal me up."

"This is different from before, Neal."

 "It's not, Aarundel. The Reithrese are dead, so am I, If I were to use magick now, well, it would be
cheating, wouldn't it?" I managed a smile for him. "Never before. Not now."

"Even if it would allow you to see my sister one more time?"

"Perhaps that would be worth it." I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "But I'm thinking I'm not
dressed for courting. Besides, Cletine's healing art would be better spent making you prettier for Marta."

Aarundel raised his right hand to cover his missing eye. "No, this once I think I'll follow your example,
my friend."

"You need not be stupid, Aarundel,"

 He gave me a brave smile. "Not stupid, Neal. That eye was my stupid eye, my blind eye. Without it I
see many things, many injustices that I have condoned by not opposing them. Next to my wife, I love you
and my sister more than anyone, and I kept you apart. Let's make a pact, Neal, you and I. This time I
forgo magick for healing and you use it."

"I'd accept if I could, my friend, but I'm thinking I've not got much longer." I coughed and convulsed, but
kept my scream trapped in my chest. "You have those letters?"
He patted his hand against his gambeson. "I can give them back to you."

"Not this time." I looked up at the healer. "Cletine, could I be troubling you for something to ease the
pain? Not magick, a draught or something?"

 Cletine nodded and drew a leaf from a pouch on his belt. He crushed it, and a faint scent like mint
chased death from my nostrils. He opened my mouth and laid the leaf down in front of my lower teeth
and let my lip hold it in place. "Suck on that. It will help. You may sleep."

"Thank you." I turned my head toward Aarundel. "You have Cleaveheart?"

He nodded.

"Good. I entrust it to you. Take it to Jarudin. Talk to Xerstan. He knows what to do."

"Xerstan." Aarundel nodded at me. "You know you've done more than destroy the Reithrese, don't
you?"

 "More?" I found it easier to smile as the pain in my chest dulled. "I think ending the Reithrese threat is
enough for a Man, don't you?"

"A task worthy of a hero, Custos Sylvanii, and a task acquitted by a hero."

"By many heroes, Aarundel, most all of them Elven." My eyes began to want to close. "Thank you for
being my friend."

"The honor has been mine."

"It is an honor we share." I shut my eyes and summoned an image of Larissa. "Tell her I died with her in
my mind and my heart."

"Rest peacefully, my friend."

 I felt him grip my shoulder and I tried to smile. I don't know if I succeeded, because along with the pain
all other sensations faded. I hoped I had, because I'd, rather have him remember my smile than my death.
He was a true friend, and I owed him at least that much.

Chapter 31:
For The Greater Good

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 WITH A SWIFT rub of the polishing cloth, Genevera removed the last bit of tarnish from the silver
bracelet. She remembered her grandaunt taking it from her own right wrist and putting it onto Gena's
wrist. "I make to you a gift of this because you can bear the responsibilities that come with it." She had
not understood at the time, when Larissa had gone excedere, but now she wondered at her grandaunt's
prescience.

Gena turned toward Berengar. "What was that you said?"

 "I cannot believe you can do this—defeat death." His spirit had been dampened by her proposed
actions, and his face remained a bit pale. "Neal has been dead for five centuries."

 She shook her head. "Neal has lain in a tomb for five centuries. Death is a process that has some leeway
in it."

"I don't understand."

"I'm not certain I do either, fully, but Larissa, my grandaunt, used to provide me with examples while she
worked and taught me. If you go out and cut for me a flower, is it alive or dead?"

"Dead, obviously."

 "Yet if placed in water, the blossoms will open and close normally." Gena smiled at him and slipped the
bracelet onto her right wrist. "If you cut a shoot from a plant and place its cut end in the ground, it will
take root, yet many would consider the shoot dead."

Berengar nodded. "All true, but plants are not Men."

 "Yes, but Men do not die all at once either. You know, for example, that hair and fingernails continue to
grow after death. You have seen cases where warriors who are struck in the head still breathe for a time
even though they are dead."

"True, but none of them last five hundred years in that state."

"None of them had Elven magick to help them survive." She pointed Berengar to the doorway leading
out onto the walkway that would take them to the council tree and the island with Neal's tomb on it. "The
healers with the army, at least those being sent back with the wounded, could not counteract the
Reithrese magicks used to kill Neal. Do you recall when I explained that magick dealt with the
manipulation of chance and time?"

"Yes."

"The healer attending to Neal wove a spell that slowed the passage of time for Neal. He hoped that
when Neal arrived in Cygesiolia, someone would be able to reverse the magick worked on him."

 Berengar raked fingers back through wind-tousled red hair. "So you are saying he is not really dead, just
frozen in time before he died."

 Gena shook her head. "No, he actually is dead. He is trapped in the midst of that process, anyway, and
has not been revived. No one could be certain that their spells could counteract the Reithrese magick.
Many sorcerers labored for centuries to find a way to dispell the Reithrese enchantments. They
succeeded and turned the results of their research over to my grandaunt. I am certain she would have
brought Neal back, but because there was a chance of failure, she did not want to take the risk of losing
him forever."

"She told you this?"
 Gena frowned sharply. "No. She did not like talking about Neal's death, but I was able to coax things
out of her, and that is the impression she gave me. She would speak of him and his deeds, but never
about the feelings they shared. Even so, I know she loved him deeply." She looked down at the stone
tomb so far below. "Once a month she would enter the tomb and she would look at him. I think she
wanted to take the chance to bring him back, but she dared not be selfish."

Shrugging, she continued. "I am willing to take the chance, because, if I do not, your family will die and
Rik's death will go unavenged."

 They crossed the branch bridge in silence; then Gena stopped when she saw her grandfather standing
alone in the middle of the Consilliarii chamber. On his right arm he wore his insigne nuptialis—the one Rik
had recovered—and she knew he put it on only at times of importance and ceremony. "Grandfather? Are
you going to try to stop me?"

The one-eyed Elf looked from her to Berengar and back again. "If I did, you would ignore me."

"I would listen."

"I know you would, Genevera." He watched her closely. "Are you prepared for this? It will not be easy."

"I know. I have studied Larissa's notes and I have rested. I can and will succeed, grandfather."

 "I am certain you will. Please, indulge me in one thing; remember that for all the stories and legends, Neal
is just aMan. And he was once my friend." Aarundel folded his arms, and Gena thought he meant his
speech for Berengar and not for her. "If he cannot solve your problem, it is not his fault, but if he can, do
not be amazed. I have learned there was not much he considered impossible."

Berengar narrowed his eyes. "You approve of what we are doing?"

 "I will not gainsay you." Aarundel stepped aside, then followed them as they passed through the chamber
and onto the staircase spiraling around the trunk of the tree.

 Walking down to the tomb, Gena remembered all the previous pilgrimages to that site she had made
with Larissa—only realizing this time that she actually did consider them pilgrimages. Her grandaunt had
not spoken much during the visits, yet afterward they would sit in the shadow of the tomb, and she would
entertain Gena's questions about Neal and his life.

 It occurred to her that she had not visited the tomb since the last time she and Larissa had done so
together. After that last trip Larissa had given her the bracelet and told her that she was going beyond.
When I asked why she was going away, she just told me her work was done. Gena felt a shiver run
down her spine. She went beyond and I left Cygestolia.

 Each step down took her back in time to the previous visits. She wore the same sort of white cotton
gown Larissa had demanded she wear on their visits, and she had gathered her hair back into a thick
braid as her grandaunt had done. She imagined herself now taking her grandaunt's place, and that idea
both chilled and pleased her. Larissa had always seemed more responsible than Gena had, so accepting
that responsibility made her happy, yet it also inspired fear in her.

 She rubbed at the bracelet and felt the Man-runes slide beneath her fingers. She knew they defined Neal
and that it had been created by him, but its association with her grandaunt made it so much more to her.
The bracelet was a piece of history, frozen in time, just as was the man who had pounded it out of
shapeless metal.

 The small stone building loomed larger as she walked across the grassy sward toward it. The grass felt
cold on her bare feet, and the earth vaguely moist. Everything smelled very much alive around the stone
monument to death. The sunlight poured down upon her, yet its warmth failed to reach her. A chill of
doubt came to her as she reached the stone-blocked doorway.

Will Neal want this? That question had not occurred to her before, and it made her hesitate. Just as
quickly as it had come, an answer followed, and she smiled. Larissa's tales had all stressed Neal's
devotion to Mankind and to protecting it. If he had been able to foresee the trouble his actions long ago
would have wrought, he would have refrained from taking them. And if he was forced to act to repair the
damage, he would. Of this she had no doubt, and she took the Aurdonian ghost stories as confirmation of
Neal's desires.

 She turned from the rough-hewn, blocky granite building and faced the two males behind her. "Only I
may enter the tomb. Larissa cast spells in there that protect Neal, and without this bracelet you could be
hurt. You may watch from the doorway—I always did—but be quiet. I am not certain what I am going
to find, and I will need to concentrate."

Aarundel nodded and stepped back a couple of paces. "Count Berengar and I will wait here."

 Berengar's expression told her that he did not like that idea, but he withdrew to Aarundel's side. "Good
luck."

 She nodded and faced the tomb once again. The arched doorway had been filled with a single slab of
stone polished until the surface reflected her face back at her. She forced a smile, but butterflies flitted
through her stomach. She felt sweat rising on her upper lip, so she let her body shudder once to burn off
nervous energy; then she set herself for the task at hand.

 Gena looked up at the golden script carved into the stone above the arch. "Neal Roclawzi/Custos
Sylvanii. A great hero and greater friend." As she spoke the words, she felt the thrill of hearing stories
from Larissa and her grandfather race through her again. With what I am going to do, I will add to the
legend and become part of it.

 She raised her right arm and pressed the bracelet against the keystone of the arched doorway. The stone
blocking the door went from grey with flecks of black to a milky white. It then faded through
translucency to transparency before evaporating altogether. She caught a musty, dry scent from the tomb
as warm air drifted out from the stone enclosure.

 She lingered a moment in the doorway, seeing Neal again as she had seen him so many times before.
Lying there on a stone slab, his feet toward her and his head on a stone pillow at the far end, he
appeared to be sleeping, not dead. She knew the clothes he wore had been enchanted so the yellow silk
tunic and green silk breeches would not age and decay, and she guessed that Larissa herself had sewn
them together.

 Gena stepped across the threshold with the reverence appropriate for entering into the presence of
someone sacred. As she walked around his feet to his left side—exactly where Larissa had always
stood—Neal's physical size impressed her. Not only had he been tall, but very robust as well. Scars
crisscrossed the hands folded on his chest, with the burn scar on the back of his left hand being
predominant among them. His sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and strong jaw gave him a look so vital,
it mocked death.

She realized, as she looked down at him, that his chin and his cheekbones reminded her of Rik. His
hands, though larger than Rik's were, had the same proportions. His hair, though a shade lighter than
Durriken's had been, featured the same sort of ragtag utilitarian cut and length favored by Men who were
more worried about being able to see than about being seen. Because of the resemblance she found
herself liking the Man lying there in front of her even before life had returned to him.

 Then she caught herself. Do I see Rik in him, or did I see him in Rik? That question shook her to her
core. Gena wondered if, when Larissa went beyond, she had decided her grandaunt had abandoned
Neal. Had that prompted her to go out into the world of Men to find her own Neal, and had she done
that in Rik? She recalled measuring Berengar by her image of Neal, and she feared she had used the
same yardstick to measure Durriken.

 She shivered. Enough time for that later. I need to figure out the spells here. With her entry into the
room, she knew she faced multiple sets of spells. The first came from the clothes on Neal and, she
suspected, a glamour that kept the roses in his cheeks and the color in his hair. Larissa had warned her
about protective spells, and she could pick some of them out from the background, but she could not
identify all of them clearly. She felt she would have had more success trying to pick out individual
instruments in an orchestral recital in Jarudin than she would isolating and identifying each spell.

 That difficulty did not worry her because she knew the bracelet she wore functioned as a key to all those
spells. Larissa had woven her magick strong to protect Neal, but in giving Gena the bracelet she had
transferred mastery of those spells over to her. Gena knew she would be operating in a safe environment.
She had reread all of her grandaunt's notes on what she had hoped would be a way to save Neal from
his death, and she felt certain she could command all the spells she needed to do the job. Care and
caution would allow her to take things one step at a time so she could do it right.

Gena rubbed her hands together and rolled her head around to loosen her neck. She ignored the sweat
dribbling down from her temples and started to control her breathing. "Right. First thing is to remove this
glamour. Once I see what I'm working with, I'll know which spell goes when."

 Magery had any number of ways to counteract spells. Other spells could crush, dissolve, or slice through
magicks, but each of them required an expenditure of energy greater than that used to cast the original
spell. Gena chose to unweave the spell, and toward that end she used a small diagnostic spell that helped
define the nature of the glamour. Once she had done that, she had an idea how the spell had been begun
and completed, so she focused her attention on the end point. By simply manipulating time and chance,
she unmade the end point; then the whole spell began to unravel.

 As the glamour began to evaporate, Gena saw the true Neal Roclawzi, and she recoiled from him.
Blood covered his pale, grey face—old, dried blood that had broken into tiny chips like a sun-dried
mudflat. The silk clothes turned into soiled rags stiff with blood and dirt that covered his loins and little
else. Open, ulcerated wounds formed a cross on his chest running from throat to navel, flank to flank.
Multiple bruises covered him in purple, swollen bumps, and she saw an odd lump where at least one rib
appeared to have been broken. His left ankle had swollen up to the size of a small melon, and his left foot
canted in at an unnatural angle.

 Her mind began to reel as she saw Neal's battered and abused body. She felt as if she could not
breathe, and she knew she was beginning to panic. She fought to regain control of herself, but something
in the tomb prevented her from doing that. Struggle as she might against it, she could not focus, yet
through the fog in her mind she realized she had triggered a massive magickal trap and she had no way of
counteracting it!

 The spells that had lurked in the background swelled as they drew energy from her panic. They used the
bracelet as their conduit. A red haze expanded from the corner of the tomb and washed over the body
like a dust-cloud. Where it penetrated Neal's flesh, it liquefied the blood on him and sucked it back down
through his pores. Flesh that had appeared bruised drained of color, and a pinkish flush colored his skin.

 Silvery daggers of microlightning descended from a black cloud that coalesced from the tomb's
shadows. Flicking down and back like the feathery kisses of a serpent's tongue, the lightning played over
Neal's body. It lingered over open wounds and centered itself on his chest. The little forks all retreated
into the cloud; then with a thunderous humming a single solid argent spear stabbed down into the
cruciform wound at his navel. With the patience of a caterpillar inching along a branch, the incandescent
light-bar worked its way up toward Neal's head. Flesh sizzled in its wake, the greasy vapor rising up into
the cloud, but the flesh appeared seamless and unmarked as the smoke rose from it.

 The beam lingered over the cross's center point, filling the room with a gout of sickly sweet smoke that
made Gena want to vomit. She coughed and the beam flickered for a moment, then continued as she
straightened up. It split into three pieces, two running across the wound and the last one up toward
Neal's throat. The two flank beams vanished as the third jumped from his throat up to his nostrils. When
it plunged in there, she saw light play beneath Neal's closed eyelids and shine out dimly through his ear;
then the cloud imploded and the light vanished, leaving her momentarily blinded.

 A wave of exhaustion rode over her, and a moment of mental clarity followed in the trough. She knew
she was not as tired as she had been when she hastily cast the spell in the Haladin camp, but the two
spells that had used her had drained her significantly. Moreover, they drew sustenance from her panic
and fear in violation of the Elven dictum to keep emotion out of spells. The emotions made the spells
incredibly powerful, but also unpredictable, and that frightened Gena horribly.

 She tried to stop a third spell from vampirizing her, but that took more of an effort than she could muster.
Gena did tenaciously cling to a small portion of vitality, bolstered in her efforts by knowing that if she lost
it, the magicks could wring her free of life and discard her like a dry husk.

 A blue-gray light bled up through the stone bier upon which Neal lay and became so bright that all she
could see was his skeleton in silhouette. The light pulsed once, then dimmed, and it appeared as if Neal's
flesh had become steel. The spot over his broken ribs suddenly glowed red, and sparks shot from it as a
metallic hammering echoed in the tomb and shuddered through her. Likewise his left ankle glowed and
sparked; then the light flared again and Neal returned to normal, save his ankle and rib no longer showed
signs of injury.

 Dizziness swept over Gena as the fourth spell started to draw on her for power. Somehow she knew this
was the final spell, the one that would complete the task she had come to perform. She had wanted to be
the master of the spelt, directing it and using it, but she found herself just a component in it. Larissa had
betrayed her, and the last spell sucked up her outrage like a sponge.

 Heat flashed over her body and she thought she might faint. She fought the weakness, and the spell
skimmed her defiance off to feed itself. Gena knew she was being manipulated, but every emotional
response was anticipated and harvested.

 Suddenly she felt short of breath. She could not breathe, her lungs lay useless and frozen in her chest.
She felt her body begin to burn in its need for air, then that sensation vanished as well. She tried to puzzle
together what was happening to her because Larissa's notes had said nothing about this effect—had said
nothing about any of this—and she began to wonder if all she had been taught by her grandaunt had been
nothing but bait for this trap.

Then she noticed Neal's chest had begun to rise and fall on its own.

 Gena hunched forward as her heart began to beat wildly, then stopped altogether. When it started again,
after only a second or two, her stomach convulsed. She felt her guts shiver and internal organs quiver.
Her hands twitched, her toes curled inward. Every muscle in her body jerked and cramped and released.
She thought at first that the spell was stealing seconds of life from her to transfer life into Neal's body, but
she rejected that idea because the differences in their species and genders would make the transfer
flawed and useless. No, she decided, I am just being used as a road map so the magick can show Neal's
body what exists and how to make it work.

 Her head jerked back, exposing her throat, as she felt the spell plunge up her spine and into her brain. It
prowled around in there, as Durriken might have prowled the curio vaults of rich Kaudian antiquities
collectors, examining her memories. She saw everything flick across her mind's eye, yet the spell only
lingered over the stories and thoughts, impressions and dreams she had experienced concerning Neal. As
if it were picking up all the fragments of a shattered vase, it took every bit of him it could find and sent it
flowing into his brain.

Gena knew it was not to rebuild his mind, but to remind him who he had been. If he were to live again,
his soul would have to be plucked from Reithra's grasp and put back in his body. The stories, the
memories, merely made it easy for him to return. It made his body receptive again.

 The spell pushed against the last little reserve of energy Gena held. She resisted, but it pressed her.
Without words it conveyed to her its need, not for something of Neal she yet possessed, but for a reason
for him to return. It had to be potent and powerful, emotional and eternal. It could not come without
sacrifice. And it has to come from me.

 Gena opened up and fed directly into it the love for Neal she had seen in Larissa's eyes. Though her
grandaunt had never spoken of her feelings for Neal, she never had to. Genevera had seen it from the
beginning, and had never seen it dim. She wondered for a moment how Larissa could have prepared all
this so lovingly, and then have walked away from it without using it. No logical answer came to her, so
she funneled that mystery into the flow and let herself begin to faint.

 Her head came down, and she stumbled back against the wall of the tomb as the spell released her. She
saw Neal's body convulse, and she cried out reflexively as his head hit the stone pillow on the bier. A
second later she found herself slumping down in the corner, too tired to stand, too exhausted even to try
to fight gravity. As she went down, she saw Neal's eyelids flutter, and even though she feared she was
dying, she knew he lived again. In that realization she knew everything would be fine, and she
surrendered to the blackness stealing over her.

Chapter 32:
The Minority Does Suffer

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

***
 SHARP PAIN RIPPED through my chest; then came a blackness that I decided was death. Time did
not flow, it grew stagnant. Shadow flashes of life, either dreams or visions, occasionally settled on my
consciousness the way a leaf floats on a dead pond before slowly sinking to the bottom. They settled
down there to molder with the rest of me.

Brilliant searing lights and heat and tingling shook me. The back of my head smacked something solid,
but I felt more surprise than I did pain. The aching that had chased me through the darkness had eased.
For the first time in eternity I summoned up the strength to open my eyes, and I found them responding to
my command. As they opened, I saw a figure in white falling away to the ground off to my left.

 I sat up enough to get my left elbow under me and took a good look at her. The sunlight pouring through
the arched doorway showed me golden hair I could never forget and glinted off a bracelet I recognized.
That she sat slumped in the corner with her chin touching her breast alarmed me, but I saw no blood and
knew that were I to touch her, I could do more harm than good to the both of us.

 A huge man eclipsed the sun as he ducked his head through the arched doorway. I recognized him more
by his size and shape than by the hint of copper in his hair, but I couldn't imagine what he would be doing
in Cygestolia. He looked at where Larissa had fallen and shouted "Jenna!" which was an oath I'd never
heard the Red Tiger utter before. I wondered if I was dreaming somehow; then I saw him reach toward
her, and I knew, dream or not, I had to act.

 Sitting up and spinning around on my rump, I got my feet beneath me and launched myself at Beltran.
"Don't touch her. You can't touch her."

 Beltran looked utterly surprised at the sound of my voice. He folded around my shoulder. I heard a
satisfying ooofff as my tackle carried him back out of the small building and crashed the both of us to the
greensward. I bounced up off him and rolled through a somersault, but as I spun to face him, dizziness
washed over me. The world swam before my eyes, and before I could focus them, a heavy left hand
clouted me over my right ear.

The ground hit me harder than the fist had, but not by much. I rolled unsteadily to my feet and felt a hand
grabbing my right shoulder. "Neal, hold. Berengar, stop."

I twisted around, pulling my shoulder from beneath the old Elf's hand. "He almost touched her, doomed
her."

"Neal, friend, he will not hurt her."

 I frowned. "Do I know you? The only Elves I call friend are Larissa and her brother, Aarundel. She is in
there, and her brother will kill Beltran if he touches her."

"In the old days I would have indeed done that."

 I blinked my eyes and took a good long look at the Elf standing before me. Long white hair draped over
his shoulders. He wore a black eye patch and stood as tall as my best friend had, but his muscles had
atrophied. His skin had an almost transparent quality to it, as if he were more spirit than flesh. "Aarundel?
What did the Reithrese do to you?"

Aarundel shook his head. "They took my eye, Custos Sylvanii, but no more."
I frowned despite the pain growing at the base of my skull. "But you look so old. Your grandfather,
Lomthelgar, he does not look so old. What happened?"

He shrugged. "I aged. Five centuries have passed since you last saw me."

 That cut my legs out from under me, and I sat down hard. "Five hundred years? But . . ." I glanced back
at the small stone blockhouse. "Your sister, she has not aged."

"She is my granddaughter, Neal, by my son Niall." Aarundel crouched, then sat on the ground beside
me. "Many things have changed, my friend."

 The man with whom I fought emerged from the blockhouse with a sylvanesti in his arms. I waited for a
volley of Elven arrows to cut him down, but none came. I looked up and knew I sat beneath the
Consilliarii tree and watched this most grotesque violation of Elven law being perpetrated right here.
Aarundel barely glanced at the Man dooming his granddaughter to exile, and the Man seemed more
concerned for her than for his own fate.

"How can he be carrying her?"

