CHILD OF THUNDER [049-5.0]

By: MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT

Synopsis:

The eighth task of wizardry-His duties in the world of mortals
seemingly done--the Renshai safely established in a community of their
own, Sterrane ruling peacefully in the kingdom of Bearn--Colbey must
face the Seven Tasks of Wizardry and earn whether he is truly the new
Western Wizard, keeper of neutrality.  But, what Colbey is about to
discover is that there is an Eighth Task far more dangerous not only to
himself but to the worlds of humans and Gods alike.

And even if he survives to take on that eighth challenge, there are
those among the Gods, Wizards, and mortal-kind ready to make loyal
allies into weapons to use against Colbey.  For with Ragnarok looming
over all the worlds, both those sworn to law and those promised to
chaos will unite to stop the Wizard-warrior by any means--though their
very actions against Colbey may become the catalyst for mutual
destruction.

Book Three of The Renshai Trilogy

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

375 Hudson Street, New York.  NY 10014

ELIZABETH R. WoLLHEIM

SHEILA E. GILBERT

PUBLISHERS

To Sheila Gilbert,

one of the very best and to.

Old Man Mikie, just because.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following people:

Jonathan Matson, Jody Lee, Charon Wood, David Moore, and Mark Moore and
to

Benjamin and Jonathan Moore,

for understanding when page proofs' come before Nintendo.TM

"Should the whole frame of Nature round him break, In ruin and
confusion hurled, He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty crack, And
stand secure amidst a falling world."

--Joseph Addison

Horace, Odes, book III, ode iii

CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I--THE SEVEN TASKS OF WIZARDRY

1. The Outworlder

2. The High Seas

3. The Scene in the Pica

4. The Tasks of Wizardry

5. The Task of Leadership

6. The Woman of Gold and the Shape Changer

7. A Power Challenged

8. Spawn of Fenrir

9. The Black Door

Part II--THE KEEPERS OF LAW AND CHAOS

10.  The Keepers of Law and Chaos

11.  Chaos' Task

12.  Mainland

13.  The Ahktarian Trial

14.  Long Way Home

15.  Aristiri Song

16.  Shadimar's Apprentice

17.  Frost Rearer

18.  The Bard of Bearn

 19.  Crossroad Fyn's

20.  The Gods' Council

Part III--THE GRAY GOD'S DOWNFALL

21.  The Wizards' Successors

22.  Dreams of Gold and Demons

23.  Thor's Solution

24.  Offworld

25.  Back to Bearn

26.  From Nowhere to Nowhere

27.  Hunting the Hunter

28.  Willing Prisoners

29.  Gateway

30.  The Green and the Pink 31.  Parlay on the Fields of Wrath

32.  In Ruin and Confusion Hurled

Epilogue

Appendix

PROLOGUE

Silence filled the women's court in the Eastern kingdom of Stalmize,
broken only by occasional tense whispers from the spectators.

Khitajrah stood near the far end of the courtroom, her head bowed and
her back to the murmuring crowd.  She faced the three-man tribunal who
sat, with stony expressions, at their long table.  Behind them, a
doorway led to their chambers where they had deliberated for less time
than it took for the woman's heart to beat two dozen strokes.

Khitajrah never doubted they would find her guilty.  It was only the
sentence that remained a mystery: imprisonment, mutilation, death.

Khitajrah raised her head slightly, her curly, shoulder-length black
hair falling into eyes nearly as dark.  Directly beside her, the guard
stirred, attentive to her movement, though he did not otherwise respond
to it.  She was, after all, only a woman and, also, half his size.  She
twisted her gaze to the spectators, counting them to expend nervous
energy.  It was not her way to stand mute in the presence of injustice;
her need for action had committed her to this trial that had proven
little more than a recitation of her crimes.  As an Eastland woman, she
had no right to a defense, and the proceedings in the women's court
were a parody of justice.

Khitajrah's gaze played over the seated rows of the audience.

She counted eighteen, all men, and weaponless as the court law
specified.  Her son, Bahmyr, sat along one aisle, fidgeting
helplessly.

