Prologue

Chentelle felt the dream surround her.

She walks along a rocky beach, approaching a small camp. The human huddles near the fire, working a marionette that looks exactly like himself. He dances the puppet at the edge of the fire, moving it closer and closer until the figure catches fire. Then he throws it in the sand and stamps out the flames. Chentelle reaches out to him, but he whirls away from her. With a bitter snarl, he picks up the puppet and starts to make it dance.

Again, she thinks. Always the same.

A star flares brightly overhead. It rips through the night sky, leaving a jagged scar in its wake. As the star disappears in the west, darkness bleeds through the tear: deep, cold, absolute. It spreads inevitably, swallowing everything in its path. One by one, the stars are extinguished.

Chentelle watches the emptiness grow, waiting to wake. But this time the dream doesn't end.

Mirroring the sky, blackness swells and swirls on the ground. Shadows deepen and coalesce, and shapes emerge from the darkness: twisted, grotesque figures with pale yellow eyes. They move forward, surrounding Chentelle, pressing her back closer to the flames.

She turns, looking for the human. But he's gone. The fire seems tiny now, near death. Chentelle feels a wave of cold as the eyes move closer. Suddenly she is not alone.

A man encased in metal armor stands beside her, his shield decorated with twin suns. He draws a glowing sword and walks calmly forward. He attacks the shadows, driving them back. Each time his sword strikes, a creature falls.

But there are too many of them. They swarm over him, tearing at him with icy claws. He fights back valiantly, but Chentelle knows he cannot prevail.

Then, the human is back. He stands in the middle of the fire, wearing a wizard's cloak and clutching a gnarled staff. Beside him is an old man dressed in robes of the Holy Order. An aura of peace surrounds the priest. He rests one hand on the wizard's shoulder and holds the other out to Chentelle.

She takes his hand, and the world explodes in thunder and flames.

* * *

The sound still echoed in Chentelle's ears as she woke. It took her a second to identify the sound of wings: a gray dove had landed on her windowsill. Surprised but not frightened, she put her hand out to it. It came to her, as creatures did, even when not tame. A small parchment was tied to one of its legs.

* 1 *

Enchantress

Chentelle hurried through the forest. Her elven eyes had no trouble following the narrow path in the faint red glow of first-light. She saw the forest's edge in the distance and picked up speed, hoping to be out of Lone Valley before truedawn. But as she passed the final line of trees, a branch reached down and snared her arm. "And where do you think you are going?" Chentelle started to scream, but cut it off when she recognized the rough, womanly voice. She twisted her arm free of the branch, struggling to regain her calm.

"Willow," she said, keeping her voice to a loud whisper. "You scared me."

Willow leaned her trunk closer to Chentelle. Her hollow eyes glowered discouragingly from beneath an axe-hacked frown.

"Answer the question, little one," she said. "Why are you sneaking out of the forest this early in the morning?"

"Well, I—ah—"

The dendrifaun reached out a limb and brushed the pack slung over Chentelle's shoulder.

"Taking a trip, I see."

The sight of the open plains danced tantalizingly between Willow's branches. Chentelle was so close! But already Deneob was fully risen over the eastern hills; Ellistar would not be far behind. She saw that the dendrifaun's roots were still firmly buried; it was too early for the living tree to be fully active. Chentelle could run for it, but Willow would only rouse the elders and tell them where Chentelle was headed. She had to convince the dendrifaun to let her pass.

"Please, old one," she said, adopting the formal mode of address. "You have to let me by. I've told you about the dream, the one that has come to me every night since I saw that falling star. Well, it came again last night. Only, it was different this time. It was telling me something, leading me somewhere. I can't explain it, but I know I have to follow it."

"Have you spoken of this to the elders?" Willow asked.

"No," Chentelle said. "You know what would happen if I did. They would debate the matter for several weeks and ponder it for a few more. Then Mother would convince the others that I am too young, too precious, too important to be allowed to go. Ever since—ever since Father died, she's been afraid to let me out of her sight. But I have to go, and I can't afford to wait."

Chentelle shifted guiltily in the silence. Her mother would be so worried when she found the note pinned to her child's bed. But it had to be this way; the dream demanded it.

Willow reached out and brushed her leaves across Chentelle's hair. "Mothers worry. It is their nature. Besides, you are a special child, and not just for your golden hair."

"I know, I know." The elf girl deepened her voice until it mimicked her mother's rich tone. "You are an enchantress, Chentelle, the first born in Lone Valley for five generations. You have a responsibility to yourself and to the village."

"Exactly," Willow agreed without mockery.

"But don't you see?" Chentelle said, returning to her normal voice. "I do have a responsibility. I have to find out what the dream means. And I'm not a child. I'm nearly two hundred."

Willow's branches swayed with amusement. "You are one hundred and sixty-three, and I have told you stories and watched you grow through each of those years. Tell me, did I ever share with you the story of Fizzfaldt the Wanderer?"

"Yes, old one, many times."

"Hmmph, well, then you see my point. Fizzfaldt, too, felt the need to leave the forest, to taste the soil of other lands. But he never returned. His stories are lost to us."

"Yes. That is too bad." Chentelle did feel the loss, for the stories of the dendrifauns were good ones. But she mistrusted Willow's point in this case.

"I will let you go, little one, for I sense that you are caught in the middle of a great tale. When your mother comes to me, full of worry, I will try to comfort her. And when she asks where you are, I will conceal the direction of your travel. But you must be careful, Chentelle. And when your story is done, you must promise to return here and share it with the forest. It would be a sad thing for us to lose another story."

Chentelle threw her arms around the old dendrifaun's trunk. "Thank you," she said. "I'll bring back a special story just for you. I promise." Then she turned and sprinted out of the forest.

"My dear," Willow murmured to her retreating form, "I am sure you will."

* * *

Chentelle paused once she reached the open plain. Gently rolling hills glowed like copper in Deneob's soft light, stretching into the horizon. The emerald wall of the forest, with all of its seclusion, all of its protection, lay behind her. Far to the east, the first glow of truedawn heralded the rise of Ellistar, the Golden Sun. This was the point of no return.

Deliberately, Chentelle pulled off her pack and undid its ties. She reached inside and pulled out the dove. The bird slept comfortably, still reassured by the spell she had placed upon it last night. She unrolled the note and read it one last time.

Wizard A'mond, find the apprentice to A'pon Boemarre. Bring the Staff to the Holy City.

It was signed with the seal of Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order.

Again, Chentelle pondered the message, and again she felt the twinge of an old sadness. A'mond had been wizard to the elves of Lone Valley for centuries, one of the few wizards to escape death at the Desecration Fault. The High Bishop had no way of knowing that A'mond had been killed in a freak accident last winter. So the dove had come to Chentelle, drawn by her magic. It was up to her to find this apprentice of A'pon Boemarre.

A'pon Boemarre! That was a name well known to every inhabitant of the Realm: Boemarre the Mighty, greatest of wizards; Boemarre the Hero, champion of the Wizard's War, slayer of the Dark One; Boemarre the Genocide, whose Desecration Fault swallowed entire races of giants and trolls.

A'pon Boemarre—oh, yes, Chentelle knew that name. The man who had saved the Realm by unleashing death on thousands, numbers that included Chentelle's own father.

Chentelle fought back tears at the memory. It was the first time her Gift had manifested. She had felt the dreadful power shaking under the roots of the forest, the echo of the world's pain when that force was unleashed. And she had felt the terrible emptiness of her father's death.

Chentelle shook her head, trying to clear the memory. She flipped the note over and scrawled a quick reply across its back.

Wizard A'mond has died, but your wishes will be carried through.

She signed the note and wrapped it back around the dove's leg. Then she softly stroked its head, waking it from the slumber she had induced. "Time to fly, little one," she said, tossing the bird into the air.

As the messenger dove disappeared to the south, Chentelle regarded the plain ahead. It stretched two score leagues between here and the Quiet Sea. A long way to travel to the beach she had seen in her dream. She would need help to get there.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. As the air of the plain filled her lungs, the spirit of the land touched her soul. She felt the quiet rhythm of the grass, the rich life of the soil, the soft power of the wind. She felt the passionate harmony of nature and understood her own place within it.

When the reality of the plain was complete within her, she sang. Her voice was music and magic.

Her song captured perfectly the harmony she sensed. Her voice radiated across the plain, a surge of peace and joy begging to be shared. This was Chentelle's Gift.

Slowly, she altered her song. She began to sing not only of what was, but of what she wished to be. Her voice shaped an emptiness in the plain, and she filled that void with her desire, with her need, but most of all with her love. She crafted a song of beckoning and backed it with the full force of her Gift, letting it flow beyond the world of men and into the Realm of Dream and Fairy.

Chentelle ended her song and waited. With her Gift, she could still hear her tune echo in the Fairy Realm. Soon, it was joined by another song. The empty places in Chentelle's call were being filled. But where her song was one of harmony and melody, the new music was one of rhythm and percussion and driving, unrelenting beat.

Chentelle snapped open her eyes, letting go of her Gift. Her face lit with a smile of undiluted happiness as she saw the unicorn herd charging across the plain.

They ran as if it were their sole purpose in existence. They flowed across the land with a speed no ordinary steed could match. In moments they were surrounding Chentelle, prancing playfully and nodding their heads in greeting.

As always, Chentelle was awed by the unicorns' appearance. She admired their graceful white bodies, their flowing manes, the ivory horns that spiraled outward from their foreheads. They were beyond words of beauty.

She stepped forward, careful to keep her movements slow and smooth. She knew that unicorns became nervous around mortal creatures.

The herd parted at her advance, creating a channel through which one beast approached and bowed deeply. Chentelle immediately recognized Kah, the stallion of this herd and her friend. She returned his bow and then continued her walk. She hummed softly as she moved, reassuring Kah with the melody of her voice.

The stallion tensed as she came near, but he did not run. Chentelle delicately caressed the unicorn's cheek and mane. Then she ran her fingers down his horn, sensing the pure magic contained within. "I am glad you came," she said. "It is a joy to see you again."

Kah danced away from her, nodding broadly. Then he stepped forward and laid his horn softly on her shoulder.

"Your trust honors me," Chentelle said. "I need to travel far and fast. Will you carry me to the Quiet Sea?"

The stallion backed away from her, nodding once again. Then he knelt in the grass, indicating with his horn that Chentelle should mount. She slid smoothly onto his back; then he rose easily, accepting her weight as if it were of no concern. She got a good grip on his flaring mane, knowing what was coming.

Kah trotted gently until they were beyond the circle of the herd. Then he neighed loudly and reared, pawing the air with his hooves. He was telling them to remain here. The other unicorns neighed in response and began grazing on the tender spring shoots. Kah spun eastward and took off with a surge of speed that stole Chentelle's breath. She loved the sensation.

The unicorn glided tirelessly through the rushing wind. Chentelle huddled close against the beast's broad back, riding the music of his stride. She buried her face in his rich mane and reveled in the smooth rhythm beneath her. Kah used his horn to draw strength from the Dream Realm. He could run for days without stopping, but she was only mortal.

A scent of wild strawberries in the wind forced Chentelle to recognize her hunger. She whispered into Kah's ear, and the fairy beast pulled to a stop. Quickly, she gathered the berries, still wet with dew. But she couldn't bring herself to rush the meal; the tangy-sweet morsels deserved to be savored. She satisfied her hunger and then picked a few more handfuls, adding them to her pack for later.

Then she climbed a second time on Kah's back, and they were on their way again. The leagues passed rapidly beneath the unicorn's thundering hooves. Chentelle was forced to call occasional stops to ease her tired muscles or sate her appetite, but they still made steady progress.

By the time Deneob disappeared into the west, Chentelle could smell salt in the air. Buoyed by the scent, she started to sing softly, matching her song to Kah's beat. In response, the unicorn ran even faster. Soon, grassy plains disappeared into sandy hills. As Ellistar dipped below the horizon, they crested one final hill and looked out on the wide, calm waters of the Quiet Sea.

As Kah slowed to a walk, Chentelle reached out with her Gift. She felt the shifting spirit of the sand and the sharp awareness of the birds. And she felt the sea: vast, patient, incredibly powerful, and teeming with life. So much life! She felt fish and crabs and creatures whose names she did not know, all locked in an immense dance of survival.

And she heard a song, an intricate, beautiful theme weaving its way through the waves: whalesong, she realized. But there was something wrong. The song was full of fear and distress.

Chentelle tried to sense the cause of the fear, but it was too distant.

"The water," she said. "I have to get to the water, Kah."

With a fierce snort the unicorn galloped ahead. He ran headlong across the beach and pulled up just at the water's edge.

Chentelle vaulted from his back and ran into the sea. When the waves reached her waist she took a deep breath and plunged her head into the water. The whalesong rang in her ears, and she answered it with her Gift. She poured her emotions into her song: her caring, her concern, her hope.

The whales answered. They sang of wrongness and of fear. They sang of something in the waters to the north, something that did not belong in the sea, something evil.

Chentelle pulled her head above water and gasped for breath. The threat she felt in the whalesong was so wrong, so unnatural. She had to do something.

She pushed herself back toward the beach and reached for Kah. "Something terrible is happening," she said. "It's just north of here. We have to hurry."

The unicorn reared powerfully and took off, hugging the coastline. He left the wind behind. Even so, Chentelle begged Kah to hurry. She sensed that someone or something was in great danger. In response to her words, the stallion raced even faster, yet Chentelle still worried.

"I fear we may be too late," she said. "We must get there now, Kah."

The unicorn neighed in response and summoned his magic. The color drained from his horn as the ivory became first translucent and then transparent. There was a sudden flash of light, and they were no longer on the beach.

They floated through a void of light. A dreamlike silence suffused her, as if she were on the edge of sleep. The possible danger ahead seemed unimportant; the urgency of her quest, an illusion. Kah's magic transported them through the Realm of Dreams, where concerns of the physical world had little weight. A moment of eternity passed; then the beach reappeared around them.

The unicorn skidded to an abrupt halt, weakened from the exertion. Chentelle, still disoriented from the transition, was nearly thrown. Only a firm grip on the stallion's mane saved her. She struggled for a moment to regain her senses.

They stood just beyond the waves on a wide stretch of sandy beach. Jagged rocks jutted out into the water before and behind them, forming natural jetties. Just past the rocks, moonlight illuminated a vision out of nightmare.

A hideous creature lay partially submerged in the dark sea. Its mouth was a great circular maw surrounded by curved fangs. Thick tentacles protruded from either side of the head, flailing about like tendrils of living vine. The body was covered with smooth armor plating, and the lobsterlike tail churned the shallow water as the creature chased a small sailboat. The foulness of the creature screamed at Chentelle's senses, and she knew that this was an Ill-creature, a spirit of evil summoned from the Abyss.

The monster quickly closed on the small craft and latched several of its tentacles onto the stern.

The boat shuddered, caught between the pull of the wind and the creature's grip. More tentacles emerged from the water, reaching for the lone figure standing on deck.

Helpless, Chentelle watched while the man drew a sword and slashed at the attacking tentacles.

But it was no use. The blade bounced harmlessly off the monster's flesh. It was a magical creature—only a magical weapon could harm it.