"I can because I am strong and considerate, old man." He lay her down in the shade and rubbed one of
her wrists. Ignoring me, he looked at Aarundel. "She is breathing and has a pulse. She fainted from
whatever went on in there."

 I reached out and grabbed Aarundel's left arm. "What has happened? Why is Beltran here? Wait—can
he be Beltran? Five centuries?" I closed my mouth as my mind became a chaotic jumble of ideas and
fears warring for control of me.

 Aarundel patted my hand with his right hand. "There are many things I will explain to you, my friend,
gladly. I know this is abrupt and confusing." He pointed to the man kneeling beside his granddaughter.
"This is Count Berengar Fisher of Aurdon in Centisia."

I frowned. "Aurdon? I remember the Fishers of Aurium. Are they related?"

 Berengar looked up while his hands continued their massage of the sylvanesti's wrist. "They are the
same, Neal. What you knew as Aurium is now known as Aurdon. It has grown and changed since you
last saw it."

 Five centuries! I stared down at the ground and picked at the grass growing there. It felt the same to me
as it had when last I touched it. I plucked a piece and put it in my mouth. It tasted and smelled the same.
That was something, something normal, and I clung to it. If this was all a dream, I would laugh in the
morning and if not, I now knew a new definition for nightmare.

Aarundel's arm bones felt as light and frail as a bird's wing in my grasp. "Larissa?"

My friend shook his head. "She has gone beyond, Neal. With Lomthelgar and my parents."

"Marta?"

"She waits here, with me."

The sylvanesti responded to Berengar's efforts to revive her with a groan. She tried to sit up but would
have failed had Berengar not shifted around and placed his hands beneath her shoulders. As her head
came up, and I saw her face for the first time, I felt a fist crush my heart. It was not what I had
experienced when I first saw Larissa, but an imperfect echo of it. She looked enough like her grandaunt
that I was reminded of the person I had now lost.

The smile on Aarundel's face was all that kept my spirit from dying right then and there. "This, Neal
Elfward, is my granddaughter, Genevera. Gena, this is Neal Roclawzi."

 She bowed her head toward me, letting her thick braid slither over Berengar's hand and her shoulder.
"This is a dream come true for me, meeting you."

 I nodded, unable to think of anything to say. My mind yet reeled at my existence. My hands came up
and touched my chest. I saw no bruise, no indication that my battle with Takrakor had ever taken place,
yet the absence of Aarundel's eye told me it had. "My wounds." I grabbed Aarundel's shoulder. "I was
dying. What happened?"

Aarundel glanced down. "You died."

Genevera smiled at me. "I saved you. I repaired you and brought you back to life."

My jaw dropped. "I was dead?"

 "Yes, but I fixed you." She frowned at the disbelief in my voice. "The magick, the spells woven into the
tomb . . ."

"Tomb?"

She looked back toward the stone structure, but my attention was drawn more to the fact that she
moved so like Larissa, than to the building. "That was your tomb. I triggered the spells in there and
brought you back. I healed you."

"You brought me back to a world I do not know. You have healed me."

Gena nodded emphatically. "Yes, that is what I did."

I stared at her wide-eyed. "But I never wanted to be healed."

"What?"

"I never wanted to come back. And you bring me back after Larissa has gone beyond?" I turned to
Aarundel. "How did this happen? How did you let it happen?"

Aarundel steeled himself to reply. "There are many things that I must explain to you. . . ."

 I wanted none of it and let my confusion slip over into irrational anger. "Why couldn't you just let me stay
dead? I may not have been of an Elder race, but that should not make me your plaything. How could you
think so little of me?"

Aarundel stood abruptly and, grabbing my arm, brought me up with him. He shoved me against the
Consilliarii tree, and I saw the old fire smoldering in his eye. "Damn you, Neal, you know it was not that!
You and I, we were brothers. You said so yourself."
"I would have let you die, brother."

 "And I watched you die, brother, inch by inch as Takrakor's magick gnawed its way through you." He
jerked his thumb back into his chest. "I was with you when you took Cleaveheart from Jammaq, and I
have rejoiced every day that you were brave enough to come to Jammaq to steal Marta and me away
from the Reithrese. Can you deny me wanting to rescue you from the last of their perfidy? Can you fault
me for wanting to let you see my sister one more time? Can you fault me for hoping, one day, that you
and I might walk again together through the vales of Cygestolia?"

 He straightened up and watched me closely. "If you can, then know, brother, that the same fault is
harbored in your breast, for I have done nothing here for you that you would not have done for me. Go
ahead, tell me I am wrong. Do so and I will apologize, but I will not regret what I have done."

Chapter 33:
The Puppet's Strings Justified

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 THE MAN GENA had brought back from the dead covered his face with both hands. Leaning back
against the Consilliarii tree, he hung there halfway between upright and prostrate. Part of her expected
him to sob, but her mental image of Neal the hero killed that idea instantly. That was the sort of weak
emotion of which she did not believe he was capable.

 She shivered because much confused her. She had not considered what his reaction to being resurrected
might be. Well, she had, but she had assumed he would respond with gratitude. All Men she had known
carried with them a fear of death. In Rik it had been small and in others all but crippling. She had thought
that any Man offered a chance to defeat death would readily accept it and be overjoyed at being
returned to life.

 Neal seemed to resent what she did for him, and resent it greatly. More surprising than that was her
grandfather's apparent anticipation of that resentment. He had known what to expect from Neal, but he
had chosen not to warn her. That was a side of her grandfather she had never known before, and it
scared her.

"Grandfather, what is happening here?"

Neal lowered his hands. "Explain, Aarundel, if you can."

 Aarundel lifted his head and appeared defiant in the face of their questions. "On the road, after you had
been given that sleeping draught, it became obvious you would die. You had clearly stated your
preferences about magick, and Cletine was unable to reverse the spell that had been cast upon you, so
our disagreement on that point was moot. Cletine was able to use a spell to isolate you within time. It
managed to slow the damage being done to you by Takrakor's magick. My intention, in having him cast
that spell upon you, was to allow you to see Larissa one more time. That was, I felt, the least I could do
for you."
The man nodded briefly. "For that I thank you."

 "That decision led directly to this consequence." Aarundel opened his arms and took in Cygestolia with
his hands. "In the wake of the annihilation of the Reithrese there was much mourning and reioicing here
among the sylvanii. And much thinking. You lay in state in the Consilliarii chamber for a month, with my
sister there always. Your role in the Reithrese extermination and her love for you provoked much
thought. And catalyzed much in the way of change."

 He looked over at Gena, and she became fully aware of the pressure of Berengar's hands on her
shoulders. "The law that separated you from Larissa was swept away in a vote that was nearly
unanimous."

Neal looked up. "Finndali?"

 "He died at Alatun. Those who voted against you were Vorrin and other reactionaries. The humiliation
that came from their votes prompted them to go beyond shortly thereafter." Aarundel's eye focused
distantly, and his face slackened slightly into an expression Gena recognized from when he used to tell her
stories of the days he traveled with Neal. "There also arose among the mages a contest to counter
Takrakor's magick. While your wishes were well-known on the matter, the mages said the spell cast
upon you was the last trace of the Reithrese in the world and, therefore, should be expunged. They made
it a matter of safety as well as pride."

Gena frowned. "What do you mean when you talk about Neal's wishes on the matter?"

 Neal wearily raised his left hand and showed her the back of it. "I always refused magickal healing. That
is why I am so scarred. Your grandfather asked me to reconsider as I lay dying. I refused."

Gena felt her guts twist into a knot. "I did not know."

"It is true, Neal, she did not." Aarundel looked straight at his friend. "We told her everything about you,
but we hid your feelings concerning curative magick from her."

"What?" Gena struggled to her feet. "Why?"

 "Because it was necessary." Aarundel cut her off by slashing his hand through the air. "The mages
worked for over two centuries to figure out what they would have to do to counteract Takrakor's
magick, and they created a regimen of spells that would successfully do the job. These they made a
present to my sister. They—in reality all of the sylvanii—felt it was her decision to make, whether or not
to use them. They raised this tomb and placed you inside it, giving her, through the bracelet you made,
the only access to it."

 Gena watched muscles bunch at the corners of Neal's Jaw. "So Larissa accepted this gift even though
she knew I did not want it? How could she?"

Fire sparked in Aarundel's eye. "Yow knew what you wanted. I knew what you wanted. She knew
what you wanted. You didn't think to ask what she wanted. That is the burden of vitamor, Neal. It is not
your wants or her wants, but what you want together that matters!"

 The white-haired Elf stared up at the sky as the anger drained from his voice. "You will never know how
much your death hurt Larissa, Neal. She always held herself in control, but there were times when I could
see it. A tear. The way her voice would crack. The fact that her laugh was never unrestrained after your
death. She loved you so fiercely that she would have done anything to bring you back—anything but
violate your wishes."

Neal wrapped his right arm across his chest and covered his face with his left hand. "What I did to you,
my love . . ." Gena could see his jaw moving, but no more words escaped his mouth. Suddenly he
hammered his right fist against the bark of the Consilliarii tree. "How could I have been so cruel?"

His question hung in the air, leaving him open for recrimination, but Aarundel answered him gently. "We
both wanted you back with us, but we respected your wishes. No matter how much it hurt, she would
not violate them. Her love for you prevented action for the first century or so, then fear took over."

"Fear? Of me?" Neal's hand came away from his face. "I never would have knowingly hurt her."

 "She knew that, my friend." Aarundel stepped forward and laid his hands on Neal's shoulders. "She was
afraid of your reaction if she brought you back. You would have been three centuries out of your time.
She was afraid you would hate her for being so selfish as to bring you back when the world you had
known had vanished. I tried to tell her she was wrong, but she would not listen."

"And here I react as she predicted I would, justifying her fears."

"Your anger is understandable."

Neal shook his head. "That's not entirely true, but she should not have thought any anger would turn into
hatred. We would have been together. A thousand years could have passed, and I would have been very
happy to return to her."

 Aarundel folded his arms. "I think she knew that, but it led into her other, far greater fear. What she
dreaded—the thing that truly stopped her from using the magicks herself—was that she would not
survive losing you again. That pain . . ." Aarundel raised his hands and let them fall again as he shrugged
wordlessly.

Neal balled his fists in frustration. "I know her pain. I am here and she is forever beyond my reach."

 "Remember she loved you very well and truly, for she did things in your name neither of us ever would
have contemplated otherwise." Aarundel looked over at Gena and then away again. "We hatched a plot,
my sister and I. My son, Niall, showed no aptitude for magick, so we had to wait. His daughter,
Genevera, did have a talent for magick. Larissa taught her a great deal about magick and about you. I
taught her mostly about Men and you. We created for her a very strong portrait of you, yet one that was
incomplete. We wanted, we expected, that some day she would want to complete it. She would use the
spells that Larissa would not to bring you back, and when my sister deemed her sufficiently powerful, she
went beyond, hoping you would understand."

Gena's jaw dropped. "You used me to bring him back against his wishes?"

Aarundel faced her squarely. "You were not overly concerned about his wishes when you chose to act."

"I acted because doing that seemed a viable solution to the current problem! Had I known he never used
magick to heal himself, I never would have done this."

Neal stared up at his friend. "I'm thinking, Aarundel, I cannot believe you would have done this. You
warped your own granddaughter into bringing me back?"
 "What is so hard to believe, Neal? Have you forgotten how the Consilliarii offered you my sister to
prevent the war with the Reithrese? Am I not of the same blood and the same culture that offered you
that devil's choice?"

"I thought you were different."

 "I am different!" Aarundel's anger flooded through his voice. "Larissa would not bring you back. I could
not bring you back, yet I knew that your death was the fault of me and my people. We knew and had
known for ages that one day we would be forced to go to war with the Reithrese, yet we were willing to
do anything we could to forestall that eventuality. We were willing to let them slaughter Men to build their
empire because we thought it would deflect them away from us. You forced us to remember they had
aligned themselves with Death, and because they had done so, there was no way to avoid a conflict.

 "You also put a face on Humanity for us. You showed us that all the noble and virtuous thoughts and
traditions we ascribed to ourselves also applied to Men. When you refused my sister to save me and my
wife, you shamed a nation. You made us realize that for us to sacrifice Humanity to preserve ourselves
was incredibly arrogant and the height of hubris. You died in a war we should have waged centuries ago,
you died wrongfully, and I chose to do whatever I had to do to redress that wrong."

 Her grandfather faced her and Gena saw pain in his single eye. "Had I a choice, Genevera, I would have
done what you did and have earned the ire for it that you have earned. You were a tool in my hands, so
all blame should fall to me. I do not expect you to forgive me, but I hope you will understand me."

 Gena wanted to scream at him and almost did, but a voice inside her stopped her. Yes, she had been
used. Her grandfather and grandaunt had deceived her. They had tricked her into doing something they
could not bring themselves to do. For that they deserved all of her anger.

 However, they had not forced her to raise Neal from the dead. She had jumped at the chance, for
reasons she could only barely begin to fathom. She knew, in part, that her willingness to participate came
from the fact that if she were successful, she would have done something her grandaunt, her mentor, had
been unwilling and unable to attempt. Bringing Neal back had been her opportunity to prove how much
she had learned and how skilled she had become. Her discovery of the deception turned that pride into a
knife that sliced through her ego and stabbed deep into her self-esteem, but as an Elf she knew herself
heir to a big piece of the hubris her grandfather had just described.

 "I understand you, grandfather." Rik's image flashed through her mind. "I understand your wanting your
friend back, and even your desire to see the wrongs committed against him redressed. And I can forgive
you because my part in this was prompted by similar motivations."

 She slipped the bracelet from her wrist and walked over to Neal "You made this for my grandaunt, and
she treasured it for the five centuries she agonized over you and your fate. She loved you more than you
will ever know, and it was her love reflected through me that finished the process that brought you back
to life. If not for her love, you would not live now."

The corners of Neal's mouth tucked back in a quick smile. "I lived for her love, fitting now that I live
because of it."

Gena held the bracelet out toward him and saw him draw back from her. "I am not worthy to wear this.
Take it, wear it in her memory. You made it so she could remember you; now it is your turn to remember
her through it."
 Neal took it from her and slipped it tight around his own right wrist. He smiled up at her, then looked
back down at the silver bracelet. "Thank you." He frowned, then shook his head. "Forgive me for my
reaction. I'm thinking that being dead does not do much for one's manners."

Gena smiled back at him. "No offense taken. This has to be a shock."

"That it is. So much has changed."

"Not as much as you might think, Neal."

Neal looked over at Berengar. "How is that . . . Berengar, was it?"

 "Berengar Fisher. Five centuries ago you were chasing Haladin raiders through Centisia. Like locusts
they are back."

Neal straightened up and stood free of the tree. "If you're half the warrior as was the man whose form
you wear, those raiders would not be much of a threat."

 Berengar nodded at Gena. "As Lady Genevera can attest, we give better than we get, but we cannot
root them out of Centisia fully because some are there under the protection of the Riveren, er, Riveraven
family. Because of this alliance, the Riverens threaten to overwhelm my family. The prohibition on
violence between our families that you laid down prevents us from being able to fight back."

 Gena nodded. "We have been searching for Cleaveheart and Wasp so we can undo what you did in
Aurdon. We believe we have found Cleaveheart's resting place, in Jarudin, but the obvious way to
recover the sword is keyed to the dagger Wasp. Wasp was lost in Jammaq and never recovered. We
need to know if there is another way to get the sword, and to answer that question, we had to bring you
back to life."

 "A fair question that is, and I'm thinking you expect me to answer in the affirmative, else you'd not have
gone to all this trouble." Neal's green eyes narrowed in a frown. "I'm afraid, though, that I was not smart
enough to think of a second way to open the vault. I had sort of intended to have Cleaveheart locked
away forever, which, I'm thinking, I would likely have pegged as five centuries or so, given how I was
thinking at the time."

"Damn and damn." Berengar's hands bunched into fists. "Without that blade, my family is lost."

Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, we can't have that."

"But we can't fix it either, because only Wasp can open the vault, and Wasp is gone."

"Not at all." Neal pointed off to the northeast. "It's off that way."

Aarundel looked shocked. "What? How do you know that?"

 Neal looked at his pointing finger as if it were an alien part of himself. "I don't know how I know, my
friend, but it's out there. I know it the same way I knew where Takrakor was when we waited outside
Atatun."

The two of them looked at each other. "Neal, you don't think . . . ?"
 "Think, not likely. Fear, on the other hand . . ." Neal clapped his hands on her grandfather's shoulders,
and she saw Aarundel smile proudly. "Tell you what, my friend, I'd be thankful for the loan of weapons
and supplies. If we're right, I'm thinking I've got some work to finish, and five centuries is far too long a
time to have left it undone."

Chapter 34:
The Ties Even Death Cannot Sever

Late Autumn
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

***

 DESPITE BERENGAR'S STATEMENT to the contrary, I found very little to be as I remembered it
from before Alatun. Aarundel's aging and the presence of a stone building on the Consilliarii island were
but two of the changes time had wrought in Cygestolia. It was not grossly different—I still remembered
my way around—but all the trees appeared to be a bit lighter in their shades of green, and a few of the
smaller ones were sporting leaves of red and gold. Even though I had seen seasonal changes in
Cygestolia and the Elven Holdings before the Reithrese campaign, I thought these new changes more
chronic than seasonal.

 Woodspire, by contrast, had grown larger and fuller. I saw more in the way of things that a Man might
find familiar, and reorienting myself to its internal geography proved not that difficult. Even so, when I
went to turn down a corner to the chamber that had been mine, Aarundel steered me on and up some
stairs to a grander suite of rooms.

"These we created for you, in the event of your return." He smiled at me. "Larissa guided the project."

 I could not help myself but to smile. The huge chamber had as its centerpiece a stone garden akin to the
one in the tower at Jarudin. One whole wall had a map made from blocks of different woods, all textured
to represent mountains, valleys, rivers, deltas, lakes, and cities. I recognized the general layout of the
terrain, though some of the political borders surprised me. The room had been furnished with chairs and
chest that I would have chosen, and I felt a pang in my heart when I realized the depth of care Larissa
had put into creating this room for me.

"I am honored."

 "Then we are very happy." A silver-haired sylvanesti slipped into the room behind Berengar and nestled
in beneath Aarundel's right arm. "I have waited a long time to see you again, Neal Elfward."

"Marta?" I bowed to her.

 As I straightened up, she surprised me and stepped forward to hug me. I tried to hold her back, fearful
of what would happen when we touched, but neither she nor Aarundel appeared to be the least bit
concerned of the consequences of her action. She wrapped her arms around my chest and squeezed. "I
have long wanted to do this to thank you for saving our lives in Jammaq."

When Aarundel smiled and nodded at me, I let my hands slip from her shoulders and around her back to
enfold her in a hug. The scent of lilacs rose from her hair, and the long silver locks tickled against my
chest. She felt so frail and light in my arms, yet I sensed a strength flowing through her. Afraid I might
crush her, I held her as tightly as I dared, then I eased myself free of her arms.

 She looked hurt for a moment, then her alabaster flesh flushed pink. "Forgive me, Neal, I know this must
all be strange for you."

 I nodded. "It is, a bit. I can recall times when I wanted to take Larissa into my arms and could not, even
though I sought only to comfort her, not seduce her. And now, the idea that I can hold you without
Aarundel fearing your loss or my death—and I'm thinking the former is more his fear than the latter—it is
something I will have to become used to."

 "Because of you, it is possible." Marta retreated into Aarundel's arms, but smiled at me nonetheless.
"The law that prohibited our touching was foolish, and I hope it remains in its grave ten times as long as
you did."

 I smiled and looked down at my hands, still feeling her in my arms and pressed against my chest.
"Though it is five hundred years late, I must thank you, Marta, for saving my life in Alatun."

"But I was not there."

 I laughed aloud. "Not in form, but in spirit, to Takrakor's regret. The spell you put on the tooth fragment
in the dagger you gave me told me that he waited for me in Alatun. There he managed to do some things
to me that, well, put me in quite a state. He kept getting closer to strengthen his link to me, and it
strengthened the one you created. Then I smashed the fragment of his tooth against the stone floor."

Marta's hand rose to her own jaw. "Oh, my."

 "That, I'm thinking, is likely the tamest of language he had running through his brain." I shrugged, then
worked my shoulders around to loosen them. "He was distracted and I cut him with Cleaveheart. I
thought I had killed him, but the link with Wasp seems to be working still, which means Takrakor might
yet be alive."

My right index finger again wanted to point off to the northeast, but I held it in check. "We need Wasp if
we are to get Cleaveheart back and solve Berengar's problems."

Aarundel nodded. "Recovering the dagger and getting back to Aurium/Aurdon will take some planning.
The sooner we are started, the sooner we will finish."

 It was interesting to watch the changes that time had wrought in Aarundel. He had always been a
capable leader and a meticulous planner, but he served as an adviser to me by his own choice when we
fought together in the Steel Pack. In the years since Alatun he had grown into the sort of leader that his
father and grandfather had been. From the start I knew he would not be accompanying me on the quest
to get Cleaveheart back, but he would do everything he could to guarantee us success.

 The first thing he did was order tailors, armorers, and swordsmiths to come and begin preparing me
proper clothes and tools for our journey. I learned quickly that styles had changed in everything from
boots and tunics to armor and swords. What I preferred, of course, was considered archaic, but I
conceded to conventional wisdom in the area of fashion, though I did insist on a blade rather stouter than
this rapier-thing Berengar seemed to favor. Aarundel had a sword made to my specifications, but also
commissioned a rapier for me.
 Once I had clothes enough for a short journey, Aarundel arranged for me to travel with him via the
circus translatio to a spot roughly three hundred miles north of Cygestolia. Before we left, with me sitting
on the back of Scurra, a multiply-great grandson of Blackstar, Aarundel and some astronomers had me
point off toward where Wasp was located. They planted stakes in the ground parallel with my arm and
on a map drew a line up and off the edge of the map that corresponded to the direction in which I
pointed.

 After we arrived at the circus grove to the north, Aarundel had me again point toward Wasp. I noted
myself that I pointed more easterly than northeasterly this time, and that appeared to please Aarundel. He
looked at the stars and made some notes, then we settled down, just the two of us, to rest up for three
days before we headed back to Cygestolia.

 In the darkness, with the two of us swaddled in blankets to keep the cold out, it felt as if we had never
been apart. We remembered bits and pieces of battles as if they had happened only yesterday. A light
snow started to fall, and it seemed to me as if we were back in the Hiris mountains, tricking the Reithrese
into believing the Red Tiger's whole army had been trapped there.

 He told me about how the whole battle at Alatun had run. My heart swelled with pride as he described
the Steel Pack holding the gate to the city despite attackers inside and out. When the magickal
components of the Reithrese army fell apart, the Elven host had overwhelmed them. Those that could
retreat tried to do so in good order, then were crushed against the walls of the city they had sought to
defend.

 "Those of us who were wounded were taken away, but the rest of the army scoured the countryside and
killed everyone and anyone they saw of Reithrese descent. We prepared mass graves and buried the lot
of them. We destroyed their cities and sterilized their land with fire; then we salted the earth and erased
any trace of their having existed—at least any trace within Reith itself. As a people the Reithrese are
forgotten except among degenerates and the Haladina, who drill their teeth and set them with gems in
remembrance of their former masters."