At twenty-three, he already sported the heavy frame and hard
musculature of his father.  Ebony hair fringed a handsome face,
friendly despite growing up amid the cold evil of the Eastern
culture.

He was the last of Khitajrah's children.  Her other two sons, one older
and one younger, had died in the Great War, along with their father,
Harrsha, who had served as one of two high lieutenants to King
Siderin.

The other seventeen spectators included family, curious neighbors, and
soldiers.  Among the latter, Khitajrah recognized at least two who had
placed the blame for the defeat of the Eastern army on her late
husband.  That accusation, at least, seemed ludicrous.  Khitajrah
understood the need for these broken veterans to find a scapegoat, to
blame the hundreds of casualties on a specific man whom they could
curse and malign.  As the chosen of the Eastlands' one god,
General-King Siderin must always remain a hero, though he had led his
followers and himself to their deaths.  But Harrsha had been Siderin's
last surviving high commander, and the Western warrior who had killed
him on the battlefield was a woman.

A woman.  Khitajrah pursed her lips in a tense frown, torn by the
irony.  She had fought for the dignity and worth of women for as long
as she could remember: comforting those beaten, lending her strength to
the overburdened, and stealing food and medication where needed.  Now,
at forty-three years old, she would pay the price for a lifetime of
assisting her sisters and decades of walking the delicate boundaries of
the law.  Now that her cause finally stood a chance, she would fall in
defeat, with no one to continue her work.  The war had left women
outnumbering men by three to one, and the Eastlands needed to use the
guile and competence of their women, as well as their bodies, to keep
the realm from lapsing into decay.  The overtaxed farmsfields could
scarcely feed the populace, even with their numbers whittled by war.

The central man of the tribunal cleared his throat.  Khitajrah returned
her attention to them, her gaze sweeping briefly over the only armed
men in the courtroom.  Two burly soldiers guarded the door.  Another
stood, braced and watchful, between the tribunal and the crowd.  The
last remained at Khitajrah's right hand, alert to her every movement.

The central man rose.  "Friends.  Freemen.  It is the opinion of this
court that this woman... this frichen-karboh ..."  He paused on the
word, one of the ugliest in the Eastern language.

Literally, it translated to "manless woman, past usefulness," a
derogatory term used for widows.  In the East, violent crime and a
constant life of labor saw to it that a woman rarely outlasted her
husband.  When he died first, it was expected that she, and her
unattached female children, would suicide on his pyre.  "... this one
called Khita is guilty of theft, of inciting women, and of treason in
the eyes of the one

god, Sheriva."  Though he spoke formally, he used the shortened form
of Khitajrah's name, as if to imply that she was not worth the effort
of a third syllabic.  "She is guilty."

"Guilty," the judge to the speaker's right echoed.

"Guilty," the other concurred.

Khitajrah stiffened.  Though the law condemned dissent or · revolt,
thoughts of these rose naturally.  She had spied on her husband when he
taught their sons the art of war.  Hard labor, her own and that which
she had spared weaker women, had honed her agility.  Stealing from men
had taught her to climb, twist, and dodge.  And, since the Great War,
Bahmyr had worked with his mother on strike and parry, his love for her
outweighing the risk of violating Eastern rules.  It had never been his
or Khitajrah's desire to break the laws that had become a fixed part of
their culture for millennia, only to revise them.  Without change, the
Eastlanders as a people would die.

The speaker continued.  "We sentence Khita Harrsha's-widow ..."  His
dark eyes met Khitajrah's, strong and intense; they seemed to bore
through her.  The woman had been trained since infancy to look down in
deference, yet this time she met him stare for stare.

Caught off-guard by her boldness, the speaker lost his place.

Flustered, he glanced away first, covering his weakness by turning his
glare on the guard at Khitajrah's side.

"... sentence Khita to work the silver mine until the end of her
life."

Slow death.  Khitajrah knew they had given her the worst sentence of
all, an anonymous and prolonged death.  Starvation and cave-ins took
those strong enough to survive the constant pace of working to the
limit of the most competent prisoner from moment to moment, without
rest.  Few lived out a year in the mines.  Khitajrah had expected
death, yet it should have come in the form of a public execution, as an
example to the other Eastland women.  Given the chance to defy crying
out at the tribunal's torture or to speak last words, Khitajrah could
have become a martyr to her cause, her death the shock that might have
driven others to take her place.

