Elven Star - The Death Gate CycleVolume2

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

 PROLOGUE

 ". . .WORLD DOMINATION WAS WITHIN OUR GRASP. OUR ANCIENT ENEMY, THE

 Sartan, was powerless to prevent our ascendancy. The knowledge that they would be forced to live under our rule was galling to them, bitter as wormwood. The Sartan determined to take drastic measures, committing an act of desperation almost impossible to conceive. Rather than permit us to take over the world, the Sartan destroyed it.

 "In its place, the Sartan created four new worlds, formed out of the elements of the old: Air, Fire, Stone, and Water. The peoples of the world who survived the holocaust were transported by the Sartan to live in these new worlds. We, their ancient enemy, were cast into a magical prison known as the Labyrinth.

 "According to their records that I discovered in the Nexus, the Sartan hoped that prison life would 'rehabilitate' us, that we would emerge from the Labyrinth chastened, our domineering and, what they term 'cruel,' natures softened. But something went wrong with their scheme. Our Sartan jailers, those who were to control the Labyrinth, disappeared. The Labyrinth itself took over, and turned from prison to executioner.

 "Countless numbers of our people have died in that fearsome place. Entire generations have been wiped out, destroyed. But, before it died, each generation sent its children forward, each succeeding generation drew nearer and nearer to freedom. At last, through my extraordinary powers of magic, I was able to defeat the Labyrinth, the first to escape its toils. I passed through the Last Gate and emerged into this world, known as the Nexus. Here, I discovered what had been done to us by the Sartan. More importantly, I discovered the existence of four new worlds and the connections between the worlds. I discovered Death's Gate.

 "I returned to the Labyrinth-I return frequently-and used my magic to fight and stabilize parts of it, providing safe havens for the rest of my people still struggling to free themselves from their bonds. Those who have succeeded come to the Nexus and work for me, building up the city, making ready for the day when, once again, we will take our rightful place as rulers of the universe. To this end, I am sending explorers through the Death's Gate into each of the four worlds."

 "... I chose Haplo from the large number of people in my service for several reasons: his cool headedness, his quick thinking, his ability to speak fluently the various languages, and his skill in magic. Haplo proved himself in his first journey to the Air World of Arianus. Not only did he do what he could to disrupt the world and plunge it into a devastating war, he also provided me with much valuable information, as well as a young disciple-a remarkable child known as Bane.

 "I am quite pleased with Haplo and his accomplishments. If I keep a sharp eye on him, it is because he has an unfortunate tendency to be an independent thinker. I say nothing to him; this trait is invaluable to me at the moment. In fact, I do not believe that he himself is even aware of his flaw. He imagines himself to be dedicated to me. He would sacrifice his life for me without hesitation. But it is one thing to offer up one's life, it is another to offer up one's soul.

 "Reuniting the four worlds, defeating the Sartan-these will be sweet victories. But how much sweeter will be the sight of Haplo and those like him kneeling before me, acknowledging me, in their hearts and in their minds, their absolute lord and master."

 Haplo, my dear son.

 I hope I may term you thus. You are as dear to me as the children I have fathered. Perhaps that is because I feel that I played a role in your birth-or rebirth. Certainly I plucked you from the jaws of death and gave you back your life. And, after all, what does a natural father do to get himself a son except spend a few pleasurable moments with a woman?

 I had hoped to be able to speed you on your journey to Pryan, Realm of Fire. Unfortunately, I received word from the watchers that the magical field is crumbling somewhere near the four hundred and sixty-third gate. The Labyrinth has unleashed a swarm of flesh-devouring ants that have killed several hundreds of our people. I must go in and do battle and will, therefore, be absent when you leave. Needless to say, I wish you were at my side as you have been through countless other fights, but your mission is urgent, and I will not take you from your duty.

 My instructions to you are similar to those you received setting off for Arianus. You will, of course, keep your magical powers hidden from the populace. As in Arianus, we must keep our return to the world secret. If the Sartan discover me before I am ready to proceed with my plans, they would move heaven and earth (as they did once before) to stop me.

 Remember, Haplo, that you are an observer. If possible, take no direct action to alter events in the world, act through indirect means only. When I enter these worlds myself, I do not want to face accusations that my agents committed atrocities in my name. You did an excellent job in Arianus, my son, and I mention this precaution only as a reminder.

 About Pryan, the World of Fire, we know little except that its area is purportedly vast. The model left behind by the Sartan pictures a gigantic ball of stone surrounding a core of fire, similar to the ancient world but far, far larger. It is the size that puzzles me. Why did the Sartan feel the need to make this planet so incredibly immense? Something else I do not quite understand and that is-where is its sun? These are among the many questions you will endeavor to answer.

 Because of the enormous amount of land space on Pryan, I can only assume that its population must tend to be scattered about in small groups, isolated from each other. I base this on knowledge of the estimated number of people the Sartan transported to Pryan. Even with an unprecedented population explosion, the elves, humans, and dwarves could never have expanded to cover such a large land mass. A disciple to draw the people together, such as you brought me from Arianus, will be of no use to me under such circumstances.

 You are being sent to Pryan primarily as investigator. Learn all you can about this world and its inhabitants. And, as in Arianus, search diligently for some sign of the Sartan. Although you did not (with one exception) discover them living in the World of Air, it is possible that they may have fled that world and sought exile on Pryan.

 Be careful, Haplo, be circumspect. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. I embrace you in my heart. I look forward to embracing you in my arms on your safe and successful return. Your lord and father.

 'The Lord of the Nexus, History of the Patryns Following the Destruction of the World. Excerpt from the private diaries of the Lord of the Nexus.

 CHAPTER 1

 EQUILAN, TREETOP LEVEL

 CALANDRA QUINDINIAR SAT AT THE HUGE POLISHED SCROLL DESK ADDING up the last month's earnings. Her white fingers darted rapidly over the abacus, sliding the beads up and down, muttering the figures aloud to herself as she wrote them in the old leather-bound ledger. Her handwriting was much like herself: thin, upright, precise, and easy to read.

 Above her head whirled four plumes made of swans' feathers, keeping the air moving. Despite the suffocating midcycle heat outside, the interior of the house was cool. It stood on the highest elevation in the city and so obtained the breeze that otherwise was often lost in the jungle vegetation.

 The house was the largest in the city, next to the royal palace. (Lenthan Quindiniar had the money to build his house larger than the royal palace, but he was a modest elf and knew his place,) The rooms were spacious and airy with high ceilings and numerous windows and the magical system of flutterfans, at least one in every room. The living rooms were on the second floor and were open and beautifully furnished. Drawn shades darkened and cooled them during bright hours of the cycle. During stormtime, the shades were raised to catch the refreshing, rain-drenched breezes.

 Calandra's younger brother, Paithan, sat in a rocking chair near the desk. He rocked lazily back and forth, a palm fan in his hand, and watched the rotation of the swans' wings above his sister's head. Several other fans were visible to him from the study-the fan in the living room and beyond that the fan in the dining area. He watched them all waft through the air and between the rhythmic flutter of the wings and the clicking of the beads of the abacus and the gentle creaking of his chair, he fell into an almost hypnotic trance.

 A violent explosion that shook the three-level house jolted Paithan upright.

 "Damn," he said, looking irritably at a fine sifting of plaster [1] that was falling from the ceiling into his iced drink.

 His sister snorted and said nothing. She had paused to blow plaster off the page of the ledger, but did not miss a figure. A wail of terror could be heard, coming from the level down below.

 "That'll be the new scullery maid," said Paithan, rising to his feet. "I better go and comfort her, tell her it's only father-"

 "You'll do no such thing," snapped Calandra, neither raising her head nor ceasing to write. "You'll sit right there and wait until I'm finished so that we can go over your next trip norinth. It's little enough you do to earn your keep, idling about with your noble friends, doing Orn knows what. Besides, the new girl's a human and an ugly one at that."

 Calandra returned to her addition and subtraction. Paithan subsided good-naturedly back into his chair.

 I might have known, he reflected, that if Calandra'd hire a human at all the girl'd be some little pig-faced wretch. That's sisterly love for you. Ah, well, I'll be on the road soon and then what dear Cal doesn't know won't hurt her.

 Paithan rocked, his sister muttered, the fans whirred contentedly.

 The elves revere life and so magically endow it on nearly all their creations. The feathers were under the illusion that they were still attached to the swan. Paithan, watching them, thought that this might be a good analogy for their entire family. They were all under the illusion that they were still attached to something, perhaps even each other.

 His peaceful reverie was interrupted by the appearance of a charred, singed, and disheveled man, who bounded into the room, rubbing his hands.

 "That was a good one, don't you think?" he said.

 The man was short, for an elf, and had obviously once been robustly plump. The flesh had begun to sag lately; the skin had turned sallow and slightly puffy. Though it could not be told beneath the soot, the gray hair standing up around a large bald spot on his head revealed that he was in his middle years. Other than his graying hair, it might have been difficult to guess the elf's age because his face was smooth and unwrinkled-too smooth. His eyes were bright-too bright. He rubbed his hands and looked anxiously from daughter to son.

 'That was a good one, wasn't it?" he repeated.

 "Sure, Guvnor," said Paithan in good-humored agreement. "Nearly knocked me over backward."

 Lenthan Quindiniar smiled jerkily.

 "Calandra?" he persisted.

 "You've sent the kitchen help into hysterics and put new cracks in the ceiling, if that's what you mean, Father," retorted Calandra, snapping the beads together viciously.

 "You've made a mistake!" squeaked the abacus suddenly.

 Calandra glared at it, but the abacus held firm. "Fourteen thousand six hundred eighty-five add twenty-seven is not fourteen thousand six hundred twelve. It's fourteen thousand seven hundred twelve. You've neglected to carry the one."

 "I'm surprised I can still reckon at all! See what you've done, Father?" Calandra demanded.

 Lenthan appeared rather downcast for a moment, but he cheered up almost immediately.

 "It won't be long now," he said, rubbing his hands. "That last one lifted the rocket above my head. I think I'm close to discovering the proper mixture. I'll be in the laboratory, my dears, if anyone needs me."

 "That's likely!" muttered Calandra.

 "Oh, ease up on the guvnor," said Paithan, watching with some amusement as the elf wound his way vaguely around the assortment of fine furnishings to disappear through a door at the back of the dining area. "Would you rather have him the way he was after Mother died?"

 "I'd rather have him sane, if that's what you mean, but I suppose that's too much to ask! Between Thea's gallivanting and Papa's idiocy, we're the laughing stock of the city."

 "Don't worry, Sister dear. The people may snigger but, with you scooping up the money of the Lords of Thillia, they do so behind their hands. Besides, if the guvnor was sane he'd be back in the business."

 "Humpf," snorted Calandra. "And don't use that slang talk. You know I can't abide it: It's what comes of hanging around with that crowd of yours. Idle, time-wasting bunch of-"

 "Wrong!" informed the abacus. "It's supposed to be-"

 "I'll do it!" Calandra frowned over her latest entry and irritably went back to add up her figures again.

 "Let that. . . that thing there do the work," suggested Paithan, motioning to the abacus.

 "I don't trust machines. Hush up!" Calandra snarled when her brother would have spoken.

 Paithan sat quietly for several moments, fanning himself and wondering if he had the energy to call for the servant to bring him a fresh glass of vindrech-one that didn't have plaster in it. But it was against the young elf's nature to be silent for long.

 "Speaking of Thea, where is she?" he asked, peering about as if he expected to see her emerge from under one of the antimacassars.

 "In bed, of course. It's not winetime yet," returned his sister, referring to that period late in the cycle [2] known as "storm" when all elves cease their work and relax over a glass of spiced wine.

 Paithan rocked. He was getting bored. Lord Durndrun was having a group over for sailing on his treepond and a picnic supper after, and if Paithan was planning to attend it was high time he set about getting dressed and on his way. Although not of noble birth, the young elf was rich enough, handsome enough, and charming enough to make his way into the society of the gently bred. He lacked the education of the nobility but was smart enough to admit it and not try to pretend he was anything other than what he was-the son of a middle-class businessman. The fact that his middle-class businessman father happened to be the wealthiest man in all of Equilan, wealthier even (so it was rumored) than the queen herself, more than made up for Paithan's occasional lapses into vulgarity.

 The young elf was a good-hearted companion who spent his money freely and, as one of the lords said, "He is an interesting devil-can tell the wildest tales ..."

 Paithan's education came from the world, not from books. After his mother's death, some eight years previous, and his father's subsequent descent into madness and ill-health, Paithan and his elder sister had taken over the family business. Calandra stayed at home and handled the monetary side of the prosperous weapons company. Although the elves hadn't gone to war in more than a hundred years, the humans were still fond of the practice and even fonder of the magical elven weapons created to wage it. It was Paithan's job to go out into the world, negotiate the deals, make certain that shipments were delivered, and keep the customers happy.

 Consequently, he had traveled over all the lands of Thillia and had once ventured as far as the realm of the SeaKings to the norinth. Noble elves, on the other hand, rarely left their estates high in the treetops. Many had never been to the lower parts of Equilan, their own queendom. Paithan was, therefore, looked upon as a marvelous oddity and was courted as such.

 Paithan knew the lords and ladies kept him around much as they kept their pet monkeys-to amuse them. He was not truly accepted into higher elven society. He and his family were invited to the royal palace once a year-the queen's concession to those who kept her coffers full-but that was all. None of which bothered Paithan in the least.

 The knowledge that elves who weren't half as smart or one-fourth as rich looked down on the Quindiniars because they couldn't trace their family back to the Plague rankled like an arrow wound in Calandra's breast. She had no use for the "peerage" and made her disdain plain, at least to her younger brother. And she was extremely put out that Paithan didn't share her feelings.

 Paithan, however, found the noble elves nearly as amusing as they found him. He knew that if he proposed marriage to any one of ten dukes' daughters there would be gasps and wailings and tears at the thought of the "dear child" marrying a commoner-and the wedding would be held as fast as decently possible. Noble houses, after all, are expensive to maintain.

 The young elf had no intention of marrying, at least not yet. He came of an exploring, wandering family-the very elven explorers who had discovered omite. He had been home for nearly a full season now and it was time he was on his way again, which was one reason he was sitting here with his sister when he should be out rowing around some charming young woman in a scull. But Calandra, absorbed in her calculations, appeared to have forgotten his very existence. Paithan decided suddenly that if he heard one more bead click he would go "potty"-a slang expression of "his crowd" that would have set Calandra's teeth on edge,

 Paithan had some news for his sister that he'd been saving for just such an occasion. It would cause an explosion akin to the one that had rocked the house previously, but it might shake Calandra loose and then he could escape.

 "What do you think of Father's sending for that human priest?" he asked.

 For the first time since he entered the room, his sister actually stopped her calculations, lifted her head, and looked at him. "What?"

 "Father's sending for the human priest. I thought you knew." Paithan blinked rapidly, to appear innocent.

 Calandra's dark eyes glinted. The thin lips pursed. Wiping the pen with careful deliberation on an ink-stained cloth used expressly for this purpose, she laid it down carefully in its proper place on the top of the ledger and turned to give her hill attention to her brother.

 Calandra had never been pretty. All the beauty in the family, it was said, had been saved up and given to her younger sister. Cal was thin to the point of boniness. (Paithan, when a child, had once been spanked for asking if his sister's nose had been caught in a winepress.) Now, in her fading youth, it appeared as if her entire face had been caught and pinched. She wore her hair pulled back in a tight knot at the top of her head, held in place by three lethal-looking, sharp-pointed combs. Her skin was dead white, because she rarely went out of doors and then carried a parasol to protect her from the sun. Her severe dresses were made after the same pattern-buttoned to her chin, her skirts trailing the floor. Calandra had never minded that she wasn't pretty. Beauty was given a woman so that she could trap a man, and Cal had never wanted a man.

 "What are men, after all," Calandra was fond of saying, "but creatures who spend your money and interfere in your life?"

 All except me, thought Paithan. And that's because Calandra's brought me up properly.

 "I don't believe you," said his sister.

 "Yes, you do." Paithan was enjoying himself. "You know the guv-sorry, slip of the tongue-Father's crazy enough to do just about anything."

 "How did you find out?"

 "I popped-stopped in at old Rory's last suppertime for a quick one before going to Lord-"

 "I'm not interested in where you were going." A line had appeared in Calandra's forehead. "You didn't hear this rumor from old Rory, did you?"

 " 'Fraid so, Sister dear. Our batty papa had been in the pub, talkin' about his rockets and comes out with the news that he's sent for a human priest."

 "In the pub!" Calandra's eyes widened in horror. "Were there . . . many who heard him?"

 "Oh, yes," said Paithan cheerfully. "It was his usual time, you know, right during winetime and the place was packed."

 Calandra emitted a low groan, her fingers curled around the frame of the abacus, which protested loudly.

 "Maybe he ... imagined it." Her tone sounded hopeless, however. Their father was sometimes all too sane in his madness.

 Paithan shook his head. "Nope. I talked to the birdman. His faultless [3] carried the message to Lord Gregory of Thillia. The note said that Lenthan Quindiniar of Equilan wanted to consult with a human priest about travel to the stars. Food and lodging provided and five hundred stones." [4]

 Calandra groaned again. "We'll be besieged!" She gnawed her lip.

 "No, no, I don't think so." Paithan felt somewhat remorseful at being the cause of such agony. He reached out and patted his sister's clenched hand. "We may be lucky this time, Callie. Human priests live in monasteries and take strict vows of poverty and such like. They couldn't accept the money. And they have life pretty good in Thillia, not to mention the fact that they have a strongly organized hierarchy. They're all answerable to some sort of father superior, and one couldn't just pack up and head out for the wilds."

 "But the chance to convert an elf-"

 "Pooh! They're not like our priests. They haven't time to convert anybody. They're mainly concerned with playing politics and trying to bring back the Lost Lords."

 "You're certain?" Calandra had regained some color in the pale cheeks.

 "Well, not certain," Paithan admitted. "But I've been around humans a lot and I know them. They don't like coming into our lands, for one thing. They don't like us, for another. I don't think we have to worry about this priest turning up."

 "But why?" Calandra demanded. "Why would Papa do such a thing?"

 "Because of the human belief that life came from the stars, which are really and truly cities, and that someday, when our world here below is in chaos, the Lost Lords will return and lead us back."

 "That's nonsense!" Calandra said crisply. "All know life came from Peytin Sartan, Matriarch of Heaven, who created this world for her mortal children. The stars are her immortal children, watching over us." She looked shocked, the full implication dawning on her. "You don't mean to say that Father actually believes this? Why that...that's heresy!"

 "I think he's beginning to," said Paithan, more somberly. "It makes sense for him, Callie, when you think about it. He was experimenting with using rockets to transport goods before Mother died. Then, she leaves and our priests tell him that Mother's gone to heaven to be one of the immortal children. His mind slips one little cog and he lights on the idea of using rockets to go find Mother. Now he misses the next cog and decides that maybe she's not immortal but is living up there, safe and well, in some sort of city."

 "Blessed Orn!" Calandra groaned again. She sat silent for several moments, staring at the abacus, her fingers twitching one of the beads back and forth, back and forth. "I'll go talk to him," she said at last.

 Paithan carefully kept his face under control. "Yes, that might be a good idea, Callie. You go talk to him."

 Calandra rose to her feet, her skirts rustling stiffly about her. She paused, and looked down at her brother. "We were going to discuss this next shipment-"

 "That can wait until tomorrow. This is much more important."

 "Humpf. You needn't pretend to look so concerned. I know what you're up to, Paithan. You'll be off on some scatter-brained outing with your fine friends instead of staying home, minding your business as you ought. But you're right, though you probably don't have brains enough to know it. This is more important." A muffled explosion came from below, a crash of falling plates, and a scream from the kitchen. Calandra sighed. "I'll go talk with him, though I'm bound to say I doubt if it'll do much good. If I could just get him to keep his mouth shut!"

 She slammed down the ledger. Lips compressed, back straight as a bridgepole tree, she marched in the direction of the door at the far end of the dining area. Her hips were straight as her back; no alluring swaying of skirt for Calandra Quindiniar.

 Paithan shook his head. "Poor Guvnor," he said with a moment's feeling of true pity. Then, flipping the palm frond fan in the air, he went to his room to get dressed.

 CHAPTER 2

 EQUILAN, TREETOP LEVEL

 DESCENDING THE STAIRS, CALANDRA PASSED THROUGH THE KITCHEN, LOCATED on the first floor of the house. The heat increased noticeably as she moved from the airy upper regions into the more closed and steamy lower part. The scullery maid-eyes red rimmed and a mark on her face from the cook's broad hand-was sullenly sweeping up broken crockery. The maid was an ugly human, as Calandra had said, and the red eyes and swollen lip did nothing to enhance her appearance.

 But then Calandra considered all humans ugly and boorish, little more than brutes and savages. The human girl was a slave, who had been purchased along with a sack of flour and a stonewood cooking pot. She would work at the most menial tasks under a stern taskmaster-the cook-for about fifteen of the twenty-one-hour day. She would share a tiny room with the downstairs maid, have no possessions of her own, and earn a pittance by which she might, by the time she was an old woman, buy her way out of slavery. And yet Calandra firmly believed that she had done the human a tremendous favor by bringing her to live among civilized people.

 Seeing the girl in her kitchen fanned the coals of Calandra's ire. A human priest! What madness. Her father should have more sense. It was one thing to be insane, quite another to abandon all sense of proper decorum. Calandra marched through the pantry, yanked open the cellar door, and proceeded down the cobwebby steps into the cool darkness below.

 The Quindiniar house was built on a moss plain that grew among the upper levels of vegetation of the world of Pryan. The name Pryan meant Realm of Fire in a language supposedly used by those first people who came to the world. The nomenclature was appropriate, because Pryan's sun shone constantly. A more apt name for the planet might have been "Realm of Green," for-due to the continual sunshine and frequent rains-Pryan's ground was so thickly covered with vegetation that few people currently living on the planet had ever seen it.

 Huge moss plains spanned the branches of gigantic trees, whose trunks at the base were sometimes wide as continents. Level after level of leaves and various plant life extended upward, many levels existing on top of levels beneath them. The moss was incredibly thick and strong; the large city of Equilan was built on a moss bed. Lakes and even oceans floated on top of the thick, brownish green mass. The topmost branches of the trees poked out above it, forming tremendous, junglelike forests. It was here, in the treetops or on the moss plains, that most civilizations on Pryan built their cities.

 The moss plains didn't completely cover the world. They came to end in frightful places known as dragonwalls. Few ventured near these chasms. Water from the moss seas leapt over the edge and cascaded down into the darkness with a roar that shook the mighty trees. Any person standing on the edge of the land, staring into that limitless mass of jungle beneath his feet, felt small and puny and fragile as the newest unfurled leaf.

 Occasionally, if the observer managed to gather his courage and spend some time staring into the jungle below, he might see ominous movement-a sinuous body jumping up among the branches and slithering away, moving among the deep green shadows so swiftly that the brain wondered if the eye was lying. It was these creatures that gave the dragonwalls their name-the dragons of Pryan. Few had ever seen them, for the dragons were as wary of the tiny strange beings inhabiting the tops of the trees as the humans, dwarves, and elves were wary of the dragons. It was believed, however, that the dragons were enormous, wingless beasts of great intelligence who carried on their lives far, far below, perhaps even living on the fabled ground.

 Lenthan Quindiniar had never seen a dragon. His father had; he'd seen several. Quintain Quindiniar had been a legendary explorer and inventor. He had helped establish the elven city of Equilan. He had invented numerous weapons and other devices that were immediately coveted by the human settlers in the area. He had used the already considerable family fortune, founded in omite, [5] to establish a trading company that grew more prosperous every year. Despite his success. Quintain had not been content to stay quietly at home and count his coins. When his only son, Lenthan, was old enough. Quintain turned over the business to his son and went back out into the world. He'd never been heard from again, and all assumed, after a hundred years had passed, that he was dead.

 Lenthan had the family's wandering blood in his veins but was never allowed to indulge in it, having been forced to take over the affairs of the business. He also had the family gift for making money, but it didn't seem to Lenthan as if the money he made was his money. He was, after all, simply carrying on the trade built up by his father. Lenthan had long sought a way to make his own mark in the world, but, unfortunately, there wasn't much of the world left to explore. The humans held the lands to the norinth, the Terinthian Ocean prohibited expansion to the est and vars and the dragonwall blocked the sorinth. As far as Lenthan was concerned, he had nowhere to go but up.

 Calandra entered the cellar laboratory, holding her skirts out of the dirt; the look on her face would have curdled milk. It came near curdling her father. Lenthan, seeing his daughter here in this place he knew she abhorred, blanched and moved nervously nearer another elf who was present in the laboratory. This other elf smiled and bowed officiously. The expression on Calandra's face darkened at the sight.

 "How nice-nice to see you down here, m-my dear," stammered poor Lenthan, dropping a crock of some foul-smelling liquid onto a filthy tabletop. Calandra wrinkled her nose. The moss walls and floor gave off a pungent musky odor that blended ill with the various chemical smells-most notably sulfur-drifting about the laboratory.

 "Mistress Quindiniar," said the other elf in greeting. "I trust I find you in health?"

 "You do, sir, thank you for asking. And I trust you are the same, Master Astrologer?"

 "A slight touch of rheumatism, but that is to be expected at my age."

 "I wish your rheumatism would carry you off, you old charlatan!" muttered Calandra beneath her breath.

 "Why is this witch down here meddling?" muttered the astrologer into the high, pointed collar that stood up from his shoulders and almost completely surrounded his face.

 Lenthan stood between the two, looking forlorn and guilty, though he had no idea, as yet, what he had done.

 "Father," said Calandra in a severe voice, "I want to speak to you. Alone."

 The astrologer bowed and started to sidle off. Lenthan, seeing his prop being knocked out from beneath him, grabbed hold of the wizard's robes.

 "Now, my dear, Elixnoir is part of the family-"

 "He certainly eats enough to be part of the family," Calandra snapped, her patience giving way under the crushing blow of the terrible news of the human priest. "He eats enough to be several parts."

 The astrologer drew himself up tall and stared down his long nose that was nearly as sharply pointed as the tips of the night Hue collar through which it was seen.

 "Callie, remember, he is our guest!" said Lenthan, shocked enough to rebuke his eldest child. "And a master wizard!"

 "Guest, yes, I'll give him that. He never misses a meal Or a chance to drink our wine or sleep in our spare bedroom. But master wizard I much doubt. I've yet to see him do anything but mumble a few words over that stinking gunk of yours, Father, and then stand back and watch it fizzle and smoke. You two will likely burn the house down around our ears someday! Wizard! Hah! Egging you on, Papa, with blasphemous stories about ancient people traveling to the stars in ships with sails of fire-"

 "That is scientific fact, young woman," struck in the astrologer, the tips of his collar quivering in indignation. "And what your father and I are doing is scientific research and has nothing at all to do with religion-"

 "Oh, it doesn't, does it?" cried Calandra, hurling her verbal spear straight for her victim's heart. "Then why is my father importing a human priest?"

 The astrologer's eyes widened in shock. The high collar turned from Calandra to the wretched Lenthan, who found himself much disconcerted by it.

 "Is this true, Lenthan Quindiniar?" demanded the incensed wizard. "You have sent for a human priest?"

 "I-I-I-" was all Lenthan could manage.

 "I have been deceived by you, sir," stated the astrologer, his dignity increasing every moment and so, it seemed, the length of his collar. "You led me to believe that you shared our interest in the stars, in their cycles and their places in the heavens."

 "I was! I am!" Lenthan wrung his soot-blackened hands.

 "You professed to be interested in the scientific study of how these stars rule our lives-"

 "Blasphemy!" cried Calandra with a shudder of her bony frame.

 "And yet now I find you consorting with-with-"

 Words failed the wizard. His pointed collar appeared to close around him so that all that could be seen above it were his glittering, infuriated eyes.

 "No! Please let me explain!" gabbled Lenthan. "You see, my son, Paithan, told me about the belief the humans have that there are people living in those stars and I thought-"

 "Paithan told you!" gasped Calandra, pouncing on a new culprit.

 "People living there!" gasped the astrologer, his voice muffled by the collar.

 "But it does seem likely . . . and certainly explains why the ancients traveled to the stars and it fits with what our priests teach us that when we die we become one with the stars and I truly do miss Elithenia. . . ."

 The last was said in a wretched, pleading tone that moved Lenthan's daughter to pity. In her own way, Calandra loved her father, just as she loved her brother and younger sister. It was a stern and unbending and impatient kind of love, but love it was and she moved over to put thin, cold fingers on her father's arm.

 "There, Papa, don't upset yourself. I didn't mean to make you unhappy. It's just that I'd think you would have discussed this with me instead of ... instead of the crowd at the Golden Mead!" Calandra could not forebear a sob. Pulling out a prim-and-proper lace-edged handkerchief, she clamped it over her nose and mouth.

 His daughter's tears had the effect (not unintended) of completely crushing Lenthan Quindiniar into the mossy floor and burying him twelve hands [6] down. Her weeping and the wizard's trembling collar points were too much for the middle-aged elf.

 "You're both right," said Lenthan, glancing from one to the other sorrowfully. "I can see that now. I've made a terrible mistake and when the priest comes, I'll tell him to go away immediately."

 "When he comes!" Calandra raised dry eyes and stared at her father. "What do you mean 'when he comes'? Paithan said he wouldn't come!"

 "How does Paithan know?" Lenthan asked, considerably perplexed. "Did he talk to him after I did?" The elf thrust a waxen hand into a pocket of his silk vest and dragged out a crumpled sheet of foolscap. "Look, my dear." He exhibited the letter.

 Calandra snatched it and read it, her eyes might have burned holes in the paper.

 " 'When you see me, I'll be there. Signed, Human Priest.' Bah!" Calandra thrust the letter back at her father. "That's the most ridiculous- Paithan's playing a joke. No person in his right mind would send a letter like that, not even a human. 'Human Priest indeed!"

 "Perhaps he's not in his right mind," said the Master Astrologer in ominous tones.

 A mad human priest was coming to her house.

 "Orn have mercy!" Calandra murmured, gripping the edge of the laboratory table for support.

 "There, there, my dear," said Lenthan, putting his arm around his daughter's shoulders. "I'll take care of it. Just leave everything to me. You shan't be bothered in the slightest."

 "And if I can be of any help"-the Master Astrologer sniffed the air; the smell of roast targ was wafting down from the kitchen-"I shall be happy to lend my aid. I shall even overlook certain things that were said in the heat of emotional distress."

 Calandra paid no attention to the wizard. She had recovered her self-possession and her one thought now was to find her worthless brother and wring a confession out of him. She had no doubt-well, she had little doubt-that this was Paithan's doing, his idea of a practical joke. He was probably laughing heartily at her right now. How long would he laugh when she cut his allowance in half?

 Leaving the astrologer and her father to blow themselves to smithereens in the cellar if they liked, Calandra stormed up the stairs. She marched through the kitchen where the scullery maid hid behind a dish towel until the awful specter was gone. Ascending to the third level of the house-the sleeping level- Calandra halted outside her brother's door and banged on it loudly.

 "Paithan! Open your door this instant!"

 "He's not there," called a sleepy voice from down the hallway.