I nodded. "It sounds as if you did a thorough job."

 Aarundel stared into the little fire we had blazing near our feet. "I would have been happier had a
complete record been kept of the Reithrese, along with a list of the dead, but there were thousands and
thousands of them. I don't know if cataloging them would have been possible. For example, I would have
preferred to have found Takrakor's body. If he yet lives . . ."

I shrugged. "He was the serpent's head. When it was struck off, the body died. Now we will have to
make doubly certain the head remains dead. Do you think, with him alive, if there were a corps of
Reithrese survivors they would not have tried to avenge themselves upon Elves and Men before this?"

 "That point has merit, and I am foolish enough to take comfort in it." He leaned back against an old log
and began to tell me of his life since my demise. He proved a proud father and prouder grandfather, citing
some of the adventures Niall, Gena, and her brother, Finnwick, had enjoyed. He told me of Gena's lover,
Durriken, and his having recovered the insignii nuptialis from the vault of some collector.

"You have prospered in my absence, and of that I am proud, my friend."

"But it was your sacrifice that made it all possible." Aarundel's hand came up, forestalling any reply on
my part; then he pointed off toward the east.
 Excepting the crackle of the fire and my own heartbeat, I heard nothing for a moment or two. Then I
caught the faint sounds of something approaching our campsite. I reached over to where the hilt of my
sword lay, but refrained from drawing it as, in one huge leap, a hulking shadowed form landed at the
edge of the firelight circle.

It poked its muzzle into the air and took a healthy sniff. "Neal Roclawzi, you are."

 In size and shape it looked a lot like Shijef, but its coloration differed radically. Half its face, starting from
the muzzle and taking in the left ear, was black. The other side started white at the muzzle, but became
grey-blue around the eye and across the cheek and ear. The body fur tended toward black except for a
grey V-blaze at its throat and white on its paws. There was no doubt it was a Dreel, but its presence so
far from its normal range surprised me.

"I am Neal Roclawzi."

 "Defeated Shijef in single combat you did?" It hunched down on its haunches and cocked its head at me.
"Show me."

 I opened my blanket cocoon and lifted my warm woolen tunic. The Dreel peered in closely at the bite
scars Shijef had left on me. "I was much younger then, so if you seek the same sort of contest, I will
decline,"

 It shook its head, then raised its muzzle to the sky and let out a howl that chilled me more than the night
air. "Stulklirn am I. Shijef-sired through Bactha, Sorria, Skactin, Borna, and Byoni. Of the seventh
generation am I, and the first to be honored by your presence." The beast lowered his head until his chin
touched the ground. "The bargain is and fulfillment am I. The same heart have we."

Stulklirn's words echoed those of his great, great, great, great grandfather, bringing remembrance to my
brain and a smile to my face. "We have the same heart."

 The Dreel's head came up and he howled happily. His bushy tail stirred up leaves behind him, it beat so
against the ground. "What service would you have of me?"

 "Sit, for the moment." I pointed to a spot a bit closer yet stili slightly downwind of us. "Does Shijef still
live?"

"Lives in his children he does. Many kin, many lives." Stulklirn extended a paw toward the fire, then
pulled it back and sniffed at it. "Waited, did we, for you. When you came, I was chosen."

"How did you know?"

The Dreel shrugged. "Knew, did I." His agate eyes sparkled with excitement. "Chosen was I because to
you fast I could get. That Bactha's gift is."

I glanced over at Aarundel. "Dreelbands were small and not widely spread when I was alive. Are there
more of them now?"

 "I confess I do not know. With the spread of Mankind, I suspect many of their ranges have grown
smaller, but I have heard little or nothing of the Dreel since the fall of the Reithrese."
 "Hidden we have been, waiting. Shijef and Man-Neal allies. In service to the Dun Wolf are we. Protect
denmen." The Dreel looked to me for some confirmation that what he was saying was true, so I nodded
and smiled at him. "In Dreel-land, Shijef emperor. All Dreel him praise."

 Aarundel shrugged. "When we return to Cygestolia, ask Genevera about the Dreel. She has a very good
understanding of folklore—especially the legends that still are sung about you. I am certain she knows of
the Dreel."

Stulklirn's ears pricked up. "To Cygestolia you go? Take you there I will."

He started to get up, but I restrained him with a hand. "We have the grove as soon as we are rested."

The Dreel shook his head. "Trees slow are. Stulklirn much faster with Bactha's gift is."

I glanced at Aarundel and decided from his raised eyebrow that we both had missed what Stulklirn
believed he was making obvious. "Bactha's gift, it allows you to go between places?"

The Dreel thumped his chest with a paw. "Mastery of Roadfast, have I. Longstepper am I."

"Well then, Stulklirn Longstepper, tomorrow or the day after we will let you take us to Cygestolia."

"Until then?"

I shrugged. "Until then, we sleep and talk and wait."

"Waiting I have done." The Dreel opened his mouth in a canine leer. "Waiting with allies better is."

 Over the next two days Aarundel had me point toward where I felt Wasp was, and the measurements
he took always appeared to be roughly the same. He explained to me that he would draw the line
indicated by my pointing on the same map as he had drawn the line for the first point. Where those two
lines crossed would be the area in which we could find Wasp.

 The Dreel took great interest in what Aarundel was doing, and from time to time I found them locked in
conversations as deep as those that Lomthelgar and Shijef had shared. Even allowing for the fact that
Shijef had been surly and hostile toward me, with good reason Stulklirn appeared to me to be smarter
than his progenitor. He learned very quickly and patiently worked with our horses so they could get used
to his scent.

 As had Shijef before him, Stulklirn used the Dreel version of the circus translatio to take us back to
Cygestolia. We arrived in the grove, and once again I noticed that we were not as tired as we had been
when we used the grove to head out, Stulklirn immediately bounded off to explore the forests—he
assured us that he would find us—while Aarundel and I rode back to Woodspire.

We found Berengar and Genevera in the central chamber of my suite. They both studied the map upon
which the first line had been drawn. Aarundel added the line determined by the new measurements, and
Berengar groaned as they intersected in the frozen wastes above Mannkito.

 "That means we must take into account an expedition into the Rimefields." He squinted at the map. "Our
journey will cover two thousand miles at the very least, with a tenth of that in the ice barrens."

I frowned. "People used to live there when I was alive."
 "And they still do, at a bare subsistence level. By the time we make it there, it will be the dead of winter.
We will be fighting storms, and there is no way we can carry enough provisions to last us there and back
again." He glared at me as if it were my fault where Wasp ended up.

"At best we will be in Aurdon this time next year."

 I tapped the map near the center ofIrtysh . "If we started here, we'd be looking at five hundred miles or
so. Provisions and travel will need to account for less than two months out and two back in the worst
case."

Berengar folded his arms. "That would be correct, if we could start inIrtysh , but we are over here in
Cygestolia. How do we get there?"

 Aarundel smiled, so I didn't have to. "A Dreel with a most amazing ability has pledged himself to Neal's
service.

 "A Dreel?" The delight in Gena's voice brought the smile to my lips that I had denied Berengar. "A Dreel
like Shijef?"

I nodded. "His great-great-something-grandson."

Berengar looked at all of us as if we were crazy. "Dreels are myths."

"I'm thinking I was a myth up until a week ago."

Gena bent forward and took a good look at the map. "Neal, did you ever fight a creature up in the
Rimefields? A big Man-eating monster?"

I shook my head, then glanced at Aarundel. "I can't remember anything like that."

 Aarundel shook his head as well. "We never ventured into the Rimefields. Closest we got was when you
fought Shijef inIrtysh ."

"Dreels again." Berengar frowned imperiously. "Myths."

 Gena tapped the map under the shallow X the two lines had made. "I remember hearing something
about an ice-monster living in a smoking ice mountain up here. It eats Men, it is said, and there is a
legend about your fighting it, but I think that was cobbled together from other heroic songs from Rzyani
sources."

"There's another myth for you, my lord." I smiled carefully at Berengar. "Genevera, does that monster
have a name?"

"Bacorzi, Pacorzi . . . Tacorai perhaps."

 Aarundel and I again looked at each other. "Takrakor? Smash down the middle and add the 'zi' for his
living in a mountain."

The elder Elf nodded. "Had I thought he still lived, I might have made the connection myself and acted
upon it."
I shook my head. "There was no way you could link that myth and Takrakor, and we still might be
wrong about it. We won't know until we get there."

"And when you do?"

"I'll ask him politely to give me back my knife, and when he refuses, I'll do to him what I meant to do five
hundred years ago."

Chapter 35:
New Tricks For An Old Wolf

Early Winter
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 IN RETROSPECT GENA saw how it had begun, though had she been asked at the start of the
expedition, she would have said there would have been no trouble among the four of them. No one had
been designated leader of the group, though she had still seen Berengar in that role, since he had initiated
the whole thing. Neal functioned as a guide and adviser, and while she was certain that was how he
would have characterized his role, he just naturally asserted himself and gave his opinion when any
questions came up.

 The Dreel had helped polarize things very quickly because of his devotion to Neal and utter lack of
respect for Berengar. And Berengar, while an intelligent and skilled man, had not traveled much in the
northern nations and not at all by the circus translatio. The exertion of using that route to get from
Cygestolia to the grove to the east of Jarudin seriously wore him out. As a result his temper was shorter
than usual, and he did not rein it back in.

 Neal, on the other hand, seemed to weather travel by the circus better than even she did. She felt
embarrassed awakening to the sound of Neal and Stulklirn dumping armloads of wood near the edge of
the campsite to feed the fire that kept her warm. "How can you be so full of energy?"

The Man shrugged. "I'm thinking I must have rested a great deal while I was dead."

Gena yawned. "I apologize for awakening you. Had I known . . ."

 Neal shook his head. "Now I'm the one who should be apologizing. Someone brings you back from the
dead, and you get angry with them? I'm thinking I was more mannerly dealing with the Reithrese emperor
in Jarudin than I was with you and Aarundel. Never was one to wake up all cheery, though."

Gena stretched and tossed her blanket across Berengar's feet. She stood and walked over to where
Neal squatted. She held her hands out to the fire. "That feels good."

 "Something about a fire that warms the body and prompts talk that warms the soul. Many's the
friendship welded together over a campfire."

 Gena sat down and poked a stick into the fire. "Did you and my grandaunt spend much time talking over
a fire?"
 Neal thought for a second, and Gena saw sadness flicker over his face. "Once, for a bit, but it didn't last.
That was the night that Takrakor and his warriors took your grandfather away. We had more fires on
that trip, of course, but we didn't do much talking."

The pain in his voice made her want to hug him, but as she reached out, he withdrew. "Neal, there is no
prohibition against our touching."

 He gave her a smile, but it died quickly. "I know this, but I fought so long to keep from hugging Larissa,
that it's a habit I can't break."

"You could if you tried."

 Neal shrugged. "True, but then I'd have to deal with the fact that I'd be hugging the grandniece of the
sylvanesti I love. To go from living in a tomb to robbing a cradle is a bit much right now."

"Neal, I am only slightly younger than Larissa was when you met her."

"Which means I'm twice your age."

 "I do not think the five hundred years you lay dead count against you. Would you deny yourself the
charms of a woman just shy a score years?"

Neal seemed to consider that for a moment, then shook his head. "That would be a bit different."

"How so?"

"Being as how I'm an old dog, and succumbing to the charms of a woman is an old trick, I can see
myself doing it. Actually being able to touch a sylvanesti is a new trick."

"You could learn new tricks if you wanted." Gena laid a thick piece of wood on the fire. "I could teach
you." Though it came out innocently, she immediately looked up to see how he would interpret her
words. I didn't mean I could teach him about loving a sylvanesti—or did I?

Neal raised an eyebrow, then smiled. "I'm thinking there is one trick you might be able to teach me, if
you wouldn't mind."

"Yes?"

 He jerked his head toward her baggage. "I saw you packing away some things that Aarundel called
flashdrakes. I gather they are some sort of weapon, but I don't recall seeing their like before."

 "The Dwarves made them first, and still make the best, but even the Haladina have begun to manufacture
them. It is a new weapon, however. These flashdrakes belonged to Durriken." Gena hesitated, instantly
afraid of Neal's reaction to what she would say next. "He was my lover, a Man, like yourself. The
Haladina murdered him in Aurdon."

 Neal did grow a bit distant as she spoke, but remained keenly interested in what she said. "Your
grandfather told me of Durriken and how he got the insigne nuptialis back. I think I would have liked
him."
 "Stories about you intrigued Rik quite a bit." Gena stared down at the fire. "He and I were together for
three years, then the Haladina took him away from me."

"So Berengar wants to save his family in this, and you're looking to avenge Durriken's death?"

"I guess so. It started as an expedition to help a friend recover Cleaveheart and Wasp, but Rik's murder
has made it personal. I carry the flashdrakes because they, and this ring, are all I have to remember him
by. The Haladina killed him with the Death of Eight Cuts."

Neal winced. "That is not a nice way to die." He shook his head. "I guess things have changed a great
deal, because I can't imagine a sylvanesti in the arms of a Haladina."

 "Nor can I. The Haladina have taken to setting gems in their teeth to remind themselves of the days of
the Reithrese."

Neal looked confused for a moment, then glanced again at her baggage. "So will you show me how to
use these flashdrakes?"

She nodded. "We will have to walk away from camp, because they are very loud."

 Neal stood and brushed his hands off on the thighs of his breeches. "Stulklirn, will you watch Berengar
and make certain he is not harmed while he sleeps?"

 The Dreel nodded and crouched down at Berengar's side. "Watch, I will." The creature's feral grin
suggested to Gena that the Dreel would have waited an eternity just to see the moment of terror in
Berengar's eyes when he awoke he found a Dreel hunched over him.

 Neal hefted the saddlebags containing the flashdrakes and led her off on a little path away from the
grove. They walked over a series of leaf-covered hills and descended into a little valley with steep walls
that ran roughly twenty-five yards before it curved off to the south. "This should channel the noise away
from the grove, I'm thinking."

 Gena nodded and cast about for a suitable target. She [yfipw] a large mushroom, from which she tore
the cap and ["red] on down the gully. She leaned it up against a tree that had fallen across the ravine, then
returned to Neal's side. "That should do."

 Neal set the saddlebags down, then took a step back from them. Gena dropped to one knee and
opened the one with the flashdrakes. She took them out and handed one to him, then carefully explained
and walked through each step of loading her weapon. Neal aped her movements, watching her intently,
and asked no question.

 Gena found being under his scrutiny both challenging and thrilling. She worked methodically and slowly
to load the flashdrake and, in doing so, found the job rather akin to the various ritualized forms of magick
she had learned from Larissa. That helped her overcome some of her nervousness and gave her
confidence. Neal seemed to appreciate her precision because he worked to imitate her exactly in all she
did.

It struck her as being utterly incongruous that she was standing there in Ispar teaching a legend how to
operate a weapon that had not come into use until well after his death. That she was even able to speak
with him after she had spent her life idolizing him and seeking knowledge about him was unbelievable.
That she might have something to offer him, that was the sort of thing of which fantasies were spun.
 Finally she drew the flashdrake's talon back and pointed the weapon at the toadstool. "There will be one
initial flash, then a larger one and some thunder. Brace yourself."

Neal nodded and she pulled the trigger. The talon struck a spark down into the pan, and the priming
powder flared up bright red, then collapsed into a gout of smoke that obscured the target. She held her
hand steady, then the pistol charge went off. The thunder from the flashdrake hid any sound of the lead
ball hitting the target, but when the smoke cleared, the toadstool was gone, as well as a bit of the tree.

Neal smiled sheepishly, a yard back from where he had been standing. "It was loud, wasn't it?"

"Indeed. Come, let's see how I did."

 The both of them ran down to where the toadstool had been and laughed as they pulled up short. The
fallen tree showed a splintery furrow where the ball had plowed into the wood a bit to the right of the
toadstool. The beige target had been knocked from the log by the impact and lay on the ground. Gena
picked it up, inspected it, and frowned. "We are shooting a long way off, and I am not that good a shot."

 Neal fingered the bullet groove. "Were that ball an arrow and the toadstool a warrior's chest, you'd have
skewered his liver. And the way it splintered the wood, I'm thinking armor's of little use."

 Gena set the toadstool back in place. "Your turn." They returned to the saddlebags, and Gena watched
as Neal loaded the weapon. The only mistake he almost made was in reaching for the finer-grained
priming powder for the primary charge, but when she pointed out the difference, he nodded. "Big grains
for the big fire, small grains for the small fire."

"Exactly."

He smiled and cocked the flashdrake. "I'm ready, am I? How do I aim?"

"Close your left eye." She reached up to block it, but he pulled his head aside. "Sorry. Look down the
barrel and keep it pointed at your target. At this range the bullet will drop an inch or two. Compensate."

"Done." He smiled like a child playing with a new toy. "Brace yourself."

 The talon fell, and in the second before the main charge exploded, Gena noticed how Neal's thickly
muscled arm held the heavy flashdrake rock-still. Then the flashdrake vomited fire and smoke, and an
earsplittmg roar echoed through the forest. As the thick white smoke evaporated, Gena saw no trace of
the mushroom's cap.

Neal looked at the smoking flashdrake. "It has quite a jolt to it."

 "Rik used to call that 'recoil.' It varies with how much powder you use, and too much can make the
flashdrake explode in your hands." Her ears ringing, Gena started to walk down to the target area.
"Poor-made imitations of these Dwarven handcannons have been known to kill the person using them."

 Neal fell into step beside her. "Slower to use than a bow, but not an arbalest." He stopped as they came
to a circle of toadstool fragments, and squatted. Using the gun, he pointed at some of the larger pieces.
"Looks like I hit it a bit high and to the left."

"But you hit it on the first shot!" Gena clapped her hands. "You are very good."
"Or very lucky."

 "Or," called Berengar from the firing line, "you have discovered what we did in Aurdon—these things
take no skill at all to use. This is why they are restricted from the lower classes."

 Neal stood and nodded to Berengar. "Had the Steel Pack had these weapons, we would have swept
the Reithrese from the face of Skirren a year or two before the Elven crusade."

"Thank the gods there are few enough of them, and most of those so wretched that they kill those who
use them." Berengar dropped his left hand to the hilt of his rapier. "Those flashdrakes require no skill and
bring no honor on those who use them."

 "Still, they are clearly effective." Neal looked at Gena. "This Durriken of yours must have killed at least
two of the Haladina who took him before they killed him."

Gena shook her head and remembered how small Rik had looked stretched out on the table at the
Fisher mansion. "He did not shoot his assailants."

 Berengar's head came up. "When we found his body, the guns had not even been drawn from the
scabbards he had fashioned for them."

Neal's eyebrow rose. "In the time I have slept, the Haladina have become very stealthy, it seems."

"Very." Berengar spat on the ground. "And they have Riveren allies who provide them a safe haven in
Aurdon."

 "Well, we shall see about that, will we not?" Gena smiled and tried to mediate between the two of them.
She headed off any growing argument by agreeing to let Neal practice more with the flashdrakes while
she enlisted Berengar in helping her forage for some herbs to spice the gruel she intended to prepare as
their meal.

 Away from Neal, Berengar could not have been more pleasant or solicitous. He did not shy from her
touch and bantered with her effortlessly. He worked to anticipate her needs and very much assumed the
leadership role she had expected of him. He did not shy from performing tasks that would have been
beneath his station in Aurdon, and some of the camaraderie they had shared on the road returned to their
camp.

 Gena knew Neal had good reason for his distance—he had become alive again in a world that had
passed him by, but she could not help but judge him harshly for it. His inquisitive nature stood him in
good stead in adapting, and the varied volume and cadence of the flashdrake reports suggested he had
already begun to experiment with the weapons. Still, his willingness and desire to learn about the
weaponry of the day mocked his resistance to let down his guard concerning her, and that hurt.

 She toyed for a second with the idea of sleeping with Berengar, but she rejected it when she realized she
would be doing that to punish Neal. She wondered if, in the same way bringing him back had allowed her
to feel superior to Larissa in the realm of magick, seducing Neal would allow her to feel superior to her
grandaunt. The instant that question entered her mind, she blushed and felt ashamed. To do such a thing
for so petty a reason would dishonor her and mock what Neal and Larissa had shared. While Neal had
been dead for five hundred years, to his mind not a day had passed since he died thinking of Larissa.
 Neal returned to the camp with the flashdrakes in their scabbards, fastened against the flat of his
stomach. "This is how Durriken wore them?"

Gena nodded. "He could draw them quickly and use them while riding."

"While riding?" Neal looked at Berengar. "And you said these required no skill."

 "I stand by my statement. Weapons for old men who can no longer use a sword, or in Durriken's case, a
small man who made good use of a weapon that extended his reach."

 Neal shrugged his way out of the leather harness holding the flashdrakes in place. "I'm thinking I'm not
that small, but I don't know if I'm too old to be using this sword."

Berengar smiled effortlessly. "I think it is good you have practiced with the handcannons."

Stulklirn made a rude buzzing noise. "Denman idle-speaks."

Berengar glared at the Dreel. "I have dogs that would not deign to take your scent, much less worry
your ragged pelt with tooth."

Stulklirn's eyes brightened and his lips smacked together.

 Neal frowned at the Dreel, "Stulklirn, be still. My lord Count, I was thinking I was, that you might honor
me by teaching me all that I have yet to learn about swordsmanship. Same as these flashdrakes are new,
this rapier you wear was not known in my time. The rapier Aarundel had made for me still isn't familiar. If
you would be willing."

Berengar nodded gladly.

Neal smiled broadly. "Shall we pad the blades?"

 The count shook his head. "I won't touch you, and I won't let you touch me." He drew his blade with a
flourish, then saluted Genevera. "For you, my lady."

Chapter 36:
Hatred Fills A Heart Of Ice

Early Winter
A.R. 499
My 536th Year
The Present

***

 BEING DEAD FOR so long must have played hob with my brain, because I should have seen the
confrontation with Berengar coming more clearly than I did. I had been brought back to life to help him
deal with a situation that he saw as incredibly important. I understood that, but given the magnitude of
what I needed to understand about my own situation, his concerns slipped a bit back in line.

I also realized that I had been dealing with him as I would have the Red Tiger. While they looked very
much alike, they were not the same person. They shared a drive to accomplish their goals, to be certain,
but the Red Tiger had risen from poverty and slavery to revolt against the Reithrese. Berengar came from
a noble family and seemed to have an underlying arrogance, which he needed to sustain his mission. As
with most people, he saw himself as the hero of his own epic, but his arrogance made him think it others
must see him as a hero as well.

 His attitude toward the flashdrakes surprised me because I would have thought he was smart enough to
see how powerful they were. Actually, he was, but of the two courses of action open to him, he chose
the reactionary one. By restricting the handcannons he guaranteed his people would not be able to deal
with them. He should have embraced them, learned about them, and learned ways to use and defeat
them. An army armed with flashdrakes would be formidable, but knowing their weaknesses would make
them vulnerable.