The Ill-creature tugged furiously at the boat, trying to pull it underwater. The man wedged his sword under a tentacle and pried it off of the boat. Then he started to work on the others. But whenever he succeeded in levering a tendril loose, the creature tried to re-attach it. The man wielded his sword with a desperate frenzy. When he wasn't prying a tentacle from the boat, he was slashing at one trying to gain purchase. He couldn't hurt the creature, but he could push the tentacles away from their targets.

Finally he managed to pry the last tendril loose. The boat shot forward on the sea wind. But there was no control. Without steering, the boat raced toward the rocky shoreline. It crashed into the rocks, throwing the man into the water. The wind and the waves continued to drive the craft forward until its hull splintered against the stone.

The Ill-creature was momentarily confused, and continued to attack the remains of the boat. The man took advantage of his respite to swim toward shore, but on this particular stretch of beach the Quiet Sea gave the lie to its name. The wind-driven waves crashed and swirled around rocky outcroppings, punishing the man for every stroke. He was still a dozen cubits from the sand when the creature turned from the wreckage and lunged after its prey.

Kah reared in alarm at the monster's charge. Chentelle tried to calm him, but the unicorn backed skittishly away from the abomination.

Chentelle could feel the unicorn's terror. She knew he overcame the instinct to run only because of her urging. But she couldn't leave the man to die. She sang to Kah softly, using her Gift to calm his fear. Finally, she was able to guide him back toward the water, but what she saw there made the song catch in her throat.

The monster was balked, unable to move its bulk through the shallow water, and only this was saving the man's life. The beast had grabbed hold of the man with several tentacles and battled to pull him into deeper water. Somehow the man had reached a jagged spar of rock, and he clung desperately to it.

The intensity of his struggle struck Chentelle as if it were a physical force. She felt his anger, his determination, his indomitable will. His entire being was focused into the effort of his chest and hands and arms, into the extraordinary contest between human muscle and Ill-creature might. But it was hopeless. The monster was too large, too powerful. Slowly, inevitably, the man's hands slid across the surface of the rock.

Chentelle jumped from Kah's back and raced to the edge of the water. She had no idea how to help the man, but she felt she had to do something. Her Gift was one of harmony and understanding, not combat, but it was the only thing she had. So she sang.

She gathered the magic around her and cast it outward to the Ill-creature. She bombarded it with images of peace and tranquillity. She showed the creature the harmony of nature and the joy of life. She sang—and the creature screamed.

The monster thrashed the water in agony. It released its grip on the human and whipped its tentacles wildly in the air. The purity of Chentelle's magic was more than it could cope with, and it retreated quickly into deeper waters.

She ended her song and stared at the churning water where the beast had been. "Thank you, Creator," she said.

She ran to the human. He had sunk beneath the waves as soon as the creature released him, but his hands still clung to the rock. Chentelle dropped her pack and jumped into the water. She tried to pull the man to shore, but his hands would not release their grip. She had to brace her legs against the rock and push with her whole body to pry them loose.

Without the support of the rock, the man's weight pulled Chentelle under the water. He massed far more than she did; even with the buoyancy of the water, he was hard to handle. She struggled to regain her footing, but the currents were too strong. She groped about wildly. Then her hand came to rest on something solid.

Kah! She recognized him through her Gift, and wrapped her arm tightly around the unicorn's leg.

She wound her other hand in the human's hair and held on firmly while Kah pulled them out of the water.

Once on shore, Chentelle let go of the stallion and gasped for breath. She had been close to drowning herself, she realized belatedly. "Thank you, friend!"

Kah whinnied in response and danced back away from the water. He would not have approached it without compelling reason.

Chentelle turned to check on the human. He wasn't breathing. Quickly, she placed a hand on his chest, reaching out with her Gift. A swirl of emotions assaulted her senses, but she pushed through them, concentrating on his physical being. She felt a potent vitality about the man, but it was fading quickly, sinking under the weight of the seawater in his lungs.

Chentelle concentrated on her sense of the human's body and started to sing. She shaped her song in the image of the man, but without the intrusion of water. Then she reached out to the sea and took hold of its wholeness. She balanced her song of the man with a rhythm of water, ever moving but always returning to its proper place.

Her song took hold of the man, and he convulsed. Water jetted from his mouth and ran in thick rivulets back to the sea. He coughed spasmodically and collapsed, breathing heavily but evenly.

Chentelle also collapsed, exhausted. She lay facedown in the sand, sobbing. Her magic was good, but it put a physical strain on her.

A nudge from Kah's muzzle brought her back to awareness. There was a surge of anxiety coming from the unicorn stallion. She shouldn't have left him in doubt, thinking only of herself. "It's all right," she said. "He'll live. We'll both live, thanks to you."

The unicorn nodded his head in response, but continued to shift about nervously.

"I understand," Chentelle said. "You've been away from your herd for too long. I apologize for imposing on you. Go in peace, friend. I'll be fine, now."

Kah reared once in salute, and then raced into the west.

Chentelle examined the man more closely. She winced as she saw the bloody gashes left on his chest and arms by the jagged stone. He was partially bare, his shirt and boots having been lost during the battle. His face was broad and flat, but not unhandsome. His jet-black hair was matted and tangled, but she could see that it normally hung straight to his shoulders. He was much larger than an elf, at least four cubits tall, and seemed to be covered everywhere in lean, hard muscle. He slept soundly, but was shivering in the cool wind.

Chentelle could do something about that. She was cold herself. She set about gathering material for a fire. She found driftwood in abundance, much of it from the man's ruined sailboat. She found an area sheltered from the wind and piled her wood carefully. Then she spoke to it, using the words of power entrusted to all elves. The words took life in the center of the wood and filled it with warmth.

The warmth turned to heat and then to flame. Soon Chentelle sat before a strong fire.

She went back to where the human lay and fought to pull him to the fire. Without the buoyancy of the water, she could barely move him. He must weigh more than twice her six stone. She had to do it piecemeal, hauling his legs forward, then moving his upper section. It was slow and clumsy and surely not kind to his sleeping dignity, but she did make progress. After much effort, she managed to get him close enough to benefit from the fire's warmth. Worn out again, she collapsed on the sand next to him.

"Blessed Creator," she gasped, "did you have to make humans so heavy?"

Blood pooled in the sand next to her. The man's arm wounds had been reopened by the drag across the beach. She chided herself for not realizing that this would happen. She shifted his arms so she could examine the cuts—and froze.

On the inside of the man's right forearm was a tattoo: a dragon, black as midnight. And it was moving.

Chentelle felt dizzy. Her stomach churned and bile burned the back of her throat. This was no trick of the light; the dragon was moving, shifting sinuously around the man's arm. And the hatred that it radiated pounded against her senses.

Chentelle scurried away from the man. Could it be? Was the one she had saved as evil as the creature that chased him? But if so, why hadn't she sensed it before, when she kept him from drowning? He didn't look evil. But the tattoo, that was evil. The malice it generated was unmistakable.

Cautiously, Chentelle crawled back to the human. There was only one way to be sure. She took a deep breath and laid her hand on the man's left arm, the one without the tattoo.

The evil hit her immediately. It pervaded the man's being, stretching to every corner of his soul.

But there was more. Chentelle sensed passion, loyalty, trust, honor, need, compassion, anger, pain, resignation: a tumult of emotion surrounding a basic core of goodness. This was the man. The evil came from the tattoo; it was in the man but not of the man.

The complexity of the man's spirit was fascinating. Deep inside the furor of his surface emotions was a center of absolute calm. And within that center were secrets and wonders that glittered like gems at the bottom of a still pool. Chentelle extended her Gift to that core of tranquillity and—

She snatched her hand away, breaking the contact. She had no right delving into the man's innermost secrets. He was not evil. That was all she needed to know.

Chentelle took a cloth and water pouch from her pack and began cleaning the caked blood and sand from the man's wounds. When she passed it across the tattoo she felt the malignant heat of that region; the dragon didn't like being touched. Not by the likes of her. It snapped at her finger, but she jerked her hand away. The action roused the man momentarily, and he moaned softly before losing consciousness again.

"My sword," he said, speaking in the Tengarian tongue. "My—"

His sword. Chentelle brushed her fingers along his right palm, keeping a sharp eye on the tattoo.

Of course the Black Dragon couldn't actually reach her; it was only a drawing. But she feared it anyway; malignant magic was not limited to the physical plane.

On the skin of his hand she found the trace of a thick-bladed black sword. Then she turned to the sea, searching. The image of the sword pulled her awareness under the surface, near the rocks, deeper, there. The sword lay safely on the sea floor.

She turned back to the man. The language he spoke gave away his origin, Tengarian. She should have guessed from his appearance. But the Tengarians were a mountain people, who remained isolated by their rigid codes of behavior. She had never heard of one sailing alone on a lowland sea.

In fact, she had never heard of a Tengarian leaving his rugged homeland for any reason other than to fight a war or settle territorial disputes with the dwarves.

She finished cleaning the man's wounds and covered him with her bedroll. Then she examined her own condition. She was exhausted and filthy, and her gown was soaked, and her boots were filled with seawater. But otherwise she felt adequate.

With a sigh, she pulled off her boots and poured the water out of them. They were made from leatherbark and fully waterproof, but there were limits. Then she stripped off her gown and washed it in the sea. The dirt and blood rinsed easily off the spidersilk threads, and she laid it by the fire. Once dry, it would glisten as sublimely as on the day her mother wove it.

A muffled groan warned her that the human was awake again. He raised himself onto his elbows and glanced furtively around. Finally his eyes rested on Chentelle. He stared at her, unblinking, and Chentelle could feel the tension in his gaze. Slowly, never taking his eyes off her, he slid from under the blanket and got to his feet. Despite his obvious fatigue and disorientation, there was a certain professional competence to his actions.

Chentelle knew that humans had difficulty seeing in the dark, so she stepped into the firelight.

She wanted him to understand that she posed no threat to him.

"You are elven," he said.

"My name is Chentelle;" she answered, using his own tongue. "You are safe. The Ill-creature is gone."

The Tengarian's hand twitched at his side, but still his gaze never shifted. It was the mark of a warrior, never to take his eyes from a potential enemy. His hand was questing for his sword, but she knew that he could dispatch her quite readily without it. But she also knew he wouldn't, because he was a man of honor. She had not had to explore his inner being at all deeply to learn that. All he needed was reassurance.

"Your sword is in the water," she said, pointing. "It will wait until morning."

He reacted with horror. He turned to walk in the direction she pointed. He managed two trembling steps before he overbalanced and fell to his knees. The jolt caused one of his cuts to start bleeding again, and Chentelle could hear his sharp inhalation.

"Your sword is safe," she said. "I can feel it. I know where it is. Now, please come back to the fire. Your wounds need care."

He looked all around again, then back at her, assessing the situation. He nodded.

Chentelle moved forward and took his arm to help him stand, but he shrugged her off. Without help, he pressed himself upright and staggered back to the fire. Chentelle stayed close, ready to lend assistance, but the Tengarian shrank away from her touch. He managed to make it back to the blankets before falling to the ground once more.

"Water," he said. "I need water."

She handed him the leatherbark pouch and he drank from it in large gulps. Then he poured some water on his wounds.

"Save some," Chentelle said. "I have some herbs which will speed your healing, but they have to be mixed with water."

The Tengarian nodded and handed her back the pouch, but now he kept his eyes turned carefully away from her. Suddenly she understood. Humans almost always wore clothes when in groups, and her gown was still drying by the fire. For reasons she did not fathom, they seemed to feel that nudity was socially indiscreet. She pulled the travel cloak out of her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then she mixed her herbs with water, using a seashell and her fingers as a mortar and pestle.

"This will heal your wounds quickly," she said. "But you have to let me touch you to apply it."

The Tengarian said nothing, but nodded once to show his assent.

"The herbs sting at first," she said, "but they will soon bring comfort and healing."

She sat beside him and rubbed the medicine lightly into his wounds. His pain was obvious to her Gift. She could feel the deep ache of his injuries and the sharp sting of the herbs. But he made no outward sign beyond a tensing of the muscles where she touched.

"How does it feel?" she asked, and received a nod in reply. "Do you feel well enough to eat?"

Again, the Tengarian made one nod in response.

Chentelle took out the rest of her food and divided it with him. It was a meager supper for two: two hard rolls, some cheese, an apple, and a few of the wild strawberries. "I am sorry that I do not have more to offer," she said. "I did not expect to have a guest."

Wordlessly, he accepted his share. They ate in silence. It was infuriating.

"Look," Chentelle said, exasperated, "will you at least tell me your name?"

"I am Sulmar," he said.

"And you are from Tengar," she said. "I come from Lone Valley forty leagues to the west. Will you tell me about your homeland and your people?"

"I no longer have a homeland," he said, "or a people."

Chentelle felt the bitterness behind his words. No people; he was an outcast. She tried to imagine being cut off from her community, but the thought was too horrible. She understood, now, the source of the pain she had felt in his heart. "I am sorry," she said. "What happened?"

The Tengarian didn't answer. Chentelle felt the anger and sorrow boiling inside him. The feelings were dauntingly powerful, but Sulmar's expression was unchanged. He locked his emotions behind an iron wall of discipline.

Then, slowly, he raised his arm, displaying his tattoo. The dark scar shifted eerily on the firelight.

"This is the mark of the Black Dragon. It is a curse, an invitation for the powers of evil to consume my soul. So long as I wear it I am corrupted. I have no rank, no clan, no identity. To return to Tengar would mean my death."

"But why?" Chentelle asked. "What could make your people treat you so cruelly?"

"No," he said, "it was not the people. It was—" Sulmar's voice faltered and he lowered his head.

"It does not matter. There is no returning."

"But surely—"

He raised a hand, cutting off Chentelle's reply. "Do not ask. I will speak of this no more."

She nodded. It was no more right to pry with questions than with her Gift, when the matter was truly private.

The Tengarian stood and shuffled to the far side of the fire. "See to your own comfort, girl," he said, pointing at the bedroll. "I will sleep uncovered."

The man's manner left no room for debate. Chentelle settled herself on the blankets and closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of the waves. Almost immediately the excitement of the day yielded to exhaustion, and she fell asleep.

* * *

The dream did not come. That was the first thing Chentelle realized when she woke. The second thing was that Sulmar was not by the fire. She jumped up quickly, trying to ignore the pain in her legs and back. Ellistar was already rising over the water, and she squinted into the glare. There he was, standing near the shattered remains of his sailboat, staring at the waves. The tide was higher than it had been last night, but the waves crashed against the rocks with no less force.

Chentelle reached for her dress, then reconsidered. She wrapped the cloak around her body and walked down to join the Tengarian. "Good morning," she said. "How are your wounds?"

"Nearly healed." But Chentelle could see that rough scabs remained on his hands and arms.

She rested a hand on his shoulder and touched him with her Gift. Sulmar tensed, then relaxed.

He was healing quickly, and there was no infection, but the cuts had been deep. It would be days before he recovered completely, and he would have to be careful lest he reopen the wounds. "You still need rest," she said.

"I must retrieve my sword."

"In your condition? Do you think I would let you drown again, or contaminate your wounds with salt water? I will get your precious sword."