 Calandra glowered at the door, knocked again, and rattled the wooden handle. No sound. Turning, Cal stalked down the hall and entered the room of her younger sister.

 Clad in a frilly nightdress that left both white shoulders exposed and just enough of her breasts to make things interesting, Aleatha lounged in a chair before her dressing table, lazily brushing her hair and admiring herself in the mirror. Magically enhanced, the mirror whispered compliments and offered the occasional suggestion as to the correct amount of rouge.

 Calandra paused in the doorway, shocked almost beyond words. "What do you mean! Sitting there half-naked in broad daylight with the door wide open! What if one of the servants came by?"

 Aleatha raised her eyes. She performed this motion slowly and languorously, knowing and enjoying full well the effect it had. The young elfmaid's eyes were a clear, vibrant blue, but- shadowed over by heavy lids and long, thick lashes-they darkened to purple. Opening them wide, therefore, had the effect of seeming to completely change their color. Numerous elven men had written sonnets to those eyes, and one was rumored to have died for them.

 "Oh, one servant has already been past," said Aleatha without the slightest perturbation. "The footman. He's been up and down the hall three times at least in the last half-hour." She turned from her sister and began arranging the ruffles of her nightdress to show off her long, slender neck.

 Aleatha's voice was rich, throaty, and sounded perpetually as if she were just about to sink into a deep slumber. This, combined with the heavy-lidded eyes, gave an impression of sweet languor no matter where the young woman went or what she was doing. During the fevered gaiety of a royal ball, Aleatha- ignoring the rhythm of the music-would dance slowly, in an almost dreamlike state, her body completely surrendered to her partner, giving him the delightful impression that without his strong support she would sink to the floor. The languid eyes stared into his, with just a tiny sparkle of fire deep in the purple depths, leading a man to think of what he might do that would cause those sleepy eyes to open wide.

 "You are the talk of Equilan, Thea!" snapped Calandra, holding the handkerchief to her nose. Aleatha was spraying perfume over her neck and breast. "Where were you last darktime?" [7]

 The purple eyes opened wide, or at least wider. Aleatha would never waste their full effect on a mere sister.

 "Since when do you care where I was? What wasp's gotten into your corset this gentle-time, Callie?"

 "Gentle-time! It's nearly winetime! You've slept away half the day!"

 "If you must know, I was with Lord Kevanish and we went down to the Dark-"

 "Kevanish!" Calandra drew a seething breath. "That blackguard! He's being refused admittance to every proper house over that affair of the duel. It was because of him that poor Lucillia hung herself, and he as much as murdered her brother! And you, Aleatha ... to be seen publicly with him-" Calandra choked.

 "Nonsense. Lucillia was a fool for thinking that a man like Kevanish could really be in love with her. Her brother was a bigger fool in demanding satisfaction. Kevanish is the best boltarcher in Equilan."

 "There is such a thing as honor, Aleatha!" Calandra stood behind her sister's chair, her hands gripping the back of it, the knuckles white with the strain. It seemed that with very little prompting, she might grip her sister's fragile neck in the same manner. "Or has this family forgotten that?"

 "Forgotten?" murmured Thea in her sleepy voice. "No, dear Callie, not forgotten. Simply bought and paid for it long ago."

 With a complete lack of modesty, Aleatha rose from her chair and began to untie the silken ribbons that almost held the front of her nightdress closed. Calandra, looking at her sister's reflection in the mirror, could see reddish bruise marks on the white flesh of shoulders and breast-the marks of the lips of an ardent lover. Sickened, Calandra turned her back and walked swiftly across the room to stand staring out the window.

 Aleatha smiled lazily at the mirror and allowed the nightdress to slip to the floor. The mirror was rapturous in its comments.

 "You were looking for Paithan?" she reminded her sister. "He flew into his room like a bat from the deep, dressed in his lawn suit, and flew out. I think he's gone to Lord Durndrun's. I was invited, but I don't know if I shall go or not. Paithan's friends are such bores."

 "This family is falling apart!" Calandra pressed her hands together. "Father sending for a human priest! Paithan a common tramp, caring for nothing except roaming! You! You'll end up pregnant and unwed and likely hang yourself like poor Lucillia."

 "Oh, hardly, Callie, dear," said Aleatha, kicking aside the nightdress with her foot. "Hanging oneself takes such a lot of energy." Admiring her slender body in the mirror, which admired it right back, she frowned, reached out and rang a bell made out of the shell of the egg of the carol bird. "Where is that maid of mine? Worry less about your family, Callie, and more about the servants. I never saw a lazier lot."

 "It's my fault!" Calandra sighed and clasped her hands together tightly, pressing them against her lips. "I should have made Paithan go to school. I should have supervised you and not let you run wild. I should have stopped Father in this nonsense of his. But who would have run the business? It was sliding when I took it over! We would have been ruined! Ruined! If it had been left up to Father-"

 The maid hurried into the room.

 "Where have you been?" asked Aleatha sleepily.

 "I'm sorry, mistress! I didn't hear you ring."

 "Well, I did. But you should know when I want you. Lay out the blue. I'm staying home this darktime. No, don't. Not the blue. The green with the moss roses. I think I'll attend Lord Durndrun's outing, after all. Something amusing might occur. If nothing else, I can at least torment the baron, who's simply dying of love for me. Now, Callie, what's this about a human priest? Is he good looking?"

 Calandra gave a strangled sob and clenched her teeth over the handkerchief. Aleatha glanced at her. Accepting the flimsy robe the maid draped over her shoulders, Thea crossed the room to stand behind her sister. Aleatha was as tall as Calandra, but her figure was soft and curved where her sister's was bony and angular. Masses of ashen hair framed Aleatha's face and tumbled down her back and around her shoulders. The elfmaid never "dressed" her hair as was the style. Like the rest of Aleatha, her hair was always disheveled, always looked as ifshe had just risen from her bed. She laid soft hands on her sister's quivering shoulders.

 'The hour flower has closed its petals on those times, Callie. Keep longing uselessly for it to open again and you'll soon be insane as Father, if Mother had lived, things might have been different"-Aleatha's voice broke, she drew nearer her sister- "but she didn't. And that's that," she added, with a shrug of her perfumed shoulders. "You did what you had to do, Callie. You couldn't let us starve."

 "I suppose you're right," said Calandra briskly, recalling that the maid was in the room and not wanting their affairs discussed in the servant's hall. She straightened her shoulders and smoothed out imaginary wrinkles from her stiff, starched skirts. "So you won't be in to dinner?"

 "No, I'll tell the cook, if you like. Why don't you come to Lord Durndrun's, Sister?" Aleatha walked to the bed, where her maid was laying out silken undergarments. "Randolphus will be there. He's never married, you know, Callie. You broke his heart."

 "Broke his purse is more like it," said Calandra severely, looking at herself in the mirror, patting her hair where a few wisps had come undone, and stabbing the three lethal combs back into place. "He didn't want me, he wanted the business,"

 "Perhaps." Aleatha paused in her dressing, the purple eyes going to the mirror and meeting the reflected eyes of her sister. "But he would have been company for you, Callie. You're alone too much."

 "And so I'm to let a man step in and take over and ruin what it's cost me years to build just for the sake of seeing his face every morning whether I like it or not? No, thank you. There are worse things than being alone."

 Aleatha's purple eyes darkened almost to wine. "Death, maybe."

 Her sister didn't hear her.

 The elfmaid shook back her hair, shaking off the gloomy shadow at the same time. "Shall I tell Paithan you're wanting to see him?"

 "Don't bother. He must be near to running out of money by now. He'll be around to see me in the toiltime." Calandra marched toward the door. "I have the books to balance. Try to come home at a reasonable hour. Before tomorrow, at least."

 Aleatha smiled at her sister's sarcasm and lowered the sleep-heavy eyelids modestly. "If you like, Callie, I won't see Lord Kevanish anymore."

 Her sister paused, turned. Calandra's stern face brightened, but she only said, "I should hope not!" Stalking out of the room, she slammed the door shut behind her.

 "He's getting to be a bore anyway," remarked Aleatha to herself. She lounged back down at her dressing table and studied her flawless features in the effusive mirror.

 CHAPTER 3

 GRIFFITH, TERNCIA, THILLIA

 CALANDRA RETURNED TO HER WORK ON THE ACCOUNT BOOKS AS A SOOTHING antidote to the wild vagaries of her family. The house was quiet. Her father and the astrologer puttered about in the cellar but, knowing that his daughter was more near exploding than his magical powder, Lenthan thought it wise to refrain from any further experiments along those lines.

 After dinner, Calandra performed one more act related to the business. She sent a servant with a message for the birdman, addressed to Master Roland of Griffith, Jungleflower Tavern.

 Shipment will arrive in early Fallow. [8] Payment expected on delivery.

 Calandra Quindiniar.

 The birdman attached the message to the foot of a faultless that had been trained to fly to Terncia and cast the brightly colored bird in the air.

 The faultless glided effortlessly through the sky, riding the air currents that ebbed and flowed among the towering trees.

 The bird had her mind strictly on her destination, where her mate, locked in a cage, awaited her. She kept no watch for predators, there was nothing living that wanted her for food. The faultless secretes an oil that keeps its feathers dry during the frequent rainstorms. This oil is deadly poison to all species of life except the faultless.

 The faultless winged its way norinth-vars, a route that took it over the grounds and mansions of the elven peerage and across Lake Enthial.

 The bird dipped low over the elven farmlands that grew in the upper moss beds, forming a patchwork of unnaturally straight lines. Human slaves toiled in the fields, tending the crops. The faultless wasn't particularly hungry; she'd been fed before starting, but a mouse would top off her dinner nicely. She couldn't see one, however, and continued on, disappointed.

 The carefully cultivated elven lands soon disappeared into the jungle wild. Streams, fed by the daily rains, gathered into rivers atop the moss beds. Winding their way through the jungle, the rivers occasionally found a break in the upper layers of the moss and cascaded down into the dark depths below.

 Wisps of clouds began to drift before the bird's eyes, and she flew higher, gaining altitude, climbing above the storms of rain's hour. Eventually the thick, black, lightning-shot mass completely blocked her view of the land. She knew where she was, however, instinct guiding her. The Lord Marcins Forests lay below her; they were named by the elves but claimed by neither elves nor human due to the fact that their jungle growth was impenetrable.

 The storm came and went, as it had done time out of mind since the creation of the world. The sun shone brightly, and the bird could see settled lands-Thillia, realm of the humans. From her great height, the bird noted three of the sparkling, sunlit towers that marked the five divisions of the Thillian kingdom. The towers, ancient by human standards, were built of crystal bricks, the secret of whose making had been known to human wizards during the reign of King George the Only. The secret, as well as many of the wizards, had been lost in the devastating War for Love that followed the old king's death.

 The faultless used the towers to mark her destination, then swooped down, flying low over the humans' lands. Built on a broad moss plain, dotted here and there with trees that had been left standing for their shade, the country was flat, criss-crossed with roads and pockmarked with small towns. The roads were well traveled; humans having a curious need to be constantly on the move, a need the sedentary elves could never understand and one that they considered barbaric.

 The hunting was far more favorable in this part of the world, and the faultless took a brief moment to fortify herself on a largish rat. Meal finished, she cleaned her claws on her beak, preened her feathers, and took to the air. When she saw the flat lands begin to give way to thick jungle, the bird felt cheered, for she was nearing the end of her long journey. She was over Terncia, the kingdom farthest norinth. Arriving at the walled city surrounding the crystal brick tower that marked the capital of Terncia, the lard heard the rough call of her mate. She dove from the sky, spiraling down into the city's heart, and landed on the leather-covered arm of a Thillian birdman. He removed the message, noted the designation, and placed the weary faultless into the cage with her mate, who greeted her with tiny nips of his beak.

 The birdman handed the message to a circuit rider. Several days later, the rider entered a crude and half-thought-through village standing on the very edges of the jungle and dropped the message off at the village's only inn.

 Seated in his favorite booth in the Jungleflower, Master Roland of Griffith studied the fine quin scroll. Grinning, he shoved it across the table to a young woman who sat across from him.

 "There! What did I tell you, Rega?"

 "Thank Thillia, that's all I can say." Rega's tone was grim, she wasn't smiling. "Now you at least have something to show old Blackbeard and maybe he'll leave us be for a stretch!"

 "I wonder where he is?" Roland glanced at the hour flower [9] that stood in a pot on the bar. Almost twenty petals were folded down. "It's past his usual time."

 "He'll be here. This is too important to him."

 "Yeah, and that makes me nervous."

 "Developing a conscience?" Rega drained her mug of kegrot and glanced about for the barmaid.

 "No, I just don't like doing business here, in a public place-"

 "All the better. Everything's aboveboard and out in the open. No one could have any suspicions of us. Ah, here he is. What did I tell you?"

 The inn's door opened and a dwarf stood bathed in the dicing hour's bright sunlight. He was an imposing sight, and nearly everyone in the inn paused in their drinking, gambling, and conversing to stare at him. Slightly above average height for his people, he had ruddy brown skin and a shaggy mane of curly black hair and beard that gave him his nickname among humans. Thick black brows meeting over a hooked nose and flashing black eyes gave him a perpetually fierce expression that served him well in alien lands. Despite the heat, he wore a red-and-white striped silken shirt and over that the heavy leather armor of his people, with bright red pants tucked into tall, thick boots.

 Those in the bar sniggered and exchanged grins at the dwarf's garish clothing. If they had known anything at all about dwarven society and what the bright colors of his clothing portended, they wouldn't have laughed.

 The dwarf paused in the doorway, blinking his eyes, half-blinded from the bright sun.

 "Blackbeard, my friend," Roland called, rising from his seat. "Over here!"

 The dwarf clumped into the inn, the black eyes darting here and there, staring down any who seemed too bold. Dwarves were a rarity in Thillia. The dwarven kingdom was far to the norinth-est of the humans and there was little contact between the two. But this particular dwarf had been in town for five days now and his appearance had ceased to be a novelty. Griffith was a squalid place located on the borders of two kingdoms, neither of which claimed it. The inhabitants did what they liked-an arrangement that suited most of them, because most of them had come from parts of Thillia where doing what they liked generally got them hung. The people of Griffith might wonder what a dwarf was up to in their town, but no one would wonder aloud.

 "Barkeep, three more!" called Roland, holding aloft his mug.

 "We have cause to celebrate, my friend," he said to the dwarf, who slowly took a seat.

 "Ya?" grunted the dwarf, regarding the two with dark suspicion.

 Roland, grinning, ignored his guest's obvious animosity and handed over the message.

 "I cannot read these words," said the dwarf, tossing the quin scroll back across the table. The arrival of the barmaid with the kegrot interrupted them.

 Mugs were distributed. The slovenly barmaid gave the table a quick, disinterested swipe with a greasy rag, glanced curiously at the dwarf, and slouched away.

 "Sorry, I forgot you can't read elvish. The shipment's on its way, Blackbeard," said Roland in a casual undertone. "It will be here within the Fallow."

 "My name is Drugar. And that is what this paper says?" The dwarf tapped it with a thick-fingered hand.

 "Sure is, Blackbeard, my friend."

 "I am not your friend, human," muttered the dwarf, but the words were in his language and spoken to his beard. His lips parted in what might almost have been a smile. "That is good news." He sounded grudging.

 "We'll drink to it." Roland raised his mug, nudging Rega, who had been eyeing the dwarf with a suspicion equal to that with which Blackbeard was eyeing them. "To business."

 "I will drink to this," said the dwarf, after appearing to consider the matter. He raised his mug. "To business."

 Roland drained his noisily. Rega took a sip. She never drank to excess. One of them had to remain sober. Besides, the dwarf wasn't drinking. He merely moistened his lips. Dwarves don't care for kegrot, which is, admittedly, weak and flat tasting compared to their own rich brew.

 "I was just wondering, partner," said Roland, leaning forward, hunching over his drink, "just what you're going to be using these weapons for?"

 "Acquiring a conscience, human?"

 Roland cast a wry glance at Rega, who-hearing her words repeated-shrugged and looked away, silently asking what other answer he might have expected to such a stupid question.

 "You are being paid enough not to ask, but I will tell you anyway because my people are honorable."

 "So honorable you have to deal with smugglers, is that it, Blackbeard?" Roland grinned, paying the dwarf back.

 The black brows came together alarmingly, the black eyes flared. "I would have dealt openly and legitimately, but the laws of your land prevent it. My people need these weapons. You have heard about the peril coming from the norinth?"

 "The SeaKings?"

 Roland gestured to the barmaid. Rega laid her hand on his, warning him to go slowly, but he shoved her away.

 "Bah! No!" The dwarf gave a contemptuous snort. "I mean norinth of our lands. Far norinth, only not so far anymore."

 "No. Haven't heard a thing, Blackbeard, old buddy. What is it?"

 "Humans-the size of mountains. They are coming out of the norinth, destroying everything in their path."

 Roland choked on his drink and started to laugh. The dwarf appeared to literally swell with rage, and Rega dug her nails into her partner's arm. Roland, with difficulty, stifled his mirth.

 "Sorry, friend, sorry. But I heard that story from my dear old dad when he was in his cups. So the tytans are going to attack us. I suppose the Five Lost Lords of Thillia will come back at the same time." Reaching across the table, Roland patted the angry dwarf on the shoulder. "Keep your secret, then, my friend. As long as we get our money, my wife and I don't care what you do or who you kill."

 The dwarf glowered, jerked his arm away from the human's touch.

 "Don't you have somewhere to go, Husband, dear?" said Rega pointedly.

 Roland rose to his feet. He was tall and muscular, blond and handsome. The barmaid, who knew him well, brushed against him when he stood up.

 " 'Scuse me. Gotta pay a visit to a tree. Damn kegrot runs right through me." He made his way through the common room that was rapidly growing more crowded and more noisy.

 Rega put on her most winning smile and came around the table to seat herself beside the dwarf. The young woman was almost exactly opposite in appearance from Roland. Short and full-figured, she was dressed both for the heat and for conducting business, wearing a linen blouse that revealed more than it covered. Tied in a knot at her breasts, it left her midriff bare. Leather pants, cut off at the knees, fit her legs like a second skin. Her flesh was tanned a deep golden brown and, in the heat of the tavern, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her brown hair was parted in the center of her head and hung straight and shining as rain-soaked tree bark down her back.

 Rega knew the dwarf wasn't the slightest bit attracted to her physically. Probably because I don't have a beard, she reflected, grinning to herself, remembering what she'd heard about dwarven women. He did seem eager to discuss this fairy tale his people'd dreamed up. Rega never liked to let a customer go away angry.

 "Forgive my husband, sir. He's had a little too much to drink. But I'm interested. Tell me more about the tytans."

 "Tytans." The dwarf appeared to taste the strange word. "That is what you call them in your language?"

 "I guess so. Our legends tell of gigantic humans, great warriors, formed by the gods of the stars long ago to serve them. But no such beings have been seen in Thillia since before the time of the Lost Lords."

 "I do not know if these . . . tytans . . . are the same or not." Blackbeard shook his head. "Our legends do not speak of such creatures. We are not interested in the stars. We who live beneath the ground rarely see them. Our legends tell of the Forgers, the ones who, along with the father of all dwarves, Drakar, first built this world. It is said that someday the Forgers will return and enable us to build cities whose size and magnificence are beyond belief."

 "If you think these giants are the-er-Forgers, then why the weapons?"

 Blackboard's face grew shadowed, the lines deepened. "That is what some of my people believe. There are others of us who have talked to the refugees of the norinth lands. They tell of terrible destruction and killings. I think perhaps the legends have got it wrong. That is why the weapons."

 Rega had, at first, thought the dwarf was lying. She and Roland had decided that Blackbeard meant to use the weapons to attack a few scattered human colonies. But, seeing the black eyes grow shadowed, hearing the heaviness in the dwarf's voice, Rega changed her mind. Blackbeard, at least, believed in this fantastic enemy and that was truly why he was buying the weapons. The thought was comforting. This was the first time she and Roland had ever smuggled weapons, and-no matter what Roland might say-Rega was relieved to know that she wouldn't be responsible for the deaths of her own people.

 "Hey, Blackbeard, what are you doing-getting cozy with my wife, huh?" Roland eased himself back down at the table. Another mug awaited him, and he drank deeply.

 Noting the shocked and darkening scowl on Blackbeard's face, Rega gave Roland a swift and painful kick beneath the table. "We were discussing legends, dear. I've heard it said that dwarves are fond of songs. My husband has an excellent voice. Perhaps, sir, you would like to hear the 'Lay of Thillia'? It tells the story of the lords of our land and how the five kingdoms were formed."

 Blackbeard's face brightened, "Ya, I would like to hear it"

 Rega thanked the stars she had spent time digging up everything she could about dwarven society. Dwarves do not have a fondness for music. They have an absolute passion for it. All dwarves play musical instruments, most of them have excellent singing voices and perfect pitch. They have only to hear a song once to catch the melody and need hear it only a second time to pick up the words.

 Roland had an excellent tenor voice, and he sang the hauntingly beautiful lay with exquisite feeling. The people in the bar hushed to hear him, and there were many among the rough crowd who wiped their eyes when the song came to the end. The dwarf listened with rapt attention and Rega, sighing, knew that they had another satisfied customer.

 From thought and love all things once born, earth, air, and sky, and knowing sea. From darkness old, all light is shorne, and rise above, forever free.

 In reverent voice, five brothers spoke of sire's duty and wondered fare. Their king dying 'neath fortune's yoke, from each demand their landed care.

 Five kingdoms great, born of one land. To each fair prince his parcel part. Dictates of will and dead sire's hand, for each to rule, with just' and heart.

 The first the fields, fair flowing flight, whisp'ring winds the rushes calm move. Another to sea, ships to right, and crashing waves, the shorelines soothe.

 The third of boles and gentlest sward, crack of twig and shades darkling eye. The fourth, the hills and valleys' lord, where grazing plain and resting lie.

 The last, the sun made shining home, high seething heat, would ever last. All five in wrote his true heart's tone, true to all word and great kings past.

 Each child did rule with true intent, Embrac'ng demesne, all ruling fair. Justice and strength, wisdom full lent, each mouth to voice a grateful aire.

 Yet fates' cruel games their pure hearts waste, and each to arms this tryst above. Five men consumed for woman chaste, and all lives touch'd for strident love.

 As gentle as a poem's heart, was the beauteous woman born.

 As subtle as all nature's art, her wondrous heart all lives did warm.

 When five proud men, all brothers born, beheld this dam, their loves did soar. For sweet Thillia, five loves sworn, a handful of kingdoms, to war.

 Five armies clashed, their plows to swords, farmers from fields, passion's commands. Brothers once fair and loving wards, sent salt to sea and wounded th' lands.

 Thillia stood on bloodied plain, her arms outstretched, hands open wide. Her griev'ed heart, cast down from shame, fled far beneath lake's loving tide.

 Perfection mourned her passing soul, five brothers ceased their hollow fight. They cried above, their hearts held whole, and vowed to rise 'neath warrior's night.

 In faith they walked with modest stride, to sleeping Thillia beneath. The crashing waves their virtue cried, the kingdoms wept their wat'ry wreath.

 From thought and love all things once born, stone, air, and sky, and knowing sea. From darkness old, all light is shorne, and rise above, forever free.

 Rega concluded the story. "Thillia's body was recovered and placed in a sacred shrine in the center of the realm in a place that belongs equally to all five kingdoms. The bodies of her lovers were never recovered, and from this sprang the legend that some day, when the nation is in dire peril, the brothers will come back and save their people."

 "I liked that!" shouted the dwarf, thumping the table with his hand to express his appreciation. He actually went so far as to tap Roland on the forearm with a stubby finger; the first time in five days the dwarf had ever touched either human. "I like that very much- Have I got the tune?" Blackbeard hummed the melody in a deep bass.

 "Yes, sir! Exactly!" cried Roland, much amused. "Would you like me to teach you the words?"

 "I have them. Up here." Blackbeard tapped his forehead. "I am a quick student."

 "I guess so!" said Roland, winking at the woman.

 Rega grinned back.

 "I would like to hear it again, but I must be going," said Blackbeard with true regret, shoving himself up from the table. "I must tell my people the good news." Sobering for a moment, he added, "They will be greatly relieved." Putting his hands on a belt around his waist, the dwarf unbuckled it and flung it on the table. "There is half the money, as we agreed. The other half on delivery."

 Roland's hand closed swiftly over the belt and pushed it across to Rega. She opened it, glanced inside, made a swift eye count, and nodded.

 "Fine, my friend," said Roland, not bothering to stand up. "We'll meet you at the agreed-on place in late Fallow."

 Afraid that the dwarf might be offended, Rega rose to her feet and extended her hand-palm open to show there was no Weapon-in the age-old human gesture of friendship. The dwarves have no such custom; there had never been a time when dwarves fought each other. Blackbeard had been around humans long enough to know that this pressing together of palms was significant. He did what was expected of him and hurriedly left the tavern, wiping his hand on his leather jerkin and humming the tune to the "Lay of Thillia" as he walked.

 "Not bad for a night's work," said Roland, buckling the money belt around his waist, cinching it in, for his waist was torn and the dwarf was robust.

 "No thanks to you!" Rega muttered. The woman drew the raztar [10] from its round scabbard she wore on her thigh and made a show of sharpening all seven blades, glancing meaningfully at those in the inn who were taking just a bit too much interest in their affairs. "I pulled your fat out of the fire. Blackbeard would've walked out, if it hadn't been for me."

 "Ah, I could've cut his beard off and he wouldn't have dared take offense. He can't afford to."

 "You know," added Rega in an unusually somber and reflective mood, "he was really, truly frightened."

 "So he was frightened? All the better for business,Sis," said Roland briskly.

 Rega glanced around sharply, then leaned forward. "Don't call me 'Sis'! Soon we'll be traveling with that elf, and one little slip like that will ruin everything!"

 "Sorry, 'Wifey, dear.' " Roland finished off the kegrot, and shook his head regretfully when the barmaid glanced his way. Carrying this much money, he needed to remain relatively alert. "So the dwarves are planning an attack on some human settlement. Probably the SeaKings. I wonder if we couldn't sell our next shipment to them."

 "You don't think the dwarves will attack Thillia?"

 "Now who's getting a conscience? What's it matter to us? If the dwarves don't attack Thillia, the SeaKings will. And if the SeaKings don't attack Thillia,Thillia will attack itself. Whatever happens, as I said, it's good for business."

 Depositing a couple of wooden lord's crowns on the table, the two left the tavern. Roland walked in front, his hand on the hilt of his bladewood sword. Rega followed a pace or two behind him to guard his back as was their custom. They were a formidable-looking pair and had lived long enough in Griffith to establish the reputation of being tough, quick, and not much given to mercy. Several people eyed them, but no one troubled them. The two and their money arrived safely at the shack they called home.

 Rega pulled shut the heavy wooden door and bolted it carefully from the inside. Peering outdoors, she drew dosed the rags that she'd hung over the windows and gave Roland a nod. He lifted a three-legged wooden table and set it against the door. Kicking aside a rag rug lying on the floor, he revealed a trapdoor in the floor and, beneath it, a hole that had been dug in the moss. Roland tossed the money belt into the hole, shut the trapdoor, and arranged the rug and the table over it.

 Rega put out a hunk of stale bread and a round of moldy cheese. "Speaking of business, what do you know about this elf, this Paithan Quindiniar?"

 Roland tore off a piece of bread with strong teeth, forked a bite of cheese into his mouth. "Nothing," he mumbled, chewing steadily. "He's an elf, which means he'll be a wilting lily, except where it comes to you, my charming sister."

 "I'm your charming wife. Don't forget that." Rega playfully poked her brother in the hand with one of the wooden blades of her raztar. She hacked off another slice of cheese. "Do you really think it will work?"

 "Sure. The guy who told me about it says the scam never fails. You know elves are mad about human women. We introduce ourselves as husband and wife, but our marriage isn't exactly a passionate one. You're starved for affection. You flirt with the elf and lead him on and when he lays a hand on your quivering breast, you suddenly remember that you're a respectable married lady and you scream like a banshee.

 "I come to the rescue, threaten to cut off the elf's pointed . . . um . . . ears. He buys his life by giving us the goods for half price. We sell them to the dwarves at full price, plus a little extra for our 'trouble' and we're set up for the next few seasons."

 "But after that, we'll need to deal with the Quindiniar family again-"

 "And we will. I've heard that this female elf who runs the business and the family is a pickle-faced old prude. Baby brother won't dare tell his sister he tried to break up our 'happy home.' And we can make certain he gets us an extra-good price the next time."

 "It sounds easy enough," admitted Rega. Hooking a wineskin with her hand, she tilted the liquid into her mouth, then shoved it across to her brother. "Here's to wedded bliss, my beloved 'Husband.' "

 "Here's to infidelity, my dear 'Wife.' "

 The two, laughing, drank.

 Drugar left the Jungleflower Tavern but the dwarf did not immediately leave Griffith. Slipping into the shadows cast by a gigantic tentpalm plant, he waited and watched until the man and the woman came outside. Drugar would have liked very much to follow them, but he knew his own limitations. The clumsy-footed dwarves are not made for stealthy sneaking. And, in the human city of Griffith, he couldn't simply lose himself in a crowd.

 He contented himself with eyeing the two carefully as they walked away. Drugar didn't trust them, but he wouldn't have trusted Saint Thillia had she appeared before him. He hated having to depend on a middle man and would much rather have dealt with the elves directly. That was impossible, however. The current Lords of Thillia had made an agreement with the Quindiniars that they would not sell their magical, intelligent weapons to the dwarves or the barbaric SeaKings. In return, the Thillians agreed to purchase a guaranteed number of weapons per season.

 Such an arrangement suited the elves. And if elven weapons found their way into the hands of SeaKings and dwarves, it certainly wasn't the fault of the Quindiniars. After all, as Calandra was wont to state testily, how could she be expected to tell a human raztar runner from a legitimate representative of the Lords, of Thillia? All humans looked alike to her. And so did their money.

 Just before Roland and Rega vanished from Drugar's sight, the dwarf lifted a black rune-carved stone that hung from a leather thong around his neck. The stone was smooth and rounded, worn down from loving handling, and it was old- older than Drugar's father, who was one of the oldest living inhabitants on Pryan.

 Lifting the stone, Drugar held it up in the air so that, from his viewpoint, the stone appeared to cover Roland and Rega. The dwarf moved the rock in a pattern, muttered words accompanied the tracing of the sigil that copied the rune carved into the stone. When he was finished, he slipped the stone reverently back into the folds of his clothing and spoke aloud to the two, who wereRounding a corner and would soon be lost to the dwarf's sight.

 "I did not sing the rune for you because I have a liking for you-either of you. I put the charm of protection on you so that I may be certain of getting the weapons my people need. When the deal is done, I will break the rune. And Drakar take you both."

 Spitting on the ground, Drugar plunged into the jungle, tearing and hacking a path through the thick undergrowth.

 CHAPTER 4

 EQUILAN, LAKE ENTHIAL

 CALANDRA QUINDINIAR HAD NO MISCONCEPTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURE OF the two humans with whom she was dealing. She guessed they were smugglers but that was no concern of hers. It was impossible for Calandra to consider any human capable of running a fair and honest business. As far as she was concerned, humans were all smugglers, crooks, and thieves.