 For example, it struck me that these flashdrakes would be singularly useless when a battle was being
fought in a rainstorm. Granted, fighting under adverse conditions is never desired, but soldiers can be
trained to deal with almost anything. Creating a unit like the Steel Pack that practiced moving and
attacking in driving rainstorms would allow him to destroy flashdrakers and win against all sorts of odds.

 Arrogance sometimes leads to vanity, and that often causes an overvaluation of honor. I should know
because part of my anger at Aarundel and Larissa in using Genevera to bring me back to life revolved
around my pride at not having used magick for healing during my career. Vanity, pure and simple.
Granted, I had a lot to learn about the world, but being alive definitely beat eternity in a stone house in
Cygestolia,

 Being brought back from the dead left me with a few questions about myself, which was why I asked
Berengar if he would be willing to fence with me. Going into the assault on Alatun, I had seen myself as
old and slow and breaking down. The magick that had revived me had not cleared up any old scars, but
it might have taken the edge off the damage done by aging. Then again, my attitude slowly turning positive
might have done the same thing. Either way, the result was the same—I had no idea how good I was in
comparison to the contemporary world.

 Berengar appeared ready to go immediately, but I held up a hand and stretched my legs out a little.
"Lying in the tomb left me a bit stiff." Joints popped and muscles slowly loosened. I laughed when my
right shoulder cracked like a dry twig under heavy tread, Berengar smiled, and Gena winced.

 I wish she had not done that. She looked too much like her grandaunt to me, which meant I kept
thinking back to times Larissa and I had spent together, trying to remember if I had seen that expression
or heard those words before. I did not mind drifting back into memories of Larissa, but coming out of
them hurt quite a bit. Whatever resentment I built from that pain I found myself directing toward
Genevera—none of which she deserved.

 Just as I realized I should not judge Berengar by the Red Tiger, I knew comparing Gena with Larissa
was unfair. Genevera was very intelligent, witty, friendly, and beautiful. She compared favorably with her
grandaunt, yet because Larissa was untouchable, there remained an aura of mystery around her that held
her apart from me. It left her a creature of fantasy, and while I had seen Larissa under similar
circumstances to those I was experiencing with Genevera, Gena's approachability helped distance me
from her.

 The other factor that kept a wall between us was how Berengar acted around Gena. Though she might
not have been aware of it, I had seen enough moon-eyed warriors chasing after women in garrison towns
to know the look of one smitten. His deference to her, respect of her, and resentment of time she and I
spent together told me just how much he thought he loved her. As is true with many honorable men, he
hid his intentions so as not to complicate our mission, but I suspected when we returned to Aurium, he
would make a clean breast of his feelings.

 Suitably stretched out, I drew my rapier from my baggage, raised it in a salute to Gena as had Berengar,
then dropped into a low guard. I kept the point of my blade in line with his chest at heart level, with my
right hand and blade hilt at waist level, just off my right hip. The blade's balance and slender tapering told
me that the thrust was the most important tactic in sword fighting now, but the razored edge on the blade
also suggested that it had its uses as well. Even so, the crushing, slashing attacks to which I had become
accustomed and in which I had become accomplished were clearly archaic.

 I took a quick step forward, extended, and lunged, but Berengar parried me wide, then twisted his wrist
and riposted to my chest. He whipped the blade away before it could skewer me, but he was fast and
very steady. The parry had been strong, and Berengar recovered from his lunge before I had brought my
sword back into a proper guard.

I nodded respectfully to him. "You are very good."

"You did not come at me hard."

"That does not diminish your speed and your skill." I raised my sword and saluted him. "Perhaps you
would be willing to instruct me in the current ways of fighting?"

 The question surprised him, but after a moment's consideration he consented and my lessons began
immediately. He started with forms and guards in that first session, and over the next three weeks we
progressed on up to some of the more complicated systems of fighting. The lack of spare rapiers meant
we had to use sticks to simulate a second sword when we tried that form, and we likewise had to
improvise bucklers from tree bark. Berengar professed a preference for sword and dagger fighting, and I
could definitely see that as likely the most common sort of swordplay in an urban setting.

 When we fenced, Berengar maintained an edge, and he took great pride in remaining my master at
swordplay. While he had taught me everything I knew about this new way of fighting, he had not taught
me everything he knew. On the other hand, I think I learned a bit more than he expected me to pick up. I
knew I had not seen him fight full out, nor had he seen all I had to offer, which made our fencing matches
exciting.

 From the grove outside Jarudin, Stulklirn had taken us directly to his normal range inIrtysh . Aarundel
and I, when Stulkhm joined us, postulated that a Dreel could either use the Elven circus translatio or end
up in any place he knew well enough to identify inside his mind. We also discovered we did not need the
chains to travel when working through a Dreel. In the same way that Shijef had taken us directly from
Jammaq to Cygestolia, Stulklirn was able to take us from Jarudin toIrtysh without using any of the circuii
groves along the way.

 From there we worked almost directly north. We bought more horses and what little supplies we could
convince folks to surrender, then headed on our way. People appeared concerned with our traveling
toward the Rimefields at this time of year less because of the weather than because Tacorzi was known
to extend his range in the winter. Going north during the winter, a number of people asserted, was akin to
committing suicide.

While no one would sign on with us as a guide, everyone was willing to share stories about Tacorzi.
Descriptions ranged from a pale-blue multitentacled squid-thing that waited in the snow for travelers the
way an antlion ambushes its prey, to a ghoul with a legion of skeletal zombies at its beck and call. The
latter suited Takrakor better than the former, but we heard about the ice-squid enough that I began to
wonder if it was not one of those bone-creatures I had seen the Reithrese use at Alatun.

 Ultimately we did not need a guide, because I knew exactly where we were going. I could not have
pointed it out on a map, but this close to Tacorzi and Wasp, I just knew where we were headed. Of
course, knowing the creature laired in the ice caverns at the base of a smoking mountain helped a lot,
especially when we crested foothills and saw the snow-clad mountain with a plume of gray smoke
smearing the blue sky.

 We found the entrance to the ice cavern late in the afternoon, so we pulled back from it and made a
camp a considerable distance up in a mountain valley. Not only could I get a sense of Takrakor's
presence, but some of the malevolence was leaking through as well. I recalled quite well the last time I
faced him, and I doubted five centuries would have diminished his power.

 "I think we may have made a mistake, my friends." I looked away from the small fire burning in our little
cave as I shared my conclusion. "Takrakor was very deadly the last time we met. We should have had
the Consilliarii send a troop of wizards to root him out."

 Berengar frowned at that idea. "I hardly think a powerful sorcerer would willfully lair in a hole in the ice.
I agree that caution is warranted, but we are not as weak a group as you might think. You and I are
formidable warriors, and the Dreel is very strong. Lady Genevera is a magick user of unparalleled skill in
my experience. Could nor this malevolence you feel be nothing more than his residual hatred of you for
killing him?"

"Berengar does make sense on that point, Neal."

"He does, Gena, but then we have to wonder what this Tacorzi is and how Takrakor got here."

 Berengar nodded. "I agree, Neal, these are questions we need to answer. Let us reconnoiter the ice
cavern tomorrow. If we cannot destroy the creature we find there—if there is any creature there—we
will retreat and summon more help. With the Dreel we can have more people here in a day or two."

 I frowned for a moment because Berengar had advanced the course of action I saw as most logical—if
nothing else we had to see what was there. "I agree." I leaned over and pulled the saddlebag with the
flashdrakes in it into my lap. "If you do not mind, Gena, I will take these with me tomorrow."

"And I thought you more confident in your abilities with a rapier, Neal." Berengar shook his head. "You
do not need those things."

"No disrespect to you as a swordmaster, Berengar, but I will bring these for one very simple reason."

"And that is?"

I smiled. "I had no idea what they were when I first saw them. I'm thinking that if Takrakor is behind the
Tacorzi legend, up here he'll not have seen them either. And that means, dishonorable or not, these might
be just enough to surprise or distract him so we can get away from him."

 The next day dawned bitter cold, with the sky so blue that it might have been an ocean suspended over
our heads. No snow had fallen in the night, and the wind had scoured the snowscape down to the hard
crust. The snow's frozen skin supported us for a second with each step, then gave way, plunging us
knee-deep in snow. We barked our shins on the crust with the next step, repeating the whole cycle with
monotonous regularity and fair discomfort.

 The crunch of snow under my feet, and the wind's cold kiss where my scarf and hat left the skin near my
eyes open, reminded me of my days as a youth in the Roclaws. As a child, I had always welcomed snow
because it transformed the world into a wonderful playground where forts could be built and snowball
wars fought. Growing into adulthood, I had seen another side to winter and did not relish the expeditions
mounted to find survivors of villages swept away by avalanches. The images of stiff and frozen corpses
perfectly preserved danced through my brain, and all too many of them wore my face.

 The round tunnel led down through the ice at a fairly sharp angle, but cracks and ripples in the surface
made climbing down not as difficult as I might have thought at first. Wearing the flashdrake scabbard
over my heavy coat did hinder me somewhat, but the tunnel leveled out quickly enough. It pushed on
through blue shadows for a good two hundred yards. Down here, where very little sunlight could
penetrate, the walls glowed azure and made our vaporous breaths a light-blue fog.

 Down inside the tunnel I felt no movement in the air, which eased the chill only a little. Where my breath
plumed up from within the scarf, the vapor managed to freeze on the forelock that had escaped my
woolen cap. I had to be careful when blinking my eyes lest they freeze shut as well. Inside my mittens my
fingers felt numb, but I kept moving them to keep them limber. Feeling colder than a corpse in my feet,
hands, and buttocks, I moved deeper into that blue hell.

 I stopped just beyond where the tunnel widened into a huge ice cavern. Though rendered in ice, many of
the decorations and much of the architecture came from Jammaq, Columns of ice had been sculpted into
bones, and countless tortured faces stared back at me through glassy walls. What I took to be gravel
crunched underfoot, but when I looked down, all I could see was the pale ivory of bone fragments.

 My companions entered the chamber and had the wisdom to spread out on either side, with Gena and
Berengar to my left and Stulklirn to my right. We all stared at the thing lurking in the center of the cavern
bowl. It hunched down on a hillock knitted of bones and had bodies in various states of disrepair
scattered about it. Unblemished by rot because of the cold, the bodies looked more like dolls that had
been rough-used by children at play than once-living creatures.

 The thing in the middle—Tacorzi seemed to suit it more than Takrakor—raised its half-fleshed head and
gave me a diamond-studded smile. "I knew you would come, Neal." A skeletal hand clicked bony fingers
against the hilt of the knife still borne in a harness on its chest. "I knew you had been consigned to the
same limbo as had I. Now we will both be free."

 It raised the skeletal left arm, and I saw both flesh and tattered muscles dangle like fringe from the limb.
The bony hand probed the gaping wound, the ancient, splintered wound, in its chest. "You killed me as I
killed you, Neal. Your Elven friends saved you even as my Mistress saved me. I have waited very long
for this, very long, very long. . . ."

I studied the charnel house surroundings for a moment. "I think I had the better of the resting places."

"Utility is preferable to comfort." The skeletal creature stared at me as if trying to catalog the differences
between us. "Here I nest next to the bosom of my goddess, still her servant despite her cruel judgment of
me."

"Your people are gone, and your empire is not even a memory in the minds of Men. You should have
given up long ago."
The monster continued to peer at me. "The memories of your despair and pain still please me."

 I shivered, and not from the cold. "Why did you do that to me? Why did you rape my brain? Why not
take the sword and be done with it?"

Tacorzi's jaw dropped and quivered in a ghoulish imitation of laughter. "Do you not know? Khiephnaft
must be won in combat or freely given to another. Back then, I could not win it by force of arms, but
now I would have no such problem."

 As Tacorzi spoke, its lethargy fell away. It heaved itself up and came upright, but not on legs. From the
point where its pelvis should have been, I saw only a skeletal body woven of pelvises and leg bones. The
creature, its leathery flesh creaking as the body shifted, rose up, and I saw the hillock upon which it had
rested was really an enormous skeletal simulacrum of a snake's body.

 Worse yet, curving up and over its shoulders, bony tentacles wove back and forth akin to cobras
swaying to a minstrel's flute tune. Four of the eight ended in animal skulls that snapped their jaws at us
and flashed fangs. Two, a wolf and a polar bear, still maintained part of their pelts. The other two were
bare of flesh, and I was certain one was that of a wolf. The other, by Stulklirn's snarled reaction, could
have been from a Dreel.

 The other four tentacles plunged down into the tangle of bodies lying around Tacorzi's coils. With a
harsh snapping sound, they bored into holes in the small of the backs of some corpses. Bodies lurched to
their feet. Shambling forward, the zombi quartet oriented on Berengar and Gena. The biting heads turned
their attention to Stulklirn.

 I shook my mittens free of my hands—the mittens dangled from cords tied to my wrists—and drew my
sword. "Leave them, it's me you want and my dagger back that I want."

 The half-dead thing shook its head. "You, I already know how to kill." He brought his hands up to his
face, then slashed them down and away. "I have been a long time in improving the spell. You will die
now."

 Beginning as a burning spark, the spell he had once before used to destroy me shot out at me. I knew I
had to move, had to escape it, but even as I thought about dodging to my right, the spell shifted to track
me. As it closed the distance between us, it grew from a spark to a burning cross. I heard it sizzling
through the air and actually began to feel cheated out of my second attempt at life.

 Suddenly Stulklirn dove in front of me, and the spell hit him full force in the chest. The Dreel howled in
pain and fur flashed into an acrid, cloying smoke. As he went down, curling in on himself, I leaped up
over his rolling body and slashed the rapier through the tentacle with the bear's head. The skull flew free
and shattered on the ground.

 Gena gestured at the ragged corpse nearest her, and its threadbare clothes immediately ignited into
flame. At once [the] humanoid body collapsed, and the tentacle reared back as if a viper coiling to strike.
The body melted and spread out, a burning mass of putrid rot and old bones, while Tacorzi repeatedly
jammed the burning end of the tentacle into the cavern floor to put the fire out.

 The scent of burning flesh and Dreel fur assaulted me, bringing to the charnel cavern the scent it should
have had from the beginning. Gena readied another spell and cast it at Tacorzi as Berengar sliced another
zombi free of its bony lifeline. I beheaded the Dreel tentacle, but the two wolves got my hip and shoulder
on the left side. Their assault slackened for a moment as Tacorzi's magick met and exploded Gena's
spell, and had I not been wearing thick winter gear, they would have torn me open.

 As I curled my left arm around the tentacle biting me at the shoulder and started to cut at Tacorzi with
my rapier, I saw Stulklirn roll to his feet. He bellowed a challenge tinged with pain, then raised his paws,
crossed them, and slashed them apart in imitation of what Tacorzi had done. A reddish-yellow spark shot
from his furred paws and spiraled in at Tacorzi. It struck the monster in a shower of sparks, sending a
shudder through Tacorzi's body. A second later I severed the tentacle and it fell to pieces around me.

 "Magick I make I can unmake!" Tacorzi cackled. His hands began all manner of arcane motions even as
a cruciform design on his chest began to darken and run with rotting flesh. The tentacle Gena had
previously burned battered her back against the cavern wall. As she slumped to the floor, one of the
zombies managed to jump Berengar, taking him down, while the wolf tentacle gnawing at my hip
managed to pull me down.

Stulklirn crushed the wolf skull with one swat of his right paw, then crouched over me. "My magick kill
will."

"Not if he unmakes it." I slapped the Dreel on the shoulder. "Circle him. Think of Jarudin."

 Casting my sword aside, I stood and began to run at Tacorzi. I assumed the sight of me running unarmed
at him would be quite a distraction and limit his ability at concentrating on his unmaking of the quartering
spell. His jaw did drop open and his hand motions slackened just a bit, but even his curiosity at my
actions did not make him stop his work.

 I drew both flashdrakes, cocked the talons, and thrust the handcannons at him. The fleshy half of his face
raised an eyebrow, but he saw no threat. I assumed that was because he did not know what they were,
but part of me feared he knew it was because, already being dead, he could not be killed again.

I pulled the triggers.

 One ball exploded his left hand, spraying finger and wrist bones around before it blew through ribs and
shattered the shoulder blade on its way out. The other ball shattered the Reithrese corpse-wizard's jaw.
Glittering like dewdrops in sunlight, diamond teeth spun through the air.

Knowing how a toothache had destroyed his concentration before, I hoped the horror at having part of
his death replayed would cause him all sorts of problems.

 Surrounding the both of us, a black, white, and brindle light pattern began and ended in the outline of a
Dreel. Dropping the flashdrakes, I grabbed a flailing bone tentacle and heaved on it. Tacorzi spilled
forward off his coils.

 Hauling for all I was worth—despite the sharp pain in shoulder and hip—I pulled Tacorzi along with me
as I dove into the Dreel and the world of the Elven circus translatio.

 I do not know how long it actually took for us to complete the journey to the grove east of Jarudin. We
passed through hills and mountains, lakes, towns, and vales, as we flew through that opposite-landscape.
I saw no one, as I had before, but my attention remained focused on Tacorzi. I do not know if anyone
saw us as a ghost on our journey, but I had no doubt that if someone had, a bard would be singing about
the sight soon enough.

At some point during the journey it occurred to me that the premise upon which I had based my plan
could have been wrong. Before my death I would have been willing to trust my hunches, but that had
gotten me dead once before. If this journey did not kill Tacorzi, I had managed to transpecate him from
the frozen north to within a day's ride of Jarudin. I had no idea how fast he could travel, configured as he
was, but inflicting that sort of danger on the kin of folks I'd known generations before struck me as a
poor way to announce my return to the land of the living.

 As we arrived in the grove, I realized the one huge mistake I had made. Having dived into the Dreel, I
dived out at the other end of the trip. I landed on my left shoulder, sending pain through me, then I rolled
and kept rolling. I rolled on out of the grove and in doing so saved my life.

 Tacorzi did not land in much better shape than I did, but I was much smaller than he was. As his body
came into the grove, it bounced off the ground and slammed into trees on the other side of the grove.
That collision sheered limbs from both trees and Tacorzi. Bits and pieces or bones pelted me as they flew
out from between the trees. Those that hit me tumbled on after leaving my coat stained with white
powder, and a blizzard of bone dust filled the grove itself.

 I let things settle for a minute and made certain I had not been hurt. Because I had no indication Tacorzi
still lived, I got to my feet and walked back to the grove. A black puddle, looking like the corrupted yolk
of a giant egg lay near the edge of the tree circle. Stulklirn walked around the perimeter, shaking white
dust from his coat. His fur now bore a white cross on his chest, but he seemed not to have noticed the
change.

I shrugged off my coat and massaged my shoulder. "Are you hurt, Stulklirn?"

The Dreel shook his head. "Hurt I am not."

"Are you certain?" I rubbed my chest reflexively. "I know what that spell did to me a long time ago."

 "Dreel-friend you are, so know this you may." He pointed at what had once been Takrakor. "The gods
made men to kill men. To the Dreel for prey Bok gave sorcerers." He exposed his teeth in a feral grin.
"Magick they have, magick we are. This is why lifeblack has pooled."

Chapter 37:
The Hero As A Man

Early Winter
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 MORE THAN THE stitch in her side and the throbbing pain on her cheek, Gena felt the cold as she
slowly awakened. She found herself slumped in a corner between an ice wall and the cavern floor. The
fire her spell had made out of a zombi still guttered a bit, holding the azure shadows at bay, but it
produced little heat. She shoved her hands into her mittens again, then found her hat and made sure to
tuck the numb tips of her ears beneath the woolen band when she pulled it on.

 Even though her toes and parts of her legs felt numb, she was able to move around. Her ribs ached on
the right side, and her right eye had already begun to swell half-closed, but she resisted using a diagnostic
spell on herself. She knew her injuries were not bad and that the greatest threat to her welfare came from
the cold. Her magick could do something to ward off the cold, but if she used all her strength healing
herself, she might freeze to death afterward.

 She staggered to her feet and felt surprised when the little cry of pain she uttered echoed back to her
through the silence. Am I alone? Panic rippled through her, but she fought it down. "This is no time to be
jumping to any sort of conclusions about anything."

 Gena looked first toward where the thing had been. She shivered, but less from the cold than from the
memory of what Takrakor had become. She had always used the name Takrakor as something that
defined evil in her mind, but Tacorzi superseded the worst. Takrakor, as she had heard in many stories,
had been ambitious, and that she could understand. Tacorzi, on the other hand, remained alive while
dead, maintained by a hatred for a Man he himself had slain five centuries previously. It was malignant
and insane.

 She saw neither the creature nor Neal, and that worried her. The Dreel appeared to be gone as well, so
she drifted off to her left toward a mound in the midst of a bone-strewn mire. The stink of rotted meat
almost overwhelmed her as she approached, but the struggling gasp for breath that emanated from the
twisted lump in the center drew her on.

 Berengar lay in the midst of what had once been a zombi or two. Viscous black fluids saturated his
clothes. Deep down, where great rents had been opened in his clothes to his flesh and beyond, she saw
his blood frozen bright red in his wounds. A bone-spear poked through the left leg of his thick leather
trousers. One of his ears hung half bitten off, his right shoulder looked dislocated, and his left eye had
more red than white in it.

 Without a second thought Gena cast a diagnostic spell on him and got some added information.
Berengar's nose had been broken, ribs bruised, and one kidney lacerated. She dared not move him
because where his blood had not yet clotted, it had frozen, which was likely the only reason he had not
yet bled to death from some of the slashes inflicted by the zombies and the flaying whip of a bone
tentacle.

 She eased herself down onto her knees and concentrated. She mentally listed his injuries and determined
for herself which ones were more important and which were fleas so. Once she had things in a workable
order, she set out casting the spells that would bring him as close to functioning as possible without
jeopardizing her ability to help them survive in the cold.

 Her first spell gently lifted the body from the ground and sealed it in an evergreen cocoon. Brighter bits
of green worked along the body, deep within the cocoon, slowly [tfaafting] along the cuts and gashes like
inchworms. In short order, with a very low energy expenditure on her part, Gena's spell repaired all the
holes in Berengar's flesh. She specifically did not have the glowworms leech blood from the bruises,
because his body would do that naturally after a number of days. The spell could have done that, but it
would have been more expensive in terms of her strength.

 The damage to his kidney concerned her the most after making sure he would not leak anymore. As
nearly as she could tell, it had been a puncture wound from a zombi weapon. She did not worry so much
about blood poisoning from it as she did about making certain that all the little blood vessels were
repaired in the organ. The spell she selected for repairing it took more time than the glowworms and cost
her far more in terms of energy, but really just employed smaller, smarter versions of the glowworms to
do the job.

 Once that was taken care of, she used a spell to purge, purify and heighten production of blood. From
there she repaired his leg so he could move, put his ear back together, and worked his arm back into the
socket. That still left him his bruises, broken nose, ribs, and bloodshot eye, but she had no more strength
to use and he had already started to come around.

Berengar winced as he eased himself into a sitting position. "Gena, your face, you have a cut and a
bruise."

She nodded. "And your nose has a new bump, and your left eye will swell fully shut in no time."

He tried to laugh, then held his ribs. "I have other injuries, I see."

Gena smiled wearily. "I was able to fix many things, but ine will have to heal on their own."