Sulmar glanced at the pounding surf. "Girl, I cannot let you—"

"What?" she said. "You cannot let me face the perilous waves? Who do you think saved you from the Ill-creature last night? Speaking of which, you might at least say 'Thank you.' " She pulled the cloak off her shoulders and thrust it into his arms. "Now stand back."

The Tengarian stepped backward, eyes widening. Then he regained his composure and bowed smoothly from the waist. "I must ask your forgiveness."

"Oh, must you," Chentelle retorted.

Sulmar snapped stiffly back to attention.

Chentelle realized she had made a mistake. It was the first sign of openness he had shown, and she had punished him for it. She laid a hand on his arm.

"Now I must ask for your forgiveness," she said. "I understand what you meant, and I have felt the goodness and honor in your heart. I would like to call you friend."

Sulmar did not answer, but she could feel the softening of his ire. He was clearly not accustomed to independent or assertive women, and she surely resembled a child in his eyes, despite her maturity of body. He had thought of her first as a potential enemy, then as a helpless creature. Now, perhaps, he was ready to accept her as the elf she was.

She turned back to the sea. "Now I will get your sword." This time Sulmar did not protest.

Chentelle reached out with her Gift and started to sing. Her song reached out, spreading peace and harmony. Violent waves subsided to gentle swells and then stillness. For as far as her voice carried the Quiet Sea lived up to its name. Without stopping her song she stepped easily into the placid water.

She altered her serenade slightly, adding a note of playful beckoning. Almost immediately, her call was answered. A pod of dolphins danced over the water, joining in her song. Their clicks and whistles blended seamlessly with her melody. Chentelle spoke to them with her Gift, sharing her need.

The dolphins disappeared under the surface. Soon one of them reappeared with Sulmar's sword gripped between its teeth. Others followed bearing boots, a short knife, a scabbard hanging from a frayed belt, and a burlap sack filled with spoiled food. They deposited the items in Chentelle's arms, then rejoined their fellows.

She heard a splash behind her as Sulmar rushed forward. "Be careful," she said, letting her song fade. "Don't get your cuts wet."

"How is this possible?" he asked, taking the sword and setting it carefully on a rock at the shore.

Then he took the other things from her hands and waded back and forth to set them on the dry beach.

Chentelle smiled. "It is my Gift," she said, absently patting one of the dolphins. "I am an enchantress. The magic of nature touches me deeply. It speaks to me, and when I sing, I can speak to it."

"I have heard legends of such people," he said. "It is said that only one is born in each millennium."

"I'm not sure whether that's true. There has not been another in Lone Valley for five generations, but one may have been born elsewhere."

A dolphin surfaced next to Sulmar, carrying a seashell in its mouth.

"How sweet," Chentelle said. "She's giving you a gift."

Sulmar shrugged and accepted the shell. Then he nearly lost his balance when the dolphin bumped into his legs. "What is she doing?" he asked.

"She wants you to pet her," Chentelle explained. "They are very affectionate creatures. She also wants you to know that she is the one who found your sword."

Sulmar ran his hand tentatively down the dolphin's side. She whistled happily and spit water into his face. Then she rolled away and splashed water at him with her tail.

"Watch out," Chentelle cried, laughing. "Don't get your cuts—" Then she became aware of something else. "Oh, no! Hurry, get out of the water."

Sulmar bolted into action. Before she even realized he was moving, the Tengarian snatched her into his arms. He carried her to shore in a half-dozen powerful strides and dropped her protectively behind him. He whirled to face me sea, sweeping his sword from its rock, raising it, and dropping into a balanced crouch.

"No, Sulmar," she said, gasping for breath. "It's not that kind of threat."

She pointed to the water splashing with renewed vigor against the rocky shore. "It's just the sea.

Without my song to hold it back, the waves will become agitated again. I didn't want your wounds to get wet."

She felt the tension ease once more from the Tengarian. He even smiled when he reached down to help her stand. "I apologize for overreacting. I am not yet accustomed to—"

"I understand. I thank you for the gesture." For had the danger been to her, and immediate, he might well have saved her life. His action had indicated a readiness to do just that. Now, however, he was steadying himself, evidently having used more energy than was wise in his present state.

Chentelle called a brief farewell to the dolphins, then returned to the campsite.

She retrieved her cloak and used it to dry herself, conscious of the man's careful aversion of gaze. Would he have done that if he really saw her as a child? Then she dressed and put on her boots.

She saw that Sulmar had discarded the ruined food and laid the rest of his belongings by the fire to dry. He turned and met her eyes. "My lady, thank you for returning my sword. And—thank you for saving my life."

She smiled. "I was happy to help. But I am on an urgent errand, and I am afraid I must leave you now." She was privately pleased, however, that he was no longer calling her "girl."

"If I may ask—where is it that you go, my lady?"

She paused. Her Gift had shown her that the man could be trusted, but the dream had convinced her that secrecy was vital. "I am—seeking someone."

"Is it possible that you would need a companion?"

Chentelle started to decline, but Sulmar interrupted her. "My lady, I have lived all of my years according to the Oath of Discipline and the teachings of the Noble Path, but in the days of my suffering I lost even that. My anger and my bitterness threatened to consume me, and I wandered with no true destiny. My life was finished, my soul destined for the Abyss. But you intervened.

"There is a law within the Oath of Discipline that demands repayment for the gift of a life. You may demand any service from me that you wish. You may also choose your reward from among my lands, my offices, or my marriageable children. Alas, your options there are few."

Sulmar knelt before her. "My lady," he said. "I offer you my service. I beg you to make me your liegeman. I am without destiny. If you do not accept, my disgrace will be complete."

"You don't understand," Chentelle said, taken aback. The man had swung from helplessness to seeming contempt, and now to—what? "I can't ask you to do this. There may be great dangers involved."

"Then you have more reason to accept my vow," the Tengarian said. "I am a warrior. Once I have sworn my loyalty, no danger will reach you without overcoming my sword. I beg you, my lady, accept my service."

Chentelle's Gift showed her the depth of his sincerity, of his determination, of his need. How could she accept such service? The man had no way of knowing the terrors they might face. But how could she refuse the longing she sensed in his plea? It was true that as he mended, he could become a formidable protector. And it would be good to have the company. "All right," she said. "I accept you as my liegeman, but only until I finish my journey."

Sulmar touched his head to the sand. "I swear myself to your service," he said. "You are my liege, and I will accept no other duty until you release me from my vow."

Chentelle reached down and helped him to his feet. "Fine," she said, "but no more bowing. I just want someone to travel with me."

"Until the journey's end," he said.

"Until the journey's end," she repeated, feeling a strange power within the words.

He smiled. "But I hope any formidable threats have the grace to wait a few days, as I regain my strength. I wouldn't want you to be obliged to rescue me again."

She laughed. "I hope so, too." Then she reconsidered her decision not to tell him her mission.

Surely he needed to know it, to best serve her welfare. "I seek the apprentice of the wizard A'pon Boemarre," she said. "We must locate him and deliver a message from the High Bishop of Norivika.

We will find him south of here, along a rocky coast."

Sulmar nodded. "Allow me a moment to prepare."

He sifted through the wreckage of his boat, salvaging some canvas from the sail and a length of rope. He used his knife to shape the canvas into a rough tunic, using the rope to secure the waist. He sheathed his sword and secured the scabbard and the small knife to his makeshift belt. Then he pulled on his still-soggy boots and kicked sand over the fire. He lifted his burlap sack over one shoulder and her pack over the other.

"Very creative, liegeman," Chentelle teased. "It may be that you will become a tailor in your later years."

"This will be adequate for now," he said flatly.

* * *

They walked through the day, taking only brief stops to share the last of Chentelle's drinking water. Luckily, the day was pleasant and the sea breeze kept them cool. As they moved south, the coast became a thin strip bordering a rocky cliff dotted with small caves. They investigated these but found no sign of human presence.

As evening approached, Chentelle began to worry. The sky to the south was filled with storm clouds, and there was still no sign of the wizard's apprentice. Sulmar was bearing up well, but she knew he needed to get a good night's rest so that his healing could proceed. As it was, only the healing of her Gift had made him able to travel without soon tiring. Also, she was hungry. Sulmar could always catch some fish or crabs once they stopped, but the rocky coast offered little forage for an elven appetite.

There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and something else. "Did you hear that?"

Chentelle asked.

"Yes, lady. We should find shelter before the storm hits."

"No, not the thunder. I thought I heard a rooster crow. Did you hear it?"

"No, lady. But they say elven ears are more keen than human."

"If it was a yardbird, then there should be people nearby." She looked back at the storm front.

"We should hurry."

As they continued south, Chentelle kept her ears alert. She heard the rooster again, and this time Sulmar heard it, too. They picked up their pace, all but running over the uneven shore. Soon, they sighted a small flock of chickens grazing on the sparse greenery that clung to the cliffs. A narrow crevice ran between two large slabs of rock, leading into the cliff's face.

They slid through the crevice and into a gap surrounded by gray rock. The dark mouth of a cave opening beckoned from the far side of the clearing. Chentelle started across, but stopped at the touch of Sulmar's hand.

"Be wary, my lady," he said, sliding in front of her. "There may be danger."

There might indeed be danger. Her awareness was mixed. Cautiously, they worked their way toward the cave.

"Be off with you!" called a harsh voice from deep within the cave.

Had they found him? "My name is Chentelle," she called back. "I am looking for—"

A blinding flash cut off her words. A billowing sphere of flame erupted from the cave. Sulmar grabbed her and pulled her into the shelter of some rocks as the fireball struck the boulder behind them. There was a deafening explosion, and a cascade of rock fragments showered down on them.

Chentelle pressed her hands to her ears, trying to shut out the echoes of the blast.

"I want none of your talk," said the voice. "I said be off!"

The presence of such magic suggested that they were getting close to their objective. "Please,"

Chentelle said. "You have to help me find the apprentice of A'pon Boemarre."

There was no reply.

Chentelle waited. The silence stretched out interminably. Finally she had had enough. She stood and brushed the dust from her dress. "You don't have to be so rude!" she said indignantly.

Sulmar jumped to his feet beside her, sword poised, though it would surely be useless against the kind of magic they had just seen. "My lady! Do not expose yourself!"

She set her little jaw. "I must accomplish my mission."

"Why do you seek the wizard's apprentice?" the voice called. It was closer, now, just beyond the mouth of the cave.

"I carry a message for him," Chentelle said, "from the High Bishop of Norivika."

A figure detached itself from the darkness of the cave. The man, if it was a man, was covered completely in a dark gray cloak. The face was shadowed by a deep cowl. Even the hands were concealed by voluminous sleeves. A thin wooden rod extended from one of the sleeves. It was a mandril wand, used to focus the powers of Wood Lore, and it was aimed directly at Chentelle and her liegeman. The figure halted a half-dozen paces away.

"Speak your message," it said.

"How can we," Chentelle demanded, "until we know to whom we speak? I will not risk delivering it to a minion of evil."

"Lady," Sulmar breathed, as if in pain. He clearly feared that her sharp tongue was about to get them both blasted by fire.

The wand wavered slightly, then dropped to the figure's side. A hand came up and pulled back the cowl, revealing a lean, unhandsome countenance: the face she had seen in her dream. The man was tall, taller even than Sulmar, but thin to the point of gauntness. He stared back at her with eyes full of bitterness and sorrow.

"I am A'stoc," he said, "onetime apprentice to the Great Destroyer."

* 2 *

Legion Lord

Lord Dacius Gemine's heavy footfalls echoed off the marble floor. He paused briefly before one of the finely carved chairs which lined the hallway, but he did not sit Charmaine would have a fit if he scratched the furniture. With a sigh, he pulled off his gauntlets and dropped them into his basinet.

There was a fresh dent near the helm's visor; testimony either to his skill as a teacher or to the fatigue of his shield arm. Wearily, he headed for the stairway that led to his private chambers.

"My lord."

Dacius turned, recognizing the voice of his elderly seneschal. "What is it, Charmaine?" he asked.

The seneschal shifted to her most official voice. "Lord Gemine, the elven lord Alka Shara, Vice-marshal of the Legion, Warden of Inarr, seventeenth in succession to the throne of Essienkal, begs an audience."

"Lord Shara is here?" Dacius said, smiling delightfully. "But how? No Legion ship has arrived at the docks. I would have been notified."

"I believe he came to the front door, lord," Charmaine said. "Shall I send him away?"

"What?" Dacius said. "Of course not. Where is he?"

"I told him to wait in your private study, lord," she answered.

"Perfect," said Dacius, handing her his helm and gauntlets. "Send the basinet to the armorer for repair. I'll go see what Alka wants."

"Shall I draw a bath, lord?"

"By all means," he said, bounding up the stairs. "And send some food to the study. Elven fare."

"Already sent," the seneschal said somewhat disapprovingly. She rolled her eyes. "Like I don't know my job."

Dacius reached the door to the study and threw it open. Lord Shara stood silhouetted against the far window. He was tall for an elf, nearly three and a half cubits, and he possessed a full measure of the lean grace which characterized his race. The green eyes, fine bone structure, and distinctly pointed ears were also classic elf features, but there was more gray than brown in his full head of hair.

He wore the green and white leatherbark of the Inarr Regiment, with the crossed swords badge of the Legion over the heart.

"Alka," Dacius said. "It has been too long."

"Dacius, you look well. Keeping in shape I see," the elf said, pointing to his armor.

"Squire training," Dacius explained, somewhat ruefully, "for Lord Wyrle's niece."

The elf raised an eyebrow. "His niece?"

"She is a very independent lady."

"There are few who accept such an honor," Alka said, "even from the Duke of Norden West."

"I assure you, it was not by choice." Dacius motioned for Alka to help him remove his platemail.

The armor came off piece by piece, and they piled it beside the large desk which dominated the room.

"So how did you come to sponsor this remarkable young woman?" the elf inquired after a decent interval.

"Did I ever tell you how His Grace saved my life?"

Alka shook his head.

"Twice, in one day?"

"No, I do not believe you have."

Dacius smiled. "It was during my first posting to the Hordelands, not six months after I earned my pendant and was accepted to wear the crossed swords. I became separated from my company during a goblin attack. I was surrounded. Lord Wyrle cut through the lines and broke me free. Then, on the way back to camp, he rescued me when I stumbled into a goblin pitfall." He sighed. "My mistake came in the way I expressed my gratitude. I said to him, 'If there is any way to repay you, I shall, by my honor.' "

"An oath!" Alka said, not even trying to contain his laughter. "You gave him an oath in exchange for a mere duty of battle."

"The Duke," Dacius said quietly, "considers it two separate oaths."

"Two!" Alka slapped the desk in amusement. "Oh, that is a heavy price, but tell me, Dacius. Is she any good?"

"She nearly won her pendant this afternoon."

"Oh," Alka said, "that is something I would like to see."

"I'm sure you would, just to watch me struck down by a squire."

Alka smiled. "If she is this close to her pendant, I am sure it would be a worthy match. And this was in full armor?"

Dacius nodded, feeling a sense of pride. He felt immediately at ease with the elf, as if it had been only hours or days since they had last been together. "By the Creator," he said, "Can it really have been two years? So much has happened since you left for Essienkal."