 It was with some amusement therefore-as much amusement as she ever allowed herself-that Calandra watched Aleatha leave her father's house and walk across the moss yard toward the carriage. Her sister's delicate dress was lifted by the winds rustling among the treetops and billowed around her in airy green waves. Elven fashion at the moment dictated long, cinched-in waists; stiff, high collars; straight skirts. The fashion did not suit Aleatha and, therefore, she ignored fashion. Her dress was cut low to show off her splendid shoulders, the bodice softly gathered to cup and highlight beautiful breasts. Falling in soft folds, the layers of filmy fabric enveloped her like a primrose-stitched cloud, accentuating her graceful movements.

 The fashion had been popular in her mother's time. Any other woman-like myself, thought Calandra grimly-wearing that dress would have appeared dowdy and out of current style. Aleatha made current style appear dowdy.

 She had arrived at the carriage house. Her back was turned toward Calandra, but the older sister knew what was going on.

 Aleatha would be smiling at the human slave who was handing her into the carriage.

 Aleatha's smile was perfectly ladylike-eyes cast down as was proper, her face almost hidden by her wide-brimmed, rose-trimmed hat- her sister could never fault her. But Calandra, watching from the upstairs window, was familiar with Aleatha's tricks. Her eyelids might be lowered, but the purple eyes weren't and flashed beneath the long black lashes. The full lips would be parted slightly, the tongue moving slowly against the upper lip to keep it continually moist. The human slave was tall and well muscled from hard labor. His chest was bare in the midcycle heat. He was clad in the tight-fitting leather pants humans favored. Calandra saw his smile flash in return, saw him take an inordinate amount of time helping her sister into the carriage, saw her sister manage to brush against the man's body as she stepped inside. Aleatha's gloved hand even lingered for a moment on the slave's! Then she had the brazen nerve to lean slightly out of the carriage, her hat brim uptilted, and wave at Calandra!

 The slave, following Aleatha's gaze, suddenly remembered his duty and hastened to take up his position. The carriage was made of the leaves of the benthan tree, woven to form a round basket open at the front end. The top of the basket was held in the grip of several drivehands attached to a strong rope running from Aleatha's father's house down into the jungle. Prodded from their drowsy, constant lethargy, the drivehands crawled up the rope, pulling the carriage to the house. Allowed to drift back into slumber, the drivehands would slide down the rope, bringing the carriage to a junction, where Aleatha would transfer to another carriage whose drivehands would carry her to her destination.

 The slave, pushing the carriage, started it on its way and Calandra watched her sister-green skirts fluttering in the wind- swoop down into the lush jungle vegetation.

 Calandra smiled disdainfully at the slave, who was lounging at his post, gazing admiringly after the carriage. What fools these humans are. They don't even know when they're being teased. Aleatha was wild, but at least her dalliances were with men of her own kind. She flirted with humans because it was enjoyable to watch their brutish reactions. Aleatha, like her older sister, would sooner let the family dog kiss her as she would a human.

 Paithan was another story. Settling down to her work, Calandra decided she would send the scullery maid to work in the boltarch shop.

 Leaning back in the carriage, enjoying the cool wind blowing against her face as she descended rapidly through the trees, Aleatha foresaw regaling a certain person at Lord Durndrun's with her tale of arousing the human slave's passion. Of course, her story would be told from a slightly different angle.

 "I swear to you. My Lord, that his great hand closed over mine until I thought he would crush it, and then the beast had the nerve to press his sweat-covered body up against me!"

 "Dreadful!" Lord Someone would say, his pale elven face flushed with indignation ... or was it with the thought of bodies pressing together. He would lean nearer. "What did you do?"

 "I ignored him, of course. That's the best way to handle the brutes, besides the lash, that is. But, of course, I couldn't beat him, could I?" -

 "No, but I could!" the lord would cry gallantly. "Oh, Thea, you know you tease the slaves to distraction." Aleatha gave a slight start. Where had that disturbing voice come from? An imagined Paithan . . . invading her reverie. Catching hold of her hat that was about to be whisked off her head by the breeze, Aleatha made a mental note to make certain her brother was off playing the fool somewhere else before she began relating her enticing little story. Paithan was a good fellow and wouldn't deliberately ruin his sister's fun, but he was simply too guileless to live-The carriage reached the end of its rope, arriving at the junction. Another human slave-an ugly one, Aleatha didn't bother with him-handed her out.

 "Lord Durndrun's," she informed him coolly, and the slave helped her into one of several carriages waiting at the junction, each attached to a rope that headed off into a different part of the jungle. The slave gave the drivehands a prod, they flapped to life, and the carriage sailed off into the gradually darkening shadows, carrying its passenger down deeper into the city of Equilan.

 The carriages were for the convenience of the wealthy, who paid a subscription to the city fathers for their use. Those who couldn't afford to subscribe to the carriage system made do with the swinging bridges spanning the jungle. These bridges led from house to house, shop to shop, house to shop, and back again. They had been constructed at the time the early elven settlers founded Equilan, connecting those few houses and businesses that had been built in the trees for defense purposes. As the city grew, so did the bridge system, without any particular order or thought, keeping the houses connected with their neighbors and the heart of the city.

 Equilan had flourished and so had its people. Thousands of elves lived in the city and there were nearly as many bridges. Making one's way on foot was extraordinarily confusing, even for those who had lived there all their lives. No one who was any one in elven society walked the bridges, except for possibly a daring foray during darktime. The bridges were, however, an excellent defense against the elves' human neighbors, who had looked-in days long gone by-on the elven treeholdings with covetous eyes.

 As time passed, and Equilan grew wealthier and more secure, her human neighbors to the norinth decided it would be wiser to leave the elves alone and fight each other. Thillia was divided into five kingdoms, each one an enemy of the other four, and the elves lived well by supplying weapons to all sides of the conflict. The elven royal families and those of the middle class who had risen to wealth and power moved higher into the trees. Lenthan Quindiniar's home was located on the highest "hill" [11] in Equilan-a mark of status among his fellow middle class but not among the royalty, who built their homes on the shores of Lake Enthial. No matter that Lenthan could buy and sell most of the homes on the lakeshore, he would never be allowed to live there.

 To be honest, Lenthan didn't want to. He was quite content living where he was, with a fine view of the stars and a clear place amid the jungle's vegetation for the launching of his rockets.

 Aleatha, however, had made up her mind to dwell by the lake. Nobility would be purchased with her charm and her body and her share of her father's money when he died. But just which duke or earl or baron or prince Aleatha was going to buy hadn't been decided yet. They were all such bores. The task before Aleatha was to shop around, find one less boring than the rest.

 The carriage gently set down Aleatha in Lord Durndrun's ornate receiving house. A human slave started to hand her out, but a young lord, arriving at the same time, beat him to the honor. The young lord was married; Aleatha favored him with a sweet, charming smile anyway. The young lord was fascinated and walked off with Aleatha, leaving his wife to be handed down by the slave.

 Running through the annotated list of elven royalty she kept in her head, Aleatha recognized the young lord as a near cousin to the queen, with the fourth finest house on the lake. She permitted him to present her to her host and hostess, asked him to give her a tour of the house {she'd been there many times previous), and was blushingly enthusiastic about a more intimate tour of the lush and shadowy garden.

 Lord Durndrun's house, as were all others on Lake Enthial, was constructed on the top edge of a large moss bowl. The houses of the nobility of elven society stood scattered around the "rim" of the bowl. The dwelling of Her Majesty, the queen, was located at the very farthest end, away from the crowded city of her subjects. The other homes were all built facing the palace, as if they were continually paying homage.

 In the center of the bowl was the lake, supported on a thick bed of moss, cradled in the arms of gigantic trees. Most lakes in the area were, because of their moss beds, a clear, crystalline green color. Due to a rare species of fish that swam in the lake (a gift to Her Majesty from the father of Lenthan Quindiniar) the water of Lake Enthial was a vibrant, stunning blue and was considered one of the wonders of Equilan.

 The view was wasted on Aleatha, who had seen it all before and whose primary goal was to make it her own. She had been introduced to Lord Daidlus before, but had not noticed until now that he was witty and intelligent and moderately handsome. Seated next to the admiring young man on a teakwood bench, Aleatha was just about to tell him her story of the slave when, as in her reverie, a cheerful voice interrupted her.

 "Oh, there you are, Thea. I heard you'd come. Is that you, Daidlus? Did you know your wife's searching for you? She doesn't look pleased, either."

 Lord Daidlus did not look pleased himself. He glowered at Paithan, who returned the glare with the innocent and slightly anxious expression of one whose only desire is to help a friend.

 Aleatha was tempted to hang on to the lord and get rid of Paithan, but she reflected that there was a certain merit in allowing the pot to simmer before bringing it to a boil. Besides, she needed to talk to her brother.

 "I'm ashamed of myself, My Lord," Aleatha said, flushing prettily. "I'm keeping you from your family. It was thoughtless and selfish of me, but I was so enjoying your company. . ."

 Paithan, crossing his arms, leaned back against the garden wall and watched with interest. Lord Daidlus protested that he could stay with her forever.

 "No, no, My Lord," Aleatha said with an air of noble self-sacrifice. "Go to your wife. I insist."

 Aleatha extended her hand to be politely kissed. The young lord did so with rather more ardor than society would have considered proper.

 "But I do so want to hear the end of your story," said the besotted Daidlus.

 "You shall. My Lord," answered Aleatha, with downcast eyelashes through which glinted sparkles of blue-purple. "You shall."

 The young lord tore himself away. Paithan sat down on the bench beside his sister, and Aleatha took off her hat and fanned herself with the brim.

 "Sorry, Thea. Did I interrupt something?"

 "Yes, but it was all for the best. Things were moving too fast."

 "He's quite happily married, you know. Got three little ones."

 Aleatha shrugged. The matter didn't interest her.

 "Divorce would be a tremendous scandal," Paithan continued, sniffing at a flower he'd stuck in the buttonhole of his long, white linen lawn suit. Loosely made, the coat flowed over white linen pants, gathered at the ankles.

 "Father's money would hush it up."

 "The queen would have to grant it."

 "Father's money would buy it."

 "Callie'd be furious."

 "No, she wouldn't. She'd be too happy I was finally respectably married. Don't worry about me, Brother, dear. You have worries of your own. Callie was looking for you this afternoon."

 "Was she?" Paithan asked, trying to appear unconcerned.

 "Yes, and the expression on her face could have launched one of Father's infernal devices."

 "Worse luck. Been talking to the guvnor, had she?"

 "Yes, I think so. I didn't say much. I didn't want to get her started. I'd be there still. Something about a human priest? I- What in Orn's name was that?"

 "Thunder." Paithan glanced up into the thick vegetation through which it was impossible to see the sky. "Storm must be coming. Drat. That means they'll cancel the boating."

 "Nonsense. It's far too early. Besides, I felt the ground tremble. Didn't you?"

 "Maybe it's Callie, stalking me." Paithan removed the flower from his buttonhole and began playfully tearing it up, tossing the petals in his sister's lap.

 "I'm so glad you find this amusing, Pait. Wait until she cuts your allowance. What is this about a human priest, anyway?"

 Paithan settled himself on the bench, his eyes on the flower he was decapitating, his youthful face unusually serious. "When I came back from that last trip, Thea, I was shocked to see the change in Father. You and Callie don't notice. You're around him all the time. But ... he looked so ... I don't know . . . gray, I guess. And woebegone."

 Aleatha sighed. "You caught him in one of his more lucid moments."

 "Yes, and those damn rockets of his aren't clearing the treetops, let alone coming close to the stars. He was going on and on about Mother . . . and you know how that is!"

 "Yes. I know how that is." Aleatha gathered the flower petals in her lap, unconsciously forming them into a miniature grave.

 "I wanted to cheer him up, so I said the first jolly thing that popped into my mind. 'Why not send for a human priest?' I said. They know an awfully lot about the stars, 'cause that's where they think they come from. Claim that the stars are really cities and all that rot. Well"-Paithan appeared modestly pleased with himself-"it perked the old boy right up. I hadn't seen him so excited since the day his rocket flew into the city and blew up the garbage dump."

 "It's all very well for you, Pait!" Aleatha irritably scattered her flowers to the wind. "You get to go off on another one of your trips. But Callie and I will have to live with the brute! That lecherous old astrologer of Father's is bad enough without this."

 "I'm sorry, Thea. I really didn't think." Paithan sounded and felt truly ashamed. The one bright spark that burned in all of Quindiniars was their love and affection for each other- an affection that, unfortunately, did not extend to the rest of the world.

 Reaching out, Paithan took his sister's hand in his and squeezed it. "Besides, no human priest will ever come. I know them, you see and-"

 The moss bed rose up suddenly beneath their feet and then settled back down. The bench on which they were sitting shook and shivered, a pronounced rippling effect marred the smooth and placid surface of the lake. A rumbling sound like thunder, which came from below rather than above, accompanied the ground's shudder.

 "That wasn't a storm," said Aleatha, looking about in alarm.

 Shouts and screams could be heard in the distance.

 Paithan rose to his feet, his expression suddenly grave. "I think, Thea, that we had better move back to the house." He gave his hand to his sister. Aleatha moved with calm alacrity, gathering her flowing skirts around her in unruffled haste.

 "What do you think it is?"

 "I haven't the vaguest idea," Paithan answered, hurrying through the garden. "Ah, Durndrun! What's this? Some new form of party game?"

 "I only wish it were!" The lord appeared considerably harried. "It's sent a big crack through the dining room wall and frightened Mother into hysterics."

 The rumbling began again, this time stronger. The ground bucked and quivered. Paithan staggered back against a tree. Aleatha, pale but composed, clung to a hanging vine. Lord Durndrun toppled over, and was almost struck by a falling piece of statuary. The quake lasted for as long as a man might draw three deep breaths, then ceased. A strange smell wafted up from the moss-the smell of chill, dank dampness. The smell of darkness. The smell of something that lives in the darkness.

 Paithan moved to help the lord to his feet.

 "I think," said Durndrun in an undertone meant for Paithan's ears alone, "that we should arm ourselves."

 "Yes," agreed Paithan, glancing askance at his sister and keeping his voice low. "I was about to suggest that myself."

 Aleatha heard and understood. Fear tingled through her, a rather pleasant sensation. It was certainly adding interest to what she had expected to be an otherwise boring evening.

 "If you gentlemen will excuse me," she said, adjusting the brim of her hat to best advantage, "I will go to the house and see if I may be of assistance to the dowager."

 'Thank you, Mistress Quindiniar. I would appreciate it. How brave she is," Lord Durndrun added, watching Aleatha walking fearlessly alone toward the house. "Half the other women are shrieking and flinging themselves about and the other half have dropped over in a dead faint. Your sister is a remarkable woman!"

 "Yes, isn't she," said Paithan, who saw that his sister was enjoying herself immensely. "What weapons have you got?"

 Hastening toward the house, the lord glanced at the young elf running along beside him. "Quindiniar"-Durndrun edged nearer, took him by the arm-"you don't think this has anything to do with those rumors you told us of the other night. You know, the ones about ... er ... giants?"

 Paithan appeared slightly shamefaced. "Did I mention giants? By Orn, that was strong wine you were serving that night, Durndrun!"

 "Perhaps those rumors aren't rumors, after all," said Durndrun grimly.

 Paithan considered the nature of the rumbling sounds, the smell of darkness. He shook his head. "I think we're going to wish we were facing giants, my lord. I'd enjoy a human bedtime story right about now."

 The two arrived at the house, where they began going over the catalog of his lordship's armaments. Other male members of the party joined them, shouting and proclaiming and carrying on in an hysterical manner not much better than that of their women, to Paithan's mind. He was regarding them with a mixture of amusement and impatience when he became aware that they were all regarding him and they were extraordinarily serious.

 "What do you think we should do?" asked Lord Durndrun.

 "I-I-really-" Paithan stammered, looking around at the group of thirty members of the elven nobility in confusion. "I mean, I'm certain you-"

 "Come, come, Quindiniar!" snapped Lord Durndrun. "You're the only one of us who's been in the outside world. You're the only one with experience in this sort of thing. We need a leader and you're it."

 And ifsomething happens, you'll have me to blame for it, Paithan thought but didn't say, though a wry smile flitted across his lips.

 The rumbling began again, strong enough this time to knock many of the elves to their knees. Screams and wails came from the women and children who had been herded into the house for safety. Paithan could hear crashing and breaking tree limbs in the jungle, the raucous cawing of startled birds.

 "Look! Look at that! In the lake!" came a hoarse cry from one of the lords standing on the fringes of the crowd.

 All turned and stared. The lake's waters were heaving and boiling and, out of the middle, snaking upward, could be seen the shining scales of an enormous green body. A portion of the body surfaced, then slithered under.

 "Ah, I thought so," murmured Paithan.

 "A dragon!" cried Lord Durndrun. He clutched at the young elf. "My god, Quindiniar! What do we do?"

 "I think," said Paithan with a smile, "that we should all go inside and have what will probably be our last drink."

 CHAPTER 5

 EQUILAN, LAKE ENTHIAL

 ALEATHA WAS IMMEDIATELY SORRY SHE'D JOINED THE WOMEN. FEAR IS A contagious disease and the parlor stank of it. The men were probably every bit as frightened as the women but they were maintaining a bold front-if not for themselves, at least for each other. The women were not only able to indulge their terror, they were expected to. Even fear, however, has socially defined limits.

 The dowager-Lord Durndrun's mother and reigning mistress of the house since her son was not yet married-had the priority on hysteria. She was the eldest, the highest in status, and it was her house. No one else present, therefore, had the right to be as panic-stricken as the dowager. (A mere duke's wife, who had fainted in a corner, was being ostracized.)

 The dowager lay prostrate on a couch, her maid weeping at her side and applying various restoratives-bathing the dowager's temples in lavender water, dabbing tincture of rose on the dowager's ample bosom, which was heaving and fluttering as she sought vainly to catch her breath.

 "Oh ... oh ... oh!" she gasped, clutching her heart.

 The various wives of the guests hovered about her, wringing their hands, occasionally grasping each other with stifled sobs. Their fear was inspirational to their children, who had previously been mildly curious, but who were now wailing in concert and getting under everyone's feet.

 "Oh ... oh ... oh!" wheezed the dowager, turning slightly blue.

 "Slap her," suggested Aleatha coolly.

 The maid seemed tempted, but the wives managed to emerge from their panic long enough to look shocked. Aleatha, shrugging, turned away and walked toward the tall windows that doubled as doors and opened out onto the spacious porch overlooking the lake. Behind her, the dowager's spasms appeared to be easing. Perhaps she had heard Aleatha's suggestion and seen the twitching hand of her maid.

 "There's been no sound in the last few minutes," gasped an earl's wife. "Perhaps it's over."

 An uneasy silence met the comment. It wasn't over. Aleatha knew it and every woman in the room knew it. For the moment, it was quiet, but it was a heavy, horrible quiet that made Aleatha long for the dowager's wailing. The women shrank together, the children whimpered.

 The rumbling struck again. The house shook alarmingly. Chairs skittered across the floor, small ornaments fell off tables and crashed on impact. Those who could, hung onto something; those who couldn't, stumbled and fell. From her vantage point at the window, Aleatha saw the green, scaly body rise up from the lake.

 Fortunately, none of the women in the room behind her noticed the creature. Aleatha bit her lips to keep from crying out. Then it was gone-so swiftly that she wondered it'she had seen something real or something bred of her fear.

 The rumbling ceased. The men were running toward the house, her brother in the lead. Aleatha flung open the doors and dashed down the broad staircase.

 "Paithan! What was it?" She caught hold of the sleeve of his coat.

 "A dragon, I'm afraid, Thea," answered her brother.

 "What will happen to us?"

 Paithan considered. "We'll all die, I should imagine."

 "It's not fair!" Aleatha raved, stamping her foot.

 "No, I suppose not." Paithan considered this a rather odd view of the desperate situation, but he patted his sister's hand soothingly. "Look, Thea, you're not going to go off like those others in there, are you? Hysteria's not becoming."

 Aleatha put her hands to her cheeks, felt her skin flushed and hot. He's right, she thought. I must look a fright. Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to relax, smoothed her hair, and rearranged the disheveled folds of her dress. The surging blood drained from her cheeks.

 "What should we do?" she asked in a steady voice.

 "We're going to arm ourselves. Orn knows it's hopeless, but at least we can hold the monster off for a short time."

 "What about the queen's guards?"

 Across the lake, the palace regiment could be seen turning out, the men dashing to their posts.

 "They're guarding Her Majesty, Thea. They can't leave the palace. Here's an idea, you take the other women and the children down to the cellar-"

 "No! I won't die like a rat in a hole!"

 Paithan looked at his sister closely, measuring her courage. "Aleatha, there is something you can do. Someone has to go into the city and alert the army. We can't spare any of the men, and none of the other women here are fit to travel. It'll be dangerous. The fastest way is the carriage and if this beast gets past us-"

 Aleatha envisioned clearly the dragon's huge head rising up, thrashing about, snapping the cables that held the carriage high above the ground. She pictured the plummeting fall. . . .

 She pictured herself locked up in a dark, stuffy cellar with the dowager.

 "I'll go." Aleatha gathered up her skirts.

 "Wait, Thea! Listen. Don't try to go down into the city proper. You'd get lost. Make for the guard post on the var side. The carriages'll take you partway and then you'll have to walk, but you can see it from the first junction. It's a lookout built in the branches of a karabeth tree. Tell them-"

 "Paithan!" Lord Durndrun came running out of the house, railbow and quiver in hand. He pointed. "Who the devil is that walking around down there by the lake? Didn't we bring everyone up here with us?"

 "I thought so." Paithan stared, squinting. The sunlight off the water was blinding, it was difficult to see. Yet, sure enough, he could make out a figure moving about down by the water's edge. "Hand me that railbow. I'll go. We could have easily lost someone in the confusion."

 "Down . . . down there . . . with the dragon?" The lord stared at Paithan in amazement.

 Much as he did everything else in his life, Paithan had volunteered without thinking. But before he could announce that he'd suddenly remembered a previous engagement, Lord Durndrun was pressing the bow in the young elf's hands and murmuring something about a medal of valor. Posthumous, no doubt.

 "Paithan!" Aleatha caught hold of him.

 The elf took his sister's hand in his, squeezed it, then transferred it to Lord Durndrun's. "Aleatha has offered to go and bring the Shadowguard [12] to our rescue."

 "Brave heart!" murmured Lord Durndrun, kissing the hand that was cold as ice. "Brave soul." He gazed at Aleatha in fervent admiration.

 "Not braver than those of you staying behind, My Lord. I feel like I'm running away." Aleatha drew a deep breath, gave her brother a cool glance. "Take care of yourself, Pait."

 "You, too, Thea,"

 Arming himself, Paithan headed down toward the lake at a run.

 Aleatha watched him go, a horrible, smothering feeling in her breast-a feeling she had experienced once before, the night her mother died.

 "Mistress Aleatha, let me escort you." Lord Durndrun kept hold of her hand.

 "No, My Lord. That's nonsense!" Aleatha answered sharply. Her stomach twisted, bowels clenched. Why had Paithan gone? Why had he left her? She wanted only to escape from this horrid place. "You're needed here."

 "Aleatha! You are so brave, so beautiful!" Lord Durndrun clasped her close, his arms around her waist, his Hps on her hand. "If, by some miracle, we escape this monster, I want you to marry me!"

 Aleatha started, jolted from her fear. Lord Durndrun was one of the highest ranking elves at court, one of the wealthiest elves in Equilan. He had always been polite to her, but cool and withdrawn. Paithan had been kind enough to inform her that the lord thought her "too wild, her behavior improper." Apparently, he had changed his mind.

 "My Lord! Please, I must go!" Aleatha struggled, not very hard, to break the grip of the arm around her waist.

 "I know. I will not stop your courageous act! Promise me you'll be mine, if we survive."

 Aleatha ceased her struggles, shyly lowered the purple eyes. "These are dreadful circumstances, My Lord. We are not ourselves. Should we survive, I could not hold your lordship to such a promise. But"-she drew nearer him, whispering-"I do promise your lordship that I will listen if you want to ask the question again."

 Breaking free, Aleatha sank in a low courtesy, turned and ran swiftly, gracefully across the moss lawn toward the carriage house. She knew he was following her with his eyes.

 I have him. I will be Lady Durndrun-supplanting the dowager as first handmaiden to the queen.

 Aleatha smiled to herself as she sped across the moss, holding her skirts high to avoid tripping. The dowager'd had hysterics over a dragon. Wait until she heard this news! Her only son, nephew of Her Majesty, joined in marriage with Aleatha Quindiniar, wealthy trollop. It would be the scandal of the year.

 Now, pray the blessed Mother, we just live through this!

 Paithan made his way down across the sloping lawn toward the lake. The ground began to rumble again, and he paused to glance about hastily, searching for any signs of the dragon. But the rolling ceased almost as soon as it had started, and the young elf took off again.

 He wondered at himself, wondered at his courage. He was skilled in the use of the railbow, but the puny weapon would hardly help him against a dragon. Orn's blood! What am I doing down here? After some serious consideration, given while he was skulking behind a bush to get a better view, he decided it wasn't courage at all. Nothing more than curiosity. It had always landed his family in trouble.

 Whoever the person was wandering down around the lake's edge, he was beginning to puzzle Paithan immensely. He could see now that it was a man and that he didn't belong to their party. He didn't even belong to their race! It was a human-an elderly one, to judge by appearances: an old man with long white hair straggling down his back and a long white beard straggling down his front. He was dressed in long, bedraggled mouse-colored robes. A conical, shabby hat with a broken point teetered uncertainly on his head. And he seemed-most incredibly-to have just stepped out of the lake! Standing on the shoreline, oblivious to the danger, the old man was wringing water out of his beard, peering into the lake, and muttering to himself.

 "Someone's slave, probably," said Paithan. "Got muddled and wandered off. Can't think why anyone would keep a slave as old and decrepit as that, though. Hey, there! Old man!" Paithan threw caution to Orn and careened down the hill.

 The old man paid no attention. Picking up a long, wooden walking staff that had clearly seen better days, he began poking around the water!

 Paithan could almost see the scaly body writhing up from the depths of the blue lake. His chest constricted, his lungs burned. "No! Old man! Father," he shouted, switching to human, which he spoke fluently, using the standard form of human address to any elderly male. "Father! Come away from there! Father!"

 "Eh?" The old man turned, peering at Paithan with vague eyes. "Sonny? Is that you, boy?" He dropped the staff and flung wide his arms, the motion sending him staggering. "Come to my breast, Sonny! Come to your papa!"

 Paithan tried to halt his own forward momentum in time to catch hold of the old man, toddling precariously on the shore. But the elf slipped in the wet grass, slid to his knees, and the old man, arms swinging wildly, toppled backward into the lake, landing with a splash.

 Slavering jaws, lunging out of the water, snapping them both in two . . . Paithan plunged in after the old man, caught hold of him by something-perhaps his beard, perhaps a mouse-colored sleeve-and dragged him, sputtering and blowing, to the shore. "Damn fine way for a son to treat his aged parent!" The old man glared at Paithan. "Knocking me into the lake!"

 "I'm not your son. Fa- I mean, sir. And it was an accident." Paithan tugged the old man along, pulling him up the hillside. "Now, we really should get away from here! There's a dragon-"

 The old man came to a dead stop. Paithan, caught off balance, almost fell over. He jerked on the thin arm, to get the old man moving again, but it was like trying to budge a wortle tree.

 "Not without my hat," said the old man.

 "To Orn with your hat!" Paithan ground his teeth. He looked fearfully back into the lake, expecting at any moment to see the water start to boil. "You doddering idiot! There's a drag-" He turned back to the old man, stared, then said in exasperation, "Your hat's on your head!"

 "Don't lie to me, Sonny," said the old man peevishly. He leaned down and picked up his staff, and the hat slipped over his eyes. "Struck blind, by god!" he said in awed tones, stretching out groping hands.

 "It's your hat!" Paithan leaped forward, grabbed the old man's hat and yanked it off his head. "Hat! Hat!" he cried, waving it in front of the old man's face.

 "That's not mine," said the old man, staring at it suspiciously. "You've switched hats on me. Mine was in much better condition-"

 "Come on!" cried Paithan, righting back a crazed desire to laugh.

 "My staff!" shrieked the old man, planting his feet firmly, refusing to move.

 Paithan toyed with the idea of leaving the old man to lake root in the moss if he wanted, but the elf couldn't watch a dragon devour anyone-even a human. Running back, Paithan retrieved the staff, stuck it in the old man's hand, and began to pull him toward the house.

 The elf feared the old human might have difficulty making it back, for the way was long and uphill. Paithan heard the breath begin to whistle in his own lungs and his legs ached with the strain. But the old man appeared to have incredible stamina; he tottered along gamely, his staff thumping holes in the moss.

 "I say, I think something's following us!" cried the old man, suddenly.

 "There is?" Paithan whirled around.

 "Where?" The old man swung his staff, narrowly missing knocking down Paithan. "I'll get him, by the gods-"

 "Stop! It's all right!" The elf caught hold of the wildly swinging staff. "There's nothing there. I thought you said . . . something was following us."

 "Well, if there isn't why in the name of all that's holy are you making me run up this confounded hill?"

 "Because there's a dragon in the la-"

 "The lake!" The old man's beard bristled, his bushy eyebrows stuck out in all directions. "So that's where he is! He dunked me in there deliberately!" The old man raised a clenched hand, shook his fist at the air in the direction of the water. "I'll fix you, you overgrown mud worm! Come out! Come out where I can get a look at you!" Dropping his staff, the old man began rolling up the sleeves of his sodden robes. "I'm ready. Yes, sirree-bob, I'm gonna cast a spell this time that'll knock out your eyeballs!"

 "Wait a minute!" Paithan felt the sweat begin to chill on his body. "Are you saying, old man, that this dragon's . . . yours?"

 "Mine! Of course, you're mine, aren't you, you slithering excuse for a reptile?"

 "You mean, the dragon's under your control?" Paithan began to breathe more easily. "You must be a wizard."

 "Must I?" The old man appeared highly startled at the news.

 "You have to be a wizard and a powerful one at that to control a dragon."

 "Well ... er ... you see. Sonny." The old man began to stroke his beard in some embarrassment. "That's sort of a question between us-the dragon and me."

 "What's a question?" Paithan felt his stomach muscles begin to tighten.

 "Er-who's in control. Not that I have any doubts, mind you! It's the-uh-dragon who keeps forgetting."

 I was right. The old man's insane. I've got a dragon and an insane human on my hands. But what in Mother Peytin's holy name was this old fool doing in the lake?

 "Where are you, you elongated toad?" The wizard continued to shout. "Come out! It's no use hiding! I'll find you-"

 A shrill scream cut through the tirade.

 "Aleatha!" cried Paithan, turning, staring up the hill.

 The scream ended in a strangled choke.

 "Thea, I'm coming!" The elf broke loose of his momentary paralysis and tore for the house.

 "Hey, Sonny!" shouted the old man, glaring after him, arms akimbo. "Where do you think you're going with my hat?"