"Where is Neal?"

"I don't know."

"Did he abandon us?"

The disgust in Berengar's voice surprised Gena. "I don't know if he did or not, but I have noticed that
Tacorzi is no longer here."

"And the dagger?"

 "Gone as well." Gena looked around in the gloom. "Neal's sword and the flashdrakes are on the ground,
I cannot tell if the handcannons have been used or not."

The count looked off toward the center of the cavern, then shook his head. "So that thing was a
Reithrese?"

She shrugged. "It may once have been. It certainly seemed to know Neal."

"And now he's run off and it's chasing him." Berengar gingerly got to his feet.

 "I don't know that Neal ran from the thing." She pointed off toward where Tacorzi had sat. "The
flashdrakes are nearer the center than they are the way out of here. Neal and Stulklirn and Tacorzi are
just gone."

 "I suppose you're right. I think we should collect our things, leave this place, and get back to where we
left our supplies. We need fire and food and shelter, none of which we have here." He groaned and
wobbled a bit, but managed to stay upright. "Feeling as I do now, I do not believe I want to know what
you had to fix."

"Agreed."

 Working together, they managed to make the trek from Tacorzi's lair to the cavern in which they had
spent the previous evening. Gena made a fire and started melting snow into water for tea while Berengar
shucked off his clothes and wrapped himself in blankets. His nose and ribs clearly hurt him, and the
bruises on his body were as multicolored as they were oddly shaped, but he bore his wounds stoically.
His insistence that she drink and eat before he did marked his concern for her, but he did not protest too
much when she volunteered to take the first watch.
"A couple of hours, then you will sleep. Promise me."

 Gena did and tossed some more wood onto the fire. She figured their meagre supply would last through
the night and into the next day. By then they should be able to travel to more hospitable environs. She
smiled and tried to think about more pleasant places to be, both to keep her awake and to keep her mind
from wondering if Neal actually had abandoned them. Her efforts failed in both things, and exhausted,
she succumbed to sleep before she had a chance to rouse Berengar.

Gena woke with a start when she realized she was sweating. Coming awake, she remembered that she
was supposed to be tending the fire. Afraid it had gone out while she dozed, she looked at it and found it
burning []ly. That fact and her feeling very warm slowly came to her in her sleep-besotted brain. What
welded them into a single, coherent thought was seeing Neal squatting across the fire from her.

"How are you, Gena?"

"Hot and sore." She looked from him to Berengar and over to where Stulklirn lay curled around a huge
pile of wood. "Where did that come from?"

"Outside Jarudin."

She shook her head. "But it would take months to get there and back." She glanced at the unconscious
Dreel.

"We would have been back sooner, but Stulklirn had to catch a nap after the initial trip. Gave me time to
gather the wood."

"What happened? Where is Tacorzi?"

Neal shrugged as he rubbed his hands together.

"Tacorzi is dead."

"How?"

 The Man frowned. "Actually, he always was dead, I just let him decay. Walking through the cold, I
remembered Reithrese bodies I'd seen trapped in avalanches and in the mountains after a storm. Frozen,
they didn't decay. From something Tacorzi said, I assumed he came up here to stop his body from falling
apart."

Gena laughed before a twinge in her side stopped her. His plan didn't work very well." Neal nodded and
gave her a grin that helped ease her

"Indeed, he did go to pieces. He built himself up [tier] body the way he did for his brother, but Takrakor
only had bones and corpse-crumbs to work with. Anyway, Stulklirn and I dragged him south, and five
hundred years of decay caught up with him fast."

 "The Dreel is unharmed?" Gena pointed to the white cross on his chest. "He was hit by a very powerful
spell."

"Tacorzi meant that spell for me. I guess it didn't affect the Dreel that much."
 Gena could tell Neal was being deceptive, but her brain felt too fuzzy to figure out why or where he was
hiding something. That conclusion resonated against Berengar's earlier suspicion that they'd been
abandoned. She wanted to dismiss her unease instantly—for Neal's return and his thoughtfulness at
bringing the wood spoke to his loyalty to his companions—but something stopped her.

 Neal tossed another log on the fire, and a shower of sparks obscured him for a moment. "Go back to
sleep, Gena. Tomorrow, when we are all set, we will go to Jarudin. I have Wasp, and with it Cleaveheart
will once again be mine."

 Gena felt much better when she awoke again. Berengar had regained consciousness before she had, and
between them, he and Neal had loaded all of their supplies on the horses. While Neal tied Gena's bedroll
behind Spirit's saddle, Gena used magick to heal the last of Berengar's injuries, then gratefully partook in
a breakfast of tea, traveler's bread, and some currants Neal had brought from the forest outside Jarudin.

 The journey through Stulklirn to Jarudin passed so quickly for her that she wondered if she had
somehow fallen asleep. She decided she had not, but that her thoughts had moved slowly while her body
moved so fast. That was just as well, because she had allowed herself to brood about Neal and the fear
his absence had planted in her.

 Since before she could remember remembering, her grandfather and grandaunt had sung Neal's praises.
She could recall when she became conscious of the fact that Neal was a Man, not an Elf, and that fact
made him much more of an exotic and romantic figure in her mind. It made him unique and different and
filled her with a desire to know all she could about him. For almost two hundred fifty years, when her
studies and travels had allowed it, she had studied Neal and the trail of stories he had left in his wake.

 Truths about herself and Neal and their relationship began to dawn on her slowly. She saw that she had
viewed him as a hero first and a Man second, which was not surprising, given how her kin had presented
Neal to her. In seeing him as a hero, she filled in any gaps in his life, any details she could not learn, with
things suitably heroic. His humanity, which lay at the core of everything he did, became lost behind the
legend he had become.

 Besides not taking his humanity into account, she realized she had been expecting a lot more from him
than he had delivered, and that caused some resentment on her part. She had spent centuries learning
about him, dreaming about him, and drawing conclusions about him. In her mind she had played out
fantasies and adventures in which they had been able to travel together. She had already decided how he
would react to her, and her musings built one then another to fashion a whole relationship that Neal was
presently not living up to.

 The fact that Neal knew nothing of her imagined relationship with him, and therefore could not react
properly to it, had not occurred to her until now. In her fantasies Neal never would have abandoned her.
He would have torn Tacorzi apart with his bare hands, then would have tended to her injuries with the
same facility he had shown in killing the Reithrese monster. In truth Neal had not abandoned her, but had
returned after destroying Tacorzi. But the fact that he had not done it in the way she would cave imagined
him doing it left doubt in her mind and room for distrust.

 She felt uneasy in allowing herself even a touch of disgust about Neal, but she acknowledged that she
had no idea what he was thinking. His initial anger with her made sense, but he calmed down and seemed
to accept his place in their quest. At least that was how she saw it, but she wanted to know how he saw
it. Was he just an adjunct to Berengar's quest, a companion who would facilitate the completion of their
mission, or did he have his own agenda? And if he did, what sort of agenda would survive five centuries
in the grave?
 Her musings ended when they arrived in the grove a day's ride from Jarudin. Her horse's hooves kicked
up a lot of bone dust as she trotted on into the circle of trees. She briefly recalled Neal's explanation of
what had happened to Tacorzi, which is why she reined her horse away from the black circle within
which all the grass had died. She urged her mount on out of the circle, then swung from the saddle. She
caught a stirrup with her hand and managed to stay on her feet even though her legs wanted to collapse.

Berengar rode up beside her and looked down with surprise. "Come on, there are still a couple of hours
of daylight. We can make headway on the journey to the capital."

Neal came over on Scurra and stopped directly in Berengar's path. "We can leave tomorrow."

"No, the sooner we get there, the sooner we can be in Aurdon with Cleaveheart and end all this. If we
delay, more people might die."

 Neal hunched forward, resting both hands on the saddle pommel. "Son, if we push on today, I will die.
I'm tired. I'm stopping." He pointed off to the west. "If you want to ride on to Jarudin, we'll meet you
there."

"Fine, give me the dagger."

"I don't think so."

"What?"

 Neal straightened back up again, and Gena got the impression he was not as tired as he had made
himself out to be. "To you this dagger is nothing but an artifact that is the key to a puzzle you need to
solve. To me it's a weapon I've used for years. It's mine, and I'm not giving it over to you just because
you want to ride fast to the capital."

Berengar dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. "You might wish to rethink your decision."

"Unlikely." Neal nodded once, and the Dreel swatted Berengar from his saddle. The count's horse
bolted forward as Berengar crashed to the ground. He started to come up, but Stulklirn pressed him
back down to the earth with a paw.

"You foul coward!"

 Neal laughed. "You are fatigued, my lord Count, and not thinking clearly. Rest with us here and you will
see things clearly in the morning."

 Gena was pleased to see that Berengar appeared to be in a better humor in the morning. He rose slowly
and moved as if a bit achy, then straightened up and walked almost normally when he noticed the Dreel
shadowing his every move. He bowed to Gena and Neal, then spoke to them in a solemn voice.

 "Please, I beg forgiveness for my actions last night. He hesitated as if finding words were not easy. "My
family is in jeopardy. I realize now that I had always looked for a simple solution to all this business, but it
has become very complex, from Durriken's death to your resurrection and our journey to the north. We
started in the spring and here it is the winter. I want to be back with my family and let them know I
have—we have—succeeded in saving them. All this is urgent to me, and I lack perspective"
 Neal nodded. "Apology accepted. I understand why you want this to be over soon. Believe me when I
tell you that because I started the trouble, I want to see it through the finish as much as you do."

 They breakfasted in silence mostly, then saddled up and [hea]ded out. Gena knew she could still use
another day of it, but Berengar's urgency infected her and left her impatient to be gone. Stulklirn led the
way and Berengar followed him. Gena and Neal hung back a bit and occasionally lost sight of their
companions.

 Neal studied the landscape and shook his head. "This looks so much as it was when I first rode here
with your grandfather, yet the edges of this forest have been nibbled away. Back then the last half of the
journey came within precincts of the forests." He pointed to the scattered [tree]s and the milling herds
dotting therolling meadows . "No humans in Ispar owned farms—they were all slaves on Reithrese
plantations."

"Except the Haladina."

"True, they were mercenaries and were very loyal to the Reithrese."

 The wide road leading toward the capital impressed Neal when they started traveling on it. Heading in
toward the city, they found the route became more populated, and they passed through a number of
small villages that existed solely to serve the traffic in- and outbound from Jarudin. They took a meal in
one during the early afternoon, then pushed on hard and reached the capital at dusk.

 At Berengar's insistence they rode directly to the Imperial palace and demanded an audience with the
emperor. The guards protested, but one of them went off anyway and returned quickly with orders to
admit them and escort them to the Reithrese tower.

 While other soldiers took their horses away, an even dozen imperial guardsmen marched them into the
tower. To Gena the tower seemed unchanged from her earlier visit. At the sight of it Neal grew quiet, and
when he crossed the threshold, he pulled his cloak tightly about himself.

Gena gently touched him on the shoulder. "What is wrong?"

He shook his head. "This was never a pleasant place when I was alive, but now it seems so . . . dead. I
guess a lot of things are beginning to sink in concerning the passage of time. Before I saw this tower this
way, I could deny this Jarudin was the Jarudin I had known. Now . . ."

"But you saw how much my grandfather and grandmother had changed."

 "Yes, but I quickly got past that and was communicating with the people inside their bodies. At their
cores they had not changed that much, so I found my old friends therein. I can't explain it."

"You don't have to."

"Thank you."

 The guards ushered them into what had been the chapel. All of the [dust] and debris had been cleared
from it since Gena had last been there. Torches burned atop portable stands, and the emperor himself
stood in front of the magickal seal. He looked tired to Gena's eyes, but he executed a bow flawlessly.
"Welcome, my guests."
 Berengar perfunctorily returned the bow. "We have brought to you Neal Roclawzi. He has come to
recover his sword, Cleaveheart."

 "Oh, has he?" The emperor looked from Berengar to Neal and back again. "You are trying to tell me this
is Neal. Knight-Defender of the Empire."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought my term in that office would have expired by now."

"It should have, but Beltran the Great was sentimental and never replaced Neal."

Berengar's nostrils flared. "He is Neal. He destroyed Tacorzi to recover the dagger that is the key to this
ward."

 "If that thing is dead, I am in your debt." Hardelwick [liled] slyly. "Our gratitude does not, however,
extend to giving you Cleaveheart."

 "What!" Berengar looked ready to explode, and only Neal's grabbing the back of his tunic stopped him
from leaping forward to throttle the emperor, "How can you deny Neal his sword?"

 The emperor folded his arms. "I would not deny Neal his sword, but what proof have I that this man is a
hero who perished five centuries ago? For all I know, this is some thieving wizard you found who has the
expertise necessary to defeat these wards. If we discover the sword Cleaveheart in there, you will be
asking me to turn an important piece of imperial history over to you. I have no desire to do that."

"You can't do that!"

"Oh, Berengar, I certainly can. I am the emperor, after all."

Neal nodded. "He does have a point."

"Thank goodness one of you sees reason."

 Gena frowned. "Forgive me. Highness, but you said you would turn the blade over to Neal, and we have
told you this is Neal. What would it take to convince you that this Man is, in reality, Neal Roclawzi?"

The emperor stroked his jaw with his right hand. "Interesting question, that one."

 Neal held up his left hand and showed the back of it to the emperor. "I received this scar in this very
chamber." He pointed to the sword frozen in the stone at their feet. "The last Reithrese emperor burned
my gauntlet from me, which is how I became scarred and how he died."

Hardelwick waved that story away. "That is a common tale, sir."

 Gena stepped forward. "You know the stories about Neal. You know them all. Ask him about
something no one else knows. Ask him something that only Neal would know."

"You could have instructed him."

 "It would have taken more than four months to give him the sort of knowledge that you have of him."
Gena smiled carefully. "Besides, I give you my word that this man has not been instructed by me or
anyone else in the story of Neal's life."
 "The word of an Elf. Your willingness to make an oath like that does count for a great deal." The
emperor frowned and crossed his bony arms over his chest. "Very well, I will try this little game."

Neal opened his hands. "I will answer if I can."

 "Of that I have no doubt." Hardelwick's eyes glittered wetly in the flickering torchlight. "You killed
Tashayul in the Roclaws, yet no tale exists that speaks about how you did it. There is no credible story
about your battle with him."

Neal nodded. "It wasn't worth one."

 "Tashayul dies and his empire begins to crumble and you say his death was not worth a story?" The
emperor frowned. "I would find this hard to believe, but I have heard rumors of how he died. My
question is this: what did you use to kill him?"

Neal laughed aloud. "That is your question?"

"It is."

Berengar clutched at Neal's left sleeve. "Do you know it? Can you answer it?"

Neal nodded.

The emperor bowed his head. "Your answer, then."

Neal laughed again. "As you wish. To kill Tashayul, I used beavers."

Chapter 38:
Bittersweet, The Hero's Reward

Winter
A.R.499
The Present
My 536th Year

***

BERENGAR'S GRIP ON my sleeve tightened. "Beavers? Are you insane? Beavers?"

 He looked stricken, and Gena suddenly seemed to think I had gone mad. Only the emperor had not
changed his expression. "Please, explain your answer."

 I nodded and slipped my arm from Berengar's grasp. "I fought against Tashayul when I was sixteen
years old, and I had hurt him. I had no idea how badly until years later, but hurt him I had. He left his
troops in the field and retreated to Reith for healing. Aarundel and I did not attempt to follow him and
headed east instead. Over the next three years we watched as his Reithrese army conquered Cenrisia,
Ispar, Barkol, andIrtysh . That brought him to the Roclaws."

 I glanced up unconsciously at Tashayul's image above "When he returned to battle, he wore huge, heavy
armor—and appeared to be almost twice as large as he had been when I fought him. I never saw him
outside his armor—which is not unusual, given that I only saw him in battle—and he appeared as deadly
as he had been when we fought. He was winning his empire rather easily and had even started the
construction on Jarudin so it would be his capital.

 "About the only thing Aarundel and I noticed as we wandered before and behind his army, was that he
had his best engineers with him rather than off building Jarudin here. They organized work parties that
created wonderful wooden bridges, to be replaced with stone bridges as soon as possible. That seemed
quite logical because the bridges allowed him to get troops across rivers quickly. We thought that was his
reason for building them until we saw one bridge built on the site of a ford where the water was no more
than ankle deep."

 I frowned. "We went into the Roclaws ahead of his army and made our way to my brother's court. He
started organizing, and I set out to do anything possible to slow down the Reithrese advance. Because
the mountains are split by passes that have been carved out by rivers, I knew his engineers would have a
lot of work. Given that Tashayul appeared to be looking for a spring offensive, I had the late fall and
winter to prepare.

"Aarundel, some trappers, and I got ourselves a number of beaver families and transplanted them from
down below to some of the higher mountain areas. We induced them to build dams that would catch the
winter runoff. That would leave our rivers running low, so the engineers would build bridges meant to
handle a lesser flow. They, both the beavers and the engineers, did what we expected, which put the
Reithrese where we wanted them."

 Walking around toward the marble disk sunk in the floor, I squatted near it. "We opened the highest
dam, which poured water down into the next one, and so on. The runoff it had taken two months to
collect drained down into the canyons in a matter of three days. Tashayul just happened to be trapped in
a canyon when the wall of water hit. In his oversized armor he sank like a stone, and his body was
recovered far downstream."

Berengar slipped his superior mask into place. "Then you didn't actually kill him, as the stories say."

 "Actually, I did. When we first fought, I'd cut his spine, [so the] lower part of his body did not work
except when [magick] was used to augment his body. That's why he was [bigger] when he came
back—his brother, Takrakor, had constructed a metal skeleton that he fitted to Tashayul. When a
[magick] was used on it, Tashayul could move normally. Unfortunately for him, Tashayul could do
nothing by way of [Us]ting magick, so his metal skeleton weighed him down and he drowned. I'd inflicted
a wound in our fight that took four years to kill him, which was in keeping with a prophecy that he would
die at the hand of someone twenty years old. He did."

Hardelwick stared hard at me, and I met his dark-eyed gaze without flinching. His eyes half-closed, he
nodded. "I accept that explanation as the truth."

Gena looked at him. "Does it match the story you had about Tashayul's death?"

 I smiled. "He had no story about Tashayul's death. The only people who knew about it were Reithrese,
and they as not about to start singing of how their leader drowned. The people of the Roclaws did not
celebrate it after, because it was hardly the sort of heroic deed they expected out of me. The Reithrese
just pulled back to their imperial borders and waited until a successor to Tashayul had been selected."

The emperor nodded his head to me. "It is true, I was testing you. Had someone, say Berengar Fisher
here, been impersonating a hero of old, the story told would have been grandly heroic and the sort of
thing that would have lived forever in song—as has your duel with the Reithrese emperor in this very
room."

I smiled at him. "And if I had told a heroic tale, you would have denied me the sword?"

 He shrugged. "And I may still, but you do not yet have it in your possession. If you can defeat the ward,
and if the blade is there, then I will have a decision to make."

 I nodded and drew Wasp. On my knees I reached out with the blade and touched it to the marble disk.
The image shimmered for a moment, then I heard a chorus of voices speaking. One spoke Elven, another
Reithrese, and the third Mantongue. That one I understood. "Glory does not lie within. Merely a sword
that did win an empire washed in blood. In the name of the common good. Let he who puts hand to hilt,
from sacred duty never wilt. An empire won will yet fall if not governed for the good of all."

 I hadn't a chance to determine what that meant when I found myself on my feet on burning sands.
Across from me I saw a Haladin warrior with his left hand entangled in a sylvanesti's long hair. His right
hand raised a hooked dagger, but before he could even think of stabbing it down into her exposed throat,
I threw Wasp at him. Five hundred years had done nothing for my ability to throw a knife, or Wasp's
ability to be thrown, but it hit the Haladina in the face. I leaped at him, shielding her with my own body as
the knife flashed down.

 I felt it rake across my back, but I forced the pain from my mind. Grabbing him by the throat and groin, I
raised him up, then smashed him down over my right knee, snapping his spine.

 His body ran like hot wax through my fingers, and as it puddled out below me, it transformed the desert
into a woodland. I heard a strangled cry behind me and whirled. The sylvanesti metamorphosed into a
Manchild, exhausted and bleeding, who ran along on a dusty game path. Behind him, chasing him, came
an Elven warrior with a broad-bladed spear. Spikes and barbs on his armor glinting in the dappled
sunlight, the screaming hunter came on and set himself for the thrust that would kill the child.

 I found Wasp in my hand as I stepped in to stop the Elf from killing the child. The Elf shifted his spear to
target me. I dodged to my right and felt the burning sting of the spear as it sliced into the flesh on my left
flank. My left hand closed around the haft of the spear, and I pulled the Elf forward as my right hand
brought Wasp up. The dagger pierced the Elfs jaw and jabbed up into and through his mouth. His last
curse sprayed me with his blood; then he, too, melted away, and his blood washed the land in red,
bringing me to the plains outside Alatun.

 I turned to look at the Manchild, but he had again changed. Dark-haired and slender, with her pale,
naked flesh spattered with red mud, I saw a Reithressa stumble along. Her ruby teeth gritted in pain, she
scrambled to her feet again, then half slipped in the mud and lay there vulnerable and exhausted.

 "To Alatun and victory!" I heard shouted from behind me. As I turned to face this new threat, surprise
and shock ent a shudder through me. Racing in at the Reithressa, I saw myself, Cleaveheart in hand, I
knew that was not how I had looked at Alatun—at least I hoped it was not—because the man bearing
Cleaveheart clearly intended to slaughter the defenseless creature toward which he ran.

 Reithrese or not, I had to intervene. I dove and tackled my twin. He went down hard, but kept
Cleaveheart in his grasp. I rolled away from him, narrowly avoiding a slash that split open the earth.
Blood geysered into the air and poured down over me, all hot and sticky. It revolted me, and I recoiled
from the shower; then I saw my analog crawling his way along toward the Reithressa.
 Snarling incoherently, I leaped through the gushing wall of blood and landed on his legs. He tried to turn
and slash me with the sword, but I blocked his strike, then pounced to his back as he recovered himself.
The bloody fountain lined viscous fluid over us, and I took advantage of it. Using my knees to pin his
arms, I grabbed his head with both hands and forced his face into a puddle of blood. I held on as he tried
to buck me off and twist away, and I continued to hang on until bubbles stopped coming up and his body
surrendered.

 Then his body melted away, and I knelt there in a [bloody] lake. The stink of death clung to me, and
drying blood threatened to stick my eyes shut. I looked over at where the Reithressa had been, but she
had again become a sylvanesti. Clothed in robes of the brightest white, she turned toward me and I
recognized her.

"Larissa?" A smile slowly spread across her face. "I knew it would be you, Neal. It had to be you. I
wish I had been brave enough for it to be the two of us together."

"What are you talking about? You are here, now."

 "I will keep my promises to you, Neal, all of them, not after how much they hurt me, because I would
not cause hurt to you." As she spoke, I knew that what I was seeing was a magickal image of her. It
could not hear me, it could not reason, and worst of all, it could not explain. All it could do is what
Larissa had created it to do when she locked my sword away after my death.