Some hint of pain must have shown in his face or his voice, because Alka's manner became suddenly serious. "I heard about your family."

His family. The memories swarmed over him: his mother, his father, Cinder, just three more casualties in a long and bloody war, three more victims of goblin treachery, three more stones to cast shadows on a quiet hill.

The war had gone well for Odenal. The human armies scored great victories in the Hordelands, forcing the goblin Heresiarchs to sue for peace. But on the day the treaty was signed a trio of goblin warships attacked the Isle of Rennock. Norden West was decimated by fire and steel. On his return, Dacius was greeted by the graves of his parents and his lover. Of course, the Heresiarchs denied knowledge of the raid, calling the attackers pirates and outcasts.

"I am told—I am told they died well," Dacius said. "My parents defending their lands and Cinder trying to shield a small child."

"Cinder?" said Alka.

"My betrothed. You would have liked her. She had eyes that glowed like the sea mist. She—"

Dacius pressed his eyes shut, fighting against the tears. He felt Alka's hand come to rest on his shoulder. The touch was feather-light, but there was a quiet assurance in the grip that seemed to lend him strength. Dacius squeezed the elf's hand with his own. "It is good to be together again."

"It is indeed. And we may stay together for quite some time."

"You mean you will be staying for a while?" said Dacius. "That's wonderful."

The elf glanced around the room quickly before answering. "No, my friend, I mean you will be leaving with me. I am here to take you to the Holy City."

"Norivika?" Dacius did not try to conceal his astonishment. "But why?"

"Forgive me, friend," Alka said, "but now is not the time for explanations. We leave at sunrise, but no one must know our destination. If any ask, tell them we travel to Infiniterium on business for the Realm."

"Tomorrow! But that's impossible. I can't leave now. The repairs to the main hall are just under way. Plus, I'm still bartering for a decent shipment of new seed grain for the local farmers. And what about my responsibility as overseer of the new defenses and my obligation to Lord Wyrle's niece?

She's almost ready, I tell you. How can I abandon her now? Give me a month, five weeks at the latest, and I'll meet you at the Holy City."

Alka reached into his tunic and removed a carefully folded parchment. He handed it to Dacius.

The letter simply stated that Lord Dacius Gemine was required to obey the instructions of Alka Shara in all matters pertaining to his quest. It was sealed with the personal signet of Cyrus, King of Odenal.

"But why?" Dacius asked. "Why me?"

"Because I know I can trust you. And because you are one of the finest Legionnaires I know."

"Oh, come on! There are many who—" He broke off, realizing that Alka was not trying to flatter him.

The elf crossed the room to the fireplace. Two shields decorated the mantle: the crossed swords of the Legion, and the twin suns of House Gemine. Between the shields hung a straight, double-edged sword with a well-worn handle. "Is this your grandfather's sword?"

"You know it is."

Alka nodded. "A worthy blade. I think it would be a good idea for you to bring it along."

"Bring the vorpal sword? Why? Surely you don't expect—"

"Call it sentimentality," the elf said. "I well remember the songs this blade sang in your grandfather's hand." He paused, staring at Dacius with his intense green eyes. "My friend, there are so many questions within you, but the answers must wait. I must have your trust in this, and I must have your word that you will do exactly as I have said. This is important, Dacius."

There was an edge in his friend's voice that Dacius had never heard before, an edge that demanded respect. Alka would not ask if the need were not real.

"You have my pledge, Alka," Dacius said. "And with or without the King's command, you have always had my trust. I will do as you instruct."

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," Dacius said.

A serving maid entered, bearing a large platter of fresh fruit and roasted vegetables.

Alka smiled. "Such a feast, and I must play the poor guest and turn down your hospitality. The hour is late and there are preparations to be made. I will call for you at first-light, my friend. Good night."

"Creator keep you."

As the elf strode quietly out of the room, the serving maid turned to follow.

"Wait," Dacius beckoned the maid. "Leave the food. And tell Charmaine I won't be needing that bath after all. I want to see her, the marshal, and the steward in the main hall one hour from now. And tell the cooks to start some fresh bread; it's going to be a long night."

"Yes, lord."

Dacius walked to the fireplace and took down the sword which had belonged to his father and his father's father. The leather-wrapped hilt fit easily into his hand, as if his own fingers had worn the grooves in the grip. He pulled the blade from its metal sheath, admiring the perfect balance. Mystic runes seemed to flow like water across the blue-hued steel, proclaiming this as a weapon of power.

The vorpal weapons were artifacts of the Wizards' War, forged expressly to combat the Ill-creatures. That war was more than six decades gone, and no Ill-creatures had been seen in all those years. But now Alka wanted him to take up a sword which had been unused for generations, and Alka had never stopped carrying his own vorpal blade.

Dacius sheathed the sword and rested it against the desk. He sat down, grabbing a quill and some blank paper. With a sigh, he began composing a letter to Lord Wyrle's niece. It was, indeed, going to be a long night.

* * *

Dacius lifted his sea chest onto the ceiling of the carriage. He had packed sparingly, but the trunk was still heavy with the weight of his armor and weapons. He made sure the chest was strapped securely in place. He had ordered Charmaine to stay in bed until truedawn, but he suspected she was watching anyway. He waved toward the window of the upstairs parlor and joined Alka in the cab.

The elf sat alertly on the padded bench, looking as if he had both slept fully and been awake for hours. His bright green eyes showed no trace of fatigue. "Good morning," he said.

Dacius stretched, groaning softly at the stiffness in his back and shoulders. "I'll suspend judgment, for now."

The driver cracked his whip and the horses started forward, hooves clacking rhythmically on the cobblestone drive. They passed the gatehouse and turned onto the gravel roadway, heading down the long slope into Norden West.

The fields were red under Deneob's feeble light, a hue that Dacius suspected was more than mirrored in his own bloodshot eyes. Most of the town was still asleep, though a few merchants on Market Square were already opening shop. The few people they did pass greeted them cheerily.

Dacius loved that about Norden West. The Isle of Rennock lay outside the main trade routes, so its towns remained small and friendly. When Legion business took him to Infiniterium or Thyatius, the crowdedness and unruliness of the city always left him deeply disturbed. Norden West was his home in a sense that no busy city could ever match.

They arrived at the docks, and the carriage pulled to a stop before an elven merchant ship. A proud three-masted vessel made of the finest trees from the Inarr. The name of the ship was inscribed on the bow in flowing elven script: Otan Stin.

"Now I know why I had not heard of any Legion ships reaching port," he said.

"Secrecy, my friend," said Alka.

Alka paid the coachman and helped Dacius pull down his chest. They crossed the wharf and stopped at the foot of the trader's gangplank. A pair of elves watched their approach from the ship's deck.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain," Alka called out.

"Aye, and welcome aboard, Lord Shara," said the shorter of the two.

"Captain Rone," said Alka as they reached the top of the gangplank, "may I present Lord Dacius Gemine. Dacius, this is Captain Rone and his shipsage Vagen."

The two were a study in contrast. Vagen stood as tall as Alka and was so thin he appeared almost ephemeral. His skin was pale and unlined, but his hair was pure white. The captain was barely three cubits tall, but stocky for an elf. His tanned face carried deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but there was no gray in the long brown hair which he wore braided and wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

"Lord Gemine," Captain Rone said, in the harshest rasp Dacius had ever heard from an elf, "you are welcome aboard the Otan Stin."

Then he turned and started bellowing to his crew. "Zubec, show Lord Gemine to his bunk and help him stow his gear. Everyone else, prepare for departure. Vagen, assume your post."

The elves scrambled to make ready as Captain Rone headed for the wheeldeck. One sailor detached himself from the activity and approached Dacius.

"Shall we go below, lord?" he asked. Such a question, on ship or in battle, was never really a question, but a strong suggestion relayed from a superior.

Dacius hesitated. He would prefer to stay on deck for the departure, but he didn't want to make the sailor's job more difficult.

"It's all right," Alka said, bridging the silence. "You stay and watch, I'll stow your gear."

The sailor nodded and picked up the gear; Alka had cleared it for the foreigner.

Dacius thanked him and turned back to observe the crew. Some elves scurried through the rigging, preparing the sails, while others used long poles to push the ship away from the dock. The shipsage stood at the bow, leaning heavily on his oak staff.

Captain Rone stood at the wheel, checking the clearance from the dock. "Mark!" he said.

"Vagen, the ship is yours."

Vagen turned to face over the prow. He raised his staff and began chanting softly. Then he lowered one end of the staff and touched it to the deck. There was a moment of stillness as the oak of the staff fused with the wood of the deck. Then sagewind filled the sails and the ship began to move.

Dacius felt the smooth acceleration, and listened to Vagen's chanting. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the sagewind. It was an aroma that was never encountered elsewhere, a mixture of salt and sea and the will of the sage. He knew sailors who swore they could identify a shipsage by the scent of his wind.

Dacius felt an old longing rise within him, a longing for the sea, a longing which had been missing since his return from the Hordelands. "A good morning, indeed," he said.

The Otan Stin moved swiftly through the quiet waters of Norden Bay. As they cleared the natural harbor, Vagen released his control of the wood and the wind, yielding the ship to the natural currents. The shipsage looked spent from his efforts, but his steps were steady as he headed belowdecks to rest.

Captain Rone shouted orders as the crew jumped to take control of the vessel. The Otan Stin caught the wind and turned north into the Great Sea. Off the starboard bow, Ellistar's golden face was just rising over the Isle of Rennock.

Dacius turned away from the rail and jumped when he saw Alka at his shoulder; he hadn't heard the elf approach. He saw that several other elves were now on deck. Almost all wore the crossed swords of the Legion over their hearts, though their uniforms came from several different regiments.

Dacius noted that the elves were all armed. Even Alka wore his vorpal sword, though the chances of piracy were slight this far from goblin lands.

An old elf wearing undyed leatherbark sat on the steps to the wheeldeck, tuning a lute. His hair hung past his shoulders like strands of gray iron, restrained only by a headband of red silk. A sword rested on the elf's left hip and a pair of ironwood rods hung from his right.

Dacius was surprised; most elves had adopted steel weapons during the Wizards' War. He had heard of elven fighting batons, but never seen them used.

A crowd formed about the elf as he began to play. As Dacius and Alka moved closer, a strange look passed over his face. He shut his eyes and subtly altered the timbre of his music, slowing the tempo and moving down the scale. Then he started singing in the common tongue of the Realm, his slight accent giving the words a strange, lilting quality.

Wrapped in armor, shining clear,

A gallant knight who knows no fear.

Horse hooves beat the ground with pride,

As man and steed ride forth to cheer.

Truth and honor are his guide

Through devastated countryside.

His battle cries, his solemn oaths:

The beast that plagues this land defied.

From darkest pit, flies forth the ghost,

A dragon, black as Hel's own host.

He sounds his challenge to the knight,

And spews his curse upon the coast.

The hero charges to the fight,

Pitting courage against might.

The ring of steel, the dragon's roar,

The dance of death in cold twilight.

The red sun falls beneath the shore.

The dragon spreads his wings to soar.

The golden star shines on the gear

Of one brave knight who fights no more.

The crowd of sailors and Legionnaires shifted uneasily. The elf played and sang marvelously, but the melancholy nature of his song had caught them off guard.

"A beautiful song, Thildemar," said Alka, "but such a grim ending. I do not believe I have heard it before. Is it an old tale?"

"No, Alka Shara," Thildemar said. "It came to me just now as I watched you and your friend approach."

The words hung in the air for several seconds before a call from above interrupted the silence.

"Begging your pardon, Lord Shara," said Captain Rone, "but if your man there is through depressing everyone, I was wondering if he could play something a little more cheerful for my crew.

We don't get to hear so fine a voice very often."

There was a general murmur of assent, and the aged elf started strumming a lively melody. He sang a ribald ballad of a dancing warrior and three enchanted maidens that soon lightened everyone's mood.

Dacius felt a tap on his shoulder. Alka motioned with his head, and the two of them disengaged from the crowd. Alka led him below deck and took him to the cabin that they would share for the voyage.

"That was a disturbing song," Alka said.

"Indeed," Dacius agreed. "And a strange singer, for all his talent."

"Thildemar? Do not worry, Dacius. I trust few men in this world, and none more than you, but I would gladly trust Thildemar with my life. In fact, I have done so on many occasions."

"But who is he? He isn't Legion."

"No, but he was," Alka said. "He was my commander during the Wizards' War. He resigned his commission after the Desecration."

Dacius's mind reeled. To him, the Wizards' War was military history, a battle fought generations ago by men like his grandfather. But Alka and Thildemar were there, witness to the greatest conflict in recorded history.

"Thildemar was at the final battle?" Dacius asked, still finding this hard to credit.

"No, Dacius. No one who went to that final battle returned alive. Your grandfather and I survived because our wounds kept us away from the front; Thildemar survived because of his dreams.

In the weeks before the battle, he suffered from terrible visions. They robbed him of sleep, threatened his sanity. Finally, he was forced to remove himself from command. He sent his troops to final confrontation while he returned to Essienkal."

In such a case, there could be those to whom the word "cowardice" occurred. But Dacius remained silent.

"It is said that time heals all wounds, Dacius, but elven memory is long. I lost a brother on that day, whose image haunts me still. Thildemar lost every man in his regiment. On that day, he swore that never again would he order a man to his death."

Dacius had heard stories of the Desecration Fault, of the vast wasteland which marked the spot of A'pon Boemarre's confrontation with the Dark One. He tried to imagine the guilt of sending good men into such a slaughter. No wonder the elf's songs were grim.

"What kind of threat," Dacius asked, "could inspire him to take up arms again?"

"The gravest. Ill-creatures have been spotted in the Realm. It is rumored the Dark One has returned."

"The Dark One!" Dacius experienced an ugly chill. "He survived the Desecration?"

Then realization came as he looked at the sword hanging at Alka's side. "The weapons—you are collecting men who possess vorpal weapons."

"Very intuitive, my young friend," Alka said. "With us on this ship are fourteen of the finest elven Legionnaires living, each armed with a vorpal sword. We are under orders to serve and protect the High Bishop of Norivika in whatever manner he requires."

The High Bishop. Not since the Wizards' War had he called upon the Legion's protection. He did not need to; the power of the Holy Land kept him safe. This could only mean that the High Bishop meant to leave Talan.

Dacius opened his sea chest and pulled out his grandfather's sword. His jaw tightened as he strapped the harness around his waist. He was beginning to understand his friend's caution.

* * *

The Otan Stin struggled northward in faint winds for three days. Whenever the wind died altogether, Vagen would summon the sagewind to fill the sails. But the effort tired him quickly. Slowly, the ship made its way up the coast.

Dacius stood at the portside railing, watching the white foam wash against the distant shoreline.

Sometime in the night they had passed the jagged mountain range that formed the boundary between Odenal and the desert plains of Larama. Now Dacius searched that bleak coast for the next landmark which would indicate their progress—the port city of Atbok.

Dacius was eager to reach Norivika. The tales of the Holy City were fantastic. It was said to be a paradise in which no evil could exist, a center of worship which radiated peace and turned the land of Talan into haven for all peoples. The capital of a country which had no government and no army, a country whose citizens were devoted to the arts of healing and meditation. Dacius found himself eager to experience the truth of the Holy City for himself.