 CHAPTER 6

 EQUILAN, LAKE ENTHIAL

 PAITHAN JOINED A STREAM OF MEN, LED BY LORD DURNDRUN, RUSHING IN THE direction of the cry. Rounding the norinth wing of the house, they came to a skidding halt. Aleatha stood immobile on a small mossy knoll. Before her, its huge body between the woman and the carriage house, was the dragon.

 He was enormous. His head towered above the trees. His body's full length was lost in the shadowy depths of the jungle. He was wingless, for he lived all of his life in the dark depths of the jungle floor, slithering around the boles of Pryan's gigantic trees. Strong, taloned feet could tear through the thickest vegetation or strike down a man at a blow. His long tail whipped behind him as he moved, cutting swaths through the jungle, leaving trails that were well-known (and immensely feared) by adventurers. His intelligent red eyes were fixed on the woman.

 The dragon was not threatening Aleatha; his great jaws had not parted, though the upper and lower fangs could be seen protruding from the front of the mouth. A red tongue flicked in and out between the teeth. The armed men watched, unmoving, uncertain. Aleatha held very still.

 The dragon cocked its head, gazing at her.

 Paithan shoved his way to the front of the group. Lord Durndrun was stealthily releasing the catch on a railbow. The weapon awoke as Durndrun began raising the stock to his shoulder. The bolt in the rail was screeching, 'Target? Target?"

 "The dragon," Durndrun ordered.

 "Dragon?" The bolt appeared alarmed, and was inclined to argue, a problem with intelligent weapons. "Please refer to owner's manual, section B, paragraph three. I quote, 'Not to be used against any foe larger than-' "

 "Just go for the heart!"

"Which one?"

 "What the devil do you think you're doing?" Paithan caught hold of the lord's elbow.

 "I can get a good shot at the eyes-"

 "Are you insane? You miss, and the dragon'll go for Aleatha!"

 The lord was pale, his expression troubled, but he continued to make ready his railbow. "I'm an excellent shot, Paithan. Stand aside."

 "I won't!"

 "It's the only chance we have! Damn it, man, I don't like this any more than you do, but-"

 "Excuse me, Sonny," came an irritated voice from behind. "But you're crumpling my hat!"

 Paithan swore. He'd forgotten the old man, who was shoving his way through the crowd of tense, glowering men. "No respect for the elderly! Think we're all doddering old fools, don't you? Why I had a spell once that would have fried your socks off. Can't think of the name offhand. Fire bell? No that's not quite it. I have it-tire sale! No, doesn't sound right, either. I'll come up with it. And you. Sonny!" The old man was highly incensed. "Look what you've done to my hat!"

 "Take the damn hat and-"

 "Hush!" breathed Durndrun.

 The dragon had slowly turned its head and was focusing on them. The red eyes narrowed.

 "You!" the dragon snarled in a voice that rocked the foundations of the lord's house.

 The old man was attempting to beat some sort of shape back into his battered hat. At the sound of the thundering "You!" he peered around bleary-eyed and eventually caught sight of the gigantic green head rearing upward, level with the treetops.

 "Ah ha!" cried the old man, staggering backward. He pointed a shaking, accusing finger. "You overgrown frog! You tried to drown me!"

 "Frog!"

 The dragon's head shot upward, its front feet dug deep into the moss, shaking the ground. Aleatha stumbled and fell with a scream. Paithan and Lord Durndrun took advantage of the dragon's distraction to run to the woman's aid. Paithan crouched by her side, his arms around her- Lord Durndrun stood above her, his weapon raised. From the house came the wails of the women, certain that this was the end.

 The dragon's head dove downward, the wind of its passing ripped the leaves from the trees. Most of the elves hurled themselves flat; a few of the bravest held their ground. Lord Durndrun fired a bolt. Shrieking in protest, it struck the green, iridescent scales, bounced off, landed on the moss, and slithered away in the undergrowth. The dragon, seemingly, didn't notice. His head stopped only a few feet from that of the old man.

 "You sorry excuse for a wizard! You're damn right I tried to drown you! But now I've changed my mind. Drowning's too good for you, you moth-eaten relic! After I've dined on elf flesh, beginning with that toothsome blond appetizer over there, I'm going to rip the bones out of your skin one by one, starting with your little finger-"

 "Oh, yeah?" shouted the old man. He jammed his hat on his head, threw his staff to the ground, and once again began rolling up his sleeves. "We'll see about that!"

 "I'll fire now, while he's not looking," whispered Lord Durndrun. "Paithan, you and Aleatha make a run for it-"

 "You're a fool, Durndrun! We can't fight that beast! Wait and see what the old man can do. He told me he controls the dragon!"

 "Paithan!" Aleatha dug her nails into his arm. "He's a crazy old human. Listen to his lordship!"

 "Shhh!"

 The old man's voice was rising in a high-pitched quaver. Closing his eyes, he wiggled his fingers in the dragon's general direction and began to chant, swaying back and forth in time to the rhythm of his words.

 The dragon's mouth parted, the wickedly sharp teeth glistened in the twilight, the tongue flicked dangerously.

 Aleatha closed her eyes and buried her head in Lord Durndrun's shoulder, jostling the railbow, which squeaked in annoyance. The lord juggled the weapon, clumsily clasped his arm around the woman and held her tightly.

 "You speak human! What's he saying, Paithan?"

 When young I started seeking, for love and things in dreaming I set out with clouds a'streaming and a hat upon my head. I began with grave intention hoping for divine intervention; nothing could prepare me for the things I learned instead.

 At first I looked for battle seeking mail and sword to rattle but they herded us like cattle and we never did see a fight. I stood in fields for hours, among the pikes and flowers; I decided it was time to go and snuck away at night.

 I've been roamin' five and twenty, seen war and king and shanty, I've known handsome men aplenty who've yet to kiss a girl. Yes, I've roamed the whole world over, seen men both drunk and sober but I've never seen a man can drink as much as Bonnie Earl.

 Paithan gasped, gulped. "I'm-I'm not certain. I suppose it must-er-be magic!" He began looking around on the ground for a large tree branch, anything he could use as a weapon. He didn't think this was the time to tell the lord that the old man was attempting to spellbind a dragon by singing one of Thillia's most popular drinking songs.

 I moved in royal places a king took me to 's spaces,

 To master courtly graces and to learn of lordly might.

 I took the good king's offer, but emptied out his coffer,

 And with loaded bags a'weigh with gold I disappeared from sight.

 In time I met a lady in a spot all dark and shady, with words I was quite handy and we talked long into night. That eve she let me bed her, her fam'ly said to wed her, so with a price put on my head I left with morning's light.

 I've been roamin' five and twenty, seen war and king and shanty. I've known handsome men aplenty who've yet to kiss a girl. Yes, I've roamed the whole world over, seen men both drunk and sober but I've never seen a man can drink as much as Bonnie Earl.

 "Blessed Orn!" breathed Lord Durndrun. "It's working!"

 Paithan lifted his head, looked up in astonishment. The dragon's snout had begun to bob up and down in time to the music.

 The old man continued singing, taking Bonnie Earl through innumerable verses. The elves remained frozen, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell. Aleatha and Lord Durndrun held each other a little closer. The dragon's eyelids drooped, the old man's voice softened. The creature seemed almost asleep when suddenly its eyes flew open, its head reared up.

 The elves grabbed their weapons. Lord Durndrun pushed Aleatha behind him. Paithan lifted a tree branch.

 "My god, sir!" cried the dragon, staring at the old man. "You're soaked through! What have you been doing?"

 The old man looked sheepish. "Well, I-"

 "You must change those wet clothes, sir, or you'll catch your death. A warm fire and a hot bath are requisite."

 "I've had enough water-"

 "If you please, sir. I know what's best." The dragon glanced about. "Who is the master of this fine house?"

 Lord Durndrun shot a swift, questioning look at Paithan.

 "Go along with it!" the young elf hissed.

 "That-that would be me." The lord seemed considerably at a loss, wondering vaguely if etiquette dictated the proper way to introduce oneself to a large and slavering reptile. He decided to keep it short and to the point. "I-I'm Durndrun. L-lord Durndrun."

 The red eyes fixed on the stammering knight. "I beg your pardon. My Lord. I apologize for interrupting your jollifications, but I know my duty and it is imperative that my wizard receive immediate attention. He's a frail old man-"

 "Who're you calling frail, you fungus-ridden-"

 "I trust my wizard is to be a guest in your house. My Lord?"

 "Guest?" Lord Durndrun blinked, dazed. "Guest? Why, uh-"

 "Of course, he's a guest!" snapped Paithan in a furious undertone.

 "Oh, yes. I see your point," murmured the lord. He bowed. "I will be most honored to entertain-uh- What's his name?" he muttered aside.

 "Blessed if I know!"

 "Find out!"

 Paithan sidled over to the old man. "Thank you for rescuing us-"

 "Did you hear what he called me?" demanded the old man. 'Frail! I'll frail him! I'll-"

 "Sir! Please listen. Lord Durndrun, the gentleman standing over there, would like to invite you to stay with him at his house. If we knew your name-"

 "Can't possibly."

 Paithan was confused. "Can't possibly what?"

 "Can't possibly stay with that fellow. I've made prior commitments."

 "What is the delay?" demanded the dragon.

 "I beg your pardon, sir?" Paithan cast an uneasy glance back at the beast. "I'm afraid I don't understand and, you see, we don't want to upset the-"

 "Expected," stated the old man. "I'm expected somewhere else. Chap's house. I promised. And a wizard never breaks his word. Does terrible things to your nose."

 "Perhaps you could tell me where. It's your dragon, you see. He seems-"

 "Overprotective? A butler in a grade-B movie? Someone's Jewish mother? You got it," said the old man in gloomy tones. "Always happens when he's spellbound. Drives me crazy. I like him better the other way, but he has an irritating habit of eating people if I don't keep a leash on him."

 "Sir!" cried Paithan desperately, seeing the dragon's eyes begin to glow red. "Where are you staying?"

 "There, there, Sonny. Don't work yourself into a lather. You young people, always in a rush. Why didn't you just ask? Quindiniar. Some fellow calls himself Lenthan Quindiniar. He sent for me," added the old man with a lofty air. "Wanted-a human priest. Actually I'm not a priest. I'm a wizard. Priests were all out fund-raising when the message came through-"

 "Orn's ears!" murmured Paithan. He had the strangest feeling that he was wandering about in a dream. Ifso, it was high time Calandra threw a glass of water in his face. He turned back to Lord Durndrun. "I'm-I'm sorry, My Lord. But the-er- gentleman has already made a prior commitment. He's going to be staying with . . . my father."

 Aleatha began to laugh. Lord Durndrun patted her shoulder anxiously, for there was an hysterical edge to her laughter, but she only threw back her head and laughed louder.

 The dragon decided apparently that the laughter pertained to him. The red eyes narrowed alarmingly.

 "Thea! Stop it!" ordered Paithan. "Pull yourself together! We're not out of danger! I don't trust either of 'em. And I'm not sure who's crazier-the old man or his dragon!"

 Aleatha wiped her streaming eyes. "Poor Callie!" She giggled. "Poor Callie!"

 "I beg to remind you, gentlemen, that my wizard is standing around in wet clothing!" thundered the dragon. "He will likely take a chill and he is subject to a weakness in the lungs."

 "There's not a thing wrong with my lungs-"

 "If you'll provide me with directions," continued the dragon, looking martyred, "I will go on ahead and draw a hot bath."

 "No!" Paithan shouted. "That is-" He tried to think, but his brain was having a difficult time adjusting to the situation. Desperately, he turned to the old man. "We live on a hill overlooking the city. The sight of a dragon, coming on our people suddenly like this! ... I don't mean to be rude, but couldn't you tell him to ... well . . ."

 "Go stick his head in the pantry?" The old man sighed. "It's worth a try. Here, you! Dragon."

 "Sir."

 "I can draw my own bath. And I never catch cold! Besides, you can't go galumping around the elves' city in that scaly carcass of yours. Scare the bejeebers outta them."

 "Bejeebers, sir?" The dragon glared, tilted his head slightly.

 "Never mind! Just"-the old man waved a gnarled hand- "take yourself off somewhere until I call for you."

 "Very good, sir," the dragon answered in hurt tones. "If that is what you truly want."

 "I do. I do. Now, go along."

 "I have only your best interests at heart, sir."

 "Yes, yes. I know."

 "You mean a great deal to me, sir." The dragon began to move ponderously off into the jungle. Pausing, he swung his gigantic head around to face Paithan. "You will see to it, sir, that my wizard puts on his overshoes before going out in the damp?"

 Paithan nodded, tongue-tied.

 "And that he bundles up well and winds his scarf around his neck and keeps his hat pulled low over his ears? And that he has his warming drink first thing on awakening? My wizard, you see, suffers from irregularity-"

 Paithan stiff-armed the old man, who was howling imprecations and making a run for the dragon. "My family and I will take good care of him. He is, after all, our honored guest."

 Aleatha had buried her face in a handkerchief. It was difficult to tell ifshe was laughing or sobbing.

 "Thank you, sir," said the dragon gravely. "I leave my wizard in your hands. Mind you take good care of him, or you won't enjoy the consequences."

 The dragon's great forefeet dug downward into the moss, sending it rolling, and slowly slithered into the hole it had created. They could hear, from far below, the rending and snapping of huge tree limbs and, finally, a thud. The rumbling continued for several more moments, then all was still and silent. Hesitantly, tentatively, the birds began to chirp.

 "Are we safe from him if he's down there?" Paithan asked the old man anxiously. "He isn't likely to break loose from the spell and come looking for trouble, is he?"

 "No, no. No need to worry, Sonny. I'm a powerful wizard. Powerful! Why I had a spell once that..."

 "Did you? How interesting. If you'll just come along with me, now, sir." Paithan steered the old man to the carriage house. The elf thought it best to leave this place as soon as possible. Besides, it seemed likely that the party was over. But, he had to admit, it'd been one of Durndrun's best. Sure to be talked about the rest of the social season.

 The lord himself moved over to Aleatha, who was dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. He extended his arm.

 "May I escort you to the carriage?"

 "If you like. My Lord," answered Aleatha, a pretty flush mantling her cheeks, sliding her fingers through the crook of his elbow.

 "What would be a convenient time for me to call?" asked Durndrun in an undertone.

 "Call, My Lord?"

 "On your father," said the lord gravely. "I have something to ask him." He laid his hand over hers, pulled her close. "Something that concerns his daughter."

 Aleatha glanced out of the comer of her eye back at the house. The dowager was standing in the window, watching them. The old lady had looked more pleased to see the dragon. Aleatha lowered her eyes, smiled coyly.

 "Any time, My Lord. My father is always home and would be very honored to see you."

 Paithan was assisting the old man into the carriage.

 "I'm afraid I still don't know your name, sir," said the elf, taking a seat next to the wizard.

 "You don't?" the old man asked, looking alarmed.

 "No, sir. You haven't told me."

 "Drat." The wizard stroked his beard. "I was rather hoping you would. You're sure you don't?"

 "Yes, sir." Paithan glanced back uneasily, wishing his sister would hurry up. She and Lord Durndrun were, however, taking their time.

 "Ah, well. Let's see." The old man muttered to himself. "Fiz-No, I can't use that. Furball. Doesn't seem quite dignified enough. I have it!" he shouted, smiting Paithan on the arm. "Zifnab!"

 "Bless you!"

 "No, no! My name! Zifnab! What's the matter, Sonny?" The old man glared, eyebrows bristling. "Something wrong with it?"

 "Why, er, certainly not! It's ... uh ... a nice name. Really . . . nice. Oh, here you are, Thea!"

 "Thank you, My Lord," she said, allowing Durndrun to hand her into the carriage. Taking her seat behind Paithan and the old man, she favored the knight with a smile.

 "I would escort you to your home, my friends, but I fear I must go and look for the slaves. It seems that the cowardly wretches took off at the sight of the dragon. May dreams light your darktime. My respects to your father and your sister."

 Lord Durndrun woke the drivehands, prodding them himself, and-with his own hands-gave the carriage a shove that started it on its way. Aleatha, glancing back, saw him standing, staring after her with a goggle-eyed gaze. She settled herself more comfortably in the carriage, smoothed out the folds of her dress.

 "It looks as if you've done well for yourself, Thea," said Paithan, grinning, leaning over the seat to give his sister an affectionate jab in the ribs.

 Aleatha reached up to arrange her disheveled hair. "Drat, I've left my hat behind. Ah, well. He can buy me a new one."

 "When's the wedding?"

 "As soon as possib-"

 A snore interrupted her. Pursing her lips, she glanced in some disgust at the old man, who had fallen fast asleep, his head lolling against Paithan's shoulder.

 "Before the dowager has time to change her son's mind, eh?" The elf winked.

 Aleatha arched her eyebrows. "She'll try, no doubt, but she won't succeed. My wedding will be-"

 "Wedding?" Zifnab woke up with a violent start. "Wedding, did you say? Oh, no, my dear. I'm afraid that won't be possible. No time, you see."

 "And why not, old one?" Aleatha asked, teasing, amusing herself. "Why won't there be time for a wedding?"

 "Because, children," said the wizard and his tone suddenly changed, darkened, became sadly gentle, "I've come to announce the end of the world."

 CHAPTER 7

 TREETOPS, EQUILAN

 "DEATH!" SAID THE OLD MAN, SHAKING HIS HEAD. "DOOM AND-ER-

whatever comes after. Can't quite think . . ."

 "Destruction?" suggested Paithan.

 Zifnab gave him a grateful look. "Yes, destruction. Doom and destruction. Shocking! Shocking!" Reaching out a gnarled hand, the old man gripped Lenthan Quindiniar by the arm. "And you, sir, will be the one who leads his people forth!"

 "I-I will?" said Lenthan, with a nervous glance at Calandra, positive she wouldn't let him. "Where shall I lead them?"

 "Forth!" said Zifnab, gazing hungrily at a baked chicken. "Do you mind? Just a tad? Dabbling in the arcane, you know. Whets the appetite-"

 Calandra sniffed, and said nothing.

 "Callie, really." Paithan winked at his irate sister. "This man's our honored guest. Here, sir, allow me to pass it to you. Anything else? Some tohahs?"

 "No, thank you-"

 "Yes!" came a voice that was like the rumble of thunder stalking the ground.

 The others at the table appeared alarmed. Zifnab cringed.

 "You must eat your vegetables, sir." The voice seemed to rise up from the floor. "Think of your colon!"

 A scream and piteous wailing emanated from the kitchen.

 "There's the maid. Hysterics again," said Paithan, tossing aside his lapcloth and rising to his feet. He intended to escape before his sister figured out what was going on. "I'll just go-"

 "Who said that?" Calandra grabbed his arm.

 "-have a look, if you'd let loose-"

 "Don't get so worked up, Callie," said Aleatha languidly. "It's only thunder."

 "My colon's none of your damn business!" The old man shouted down at the floor. "I can't abide vegetables-"

 "If it was only thunder"-Calandra's voice was heavily ironic- "then the wretch is discussing his colon with his shoes. He's a lunatic. Paithan, throw him out."

 Lenthan shot a pleading glance at his son. Paithan looked sidelong at Aleatha, who shrugged and shook her head. The young elf picked up his lapcloth and subsided back into his chair.

 "He's not crazy, Cal. He's talking to ... uh ... his dragon. And we can't throw him out, because the dragon wouldn't take it at all well."

 "His dragon." Calandra pursed her lips, her small eyes narrowed. The entire family, as well as the visiting astrologer, who was seated at the far end of the table, knew this expression, known privately to younger brother and sister as "pinch-face." Calandra could be terrible, when she was in this mood.

 Paithan kept his gaze on his plate, gathering together a small mound of food with his fork and punching a hole in it. Aleatha stared at her own reflection in the polished surface of the porcelain teapot, tilting her head slightly, admiring the sunlight on her fair hair. Lenthan attempted to disappear by ducking his head behind a vase of flowers. The astrologer comforted himself with a third helping of tohahs.

 "That beast that terrorized Lord Durndrun's?" Calandra's gaze swept the table. "Do you mean to tell me you've brought it here? To my house?" Ice from her tone seemed to rime her face with white, much as the magical ice rimed the frosted wineglasses.

 Paithan nudged his younger sister beneath the table with his foot, caught her eye. "I'll be leaving this soon, back on the road," he muttered beneath his breath.

 "Soon I'll be mistress of my own house," Aleatha returned softly.

 "Stop that whispering, you two. We'll all be murdered in our beds," cried Calandra, her fury mounting. The warmer her anger, the colder her tone. "I hope then, Paithan, you'll be pleased with yourself! And you, Thea, I've overheard you talking this nonsense about getting married . . ."

 Calandra deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

 No one moved, except the astrologer (shoveling buttered tohah into his mouth) and the old man. Apparently having no idea he was a bone of contention, he was calmly dismembering a baked chicken. No one spoke. They could hear, quite clearly, the musical chink of a mechanical petal "unfolding" the hour.

 The silence grew uncomfortable. Paithan saw his father, hunched miserably in his chair, and thought again how feeble and gray he looked. Poor old man, he's got nothing else but his wacky delusions. Let him have 'em, after all. What harm is it? He decided to risk his sister's wrath.

 "Uh, Zifnab, where did you say father was leading . . . er ... his people?"

 Calandra glared at him, but, as Paithan had hoped, his father perked up. "Yes, where?" Lenthan asked shyly, blushing.

 The old man raised a chicken leg toward heaven.

 'The roof?" Lenthan was somewhat confused.

 The old man raised the chicken leg higher.

 "Heaven? The stars?"

 Zifnab nodded, momentarily unable to speak. Bits of chicken dribbled down his beard.     •

 "My rockets! I knew it! Did you hear that, Elixnoir?" Lenthan turned to the elven astrologer, who had left off eating and was glowering at the human.

 "My dear Lenthan, please consider this rationally. Your rockets are quite marvelous and we're making considerable progress in sending them above treetop level but to talk of them carrying people to the stars! Let me explain. Here is a model of our world according to the legends handed down to us by the ancients and confirmed by our own observations. Hand me that pricklepear. Now, this"-he held up the pricklepear-"is Pryan and this is our sun."

 Elixnoir glanced about, momentarily at a loss for a sun.

 "One sun," said Paithan, picking up a kumquat.

 "Thank you," said the astrologer. "Would you mind-I'm running out of hands."

 "Not at all." Paithan was enjoying himself hugely. He didn't dare look at Aleatha, or he knew he'd break out laughing. Acting on Elixnoir's instructions, he gravely positioned the kumquat a short distance from the pricklepear.

 "Now this"-the astrologer lifted a sugar cube. Holding it a long distance from the kumquat, he began to rotate it around the prickiepear-"represents one of the stars. Just look at how far it is from our world! You can imagine what an enormous amount of distance you would have to travel ..."

 "At least seven kumquats," murmured Paithan to his sister.

 "He was quick enough to believe in Father when it meant a free meal," Aleatha returned coolly.

 "Lenthan!" The astrologer looked severe, pointed at Zifnab. "This man is a humbug! I-"

 "Who are you calling humbug?"

 The dragon's voice shook the house. Wine sloshed from glasses, spilling over the lace tablecloth- Small, fragile items slid from end tables and tumbled to the floor. From the study came a thud, a bookcase toppling. Aleatha glanced out a window, saw a girl running, shrieking, from the kitchen.

 "I don't believe you'll have to worry about the scullery maid any longer, Cal."

 "This is intolerable." Calandra rose to her feet. The frost that rimed her nose had spread across her face, freezing the features and freezing the blood of those who saw her. Her thin, spare body seemed all sharp angles and every angle liable to hurt anyone who got near her. Lenthan cowered visibly. Paithan, lips twitching, concentrated on folding his lapcloth into a cocked hat. Aleatha sighed and drummed her nails on the table.

 "Father," spoke Calandra in awful tones, "when dinner is concluded I want that old man and his ... his ..."

 "Careful, Cal," suggested Paithan, not looking up. "You'll have the house down around our ears-"

 "I want them out of my house!" Calandra's hands gripped the back of her chair, the knuckles white. Her body shook with the chill wind of her ire, the only chill wind that blew in the tropical land. "Old man!" Her voice rose shrilly. "Do you hear me?"

 "Eh?" Zifnab glanced around. Seeing his hostess, he smiled al her benignly and shook his head. "No, thank you, my dear. Couldn't possibly eat another bite. What's for dessert?"

 Paithan gave a half-giggle, smothered the other half in his lapcloth.

 Calandra turned, and stormed from the room, her skirts crackling about her ankles.

 "Now, Cal," Paithan called in conciliatory tones. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh-"

 A door slammed.

 "Actually, you know, Lenthan, old fellow," said Zifnab, gesturing with the chicken leg, which he had picked clean, "we won't be using your rockets at all. No, they're not nearly big enough. We'll have a lot of people to transport, you see, and that'll take a large vessel. Very large." He tapped himself thoughtfully on the nose with the bone. "And, as what's-his-name with the collar says, it's a long way to the stars."

 "If you will excuse me, Quindiniar," said the elven astrologer, rising to his feet, his eyes flashing fire. "I will be taking my leave, as well."

 "-especially since it looks as if dessert's canceled," said Aleatha, her voice pitched so that the astrologer would be certain to hear. He did; his collar tips quivered, his nose achieved a seemingly impossible angle.

 "But don't worry," continued Zifnab, placidly ignoring the commotion around him. "We'll have a ship-a big sucker. It'll land right smack-dab in the backyard and it'll have a man to fly ft. Young man. Owns a dog. Very quiet-not the dog, the man. Something funny about his hands, though. Always keeps them bandaged. That's the reason why we have to continue firing off the rockets, you see. Most important, your rockets."

 "They are?" Lenthan was still confused.

 "I'm leaving!" stated the astrologer.

 "Promises, promises." Paithan sighed, sipped at his wine.

 "Yes, of course, rockets are important. Otherwise how's he going to find us?" demanded the old man.

 "He who?" inquired Paithan.

 "The he who has the ship. Pay attention!" snapped Zifnab testily.

 "Oh, that he who." Paithan leaned over to his sister. "He owns a dog," he said confidentially.

 "You see, Lenthan-may I call you Lenthan?" inquired the old man politely. "You see, Lenthan, we need a big ship because your wife will want to see all the children again. Been a long time, you know. And they've grown so much."

 "What?" Lenthan's eyes flared open, his cheeks paled. He clasped a trembling hand over his heart. "What did you say? My wife!"

 "Blasphemy!" cried the astrologer.

 The soft whir of the fans and the slight rustling of the feathery blades were the room's only sounds. Paithan had set his lapcloth on his plate and was staring down at it, frowning.

 "For once I agree with that fool." Aleatha rose to her feet and glided over to stand behind her father's chair, her hands on his shoulders.

 "Papa," she said, a tenderness in her voice that no one else in the family ever heard, "it's been a tiring day. Don't you think you should go to bed?"

 "No, my dear. I'm not the least bit tired." Lenthan had not taken his eyes from the old man. "Please, sir, what did you say about my wife?"

 Zifnab didn't appear to hear him. During the ensuing quiet, the old man's head had slumped forward, his bearded chin rested on his breast, his eyes dosed. He gave a muffled snore.

 Lenthan reached out his hand. "Zifnab-"

 "Papa, please!" Aleatha dosed her soft fingers over her father's blacked and bum-scarred hand. "Our guest is exhausted. Paithan, call for the servants to help the wizard to his room."

 Brother and sister exchanged glances, both having the same idea. With any luck we can smuggle him out of the house tonight. Maybe feed him to his own dragon. Then, in the morning, when he's gone, we'll be able to convince Father that he was nothing but an insane old human.

 "Sir ..." said Lenthan, shaking off his daughter's hand and catching hold of the old man's. "Zifnab!"

 The old man jerked awake. "Who?" he demanded, glancing around bleary-eyed. "Where?"

 "Papa!"

 "Hush, my dear. Go run along and play, there's a good girl. Papa's busy, right now. Now, sir, you were talking about my wife-"

 Aleatha looked pleadingly at Paithan. Her brother could only shrug. Biting her lip, fighting back tears, Aleatha gave her father's shoulder a gentle pat, then fled from the room. Once out of sight in the drawing room, she pressed her hand over her mouth, sobbing. . . .

 . . . The child sat outside the door to her mother's bedchamber. The little girl was alone; she'd been alone for the last three days and she was growing more and more frightened. Paithan'd been sent away to stay with relatives.

 "The boy is too rambunctious," Aleatha had heard someone say. "The house must be kept quiet." And so Paithan had gone.

 Now there was no one for her to talk to, no one to pay any attention to her. She wanted her mother-the beautiful mother, who played with her and sang to her-but they wouldn't let her go inside her mother's room. Strange people filled the house- healers with their baskets of funny-smelling plants, astrologers who stood staring out the windows into the sky.

 The house was quiet, so dreadfully quiet. The servants wept while they worked, wiping their eyes on the tips of their aprons. One of them, seeing Aleatha sitting in the hallway, said that someone should really be doing something about the child, but no one ever did.

 Whenever the door to her mother's room opened, Aleatha jumped to her feet andtriedto go inside, but whoever was coming out-generally a healer or his assistant-would shoo the girl back.

 "But I want to see Mama!"

 "Your mama is very sick. She must stay quiet. You don't want to worry her, do you?"

 "I wouldn't worry her." Aleatha knew she wouldn't. She could be quiet. She'd been quiet for three days. Her mother must miss her terribly. Who was combing out Mama's lovely flaxen hair? That was Aleatha's special task, one she performed every morning. She was careful not to tug on the tangles, but unraveled them gently, using the tortoiseshell comb with the ivory rosebuds that had been Mama's wedding present.

 But the door remained shut and always locked. Try as she might, Aleatha couldn't get inside.

 And then one darktime the door opened, and it didn't shut again. Aleatha knew, now, she could go inside but now she was afraid.

 "Papa?" She questioned the man standing in the door, not recognizing him.

 Lenthan didn't look at her. He wasn't looking at anything. His eyes were dull, his cheeks sagged, his step faltered. Suddenly, with a violent sob, he crumpled to the floor, and lay still and unmoving. Healers, hurrying out the door, lifted him in their arms and carried him down the hall to his own bedchamber.

 Aleatha pressed back against the wall.

 "Mama!" she whimpered. "I want Mama!"

 Callie stepped out into the hall. She was the first to notice the child.

 "Mama's gone, Thea," Calandra said. She was pale, but composed. Her eyes were dry. "We're alone. . . ."

 Alone. Alone. No, not again. Not ever. Aleatha glanced frantically around the empty room in which she was standing, hurried back into the dining room, but no one was there.

 "Paithan!" she cried, running up the stairs. "Calandra!" Light from her sister's study streamed out beneath the door.

 Aleatha made a dart for it. The door opened, and Paithan stepped out. His usually cheerful face was grim. Seeing Aleatha, he smiled ruefully.

 "I ... I was looking for you, Pait." Aleatha felt calmer. She put her chilly hands to her burning cheeks to cool them, bring back the becoming pallor. "Bad time?"

 "Yeah, pretty bad." Paithan smiled wanly.

 "Come take a walk with me. Through the garden."

 "Sorry, Thea. I've got to pack. Cal's sending me off tomorrow."