"No!"  Khitajrah screamed.  She whirled, managing to turn halfway
toward the audience before the guard caught her arm in a grip like
iron.  His sword rasped from its sheath, its edge coming to rest at her
throat.  Despite the threat, she straggled against him.

The spectators erupted into a wild, indecipherable hubbub.

Drawing swords, the guards by the door leapt forward to assist.  Even
as they moved, Bahmyr sprang to his feet, catching the nearest one's
hand where it clutched the sword's hilt.  The guard spun toward him.

Bahmyr stomped his booted instep on the guard's foot.  In the same
motion, he caught the haft, whipped it fully free of its sheath, and
buried the blade in its wielder's gut.

The son's voice rang out over the others, clearly audible.

"Mother, run!"  Freeing the sword, he shoved the guard's cose away.

The other hacked high.  Bahmyr's parry rang against the guard's
attack.

His counter slash opened sleeve and sword arm.  The soldier's arm
flopped to his side, his sword clanging to the floor.

Khitajrah's guard spun to face the attack, his sword falling from the
woman's throat.  He shoved her violently aside, his blade cutting the
air above her head, and he leapt for Bahmyr.

"No!"  Khitajrah made a desperate grab, catching the man's hilt and
hand as he spun.  Using the technique her son had taught her, she
twisted violently downward, breaking the guard's grip.  The effort took
her to her knees, the sword still clenched in her grip.  Unable to
recover quickly enough to defend, she hurled herself against the
guard's legs.  The man staggered onto Bahmyr's stop thrust, the sword
impaling him cleanly through the abdomen.

The guard screamed.  Bahmyr's cry sounded equally agonized.

"Behind you!"  He choked off the last syllable in shock or pain.

Still on her knees, Khitajrah whirled toward the tribunal.

She met the last guard's attack as much from instinct as her son's
warning.  Steel crashed, chiming against steel, the man's strength
driving her to her buttocks.  Blow after blow followed, each so fast
and hard she could do little more than.

block.  She waited for Bahmyr to come to her aid.  Between them, they
could handle her enemy.  Yet her son did not come.

Fatigue wore on Khitajrah.  She exaggerated its effect, whipping a
frightened gaze to the man above her.  She met an expression of icy
cruelty, devoid of mercy.  His blade slammed against hers once more.

She gave with the motion, all but pressed to the wooden floor.  The
instant he raised his weapon for a final strike, she lunged, slamming
her hilt into his groin with all the power she could land behind the
blow.

The guard collapsed, hand still clutching his sword.

Hands, throat, side of the chest.  Calling on Bahmyr's

training, Khitajrah naturally struck for a kill.  She hacked at his
neck.  The blow lacked the power to inflict serious damage, but the
draw cut she used to recover the blade opened his throat.  Blood
splattered, warm droplets pelting her, and the guard went limp at her
feet.

Khitajrah rose, assessing the situation in an instant.

Bahmyr Sprawled, facedown, in the aisle, blood washing from a wound in
his back at the level of a kidney.  Another knife cut ravaged the tunic
she had sewn for him, now dark with her son's blood.  The sight
paralyzed her.  She stood, sword still in her clenched fist.  All color
drained from her and, with it, all her will to fight.

From beyond Bahmyr, two veterans of the Great War advanced on
Khitajrah.  She knew both men well.  Diarmad hid been the first to
disparage her dead husband, laying blame On the commanderr at the top
of his lungs, from the curtain wall of the king's palace.  The other
had engineered this mockery the tribunal dared to call a trial The
elder who had pronounced Khitajrah's sentence shouted.  "Stop her at
any cost!"

Some of the audience sat, rooted.  Others leapt to obey, charging down
on Khitajrah with her son's killers in the lead.  The judges ran around
their table toward her.