An angry shout called Dacius's attention to the wheeldeck. Captain Rone was screaming at Alka over the carved stone pieces of a castle game.

"Damn it all," he yelled. "I have never met a man who can win so many damned games in a row."

Dacius smiled. Alka played at the King's Court in Essienkal, and he had not lost a game of castle outside of that elven city for more years than Dacius had been alive. Rone grumbled some more, but he was already setting up the pieces for another game.

Some sailors called for music, and Dacius heard the answer of Thildemar's lute coming from the stern. Dacius turned back to the rail, idly listening to songs of love and courage and the deep longings that drive men's souls. As evening approached, the lookout cried, "Atbok, ahead to port."

Dacius looked, but the city was still too distant for human eyes to see. To the south, though, he could see dark clouds forming above the horizon. He headed back to the wheeldeck.

The wind picked up, and Captain Rone shouted for all sails. The Otan Stin ran with the wind, making good speed at last. But lightning flashed to the south and the seas were becoming rough.

Captain Rone squinted into the wind. "This is a good omen, as well as bad. The storm has brought us much needed wind, but I cannot say how long it will remain at our backs. This is a rare storm, to blow up so quickly this late in the season."

"Atbok fast approaching," cried the lookout.

"And now I must decide," said Rone, "whether to draw her in to dock or to try and outrun the storm. Which do you favor, Lord Shara?"

Alka rose an eyebrow. "I am no seaman, Captain, but I would always consider safety as a first priority."

"Indeed," the captain agreed. "But which path leads to safety? The storm won't stop before it hits Atbok, that much is obvious, but how far north will it reach? We are better off riding the edge of a storm in open water than suffering the brunt of one tied to a dock. And you tell me your mission is one of great urgency. Who knows how long we would be delayed in Larama? And of course there are docking fees to consider, and cargo taxes."

"You need not worry yourself about fees, Captain," Alka said. "Your vessel is chartered and we are your only cargo. The expense of your trip has already been well covered."

"That it has, Lord Shara," Rone said. "So the question lies entirely in the behavior of the storm. I have sailed these waters countless times, and I have never seen a storm blow into the Quiet Sea this time of year. We run."

"I can only be assured by your words," Alka said.

Dacius nodded, trying to ignore the persistent rumble of thunder. He could only hope that Captain Rone's experience proved true.

The Otan Stin sped northward, leaving Atbok far behind. But the storm continued to advance upon them. By the time Ellistar set in the west, dark clouds had completely surrounded them.

The wind whipped the sea into a frenzy, and driving rain weighed down their sails. Lightning flashes struck the blackened ocean all around them, and the roar of thunder was constant. The Otan Stin pitched in the waves as if it were the plaything of an angry child. Captain Rone ordered all passengers secure belowdecks.

Dacius' hammock swung wildly with the ship's rocking. He tried to rest, but he was afraid he would be thrown to the floor if he slept.

"It would seem Rone's judgment of the weather was incorrect," he remarked, half hoping to be refuted.

"I fear this storm may be more than Rone can manage," Alka said. "But there is little we can do, now. I suggest we sleep while we are able."

"Sure," Dacius said, though he was anything but certain that he could sleep. In fact, the constant rolling was making him nauseated. Luckily, he had not eaten anything since early that afternoon. He forced his hands to release their grip on the hammock. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, willing himself to relax.

Suddenly the cabin seemed to turn on its side. The lantern hanging from the ceiling flew against the wall and went out. Dacius tumbled from his hammock. His sense of direction was distorted, but he seemed to hit the wall of the cabin first and then slide to the floor.

"Dacius," Alka called, "are you all right?"

"Yes, but confused," he replied. Then strong fingers wrapped around Dacius' arms and helped him to his feet. "What happened?" he asked.

"I do not know," Alka said, above the howling of the wind. "But surely the storm is worse."

Dacius heard faint cries and the pounding footfalls of men running on the deck above their heads.

Then the door flew open and dim light filtered in. A young Legionnaire stuck his head through the opening.

"Lord Shara," he said. "We are under attack!"

There was a flash as Alka used his elven Lore to relight the lantern. He grabbed his sword belt and handed the lamp to Dacius. "Follow me," he said, racing out the cabin door.

Dacius paused only long enough to secure his own blade, but when he reached the corridor Alka and the other Legionnaire were already gone. He ran for the nearest ladder and climbed to the main deck.

As soon as he threw open the hatch, the storm assaulted him. Rain blasted his face, and the wind threatened to tear him from the ladder. His lantern died immediately, and he dropped it to the deck.

Dacius pulled himself onto secure footing, crouching low against the gale. He heard men shouting, but the wind made it impossible to determine the direction from which the sound came. He searched the darkness and spotted a flash of blue light coming from the prow. He headed in that direction.

As he came nearer, he saw several patches of dim blue radiance, each one centered around a sword. The vorpal swords, he realized. They were giving off light as the elves wielded them in battle.

But what were they fighting?

A flash of lightning gave him the answer.

A huge black form crouched near the foremast. Its legs were bent backward like a bird's and ended in immense three-clawed talons. The body was manlike, though twice the size of any man Dacius had seen, and great bat wings spread behind it, anchored to immensely muscled shoulders. Set deeply in the brow of a huge hyena head, the monster's eyes glowed with the pale yellow of an infected wound. This was no natural animal; it was an Ill-creature, a twisted servant of the Dark One.

Dacius' eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. He struggled to make out a handful of sailors and Legionnaires. They surrounded the creature but seemed unwilling to close. He saw that several bodies already cluttered the deck around the monster's feet, evidence of what happened to those who closed too quickly.

The beast rose to its full height and threw its head back, showing wickedly curved fangs. It lashed out, striking the foremast with one massive arm. Wood shattered as the pole tore loose from its support. Elves scrambled out of the way as mast and sail crashed to the deck.

By the Creator, the beast meant to destroy the Otan Stin! Dacius froze, unable to move. The sound of the storm filled his ears, but mocking laughter echoed inside his skull. It was hopeless. No man could fight against such power. How could flesh and blood stand where stout wood had fallen?

The Ill-creature would strike them down as easily as it had severed the mast.

Captain Rone leaped forward, lashing out at the Ill-creature with his cutlass. He landed heavy blows on the monster's legs and chest, but he might as well have been striking a stone statue. The blade bounced ineffectually off the beast's skin.

The Ill-creature struck out with a wing, lifting the captain from the deck and tossing him contemptuously into the sea.

But the captain's charge had broken the paralysis. Dacius drew his sword. He was a knight, a Legionnaire; he would not give in to fear.

The vorpal blade radiated with fierce blue light. The pommel was warm in his hand, and Dacius felt a surge of power and clarity. The rage of the storm, the chaos of battle, the incapacitating fear, they all seemed distant now.

The crew of the Otan Stin had rushed forward to avenge their captain, but their weapons were useless against the Ill-creature's magic. As the sailors fell back in futility, Dacius could see a lone figure protecting their retreat, balking the monster's counterattack with a wall of brightly glowing steel. There could be no doubt about the identity of that one. But one was enough only to foil the monster, not to slay it. Calmly, Dacius moved forward to Alka's aid.

The Ill-creature hesitated for a moment, backing away from the vorpal swords. One taloned leg slid forward, kicking a crumpled shape into the light of their weapons. It was the young Legionnaire who had come to their cabin, the vorpal blade still clutched uselessly in his hand. The beast moved forward, driving a clawed foot easily through the fallen elf's body as it advanced.

YOUR WEAPONS WILL NOT SAVE YOU, MORTALS. I WILL KILL YOU ALL AS

EASILY AS I KILLED THIS FOOL.

The voice thundered inside Dacius' head, threatening to swamp his mind in terror. But this time he cast off the beast's influence. Because he knew it was the beast, and not his own cowardice. And that his weapon could hurt the thing. That was why it was so eager to make him believe otherwise.

Alka Shara shouted defiantly at his side. "I have felt your kind before, Ill-creature! Your power's do not deceive me. Go back to the pits of Firesta—go back to your master. Your powers are nothing, here! Leave before I send your foul soul back to the Abyss."

ARROGANT FOOL, I WILL TEACH YOU ABOUT POWER. The Ill-creature raised a hand and pointed at Alka. Lightning danced around its claws and then shot forward, driving the elf backward.

Dacius screamed and jumped forward. His vorpal sword came down on the outstretched arm, cutting it to the core and ending the lightning barrage. Armed with this blade, he could bring his fencing skill into play. Nothing but an opposing weapon could prevent him from scoring. He feinted, making the creature react, drawing it into vulnerability. Then a second, lesser stroke sliced into the monster's belly. Blue tracers of light were left in the wounds, as if fire bled into them. Dacius leaped sideways, avoiding the beast's vicious counterstroke.

The monster's rage pounded against his mind. It advanced swiftly, trying to overwhelm his defense. Huge claws struck again and again, and his parries became more and more desperate. This thing did know how to fight when vulnerable; there was a calculating quality to the mental barrage.

There was little room to maneuver, and the rocking of the ship's deck made footing treacherous.

Dacius counterattacked cautiously, seeking an opening to attack the Ill-creature's chest or neck. But the opening never came.

The ship lurched violently, throwing Dacius to the deck.

The Ill-creature was also caught off guard, but huge beats of its wings kept it from falling. Hissing triumphantly, it lunged forward.

Dacius brought his weapon up—too late. A monstrous claw closed around his wrist like a shackle. Bones snapped, and the vorpal sword fell from limp fingers. He was lifted off the ground and dangled helplessly before the creature's face. The huge jaws opened and a long, snakelike tongue darted against Darius' face.

The stench was unbelievable. Dacius struck out with his free hand, groping for one of the hideously glowing eyes. But the Ill-creature deflected the attack, snapping at his fingers with needlelike fangs.

YOUR DEATH IS JUST THE BEGINNING, LITTLE MORTAL. SOON, ALL OF

INFINITERA SHALL BOW BEFORE THE DARK ONE.

Suddenly, a shaft of blue light erupted from the monster's shoulder.

Dacius fell to the deck, struggling to remain conscious. Pain shot through his arm. He looked down and saw a jagged edge of white pushing through the flesh of his wrist. Pain was good; it helped him fight off the dizziness. Where was his sword? There, a flash of blue against the deck. He scrambled forward, grabbing the weapon with his left hand.

Strength flowed into him from the blade. Pain receded. The world stopped spinning. Good; now he had to gauge the situation, plan a reaction.

Alka clung to the Ill-creature's back, seeming oblivious to the terrible burns which covered much of his face and chest. He had driven his sword through the beast's shoulder from behind. He had one arm wrapped around a wing for purchase and was using his body weight to drive the blade deeper into the monster's body.

The Ill-creature thrashed violently, trying to dislodge the elven warrior. It blasted the air with its wings and carved through the wooden deck with its talons, but Alka would not let go. The gleaming blue blade inched slowly toward the monster's heart.

Dacius moved forward, raising his sword for a left-handed strike, but the Ill-creature shot into the air, wings beating furiously against the added drag. He watched the beast's progress, following the glowing shard of Alka's sword against the night sky. It lifted higher and higher, gaining height slowly.

Then suddenly it reversed direction and shot back toward the ship.

The mocking laughter sounded again in Dacius' skull as the Ill-creature came into sight. It dived without slowing, crashing through the weakened planks of the deck and through the hull below.

Alka's body smashed against the wood. He lacked the toughness of the Ill-creature. His spine bent horribly and the vorpal blade slid from his grasp.

Water poured through the ruptured hull. Dacius had time to scream his friend's name only once in despair before being thrown into the crashing waves.

* 3 *

Holy Man

Marcus Alanda watched the storm rise over the Quiet Sea. The fury of the tempest and the suddenness of its approach made him wary. The thick black thunderheads rolled steadily northward.

Then the leading edge of dark clouds dissipated, turning into gentle mists. It was the sign. If the storm had been natural, the Barrier would have had no effect. Evil was active in the Realm.

For the third time in his life, the High Bishop felt a quiet summons in the back of his mind.

Marcus turned away from the window and headed for the tower stairs. He descended the steps with a vigor that belied his three score years. Indeed, only the slate gray color of his short hair and the worry lines which surrounded his clear blue eyes gave any hint to his age. Living within the harmony of the Holy Land did much to keep a man young.

His acolyte waited at the base of the tower.

"Brother Ethnan," Marcus said, "find Bishop Sarra and tell her to meet me at the docks in fifteen minutes.

Then fetch the ferryman on duty. We will need his services tonight."

"Yes, Father Marcus," Ethnan said, already departing.

Marcus crossed to a small alcove. Every hall in the Cathedral of Light had such an alcove, and every alcove contained a reading pedestal and two books. The larger book contained the Scriptures of Jediah, written by the first High Bishop of the Holy Lands. The smaller book had many names: the Book of Truths, the Creation Codex, the Revelation of the Sphere. But most people simply called it the Old Book. Marcus opened it and read the first paragraph.

In the perfect emptiness, a Sphere was formed. And within the Sphere, the races were born. The Creation was perfect, and the Creator was perfection. The Sphere existed in balance, in harmony, and for the eyes of the Creator. For its existence was Beauty. Its purpose was Beauty.

Marcus' heart ached with the truth of those words, a truth that no longer existed. The Creation had a Flaw. A crack had appeared in the structure of Creation, giving birth to the Abyss. And the Abyss had given birth to Evil.

Marcus closed the book. The truths in its pages spoke of an earlier age, of a time before the Flaw. There was no mention of evil in the Old Book, for there was no evil in the world when the Old Book was written. The truths of the Old Book were beauty, harmony, peace: perfection which once was and perfection which must come again. This was the faith of the Holy Order. Evil could be overcome, if the Flaw were healed. The Creation could be made whole once more.

As always, reading from the Old Book invigorated Marcus' faith. The Dark One was alive. Evil worked to extend its power into the Realm. But it would not do so unopposed.

* * *

The others were waiting at the dock when he arrived. Marcus could sense their curiosity, but no one questioned him as they boarded the skiff. The ferryman poled away from the dock, then raised the sail to catch the evening breeze. In a few minutes, the telltale glow over the bow augured their approach to Atablicryon Island.

Marcus smiled as the glow slowly resolved itself into the temple which gave the island its name.

The Atablicryon by night was one his favorite sights in all the Realm. Unlike the bright, flickering radiance which shone from the Cathedral of Light, the Atablicryon glowed with a gentle, cool white light. The glow was absolutely even in intensity, as if the stones merely reflected some outside radiance. As a student, Marcus had taken part in numerous debates on the source of the Atablicryon's illumination. Now he knew, but he kept the knowledge to himself.

The design of the temple was elegantly simple. Four colonnades ran through tiered gardens, converging at the foot of a vaulted stone dome. The dome was supported by a ring of eight columns and open on all sides. Eight sets of stairs led to the dome, four from the colonnades and four from smaller paths through the gardens. The entire structure was constructed of a smooth white stone that had never been found elsewhere in the Realm.