 "Tomorrow!" Aleatha frowned, displeased. "But, you can't! Lord Durndrun's coming to talk to Papa and then there'll be the engagement parties and you simply have to be here-"

 "Can't be helped, Thea." Paithan leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Business's business, you know." He started off down the hall, heading for his room.

 "Oh," he added, turning back. "A word to the wise. Don't go in there now." He nodded his head in the direction of Calandra's study.

 Aleatha withdrew her hand slowly from the door handle. Hidden beneath the silky folds of her gown, the fingers clenched.

 "Sweet sombertime, Thea," said Paithan. He entered his room and shut the door.

 An explosion, coming from the back of the house, set the windows rattling. Aleatha looked out, saw her father and the old man in the garden, gleefully setting off rockets. She could hear, from behind the closed door of her sister's study, the rustle of Cal's skirts, the tap, tap of her high-heeled, tight-laced shoes. Her sister was pacing. A bad sign. No, as Paithan said, it would not do to interrupt Calandra's thoughts.

 Moving over to the window, Aleatha saw the human slave, lounging at his post near the carriage house, enjoying the rocket bursts. As she watched, she saw him stretch his arms above his head, yawning. Muscles rippled across his bare back. He began to whistle, a barbaric habit among humans. No one would use the carriage this late into shadow hour. He was due to go off-duty soon, when the storm began.

 Aleatha hurried down the hall to her own room. Stepping inside, she glanced into her mirror, smoothing and arranging the luxuriant hair. Catching up a shawl, she draped it over her shoulders and, smiling once again, lightly glided down the stairs.

 Paithan started on his journey early the following mistymorne. He was setting off alone, planning to join up with the baggage train on the outskirts of Equilan. Calandra was up to see him away. Arms folded tightly across her chest, she regarded him with a stern, cold, and forbidding air. Her humor had not improved during the night. The two were alone. If Aleatha was ever up at this time of day, it was only because she hadn't yet been to bed.

 "Now, mind, Paithan. Keepan eye on the slaves when you cross the border. You know those beasts will run the moment they get a whiff of their own kind. I expect we'll lose a few; can't be helped. But keep our losses to the minimum. Follow the back routes and stay away from civilized lands if possible. They'll be less likely to run if there's no city within easy reach."

 "Sure, Callie." Paithan, having made numerous trips to Thillia, knew more about the matter than his sister. She gave him this same speech every time he departed, until it had become a ritual between them. The easygoing elf listened and smiled and nodded, knowing that giving these instructions eased his sister's mind and made her feel that she retained some control over this end of the business.

 "Keep sharp watch on this Roland character. I don't trust him."

 "You don't trust any humans, Cal."

 "At least I knew our other dealers were dishonest. I knew how they'd try to cheat us. I don't know this Roland and his wife. I'd have preferred doing business with our regular customers but these two came in with the highest bid. Make certain you get the cash before you turn over one single blade, Pait, and check to see that the money's real and not counterfeit."

 "Yes, Cal." Paithan relaxed, and leaned on a fence post. This would go on for some time. He could have told his sister that most humans were honest to the point of imbecility, but he knew she'd never believe him.

 "Convert the cash into raw materials as soon as you can. You've got the list of what we need, don't lose it. And make certain the bladewood is good quality, not like that stuff Quintin brought in. We had to throw three-fifths of it out."

 "Have I ever brought you a bad shipment, Cal?" Paithan smiled at his sister.

 "No. Just don't start," Calandra felt imaginary strands of hair coming loose from their tight coil. She smoothed them back into place, giving the hair pins a vicious jab. "Everything's going wrong these days. It's bad enough that I have Father on my hands, now I've got some insane old human, too! To say nothing of Aleatha and this travesty of a wedding-"

 Paithan reached out, put his hands on his older sister's bony shoulders. "Let Thea do what she wants, Cal. Durndrun's a nice enough chap. At least he's not after her for her money-"

 "Humpf!" Calandra sniffed, twitching away from her brother's touch.

 "Let her marry the fellow, Cal-"

 "Let her!" Calandra exploded. "I'll have little enough to say about it, you can be sure of that! Oh, it's all very well for you to stand there and grin, Paithan Quindiniar, but you won't be here to face the scandal. This marriage will be the talk of the season. I hear the dowager's taken to her bed over the news. I've no doubt she'll drag in the queen. And I'll be the one to deal with it. Father, of course, is less than useless."

 "What's that, my dear?" came a mild voice behind them.

 Lenthan Quindiniar stood in the doorway, the old man beside him.

 "I said you'll be less than useless in dealing with Aleatha and this insane notion of hers-marrying Lord Durndrun," Calandra snapped, in no mood to humor her parent.

 "But why shouldn't they get married? If they love each other-"

 "Love! Thea?" Paithan burst out laughing. Noting the confused look on his father's face and the scowl on his sister's, the young elf decided it was high time to hit the bridges. "I've got to run. Quintin'll think I've fallen through the moss or been eaten by a dragon." Leaning over, the elf kissed his sister on her cold and withered cheek. "You will let Thea have her way in this, won't you?"

 "I don't see that I've much choice. She's been having her way in everything since Mother died. Remember what I've told you and have a safe trip." Calandra pursed her lips, pecked Paithan's chin. The kiss was nearly as sharp as a bird's beak, and he had to restrain himself from rubbing his skin.

 "Father, good-bye." The elf shook hands. "Good luck with the rockets."

 Lenthan brightened visibly. "Did you see the ones we set off last night? Brilliant bursts of fire above the treetops. I attained real altitude. I'll bet people could see the blasts all the way to Thillia."

 "I'm sure they could, sir," agreed Paithan. He turned to the old man. "Zifnab-"

 "Where?" The old man whipped about.

 Paithan cleared his throat, kept a straight face. "No, no, sir. I mean you. Your name." The elf held out his hand. "Remember? Zifnab?"

 "Ah, pleased to meet you, Zifnab," said the old man, shaking hands. "You know, though, that name sure sounds familiar. Are we related?"

 Calandra gave him a shove with her hand. "You better get going, Pait."

 "Tell Thea good-bye for me!" Paithan said.

 His sister snorted, shook her head, her face grim.

 "Have a good trip, Son," said Lenthan in a wistful tone. "You know, sometimes I think maybe I should go out on the road. I think I might enjoy it. . . ."

 Seeing Calandra's eyes narrow, Paithan struck in hastily, "You let me handle the travel for you. Father. You've got to stay here and work on your rockets. Leading the people forth, and all that."

 "Yes, you're right," said Lenthan with an air of self-importance. "I had better get started working on that, right now. Are you coming, Zifnab?"

 "What? Oh, you talking to me? Yes, yes, my dear fellow. Be along in a jiffy. You might want to increase the amount of sinktree ash. I think we'll achieve greater lift."

 "Yes, of course! Why didn't I think of that!" Lenthan beamed, waved vaguely at his son, and hurried into the house.

 "Probably won't have any eyebrows left," muttered the old man. "But we'll achieve greater lift. Well, you're off, are you?"

 "Yes, sir." Paithan grinned, and whispered confidentially, "Mind you don't let any of that death, doom, and destruction start without me."

 "I won't." The old man gazed at him with eyes that were suddenly, unnervingly, shrewd and cunning. He jabbed a gnarled finger in Paithan's chest. "Doom will come back with you!"

 CHAPTER 8

 THE NEXUS

 HAPLO WALKED SLOWLY AROUND THE SHIP, INSPECTING IT CAREFULLY TO MAKE certain all was in readiness for his flight. He did not, as had the original builders and masters of the dragonship, inspect the guide ropes and the rigging, the cables that controlled the gigantic wings. He looked intently at the wooden hull, but he wasn't checking the caulking. He ran his hands over the skin on the wings, but he wasn't searching for rips or tears. He studied, instead, strange and elaborate symbols that had been carved, burned, stitched, and painted on the wings and the outside of the ship.

 Every conceivable inch was covered with the fantastic designs-whorls and spirals; straight lines and curved; dots and dashes; zigzags, circles, and squares. Passing his hand over the sigla, thePatryn murmured to himself, reciting the runes. The sigla would not only protect his ship, the sigla would fly it.

 The elves who had built the vessel-named Dragon Wing in honor of Haplo's journey to the world of Arianus-would not have recognized their handiwork. Haplo's own ship had been destroyed on his previous entry through Death's Gate. He had commandeered the elven ship on Arianus. Due to pursuit by an ancient foe, he had been forced to leave Arianus in haste and had inscribed only those runes absolutely necessary to his survival (and that of his young passenger) through Death's Gate.

 Once safely in the Nexus, however, the Patryn had been able to expend both time and magic on modifying the vessel to his own specifications.

 The ship, designed by the elves of the Tribus Empire, had originally utilized elven magic combined with mechanics. Being extraordinarily strong in his own magic, the Patryn did away completely with the mechanics. Haplo cleared the galley of the confused tangle of rigging and the harnesses worn by the slaves who operated the wings. He left the wings themselves outspread, and embroidered and painted runes on the dragonskin to provide lift, stability, speed, and protection. Runes strengthened the wooden hull; no force existed that was strong enough to crush it or stave it in. Sigla etched into the glass windows of the bridge prevented the glass from cracking while, at the same time, permitting an unobstructed view of the world beyond.

 Haplo moved inside through the aft hatch, walked the ship's passageways until he came to the bridge. Here, he gazed about in satisfaction, sensing the full power of the runes come to a focus, converge at this point.

 He had junked all the elaborate machines devised by the elves to aid in navigation and steering. The bridge, located in the dragon's "breast," was now a large, spacious chamber, empty except for a comfortable chair and a round, obsidian globe resting on the deck.

 Haplo walked over to the globe, crouched down to inspect it critically. He was careful not to touch it. The runes carved into the obsidian's surface were so extremely sensitive that even a whisper of breath across them might activate the magic and launch the vessel prematurely.

 The Patryn studied the sigla, going over the magic in his mind. The flight, navigation, and protection spells were complex. It took him hours to run through the entire recitation, and he was stiff and sore from lack of movement at the conclusion, but he was satisfied. He had not found a single flaw.

 Haplo stood up, grunting, and flexed his aching muscles. Seating himself in the chair, he looked out upon the city he would soon be leaving. A tongue swiped wetly across his hand.

 "What is it, boy?" Haplo glanced down at a nondescript, gangly black dog with white markings. "Think I forgot you?"

 The dog grinned and wagged its tail. Bored, it had fallen asleep during the inspection of the steering stone and was pleased to have its master pay attention to it again. White eyebrows, slanting above clear brown eyes, gave the animal an unusually intelligent expression. Haplo stroked the dog's silky ears, gazed unseeing out at the world spread before him. . . .

 .. . The Lord of the Nexus walked the streets of his world-a world built for him by his enemies, precious to him because of that very fact. Every finely chiseled marble pillar, every towering granite spire, every graceful minaret or sleek temple dome was a monument to the Sartan, a monument to irony. The lord was fond of walking among them and laughing silently to himself.

 The lord did not often laugh aloud. It is a noticeable trait among those imprisoned in the Labyrinth that they rarely laugh and when they do, the laughter never brightens their eyes. Even those who have escaped the hellish prison and have entered the wondrous realm of the Nexus do not laugh. Upon their arrival through the Last Gate, they are met by the Lord of the Nexus, who was the first to escape. He says to them only two words.

 "Never forget."

 The Patryns do not forget. They do not forget those of their race still trapped within the Labyrinth. They do not forget friends and family who died by the violence of magic gone paranoid. They do not forget the wounds they themselves suffered. They, too, laugh silently when they walk the streets of the Nexus. And when they meet their lord, they bow before him in reverence. He is the only one of them who dares go back into the Labyrinth.

 And even for him, the return is not easy.

 No one knows the lord's background. He never speaks of it, and he is a man not easily approached or questioned. No one knows his age, although it is speculated, from certain things he has said, to be well beyond ninety gates. [13] The lord is a man of keen, cold, sharp intelligence His skills in magic are held in awe by his people, whose own skills would rank them as demigods in the worlds beyond. He has been back to the Labyrinth many, many times since his escape, reentering that hell to carve out safe havens for his people with his magic. And each time, before he enters, this cold and calculating man feels a tremor shake his body. It takes an effort of will for him to go back through that Last Gate. There is always the fear, deep in his mind, that this time the Labyrinth will win. This time it will destroy him. This time, he will never find his way back out.

 That day, the lord stood near the Last Gate. Surrounding him were his people, Patryns who had already escaped. Their bodies covered with the tattooed runes that were shield, armor, and weapon, a few had decided that this time they would reenter the Labyrinth in company with their lord.

 He said nothing to them, but accepted their presence. Walking to the Gate that was carved of jet, he placed his hands upon a sigil he himself had inscribed. The rune glowed blue at his touch, the sigla tattooed upon the backs of his hands glowed blue in answer and the Gate, that was never meant to open inward but only outward, fell back at the lord's command.

 Ahead lay the weird and warped, ever-changing, deadly vistas of the Labyrinth.

 The lord glanced around at those who stood near him. All eyes were fixed on the Labyrinth. The lord saw faces lose the color of life, he saw hands clench to fists, sweat trickle down rune-covered skin.

 "Who will enter with me?" he asked.

 He looked at each one. Each person tried to meet the lord's eyes, each person failed and eventually lowered his gaze. Some sought valiantly to step forward, but muscle and sinew cannot act without the mind's will, and the minds of those men and women were overcome with remembered terror. Shaking their heads, many of them weeping openly, they turned away.

 Their lord walked up to them and laid his hands soothingly upon them. "Do not be ashamed of your fear. Use it, for it is strength. Long ago, we sought to conquer the world, to rule over those weak races not capable of ruling themselves. Our strength and our numbers were great and we had nearly succeeded in our goal. The only way the Sartan could defeat us was to sunder the world itself, sundering it into four separate parts. Divided by the chaos, we fell to the Sartan's might, and they locked us away in a prison of their own creation-the Labyrinth. Their 'hope' was that we would come out of it 'rehabilitated.'

 "We have come out, but the terrible hardships we endured did not soften and weaken us as our enemies planned. The fire through which we passed forged us into sharp, cold steel. We are a blade to cut through our enemies, we are a blade that will win a crown.

 "Go back. Go back to your duties. Keep always before you the thought of what will come when we return to the worlds. Keep always behind you the memory of what was."

 The Patryns, comforted, were no longer ashamed. They watched their lord enter the Labyrinth, watched him enter the Gate with firm, unfaltering step, and they honored and worshipped him as a god.

 The Gate started to swing shut on him. The lord halted it with a sharp command. He had found, lying near the Gate, stretched prone on the ground, a young man. The muscular, sigil-tattooed body bore the marks of terrible wounds-wounds that the young man had healed by his own magic, apparently, but which had almost drained him of his life. The lord, examining the young Patryn anxiously, could not see any sign that he was breathing.

 Stooping, reaching out his hand to the young man's neck to feel for a pulse, the lord was brought up short by a low growling sound. A shaggy head rose up from near the young man's shoulder.

 A dog, the lord saw in astonishment.

 The animal itself had suffered serious injury. Though its growl was menacing and it was attempting valiantly to protect the young man, it could not hold up its head. The muzzle sank down feebly onto bloodied paws, But the growl continued.

 "If you harm him," it seemed to say, "somehow, someway, I'll find the strength to tear you apart."

 The lord, smiling slightly-a rare thing for him-reached out gently and stroked the dog's soft fur.

 "Be at ease, small brother. I mean your master no harm."

 The dog allowed itself to be persuaded and, crawling on its belly, managed to lift its head and nuzzle the young man's neck. The touch of the cold nose roused the Patryn. He glanced up, saw the strange man bending over him and, with the instinct and will that had kept him alive, struggled to stand.

 "You need no weapon against me, my son," said the lord. "You stand at the Last Gate. Beyond is a new world, one of peace, one of safety. I am its lord. I welcome you."

 The young man had made it to his hands and knees. Swaying weakly, he lifted his head and stared through the Gate. His eyes were glazed, he could see little of the wonders of the world. But a slow smile spread across his face.

 "I've made it!" he whispered hoarsely, through blood-caked lips. "I've beaten them!"

 "Such were my words when I stood before this Gate. What are you called?"

 The young man swallowed, coughed before he could reply. "Haplo."

 "A fitting name." The lord put his arms around the young man's shoulders. "Here, let me help you."

 To the lord's amazement, Haplo thrust him away. "No. I want to walk . . . through ... on my own."

 The lord said nothing, his smile broadened. He rose to his feet and stood aside. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Haplo struggled to stand upright. He paused a moment, swaying with dizziness. The lord, fearing he would fall, took a step forward, but Haplo warded him off with outstretched hand.

 "Dog," he said in a cracked voice. "To me."

 The animal rose weakly and limped over to its master. Haplo placed his hand upon the animal's head, steadying himself. The dog stood patiently, its eyes fixed upon Haplo.

 "Let's go," said the young man.

 Together, step by faltering step, they walked toward the Gate. The Lord of the Nexus, marveling, came behind. The Patryns on the other side, seeing the young man emerge, did not applaud or cheer, but awarded him respectful silence. None offered to help him, though each saw that every movement caused the young man obvious pain. They all knew what it meant to walk through that last gate by oneself, or aided only by a trusted friend.

 Haplo stood in the Nexus, blinking under the dazzling sun. Sighing, he keeled over. The dog, whimpering, licked his master's face.

 Hastening to the young man's side, the lord knelt down. Haplo was still conscious. The lord took hold of the pale, cold hand.

 "Never forget!" whispered the lord, pressing the hand close to his chest.

 Haplo looked up at the Lord of the Nexus and grinned. . . .

 "Well, dog," said the Patryn, glancing around, giving his ship one last inspection, "I think we're ready. How about it, boy? You ready?"

 The animal's ears pricked. It barked once, loudly.

 "Good, good. We have My Lord's blessing and his final instructions. Now, let's see how this bird flies."

 Reaching out, he held his hands over the steering stone and began to recite the first runes. The stone rose up from the deck, supported by magic, and came to rest beneath Haplo's palms. Blue light welled up through his fingers, matched by red light glowing from the runes on his hands.

 Haplo sent his being into the ship, poured his magic into the hull, felt it seep like blood into the dragonskin sails, carrying life and power to guide and control. His mind lifted and it brought the ship with him. Slowly, the vessel began to rise from the ground.

 Guiding it with his eyes, his thoughts, his magic, Haplo set sail into the air, granting the ship more speed than its original builders had ever imagined, and flew up and over the Nexus. Crouched at its master's feet, the dog sighed and resigned itself to the journey. Perhaps it remembered its first trip through Death's Gate, a trip that had very nearly proved fatal.

 Haplo tested his craft, experimented with it. Flying leisurely over the Nexus, he enjoyed the unusual view of the city from a bird's eye (or dragon's eye) vantage.

 The Nexus was a remarkable creation, a marvel of construction. Broad, tree-lined boulevards stretched out like spokes of a wheel from a center point to the dimly seen horizon of the far-off Boundary. Fabulous buildings of crystal and marble, steel and granite, adorned the streets. Parks and gardens, lakes and ponds provided places of quiet beauty in which to walk, to think, to reflect. Far away, near the Boundary, stretched green, rolling hills and fields, ready for the planting.

 No farmers plowed that soil, however. No people lingered in the parks. No traffic filled the city streets. The fields, the parks, the avenues, the buildings stood empty, lifeless, waiting.

 Haplo steered the ship around the center point of the Nexus, a crystal-spired building-the tallest in the land-which his lord had taken for his palace. Within the crystal spires, the Lord of the Nexus had come across the books left behind by the Sartan, books that told of the Sundering, the forming of the four worlds. Books that spoke of the imprisoning of the Patryns, of the Sartan's hope for their enemies' "salvation." The Lord of the Nexus had taught himself to read the books and so had discovered the Sartan's treachery that had doomed his people to torment. Reading the books, the lord had developed his plan of revenge. Haplo dipped the ship's wings in a gesture of respect to his lord.

 The Sartan had intended the Patryns to occupy this wondrous world-after their "rehabilitation," of course. Haplo smiled, settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He let go of the steering stone, allowing the ship to drift with his own thoughts. Soon the Nexus would be populated, but not only by Patryns. Soon the Nexus would be home to elves, humans, and dwarves-the lesser races. Once these people had been transported back through the Death's Gate, the Lord of the Nexus would destroy the four misbegotten worlds created by the Sartan, return everything to the old order. Except, that the Patryns would rule, as was their right.

 One of Haplo's tasks on his journeys of investigation was to see if any of the Sartan inhabited the four new worlds. Haplo found himself hoping he discovered more of them-more at least than Alfred, that one pitiful excuse for a demigod he'd confronted on Arianus. He wanted the entire race of Sartan alive, witnesses to their own crushing downfall.

 "And after the Sartan have seen all they built fall into ruin, after they have seen the people they hoped to rule come under our sway, then will come the time of retribution. We will send them into the Labyrinth."

 Haplo's gaze shifted to the red-streaked, black swirl of chaos just visible out the far side of the window. Horror-tinged memories reached out from the clouds to touch him with their skeletal hands. He beat them back, using hatred for his weapon. In place of himself, he watched the Sartan struggle, saw them defeated where he had triumphed, watched them die where he had escaped alive.

 The dog's sharp, warning bark shook him from his grim reverie. Haplo saw that, absorbed in his thoughts of revenge, he'd almost flown into the Labyrinth. Hastily, he placed his hands on the steering stone and wrenched the ship around. Dragon Wing sailed into the blue sky of the Nexus, free of the grasping tendrils of evil magic that had sought to claim it.

 Haplo turned his eyes and thoughts ahead to the starless sky, steering for the place of passage, steering for Death's Gate.

 CHAPTER 9

 CAHNDAR TO ESTPORT, EQUILAN

 PAITHAN HAD A GREAT DEAL OF WORK TO DO MAKING HIS CARAVAN READY FOR travel, and the old man's words of doom slipped from his mind. He met Quintin, his foreman, at the city limits of Cahndar-the Queen's City. The two elves inspected the baggage train, making certain the railbows, boltarches, and raztars, packed away in baskets, were attached securely to the tyros. [14] Opening the packs, Paithan inspected the toys that had been spread over the top, taking care to note if he could see any sign of the weapons hidden beneath. Everything appeared satisfactory. The young elf congratulated Quintin on a job well done and promised to recommend the foreman to his sister.

 By the time Paithan and his caravan were ready to start, the hour flowers were indicating thattoiltime was well advanced and it would soon be midcycle. Taking his place at the head of the line, Paithan told the overseer to begin the march. Quintin mounted the lead tyro, climbing into the saddle between the horns. With much cajoling and flattering, the slaves persuaded the other tyros to crawl into line behind their leader, and the caravan plunged into the jungle lands, soon leaving civilization far behind.

 Paithan set a swift pace and the caravan made good traveling time. The trails between the human and elven lands are well tended, if somewhat treacherous. Trade between the realms is lucrative business. Human lands are rich in raw materials- teakwood, bladewood, cutvine, foodstuffs. The elves are adept at turning these resources into useful goods. Caravans between the realms came and went daily.

 The greatest dangers to caravans were human thieves, jungle animals, and the occasional sheer drops between moss bed and moss bed. The tyros, however, were particularly effective in navigating difficult terrain-the main reason Paithan chose to use them, despite their shortcomings. (Many handlers, particularly humans, cannot deal with the sensitive tyro, who will curl into a ball and pout if its feelings are hurt.) The tyro can crawl over moss beds, climb trees, and span ravines by spinning its webs across the gap and swinging over. So strong are the tyro webs that some have been turned into permanent bridges, maintained by the elves.

 Paithan had been over this route many times previously. He was familiar with the dangers, he was prepared for them. Consequently, he didn't worry about them. He wasn't particularly concerned with thieves. His caravan was large and well armed with elven weapons. Thieving humans tended to prey on lone travelers, particularly their own kind. He knew, though, that if thieves became aware of the true nature of his merchandise, they would risk much to acquire it. Humans have a high regard for elven weaponry-particularly those that are "intelligent."

 The railbow, for example, is similar to a human crossbow- being a missile weapon consisting of a bow fixed across a wooden stock, having a mechanism for holding and releasing the string. The "rail" it fires is an arrow magically gifted with intelligence, able to visually sight a target and guide itself toward it. The magical boltarch, a much smaller version of the railbow, can be worn in a scabbard on the hip and is fired with one hand. Neither human nor dwarven magic is capable of producing intelligent weaponry; thieves selling these on the black market could name their price.

 But Paithan had taken precautions against being robbed.

 Quintin (an elf who had been with the family since Paithan was a baby) had packed the baskets by hand, and only he and Paithan knew what really lay beneath the dolls and sailing ships and jack-in-the-boxes. The human slaves, whose duty it was to guide the tyros, thought they were carrying a load of toys for tots, not the deadlier toys of grown men.

 Secretly, Paithan considered it all an unnecessary nuisance. Quindiniar weapons were high quality, a cut above those of ordinary elven manufacture. The owner of a Quindiniar railbow had to be given a special code word before he could activate the magic, and only Paithan had this information, which he would pass on to the buyer. But Calandra was convinced that every human was a spy, a thief, and a murderer just waiting to rob, rape, pillage, and plunder.

 Paithan had tried to point out to his sister that she wasn't being rational-she gave the humans credit for a phenomenal and cunning intellect on one hand, while maintaining that they were little better than animals on the other.

 "Humans really aren't too different from us, Cal," Paithan had said on one memorable occasion.

 He had never tried that logic again. Calandra had been so alarmed by this liberal attitude that she had seriously considered forbidding him to venture again into human lands. The awful threat of having to stay home had been enough to silence the young elf on the subject forever.

 The first stage of the journey was easy. Their only obstacle would be the Kithni Gulf, the large body of water that divided the elven and human lands, and that lay far to the vars. Paithan fell into the rhythm of the road, enjoying the exercise and the chance to be his own person once again. The sun lit the trees with jewel-like tones of green, the perfume of myriad flowers scented the air, frequent small showers of rain cooled the warmth built up from walking. Sometimes he heard a slink or a slither alongside the path, but he didn't pay much attention to the jungle wildlife. Having faced a dragon, Paithan decided he was equal to just about anything. But it was during this quiet time that the old man's words began buzzing in his head.

 Doom will come back with you!

 One time, when Paithan had been small, a bee had flown into his ear. The frantic buzzing the creature made had nearly driven him wild until his mother had been able to extricate it. Like that bee, Zifnab's prophecy had become trapped inside Paithan's skull, repeating itself over and over, and there seemed little he could do to rid himself of it.

 He tried shrugging it off, laughing. After all, the old man was leaky as a cracked gourd. But just when he had convinced himself, Paithan saw the wizard's eyes-shrewd, knowing, and inexpressibly sad. It was the sadness that bothered Paithan, gave him a chill that his mother would have said came from someone standing on his grave. And that brought memories of his mother; Paithan also remembered that the old man had said that Mother wanted to see her children again.

 The young elf felt a pang that was partly sweet, partly remorseful and uneasy. What if his father's beliefs were true? What if Paithan could actually meet his mother after all these years? He gave a low whistle and shook his head.

 "Sorry, Mama. Guess you wouldn't be too pleased."

 His mother had wanted him to be educated, she'd wanted all her children educated. Elithenia had been a factory wizardess when Lenthan Quindiniar saw her and lost his heart to her. Reputedly one of the most beautiful women in Equilan, Elithenia hadn't been at ease among the high born of the land; a feeling Lenthan had never been able to understand.

 "Your dresses are finer, my dear. Your jewels are more costly. What do these lords and ladies have that ranks them higher than the Quindiniars? Tell me, and I'll go out today and buy it!"

 "What they have, you can't buy," his wife had told him with wistful sorrow.

 "What is it?"

 "They know things."

 And she had been determined that her children would know things.

 To this end, she hired a governess to give her children schooling such as only the high born received. The children had proved a disappointment. Calandra, even at a young age, knew exactly what she wanted out of life and she took from the governess what she needed-the knowledge necessary to manipulate people and numbers. Paithan didn't know what he wanted but he knew what he didn't want-boring lessons. He escaped the governess when he could, dawdled his time away when he couldn't. Aleatha, learning her powers early, smiled prettily, snuggled in the governess's lap, and was never required to learn to do more than read and write.

 After their mother had died, their father kept the governess on. It had been Calandra who let the woman go, to save money, and that was the end of their schooling.

 "No, Mother won't be pleased to see us, I'm afraid," Paithan mused, feeling unaccountably guilty. Realizing what he'd been thinking, he laughed-somewhat shamefacedly-and shook his head. "I'll be getting daft as poor Father if I don't cut it out."

 To clear his mind and rid it of unwelcome memories, Paithan climbed up on the horns of the lead tyro and began to chat with the overseer-an elf of much sense and worldly experience. It wasn't until sorrowtime that night, the first cycle following torrent's hour, that Paithan would again think of Zifnab and the prophecy-and then only right before he fell asleep.

 The journey to Estport, the ferry landing, was peaceful, without incident, and Paithan forgot the prophecy completely. The pleasure of traveling, the heady awareness of his freedom after the stifling atmosphere of home lifted the young elf's spirits. After a few cycles on the road, he could laugh heartily at the old man and his crazy notions, and he regaled Quintin with tales of Zifnab during their rest breaks. When they finally arrived at the Kithni Gulf, Paithan could hardly believe it. The trip had seemed far too short.

 The Kithni Gulf is a huge lake that forms the border between Thillia and Equilan, and here Paithan encountered his first delay. One of the ferries had broken down, leaving only one in operation. Caravans were lined up all along the moss shore, waiting to cross.

 Upon their arrival, Paithan sent the overseer to find out how long they would have to wait. Quintin returned with a number that marked their place in line and said that they might be able to cross over some time the following cycle.

 Paithan shrugged. He wasn't in any particular hurry, and it appeared that people were making the best of a bad situation. The ferry landing had come to resemble a tent city. Caravaners strode about, visiting, trading news, discussing current trends in the marketplace. Paithan saw his slaves settled and fed, his tyros petted and complimented, and the baggage secure. Leaving everything in the capable hands of the overseer, the young elf left to join in the fun.

 An enterprising elven farmer, hearing of the plight of the caravanners, had hastened down to the landing with several barrels of homemade vingin packed in a wagon, cooled by ice. [15] Vingin is a strong drink made of crushed grapes, fortified by a liquid derived from fermented tohahs. Its fiery taste is favored by elves and humans alike. Paithan was particularly fond of it and, seeing a crowd gathered around the barrel, he joined them.

 Several old friends of Paithan's were among the crowd, and the young elf was welcomed with enthusiasm. Caravanners get to know each other on the trail, sometimes banding together for both safety and companionship. Humans and elves alike made room for Paithan and a cool, frothy mug was thrust into his hand.

 "Pundar, Ulaka, Gregor, good to see you again." The elf greeted long-time associates and was introduced to those he didn't know. Seating himself on a crate next to Gregor-a large, redheaded human with a bristling beard-Paithan sipped his vingin and took a brief moment to be thankful Calandra couldn't see him.

 Several polite inquiries about his health and that of his family followed, which Paithan answered and returned in kind.

 "What are you carrying?" asked Gregor, downing a mug in one long swallow. Belching in satisfaction, he passed his mug to the farmer for a refill.

 "Toys," said Paithan, with a grin.