 Her image came toward me, hovering above the blood with each step. "Remember that I love you and
will always love you, Neal," she said as she extended her right hand toward me. "Never forget me and do
forgive me."

 I reached up to take her hand in mine, but as my flesh met hers, light flashed and I felt the cool leather
and weight of Cleaveheart once again in my hand. As my vision again cleared, I saw the sword with
which I had won an empire. An old friend, it fit my hand as if I had never let it slip from my grasp. I
smiled and, for a second, felt as I had before I died.

Then a tingle ran up my arm from the sword, and its special magick began to work.

 In the same way that Cleaveheart had been more of a traditional Reithrese weapon when Tashayul used
it, and then had become a stout broadsword when it passed to me, now it transformed itself again. The
cross-hilt threw out tendrils of metal that wove themselves into a fascinatingly intricate basket-hilt. The
blade itself stretched and narrowed, with both edges taking on a razor's sheen. The tip narrowed to a
needle's point, and the hilt shifted subtly in my hand to provide me the greater control I would need to use
it with the techniques I had learned from Berengar.

 My circle of vision expanded beyond the sword, and I once again found myself in the old Reithrese
chapel in Jarudin. My companions and the emperor, along with the dozen guards beyond them, stared at
me intently. I smiled at them, stood, and worked the blade through a simple salute. "May I present
Cleaveheart."

 Berengar shook his head. "That can't be Cleaveheart. Cleaveheart was a broadsword and this is a
rapier." He looked hard at the emperor. "What kind of game are you playing here?"

 Hardelwick's expression mixed surprise with delight—the kind of open-faced, open-mouthed smile seen
at juggler's shows. "There is no deception. Count Berengar. This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to
you. Can you explain this, Man-Who-Would-Be-Neal?"
While I had seen the transformation, I had no idea what they had seen, so I asked.

 Gena pointed to the marble circle. "When you touched the dagger to that circle, a solid column of light
shot from you to Tashayul's forehead, and it pulled you inside. I saw shadowy movements, but heard
nothing and could make no sense of what I saw. Then the light vanished and you were kneeling there with
the sword."

 I nodded. "This is not the first time this sword has altered its shape. I saw the transformation this time,
but I expect that was just part of a spell that wanted to introduce the changed blade to me. I did not see
the change the previous time because it happened during the year between Tashayul's death and my
recovery of the blade from Jammaq. This sword is involved with destinies and empires, it appears to
change itself to be best suited for the environment in which it is being used."

 Berengar smiled. "That is fascinating. Perhaps, as it has become the sort of blade I wield, you should
entrust it to me for safekeeping."

 "I'm thinking that if I had a wife with whom you danced better than I, you'd not be asking to be keeping
her, would you?" I laughed as he shook his head, and the rest joined in. "I'll be keeping Cleaveheart here
for the time being, but if you want to continue my fencing lessons, I'd be obliged."

"And I would be honored."

 "As will I be if you will consent to be my guests." The emperor bowed to me and I returned the bow.
"You realize of course, that you are still the Knight-Defender of the Empire." Reaching over, he plucked
a glove from where it was tucked into the belt of one of his guards and displayed it to me. "As you can
see by this brand, we still observe traditions here."

 "Then you know I would be honored to be your guest, If that is acceptable to my companions."
Berengar and Gena both nodded their assent. "High time, you do realize I also have a Dreel in my
company?"

Hardelwick's face lit up. "Shijef?"

"His great, great grandson Stulklirn "

 "He is welcome as well." The emperor clapped his hands. "In one old diary I read of the feast Beltran
intended to throw when you returned from the Reithrese war. As you have consented to return after five
hundred years, I think it only fitting I complete his plans—if that is acceptable."

"It is, Highness, provided one thing, I'm thinking."

"Yes?"

I smiled. "I consent as long as you're going to be using food that wasn't put up at the same time I was put
down."

Chapter 39:
Once More To The City Of Gold

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 HAD SHE BEEN asked to determine which of her companions would have been least enthusiastic with
the suggestion of an imperial reception, she would have said Berengar would reject the idea. In fact, the
suggestion sparked in him a pleasant attitude that had been rare since they left Jarudin on their way to
Cygestolia. It was as if the recovery of Cleaveheart had been the climactic point of the mission and
returning it to Aurdon was little more than perfunctory.

 Despite his banter with Hardelwick when the offer was made, Neal seemed least at ease with the idea of
a celebration. He agreed because there was no way not to agree to the honor—that much seemed clear
to her—but she felt he would just as soon have quit the capital as fast as possible. Though he seemed
happy to have reclaimed his sword from the place where it had been secreted after his death, melancholy
took the edge off his normally stout-hearted person.

 The Dreel, whom they found waiting for them in the suite of rooms the emperor gave over to them,
appeared to like the capital and greeted the idea of remaining for a day with pleasure. "Capital cats fat
be," he reported while smacking his lips.

 It took Gena a while to put together her feelings on the idea of the celebration, and they were not
crystallized even after a full day spent purchasing suitable clothing for herself and watching Berengar
prepare for the feast. She realized she was doing everything she would have done, and, in fact, had done,
to prepare for similar events in the past, but something seemed wrong in all of it. She found herself getting
ready for the feast with the same trepidation with which one might walk across ice of an undetermined
thickness. Passage was possible, but each step brought with it fear of disaster and a knowledge that the
sound fundaments of the world may be nothing more than eggshell thin.

 The palace contained a ballroom that dwarfed the one in the Fisher mansion in Aurdon, and it had been
scrubbed clean and brightly lit for the gala. Enough candles burned in that room to set up their own wind
currents, and light gleamed from polished gold and silver fixtures, as well as marble statuary and the
multicolored floor. Silk streamers and drapes splashed blue and red throughout, and food and drink
flowed in abundance.

 In spite of the obvious preparations, the room and the people seemed wrong. The room had no life and
people moved awkwardly through it. They appeared nervous and studied every little detail as if they
were seeing each for the first time. Gena realized, of course, that was likely, which meant the room had
been seldom used and, therefore, made everyone uneasy. Had they commonly been called to the room
for festivities, they would have been used to it, and even oblivious to some of the more exquisite works of
art hung on the walls—pity though that might have been.

 The social mix likewise seemed designed to promote awkward and anxious relations. The first circle of
guests—Gena thought of them this way because they seemed to cluster together in the northeast corner
of the room—were imperial nobles of every rank, sex, and age. Their fine clothes were not new and,
while in keeping with the red-and-blue color scheme, attained compliance by the use of scarves, hose,
and ribbons that could be added or removed with ease.

 Yet that seemed to be the only easy thing about them. Gena watched them interact and found them akin
to a pack of dogs sniffing about to determine their correct social status. Clearly in the running for one of
the primary positions, Berengar moved among them with a confidence and casual air that suggested he
had no doubt as to where he belonged. He deferred to those who were clearly his superiors, by dint of
age or wealth, yet remained cordial with those who were obviously beneath him. If he snubbed anyone, it
was only someone the others snubbed, reinforcing his right to be there among them by helping exclude
those who did not belong.

 The second and third circles of guests had been selected by the emperor because of their connections to
Neal and his era. Sharp and precise, the officers of the Emperor's Own Steel Pack seemed to take great
delight in showing off their martial finery. Each of them wore a branded leather glove on his left hand and
snapped to attention when Neal or the emperor passed by. Neal spent a certain amount of time speaking
with them, which they seemed to enjoy. From what she heard of the conversations, she assumed that
listening intently to old war stories was an acquired skill.

 The third circle of guests were the descendants of the people Neal and her grandfather had referred to
as "Mountain Men." She knew that the survivors of the group that willingly allowed itself to be trapped in
the Hiris mountains had been rewarded with homes in the capital, but from the looks of their
descendants, their exaltation had not survived more than a generation or two. All of them appeared to be
well mannered, but grossly out of their class at the gathering. Tradesmen mostly, from the looks of their
hands, they huddled together in small groups and spoke in low whispers with each other.

 Neal spent an inordinate amount of time with those [sm]all peasant knots. She stood by him as painfully
shy people introduced themselves and told him who their ancestor among the Mountain Men had been.
Neal universally greeted them warmly and managed to come up with one anecdote or another concerning
their kin. The people graciously excused themselves when he finished, but walked away with warm smiles
to meet others of their kind and swap their stories.

 She managed to steer Neal aside at one point and pressed a goblet of wine into his hands. "All that
talking must make you thirsty."

 He nodded wearily and drank a bit. "Wouldn't think it, but after this time I can actually see in them faces
I knew."

Gena smiled, then looked down into the dark depths of her own wine. "Are all of those stories true?"

 Neal's green eyes narrowed for a moment, then he nodded. "I'm thinking I'm remembering right. Only
been about six months to me since I was up in the mountains freezing along with all of their kin. When
they give me some details, I can remember most of them. Things have changed, of course, as stories
come down through the years. The Mountain Men were all good folks, and I'm thinking they'd be happy
that their kin are still living free because of what they did. It would make the sacrifice worth it."

She looked up into his face. "Do you think it was worth it?"

Surprise raised his eyebrows. "I always thought it was worth it. History, at least as reported to me by the
Steel Pack and these people, has made the whole fight against the Reithrese into some glorious crusade
where all of the people on the correct side of the conflict were rewarded with the spoils of the Reithrese
Empire. They have made it into a war of loot, but that wasn't what it was at all. We fought the Reithrese
because they denied us freedom and kept us as slaves."

"But knowing that there would be rewards for your actions must not have hurt things."

Neal shook his head emphatically. "We all thought we were going to die, and we were willing to die. If
you ask any man or woman here to put a price on his life, you'll find no amount of gold or jewels will
suffice. But if you ask the same person if he would be willing to lay down his life so his children and their
children will never have to face slavery, there's scarcely one here who would tell you he would not."

 He drank a bit as the vehemence behind his words sank into Gena. "You see, Genevera, the Reithrese
built an empire to enrich themselves. We liberated an empire to free ourselves. That people became rich
and successful after the fact does not mean that we fought our battles because of money. Some of those
who were best in battle were likely worst in commerce or agriculture, so they did not benefit from their
efforts in the way someone else might have. The point is, though, that we all fought so our futures would
not be limited, not so we could limit the futures of others so as to enrich ourselves."

Neal hesitated, then smiled. "Forgive me, I did not mean to lecture you. I . . . it's quite a shock to see
what sort of stories survive. We are as removed now from my war as I was from the Eldsaga. I wonder
now about some of the things I held as truths about Elves because of how the stories were warped."

"But does that matter?"

Neal frowned. "Does it not?"

 Gena shrugged. "You managed to look past what the Eldsaga said and become friends with my
grandfather. You endured incredible abuse at the hands of my people, but you never rejected them. You
never struck out against them, you fought for and with them. What you did, not what you thought, made
all the difference."

 She pointed to the crowd of Humanity moving toward the walls as the musicians in the northwest corner
began to play. "It does not matter if these people think the war was fought for riches or freedom. The fact
is that they remain free and they jealously guard their freedom. Berengar's quest to find Cleaveheart and
end your domination of his family's destiny is just a small example of how valued freedom has become.
The emperor is less a dictator than he is an archivist. That for which you fought lives on."

"Your point is well-taken."

Gena looked out at the couples filling the dance floor. "Would you care to dance?"

Something painful flashed through Neal's eyes before he forced a smile onto his face. "I am afraid the
only Elven dance I know is the torris, and I doubt it is seen as suitable for display outside Cygestolia."

 "I am well versed in all sorts of the dances found among Men." She reached for his goblet to set it on a
table beside hers, but he kept it out of her grasp.

 "Please, Genevera, do not take this wrong but"—he looked down—"the last time I danced, it was with
Larissa. Yesterday, in recovering the sword, I saw her again. My past and the present are slamming
together here, which means that while I would love to dance with you, I would feel awkward doing so."

 Gena sensed his withdrawal and decided not to let him get away. "Are you saying, Neal, that you think
my grandaunt would have begrudged me this dance? Are you thinking she would have denied you a
chance to dance with her grandniece?"

"No, but . . ."

She snatched away his goblet with her left hand, then took his left hand in her right. "You remember
Larissa well, Neal Roclawzi. She would smile to see us like this, and for my part, I want to see if you
actually are as good a dancer as she said you were."

 One turn on the floor led to another, so the memory of that night's dancing managed to bring a smile to
Gena's face even to the point when their journey south had brought them within sight of Aurdon. The
emperor had reluctantly allowed them to leave on the promise that Neal would return to Jarudin to help
fill in the gaps in the history of how the empire was won. Neal agreed and even allowed the emperor to
reinvest him as Knight-Defender of the Empire in a ceremony that included the Steel Pack presenting him
with a pair of gloves in which the left hand had been branded with the mountain rune.

 A company of the Steel Pack had ridden with them to the borders of Ispar, then turned back before
entering Centisian territory. The three weeks spent traveling with them had proved beneficial for keeping
Neal's spirits up. The experienced swordsmen among the imperial soldiers took great delight in sparring
with Neal and Berengar. While Hardelwick's men were good, and displayed a number of different
fencing styles, Neal and Berengar clearly had an edge over all of them. Numerous promises of return
matches were shouted back and forth when the Steel Pack departed for the capital.

 She found the remaining ten days between the border and Aurdon entertaining. As they rode through
territory Berengar knew well, he felt constrained to point out things of interest. His pride in Centisia
became evident in his voice and, when they had stopped for breaks, in the way he paced back and forth.
Neal tolerated being lectured, but the Dreel took to aping Berengar's strutting in a comical and decidedly
unflattering manner, which set Berengar off.

 Berengar and Neal began to fence a great deal more earnestly. Berengar still had an edge over Neal, but
the gap between them closed quickly. Gena saw more of the unusual and odd moves from the imperial
soldiers show up in Neal's repertoire. Berengar managed to counter most all of the ploys Neal used, but
he had to work harder at it than he ever had before.

 Just outside Aurdon they met a patrol of the Aurdon Rangers. Gena recognized Captain Floris, but had
remembered him as a more carefree sort of individual. In the six months since she had last seen him, he
had lost weight and had added a scar along his jawline. Even so the Man remained gracious and greeted
their party warmly.

"Welcome home. Count Berengar. I am very glad to see you here again. How went your quest?"

Berengar looked over at Neal. "We succeeded. This is Neal Roclawzi and he bears Cleaveheart."

Floris's jaw dropped. "But, but, Neal Roclawzi died five hundred years ago." He shivered. "His ghost
has . . ."

 "Yes, yes, Floris, this is true. But it is also true that, thanks to Lady Genevera, he lives again." Berengar
smiled carefully. "He was told of our plight and has come to set it to rights."

Neal reined Scurra up and offered Floris his hand.

"Pleased to meet you. Captain Floris, is it?"

"Yes, sir."

 Neal smiled warmly at the soldier and at his men. "A fine group of soldiers you have here, Captain. I
gather from what I have been told and your relief at seeing Count Berengar here, that the Haladina have
continued to harass caravans coming into Aurdon."
"More than that, sir, they have burned a number of farms. The panic is forcing the price of grain up,
which is causing a great deal of unrest in the city." He looked over at Berengar. "Half the Rangers are
deployed to guard the warehouses to prevent people from looting them."

 "This is most serious, but now we can deal with it appropriately. The treachery that has culminated in this
series of events will soon have its own reward." Berengar pointed at one of the soldiers. "Ride back into
the city and inform my family that I am returned successful."

 Neal frowned. "We could ride on in just as easily as he can. I'm certain Captain Floris has his patrol to
continue."

Berengar waved that idea off with a flick of his right hand. "Hardly, he is escorting us into the city. It is
his duty and his honor."

"It is an honor, my Lord."

 Neal shook his head. "I hated parades, and I'd rather be out killing Haladina than riding with us back
into Aurium."

 "Aurdon, Neal, it has changed since you were last here." Berengar laughed and started to ride toward
the city. "You will find yourself most welcome among my people. Come, we will prepare for a ceremony
tomorrow night in which you can undo the curse beneath which you placed us, and true justice can again
determine the course of events in Aurdon. And then we will celebrate this new freedom with a festival the
like of which you have never seen."

 Gena fell in beside Neal as they rode into the city. Floris and Berengar preceded them and the other
Rangers rode behind them, but they had enough room from either group to be able to converse without
being overheard. A wave of weariness washed over Gena, but she forced it away with a laugh until she
saw Neal's dour expression.

"What is the matter? This is almost finished."

 Neal shook his head. "Nothing, really, though I should have expected it. I'm thinking that Berengar
reminds me of your grandfather when he was in the company of other Elves. On the road we have been
of equal importance, all of us. Now, because we are going into his city, he eclipses us."

Gena raised an eyebrow. "I'd not thought Neal Custos Sylvanii would be jealous of anyone."

"Jealous?" Neal frowned, then laughed. "I don't think I'm jealous. I have never wanted what Berengar
has."

"You don't find his notoriety vexing?"

 "Is that inquiry serious?" Neal watched her carefully, and she sensed she had asked something that
lessened her in his eyes. "I have never been one to imagine another person's being praised in any way
diminished me. If anything, I can now enjoy an anonymity that eluded me for a long time."

"Forgive me, Custos Sylvanii, I did not mean to presume."

He nodded. "I know." He reached out and touched her lightly on the shoulder, then quickly withdrew his
hand. "There is much of your grandaunt in you, and sometimes I forget that you do not know everything
she did about me. How she understood me, I do not know, but why, I do."

"Vitamorii."

Neal pounded his right fist against his chest. "She still lives in there, and I'm not of a mind to evict her.
But she knew that it would take ambition for me to be jealous of Berengar."

"And you have no ambition."

 "Not exactly." His smile returned in full force and made Gena feel better. "It's just that my ambition is to
avoid being ambitious."

 As they entered the city, Gena watched Neal as he saw what Aurium had become. The shock remained
evident on his face throughout the journey. He sat tall in his saddle as he rode through the Haladin district,
but the stern expression he had adopted softened when he saw children playing with dogs in the streets.
He stood in the stirrups to peer deep into the open market, then waved at the troopers as they rode to
their barracks.

 Finally they arrived at the Fisher mansion. Berengar dismounted and helped Gena down, then looked up
at Neal. "Come, they will want to see you, too."

 Neal shook his head. "If you do not mind, my lord, I think I would like to travel through your city. Many
are the changes since I was last here."

"I have no objection, Neal, but I would be upset if your sword were to fall into the wrong hands."

Neat nodded and pulled the scabbard with Cleaveheart in it from his belt. He handed it to Gena. "If you
will safeguard this as well as your grandaunt did, I will be in your debt."

 Gena accepted the weapon, but something in the stiff formality of Neal's tone bothered her. "Are you
certain you will not stay with us?"

"Please, I will return and relax here, but this is the first opportunity I have had to be alone in a town. It
has been a long time—longer even than you think, really. I just feel a need to hide myself in a crowd."

 Berengar nodded and plucked a pouch of coins from Floris's belt. He tossed it to Neal. "Here, this
should see to your entertainment without compromising your identity."

Neal deftly caught it. "My thanks. Count Berengar. If you will excuse me."

Gena smiled hopefully at him. "Are you certain you do not want any company?"

"I am certain, thank you." Neal winked at her, but she caught no warmth from the act. He reined his
horse around and rode back out through the gate.

 Gena watched him go, all the while feeling smaller and smaller inside. A month before, beginning with the
dance at the emperor's celebration, she had felt as if they were growing closer. Even on the road they
had maintained a new openness, but their arrival in Aurdon appeared to have cut off any further chance
to get to know Neal better. If she took what he said to her as the truth, she found herself in competition
with her grandaunt, an idea she hated because she knew, ultimately, she would lose in that comparison.
Neal idolized Larissa as Gena had once idolized him.

Berengar settled his arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry, Lady Genevera, he will come back."

 She looked up at Berengar as they mounted the steps to the front of the mansion. "What makes you so
certain of that?"

"It's easy." He nodded at her. "He'll come back because we have his sword."

Chapter 40:
Old Weeds Bear Bitter Fruit

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

***

 IRETURNED TO the Fisher domain rather late in the day, or early, depending upon whether you
accounted days by midnight or dawn. Five hundred years had changed Aurdon considerably, and that
included a great advance in the brewer's art. Each of the taverns I visited brewed its own ale, and I
enjoyed making my survey of their wares. One, an especially crisp, very amber brew lacked the sort of
aftertaste I remember from when I was last alive, so I found one more reason to be happy that I had
returned to life.

 My wanderings had also uncovered for me a number of other reasons to regret my resurrection.
Coaxing a full litany of crimes visited by the Fishers upon the Riverens and vice versa had not taken much
effort—and it included a complete and detailed chronology of my ghost's intervention in their relations. Of
course, I didn't bother to mention I was the Neal who had beset the families so. Despite that omission on
my part, I got the distinct impression that keeping track of family fortunes within Aurdon was a sport that
amused and delighted a great number of people—especially those with ties to neither clan.

 Other things I had learned, things hinted at and rumors whispered, obliquely suggested to me that intrigue
rivaled commerce as the primary occupation in Aurdon. Frustrated in their attempts to destroy each
other, the Fisher and Riveren families had succeeded in crushing any other merchant house in the city.
Normal citizens said they could feel the pressure building to some sort of climax, and already rumors of
Berengar's return brought with it speculation ranging from an Elven invasion of the city to mercenaries
using flashdrakes to slaughter the citified Haladina wholesale.

 I found the room to which the night porter guided me as spartan as it was small, which I really didn't
mind. Before my death I had spent months living in a canvas tent, and since then I had fared little better,
so the room I had been given appeared opulent. I closed my door and began to shuck my clothes when I
heard a light knock from the door leading to the adjoining room.

Bare-chested and barefooted, I opened the door. "Gena. I hope I did not wake you."

 Standing there in a long bedgown, with her golden hair gathered into one thick braid, she looked
chillingly like her grandaunt had when I reclaimed Cleaveheart. Only Gena's violet eye color marked her
as physically different from Larissa, yet in her eyes I saw much more that separated them. The expression
on her face told me she had been sleeping, but not well.
 "I heard your door close, and I wanted to see if you had survived your peregrinations." She forced a
smile on her face and waved a hand through the air between us. "You've been drinking."

I nodded as I backed away from the door and retreated into the room. "That I have, Gena."

"And wenching as well?" She kept her voice light, but I caught a hurt note in her question.

 "Wenching, me? In fact, I have not." I shrugged, the ale making the motion sloppier than I wanted.
"What woman would be interested in a man old enough to be potting soil?"

"My lord underestimates how well he has been preserved."

 "My lady forgets that I remember an Aurium where the Fishers lived in a longhouse with floors of dirt
and someone who was likely Berengar's great, great, great, great, great"—I tried to keep track of greats
on my fingers, but failed—"grandmother expressed a willingness to lie with me. And I remember Larissa."

 I felt my face getting hot and my anger rising, but I could not figure out why, so I tamped the emotion
down. "I have not had a chance, in five centuries and more, just to sit in a tavern and watch and listen to
people. Traveling with you and Berengar, I have been out of touch with normal people—except at the
emperor's festivities and on the road with the Steel Pack."

Gena's face closed down. "I did not mean to anger you."