Attacked from all sides, Khitajrah mobilized as well.  She whirled,
running directly for the judges' bench.  Footsteps pounded behind her,
liberally mixed with shouts and threats of violence.  As she sprinted
for the bench, the judges hurried around it, to corner her against
it.

Khitajrah did not slow.  She sprang to the surface of the table, dark
hair flying behind her, entwined with her cloak hood.  For an instant,
she balanced there.  Then, her momentum drove the table over backward:
Wood crashed, splintering against planking.  She dodged free as the
judges scattered, leaving her an open path to their chambers.

"Get her!"  the speaker shrieked.

A knife whizzed by Khitajrah's head.  Its hilt struck the door frame
and bounced, skittering across the floor.  She threw a quick glance
around the room, finding its furnishings wastefully excessive at a time
when the Eastlanders could scarcely feed what remained of their
masses.

Pillows covered the floor, surrounded by half-eaten platefuls of beef
and grapes and goblets of wine.  Three desks lined the walls, festooned
with intricately carved leaves and vines,, Above

one, a window overlooked the mazelike alleyways of the Eastlands'
royal city.

Khitajrah hurled the sword blindly behind her.  Its length in her hand
could only hamper her escape.  She hoped throwing it might gain her the
precious moments she needed to maneuver.  She had prowled the streets
of Stalmize enough times to know them by heart, even under the cover of
night's darkness.  Although she had never entered the tribunal's
quarters, she knew its window from the outside.  It opened a story over
a populous street, full of vendors and shops.

Though it would leave her exposed and hemmed in by crowds, a few steps
could take her in any of a thousand directions.

If she worked her way into the street, she had a chance of evading
pursuit.

Khitajrah made a wild leap for the desktop.  A hand snagged her
sleeve.

The sudden jerk of motion tore the cloth and stole momentum.  Jarred
backward, she missed the desk, crashing to the floor and skidding half
beneath the desk.  She sprang to a crouch, banging her head against the
underside of the desk.  Pain howled through her head.  A foot lanced
toward her.  She dodged, twisting, hurling her body up and over the
desktop, and rolling through the window.

Khitajrah's mind told her the fall was too far for an uncontrolled
landing.  She clawed, managing to catch a grip on the sill.  Splinters
jabbed beneath her nails.  Then, a knife blade slashed the back of her
hand, and she recoiled reflexively.

Khitajrah fell.  She twisted, her body still lithe from training,
despite her age.  She scrambled for a hold on the masonry of the
building.  Stone snapped her fingernails into grimy irregularity.  The
touches friction-burned her flesh and made the wound in her hand throb,
but it slowed her descent.

She landed on her feet on the cobbled roadway, bent her knees, tucked,
and rolled at random.  Her already aching head pounded over stone, then
struck a woman burdened with two buckets of water.

The stranger sprawled, dropping her cargo.  Water splashed over
Khitajrah, chilling her.  Sense of direction lost, she spun and
scrambled to her feet, ducking into the nearest alley.

Pained, bleeding, and haunted by images of her son's corpse on the
courtroom floor, Khitajrah Harmha's-widow sought to lose herself in the
rabbit warren snarl of Staimize's streets.

PART I

THE SEVEN TASKS OF wIZARDRY

CHAPTER 1

The Outworlder Surf battered the Northern coastline of the country of
Asci leaving jagged cascades of stone.  Colbey Calistinsson stood, legs
braced and balanced, on a fjord overlooking the wild slam of the
waves.

Spray stung his clean-shaven face, the youthful features belying his
seventy-seven years.  Golden wisps still graced his short, white hair,
and he studied the Amirannak Sea through icy, blue-gray eyes that had
not changed, in look or acuity, since his youth.  A longsword hung at
either hip, their presences as familiar as his hands.

Though he paid his companion, the Eastern Wizard, and the Wizard's wolf
no heed, his mind naturally registered their every movement.

Shadimar spoke.  "Colbey, we need to talk."