 Appreciative laughter and knowing winks.

 "You'll be taking them up norinth, then," said a human, who had been introduced as Hamish.

 "Why, yes," said Paithan. "How did you know?"

 "They've a need for 'toys' up that way, so we hear," said Hamish.

 The laughter died, and there was gloomy nodding among the humans. The elven traders, looking perplexed, demanded to know what was amiss.

 "War with the SeaKings?" guessed Paithan, handing over his empty mug. This news would make Calandra's day. He would have to send a faultless back with it. If anything could put his sister in a good mood, it would be war among the humans. He could almost see her counting the profits now.

 "Naw," said Gregor. "The SeaKings has got their own problems, if what we hear be true. Strange humans, coming across the Whispering Sea in crude ships, have been washing up on the SeaKings' shores. At first, the SeaKings took in the refugees, but more and more kept coming and now they are finding it difficult to feed and house so many."

 "They can keep 'em," said another human trader. "We've enough problems of our own in Thillia, without taking in strangers."

 The elven traders smiled, listening with the smug complacency of those who are completely unaffected, except as it might concern their business. An influx of more humans into the region could only send profits soaring.

 "But . . . where are these humans coming from?" asked Paithan.

 There was heated discussion among the traders, the argument at last being settled by Gregor stating, "I know. I have talked to them myself. They say they are from a realm known as Kasnar, that is far norinth of us, across the Whispering Sea."

 "Why are they fleeing their homeland? Are there great wars being fought there?" Paithan was wondering how difficult it would be to hire a ship to take him and a load of weapons that far.

 Gregor shook his head, his red beard brushing against his massive chest. "Not war," he said in grave tones. "Destruction. Total destruction."

 Doom, death, and destruction.

 Paithan felt footsteps crossing his grave, his blood tingled in his feet and hands. It must be the vingin, he told himself, and set his mug down hastily.

 "What is it, then? Dragons? I can't believe that. Since when have dragons attacked a settlement?"

 "No, even the dragons flee this menace."

 'Then, what?"

 Gregor looked around solemnly. "Tytans."

 Paithan and the other elves gaped, then burst out laughing.

 "Gregor, you old liar! You had me going there for a while!" Paithan wiped tears from his eyes. "I'll buy the next round. Refugees and wrecked ships!"

 The humans sat silent, their faces growing dark and shadowed. Paithan saw them exchange grim glances and checked his mirth.

 "Come now, Gregor, a joke's a joke. You caught me. I'll admit I was already counting up the coins." He waved his hand toward his compatriots. "We all were. So enough already."

 "It is no joke, I am afraid, my friends," said Gregor. "I have talked to these people. I have seen the terror on their faces and heard it in their voices. Gigantic creatures with the bodies and faces of our kind, but who stand taller than the trees came to their land from far norinth. Their voices alone can split rock. They destroy all in their path. They snatch up people in their hands and fling them to their deaths or crush them with their fists. There is no weapon that can stop them. Arrows are to them like gnats to us. Swords will not penetrate their thick hide, nor would blades do any damage, if they did."

 The weight of Gregor's words oppressed everyone. All listened in hushed and attentive silence, though there was still some unbelieving shaking of heads. Other caravanners, noting the solemn gathering, came up to see what was going on and added their own dire rumors to those already spreading.

 "The Kasnar Empire was great," said Gregor. "Now it is gone. Completely destroyed. All that is left of a once mighty nation are a handful of people who escaped in their boats across the Whispering Sea."

 The farmer, noting his sales dropping off, tapped a fresh barrel. Everyone rose to refill their mugs, and began talking at once.

 "Tytans? The followers of San? That's only myth."

 "Don't speak sacrilege, Paithan.  If you believe in the Mother [16] you must believe in San and his followers, who rule the Dark."

 "Yeah, Umbar, we all know how religious you are! If you walked into one of the Mother's temples it'd probably fall down on top of you! Look, Gregor. You're a sensible man. You don't believe in goblins and ghoulies."

 "No, but I believe in what I see and hear. And I've seen, in the eyes of those people, terrible things."

 Paithan gazed steadily at the man. He'd known Gregor a number of years and had always found the big human reliable, dependable, and fearless. "All right. I'll buy the notion that these people fled something. But why are we all in a dither? Whatever it is couldn't possibly cross the Whispering Sea."

 "The tytans-"

 "Whatever-"

 "-could come down through the dwarven kingdoms of Grish and Klag and Thum," continued Gregor gloomily, "In fact, we have heard rumors that the dwarves are preparing for war."

 "Yeah. War against you, not giant demons. That's why your lords slapped on that arms embargo."

 Gregor shrugged his shoulders, nearly bursting the seams on his tight-fitting shirt, and then grinned, his red-bearded face seeming to split wide apart. "Whatever happens, Paithan, you elves won't have to worry. We humans will stop them. Our legends say that the Horned God constantly tests us, by sending warriors worthy of us to fight. Perhaps, in this battle, the Five Lost Lords will return to help us."

 He started to drink, looked disappointed, and upended his mug. It was empty. "More vingin!"

 The elven fanner turned the spigot, nothing came out. He knocked on the barrels. All gave forth a dismal, hollow sound. Sighing, the caravanners stood and stretched.

 "Paithan, my friend," said Gregor. "There's the tavern near the ferry landing. It's packed, just now, but I think I could get us a table." The big human flexed his muscles and laughed.

 "Sure," agreed Paithan readily. His overseer was a good man, the slaves were exhausted. He didn't expect any trouble. "You find us a place to sit, and I'll buy the first two rounds."

 "Fair enough."

 The two, swaying slightly, threw their arms around each Other-Gregor's arm nearly engulfing the slender elf-and tottered off toward the Land's End.

 "Say, Gregor, you get around a lot," said Paithan. "Ever hear of a human wizard name of Zifnab?"

 CHAPTER 10

 VARSPORT, THILLIA

 PAITHAN AND HIS CARAVAN WERE ABLE TO CROSS OVER ON THE FERRY THE following cycle. The crossing took an entire cycle, and the elf did not enjoy the trip, due to the fact that he was suffering from the after-effects of vingin.

 Elves are notoriously bad drinkers, having no head at all for alcohol, and Paithan knew at the time he shouldn't be attempting to keep pace with Gregor. But he reminded himself that he was celebrating-no Calandra to glare at him sternly for taking a second glass of wine with dinner. The vingin also conveniently fogged up Paithan's remembrance of the daft old wizard, his stupid prophecy, and Gregor's gloomy stories about giants.

 The constant clatter of the turning capstan, the snorting and squeals of the five harnessed wild boar who drove it, and the constant urgings of their human driver blasted through the elf's head. The guck-covered, slimy vine cable that drew the ferry over the water slid past him and disappeared, winding around the capstan. Leaning up against a bundle of blankets in the shade of an awning, a wet compress over his aching head, Paithan watched the water slip away beneath the boat and felt extremely sorry for himself.

 The ferry had been operating across the Kithni Gulf for about sixty years. Paithan could remember seeing it as a small child, traveling in company with his grandfather-the last journey the two'd made before the old elf vanished into the wilderness. Then Paithan had thought the ferryboat the most wonderful invention in the world and had been extremely upset to find out that humans had been responsible for inventing it.

 His grandfather had patiently explained the human thirst for money and power known as ambition-a result of their pitifully short life spans-that led them to all sorts of energetic undertakings. The elves had been quick to take advantage of the ferry service, since it markedly increased trade between the two realms, but they viewed it with suspicion. The elves had no doubt that the ferry-like most other human endeavors-would somehow lead to a bad end. In the meantime, however, the elves magnanimously allowed the humans to serve them.

 Soothed by the lapping of the water and the fumes of the vingin lingering in his brain, Paithan grew drowsy in the heat. He had the vague memory of Gregor having becomed embroiled in a brawl and nearly getting him-Paithan-killed. The elf drifted off to sleep. He woke to Quintin, his overseer, shaking him by the shoulder.

 "Auanal Auanal [17] Quindiniar! Wake up. The boat is docking."

 Paithan groaned and sat up. He felt somewhat better. Though his head still throbbed, at least he didn't feel like he was about to tumble over in a dead faint when he moved. Staggering to his feet, he lurched across the crowded deck to where his slaves crouched on the wood planking, out in the open, with no shelter from the blazing sun. The slaves didn't appear to mind the heat. They wore nothing but loin cloths. Paithan, who kept every inch of his fair skin covered, looked at the deep brown or black skin of the humans and was reminded of the vast gulf that lay between the two races.

 "Callie's right," he muttered to himself. "They're nothing but animals and all the civilizing in the world won't change that. I should have known better than to go off with Gregor last night. Stick to my own kind."

 This firm resolve lasted all of, say, an hour, by which time Paithan, feeling much better, was visiting with a bruised, swollen, and grinning Gregor while both stood in line, waiting their turns to present their papers to the port authority. Paithan remained cheerful during the long wait. When Gregor left for his turn at customs, the elf amused himself by listening to the chatter of his human slaves, who appeared ridiculously excited at seeing their homeland again.

 If they're so fond of it, why did they let themselves get sold into slavery? Paithan wondered idly, standing in a line that moved with the speed of a mosslug while human customs officials asked innumerable, inane questions and pawed over the goods of his fellow caravanners. Altercations broke out, generally between humans, who-when caught smuggling-seemed to take the attitude that the law applied to everyone else but them. Elven merchants rarely had any trouble at the borders. They either studiously obeyed the laws or, like Paithan, devised quiet and subtle means to evade them.

 At last, one of the officials motioned to him. Paithan and his overseer herded the slaves and the tyros forward.

 "What're you haulin'?" The official stared hard at the baskets.

 "Magical toys, sir," said Paithan, with a charming smile.

 The official's gaze sharpened. "Seems a queer time to be bringing in toys."

 "What do you mean, sir?"

 "Why, the talk of war! Don't tell me you haven't heard it?"

 "Not a word, sir. Who are you fighting this month? Strethia, perhaps, or Dourglasia?"

 "Naw, we wouldn't waste our arrows on that scum. There's rumors of giant warriors, coming out of the norinth."

 "Oh, that!" Paithan shrugged gracefully. "I did hear of something of the sort, but I discounted it. You humans are well prepared to face such a challenge, aren't you?"

 "Of course we are," said the official. Suspecting he was being made the butt of a joke, he stared hard at Paithan.

 The elf's face was smooth as silk and so was his tongue.

 'The children love our magical toys so much. And Saint Thillia's Day will be coming up soon. We wouldn't want to disappoint the little tykes, now, would we?" Paithan leaned forward confidentially. "I'll bet you're a grandfather, aren't you? How about letting me go on through without the usual rigamorole?"

 "I'm a grandfather all right," said the official, scowling darkly. "I got ten grandkids, all of 'em under the age of four and they're all livin' at my house! Open those baskets."

 Paithan saw that he had made a tactical error. Heaving the sigh of an innocent wrongfully condemned, he shrugged his shoulders and led the way to the first basket. Quintin-all officious, servile politeness-undid the straps. The slaves, standing nearby, were watching with what Paithan noted were expressions of suppressed glee that made the elf extremely uneasy. What the devil were they grinning about? It was almost as if they knew . . .

 The customs official lifted the lid of the basket. An array of brightly colored toys sparkled in the sunlight. Casting a sidelong glance at Paithan, the official thrust his hand deep inside.

 He withdrew it immediately with a yelp, waving his fingers. "Something bit me!" he accused.

 The slaves roared with laughter. The overseer, shocked, began laying about him with his whip, and soon restored order.

 "I'm terribly sorry, sir." Paithan slammed shut the lid of the basket. "It must have been the jack-in-the-boxes. They're notoriously bad about biting. I really do apologize."

 "You're giving those fiends to children?" demanded the official, sucking his injured thumb.

 "Some parents like a certain amount of aggressive spirit in a toy, sir. Don't want the little tykes to grow up soft, do we? Uh ... sir ... I'd be particularly careful with that basket. It's carrying the dollies."

 The customs official stretched out his hand, hesitated, and thought better of it. "Go on with you then. Get outta here."

 Paithan gave the order to Quintin, who immediately set the slaves to work, hauling at the reins of the tyros. Some of the slaves, despite the fresh lash marks on the skin, were still smirking, and Paithan wondered at the strange human trait that led them to enjoy the sight of another's suffering.

 His bill of lading was hastily inspected and passed. Paithan tucked it in the pocket of his belted traveling coat and, bowing politely to the official, was starting to hurry after his baggage train when he felt a hand on his arm. The elf's good humor was rapidly evaporating. He felt a throbbing in his temples.

 "Yes, sir?" he said, turning, forcing a smile.

 The customs official leaned close. "How much for ten of them jacks?"

 The journey through the human lands was uneventful. One of Paithan's slaves escaped, but he'd planned for such an eventuality by bringing along extra hands, and he wasn't overly concerned about many of the others. He'd deliberately chosen men with families left behind in Equilan. Apparently one slave thought more of his freedom than he did of his wife and children.

 Under the influence of Gregor's tales, Zifnab's prophecy began to gnaw again at the elf's mind. Paithan tried to discover all he could about the approaching giants and in every tavern, he found someone with something to say on the subject. But he gradually became convinced that it was rumor, nothing more. Outside of Gregor, he couldn't find one other human who had actually talked directly to any of the refugees.

 "My mother's uncle ran across three of 'em and they told him and he told my mother that-"

 "My second cousin's boy was in Jendi last month when the ships was coming in and he told my cousin to tell his dad who told me that-"

 "I heard it from a peddlar who'd been there-"

 Paithan decided at length, with some relief, that Gregor'd been feeding him some candy. [18] The elf put Zifnab's prophecy completely, finally, irrevocably out of his mind.

 Paithan crossed the border of Marcinia into Temcia without a border guard so much as glancing into his baskets. They gave his bill of lading-signed by the Varsport official-a bored glance and waved him on. The elf was enjoying his journey, and he took his time. The weather was particularly fine. The humans, for the most part, were friendly and well mannered. Of course, he did encounter the occasional remark about "woman stealers" or "filthy slavers" but Paithan, not one to be hotheaded, either ignored these epithets or passed them off with a laugh and an offer to buy the next round.

 Paithan was as fond of human women as the next elf, but- having traveled extensively in human lands-he knew nothing could get your ears (and perhaps other portions of one's anatomy) cut off sooner than dallying with human females. He was able to curb his appetite, therefore, contenting himself with admiring stares or snatching a quick kiss in an extremely dark corner. If the innkeeper's daughter came to his door in the dead of night, wanting to test the legendary erotic skill of elven men, Paithan was always careful to bundle her out in the mistymorne, before anyone else was up and stirring.

 The elf reached his destination-the small and unsavory town of Griffith-a few weeks past his scheduled arrival. He thought that pretty good, considering how chancy travel was through the constantly warring Thillian states. Arriving at the Jungleflower Tavern, he saw his slaves and the tyros settled in the stable, found a place for his overseer in the loft, and took a room in the inn for himself.

 The Jungleflower was apparently not much in the custom of housing elves, for the proprietor looked a long time at Paithan's money and rapped the coin on the table, wanting to make certain mat it had the sound of hardwood. Hearing it thump true, he became somewhat more polite.

 "What did you say your name was?"

 "Paithan Quindiniar."

 "Huh." The man grunted. "Got two messages for you. One came by hand, the other by faultless."

 "Thanks very much," said Paithan, handing over another coin.

 The proprietor's politeness increased markedly.

 "You must be thirsty. Seat yourself in the common room, and I'll be bringing you something to wet your throat."

 "No vingin," said Paithan and sauntered off, the missives in his hand.

 One he recognized as human in origin-a bit of cheap parchment that had been used before. Some attempt had been made to efface the original writing, but that hadn't succeeded well. Untying a frayed and dirty ribbon, Paithan unrolled it and read the message with some difficulty around what apparently had once been a tax notice.

 Quindiniar. You're late. This'll ...     ... you. We've had

 to make . . . trip , . . keep customer happy. Back. . . .

 Paithan walked over to the window and held the parchment to the light. No, he couldn't make out when they said they were returning. It was signed with a crude scrawl-Roland Redleaf. Fishing out the worn bill of lading, Paithan looked for the name of the customer. There it was, in Calandra's precise, up-right hand. Roland Redleaf. Shrugging, Paithan tossed the scroll in the slop bucket and carefully wiped his hands after. No telling where it had been.

 The proprietor hurried in with a foaming mug of ale. Tasting it, Paithan pronounced the brew excellent and the highly gratified innkeeper was now his slave for life or at least as long as his money held out. Settling down in a booth, propping his feet up on the chair opposite him, Paithan lounged back and opened the other scroll, preparing to enjoy himself. It was a letter from Aleatha.

 CHAPTER 11

 HOUSE OF QUINDINIAR, EQUILAN

 My dear Paithan,

 You're probably astonished to hear from me. I'm not one for writing. However, I'm certain you won't be offended if I tell you the truth and that is that I'm writing to you out of sheer boredom. I certainly hope this engagement doesn't last too long or I shall go out of my mind.

 Yes, dear brother, I've given up my "wild and wicked ways." At least temporarily. When I'm a "staid old married woman" I intend to pursue a more interesting life; one only needs to be discreet.

 As I had foreseen, there is a bit of scandal over the impending marriage. The dowager is a snobbish old bitch who came near to ruining everything. She had the nerve to inform Durndrun that I had been having an affair with Lord K---, that I frequented certain establishments Below and that I even carried on with the human slaves! In short, I was a slut, not worthy of being honored with the Durndrun money, the Durndrun house, and the Durndrun name.

 Fortunately, I had foreseen something like this happening and had procured a promise from my "beloved" that he was to inform me of any allegations made by his dear mama and allow me to refute them. He did so, coming to see me in the mistymorne of all times. That's one habit of which I shall have to break him! By Orn!

 What does one do at such an ungodly hour? There was no help for it. I had to make an appearance. Fortunately, unlike some women, I always look well on arising.

 I found Durndrun in the parlor, looking extremely serious and stern, being entertained by Calandra, who was enjoying the whole thing immensely.

 She left us alone-quite proper between engaged couples, you know-and, if you will believe this, my dear brother, the man began heaping his mother's accusations upon my head!

 I was, of course, prepared.

 Once I understood the precise nature of his complaints (and their source), I tumbled down upon the floor in a swoon. (In passing, there is a true art to that. One must fall without doing damage and preferably without any unsightly bruises on the elbows. It is not as easy as it looks.) Anyway, Durndrun was quite alarmed and was obliged-of course-to lift me in his arms and place me on the sofa.

 I came to myself just in time to prevent him ringing for help and, seeing him bending over me, called him a "cad" and burst into tears.

 He was again obliged to take me in his arms. Sobbing incoherently about my besmirched honor and how I could never love a man who didn't trust me, I attempted to push him away, making certain that in the ensuing struggle my gown tore and the lord discovered that his hand had wandered to a place where it should not have been.

 "Ah, so this is what you think of me!" I flung myself on the sofa, taking care that in my frantic attempts to repair the damage, I simply made it worse. My only worry was that he should ring for the servants. I, therefore, did not allow my tears to degenerate into hysterics.

 He rose to his feet and I could see, out of the corner of my eye, the struggle ensuing in his breast. I quieted my sobs and turned my head, looking up at him through a veil of golden hair, my eyes shimmering quite prettily.

 "I admit that I have been what some might call irresponsible," I said in a choked voice, "but then I never had a mama to guide me! I've been searching so long for someone to love and honor with all my heart, and now that I've found you ..."

 I couldn't go on. Turning my face to the tear-soaked pillow, I stretched out my arm. "Go!" I told him. "Your mama is right! I am not worthy of such love!"

 Well, Pait, I'm sure you must have guessed the rest. Before you could say "matrimony," Lord Durndrun was at my feet, begging my forgiveness! I allowed him another kiss and a long, lingering glance before I modestly covered the "treasures" he won't acquire until our wedding night.

 He was so carried away by his passion he even spoke of turning his mother out of his house! It took a great deal of persuading to convince him that the dowager would be as dear to me as the mother I never knew. I have plans for the old lady. She doesn't know it, but she will cover my little "escapes" when married life becomes too boring.

 And so I am well on the way to the altar. Lord Durndrun laid down the law to the dowager, informing her that he would wed me and that if she didn't like it we would live somewhere else. That wouldn't do at all, of course. The house is the main reason I'm marrying him. But I wasn't too afraid. The old woman simply dotes on her son and she gave way, as I knew she must.

 The wedding will be in about four months time. I had hoped it would be sooner, but there are certain formalities that must be observed, and Callie is insisting on everything being very proper. In the meantime, I have no choice but to give the appearance that I am a modest, well-bred maiden and stay prudently at home. You will laugh, I'm certain, Paithan, when you read this. But I assure you I have not been with a man this past month. By the time the wedding night comes around, Durndrun himself will look good to me!

 (I'm not at all certain I can hold out that long. I don't suppose you've noticed, but one of the human slaves is quite a pretty specimen. He's very interesting to talk to and has even taught me some of that beastly language of theirs. Speaking of beasts, do you suppose it's true what they say about human males?)

 Sorry about the blurred text on that last part. Callie came into my room and I was forced to slip this in among my undergarments before the ink was dry. Can you imagine what she would have done if she'd read that last part?

 Fortunately, she needn't worry. Thinking about it, I don't believe I could bring myself to form a liaison with a human. No offense, Pait, but how can you stand to touch them? I suppose it's different for a man.

 You're wondering what Callie was doing in here at this hour of stormtime? The rockets were keeping her awake.

 Speaking of rockets, home life has gone from bad to worse since you left. Papa and that crazy old wizard spend all toiltime down in the cellar preparing rockets and all darktime out in the backyard, firing them off. We've set a record, I do believe, in the number of servants who've left us. Cal's been forced to pay out large sums to several families in the town below, whose houses caught fire. Papa and the wizard are sending the rockets up, you see, so that this "man with the bandaged hands" will see them and know where to land!

 Oh, Paithan, I'm sure you're laughing now, but this is serious. Poor Callie's about to tear the hair off her head in frustration, and I'm afraid I'm not much better. Of course, she's worried about the money and the business and the mayor coming by with a petition to get rid of the dragon.

 I'm worried about poor Papa. The crafty old human has Papa completely convinced in this nonsense about a ship and going to see Mama in the stars. It's all Papa talks about. He's so excited he won't eat and he's getting thinner by the day. Callie and I know that old wizard must be up to something-maybe making off with all Papa's fortune. But, it'so, he's shown no signs of it.

 Cal tried twice to buy Zifnab-or whatever he calls himself-off, offering him more money than most humans would see in a lifetime to go away and leave us alone. The old man took her by the hand and, with a sad look on his face, told her, "But my dear, soon the day will come when money won't matter."

 Won't matter! Money won't matter! Callie thought he was crazy before but now she's convinced he's a raving maniac and should be locked up somewhere. I think she'd do it, too, but she's afraid how Papa might react. And then there was the day the dragon almost got loose.

 You remember how the old man keeps the creature under enchantment? (Orn knows how or why.) We were sitting down to breakfast when suddenly there was a terrible commotion outside, the house shook like it would fall apart, tree limbs cracked and thudded into the moss and a fiery red eye appeared, staring into our dining room window.

 "Have another muffin, old man!" came this dreadful, hissing voice. "With lots of honey on it. You need fattening, fool. Like the rest of the plump, juicy meat around you!"

 Its teeth flashed, saliva dripped from its forked tongue. The old man went pale as a ghost. What few servants we had left ran screaming out the door.

 "Ah, ha!" shouted the dragon. "Fast food!"

 The eye disappeared. We ran to the front door and saw the dragon's head diving down, its jaws ready to close over the cook!

 "No, not her!" shouted the old man. "She does the most wonderful things to a chicken! Try the butler. Never did like him," he said, turning to Father. "Uppity chap."

 "But," said poor Papa, "you can't let him eat the staff!"

 "Why not?" Cal screamed. "Let him eat all of us! What does it matter to you?"

 You should have seen Callie, Brother. It was frightening. She went all stiff and rigid and just stood there on the front porch, her arms crossed over her chest, her face set hard as rock. The dragon seemed to be toying with his victims, driving them like sheep, watching them duck behind trees, lunging at them when they came out in the open.

 "What if we let him have the butler," said the old man nervously, "and maybe a footman or two? Take the edge off, so to speak?"

 "I-I'm afraid not," answered poor Papa, who was shaking like a leaf.

 The old man heaved a sigh. "You're right, I suppose. Mustn't abuse your hospitality. Seems a pity. Elves are so easily digestible. Slide right down. He always feels hungry right after, though." The old man began rolling up his sleeves. "Dwarves, now. I never let him eat a dwarf. Not since the last time. Up with him all night. Let's see. How did that spell go? Let's see, I need a ball of bat guano and a pinch of sulfur. No, wait. I've got my spells muddled."

 The old man strolled out on the lawn, cool as you please, in the midst of the chaos, talking to himself about bat dung! By now, some of the townspeople had arrived, carrying weapons. The dragon was delighted to see them, shouting about "all-you-can-eat buffets." Callie was standing on the porch, screeching, "Eat us all!" Papa was wringing his hands until he collapsed into a chaise lounge.

 I hate to admit this, Pait, but I started to laugh. Why is that? It must be some horrible flaw in me that makes me start giggling during disaster. I wished with all my heart you'd been there to help us, but you weren't. Papa was useless, Cal wasn't much better. In desperation, I ran down onto the lawn and caught hold of the old man's arm just as he raised it in the air.

 "Aren't you supposed to sing?" I asked. "You know, 'something, something Bonnie Earl'!"

 It was all I could understand of the damn song. The old man blinked and his face brightened. Then he whirled around and glared at me, his beard bristling. The dragon, meanwhile, was chasing the townspeople across the lawn.

 "What are you trying to do?" the old man demanded angrily. "Take over my job?"

 "No, I-"

 " 'Don't meddle in the affairs of wizards,' " he said in lofty tones, " 'for they are subtle and quick to anger.' A fellow sorcerer said that. Good at his job, knew a lot about jewelry. Not bad at fireworks, either. Wasn't the snappy dresser Merlin was, though. Let's see, what his name? Raist-no, that was the irritating young chap, kept hacking and spitting up blood all the time. Disgusting. The other's name was Gand-something or other . . ."

 I began laughing wildly, Pait! I couldn't help it. I had no idea what he was yammering about. It was just all so ludicrous! I must be a truly wicked person.

 "The dragon!" I grabbed the old man and shook him until his teeth rattled. "Stop him!"

 "Ah, yes. It's easy for you to say." Zifnab gave me a hunted look. "You don't have to live with him afterward!"

 Heaving another sigh, he began to sing in that high-pitched quavery voice of his that goes right through your head. Just like before, the dragon jerked his head up, and stared at the old man. The creature's eyes glazed over and pretty soon he was swaying in time to the music. Suddenly, the dragon's eyes popped open wide and he stared at the old man in shock.

 "Sir!" the creature thundered. "What are you doing out on the front lawn in your nighty? Have you no shame?"

 The dragon's head snaked across the lawn and loomed over poor Papa, who was huddled underneath the chaise lounge. The townspeople, seeing the creature distracted, began raising their weapons and creeping up on it.

 "Forgive me. Master Quindiniar," said the dragon in a deep, booming voice. "This is my fault entirely. I was not able to catch him before he left this morning." The dragon's head swiveled around to the old man. "Sir, I had laid out the mauve morning coat with the pin-striped pants and the yellow weskit-"

 "Mauve morning coat?" screeched the old man. "Did you ever see Merlin strolling around Camelot, casting spells in a mauve morning coat? No, by hoppy toads, you didn't! And you won't catch me in one-"

 I missed the rest of the conversation because I had to convince the townsfolk to go home. Not that I would have minded so much getting rid of the dragon, but it was perfectly obvious to me that their puny weapons couldn't do it any serious harm and might only break the spell, it was shortly after this, by the way, around luncheon, that the mayor arrived with the petition.

 Something seemed to snap inside Callie after that, Pait. Now she completely ignores the wizard and his dragon. She simply behaves as if they aren't there. She won't look at the old man; she won't speak to him. She spends all her time either at the factory or locked up in her office. She'll barely speak to poor Papa. Not that he notices. He's too busy with his rockets.

 Well, Pait, the barrage has ceased for the moment. I must close and go to bed. I'm taking tea with the dowager tomorrow. I believe I'll switch cups with her, just in case she's slipped a little poison in mine.

 Oh, I almost forgot. Callie says to tell you that business has really picked up. Something about rumors of trouble coming out of the norinth. Sorry I wasn't paying more attention, but you know how talking about business bores me. I guess it means more money, but, like the old man says, what does that matter?

 Hurry home. Pait, and save me from this madhouse!

 Your loving sister, Aleatha

 CHAPTER 12

 GRIFFITH, TERNCIA, THILLIA

 INVOLVED IN HIS SISTER'S LETTER, PAITHAN WAS AWARE OF FOOTSTEPS entering the tavern, but he didn't pay any attention until the chair he was using for a footstool was kicked violently out from underneath his legs.

 "About time!" said a voice, speaking human.

 Paithan looked up. A human male stood staring down at him. The man was tall, muscular, well built, with long blond hair that he wore tied with a leather thong at the back of his head. His skin was deeply tanned, except where his clothes covered it, and then Paithan could see that it was white and fair as any elf's. The blue eyes were frank and friendly, his lips curved in an ingratiating smile. He was dressed in the fringed leather breeches and sleeveless leather tunic popular among humans.

 "Quincejar?" said the human, thrusting out a hand. "I'm Roland. Roland Redleaf. Pleased to meet you."

 Paithan glanced at the chair, which had been knocked over and kicked halfway across the common room. Barbarians. Still, it didn't do any good to get angry. Standing up, he stretched out his hand, clasping the human's in the odd custom that both elves and dwarves found so ridiculous.

 "The name's Quindiniar. And please join me," said Paithan, retrieving his chair. "What will you have to drink?"

 "You speak our language pretty good, without that silly lisp you hear with most elves." Roland yanked over another chair and sat down. "What are you drinking?" Grabbing Paithan's almost full mug, he sniffed at it. "Stuff any good? Usually the ale around here tastes like monkey piss. Hey, bar keep! Bring us another round!

 "Here's to the toys," Roland said, lifting his mug.

 Paithan took a swallow. The human downed his at one gulp. Blinking, wiping his eyes, he said moistly, "Not bad. You going to finish yours? No? I'll take care of it for you. Can't let it go to waste." He drained the other mugful, slamming it down upon the table when he was finished.

 "What were we drinking to? Ah, I remember. The toys. 'Bout time, as I said." Roland leaned across the table, breathing beer fumes into Paithan's face. 'The children were getting impatient! It was all I could do to placate the little darlings ... if you know what I mean?"

 "I'm not certain that I do," said Paithan mildly. "Will you have another?"

 "Sure. Barkeep! Two more."

 "It's on me," said the elf, noting the proprietor's frown.

 Roland lowered his voice. "The children-the buyers, the dwarves. They're getting real impatient. Old Blackbeard like to took my head off when I told him the shipment was going to be late."

 "You're selling the ... er ... toys to dwarves?"

 "Yeah, you got a problem with that, Quinpar?"

 "Quindiniar. No, it's just that now I understand how you were able to pay top price."