"I know, and you have not, really." I hesitated, my mouth open, as words lined themselves up in my
brain. "It is just that you brought me back to life and reminded me what it was to be Neal Elfward. I
needed common folks to remind me what it was like to be the Man I was before I became Neal
Elfward."

"But you always were remarkable."

 I laughed. "I might have been different, but there was a time when I could see why I had shouldered the
responsibilities I had. I had a feel for what normal people wanted and feared. I wanted to recover that."

"Are their fears all that different from those of Berengar or the emperor?"

 Something in her voice told me that was not really the question she wanted to ask, but it was the only
one she gave me to answer. "They are. The emperor, the Fishers, the Riverens, and all the nobles we met
in Jarudin all are removed from the daily terrors of life. The common folk worry about having enough
food to eat or enough money to pay their taxes. Berengar worries if a wine has aged enough in a decade
to be served to people he wants to impress. The emperor is able to devote all his time to reconstructing
the history of the empire, which is a noble pursuit, but well and truly removed from the struggle for
existence many people face."

I watched her carefully. "So what is it you fear, Genevera?"

She started to answer, then stopped. She folded her arms, then raised her right hand to play with the ring
on the silver chain around her neck. "I fear many things, Neal. Tonight I feared that, as your departure
mirrored that of Durriken, we would find you as he was found."

"Dead by the Eight Cuts."
"Yes," she whispered hoarsely.

 I sensed in her the same pain I had felt in her grandaunt when Aarundel and Marta had been taken
away. Then Elven law kept us apart, and even though I wanted immediately to go to Gena and take her
in my arms, I hesitated. I took a step forward, then stopped, then started forward again awkwardly.

 Her head came up, and she held her left hand out to keep me back. "No, no, I understand your difficulty
in reaching out to me. I do, I really do." The ring glittered as she worked it back and forth between
thumb and forefinger. "These were the rooms that Berengar had given to Rik and me when . . . before
Rik died. This ring is all I have to remember him by."

"That, and the flashdrakes and the memories."

 "Yes, and the memories." Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down over her cheeks, anointing them
the way the dew anoints a rose. "And those memories mean I am missing Durriken very much right
now—probably as much as you miss my grandaunt. As much as I would like to seek solace in your
arms, in a hug, I am afraid it might lead to something that would leave both of us feeling awkward in its
wake."

 Her soft words sobered me, and I realized that what she was saying was true. As I was a link for her to
her past, so she linked me and my past. In her I could find a sense of peace I had not known because of
the laws that kept Larissa and me apart. In me she could find a return to the days before Durriken's death
and even, perhaps, to the simpler days before she left Cygestolia. We were, each of us, the balm for the
other's wounds, but we threatened such complete healing that neither one of us would bear a scar from
the experience that had wounded us. And each of us felt that not to have a scar, to remain unmarked,
would be to forget and betray people we had dearly loved.

 Gena looked past me and shivered. "When Rik died, I felt I had betrayed him by not being there to
prevent his death. I am, after all, a sorceress capable of bringing you back from the dead, but I could not
do the same for him." She glanced at me and laughed ruefully. "And, of course, in my head I know you
were a special case—a combination of circumstances that has no bearing on his situation, yet it eats at
me more and more. Even now he lies in the Fisher vault, laid to rest in a place of honor, yet he must be
angry with me because I have not done anything to avenge him."

"Would he have wanted vengeance?"

 "Yes. No. I don't know." She looked at me imploringly. "He was a man who had once been a slave and
who fought for his own freedom. Whoever killed him robbed him of that freedom. I think he would like
to be avenged, and after you sever the knot tonight, freeing the Fishers to act against the Riverens and the
Haladina, perhaps he will be avenged."

"Your reasoning appears sound." I nodded and held my hand out. "Might I look at that ring?"

 She removed it and handed it to me. "Be careful, part of the setting turns and a needle comes out of the
rim. He called it a slapdeath ring."

 "Even I have heard of them." Following her instructions, I produced the little bit of a needle, along with it
came a sweet, cloying scent. "This belonged to Durriken?"

"Lord Orvir, who was Berengar's brother." He died years ago—supposedly while being chased by
Haladina or your ghost, depending upon which story you decide to believe." Gena took the ring back
from me. "Count Berengar granted Rik the ring and the title so he could legitimately carry the flashdrakes
while in Aurdon. I prefer thinking of Rik as he looked the night Berengar gave him this ring, not when
they found him."

 "I understand and agree with your decision in that matter." I smiled at her in what I hoped was a
reassuring manner. "And I would not worry about Durriken's ghost being angry with you. Take it from a
man who has been dead—knowing that I was held in the heart of one who loved me was the only thing
that made eternity endurable."

That brought a smile to her face. "You are most kind, Neal Custos Sylvanii."

"Kind? I'm thinking I'm only speaking the truth here. You and I know it for the truth, too."

She nodded. "I can but hope you are right."

"Sleep on the idea, Gena, and you will know I am."

She drifted back toward the door to her room. "How will I know?"

I winked at her. "You'll have sweet dreams, and in that way you can be certain."

 My dreams were not so sweet, but escaped being nightmares because they happened after the sun had
risen. Everything I had learned and suspected and feared all managed to mix together into a surreal
battlefield. I stood alone against an army of faceless individuals. Half of them I recognized as having
fought and died at my side ages ago. Neither they nor their armor had withstood the test of time at all
well, and their keening wail of despair seemed intended to tell me something, but I could not puzzle it out.

 The other half of my combatants appeared to be warriors from the era in which I now lived. They bore
rapiers that twisted around my parries with the agility of an alley cat and struck with the speed of a viper.
When they withdrew, a rank of men carrying flashdrakes stepped forward and triggered volley after
volley at me. With each ball that hit me I relived the pain that had given me this scar and that. I realized
that in the five centuries since my death, war had become no less savage, but the means for inflicting pain
and death had simply become more sophisticated.

 Though I only slept fitfully, I did not come fully awake until late in the afternoon. At the foot of my bed I
found a suit of clothes laid out for me. Over a white shirt I would be wearing a jacket made of brown
brushed leather. The sleeves had been slashed to show off a satiny material the color of emeralds. The
trousers, which reached only my knees, had been made out of brown velvet that matched the jacket. The
hose matched the emerald of the sleeves, and I had been provided with a pair of brown brushed-leather
bootlets that had a triangular profile and no laces to keep them tight on my feet. A similarly shaped hat
with a ridiculously long green feather had also been created to complete my outfit, but I'd have sooner
worn one of the shoes on my head than anything with that plume.

 I washed and dressed myself quickly enough and was surprised by the close fit of the clothes. Though
they made me feel considerably younger than I was, and even younger than I appeared to be, I felt only
the hat would compromise my masculinity. I cinched my belt tight around my waist and slipped Wasp
into the waiting sheath. As I slipped the bracelet I had made so long ago onto my right wrist, I looked for
Cleaveheart. I could not find the sword and panicked for a moment before I remembered having
entrusted it to Gena the night before.
 I knocked on her door and she bade me enter. One step into the room, and any vanity I might have
harbored about my appearance vanished. Two women backed away from Gena and giggled at my
slack-jawed expression, but they barely existed in my eyes. Never had I seen anyone look as beautiful as
Genevera did.

 Her golden hair had been brushed out so it shone like silk. It fell to her shoulders and complimented the
soft violet of her gown. Cut from satin and gathered here and there with buttons, it draped her in ruffles
and frills. Lying taut against her flat stomach, yet flowing out into gathered skirts, the dress confirmed a
stateliness and nobility that I had all but missed as we traveled. The gown displayed her bosom to best
advantage, and lavender lace gloves hid her delicate hands. Judiciously applied cosmetics molded her
inhumanity into an intoxicatingly exotic and seductive snare.

 Surprised by her appearance, I wondered how the Genevera I had seen on the trail had been able to
blossom into this flower. I knew she had always possessed this sort of beauty, and had easily been as
ceremoniously dressed for the emperor's reception, but I had been unable to see her beauty for what it
was. Something in my mind prevented me from actually being able to believe what my eyes showed me.

 I realized that when I first joined her and Berengar on their quest, in Gena I saw Larissa, and recalling
old memories hurt. Then, after Gena had been battered by Tacorzi, I could not imagine her as she stood
now. And on the road from Jarudin to Aurdon I had been learning more of the world and trying to
integrate my memories of the past with the realities of the present. I had excluded her from that process
because I feared having her supplant Larissa in the same way I let changes in the course of a river
supplant my old memory of it.

I held my hands open and wide of my body, unable to speak.

She laughed and broke eye contact shyly.

I looked down as well. "Your beauty vindicates the Consilliarii's wisdom in letting your parents and your
grandparents bring children into the world."

She nodded her head graciously, then smiled at me. "And you, for a Man who said he was naught but
potting soil, are quite handsome. I can understand the Dun Wolf being a legend for more than his
prowess in battle."

I laughed. "That being said, I hesitate to ask for my sword."

 Gena pointed to the table where the sword lay in its scabbard. I slid the blade and scabbard home at my
left hip, then bowed to Gena. "M'lady, if you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the
festivities."

"It would be my pleasure."

 The two servants cooed and clucked as Gena took my right arm. I stiffened a bit because that meant I
could not draw Cleaveheart easily, but to have her on the other side meant we would have the blade
between us, and I did not want that. The elder of the two women shooed the younger one over to open
the door, and I let Gena precede me from the room.

 As she had been at the mansion more than I, she set the pace and direction of our travel. Quickly
enough we found ourselves at the head of stairs in the southwest corner of a large and high-ceilinged,
rectangular room. Opposite us, along the long western wall, an orchestra had been situated, and played
simple and sedate music. The stairs led down to the east, then switched back to the west, which gave all
those gathered below us ample time to see us make our way to the room's floor.

 The throng below us struck me as just as awkwardly jammed together as the emperor's guests had
been. Nearest us I saw Berengar and enough people with similar faces and postures to assume the area
at the foot of the stairs was the demense of the Fisher Clan. That meant that the nervous group at the far
end of the room were likely Riverens. The people in the middle must have been the richer and more
ambitious among Aurdon's population—which meant I did not recognize a single face among them from
my journey through the city. The only exception to that rule came in the form of four men who, were they
not wearing incredible finery, I would have thought brigands waiting for a signal before robbing the place.

 Until we started our descent into the room, a tall, vaguely rectangular lump shrouded in a blue velvet
curtain in the middle of the room had attracted a lot of attention. I thought it might be a wardrobe or
some similar piece of furniture beneath the cloth, but its presence in the middle of what should have been
the dance floor surprised me.

 As we entered the room, Genevera doubtless was the cause of so many people looking at us, but the
fact that I alone among the people gathered wore a sword did spark conversation. They apparently
found me as boorish as they found her enchanting; wearing more than a dagger to a social event such as
this was clearly of questionable taste. All of the women who watched Gena through a veil of jealousy
likely pitied her for being accompanied by someone like me, while the men probably sympathized with
my desire to wear a sword to fend them off when I had her by my side.

 Berengar met us at the base of the stairs and bowed deeply. As he straightened up, he signaled the
orchestra with his left hand and the music died. His black velvet jacket and trousers had been fashioned
similarly to mine, but the slashes in his sleeves showed the same purple satin that had been used to make
Genevera's gown. He, too, had eschewed the little cap that had come with my clothes, and he did not
wear a sword.

 He raised his voice, though he hardly needed to, and addressed everyone in the room. "Friends,
relatives, Elders, and distinguished guests, I am most pleased to see you here. This is a night that shall live
forever in the history of Aurdon. It is but an echo of a night five centuries ago in which an oath was taken,
an oath that defined this city and its nature."

 Berengar steered us through the crowd and toward the velvet-hung monolith. "As you all know and have
been repeatedly reminded, five centuries ago, before the empire even existed, our city—barely a town
then—was torn because of a conflict between two families. Mercenaries, in the service of the Red Tiger,
came to Aurium and forged a peace between the Fishers and the Riverens by creating the Knott family."

 He reached out and pulled the dark cloth away from what it hid. The curtain puddled at the base of a
glass-walled wardrobe with glass doors facing us. In it, above the fanned display of swords that occupied
the lower half of the enclosure, hung the sleeves I had knotted together so long ago. Ismere's blue sleeve
had faded a bit with age, and Rufus's homespun sleeve had yellowed considerably, but the cloth had not
deteriorated as much as I thought it should have. Perhaps the oath I swore that night did have some
power to it. I did not know, but the revulsion I had felt that night concerning Aurium and the two families
came rushing back to me at the sight of the knotted sleeves.

Berengar allowed the buzz running through the crowd to die before he continued. "You all know that I
went away from here on an important quest, and I have returned, successful. On the night these sleeves
were joined, Neal Roclawzi bound the Fishers and Riverens to work together until Wasp and
Cleaveheart sundered the knot you see before you. My quest was to recover those venerable blades so
this false alliance could be ended forever."

That brought something of an outburst from the north end of the room, but Berengar ignored whoever
had spoken. As the crowd slowly drifted closer, he pointed to me. "This quest was one that took me and
my companions from here to Jarudin, Cygestolia, and even to the Rimefields far to the north. Not only
did we recover the weapons we needed, but Lady Genevera of Woodspire even brought Neal Roclawzi
back to life so he could undo what he had done that night."

 I started to speak, but before I could say anything, cries of "Fraud!" erupted among the Riverens. I don't
think they intended them as distractions, but merely as an honest expression of their disbelief and outrage
at what Berengar had said. After all, if rumors about Berengar's return had begun to spike anxiety among
them, then hearing him claim that he had brought Neal Roclawzi back to Aurdon after five centuries in the
grave had to seem like the basest and boldest of lies.

Woven amid their shouts, I heard a growl and a scream. As I turned to my left to try to pinpoint their
origins, all I saw was a face locked in fury and the naked dagger coming at my back.

Chapter 41:
Bright Fruit, Cruel Poison

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present

***

 GENA FELT NEAL pull roughly away from her before she had a clue anything was wrong. She turned
toward him and saw a flash of silver that exploded into bloody crimson as Neal parried a dagger aside
with his left forearm. His right fist came around and sounded like an ax chopping wood as it landed
square on his assailant's face. The assassin's legs went boneless as blood gushed from his broken nose.
He hit the ground, and Neal curled down into a kneeling crouch a second later, clutching his arm against
his stomach.

She dropped to her knees beside him. "How badly are you hurt?"

 Neal hissed and raised his left arm. The dagger had sliced through the jacket sleeve and had scored a
nasty gash on the underside of his forearm. Blood welled up in it and ran down into the sleeve itself. "I've
survived worse, but it's always the shallow ones that sting something powerful."

Gena flipped up the hem of her purple gown and tore a strip from one of her white underskirts. "No
magick, correct?"

 Neal looked at her, then smiled. "Correct." He pulled off the rest of his sleeve and let her bandage the
wound. The white bandage quickly reddened, so she produced another tattered bandage from her
clothes and wound this one even tighter.

 Berengar pounced on the assailant and hauled him to his feet by the scruff of his neck. "Oho, Titus
Riveren!" He shook him, and Gena saw the bleeding figure was little more than a boy. Had the blood
from his nose not darkened his moustache, she never would have noticed it, because, like his fair
eyebrows, it could not be seen against his pale skin. "What treachery is this?"
The dazed boy said nothing coherent, but scarlet bubbles formed on his lips. Blood from his nose ran
down over his mouth to his chin, then dripped down to the floor. Had Berengar not held him up, Gena
knew the boy would have collapsed again, and she felt sorry for him.

 Berengar held him aloft as he might a fox taken after a long hunt. "Everyone here saw this. You all saw a
Riveren strike at the man who would tear down the shield behind which they hide. Need any of you any
more proof of their baseness and dishonor? Suckling at their mothers' breasts, the Riverens learn to strike
at a man's back, so how much worse must they be as adults? And what adult—if he has any concept of
responsibility—would use a child as an assassin?"

 He released the boy, and Titus pooled in a bony pile at Berengar's feet. The count looked down at Neal
and extended his hand to him. "Give me Cleaveheart, and I will strike the blow that will free the Fishers
to avenge this assault upon you."

 Neal shook his head as he slowly rose. "I'm thinking, Berengar, I've never needed avenging before, and
I'm not going to start needing it now."

"Your point is well-taken, Neal." Berengar crossed to the glass cabinet and opened the doors. "There,
use Cleaveheart to sunder the knot, then we Fishers will be your allies in destroying the Riverens."

 Again Neal shook his head. "If you're thinking the rash act of a child means his family needs killing, then
I'm glad the knot exists. And even if Titus there were meant to assassinate me—and since his blade
wasn't poisoned, I'm not thinking anyone put him up to this—I've got a question or two I want answered
before I throw the Fishers and the Riverens in a pit together."

Berengar stiffened. "Questions can be answered later. Give me the sword and I will sever the knot."

"Hear him out!" shouted someone from the Riveren end of the room.

"The sword, Neal, now! You know not the forces with which you deal."

 Gena sensed a hardening in Neal and saw it reflected in the fire flashing through his green eyes. She
slowly stood and pulled back away from him, clearing the space between him and Berengar.

Neal's voice rumbled low like the growl of his namesake. "Oh, I'm thinking I have a very good idea of
what I'm dealing with. I walked in your city yesterday, and I learned a number of things you'd not be
wanting me to know if you had looked at me as more than a way to get your hands on Cleaveheart here."

Berengar's eyes narrowed. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

 "No? I think you do, and I think even your family does not know how far you have gone." Neal looked
over at the Fishers. "You believed Berengar would be bringing Cleaveheart back to sunder this knot, and
when he did that, you knew there would be a war. So you've brought mercenaries into Aurdon. Four
companies, at the least, and their captains are here now. You've forgotten that I captained my own
mercenary company, so I know the look and understand the language. You may have thought yourselves
subtle having them come into town and storing their kits in one of your warehouses, but idle able-bodied
men spending Fisher gold attracts attention in the lower reaches of your city."

 Neal smiled easily. "Did you also know of a rumor old enough to have grown moss about a secret
foundry atLakeOrvir that's making flashdrakes? It's said there's at least ten thousand of the weapons
stored there, which is more than enough to equip the mercenaries in your employ. Just the thing an
ambitious heir to the imperial throne would need to press his claim and eliminate competition. And with
Cleaveheart and the prophecy concerning it, he might even imagine he could retake and reforge the
whole of the empire."

Berengar shook his head. "Baseless fantasies of a man whose brain rotted while he lay in his tomb."

 "Flight of fancy that might all be, but there are other things I know as facts." Neal glanced over at Gena
and she felt her blood run cold. "I know that you had Durriken murdered."

"Preposterous!"

"How do you know, Neal?" Gena stared at the both of them, every kind thought she had ever had about
Berengar turning into a barb that skewered her soul. "How can you be certain?"

"Durriken's flashdrakes and Lord Orvir's ring were given to you after Durriken's death by Eight Cuts.
Perhaps Haladin culture has changed since my time, but Eight Cuts was reserved for Haladin traitors.
Durriken was not Haladin, was he?"

Gena numbly shook her head.

"And even if the Haladina had changed that much, they never would have left his flashdrakes and the ring
with him after they killed him. That mistake the Reithrese made five centuries ago, and I spotted it then.
Berengar has repeated Takrakor's blunder here and now."

Berengar forced a laugh. "Speculation. You offer no link between me and Durriken's death. It would
have been just as easy for the Riverens to have killed him, or the Haladina—who were then frightened off
before they could loot his body."

 Neal shook his head and pointed to the ring lying flat against Gena's chest. "Even when I was young, a
slapdeath ring was well-known. Durriken was wearing it and didn't know until too late that your people
had come to kill him. He could not use one of the flashdrakes, but he got one man with the ring. You may
be well liked in Aurdon, Berengar, but your cousin Waldo was not, and many was the person who
recounted the tale of his death by food poison at the time of Durriken's demise."

 Neal looked the crowd over and shook his head. "I'm thinking, Berengar, that you decided that with
Cleaveheart you could win yourself an empire, so you set out to recover the sword. The story about
freeing your family from my curse was a convenient dodge, and with her eyes blinded by the desire to
avenge Durriken, Lady Genevera missed the clues."

The count stared imperiously down at Neal. "And you did not?"

"Lad, when you go from lustfully looking at her to lustfully looking at my sword, I'm bound to notice."

"You are an old man. Your time is passed. Give me the sword, and I shall let you live out the remainder
of your unnatural life in peace."

 "I'm thinking, Berengar, that's not possible. You might give me peace, but my conscience would not
oblige me." Neal nodded his head toward the cabinet. "You heard Tacorzi—this blade must be given
away or won in combat. I will not give it to you."

Berengar smiled easily as he drew a rapier from the rack in the cabinet. "Then I must give it to you,
mustn't I?"

 Gena saw four men of military bearing move to the forefront of the crowd and edge toward the cabinet.
Filtering her fury at having been deceived and betrayed into her magick, she gestured at the cabinet. A
purple bolt of lightning launched itself from the palm of her right hand and slammed the doors shut. The
energy fanned out and formed a net that sizzled and crackled, filling the air with the scent of ozone.

She met the stares of the four mercenary captains. "This is their fight, unless you foolishly choose to
make it my fight."

Berengar saluted her. "Bravo, I never wanted interference. You honor me."

 "I do nothing of the sort, Berengar." Her eyes sparked with the agonizing fury that knotted her stomach.
"You had better pray Neal slays you, because if he does not, I will. And if the job falls to me, the horrors
of the Eldsaga will be but pleasant memories for you as you die."

Chapter 42:
Slash And Burn

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

***

 ILET THE cold finality of Gena's words sink into me, and I accepted the responsibility of avenging
Durriken for her. Likewise I chose to accept preventing the perversion of what we had all fought for so
long ago, and I accepted the safeguarding of those who would be maimed and killed if Berengar's
dreams of empire became reality. Never before had my reasons for a fight been so clearly drawn. I felt
that somehow this battle was more important than any I had ever fought before.

 As we set ourselves for combat, I knew it would be child's-play to use Cleaveheart to slash his rapier to
bits. I could defeat him in that way, but I chose not to. This was a fight between him and I, between what
I was and what he wanted to become. I saw no reason to make his rapier pay for his ambition.

 With a whispered hiss Cleaveheart came up and went down in a salute to my foe. He stood slightly taller
than I, but carried less weight in his hips and thighs than I did. Technically he was a bigger target, but that
size also gave him an advantage in reach. I had discovered, in sparring with smaller foes in the Steel
Pack, that reach could decide a fight. I also knew, given his skill and all that I had learned, the inch of
reach he may have had over me would matter little.

 Berengar saluted me, his blade's razor edges picking up and reflecting the purple lightning playing over
the cabinet. He set himself in a low stance, with the tip of his blade pointing at my right eye. I brought
Cleaveheart up and targeted his throat. I let the point of my blade circle slowly, making a circuit no larger
than a coin. Keeping myself on the balls of my feet, I waited, because I knew that in this place and given
his cause, he would have to strike first.

 He did not disappoint me. As he slid forward, his point dropped and arrowed in at my right thigh. I
snapped my blade down and around to the left, awkwardly inverting the sword in a huge circular parry. I
carried his blade back out to my right, then came forward, getting inside his guard. I crashed
Cleaveheart's basket-hilt into his face. The blow staggered him and drove him to his knees.