There were no docks on Atablicryon Island, and no one had ever suggested building one. The ferryman guided the skiff onto the beach near the end of one of the rows of columns. Once the craft was firmly beached, the passengers climbed out.

Marcus rested a hand on one of the pillars. As always, the surface matched the temperature of his skin and was perfectly smooth. The Atablicryon had stood on this island for at least eleven thousand years, but there was not a single imperfection to be found on any of its stones. Marcus led the others down the pathway of light to the central dome.

A feeling of deep peace filled him as he walked the familiar corridor. Many were the days he had spent wandering these paths, finding solace in the peace of the gardens. Marcus climbed the steps to the dome, and walked to the center of the floor. He sat on down, motioning for the others to join him.

"You are no doubt curious," he said, "as to why I called you here. But I ask you to be patient a moment longer. What I have to discuss with you tonight is of vital importance to the Holy Order, to the Realm, and to all of Infinitera. Before we begin, I suggest we make use of the peace which the Atablicryon provides." He glanced at an assistant. "Please lead us in the First Meditation of Jediah."

The young priest smiled in appreciation of the honor Marcus gave him, showing even teeth.

"Yes, Lord High Bishop."

The priest closed his eyes and began humming a simple, four-scale progression. As the others joined their Voices with his, he chanted softly:

"In peace, there is harmony.

In harmony, there is unity.

In unity, there is healing.

In healing, there is peace."

Here, at the center of the Order's power, the familiar meditation gained special force. Marcus'

spirit touched the beauty of Creation and was filled by it. The Perfection of Unity was not lost; it still lived in the Atablicryon. And it could live again in the Realm.

Marcus opened his eyes; his course was clear. "Thank you. Let us keep this peace in mind as we prepare for the coming days." He turned to face his acolyte. "Brother Ethnan, how long have you served as my acolyte?"

"Two years and ten months, Father Marcus."

"Then explain to me," Marcus said, "what the First Meditation means."

"It was Jediah's greatest revelation," Ethnan said. "In the Age Before, the Holy Order was dedicated to the Great Truth, the Perfection of Creation. But the Flaw made that truth an illusion.

Jediah's vision showed him that the purpose of the Holy Order had to be transformed. The meditation teaches us that healing is possible, that Creation can be restored."

"And how does that relate to the Final Prophecy?"

"The prophecy also comes from Jediah," the acolyte said. "He recognized that corruption was growing, infecting the souls of man. Beyond the influence of the Holy Order, the races of man were becoming hateful, selfish, separated from community. Harmony was lost, sacrificed to the Flaw in Creation. The prophecy outlines two possible outcomes for Infinitera. Either Creation will be healed and the Abyss unmade, or the Holy Order will fail and the world will fall to despair and be destroyed."

"Yes," Marcus said, "and the prophecy is not false. Two weeks ago, a falling star fell into the western sky. Did any of you notice it?"

Bishop Sarra met his gaze with eyes as blue as his own. "I saw the star," she said. "It has entered my meditations several times since that night. I also saw the storm that blew over the Quiet Sea this evening. Was the star an omen?"

"Yes, an omen of great evil. The Dark One did not die at the Desecration Fault. He still exists, and his Ill-creatures are active in the Realm. That is why I have called you here."

There was a murmur of dismay. The others had known that the occasion was serious, but could hardly have anticipated this. Now they understood that they faced a siege of historic significance.

"I will be leaving Talan at some time after the Ceremony of Light," Marcus continued. "In my absence, Sarra, you will function as High Bishop. Brother Ethnan will assist you with any administrative details that might come up. In the event of my death, I have prepared an official proclamation naming you as my successor. Should it need to be used, your first duty is to return to this spot and spend the night in meditation."

"I do not understand," Sarra said, troubled. "The Dark One is alive, and you are leaving? What about the kingdoms? Have you called for the Legion? Do the wizards—" She paused, then continued in a hushed tone. "Marcus, have you received a revelation?"

"No, Sarra, or perhaps yes, though I am not a prophet. One day, you will come to know the source of this knowledge, but not today. For now, you must rely on your faith. And I must rely on your trust."

Sarra smiled. "Marcus, I have known you since we were both acolytes to Father Serdonis. I shall do as you ask, though I pray it will not become necessary. Where will you be going?"

"I must find another Atablicryon."

"Another? But the temple is unique. In all the histories of the elves there is no mention of another like it."

"So we have been taught," Marcus agreed. "But the second Atablicryon exists. It lies on an island far to the south, an island that no human or elf or dwarf of the Realm has ever seen. No chart in any library shows this island. Yet it exists."

"And you know where it is?" Sarra asked.

"No, but Gorin does. He is a special priest, with expertise we shall need. His people know of that place, though I think they do not know it contains an Atablicryon. They call the site Kennaru, the Dread Island. It is taboo. Powerful curses punish anyone who goes there." Marcus shrugged. "I shall nevertheless be obliged to make trial of that curse." He looked up, meeting each of the others' eyes in turn. "We must all pass this test."

Sarra made a gesture of resignation. "I think none of us enjoy curses, but they cannot be allowed to daunt us."

Marcus put his hands to his lips and then extended them in the sign of harmony. "The whole of Creation," he said.

The others mirrored his gesture.

"Harmony," Ethnan said.

"Unity," the young assistant said.

"Healing," Sarra said.

"Perfection," Marcus said, finishing the ritual. "Thank you, my friends. That is all. Please tell the boatman to return in the morning. I will spend the night here in meditation."

They nodded, deeply troubled. Marcus watched them file out.

Sarra paused at the head of the stairs. "Follow your own advice, Marcus. Trust in your faith.

The Creator grants us strength."

And we will need it, Marcus thought, watching her leave.

When he was certain that he was alone, Marcus opened his mind in meditation. He felt the power of the Atablicryon suffuse him. Beneath his feet, a circle of stone began to glow brightly, shining like a polished diamond. The light surrounded him, and the world disappeared.

Marcus floated in an ocean of harmony, a place without substance, full of radiant light and subtle music. He felt comforted—as if he were a child again, sleeping in his mother's arms. He rested in the wellspring of the Holy Order, the fount from which its healing power flowed. His soul sang in absolute harmony with the Creation.

The music that filled him sounded like quiet chimes and flowing water and the singing of nightingales. As he listened, the music resolved itself into a beatific voice. It was a voice he had heard twice before, once on the day he had become High Bishop and again on the day of the Fallen Star: a voice that he knew only as the Protector.

"Welcome, High Bishop Marcus Alanda," said the Protector.

"I have witnessed the sign," Marcus said. "Evil moves against the Realm."

"Is the way prepared for your quest?"

"Yes. I have sent for the Bearer of the Staff and summoned the Legion for protection. Gorin will guide us to the lost island, though he fears the test of crossing the Barrier. I plan to travel during the Season of Light, when the powers of the Dark One are at their weakest."

"You have done well," the Protector said. "Now it is time to prepare you for the true purpose of your journey."

"True purpose? Am I not seeking the second Atablicryon?"

"That is the beginning," the Protector answered. "But not the end. At the Atablicryon you will find an artifact, the Sphere of Ohnn. With the Sphere in your possession, you will be able to destroy the Fallen Star."

"Destroy the omen? Why?"

"It is more than an omen. The Fallen Star came through the Abyss and has reached Infinitera. It holds a power of evil more dangerous than the Dark One himself: a power that will defile all of Creation. The Ill-creatures search for this power. If they find it, then Infinitera will die."

"By the Creator," Marcus exclaimed. "They must not succeed. But if the Star came from the Abyss, why doesn't the Dark One know where it is?"

"It did not come from the Abyss. It fell through the Abyss from Beyond. I can sense its presence by the disharmony with Creation, but the Dark One has no way of tracking it. This is to our advantage."

"Then you know where it is?"

As soon as he said the words, an image formed in his mind: a desolate, frozen plain. Somehow, he knew that it lay far to the west. A huge crater scarred the tundra, and within it Marcus sensed a presence even colder than the surrounding ice.

"I understand," he said. "And with the Sphere of Ohnn I can destroy this evil."

"Yes," the Protector said, "but not with the Sphere alone. The Sphere of Ohnn is a core fragment of pure Earthpower: the primal force which binds Creation and makes life possible. It contains the power needed to destroy the Fallen Star, but only the Thunderwood Staff has the power to ignite the Sphere."

"The Bearer of the Staff," murmured Marcus.

"And you will need one more thing. To face this evil, you must understand it. I must implant the knowledge of this evil in your mind, as I have planted its location. Only when the evil has become a part of you will you be able to destroy it."

Marcus felt suddenly alone, isolated from the sea of harmony. "But submitting to evil is wrong.

The Scripture of Jediah expressly forbids the acceptance of evil in any form."

"I know the Scripture," the Protector said. "I am the one who gave the words to Jediah. You must trust in your faith, Marcus Alanda. The knowledge by itself is no threat to your soul, so long as you do not pursue the course of evil. Only, you must decide now whether you will accept this burden, for once given, the knowledge cannot be taken away. And the knowledge must never be shared, lest the evil spread. You must take it with you to your grave."

"But how am I to decide, unless I know what the knowledge is?"

"You must ask yourself whether you are capable of this trial, whether you can risk your soul for the sake of Creation—and win. But know, Marcus Alanda, that there is no other who carries the faith of the Holy Order woven so strongly into his being. You are the best hope for Infinitera."

"Then my choice is clear. I must accept my own counsel. Give me the knowledge, Protector.

The Creator will help me carry it."

The music that surrounded Marcus faded, leaving a profound silence. The voice of the Protector became a faint whisper in his mind. "Hold on to your faith. There will be pain."

Marcus braced himself. Even so, it was awful. A thousand needles pierced his skull, driving into his brain. The needles unleashed a torrent of morbid visions. Each image was a dark tendril, so cold that it burned. Marcus screamed as the tendrils worked their way into his mind, into his soul. The darkness coalesced, forming a dense pit in the center of his being. The seething mass multiplied and expanded, threatening to consume him. It spoke to him, with sinister persuasion.

Such power, I could rule Infinitera.

No! Marcus tried to reject the thought, to cast it out of his mind. But pain lanced through him.

The evil was now part of him. He could no more expel it than he could throw away his heart.

I could do such good. The people would sing my name in praise.

The thoughts were coming faster now, with more detail, more clarity, and insidious logic.

The world would find unity again, under my direction.

The Scriptures of Jediah taught members of the Holy Order how to summon sanctuary, an aura of protection that surrounded the priest's body. Marcus used that technique now, but he focused the sanctuary into his mind, his soul. He found the core of evil within him and surrounded it with layers of harmony and peace. He built a barrier around it, a buffer that protected his conscious mind from the knowledge he bore.

Slowly, the pain receded. The darkness was still there, but it was dormant. The corrupt suggestions became mere whispers, then faded out. For the time being.

Marcus collapsed on the floor of the Atablicryon. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his body trembled against the stone. He pulled himself into a ball and waited for sleep to come.

* 4 *

Apprentice

A'stoc led Sulmar and Chentelle into the cave. The rock closed in around them until they were forced to walk in single file. Finally they came to a dead end at a bare stone wall.

A'stoc spoke a word of command, and the rock face swung inward, exposing a small, dark passageway. He spoke again, and a line of crystal orbs began to glow, lighting the narrow tunnel. He stepped forward, motioning for his guests to follow.

Chentelle paused at the doorway. She laid her hand on the rock, reaching out with her Gift. She felt power within the stone, ripples of warmth and vibration. The forces were delicately balanced, supporting the weight of the door with their equilibrium.

"Tell me, elf girl," A'stoc said gruffly, "how did you know where to find me?"

Chentelle whispered softly to the power in the rock, pulling at it gently with her Gift. The stone door swung silently shut.

"I had a dr—" Chentelle cut off her reply, for she had lost her audience. A'stoc had whirled and walked away, covering the hallway with long, heavy steps. She hurried to catch up with him, and Sulmar followed at her side. She kept her peace, for her mission was almost done. But it occurred to her that rudeness must be this man's way of life.

They emerged from the tunnel into a large, dark chamber. Chentelle felt a gentle throb of power as A'stoc called for light. All through the walls of the cavern, natural crystal formations started to shine with gentle, white light. The floor had been worked into three circular tiers, sinking down to a central pool. A steep stairway connected the three levels.

"This is my home," A'stoc said, descending the first flight of stairs. "As you can see, it contains natural deposits of adartak, an effective focus for Crystal Lore."

The second tier appeared to be kitchen and living quarters. A sagging cot lay buried underneath piles of clothes and books. A small dresser served to separate the bedroom and the kitchen, which held a stove, a large cupboard, and a breakfast table with two chairs. A healthy fire burned in the stove.

A'stoc tossed the debris off of the chairs. "I apologize for not having a parlor, but I do not often have visitors." The sarcasm in his voice was palpable, but it softened. "Rest yourselves. You look weary."

Chentelle lowered herself onto a chair, grateful for the relief from hard days of walking and riding.

A'stoc pulled off his cloak and tossed it onto the cot. Underneath, he wore a faded robe which might have been silk. It had been sky blue once, but now was stained and worn nearly to rags. He had no leggings or trousers, and his long feet were protected only by leather-and-rope sandals.

He slid the bed over to the end of the table and sat down on its edge. "So tell me your message, elf girl," he said.

Chentelle studied the man who sat before her. She knew that wizards used their power to prolong their lives, but A'stoc seemed both ancient and young, both proud and defeated. His tanned skin was unlined save for the deep crease of his perpetual frown, but his unkempt hair was the color of sun-bleached bone. There was fire in his pale gray eyes, but there was also the look of a caged animal. He was definitely the man in her dream, but there was something else. She felt as if she had known him long before that.

Then it came to her. After the war, a human had come to Lone Valley, seeking Wizard A'mond.

He had been a pitiful creature, consumed by pain and despair. His emotions called out to Chentelle, to the grief she felt at her father's passing. She had never spoken to him, but somehow touching his sorrow had helped her deal with her own. This was that man, different but unchanged.

"Well," said A'stoc, "are you going to tell me the message, or did you come all this way just to stare?"

"Sorry," Chentelle said. "I'll give you the message. But first you should know how I came to bear it. I intercepted a dove sent to Wizard A'mond. The High Bishop was unaware that the wizard had died during the winter."

A'stoc closed his eyes and rested his head on long fingers. "A'mond," he whispered, "I remember him. A master of Wood Lore. I went to him after the war, looking for knowledge or perhaps comfort. He was ancient, even then. You bear sad news, elf girl."

"And there is more. The High Bishop wanted A'mond to seek you out. You are supposed to take the Staff to the Holy City of Norivika. And on the way here, Sulmar and I encountered an Ill-creature. It is clear that the High Bishop needs your help to deal with their threat."

"No!" A'stoc slammed his palms against the table and lurched to his feet.

The movement startled Chentelle and caused Sulmar to jump to his own feet, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. But the wizard only stalked off into the kitchen area.

"I cannot help you," he said. "There is nothing I can do for the High Bishop. Nothing."

"I—I don't understand," Chentelle said. "You are going to ignore the message?"

"There is nothing to understand, elf girl. I cannot go, and the two of you must leave."