 "Between you and me, the bastards would've paid double that to get these. They're all worked up over some kid's fairy tale about giant humans. But you'll see for yourself." Roland took a long pull at the ale.

 "Me?" said Paithan, smiling and shaking his head. "You must be mistaken. Once you've paid me the money, the 'toys' are yours. I've got to return home. This is a busy time for us, now."

 "And how are we supposed to transport these babies?" Roland brushed his arm across his mouth. "Carry them on our heads? I saw your tyros in the stables. Everything's packed up neat. We'll make the trip and be back in no time."

 "I'm sorry, Redleaf, but that wasn't part of the deal. Pay me the money and-"

 "But don't you think you'd find the dwarven kingdom fascinating?"

 The voice was a woman's, and it came from behind Paithan.

 "Quincetart," said Roland, gesturing with his mug. "Meet my wife."

 The elf, rising politely to his feet, turned around to face a human female.

 "My name's Quindiniar."

 "Glad to meet you. I'm Rega."

 She was short, dark haired and dark eyed. Her well-muscled body was scantily clad, like Roland's, in fringed leather, leaving little of her figure to the imagination. Her brown eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, seemed filled with mystery. Her full lips kept back untold secrets. She extended her hand. Paithan took it in his. Instead of shaking it, as the woman apparently expected, he carried the hand to his lips and kissed it.

 The woman's cheeks flushed. She allowed her hand to linger a moment in Paithan's. "Look here. Husband. You never treat me like this!"

 "You're my wife," said Roland, shrugging, as if that settled the matter. "Have a seat, Rega. What'll you have to drink? The usual?"

 "A glass of wine for the lady," ordered Paithan. Crossing the common room, he brought a chair back to the table, holding it for Rega to sit down. She slid into it with animallike grace, her movements clean, quick, decisive.

 "Wine. Yeah, why not?" Rega smiled at the elf, her head tilting slightly, her dark, shining hair falling over a bare shoulder.

 'Talk Quinspar here into coming with us, Rega."

 The woman kept her eyes and her smile fixed on the elf. "Don't you have somewhere to go, Roland?"

 "You're right. Damn beer runs right through me."

 Rising to his feet, Roland sauntered out of the common room, heading for the tavern's backyard.

 Rega's smile widened. Paithan could see sharp teeth, white against lips that appeared to have been stained red with some kind of berry juice. Whoever kissed those lips would taste the sweetness . . .

 "I wish you would come with us. It's not that far. We know the best route, it cuts through SeaKing lands but on the wilderness side. No border guards the way we go. The path's occasionally treacherous, but you don't look like the type to be bothered by a little danger." She leaned closer, and he was aware of a faint, musky odor that clung to her sweat-sheened skin. Her hand crept over Paithan's. "My husband and I get so bored with each other's company."

 Paithan recognized deliberate seduction. He should have; his sister Aleatha could have taught it on a university level and this crude young human could certainly benefit from a few courses. The elf found it all highly amusing and certainly entertaining after long days on the road. He did wonder, though, why Rega was going to all this trouble and he also wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if she might be prepared to deliver what she was offering.

 I've never been to the dwarven kingdom, Paithan reflected. No elf has. It would be worthwhile going.

 A vision of Calandra-mouth pursed, nose bone white, eyes flaring-rose up before Paithan. She'd be furious- He'd lose a season, at least, in getting back home.

 But Cal, look, he heard himself saying. I've established trade with the dwarves. Direct trade. No middle men to take a cut. . .

 "Say you'll come with us." Rega squeezed his hand. The elf noted that the woman possessed an unladylike strength, the skin of her palm was rough and hardened.

 "The three of us couldn't handle all these tyros-" he hedged.

 "We don't need all of them." The woman was practical, businesslike. She let her hand linger in the elf's grasp. "You've packed toys for cover, I assume? Get rid of them. Sell them. We'll repack the ... er ... more valuable merchandise on three tyros."

 Well, it would work. Paithan had to admit it. Plus, the sale of the toys would more than pay for the trip back for his foreman Quintin. The profits might moderate Calandra's fury.

 "How can I refuse you anything?" Paithan answered, holding the warm hand a little tighter.

 A door from the rear of the tavern slammed. Rega, flushing, snatched her hand away.

 "My husband," she murmured. "He's frightfully jealous!"

 Roland came strolling back into the common room, lacing up the leather thong on the front of his trousers. Passing by the bar he appropriated three mugs of ale that had been set out for other customers and carried them over to the table. He slammed them down, sloshing ale over everything and everyone, and grinned. "Well, Queesinard, my lovely wife talk you into coming with us?

 "Yes," answered Paithan, thinking that Redleaf didn't act like any jealous husband the elf had ever known. "But I've got to send the overseer and my slaves back. They'll be needed at home. And the name's Quindiniar."

 "Good idea. The fewer who know about our route the better. Say, you mind if I call you Quin?"

 "My given name's Paithan."

 "Sure thing, Quin. A toast to the dwarves, then. To their beards and their money. They keep one and I'll take the other!" Roland laughed. "Here, now, Rega. Quit drinking that grape juice. You know you can't stand it."

 Rega flushed again. With a deprecating glance at Paithan, she thrust aside the glass of wine. Lifting a mug of ale to her berry-stained lips, she quaffed it skillfully.

 What the hell? thought Paithan, and downed his ale in a gulp.

 CHAPTER 13

 SOMEWHERE OVER PRYAN

 THE FLICK OF A WET, ROUGH TONGUE AND AN INSISTENT WHINING NUDGEDHaplo to wakefulness. He sat up immediately, reflexively, his senses attuned to the world around him-though his mind still fought off the effects of whatever it was that had knocked him out.

 He was in his ship, he recognized, lying in the captain's berth-a mattress spread over a wooden bed frame built into the ship's hull. The dog crouched on the bed near him, eyes bright, tongue lolling. Apparently, the animal had become bored and had decided that its master had been out long enough.

 They had made it, seemingly. They had, once again, passed through Death's Gate.

 The Patryn didn't move. He slowed his breathing, listening, feeling. He sensed nothing wrong, unlike the last time he'd come through Death's Gate. The ship was on an even keel. He had no sensation of movement, but assumed it was flying because he had not made the alterations in the magic needed to land the craft. Certain runes on the inside of the hull were glowing, meaning they had activated. He studied them, saw that they were sigla having to do with air, pressure, and maintaining gravity. Odd- He wondered why.

 Haplo relaxed, fondled the dog's ears. Brilliant sunshine poured through the hatch above his bed. Turning over lazily, the Patryn stared curiously out a porthole into this new world he had entered.

 He saw nothing except sky and, far distant, a circle of bright flame burning through the haze, the sun. At least the world had a sun-it had four, in fact. He remembered his lord's questioning that particular point and wondered, briefly, why the Sartan hadn't thought to include the suns on their charts. Perhaps because, as he had discovered, the Death's Gate was located in the center of the solar cluster.

 Haplo climbed out of bed and made his way to the bridge. The runes on the hull and wings would prevent his ship from crashing into anything, but it would be wise to make certain he was not hovering in front of a gigantic granite cliff.

 He wasn't. The view from the bridge provided another vast expanse of wide-open sky as far as he could see-up, down, sideways.

 Haplo crouched down on his haunches, absently scratching the dog's head to keep the animal quiet. He had not reckoned on this and wasn't certain what to do. In its own way, this slightly green-tinted blue, hazy emptiness was as frightening as the ferocious, perpetually raging storm into which he'd flown entering Arianus. The silence around him now echoed loudly as the booming thunder had then. Admittedly his ship wasn't being tossed about like a toy in the hands of an obstreperous child, rain wasn't lashing the hull-already damaged by his passage through Death's Gate. Here the sky was cloudless, serene . . . and not a single object, except the blazing sun, in sight.

 The cloudless sky had a sort of mesmerizing effect on Haplo. He tore his gaze from it, and moved over to the steering stone on the bridge. He placed his hands on it, one on either side, and the action completed the circle-his right hand on the stone, the stone between his hands, his left hand on the stone, his left hand attached to his arm, arm to body, body to arm, and back to his right hand again. Aloud, he spoke the runes. The stone began to gleam blue beneath his hands, light welled up from underneath his fingers; he could see the red veins of his own life. The light grew brighter so that he could barely stand to look at it, and he squinted his eyes. Brighter still and suddenly beams of radiant blue shot out from the stone, extending out in all directions.

 Haplo was forced to avert his gaze, half-turning his head against the brilliance. He had to keep looking at the stone, keep watching. When one of the navigational beams encountered solid mass-hopefully land-it would bounce back, return to his ship, and light another rune on the stone, turning it red. Haplo could then steer in that direction.

 Confidently, expectantly, he waited.

 Nothing.

 Patience was one virtue the Patryns had learned in the Labyrinth, learned by having it beaten and twisted and bashed into them. Lose your temper, act impulsively, irrationally and the Labyrinth would claim you. If you were lucky, you died. If not, if you survived, you carried with you a lesson that would haunt the rest of your days. But you learned. Yes, you learned.

 Hands on the steering stone, Haplo waited.

 The dog sat beside him, ears up, eyes alert, mouth open in an expectant grin. Time passed. The dog eased himself down on the floor, front feet extended, head up, still watching, its plumy tail brushing the floor. More time. The dog yawned. Its head sank beneath its paws; his eyes, on Haplo, became reproachful. Haplo waited, hands on the stone. The blue beams had long since ceased to shoot out. The only object he could see were the suns, gleaming like a superheated coin.

 Haplo began to wonder if the ship was still flying. He couldn't tell. Magically controlled, the cables didn't creak, the wings didn't move, the ship made no sound. Haplo had no point of reference, he couldn't see clouds scudding past, he couldn't see land drawing near or receding, there was no horizon.

 The dog rolled over on its side and went to sleep.

 The runes beneath his hands remained dark and lifeless. Haplo felt fear's small sharp teeth start to gnaw at him. He told himself he was being foolish, there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

 That's just the point, something inside him answered. There's nothing.

 Perhaps the stone was malfunctioning? The thought crossed Haplo's mind, but he immediately banished it. Magic was never fallible. Those using it might be, but Haplo knew he had activated the beams correctly. He envisioned them in his mind, traveling with incredible speed into the void. Traveling, traveling, an immense distance. What did it mean, if the light didn't come back?

 Haplo pondered. A beam of light, shining in the darkness of a cave, lights your way a certain distance, then eventually grows dim and finally fades out completely. The beam is bright, concentrated around its source. But as it travels farther away from the source, it begins to break apart, diffuse. A shiver prickled Haplo's skin, the hair on his arms rose. The dog sat up suddenly, teeth bared, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

 The blue beams were incredibly powerful. They would have to travel an immense distance before they weakened to the point where they could not return. Or perhaps they had encountered some sort of obstacle? Haplo slowly withdrew his hands from the stone.

 He eased himself down beside the dog, soothing it with his hand. The animal, sensing his master's trouble, gazed at him anxiously, tail thumping against the deck, asking what to do.

 "I don't know," Haplo murmured, staring out into the dazzling, empty sky.

 For the first time in his life, he felt completely helpless. He'd waged a desperate battle for his life on Arianus and he hadn't experienced the terror he was beginning to feel now. He'd faced countless enemies in the Labyrinth-foes many times his size and strength and sometimes intelligence-and he'd never succumbed to the panic starting to bubble up within him.

 "This is nonsense!" he said aloud, leaping to his feet with a suddenness that unnerved the dog and caused it to scramble back, out of his way.

 Haplo ran through the ship, staring out every portal, peering through every crack and cranny, hoping desperately to see some sign of something-anything-except endless blue-green sky and those damn, brightly shining suns. He climbed up top, moved out onto the ship's huge wings. The sensation of wind blowing against his face gave him his first impression that they were indeed moving through the air. Grasping onto the rail, he stared out over the ship's hull, stared down, down, down into an endless blue-green void. And he wondered suddenly if he was looking down. Perhaps he was looking up. Perhaps he was flying upside down. He had no way to tell.

 The dog stood at the foot of the ladder, gazing up at its master and whining. The animal was afraid to come topside. Haplo had a sudden vision of falling over the hull, falling and falling endlessly, and he didn't blame the dog for not wanting to risk it. The Patryn's hands, gripping the rail, were wet with sweat. With an effort, he pried them loose and hurried back down below.

 Once on the bridge, he paced its length, back and forth, and cursed himself for a coward. "Damn!" he swore and slammed his fist hard into the solid wood bulkhead.

 The runes tattooed on his skin protected him from damage, the Patryn didn't even have the satisfaction of feeling pain. Furious, he was about to hit the hull again when a sharp, imperative bark halted him. The dog stood on its hind legs, pawing at him frantically, begging him to stop. Haplo saw himself reflected in the animal's liquid eyes, saw a man frantic, on the verge of madness.

 The horrors of the Labyrinth had not broken him. Why should this? Just because he had no idea where he was going, just because he couldn't tell up from down, just because he had the horrible feeling he was going to drift endlessly through this empty blue-green sky . . . Stop it!

 Haplo drew a deep, shivering breath and patted the dog on the flank.

 "It's all right, boy. I'm better now. It's all right." The dog, eyeing his master uneasily, fell back down on all fours.

 "Control," said Haplo. "I've got to get control of myself." The word struck him. "Control. That's what's the matter with me. I've lost control. Even in the Labyrinth, I was in control. I was able to do something to affect my own fate. Fighting the chaodyns, I was outnumbered, defeated before I started, yet I had a chance to act. At the end, I chose to die. Then you came"-he stroked the dog's head-"and I chose to live. But here, I've got no choice, it seems. There's nothing I can do. . . ."

 Or was there? Panic subsided, terror was banished. Cool, rational thought poured into the void left behind. Haplo crossed to the steering stone. He put his hands upon it a second time, placing them over a different set of runes. Hand, stone, hand, body, hand. Again the circle was complete. He spoke the runes, and the beams shot out in all directions, this time with a different purpose.

 They weren't seeking mass-land or rock. This time he sent them seeking life.

 The wait seemed endless, and Haplo began to feel himself sliding into the dark abyss of fear when suddenly the lights returned. Haplo stared, puzzled, confused. The lights were coming from every direction, bombarding him, streaming down onto the stone from above, below, all around him.

 That was impossible, it didn't make sense. How could he be surrounded-on all sides-by life? He pictured the world as he had seen it in the Sartan's diagram-a round ball, floating in space. He should be getting readings from only one direction. Haplo concentrated, studied the lights, and decided finally that the beams slanting over his left shoulder were stronger than any of the others. He felt relieved; he would sail in that direction.

 Haplo moved his hands to another point on the stone, the ship slowly began to turn, altering course. The cabin that had before been drenched in bright sunlight began to darken, shadows crept across the floor. When the beam was aligned with the proper point on the stone, the rune flashed a bright red. Course was set. Haplo removed his hands.

 Smiling, he sat down beside the dog and relaxed. He'd done all he could. They were sailing toward life, of some sort. As for whatever those other confusing signals had been, Haplo could only assume he'd made an error.

 Not something he did often. He could forgive himself one, he decided, considering the circumstances.

 CHAPTER 14

 SOMEWHERE, GUNIS

 "WE KNOW THE BEST TRAILS," REGA HAD TOLD PAITHAN. As it turned out, there was no best trail. There was one trail. And neither Rega nor Roland had ever seen it. Neither brother nor sister had ever been to the dwarven kingdom, a fact they took care to keep from the elf.

 "How tough can it be?" Roland had asked his sister. "It'll be just like all the other trails through the jungle."

 But it wasn't, and after a few cycles' travel, Rega was beginning to think they'd made a mistake. Several mistakes, in fact.

 The trail, such as it existed and where it existed, was quite new. It had been carved through the jungle by dwarven hands, which meant that it wended its way far beneath the upper levels of the huge trees where humans and elves were more comfortable. It meandered and turned and twisted through dark, shadowy regions. Sunlight, when it could be seen at all, appeared reflected through a roof of green.

 The air this far below the upper reaches seemed to have been trapped here for centuries. It was stagnant, hot, and humid. The rains that fell in torrents above trickled below, filtered through innumerable branches and leaves and moss beds. The water was not clear and sparkling, but had a brownish cast to it and tasted strongly of moss. It was a different, dismal world and after a penton's [19] traveling, the humans in the party grew heartily sick of it. The elf, always interested in new places, found it rather exciting and maintained his usual cheerful demeanor.

 The trail had not been built to accommodate loaded caravans, however. Often, the vines, trees, and brush were so thick that the tyros could not crawl through with the packs on their hard-shelled backs. This meant that the three had to remove the loaded baskets, lug them through the jungle by hand, all the while cajoling the tyros into following them.

 Several times, the path came to a halt at the edge of a bed of shaggy gray moss and plunged downward into even deeper darkness; no bridges had been built connecting the way. Again, the tyros had to be unloaded so that they could spin their webs and float down. The heavy baskets had to be lowered by hand.

 Up above, the two men-arms nearly breaking-braced themselves and slowly paid out the rope, lowering the baggage through the air. Most of the heavy work fell to Roland. Paithan's slender body and light musculature were of little help. Eventually he took the job of fixing the rope around a tree limb and holding it fast, while Roland-with a strength that seemed marvelous to the elf-handled the lowering by himself.

 They dropped Rega down first, to be on hand to untie the baskets as they were lowered and to keep an eye on the tyros to be certain they didn't crawl off. Standing at the bottom of the cliff in the stagnant gray-green darkness, alone, hearing growls and snufflings and the sudden, hair-raising call of the vampire sloth, Rega gripped her raztar and cursed the day she'd let Roland talk her into this. Not only because of the danger, but because of another reason-something completely unforeseen, unexpected. Rega was falling in love.

 "Dwarves really live in places like this?" asked Paithan, looking up, up, up and still not being able to see the sun through the tangled, dark mass of moss and tree limbs overhead.

 "Yeah," said Roland shortly, not particularly eager to discuss the issue, afraid that the elf might ask more questions about the dwarves than he-Roland-was prepared to answer.

 The three were resting after encountering the steepest drop yet. Their hempen ropes had barely been long enough, and even then Rega'd been forced to climb up a tree and untie the baskets, which were left hovering some three feet off the ground.

 "Why, your hands are covered with blood!" Rega exclaimed.

 "Oh, it's nothing," said Paithan, looking ruefully at his palms. "I slipped coming down that last length of rope."

 "It's this damn wet air," muttered Rega. "I feel like I'm living under the sea. Here, let me treat those for you. Roland, dear, can you bring me some fresh water."

 Roland, slumped wearily on the gray moss, glared at his "wife": Why me?

 Rega shot her "husband" a vicious, sidelong look. Getting me alone with him was your idea.

 Roland, glowering, rose to his feet and stomped off into the jungle, carrying the waterskin with him.

 Now was the perfect time for Rega to continue her seduction of the elf. Paithan obviously admired her, treating her with unfailing courtesy and respect. In fact, she had never met a man who treated her so well. But holding the slim white hands with long graceful fingers in her own short, stubby-fingered brown hands, Rega felt suddenly shy and awkward as a young girl at her first village dance.

 "Your touch is very gentle," said Paithan.

 Rega blushed hotly and glanced up at him from beneath her long, black eyelashes. Paithan was regarding her with an unusual expression for the carefree elf-his eyes were grave, serious.

 I wish you weren't another man's wife.

 I'm not! Rega wanted to scream.

 Her fingers began to tremble, and she snatched them away, fumbling in her kit. What's wrong with me? He's an elf! His money, that's what we're after. That's all that's important.

 "I've got some salve, made of spom bark. It's going to sting, I'm afraid, but you'll be healed by morning."

 "The wound I'm suffering will never heal." Paithan's hand slid over Rega's arm, his touch soft and caressing.

 Rega held perfectly still, allowing his hand to glide over her skin, up her arm, lighting fires as it passed. Her skin burned, the flames spread to her chest and constricted her breathing. The elf's hand slid around to the small of her back, he drew her near. Rega, holding onto the bottle of salve tightly, let herself be pulled to him. She didn't look at him, she couldn't. This will work out fine, she told herself.

 The elf's arms were slender and smooth skinned, his body lithe. She tried to ignore the fact that her heart was beating so she thought it might crash through her chest.

 Roland will come back and find us ... kissing . . . and he and I will take this elf ... for everything . . .

 "No!" Rega gasped and broke away from Paithan's embrace. Her skin burned, inexplicably she shook with chills. "Don't . . . do that!"

 "I'm sorry," said Paithan, immediately drawing away. His breathing, too, was coming in short, deep gasps. "I don't know what came over me. You're married. I must accept that."

 Rega didn't answer. She kept her back to him, wishing more than anything that he'd hold her in his arms, knowing that she'd pull away from him again if he did.

 This is insane! she told herself, wiping a tear from her eye with the heel of her hand. I've let men I don't care two stone for put their hands all over me. Yet this one ... I want him . . . and I can't . .

 "It won't happen again, I promise you," said Paithan.

 Rega knew he meant it and cursed her heart for shriveling up and dying at the thought. She'd tell him the truth. The words were on her lips, then she paused.

 What would she say? Tell him that she and Roland weren't husband and wife, that they were really brother and sister, that they'd lied in order to trap the elf into an improper liaison, that they were planning to blackmail him? She could see his look of disgust and hatred. Maybe he'd leave!

 It would be better if he did, whispered the cold, hard voice of logic. What chance for happiness do you have with an elf? Even if you found a way to tell him you were free to accept his love, how long would it last? He doesn't love you, no elf could truly love a human. He's amusing himself. That's all it would be. A dalliance, lasting a season or two. Then he'll leave, return to his people, and you'll be an outcast among your own kind for having submitted to an elf's caresses.

 No, Rega answered stubbornly. He does love me. I've seen it in his eyes. And I've proof of it-he didn't try to force his advances on me.

 Very well, then, said that irritating voice, so he loves you. What now? You marry. You're both outcasts. He can't go home, you can't either. Your love is barren, for elves and humans can't reproduce. You wander the world in loneliness, years pass. You grow old and haggard, while he remains young and vital . . .

 "Hey, what's going on here?" demanded Roland, leaping unexpectedly out of the brush. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 "Nothing," said Rega coldly.

 "I can see that," murmured Roland, edging dose to his sister. She and the elf were standing at opposite edges of the small clearing in the jungle growth, as far apart as possible. "What's going on, Rega? You two have a fight?"

 "Nothing! All right! Just leave me alone!" Rega glanced up into the dark and twisted trees, clasped her arms around her and shivered. "This isn't the most romantic spot, you know," she said in a low voice.

 "C'mom, Sis." Roland grinned. "You'd make love to a man in a pigsty if he paid you well enough."

 Rega slapped him. The blow was hard, well aimed. Roland, his hand to his aching jaw, stared at her in amazement.

 "What'd you do that for? I meant it as a compliment!"

 Rega turned on her heel and stalked out of the clearing. At the edge, she half-turned again and tossed something toward the elf. "Here, rub that on the sores."

 You're right, she told herself, hurrying into the jungle where she could have her cry out in private. I'll leave things just the way they are. We'll deliver the weapons, he'll leave, and that'll be an end of it. I'll smile and tease him and never let him see he meant anything more to me than just a good time.

 Paithan, taken by surprise, just barely caught the thrown bottle before it smashed on the ground. He watched Rega plunge into the brush, he could hear her crashing through the undergrowth.

 "Women," said Roland, rubbing his bruised cheek and shaking his head. He took the waterskin over to the elf and dropped it at his feet. "Must be her time of season."

 Paithan flushed a deep red and gave Roland a disgusted look.

 The human winked. "What's the matter, Quin, I say something to embarrass you?"

 "In my land, men don't talk about such things," Paithan rebuked.

 "Yeah?" Roland glanced back toward where Rega had disappeared, then looked over at the elf and his grin widened. "I guess in your land men don't do a lot of things."

 Paithan's flush of anger deepened to guilt. Did Roland see Rega and me together? Is this his way of letting me know, warning me to keep my hands off?

 Paithan was forced, for Rega's sake, to swallow the insult. Sitting down on the ground, he began to spread the salve on his skinned and bloody palms, wincing as the brown-colored gunk bit into raw flesh and exposed nerves. He welcomed the pain. At least it was better than the one biting at his heart.

 Paithan had enjoyed Rega's mild flirtations the first cycle or two on their journey until it had suddenly occurred to him that he was enjoying them too much. He found himself watching intently the play of the smooth muscles in her shapely legs, the warm glow of the firelight in her brown eyes, the trick she had of running her tongue across her berry-stained lips when she was deep in thought.

 The second night on the trail, when she and Roland had taken their blanket to the other side of the glade and laid down next to each other in the shadowed sunlight of rain's hour, Paithan had thought his insides would twist out of him in jealousy. No matter that he never saw the two kissing or even touching affectionately. Indeed, they treated each other with a casual familiarity he found quite astonishing, even in husband and wife. He had decided, by the fourth cycle on the trail, that Roland-though a good enough fellow as humans go-didn't appreciate the treasure he had for a wife.

 Paithan felt comforted by this knowledge, it gave him an excuse to let his feelings for the human woman grow and blossom, when he knew very well he should have ripped them up by the roots. Now the plant was in full bloom, the vine twining around his heart. He realized now, too late, the harm that had been done ... to them both.

 Rega loved him. He knew, he'd felt it in her trembling body, he'd seen it in that one, brief look she'd given him. His heart should have been singing with joy. It was dumb with sick despair. What folly! What mad folly! Oh, sure, he could have his moments of pleasure. He'd done that with countless human women. Love them, then leave them. They expected nothing more, they wanted nothing more. And neither had he. Until now.

 Yet, what did he want? A relationship that would cut them both adrift from their lives? A relationship looked upon with abhorrence by both worlds? A relationship that would give them nothing, not even children? A relationship he would have to watch come at last and inevitably to a bitter end?

 No, nothing good can come of it. I'll leave, he thought. Go back home. I'll give them the tyros. Callie'll be mad at me anyway. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a goat, as the saying goes. I'll leave now. This very moment.

 But he continued sitting in the clearing, absently spreading salve on his palms. He thought he could hear, far away, the sound of someone weeping. He tried to ignore it, but eventually he could stand it no longer.

 "I think I hear your wife crying," he said to Roland. "Maybe something's wrong."

 "Rega?" Roland glanced up from feeding the tyros. He appeared amused. "Crying? Naw, must be a bird you're hearing. Rega never cries, not even the time when she got stabbed in the raztar fight. Did you ever notice the scar? It's on her left thigh, about here . . ."

 Paithan rose to his feet and stalked off into the jungle, moving in a direction opposite to that which Rega had taken.

 Roland watched the elf leave out of the corner of his eye and hummed a bawdy song currently making the rounds of the taverns.

 "He's fallen for her like a rotten tree limb in a storm," he told the tyros. "Rega's playing it cooler than usual, but I guess she knows what she's doing. He's an elf, after all. Still, sex is sex. Little elves come from somewhere and I don't think it's heaven.

 "But, ugh! Elven women! Skinny and bony-you might as well take a stick to bed. No wonder poor old Quin's following Rega around with his tongue hanging out. It’s only a matter of time. I'll catch him with his pants down in a cycle or two, and then we'll fix him! Too bad, though." Roland reflected. Tossing the waterskin on the ground, he leaned wearily back against a tree and stretched, easing the stiffness from his limbs. "I'm beginning to kind of like the guy."

 CHAPTER 15

 THE DWARVEN KINGDOM, THURN

 FOND OF DARKNESS AND OF DELVING AND TUNNELING, THE DWARVES OF PRYANdid not build their cities in the treetops, as did the elves, or on the moss plains, as did the humans. The dwarves carved their way downward through the dark vegetation, seeking the dirt and stone that was their heritage, though that heritage was little more than a dim memory of an ancient past in another world.

 The kingdom of Thurn was a vast cavern of vegetation. The dwarves dwelt and worked in homes and shops that had been bored deep and straight into the boles of gigantic chimney trees, so called because the wood did not burn easily and the smoke of dwarven fires was able to rise up through natural shafts in the tree's center. Branches and plant roots formed walkways and streets lit by flickering torchlight. The elves and humans lived in perpetual day. The dwarves lived in endless night-a night they loved and found blessed, but a night that Drugar feared was about to become permanent.

 He received the message from his king during the dinner hour. It was a mark of the message's importance that it was delivered to him at mealtime, a time when one's full and complete attention is to be devoted to food and the all-important digestive process afterward. Talking is forbidden during the eating of the food and only pleasant subjects are discussed during the time following, to prevent the stomach's juices from turning rancid and causing gastric upset.

 The king's messenger was profuse in his apologies for taking Drugar from his dinner but added that the matter was quite urgent. Drugar bolted from his chair, scattering crockery, causing his old manservant to grumble and predict dire things occurring in the young dwarf's stomach.

 Drugar, who had a dark feeling he knew the purport of the message, almost told the old servant that they'd be fortunate indeed if all the dwarves had to worry about was indigestion. But he kept silent. Among the dwarves, the elderly were treated with respect.

 His father's bore-hole house was located next to his [20] and Drugar didn't have far to go. He ran this distance, but then stopped when he reached the door, suddenly reluctant to enter, reluctant to hear what he knew he must. Standing in the darkness, fingering the rune-stone he wore around his neck, he asked for courage of the One Dwarf. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door and entered the room.

 His father's house was exactly the same as Drugar's house, which was exactly the same as every other dwarven house in Thurn. The tree's wood had been smoothed and polished to a warm, yellowish color. The floor was flat, the wails rising to an arched ceiling. It was plainly furnished. Being king gave his father no special privileges, only additional responsibility. The king was the One Dwarf's head and the head, though it thinks for the body, certainly isn't any more important to the body than, say, the heart or (most important to many dwarves) the stomach.

 Drugar found his father sitting at his meal, the half-full plates shoved aside. In his hand he held a piece of bark whose smooth side was thickly covered with the strong, angular letters of the dwarven language.

 "What is the news. Father?"

 "The giants are coming," said the old dwarf. "The scouts have watched them. The giants wiped out Kasnar-the people, the cities, everything. And they are coming this way."

 "Perhaps," said Drugar, "they will be stopped by the sea."

 "They will stop at the sea, but not for long," said the old dwarf. "They are not skilled with tools, say the scouts. What tools they use, they use to destroy, not to create. It will not occur to them to build ships. But they will go around, come by land."

 "Maybe they will turn back. Maybe all they wanted was to take over Kasnar."

 His words were spoken from hope, not belief. And once the words left his lips he knew even his hope was false.

 "They did not take over Kasnar," said his father, with a heavy sigh. "They destroyed it-utterly. Their aim is not to conquer, but to kill."

 "Then you know what we must do. Father. We must ignore the fools who say that these giants are our brothers! We must fortify our city and arm our people. Listen, Father." Drugar leaned near, lowering his voice, though the two were the only ones present in the old dwarfs dwelling. "I have contacted a human weapons dealer. Elven railbows, boltarches! They will be ours!"

 The old dwarf looked at his son, a flame flickered deep in the eyes that had been dark and lackluster. "That is good!" Reaching across, he laid one gnarled hand on his son's strong one. "You are quick thinking and daring, Drugar. You will make a good king." He shook his head, stroked the iron gray beard that flowed almost to his knees. "But I do not believe the weapons will come in time."