Colbey said nothing.  He studied the jeweled chop of the waters a
little longer before turning slowly to meet the Wizard's gaze.  The
measured delay was an affectation.  Should the need arise, the old
Renshai could strike more quickly than most men could think to watch
for the movement.  But he had found that Shadimar equated slow
deliberateness with competence, and the appearance of mastery seemed to
unnerve the Eastern Wizard more than its actuality.  Months ago, when
Colbey had fought for the lives and freedom of the few remaining
Renshai, Shadimar had misinterpreted a prophecy.  Their blood
brotherhood had dissolved in the wake of Shadimar's distrust.  Though
Shadimar had apologized, in his subtle and not-quite-satisfying manner,
Colbey still harbored some bitterness that took the form of keeping the
Wizard always slightly uncertain.  Few things unbalanced or bothered
the Wizard more.

Always patient, Shadimar waited.  His silver beard hid his craggy,
ancient face, and eyes the gray of the ravaged stone remained fixed on
Colbey.  Wind whipped Shadimar's blue velvet robes, and the fur trim
eddied, but the Cardinal Wiz ard stood steady.  Secodon waited at his
master's side.

Empathetically linked with Shadimar, the wolf often betrayed emotions
that the Eastern Wizard carefully hid.  Now, the beast remained as
still as his master.

Though a long time had passed, Colbey responded directly to Shadimar's
request.  "What do you want to talk about?"

"The next step in your training, Western Wizard."

The form of address bothered Colbey, and he frowned, eyes narrowed in
annoyance.  Decades ago, he had traveled to the cave of Tokar, the
Western Wizard, because of an old promise the Renshai Tribe had made to
the Wizard.  While there, he had witnessed the Western Wizard's
ceremony of passage, a rite that killed Tokar and was to have passed
his knowledge and essence, and that of all of the Western Wizards
before him, to his apprentice.  Colbey had interfered, attempting to
rescue the centuries old Wizard from the demons that had come to claim
him.

Though the thought surfaced quickly and fleetingly, it brought, as
always, crisp clear memories of the pain that had assailed Colbey
then.

Agony lanced through him, vivid enough to make him wince, softening the
glare he aimed at Shadimar.  Despite all the wounds he had taken in
battle, this memory ached worse, an agony he had never managed to fully
escape.  And with that pain had come a madness.

Colbey recalled the decade he had spent combating voices and presences
and their compulsions in his mind.  One by one, he had fought with and
destroyed them, in the process honing his own self-discipline and
mental competence until he had found the perfect balance between mind
and body.

And more.  As he gained mastery, he found himself occasionally reading
the thoughts and emotions of others around him.  Over time he
discovered that, with great effort, he could actively read minds,
though he considered this intrusion too rude to attempt against any but
enemies.

At first, Shadimar had attributed Colbey's abilities to the
incorporation of a stray piece of magic during Tokar's ceremony in the
form of a magical being called a demon.  Much later, he hypothesized
that Tokar had shifted the focus of his ceremony from his apprentice to
Colbey.  And, though wholly against his will, Colbey had become the
next Western Wizard.

ing Island.  There, you will undergo the Seven Tasks of Wizardry that
Odin created to assess the competence of each Cardinal Wizard's
apprentice.  You should have passed these before Tokar ..."

Shadimar continued while Colbey's mind wandered.  He knew from pieces
of previous conversations that each of the four Cardinal Wizards took
an apprentice when the time of his or her chosen passing became
imminent.  An apprentice then had to undergo seven god-mediated tasks
to prove his worth.  Failure at any one meant death.  The challenge
intrigued Colbey, yet Shadimar's unspoken thoughts interested him
more.

Because Colbey had destroyed the collective consciousness of the
Western Wizards, one at a time, he had none of their magic to guide
him.  And, since he had received no raining from his predecessor, he
had learned none of the Wizard's magics in that manner.  Shadimar
believed, without a thread of doubt, that this lack would doom Colbey
to fail all of the tasks.  And, to Colbey, the Wizard's cocksure
dismissal made the challenge nearly irresistible.

"... finished, you will truly be the Western Wizard in every way, save
one."

The exception pulled Colbey back to Shadimar's words, though he already
guessed the missing qualification.

Shadimar confirmed Colbey's thought.  "You will not have your
predecessors to guide you.  Though I thought little of Tokar's
apprentice, I can't fully fathom my colleague's choice to abandon Harm
for you."