A'stoc turned his back, dismissing them. He pulled open the large cupboard and grabbed a wine flask and a clay goblet. He sucked a large swallow directly from the flask and then filled the goblet, simultaneously wiping his chin clean against his sleeve.

"He is a coward, mistress," Sulmar said, not taking his eyes off the wizard. "He would hide in a wine bottle rather than take a stand against evil."

A'stoc pulled himself to his full height and glared at Sulmar. The wine flask trembled as his grip tightened. The tension between the two men was palpable, but then the wizard laughed and took another swallow of wine. "Bloodthirsty Tengarian!" he said. "You are Tengarian, aren't you?"

Sulmar's posture remained rigid. "No," he said, "though I was once."

A'stoc continued as if he hadn't heard the response. "I know your people: barbarous savages.

You spend your lives looking for an opportunity to die, for a hopeless cause to make your own. And now you've found one, haven't you?"

He pointed at Chentelle. "Look at her, Tengarian. She wants us to fight the Dark One. And you stand by her side like a loyal puppy, wagging your tail at her folly. I'm sure it will be a glorious death.

You are welcome to it."

Sulmar's knuckles grew white on the pommel of his sword, but his voice remained even. "My mistress sets her own path. I stand beside her, as is my duty. When I see evil, I fight against it. When I see something precious, I strive to protect it. I do not know what you do." He turned his back to the wizard and returned to his seat.

A'stoc turned to Chentelle. "Listen to me. There is no use in me going. Tell the Bishop that the power he searches for is lost. Tell him, elf girl, that I do not have what he seeks." He drained the goblet in one smooth motion and started to fill it again.

"But my mission was merely to inform you of your mission," she protested. "I have nothing to tell anyone else. I shall be going home."

He peered sourly at her with some discomfiting insight. "I think not."

"But—"

"No! We do not talk. We eat, we drink, we sleep, and then you leave."

So his dismissal had become a surly invitation. "Thank you, wizard," Chentelle said politely.

A'stoc started to say something, but stifled it. He grabbed two more goblets and set them on the table along with the flask. Then he started chopping vegetables into a large stew pot. He went up the stairs and came back with an already slaughtered and cleaned chicken. He roasted this separately from the stew and finished the meal preparations by warming some hard biscuits over the fire.

Chentelle was famished, but the smell of roasting flesh was making her ill. She understood that humans felt the need to eat animals, but her empty stomach could not bear the stench. A few sips of the strong wine only made her queasiness worse. She got up and wandered away from the table.

What did A'stoc mean by negating her intention to return home now? He had magical sources of information, but he obviously did not care about her. What did he know?

Huge stalactites were hanging from the cave's ceiling, glittering like a beetle's wings. She went to one and brushed her fingers against a shard of shining crystal, reaching out with her Gift. The adartak glowed with power. It was a web of fire running through the cold strength of the stone. And at the center of the web, there was something else, another power. But it was shielded from her. She reached for it with her Gift but felt only a cold, hard wall.

Chentelle pulled back into herself, keeping only a hint of the extended awareness that was her Gift. The pool—the power she felt was centered at the pool.

She walked down the stairs to the third tier. This was apparently A'stoc's workshop. The large stone tables and desk were covered with scrolls and experimental apparatus. Long bookshelves rested awkwardly against the curved walls, and the floor was littered with glass shards and loose parchments. In the center of the workshop, the silvery surface of the pool was surrounded by a ring of rune-carved stones.

Drops of fluid fell from stalactites thirty cubits above, striking the pool with a muffled plunk, plunk, plunk. It didn't sound like water, and the surface remained absolutely still. Not a single ripple marked where the drops passed. Chentelle moved to the pool's edge and peered in, but she saw only her own somewhat disheveled image reflected in the water. Whatever lay below the surface was hidden.

She knelt down and touched the surface, searching with her Gift. Shallow ripples marked the passage of her hand. It was water, cool and pure but unnaturally still. Fields of power hummed through it, pulling it taut. And there, below the tension of the surface waters, was the other power she had felt. It pulsed with vitality, a core of fire burning in an ocean of ice. Chentelle reached for it with her Gift.

An electric shock coursed through her fingers, knocking her back from the water. The pool began churning violently, as if it were boiling. Streamers of mist poured from the surface, swirling about in a wind which seemed to spring from nowhere.

Chentelle turned to flee, but a gust of wind blasted her to the floor. The gale twisted around her, pressing her against the rough stone and then changing direction, forcing her back toward the pool.

Her finger tore at the rock, trying to find purchase, but it was no use. The wind was too strong.

The mists coalesced above the water, taking form. A thick, sinuous body ended in a massive, square-jawed head. Long forelimbs led to wicked claws of vapor. The thing reached for Chentelle, opening its jaws to reveal a pit of absolute darkness within.

She screamed.

Suddenly, Sulmar was there, his black sword striking at the mists. The blade seemed to pass harmlessly through the vapor, but the thing shied away from the attack.

"Nalchea! Mig Noka!"

A'stoc's shout brought instant calm. The wind died, the water quieted, the mist faded to nothingness.

The mage stood rigidly, glaring at Chentelle. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a visible effort, he turned away and walked back up the stairs.

"Dinner is ready," he called contemptuously over his shoulder.

Sulmar appeared, reaching down to help her to her feet. "Are you all right, my liege?"

"Fine," she said, trembling. "Thank you for your help."

"I did only my duty, liege," he said. "I should have been here in time to prevent the threat."

"And I expressed only my feelings," Chentelle replied. "I should not have interfered in what was not my business. Now let's go eat. I'm famished."

They ate in silence. A'stoc drained his wine goblet with amazing frequency and refused all openings to conversation. The stew was bland, but filling. And Sulmar seemed to be enjoying his roast chicken.

Once Chentelle's belly was full, her mind started racing. Why did A'stoc refuse to go to Norivika? And what was it she had sensed in the water? The wizard said he did not have the power to help the High Bishop, but there was something puissant in that pool. A'stoc was hiding something.

Chentelle inhaled slowly, steeling herself to face the mage's anger. "Wizard, what was it I disturbed in the pool?"

A'stoc glared at her over the rim of his goblet. "Do you know anything about wizardry?" he asked, with particular calmness.

Chentelle shook her head.

"No?" he said. "I suppose there are not many who do. That is a magepool, elf girl. You must never disturb the surface of such a pool. Wizards are notoriously paranoid about such things, they protect them with powerful wards."

He put a strange inflection on the word 'wizards.' Chentelle could not tell if it was mockery or awe.

"But, wizard," she said, trying to guide him back to the subject, "I sensed another power in the well. Something separate from the spells on the water. You said that you did not have the power the High Bishop seeks, but what I felt was great power. Why is it that you refuse the High Bishop's call?"

A'stoc drained his goblet and slammed it against the table. "Jester tricks! The power you felt is nothing compared to the power of the Dark One. I told you—"

The mage cut himself off. A thoughtful look passed over his face and he turned to face Chentelle.

"How did you close my doorway?" he asked quietly.

"It is my Gift," she said. "I am an enchantress. I can sense the forces of life and magic that—"

"I know what an enchantress is, elf girl," he said sharply. He upended the flask over his cup, but no wine poured out. He set the empty flask on the floor and started to rise, but he lurched unsteadily and fell back in his seat.

"I will get it for you," Chentelle said. She did not approve of the way he was imbibing, but she knew that it was pointless to aggravate him further. She went to the cupboard and found two shelves full of bottled wine. She selected a dark burgundy that seemed identical to what they had been drinking and brought it back to the table. She filled A'stoc's glass and set the flask down within his reach. Then she returned to her chair.

A'stoc said nothing.

"Wizard," she said, laying a hand on his wrist. He jerked his arm away from her, nearly toppling the wine flask in the process. She realized that while touching was natural to her, it was not necessarily so to humans.

"You want to know why I don't jump at the High Bishop's call?" he asked.

"Please," she said. "I need to understand."

"Then you have to understand the Wizards' War," he said, reaching out and sandwiching her hand between both of his own. "Use your Gift, little enchantress. I have something to show you."

Chentelle's hand felt tiny in his grasp. Now he was touching her, and that was perhaps good.

The intensity of his need struck her even before she called on her power. Part of her wanted to recoil from him, but she knew that she could not. She would not, even if she were capable. She had to understand. She opened herself to the Gift.

A'stoc was a wall, a barrier that resisted all attempts at penetration. Then the shield dissolved, lowered from within, and Chentelle sensed a diamond-hard core of power: shining, multifaceted, sharp-edged.

Then the emotions hit her. She tossed in a maelstrom of bitterness and despair, of suffering and sadness. The power, the depth of the feelings overwhelmed her. It was too strong to fight. She surrendered, letting the current of anguish wash over her, through her. A'stoc's pain, A'stoc's memories, became hers. Slowly, the tide of emotions resolved itself into a progression of images.

She watched the Dark One emerge from the Abyss, building his strength for the assault. He seduced the trolls with promises of power and wealth. Then he created an army of Ill-creatures, breeding them in foul pits deep beneath the surface. As his power grew, others flocked to his banner: first the gnomes, then the goblins.

In Norivika, the High Bishop moved to counter the threat. He called upon the separate kingdoms of human, elf, and dwarf to unite their forces under one command. And he summoned the Lore Masters of the Collegium. A'pon Boemarre answered that call. And Chentelle—A'stoc—had followed her master.

Some wizards joined in battle against the Ill-creatures, others worked in laboratories, filling volumes with mystic rune-writing. A'pon Boemarre locked himself away in Norivika. Chentelle waited impotently while her master studied in seclusion. Then after more than a year, A'pon Boemarre emerged bearing the mightiest weapon ever known: the Thunderwood Staff. He had created it from the Tree of Life—the Tree which binds the Earth and Sky. And it frightened him.

She had seen his fear, though he hid it from all others. The Thunderwood Staff held power over life itself. Its power was unimaginable, perhaps uncontrollable. But that power was needed.

The forces of evil slowly crushed the Legion armies. The power of the Ill-creatures was too great. Slowly, inexorably the Dark One advanced into the Realm. Then A'pon Boemarre took the field. The Thunderwood Staff was in his hand, and she was at his side.

Chentelle recoiled as memories of blood and death filled her mind. Battle after battle played out in her thoughts as the war continued. For four years, the tide of war swept across the Realm.

Thousands died; even the giants were caught up in the struggle as their homeland became a center for the conflict. Again and again, the armies clashed. Again and again, the Staff proved too much for the Ill-creatures. And victory increased the confidence of A'pon Boemarre.

The Legion pressed its attack to the heart of the Dark One's power, the breeding pits where he spawned his Ill-creatures. The armies met in the Western Mountains, near the homelands of the giants and the trolls. Neither side held back its reserves; everyone knew the war would be decided here.

War banners covered a dozen mountainsides, but the true battle took place beneath their feet.

In a cave under the mountains, beside molten pits that led to the Abyss, A'pon Boemarre confronted the Dark One. He raised the Thunderwood Staff and summoned its power, surrounding himself with a corona of green flame.

The Dark One emerged from the pit. Shadows danced around his body, obscuring him from sight, but slowly a face became clear: her face, A'stoc's face. The face smiled and paralysis gripped her. She was unable to speak, unable to move, unable even to look away.

Boemarre lashed out with the power of the Staff. Green flames enveloped the Dark One, burning brighter than the Golden Sun. But they could not penetrate his shield of shadow.

The Dark One moved forward, grabbing at the Staff. Bolts of emerald and ebony shot through the cavern as he tried to wrestle it away from the wizard. Power throbbed around the battling figures.

The ground trembled, and deep cracks appeared in the floor. The fire pits erupted in molten geysers.

A fireball began forming around the staff: not green, not black, but pure white. The intensity of the light was too much too bear. It burned her eyes, blinding her, but somehow she could still see.

A crevice opened up beneath Boemarre and the Dark One. They dropped through the crack, and the Thunderwood Staff flew from their hands. It fell in Chentelle's direction. One end landed in her palm; the other struck against the stone floor. The fireball exploded.

The Earth screamed in her mind. The wall of flames expanded outward, leaving destruction in its wake. Every blade of grass, every shrub, every insect, every being in its path caught fire. The flames passed through the assembled armies. Elves burst into flames; knights burned inside their armor; goblins were reduced to piles of ash; and the fire kept going. Village after village of peace-loving giants were consumed by flame, and the fire kept going. The entire race of trolls died as their marshes boiled around them, and still the fire kept going. The Earth itself burned and twisted in the conflagration. Then, at last, the holocaust stopped.

Only she was left alive. The wasteland stretched around her as far as she could see, a vast panorama of death. And she walked. She walked through fields littered with the corpses of men she might once have known. She walked over twisted landscapes of dust and rock and soot. She walked until she couldn't walk anymore. Then she slept. And all the while she never let go of the Thunderwood Staff.

When she woke, she started walking again. She came across the corpse of an animal that still had some flesh on its bones, and she attacked it in hunger. The burned meat made her thirsty, but there was no water. She walked. At some point it rained, and then she could catch water in her mouth or lick it from depressions in the rock. And she walked.

She walked for leagues. She walked for days. But the wasteland kept going. It stretched before her, vast, seemingly without end. But she couldn't stop. She kept walk—

"My liege?"

Chentelle lay curled in a ball on the floor, trembling. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she had difficulty breathing. Sulmar was tapping gently on her wrist. He must have broken the contact.

She forced herself to uncurl, fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied motion. She was Chentelle, not A'stoc. She had never been to the Desecration Fault, never walked through the desolation. Never eaten the flesh of a corpse of an animal. They were A'stoc's memories, not hers. It hadn't happened to her.

She managed to stop crying and bring her breath under control. By the Creator, she had never imagined such horror was possible! And A'stoc had lived through it. She searched for the wizard, and saw him slumped across the table, hiding his face in his hands and crying softly.

"My liege? Can you speak?"

"Sulmar," she said, clutching at the stability of his arm. "I'm all right, Sulmar. At least, I will be soon. Will you help me up?"

The Tengarian lifted her easily off the floor and set her gently back in her chair. "I was worried for you," he said. "Almost as soon as the wizard touched you, you cried out in pain. I knocked his hands away from yours, but still you fell to the floor."

Chentelle followed Sulmar's gaze to the slumped figure of the wizard. He was no longer crying, but he still hid his face in his hands.

"Do not trust him, mistress," Sulmar said. "He lives without honor."

"It was not his fault, Sulmar," she said, going to the wizard.

She placed a hand on A'stoc's shoulder, being careful not to reach out with her Gift. "I am sorry.

I did not know that anyone had survived the Desecration."

A'stoc looked up, staring past her with bloodshot eyes. "No one did," he said. "No one did."

Chentelle wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him. But his pain was too deep, too powerful.

She didn't know how to help him, so she just sat with him. The silence stretched for long moments.

"And it was all for nothing," he said, finally. "So much destruction. So much death. And for what? The Dark One has returned, and we have no magic to oppose him. The great wizards are gone forever, and their knowledge died with them."

"What do you mean?" Chentelle asked.

"The old wizards recorded their spells in rune-writing," he explained. "A magic script, indecipherable to the untrained. It was part of their paranoia, their jealousy. The Masters guarded their secrets well, especially after the necromancers appeared. And when a wizard dies, his spells die with him. The old Lore books are filled with blank pages. Only a few handwritten documents survive."