 "They had better," growled Drugar, "or someone will pay!" The dwarf rose to his feet, began pacing the small, dark room built far below the moss surface, as far from the sun as the dwarves could get. "I will call out the army-"

 "No," said the old dwarf.

 "Father, you are being stubborn-"

 "And you are a khadak!" [21] The old dwarf raised a walking stick, gnarled and twisted as his own limbs, and pointed it at his son. "I said you would make a good king. And so you will. IF you will keep the fire under control! The flame of your thoughts burns dear and rises high, but instead of keeping the fire banked, you let it flare up, blaze out of control!"

 Drugar's face darkened, his thick brows came together. The fire of which his father spoke burned within him, heated scorching words. Drugar fought his temper, the words seared his lips but He kept them inside. He loved and honored his father, though he thought the old man was caving in beneath this terrible blow.

 He forced himself to try to speak calmly. "Father, the army-"

 "-will turn on itself and fight each other!" the old dwarf said in a quiet voice, "is that what you want, Drugar?"

 The old dwarf drew himself up. His height was no longer impressive: the bowed back would not straighten, the legs could no longer support the body without assistance. But Drugar, towering over his father, saw the dignity in the trembling stance, the wisdom in the dimming eyes, and felt himself a child again.

 "Half the army will refuse to bear arms against their 'brothers,' the giants. And what will you do, Drugar? Order them to go to war? And how will you enforce that order, son? Will you command the other half of the army to pick up arms against their brothers?

 "No!" cried the old king, slamming the walking stick against the floor. The thatched walls quivered at his wrath. "Never will there come a day when the One Dwarf are divided! Never will come a day when the body sheds the blood of itself!"

 "Forgive me, Father. I did not think."

 The old king sighed, his body shriveled and collapsed in upon itself. Tottering, he grasped his son's hand. With Drugar's aid and that of the walking stick, the old dwarf resumed his chair. "Keep the flames in check son. Keep them in check. Or they will destroy all in their path, including you, Drugar. Including you. Now go, return to your meal. I am sorry I had to interrupt it."

 Drugar left and returned to his house, but did not finish his meal. Back and forth, back and forth he stumped across his room. He tried hard to bank his inner fire, but it was useless. The flames of fear for his people, once kindled, would not readily die down. He could not and would not disobey his father. The man was not only his father but also his king. However, Drugar decided, he wouldn't let the fire die completely. When the enemy came, they would find scorching flame, not cold, dark ash.

 The dwarven army was not mobilized. But Drugar privately (and without his father's knowledge) drew up battle plans and informed those dwarves who believed as he did to keep their weapons close to hand. He kept in close contact with the dwarven scouts, followed through their reports the progress of the giants. Thwarted by the Whispering Sea, the giants turned to the est, traveling overland, moving relentlessly toward their goal-whatever goal that was.

 Drugar did not think it was to ally themselves with the dwarves. Dark rumors came to Thurn of massacres of dwarves in the norinth settlements of Grish and Klag, but the giants were difficult to track and the reports of the scouts (those reports that came through) were garbled and made little sense.

 "Father," pleaded Drugar, "you must let me call out the army now! How can anyone discount these messages!"

 "Humans," said his father, sighing. "The council has decided that it is the human refugees, fleeing the giants, who are committing these crimes! They say that the giants will join us and then we will have our revenge!"

 "I've interviewed the scouts personally. Father," said Drugar with rising impatience. 'Those who are left. Fewer and fewer come in every day. Those who do are scared out of their wits!"

 "Indeed?" said his father, eyeing his son shrewdly. "And what do they tell you they've seen?"

 Drugar hesitated, frustrated. "All right, Father! So they've not actually seen anything!"

 The old dwarf nodded wearily. "I've heard them, Drugar. I've heard the wild tales about 'the jungle moving.' How can I go to the council with such elf-krat?"

 It was on Drugar's lips to tell his father what the council could do with its own krat but he knew that such a rude outburst wouldn't help matters any and would only anger his father. It wasn't the king's fault. Drugar knew his father had said much the same to the Council as his son had said to him. The council of the One Dwarf, made up of the elders in the tribe, didn't want to hear.

 Clamping his mouth shut so that no hot words might escape him, Drugar stomped out of his father's house and made his way through the vast and complex series of tunnels carved through the vegetation to the top. Emerging, blinking, into the sunlight, he stared into the tangle of leaves.

 Something was out there. And it was coming his way. And he didn't believe it was coming in the spirit of brotherly love. He waited, with a sense of increasing desperation, for the arrival of the magical, intelligent, elven weapons.

 If those two humans had double-crossed him, he vowed by the body, mind, and soul of the One Dwarf that he would make them pay-with their lives.

 CHAPTER 16

 SOMEWHERE ELSE, GUNIS

 "I HATE THIS," SAID REGA

 Two more cycles' traveling took them farther down into the depths of the jungle, down far below the top level, far below bright sunshine and fresh air and cool rain. They had come to the edge of a moss plain. The trail dropped off into a deep ravine that was lost in shadow. Lying flat on top of the moss cliff, peering down into the depths, they couldn't see what was below them. The thick leaves of the tree branches above and ahead of them completely cut off sunlight. Going below, they would be traveling in almost total darkness.

 "How far away are we?" asked Paithan.

 "From the dwarves? About two cycles' journey, I should think," remarked Roland, peering into the shadows.

 "You think? Don't you know?"

 The human heaved himself to his feet. "You lose all sense of time down there. No hour flowers, no flowers of any sort."

 Paithan didn't comment. He stared over the edge, as if fascinated by the darkness.

 "I'm going to go check on the tyros."

 Rega stood up, gave the elf a sharp, meaningful glance, and motioned to her brother. Together, silently, the two walked away from the edge, returning to a small glade where the tyros had been tethered.

 "This isn't working. You've got to tell him the truth," Rega said, her fingers tugging on the strap of one of the baskets.

 "Me?" said Roland.

 "Keep your voice down! Well, we have to, then."

 "And just how much of the truth do you plan to tell him, Wife, dear?"

 Rega shot her brother a vicious sidelong glance- Sullenly, she looked away. "Just . . . admit that we've never been on this trail before. Admit we don't know where the hell we are or where the hell we're going."

 "He'll leave."

 "Good!" Rega gave the strap a violent jerk that made the tyro bleat in protest. "I hope he does!"

 "What's got into you?" Roland demanded.

 Rega glanced and shivered. "It's this place. I hate it. And" -she turned back, staring at the strap, her fingers absently stroking it-"the elf. He's different. Not like what you told me. He's not smug and overbearing. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He's not a coward. He stands his share of the watch, he's ripped his palms to shreds on those ropes. He's cheerful and funny. He even cooks, which is more than you've ever done, Roland! He's . . . nice, that's all. He doesn't deserve . . . what we were planning."

 Roland stared at his sister, saw a faint flush of crimson creep up from her brown throat to her cheeks. She kept her eyes lowered. Reaching out his hand, Roland caught hold of Rega's chin and turned her face toward him. Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle.

 "I believe you've fallen for the guy!"

 Angrily, Rega struck his hand away.

 "No, I haven't! He's an elf, after all."

 Frightened by her own feelings, nervous and tense, furious at herself and at her brother, Rega spoke with more force than she intended. Her lips curled at the word "elf," she seemed to spit it out in disgust, like she'd tasted something foul and nasty.

 Or at least that's what it sounded like to Paithan.

 The elf had risen from his place overlooking the drop and gone back to report to Roland that he thought their ropes were too short, there was no way they could lower the baggage. Moving with elven lightness and grace, he hadn't intentionally planned to sneak up on the two. That was just the way it turned out. Hearing clearly Rega's last statement, he crouched in the shadows of a dangling evir vine, hidden by its broad, heart-shaped leaves, and listened.

 "Look, Rega, we've come this far, I say we carry the plan out to the end. He's wild about you! He'll tumble. Just get him alone in some dark patch, maneuver him into a clinch. I'll rush in and save your honor, threaten to tell all. He forks over the cash to keep us quiet and we're set. Between that and this sale, we'll live high for the next season." Roland reached out his hand, affectionately stroked Rega's long, dark hair. "Think about the money, kid. We've gone hungry too many times to pass up this chance. Like you said, he's only an elf."

 Paithan's stomach clenched. Hastily, he turned away, moving silently through the trees, not particularly watching or caring where he was going. He missed Rega's response to her husband, but that was just as well. If he had seen her look up at Roland, grinning conspiratorially; if he had heard her pronounce the word elf in that tone of loathing one more time, he would have killed her.

 Falling against a tree, suddenly dizzy and nauseous, Paithan gasped for breath and wondered at himself. He couldn't believe he was acting like this. What did it matter, after all? So the little slut had been playing with him? He'd noticed her game in the tavern before they ever left on this journey! What had blinded him?

 She had. He'd actually been fool enough to think she was falling in love with him! Those conversations they'd had along the trail. He'd told her stories about his homeland, about his sisters, his father, and the crazy old wizard. She'd laughed, she'd seemed interested. Her admiration had shone in her eyes.

 And then there had been all those times they'd touched, just by accident, bodies brushing against each other, hands meeting when they reached for the same waterskin. Then there'd been the trembling, quivering eyelids, heaving breasts, flushed skin.

 "You're good, Rega!" he whispered through clenched teeth. "Really good. Yes, I'm 'wild about you'! I would have 'tumbled.' But not now! Now that I know you, little whore!" Closing his eyes tightly, squeezing back tears, the elf sagged against the tree. "Blessed Peytin, Holy Mother of us all, why did you do this to me?"

 Perhaps it was the prayer-one of the few the elf had ever bothered to make-but he felt a jab of conscience. He'd known she belonged to another man. The elf had flirted with the woman in Roland's very presence. Paithan had to admit to himself that he'd found it exhilarating, seducing the wife beneath the husband's nose.

 "You got what you deserved," Mother Peytin seemed to be saying to him. The goddess's voice bore an unfortunate resemblance to Calandra's, however, and it only made Paithan angrier.

 "It was all in fun" he justified himself. "I would never have let it go too far, not really. And I certainly never meant to ... to fall in love."

 That last statement, at least, was true and it made Paithan believe profoundly in all the rest.

 "What's wrong? Paithan? What's the matter?"

 The elf opened his eyes, turned around. Rega stood before him, her hand reaching for his arm. He drew back, away from her touch.

 "Nothing," he said, swallowing.

 "But you look terrible! Are you sick?" Rega reached for him again. "Do you have a fever?"

 He took another step back. If she touches me, I'll strike her!

 "Yeah. No, uh . . . no fever. I've been . . . sick. Maybe the water. Just. . . leave me alone for a bit."

 Yes, I'm better now. Practically cured. Little whore. He found it difficult not to let his hatred and disgust show and so he kept his eyes averted, staring fixedly into the jungle.

 "I think I should stay with you," said Rega. "You don't look good at all. Roland's gone off scouting around for another way down, maybe a shorter drop. He'll be gone for quite a while, I imagine-"

 "Will he?" Paithan looked at her, a look so strange and piercing that it was Rega who now fell back a step before him. "Will he be gone a long, long time?"

 "I don't-" Rega faltered.

 Paithan lunged at her, grabbed the woman by the shoulders and kissed her, hard, his teeth cutting her soft lips. He tasted berry-juice and blood,

 Rega struggled, squirming in his grasp. Of course, she'd have to put up a token resistance.

 "Don't fight it!" he whispered. "I love you! I can't live without you!"

 He expected her to melt, to moan, to cover him with kisses. And then Roland would come along, shocked, horrified, hurt. Only money would ease the pain of betrayal.

 And I'll laugh! I'll laugh at both of them! And I'll tell them where to stick their money . . .

 One arm around her back, the elf pressed the woman's half-naked body up against his. His other hand sought soft flesh.

 A violent kick to the groin sent a flash of pain through Paithan. The elf doubled over. Strong hands hit him on the collar bone, knocking him backward, sending him crashing into the underbrush.

 Face flushed, eyes flaring, Rega stood over him. "Don't you ever touch me again! Don't come near me! Don't even talk to me!"

 Her dark hair rose, ruffled like the fur of a scared cat. She turned on her heel and stalked off.

 Paithan, rolling on the ground in agony, had to admit he was now extremely confused.

 Returning from his search for a more suitable way down onto the trail below, Roland crept back stealthily over the moss, hoping-once again-to catch Rega and her "lover" in a compromising position. He reached the place on the trail where he'd left his sister and the elf, drew in a breath to yell the outrage of an offended husband, and peeped out from the cover of a gigantic shadowcove plant. He exhaled in disappointment and exasperation.

 Rega was sitting on the edge of the moss bank, huddled up in a ball very much like a bristle-back squirrel, her back hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. He could see her face from the side and, by her dark and stormy expression, could almost imagine the quills standing up all over her. His sister's "lover" stood as far from her as possible, on the other edge of the bank's lip. The elf was leaning at rather an odd angle, Roland noticed, almost as if favoring some tender part of himself.

 "Strangest damn way to conduct a love affair I ever saw!" Roland muttered. "What do I have to do for that elf-draw him a picture? Maybe baby elves are slipped under the cracks of the doors at night! Or maybe that's what he thinks. We're going to have to have a little man to man talk, looks like.

 "Hey," he called aloud, making a great deal of noise plunging out of the jungle, "I found a place, a ways down, where there's what looks like a rock ledge that sticks out of the moss. We can lower the baskets onto that, then drop 'em down the rest of the way. What happened to you?" he added, looking at Paithan, who was walking hunched over and moving gingerly. "He fell," said Rega.

 "He did?" Roland-who had felt much the same way once after an encounter with an unfriendly barmaid-glanced at his sister in some suspicion. Rega hadn't exactly refused to go ahead with the plan to seduce the elf. But, the more Roland thought about it, he recalled that she hadn't exactly said she would, either. He didn't dare say anything more, however. Rega's face might have been frozen by a basilisk, and the look she cast him might have turned her brother to stone, as well.

 "I fell," agreed Paithan, voice carefully expressionless. "I-uh- straddled a tree limb coming down." "Ouch!" Roland winced in sympathy.

 "Yeah, ouch," repeated the elf. He didn't look at Rega. Rega wasn't looking at Paithan. Faces set, jaws rigid, both stared straight at Roland. Neither actually saw him.

 Roland was completely at a loss. He didn't believe their story and he would have liked very much to question his sister and worm the truth out of her. But he couldn't very well drag Rega off for a chat without making the elf suspicious.

 And then, when Rega was like this, Roland wasn't certain he wanted to be alone with her anyway. Rega's father had been the town butcher. Roland's father had been the town baker. (Their mother, for all her faults, had always seen to it that the family was well fed-) There were times when Rega bore an uncanny resemblance to her father. One of those times was now. He could almost see her standing over a freshly butchered carcass, a bloodthirsty gleam in her eye.

 Roland stammered and waved his hand vaguely. "The . . . uh , . . spot I found is in that direction, a few hundred feet. Can you make it that far?"

 "Yes!" Paithan grit his teeth.

 "I'll go see to the tyros," stated Rega.

 "Quin, here, can help-"

 "I don't need any help!" Rega snapped.

 "She doesn't need any help!" Paithan muttered.

 Rega went one way, the elf went the opposite, neither looking at the other. Roland stood in the middle of the empty clearing, rubbing his stubbly brownish blond growth of beard.

 "You know, I think I was mistaken. She really doesn't like him. And I think her hate's beginning to rub off on the elf! Things between them were going so well, too. I wonder what went wrong? It's no good talking to Rega, not when she's in this mood. There must be something I can do." He could hear his sister pleading, flattering, trying to get the reluctant tyros to move. Paithan, hobbling along the edge of the moss bank, cast a disgusted glance in Rega's direction.

 "There's only one thing I can think of to do," Roland mused. "Just keep throwing them together. Sooner or later, something's bound to happen."

 CHAPTER 17

 IN THE SHADOWS, GUNIS

 "ARE YOU SURE THAT’S ROCK?" PAITHAN ASKED. PEERING DOWN INTO THEgloom at a patch of grayish white beneath them, barely visible through a tangle of vines and leaves.

 "Sure, I'm sure," answered Roland. "Remember, we've traveled this route before."

 "It's just that I've never heard of rock formations this far up in the jungle."

 "We're not exactly that far up anymore, remember? We've dropped quite a ways down."

 "Well, we're not getting anywhere standing here staring at it!" put in Rega, hands on her hips. "We're cycles late with the delivery as it is. And you mark my words, Blackbeard'll try to shave off the price. I'll go down, if you're afraid, elf!"

 "I'll go," countered Paithan. "I don't weigh as much as you do and if the outcrop is unstable, I'll-"

 "Weigh as much! Are you saying that I'm fa-"

 "You both go," interrupted Roland in soothing tones. "I'll lower you and Rega down there, Quin, then you lower Rega on down to the bottom. I'll send the packs to you and you can pass them on down to my sis-er-my wife."

 "Look, Roland, I think the elf should lower you and I down-"

 "Yes, Redleaf, that does, indeed, seem to me to be a much better solution-"

 "Nonsense!" Roland interrupted, pleased with his own deviousness, further plots fomenting in his mind. "I'm the strongest and from here down to that outcrop is the longest haul. Any arguments there?"

 Paithan glanced at the human male-with his square-jawed handsome face and his rippling biceps-and clamped his mouth shut. Rega didn't look at her brother at all. Biting her lip, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared down into the shadowy gloom of the jungle below.

 Paithan fixed a rope around a tree limb, cinched it tight around himself and hopped over the edge of the moss bank almost before Roland was there to steady him. He rappelled himself easily off the steep sides of the bank, Roland holding the line to keep the elf steady.

 The line suddenly went slack.

 "All right!" came a shout from below. "I'm here!" There was a moment's silence, then the elf s voice echoed upward, filled with disgust. "This isn't rock! It's a damn fungus!"

 "A what?" Roland yelled, leaning as far over the edge as he dared.

 "A fungus! A giant mushroom!"

 Catching his sister's fiery-eyed glance, Roland shrugged. "How was I supposed to know?"

 "I think it's stable enough to use for a landing anyway," Paithan returned, after a moments pause. The two humans caught something additional about being "damn lucky," but the words were lost in the vegetation.

 "That's all I needed to know," said Roland cheerfully. "All right. Sis-"

 "Stop calling me that! You've done it twice now today! What are you trying to do?"

 "Nothing. Sorry. Just a lot on my mind. Over you go."

 Rega tied the rope around her waist, but she didn't lower herself over the edge. Looking out into the jungle, she shivered and rubbed her arms. "I hate this."

 "You keep saying that, and it's getting boring. I'm not wild about it either. But the sooner finished the sooner ended, as the saying goes. Hop on over."

 "No, it's not just ... the darkness down there. It's something else. Something's wrong. Can't you feel it? It's too . . . too quiet."

 Roland paused, looked around and listened. He and his sister had been together through tough times. The outside world had been against them since they'd been born, they'd learned to rely on and trust only each other. Rega had an intuitive, almost animal-like sense about people and nature. The few times Roland- the elder of the two-had ignored his sister's advice or warnings, he'd regretted it. He was a skilled woodsman and, now that she drew his attention to it, he, too, noticed the uncanny silence.

 "Maybe it's always quiet down this far," he suggested. "There's not a breath of air stirring. We're just used to hearing the wind in the trees and all that."

 "It's not just that. There's no sound or sign of animals and hasn't been for the last cycle or so. Not even at night. And the birds are silent." Rega shook her head. "It's as if every wild creature in this jungle is hiding."

 "Maybe it's because we're near the dwarven kingdom. That's got to be it, kid. What else would it be?"

 "I don't know," Rega said, staring intently into the shadows. "I don't know. I hope you're right. Come on!" she added suddenly, "Let's end this."

 Roland lowered his sister over the edge of the moss bank. She rappelled skillfully down the side. Paithan, waiting below, reached up his hands to steady her landing. The look she gave him from her dark eyes warned him to stand clear. Rega landed tightly on the wide ledge formed by the fungus, her lips curling slightly as she eyed the ugly gray and white mass below her feet. The rope, tossed over the edge by Roland, snaked down and landed in a coil at her feet. Paithan began attaching his own length of rope to a branch.

 "What's this fungus attached to?" Rega asked, her tone cool and business-only.

 "The bole of a tree," said Paithan, his tone the same. He pointed out the striations of the bark, wider than both elf and human standing side by side.

 "Is it stable?" she asked, looking over the rim uneasily. Another moss bank was visible below, not that far if you had a rope tied securely around your waist, but a long and unpleasant drop if you didn't.

 "I wouldn't jump up and down on it," suggested Paithan.

 Rega heard his sarcasm, cast him a angry glance, and then turned to shout above. "Hurry up, Roland! What are you doing?"

 "Just a minute, dear!" he called down. "Having a little trouble with one of the tyros."

 Roland, grinning, sat down on the edge of the moss bank, leaned up against a tree limb and relaxed. Occasionally he poked at one of the tyros with a stick, to make it bellow.

 Rega scowled, bit her lip, and moved to stand on the edge of the fungus, as far from the elf as she could possibly get. Paithan, whistling to himself, fixed his rope tightly around the tree limb, tested it, then began to fasten Rega's.

 He didn't want to look at her, but he couldn't help it. His eyes kept darting glances in her direction, kept pointing out things to his heart that his heart wasn't the least bit interested in hearing.

 Look at her. We're out in the middle of this Orn-cursed land, alone, standing on a fungus with a twenty-foot drop beneath us and she's as cool as Lake Enthial. I never met a woman like her!

 With luck, whispered a certain vicious part of him, you'll never meet one again!

 Her hair is so soft. I wonder what it looks like when she lets it down out of that braid, falling over her bare shoulders, tumbling around her breasts. . . . Her lips, her kiss was just as sweet as I'd imagined . . .

 Why don't you just throw yourself off the edge! The nasty voice advised him. Save yourself a lot of agony. She's out to seduce you, blackmail you. She's playing you for a foo-

 Rega sucked in her breath and backed up involuntarily, hands clutching at the tree trunk behind her.

 "What is it?" Paithan dropped the rope, sprang over to her.

 She was staring intently straight ahead, straight out into the jungle. Paithan followed her gaze.

 "What?" he demanded.

 "Do you see it?"

 "What!"

 Rega blinked and rubbed her eyes. "I-I don't know." She sounded confused. "It seemed ... as if the jungle was . . . moving!"

 "Wind," said Paithan, almost angrily, not wanting to admit how frightened he'd been, or the fact that the fear hadn't been for himself.

 "Do you feel any wind?" she demanded.

 No, he didn't. The air was still, hot, oppressive. His thoughts went uneasily to dragons, but the ground wasn't shaking. He didn't hear the rumbling sound the creatures made moving through the undergrowth. Paithan didn't hear anything. It was quiet, too damn quiet.

 Suddenly, above them, came a shout. "Hey! Come back here! You blasted tyro-"

 "What is it?" Rega yelled, turning, standing back on the ledge as far as she dared, trying hopelessly to see. "Roland!" Her voice cracked with fear. "What's the matter?"

 "These stupid tyros! They've all bolted!"

 Roland's bellow faded into the distance. Rega and Paithan heard the sound of crashing, tearing leaves and vines, felt the pounding of his feet shiver the tree, and then silence.

 "Tyros are tractable beasts. They don't panic," said Paithan, Swallowing to moisten his dry throat. "Not unless something really terrifies them."

 "Roland!" Rega yelled. "Let them go!"

 "Hush, Rega. He can't! They're carrying the weapons-"

 "I don't give a damn!" she cried frantically. "The weapons and the dwarves and the money and you can go to the pit for all I care! Roland, come back!" She beat on the tree trunk with clenched fists. "Don't leave us trapped down here! Roland!

 "What was that-"

 Rega whirled around, panting. Paithan, face ashen, stared out into the jungle.

 "Nothing," he said, lips stiff.

 "You're lying. You saw it!" she hissed. "You saw the jungle move!"

 "It's impossible. It's a trick of our eyes. We're tired, not enough sleep ..."

 A terrifying cry split the air above them.

 "Roland!" Rega screamed. Pressing her body against the tree trunk, hands scrabbling at the wood, she tried to crawl up it. Paithan caught hold of her, dragged her down. Furiously, she fought and struggled in his arms.

 Another hoarse scream and then there came a cry of "Reg-" The word broke off with a strangled choke.

 Rega went suddenly limp, collapsing against Paithan. He held her fast, his hand on her head, pressing her face against his breast. When she was calmer, he backed her up against the tree trunk and moved to stand in front of her, shielding her with his body. Once she realized what he was doing, she tried to shove him aside.

 "Rega, don't. Stay where you are."

 "I want to see, damn it!" Her raztar flashed in her hand. "I can fight-"

 "I don't know what," Paithan whispered. "And I don't know how!"

He stood aside. Rega emerged from behind him, her eyes wide and staring. She shrank against him, her arm stealing around his waist. Paithan put his arm around her and held her tight. Clinging to each other, they watched the jungle move in silently, surrounding them.

 They could see no heads, no eyes, no arms, no legs, no body, but they each had the intense impression that they were being watched and listened to and sought out by extremely intelligent, extremely malevolent beings.

 And then Paithan saw them. Or rather, he didn't see them. He saw what appeared to be a part of the jungle separate itself from its background and move toward him. Only when it was quite near him, when its head was almost level with his own, did he realize that he was confronting what appeared to be a gigantic human. He couid see the outline of two legs and two feet that walked the ground. Its head was even with his. It moved straight up to them, stared straight at them. A simple act, but the creature made this simple action horrible by the fact that it apparently couldn't see what it stalked.

 It had no eyes; a large hole surrounded by skin in the center had seemingly been bored into the center of its forehead.

 "Don't move!" Rega panted. "Don't talk! Maybe it won't find us."

 Paithan held her close, not answering, not wanting to destroy her hope. A moment before, they'd been making so much noise that a blind, deaf, and drunken elflord could have found them.

 The giant approached, and now Paithan could see why it had seemed the jungle was moving. Its body was covered from head to toe with leaves and vines, its skin was the color and texture of tree bark. Even when the giant was extremely close, Paithan had difficulty separating it from its background. The bulbous head was bare and the crown and forehead, that were a whitish color and bald, stood out against the surroundings.

 Glancing around swiftly, the elf saw that there were twenty or thirty of the giants emerging from the jungle, gliding toward them, their movements graceful and perfectly, unnaturally silent.

 Paithan shrank back against the tree trunk, dragging Rega with him. It was a hopeless gesture, there was obviously no escape. The heads, with their awful dark and empty holes, stared straight at them. The one nearest put his hands upon the edge of the fungus and jerked on it.

 The ledge trembled beneath Paithan's feet. Another giant joined its fellow, large fingers grabbing, gripping. Paithan looked down at the huge hands with a terrible kind of fascination, saw that the fingers were stained red with dried blood.

 The giants pulled, the fungus shivered, and Paithan heard it ripping away from the tree. Almost losing their balance, the elf and human clung to each other.

 "Paithan!" Rega cried, her voice breaking, "I'm sorry! I love you. I truly do!"

 Paithan wanted to answer, but he couldn't. Fear had closed off his throat, stolen his breath.

 "Kiss me!" Rega gasped. "That way, I won't see-"

 He caught hold of her head in his hands, blocking her vision. Closing his own eyes, he pressed his lips against hers.

 The world dropped out from underneath them. 

 CHAPTER 18

 SOMEWHERE ABOVE PRYAN

 HAPLO, DOG AT HIS FEET, SAT NEAR THE STEERING STONE ON THE BRIDGE and gazed wearily, hopelessly out the window of the Dragon Wing. They had been flying for how long?

 "A day," Haplo answered with bitter irony. "One long, stupid, dull, everlasting day."

 The Patryns had no timekeeping devices, they did not need them. Their magical sensitivity to the world around them kept them innately aware of the passage of time in the Nexus. But Haplo had learned by previous experience that the passage through the Death's Gate and entering into another world altered the magic. As he became acclimated to this new world, his body would realign itself to it. But for right now, he had no idea how much time had truly passed since he had entered Pryan.

 He wasn't accustomed to eternal sunshine, he was used to natural breaks in the rhythm of his life. Even in the Labyrinth there was day and night. Haplo had often had reason to curse the coming of night in the Labyrinth, for with night came darkness and, under the cover of darkness came your enemies. Now he would have fallen on his knees and begged for the blessed respite from the blazing sun, for the blessed shadow that brought rest and sleep-no matter how guarded.

 The Patryn had been alarmed to catch himself, after another sleepless sun-lit "night," seriously considering gouging out his own eyes.

 He knew, then, that he was going mad.

 The hellish terror of the Labyrinth had not been able to defeat him. What another might consider heaven-peace and quiet and eternal light-would be his downfall.

 "It figures," he said, and he laughed and felt better. He had staved away insanity for the time being, though he knew it wasn't far off.

 Haplo had food and he had water. As long as he had some left of either, he could conjure more. Unfortunately, the food was always the same food, for he could only reproduce what he had, he couldn't alter its structure and come up with something new. He soon grew so sick of dried beef and peas that he had to force himself to eat. He hadn't thought to bring a variety. He hadn't expected to be trapped in heaven.

 A man of action, forced to inactivity, he spent much of his time staring fixedly out the windows of his ship. The Patryns do not believe in God. They consider themselves (and grudgingly their enemies, the Sartan) the nearest to divine beings existent. Haplo could not pray for this to end, therefore. He could only wait.

 When he first sighted the clouds, he didn't say anything, refusing to admit even to the dog that they might be able to escape their winged prison. It could have been an optical illusion, a trick of the eyes that will see water in a desert. It was, after all, nothing more than a slight darkening of the green-blue sky to a whitish gray.

 He took a quick walk around the ship, to compare what he saw ahead of him with what lay behind and all around.

 And then it was, staring up into the sky from the ship's top deck, that he saw the star.

 "This is the end," he told the dog, blinking at the white light Sparkling above him in the hazy, blue-green distance. "My eyes are going." Why hadn't he noticed stars before? If it was a star.

 "Somewhere on board, there's a device the elves used to see long distances."

 The Patryn could have used his magic to enhance his vision, but that would have meant again relying on himself. He had the feeling, however confused, that if he put a purely disinterested object between himself and the star, the object would reveal to him the truth.

 Rummaging through the ship, he found the spyglass, tucked away in a chest as a curiosity. He put it to his eye, and focused on the sparkling, twinkling light, half-expecting it to vanish. But it leapt into view, larger, brighter, and pure white.

 If it was a star, why hadn't he seen it earlier? And where were the others? According to his lord, the ancient world had been surrounded by countless stars. But during the sundering of the world by the Sartan, the stars had vanished, disappeared. According to his lord, there should be no stars visible on any of the new worlds.

 Troubled, thoughtful, Haplo returned to the bridge. I should change course, fly toward the light, investigate it. After all, it can't be a star. My Lord has said so.

 Haplo put his hands upon the steering stone, but he didn't say the words, he didn't activate the runes. Doubt crept into his mind.

 What if My Lord is wrong?

 Haplo gripped the stone hard, the sharp edges of the runes bit into the soft, unprotected flesh of his palms. The pain was fitting punishment for doubting his lord, doubting the man who had saved them from the hellish Labyrinth, the man who had established their home in the Nexus, the man who would lead them forth to conquer worlds.