 I leaped above the weak return slash, then whipped my blade up and out, catching him on the
collarbone. I sliced velvet and the flesh beneath it at his right shoulder. Like my wound I knew it would
sting, but it would not hamper him. Dancing back away, I brought my blade back into my guard. "That's
one cut."

Berengar wiped away blood from his split lip with the back of his left hand. "That makes us even."

 "Then I will make you more than even." I waited for him to regain his feel, then I lunged at his belly. He
parried me down, hard, and I let my blade go with his move, I cut it back to the right, just missing his
knee as he riposted forward and passed his blade between my ribs and right arm. His blade started to
come up, seeking the artery running through my armpit. I cocked my wrist, bringing Cleaveheart's point
forward in a stabbing motion at his eyes, while swinging my body away from his sword.

His cut missed as he reflexively pulled up short to protect his face. Continuing my spin, I presented my
back to him for a tantalizing moment. I knew he had to strike at it, so I cranked my sword down and let it
precede me in the spin. My blade picked up Berengar's forehand slash, but the weak block did allow his
blade to kiss my right flank and lay open the flesh over my ribs.

 Sweat poured fire into the cut, but I did not retreat. As he pulled his sword back for another, heavier
cut, I ducked and snapped my blade up. His slash passed over my head as I leaned in toward him and
raked my blade obliquely over his stomach. I sliced a cut open on his belly, by his right hip, and that
made him yelp. Already low, I rolled back onto my tail and somersaulted back out of his range, then
stood.

"That's two cuts, Berengar."

He growled out a chuckle. "Again we are even. But we shall not be at the end of this game."

 Berengar settled into a guard and wove the point of his blade through a figure-eight pattern. I kept mine
circling, but brought my hand up so my hilt remained at shoulder height. My blade pointed at his right
knee. I stamped once with my right foot, then feinted at his leg. He brought his blade down and around in
a tight circular parry, but I snapped my wrist back. Bringing Cleaveheart back to where it almost touched
my right shoulder, I then lashed it forward and razored open a wound on his right flank.

"Three cuts."

 Berengar fought back fast. He lunged, then withdrew as my parry started. I went to riposte, but his
blade extended again in a stop-thrust. I twisted back to my left and avoided being skewered, but only
just barely. His point ricocheted off a rib, leaving with a cut beneath my left nipple, and sweat seared into
it as well.

 As I pulled back, he pressed his attack with short jabs at my legs, groin, and belly. Circling, I managed
to fend them off more by moving out of range than by parrying them. Finally he got me on my left hip with
a little stab wound. I could have parried it with my free hand, but it would have cost me fingers.

"Four, Neal, four," he snarled at me. Another two jabs and he opened a wound on my left shoulder that
mirrored the one I had given him. "And that is five."

"Five's not the game." I pulled my left leg back and drove at him. In his pursuit of me he had begun to
move more laterally than straight forward, so as I came at him, I had his full body to target. I lunged at his
eyes, then ducked beneath his slash-parry and slipped my blade around in a descent. I cut him on the left
breast, leaving his jacket tattered and blood weeping from a flesh wound.

 He hissed and wove his silvery blade through a complex pattern that was more show than threat. At
best, coming in that high and exploiting his reach advantage, all he could hit was my right shoulder, and he
did. His blade bit into the scar Tashayul had left on my shoulder so long before, and I cried out as I
retreated away from him.

"There, Neal, that's six. Which of us will die marked a traitor?"

 "Which indeed, Berengar." I squared myself to him and hunched into a crouch. Sweat stung my eyes and
set every cut on my body burning like torches. I shifted my blade so it covered the center of my body, hilt
at my navel and bloodied point by my eyes. I breathed in through clenched teeth and took some relief in
seeing his chest heave as heavily as mine.

"You are closer than I." His blade started into a knotwork pattern. "Here is seven."

 For the sake of symmetry I knew he would go for my throat, navel, or right hip, since he was intent on
mirroring the pattern of the Haladin ritual. Right hip seemed most likely, and his blade began the journey
toward it. I did not move, did not begin my parry until Berengar had committed fully and could not
withdraw his attack. In he came, his goal unguarded.

 Unguarded and, suddenly, unavailable. I dropped down and pushed off with my left foot. Sliding
forward on my knees and twisting beneath his lunge, I got inside and thrust up through his body.
Cleaveheart pierced him at the left hip and angled up. It scraped along inside his chest, then bounced off
his right shoulder blade and punched out at his right shoulder. Overextended in his futile lunge, his body
continued forward and began to fall on me. I shouldered him off to my right, landing him hard on his right
flank.

 His blade clattered on the marble inlay as it fell from his hand. Cleaveheart, torn from my grasp, rang
dully when the hilt hit the floor. Berengar rolled over on his back, his jaw working furiously. Blood
bubbled up in his mouth in the place of words and ran down either side of his face. His body shook once,
the spine arching, then he lay very still.

His unseeing eyes stared up at the knotted sleeves in the cabinet.

 To the south I heard the sound of snapping wood and breaking glass before people started screaming.
The crowd parted and I saw Stulklirn shake himself, spraying glass from the shattered remains of the
garden doors. Behind me I heard the rustle of Gena's gown, but I held up my empty hands to forestall
either one of them coming to my aid.

My gesture also served to still the conversation in the room.

 I stood slowly, uncoiling myself like a monster new risen from a long sleep, for that really was what I felt
I had become. I let the anger burning inside of me infuse my voice. "Aurdon was a city conceived in evil,
and it has not escaped it."

"That's right," shouted a Riveren. "The Fishers accuse us of treachery, but it's their Berengar that was
bad."
I skewered him with a stare. "Ah, and you claim the Riverens never did use their influence with the
Haladina to bedevil the Fishers? You know you did, and that is just as treacherous."

A Fisher shook a fist at me. "How can you claim to be the judge of what is treachery and what is not
when you cheated in this fight?"

I let my shock play over my face. "I cheated?"

"Yes, you were not to the eighth cut when you killed him."

"Only an idiot born of idiots would have assumed I would use a Haladin ritual on someone who was not
Haladin."

"Yes, but clearly you meant to do that. You broke the rules!"

 "Rules? Rules!" I reached over and ripped Cleaveheart from Berengar's body. "Rules are for games.
That fight was not a game. Berengar's decision to interpret my remarks as implying rules means nothing."
I slashed the blade in a vast arc, splattering party-goers from the Fishers to the Riverens and leaving a
track of crimson droplets to course down the cabinet's glass. "But, then, that has always been the
problem with the Fishers and the Riverens, hasn't it? You always interpret in your own way what I have
stated clearly in mine. This was not a game. None of it, not now, not five hundred years ago, and not
during the intervening years. I am not Haladina concerned with Eight Cuts.

"I am Neal, and you will finally come to understand what that means."

 I pointed to the knotted sleeves. "Five hundred years ago I stood in this place when Aurium was little
more than a squalid village. The Fishers and the Riveravens were ready to slaughter each other over what
was then a collection of longhouses surrounding a small stone hall. None of you would recognize what
you have here in what I saw with my eyes, but by all the gods, you'd recognize your ancestors because
they were as petty and shortsighted as all of you are now."

 I glanced back at Gena and saw her watching me strangely. I did not know what she was thinking or
even if Aarundel had told her about this night's analog, but I hoped she would stay with me and play
along with me. I tried to communicate that to her with my eyes, but I did not know if she understood, so I
just pushed on.

 "That night, so long ago. Lady Genevera's grandfather and Stulklirn's great-great-grandfather stood by
me, so it is fitting they are here tonight. Back then we were set to slay all the Fishers and all the Riverens
because we knew they could not live in peace with each other. But because there were innocents among
them, and because we had a war to fight against the Reithrese, we relented and found a compromise.

 "That compromise, clearly, was a mistake." I snarled at all of them. "I have lain in my tomb for five
centuries, and the only disturbance of my rest came from here, from Aurdon. Someone plots to kill
someone else, so I must intervene. I am forced to act well beyond the time when I should be called upon
to do so."

 I hesitated as I sorted through the various tales I had heard the day before. "Victor Riveren decides to
kill Harald Fisher over a boatload of raw wool, so I have to pitch him down some stairs. Lucretia Fisher
plots to poison Deryl Riveren, and I have to force her own draught down her throat. And now, this time,
the Riverens are using the Haladina to destroy the Fishers, and the Fishers want to build an empire using
Riveren bones as the foundation. This plotting is so widespread, my intervention as a ghost would not
suffice. For this I had to come back to life.

 "This does not please me." I nodded to Gena and to Stulklirn. "I have the descendants of my allies at the
first visit with me here for a reason. Stutklirn, as Shijef had agreed to do, please make certain no one
leaves this room."

Stulklirn stood up to his full height and physically blocked the doors to the garden.

I looked at Gena. "And you, with your magicks, you will be able to slay the old quickly, and I will start
with the young."

An older Riveren man pointed at me with a palsied hand. "This is preposterous! You cannot get away
with such murder!"

 "Can I not?" I stared incredulously at the lot of them. "I am Neal Roclawzi! I am the Knight-Defender of
the Empire. I can slay each and every one of you and then simply send a note to the emperor telling him it
was necessary. He will forgive me. Moreover, last time I had better things to do than to spend my time
killing you foolish people off. Not so, this time.

 "You have to remember, I am five centuries out of my time. I have no ties, no duties, no one I know, and
no one to visit. If I slaughter the lot of you, I can claim your wealth for myself. By the beard of Herin, I
was walking in your city yesterday, and I know from talking with the citizens that if I skim you from the
top, the people out there will happily proclaim me their lord. With your money and the soldiers you
brought to Aurdon, I could even choose to make the emperor abdicate in my favor."

I let myself go. I gestured wildly as I spoke. I fed off their fear and their vanity. I let them imagine their
own sins, and I suggested I was there to punish them. I let them know that the doom their ancestors had
delayed had returned to swallow them whole.

 "The opportunity represented by those knotted sleeves was the only alternative your people were
offered to death. One by one, piecemeal, you have rejected the bargain struck that night, and you have
paid as individuals. You all know it's true, and you have all feared seeing my shade when you plotted and
dreamed. Now it is worse because I have been called from the grave and I have with me now the blade
that longed to drink your blood centuries ago."

"But the Knott family died out," someone pleaded.

 "Ah, but my proscription against fighting with each other did not! Are you people stupid? Did you think
the deaths of your kin were random events, superstition? When I make an oath, it is not broken. When
individuals plotted against each other, I could take one or two lives and be satisfied that my honor had
been upheld, but now, now you plot to conquer nations. The prize was bigger, the dishonor greater, and
the penalty must be commensurately larger!"

 Gena's features sharpened into an inhuman mask when she scowled. "You have heard Neal Gustos
Sylvanii. As he has said, so it will be." She casually gestured backward toward one of the windows in the
eastern wall. The wooden lattice holding glass in place exploded in fire, spraying flame and glass out into
the darkness. Another magickal spark sailed off through the middle of the conflagration, but I soon lost
sight of it. I nodded to her and she smiled most cruelly. "We will need ventilation, for the sanguine aroma
from termination will be overwhelming."

"Leave it to a sylvanesti to think of these details." I turned toward the assembly. "If the youngest would
line up here on my left and the eldest here on my right, we shall begin."

 "We can rush them," I heard someone cry, but before I could even begin to think of a counter that would
forestall that winning strategy, the sun dawned very bright and very early to the east. It rose fast and
shrank as it did, but by the time the fiery sphere had begun to dwindle significantly, a horrible roar and
fierce rumbling echoed over the landscape. The ground shook and the chandeliers started swaying back
and forth.

I looked from the windows to Gena and back again.

 She shook her head, her eyes and voice as strong as they were implacable. "Berengar's weapons' store
atLakeOrvir exists no more."

 That display of raw power cowed the crowd. They began to shuffle toward the ends of the room I had
indicated earlier; then Floris Fisher stepped from the crowd. "I'll be damned if I will let you slay my
family, I will fight you, if I must, to prevent it."

 I brought my head up and gave him a sidelong glance. "Would you do something even more difficult than
face me across a sword?"

He came to attention. "I consider the sacrifice of my life nothing if it will save my family."

"I see." I looked over at the Riverens and pointed Cleaveheart at a comely young girl. "You see her?"

"I do."

"She is yours."

Floris shook his head. "I will not murder her to save even my life."

 I smiled genuinely at him. "Good, for another Fisher slaying a Riveren would displease me even more
than I am displeased now. She is yours to be your wife, to unite your families again."

Floris looked stunned. "But that is what you did last time. You said the penalty had to be greater."

"And so it shall be." I shifted the point of my sword to indicate a raven-haired woman among the Fishers
who had been a favorite subject of gossips during my travels. "You are?"

"Martina, my lord."

"Good. Martina, Titus Riveren is now your husband!"

She shook her head adamantly. "He is just a boy."

"Then perhaps you can make him into a Man." I met her dagger stare with a grin. "And perhaps he can
make you into something other than a milk-bathing repository of vanity."

That brought a blush to her face and a hearty laugh from the rest of the crowd. Titus looked up from the
ground and wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood across both.

I looked hard at Martina. "Woman, see to your husband. Now!"
 As she reluctantly crossed the floor, I addressed the rest of them. "This is how it shall be from this time
forward. Any eligible Fisher will wed a Riveren and vice versa. All families thus united will be known as
Knotts. All the wealth of all the families shall be commingled and shared. All business dealings will be
held in common between the Fishers and Riverens until there are no more Fishers and Riverens, but only
Knotts. That is the way it shall be, because I have no desire to return here in five hundred years or a
thousand years or ever. If I am forced to, I shall not stay my hand."

 I lowered my voice, and the background noise in the room sank appropriately. "Go, call your priests and
sanctify these unions. Do it now!. This second chance at life I give you because I have a second life. Let
none of you give me cause to return a third time."

Epilogue:
Night's Adventure In Aurdon

Winter
A.R. 499
The Present
My 536th Year

***

 STANDING IN THE darkened gardens of the Fisher estate, the cold winter night air leech-sucked
warmth from me. The holes in my clothing made that easy, though the bandages over my wounds meant
the cold did have to work a bit. Still, the chill did sink into my joints and bones as I leaned on my elbows
on the stone balustrade that ringed the garden. Despite the flickering lights in the city below me, the
shadows moving through the streets, and the strains of solemn wedding music from the gathering back in
the ballroom, nothing felt truly alive to me. It seemed as if I had begun to slip back into my tomb, with my
awareness of the outside world slowly evaporating the way light drains from the day at dusk.

 A very cynical part of me wanted to believe I actually had been an avenging ghost over the past five
hundred years. I wanted to lay claim to the righteous anger I had shown the people back in the mansion.
I wanted to shake my head and speak to all the people who had fought for freedom as my allies,
complaining to them that our sacrifices had been forgotten because nothing changes and people are no
better now than we were then.

 I could not do that because I knew it was not true. I did know that the Riverens had forged an alliance
with the Haladina as a way to destroy the Fishers without engaging them directly, and they had done this
without any intention of seeing the Haladina as true Men. Still, by inviting them into their city, by trading
with them, working with them, and learning how they lived, the Riverens demystified the Haladina. The
people of Aurdon helped humanize the image of the Haladina. Over time, over generations, that could
lead to relations that would mean the Haladina might no longer raid in Centisia.

 Only a fool would suggest the change would be easy, but the Elven change toward Men showed the
change could take place. The Elven change and the change in attitudes toward the Haladina could mean
the world would be a better place than the one I had known, or the one I was coming to know now.

 I heard the light crunch of gravel and smiled without turning around. "Your destruction of Orvir was very
convincing at a time when we needed to be convincing."

Gena came to stand beside me with her arms folded across her chest. "I am pleased you approved."
I shifted to lean on my left forearm and left hip so I could watch her, then shifted a bit to relieve the
pressure on the holes I had in me at each point. "You played along well with what I was doing. I had
been afraid you would think me crazy."

 She smiled, dispelling some of the chill. "My grandfather, in recounting your exploits here the first time,
mentioned something called the Codex Mercenarius. I did not know if you planned to actually kill people
in there—and I hoped you were not—but I am not certain I would have stopped you if you had."

 "Only Berengar needed killing. He was the most ambitious, and not everyone agreed with him and his
plans. I suspect he had his brother, Lord Orvir, killed when his lordship discovered the foundry,
flashdrakes, and powder-store at his lake estate."

"So Berengar's giving Rik Orvir's ring to prove he had the right to carry his flashdrakes was a joke?"

"I suppose so. I am actually surprised Berengar did not lecture us more on his plans for empire—the ego
needed to come up with the sort of plan he did is not one that shies from bragging."

 Gena looked out over the city, the light breeze toying with strands of her hair. "He actually did, once,
when I pressed him. It seemed like idle conversation at the time—something to make the miles move
more quickly as we rode to Jarudin. He was secretive. I had no clue that he wanted Cleaveheart to win
an empire before, but now that I think of it, he was always insistent on getting the sword, and not as
concerned with finding Wasp."

 I shrugged. "I suspected something wrong when I heard the Haladina had not looted your Durriken's
body and again when you gave no indication he was a Haladina, yet he was killed with Eight Cuts." My
shrug had shifted my weight so my hip hurt, and as I moved to get comfortable, I hit the cut on my left
forearm on the balustrade. I turned and sat my rump on the cold stone and frowned. "Even the whispers
in the city didn't fully explain everything. What it all came down to was Berengar's desire to get his hands
on Cleaveheart."

 "I am glad you did not surrender the sword to him." Gena shook her head as I squirmed a bit in getting
settled in my new position. "I could heal your cuts, you know. I took care of Titus, and I am still able to
help you."

I shook my head. "These will make six nice new scars. When I'm old . . ."

Her eyebrow arched.

 ". . . older, I mean, in body as well as age, these scars will be worth many drinks and meals in some
tavern somewhere."

She snorted politely and refrained from laughing. "Are you certain?"

"I've never . . . well, never intentionally had magick reverse the trouble I've gotten myself into. At five
hundred and thirty-six I think I am a bit old to change my ways."

"I see." She watched me carefully, her violet eyes picking up an ethereal glow in the backlight from the
ballroom. "I think I would apologize again for having saved you, having used magick to heal you, but I am
not sorry for having done so."
I shrugged, then winced. "You were not given much choice in the matter."

 "Even if I had known, I don't think that would have stopped me." She glanced back at the ballroom and
hugged her arms around herself more tightly. "If you had not been here, Berengar would now be leading
a mob through the streets of Aurdon, and the streets would be running with Riveren and Haladin blood."

 I heard the serious tone in her voice, but still felt compelled to disagree. "Someone else would have
stopped him."

 "Perhaps, but not so soon. As an Elf, I can still speak with my grandfather and know the horror of the
battles fought five centuries ago. In growing up in Cygestolia, I saw the pain caused by the need to
destroy the Reithrese. I have seen the faces of warriors haunted by what they did. I know of atrocities
and murders, and I know they were terrible. For the people back in the ballroom, the winning of the
empire came seventeen generations ago. As you pointed out to me, the truth of what you fought for had
been forgotten, and because it had been forgotten, a parody of it would have been played out on the
world stage."

"And yet, because I was here and I remembered, it will not be."

She glanced down at the sword hanging by my side. "Unless you decide to win yourself an empire."

 I laughed. "Done that, and it wasn't much fun." I winked at her. "Don't know as how I can forgive you
for using magick on me, but if you don't want to be sorry for the reason you stated, I'm thinking you have
every right to be proud and happy of your choice."

 "That's not the only reason I'm not sorry." Her voice caught a bit, and she almost went on to add to her
statement, but she stopped and looked out at the city again.

She didn't need to say anything more, because I thought I knew what she was going to say. "There are
other reasons not to be sorry, Gena. I, for one, am happy to have seen your grandfather again, and your
grandmother, and to have met you."

"You do not have to say that, Neal."

"I'm not. You remind me very much of your grandaunt."

Gena's hands came down to her sides, and her hands knotted into fists. "I know, and I am sorry."

"Sorry?"

"Because that hurts you because I am not her."

Thoughts and memories I had pushed aside white trying to puzzle out Berengar's game came flooding
back into my head. "Larissa and I, we . . . I mean, what we had, we knew, was, uh . . . when we spoke
of . . . when she saw you . . ." I stopped and shook my head. "I am not doing this very well."

She looked up at me and choked back tears, but said nothing.

 I twisted the bracelet from my right wrist and held it up. "When Larissa gave this to you, what did she
say?"
 Gena sniffed once, then forced her hands open. "She told me she was going beyond and then handed the
bracelet to me. I knew what it was, but I never thought she would give it up. She said, 'I want you to
remember, I have chosen you for this. You are my choice.' " Her head came up. "Does that mean
something?"

 I nodded for a bit until my throat opened enough to let words out. "We knew, as we traveled from
Jarudin to Cygestolia for the ceremony involving your father's conception, that we two could never be
together. Larissa could not bear the idea that her bloodline and my bloodline would die out. She made
me promise that when she found someone for me . . . she wanted our progeny to have a chance at the
happiness we could not know."

I took her left hand in mine and slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. "She wanted you to have this, and so
do I."

Gena settled it on her arm, then looked up at me. "And she wanted me for you. Do you want that as
well?"

"I see the sylvanesti have become even more direct over the last five centuries."

We both laughed, but when we stopped, a heavy silence pressed in on me.

 I smiled at Gena. "Larissa was very special to me, and you to her. I respect her choice, but I want to
respect you as well. I'm thinking that had we not learned a lot about each other on the road, in Jarudin
and here, and if there were no attraction between us, we'd not be having this conversation. I am willing to
explore the matter further, if you are."

She gave my hand a squeeze. "I am."

I nodded, then winced.

"Pain?"

"In a way. I was just thinking how protective your grandfather was of Larissa. I imagine he's more so of
you."

Gena pursed her lips. "I'm thinking you can handle him."

"True enough, I did beat him in Jammaq, and that was when he had two eyes."

She stepped close and kissed me, then kissed me again. Her lips tasted sweet, and to my surprise, I
didn't wonder if this was what it would have been like to kiss Larissa. Instead I wondered about what it
would be like to steal another kiss from Gena.

 Settling my arms around her slender waist, I pulled her to me and—scandal though it might have been
somewhere in time—kissed her with all the enthusiasm appropriate for a man of my years kissing a
sylvanesti half my age.

About the Author

 MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE is an award-winning game and computer game designer who was born in
1957 and grew up inBurlington,Vermont . In 1979 he graduated from theUniversityofVermont with a BA
in History. In his career as a game designer he has done work for Flying Buffalo, Inc., Interplay
Productions, TSR, Inc., FASA Corp., Hero Games and Game Designers Workshop.

In his spare time he watches far too much television, serves as the Executive Director of the Phoenix
Skeptics and plays indoor soccer on the Blue Thunder team. He likes a variety of cuisines including, but
not limited to, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese andThai. While a good cook, he believes in supporting the
pizza delivery industry for the good of the economy.

 Once a Hero is the fourteenth novel he has written. In the future he plans to write more novels and to
start a Twelve-Step program for those who wish to eliminate dangling modifiers from their prose.