"But what about the Collegium?" she asked. "The Lore Masters of Tel Adartak-Skysoar?"

"Fools!" A'stoc said. "And worse than fools. There are no true Masters there, no wizards to rival A'kalendane or A'pon Boemarre. The knowledge is lost. They struggle to relearn the most basic spells. They are children, lost in the wilderness and pretending to be guides. In time, they might find their way home. But if Ill-creatures move in the Realm, then time runs short."

"Then we must act now," Chentelle said. "Don't you see? The High Bishop wouldn't send for you if he didn't have a plan. We must have hope. The Creator will not abandon his Creation."

"Hope!" the mage bellowed. "Hope is a road that leads only to despair. The High Bishop does not know what he asks. I am powerless to stop what is happening."

"Apparently the High Bishop thinks otherwise," she said, struggling to keep her frustration in check.

"That does not change the fact."

Was he just going to sit and watch while the world suffered, while the Dark One destroyed Creation? No, Chentelle had to convince him to act.

"Please, wizard," she said. "You know what will happen if the Dark One triumphs. More than any man alive, you know the horrors that his victory will bring. You must help us."

"No." He lurched to his feet and staggered one step.

"If you do not even try," she said desperately, "then you have already decided the fate of the world."

A'stoc started as if she had slapped him. "Enough!" He drained the last of his wine and collapsed onto the bed beside him. "I will think about what you have said," he mumbled. "But you leave in the morning."

The lights began to dim as A'stoc drifted to sleep. Chentelle removed the wizard's shoes and tucked a thin blanket around him. Then she and Sulmar hurriedly set up their beds for the night. Soon, loud snoring filled the chamber and the glow of the adartak died completely.

Chentelle's mind raced. She had to convince A'stoc to answer the High Bishop's call. But how?

She couldn't force his cooperation. And he had suffered so much. She shuddered at the memory of his pain. No wonder he was bitter, afraid to hope. But he had to help.

The questions continued, but she had no answers. Finally the exhaustion of the day took its toll, and sleep claimed her.

* * *

She is home, walking among the familiar trees of Lone Valley. Slanted shafts of light penetrate the ceiling of branches, lacing the pathway with bright white patches. The trees whisper to each other, but she can't understand their words. Something feels wrong; there is a strange presence in the forest.

The forest moves into darkness. Deep shadows fall between the trees, covering her path.

Something is moving just beyond the field of her vision. She whirls, but she sees nothing. Her skin tingles. She can feel it, watching, stalking. The whispers start again. Doom. Doom.

She runs. The trees close in on her, channeling her down a narrow path. Branches tear at her face and her clothes, but she keeps running.

She emerges into a black void, empty of trees, empty of light, empty of sound. She stumbles into the clearing, groping her way through the darkness. The shadows are cold. Her skin shivers at their touch. She moves forward, but the void seems to stretch forever.

Suddenly, cruel laughter echoes in the gloom. A figure flows out of the darkness. A hideous creature with taloned legs and huge wings.

The demon's pallid stare paralyzes her. She can only watch in horror as a great clawed fist extends toward her. The hand uncurls, and the broken, lifeless form of a dove falls by her feet.

* * *

Chentelle woke to the sound of her own screaming. Sweat ran down her face and her breathing was fast and heavy.

There was the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. "Mistress, are you in danger?"

"It's all right, Sulmar," she said. "It was a dream, a dream of evil." But she knew that it had been a dream of truth. The Ill-creatures knew about her mission.

Was it morning? It was impossible to tell. The darkness of the cave was absolute. But she felt rested, as if she had slept several hours.

"A'stoc," she yelled into the darkness. "Wizard, wake up. They know. The Dark One knows that the High Bishop has sent for you. A'stoc!"

A muffled voice sounded from the direction of the cot, and dim light filled the chamber. A'stoc lay curled on his bed, clutching his head tightly in his hands.

"Hel's Maw," he grumbled. "Not so loud, girl."

Chentelle tossed off her blanket and hurried to his side. "Please, A'stoc, you must go to Norivika. You must!"

A'stoc rolled over, lowering his feet to the floor. "Aaah, where are my shoes? What did—"

He stopped suddenly, clutching his arms to his body. Then he stumbled to the kitchen and vomited in the nearest bowl. When he was finished, he slid slowly down the front of the cupboard and sat on the stone floor.

Chentelle felt a twinge of despair. This was the hope of the world? No, there was more to this man than the drunken spectacle before her. She had felt that last night. She had to figure out how to reach the strength inside the man.

She wet a cloth and handed it to the mage. "A'stoc, please. So much depends upon you."

"Quietly, please," A'stoc said, pressing the cloth to his face and staggering to his feet. "You have no idea the pain that you cause me."

"But, wizard—"

He silenced her with an upraised hand. "My wits were not so addled last night that I failed to consider your words. I have decided to go to the Holy Land."

He was going! "Thank you, wizard," Chentelle said. "You are truly wise."

"Then why do I feel like a fool, elf girl?" he demanded. "And stop calling me wizard. I never earned that title. I have only a fraction of the knowledge my master possessed. I cannot even call upon the Staff's power."

She was tempted to ask him similarly to stop calling her girl, but concluded that issue was pointless. "You can't use the Staff? Still, the High Bishop must have reason to call for your aid."

"The High Bishop has no idea what he asks. I go with you only to show him the truth of our situation."

"With me? But I am going home."

He looked at her. "I think not," he said, as he had before. "Consider my inadequacies. Do you think I would ever get there alone?"

Her mouth dropped open. It was true: this caustic, depressive, drunken caricature of a mage was unlikely to complete any journey of more than an hour, without help.

A'stoc forced a grim smile. "If I must suffer, so must you. Your task is not done until you get me there."

So it seemed. Because if she refused, so would he. And the fate of the world perhaps depended on him.

She made her decision. "Then we should leave now, wiz—A'stoc. I dreamed that the Ill-creatures know about the High Bishop's message. They want to stop you from reaching Norivika."

"You dreamed it," he said. "And I suppose all your dreams come true."

Chentelle felt the bitterness of his sarcasm. "No," she said. "But sometimes they do. Sometimes I can feel the truth of a dream. And this dream was true."

"Maybe," A'stoc said. "But we are safe for now. My home is not easy to find. And it is only two days travel to the Barrier."

"Then the sooner you leave, the better," Chentelle said. "Your home was not too difficult for me to find."

A'stoc threw the cloth to the ground in disgust. "Enough of your prodding, elf girl. I told you I would go." He glanced at her. "With you."

"With me," she agreed with resignation. She was committed, too.

"And me," Sulmar added. But he did not seem distressed. She realized that his motive differed: he wanted to travel and find adventure, but could do so only in her company. She hoped he did not succeed in finding more than any of them cared for. That winged monster of her dream...

A'stoc searched for his shoes, finally finding them at the end of the cot. After several tries he managed to slip them on his feet and stand up.

"Wait here," he said, working his way slowly down the stairs to the magepool.

Chentelle moved to the edge of the tier and watched.

A'stoc's steps became steadier as he neared the pool. The surface of the well glowed faintly, and the mage stood near its edge for a time, seeming to draw strength from the water. Then he spoke a single word. The water started churning, though not as violently as it had the night before. Mist rose from the pool, taking the shape of two giant, long-fingered hands.

The mage started chanting, and the hands reached down into the pool. Misty fingers pushed into the water and pulled it apart as if it were solid. A hollow channel formed, reaching down into the depths. Suddenly a shaft of brilliant light exploded from the opening. A wooden staff floated upward inside the light.

A'stoc gestured, and the staff drifted toward his hand. As soon as his fingers touched the wood, the light died, and the walls of water came crashing together.

The staff was gnarled like the root of an ancient oak. Magical runes were worked expertly into its surface, carved to blend smoothly with the natural contours of the wood. The tool radiated power, power similar to the magic of the unicorns but far stronger. It pulsed with life.

This was the Thunderwood Staff. It could be no other.

A'stoc held the Staff with both hands, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. "Well, then,"

he said. "Let us go see the High Bishop."

* 5 *

Aftermath

Dacius woke to the taste of sand and salt water. He spat, trying to clear his mouth, and pushed Himself upright. Pain shot through his right wrist. The world spun and he fell back to the ground.

His vision contracted into a haze of darkness. No! He had to stay conscious. He bit down hard on the edge of his tongue, using the sharp pain to counteract the ache in his wrist. Blood mixed with the grit in his mouth, but his vision cleared.

He was on a beach. Deneob was in the sky, casting everything in a reddish hue. Debris from the Otan Stin decorated the shoreline. He remembered kicking off his boots, fighting desperately to stay above the waves. He must have latched on to some timbers and floated out the storm. He rolled carefully onto his back and sat up. Except for his boots, he did not seem to have lost—

His left hand leaped to his side. Thank the Creator, the vorpal sword hung safely in its scabbard.

He had managed to save it from the storm.

Slowly, Dacius got to his feet. His arm throbbed, and he risked a quick glance. A small, jagged spur of bone poked through the skin just above his wrist. Congealed blood and sand kept the wound from bleeding any more. He laid the wrist against his chest and braced it with his other arm. Now he could travel.

He weaved his way down the beach, searching for survivors. His balance was off, and it was difficult to make his legs move properly. He shivered in the ocean breeze. It was cold. His skull pounded, and he lifted his hand to his forehead: sweat. He was feverish.

Flotsam littered the shore. He spotted a patch of color: part of a uniform. He worked his way closer. There were bodies, three of them. Two were sailors; the third wore the green and white of the Inarr Regiment.

The Legionnaire lay facedown, his head canted at an alarming angle. Dacius knelt in the sand and rolled the body over. Graying hair fell around a face that he had known all his life. Alka! The elf's eyes stared blankly into the sky.

Tears ran freely down Dacius' face as he reached down and closed his friend's eyes. "Watch for this one, Creator," he said. "He has served you well."

Dacius wanted to stay and bury his friend, but it was impossible. Even if he were capable of the action, his first duty was to find other survivors. He forced himself back to his feet and continued down the beach. The world seemed desolate, lifeless. Clumps of wreckage loomed toward him through a haze of fever. Often, there were bodies mixed with the debris. Some were sailors, and some were Legionnaires, but all were dead. The sand tantalized him with promises of rest, but Dacius kept walking.

Smoke rose from behind a small cluster of rocks. Someone was waving to him. There were a half-dozen figures, maybe more. Two of them headed toward him. As they neared, Dacius recognized Captain Rone and Thildemar. The old musician appeared unhurt, but Rone had one arm slung in a makeshift splint, and a mass of bruises covered the left side of his face.

"Lord Gemine," Thildemar said, "my heart is gladdened to see you alive."

Something within Dacius relaxed at the sight of the elves. The world started to spin, and he dropped to his knees in the sand. "Alka," he said. "My friend—dead."

"By the Creator!" Rone cried. "Be damned that hideous creature! Where is he?"

Dacius gestured back. "I saw him. He—" But he could not continue. He fell forward.

Arms wrapped about his shoulders and a slim hand pressed against his forehead. "He is hot with fever," Thildemar said.

The captain shouted instructions, and more elves appeared. Dacius was soon being carried gently toward the shelter of the rocks. A Legionnaire was carefully feeding deadwood into the fire, using his elven Lore to prepare the wet timbers for the flame. The elves laid Dacius beside the fire and covered him with a heavy cloak.

Thildemar poured water over Dacius' wrist, cleaning the wound. "This needs to be set. Prepare yourself. There will be a great deal of pain."

Someone pushed a thick layer of cloth into Dacius's mouth. He bit down hard while Thildemar pulled and twisted his wrist. Bones ground against each other, and Dacius screamed. Pain shot through his arm, burning, throbbing, piercing. When the tide of darkness washed across his vision, heralding unconsciousness, he welcomed the relief.

* * *

The faces of Thildemar and Captain Rone appeared above him. "Lord Gemine," Thildemar said,

"are you rational?"

Dacius took a moment to consider. He was exhausted, feverish, probably in shock. But he did not seem to be delirious. His wrist was strapped to his chest. It ached severely, but the pain was manageable. "Yes," he replied evenly.

The old elf smiled. "Good."

"How long have I been out?"

"Only a short while," the elf replied. "Just long enough to splint your arm. Now, if you are able, then as the ranking Legion officer present command falls to you."

"Me?" Dacius asked. "What about you?" Then he remembered what Alka had told him about Thildemar. "Or, Captain Rone?"

"I'm no Legion Lord," Rone said. "Besides, how could I ask men to follow my lead, when my last decision was so disastrous? Good men died for my arrogance. And I lost the finest ship I've ever sailed."

Thildemar placed a comforting hand on the captain's shoulder. "The blame is not yours alone, captain. You based your decision on sound judgment of these waters. Had the storm been a natural one, your skill would have seen us through. It was the Ill-creature's magic that destroyed your vessel, and you had no way of anticipating that danger."

Captain Rone nodded at Thildemar's words, but the tension remained in his posture and his voice. "Nevertheless, this burden is not mine."

"All right," Dacius said, "I accept the command, for now. What is our situation?"

"I make our position to be on the northern reach of the Larama desert," said Rone. "We have to travel along the coast to reach the Holy Land. The Altan Noff mountains cut off all other routes until you reach the dwarven passes far to the west. The sand will slow us until we reach the foothills, but we should still reach Talan before nightfall."

"A Legion outpost used to sit at the border, just beyond the pass," said Thildemar. "If it has not been abandoned, they should be able to give us healing and provide us with horses until we reach Norivika."

"The monster that attacked us last night, will it be stalking us?" Dacius asked.

"They cannot travel in daytime," Thildemar replied. "Direct sunlight kills them. But we must assume that it, or another Ill-creature, will attack again once darkness comes."

"How did it find us?" Dacius said.

"I do not know," Thildemar answered. "Perhaps the Dark One intercepted a message to the High Bishop. Or maybe the Ill-creatures have a way to sense our presence. The powers of evil are not to be underestimated."

Dacius looked at the piles of debris that were his companions around the fire. "How many of us are there?"

"We have ten survivors," said Thildemar.

Ten. Pictures of broken bodies strewn along the beach ran through Dacius' mind. "What have you been able to salvage?" he asked.

"Primarily clothes and timber," Rone said. "The food was spoiled, but we did find some fresh water." He handed a flask to Dacius. "And we recovered vorpal blades from five of the fallen Legionnaires."

Dacius took the flask. The water stung as it washed across his tongue, but he swallowed it gratefully, quenching a thirst he hadn't even been aware of.

"Lord Gemine," Thildemar said. "Concerning the dead, some of the men want to bury them before we leave, giving them at least some of the honors they deserve. Others fear that the delay will leave us short of safety when night falls; they counsel immediate departure. The outpost can send riders back tomorrow to recover the bodies and transport them home."

Dacius turned to Captain Rone. "How certain are you about our position?"

"I know this coast," Rone said. "I can see the Altan Noff range. We aren't far from the pass. We should have no trouble making it by evening." He paused, looking at Dacius. "Begging your pardon, lord, but that's assuming you can travel a steady pace."