Since Shadimar's proclamation that Colbey was the Western Wizard, ideas
had tumbled through the old Renshai's mind.  Believing he understood
the reasons, Colbey addressed Shadimar's implied question.  "There was
a madness in the Western Wizard's line."

Shadimar nodded agreement.  It was common knowledge to the Wizards that
the ninth Western Wizard, Niejal the Mad, was paranoid, gender
confused, and suicidal, presumably due to the collective consciousness
itself.  His insanity had warped others in the line, the flaw passing
as easily as the memories and skill.  Shadimar's head froze in
mid-movement as the deeper implications became clear.  Accustomed to
subtlety, the Eastern Wizard was momentarily stopped by the pointed
directness of the warrior's comments.

"Are you saying Tokar chose you because he knew you

could destroy an entire line of Wizards, including millennia of
irreplaceable wisdom?"

Colbey shrugged.  Shadimar had taken it one step further than his
intention, and the mentioned wisdom seemed of little consequence.

Aside from a distant attack that had sent a soldier crashing from
parapets, a feat Colbey had matched with his own mental power, he had
never seen a Wizard create magic more powerful than sleight of hand or
illusion.  He had once fought a creature Shadimar named a demon, which
the Eastern Wizard claimed one of his colleagues must have called, but
Colbey had not witnessed the summoning.  Time had taught him that
knowledge came with age and experience.

Still, though he lived through as much now as in his.

youth, the wisdom seemed to come in smaller doses as he gathered what
the world had to offer.  His skill and understanding became honed in
tinier, 'finer detail with each passing year.  He wondered if the
difference between learning for millennia and a century was really all
that much.  "Actually, I don't know if Tokar expected me to destroy the
entire line.

I do believe he thought I could kill or contain the insanity."

Shadimar frowned.  "An illogical thought.  To destroy that much power
would require mental powers stronger than all of the other three
Wizards together."

Colbey smiled, ever so slightly.  "Not so illogical.  I did it, didn't
I?"

Shadimar hesitated just long enough to display his doubts.

Apparently, he still had not fully convinced himself that Colbey was
the Western Wizard rather than a man under the influence of demons.

"The issue is not whether or not you destroyed the Western Wizard's
line.  It is forever gone, along with its knowledge.  The issue is
whether Tokar had reason to believe you could do so.  It should be
impossible to fight a collective consciousness, let alone destroy
one.

No Cardinal Wizard would believe otherwise."

Colbey shrugged again.  Clearly Shadimar was wrong.

There was no need nor reason to say so.  Still, silence seemed rude, so
the Renshai tried to make his point tactfully.

"Maybe Tokar knew something you don't."

"Maybe," Shadimar replied.  A thought that served as explanation
drifted from the Eastern Wizard to Colbey without effort or
intention.

It has always been Odin's way to make the Western Wizard the strongest
of the four and the Eastern the weakest.  Maybe Tokar did know
something.  Understand ing accompanied the idea.  Colbey learned that
this discrepancy had existed since the system of the Cardinal Wizards
had begun, and no logical reason for the imbalance had ever come to the
attention of the Eastern Wizards.  Colbey also discovered that the
Western Wizard's line was not the only one that had lost its collective
consciousness.  In the past, the Eastern line had been broken twice and
the Southern line once, in all three cases because the current Wizard
had died before his time of passing.  Though twenty-four Eastern
Wizards had existed since the system began, Shadimar carried the
memories of only six.

Silence fell.  As if in sympathy, the wind dropped to an unnatural
stillness and clouds scudded overhead, veiling the sun.  Secodon sat,
whining softly.  For all his quiet stillness, the Wizard was apparently
bothered by his thoughts.

At length, Shadimar met Colbey's gaze again.  He raised an arm, the
fur-trimmed sleeve of his velvet robe a stark contrast to Colbey's
simple brown tunic and breeks.  "There are still things we need to
discuss.  Since the beginning of the system of the Cardinal Wizards,
just before the beginning of mankind, the Western and Eastern Wizards
have worked in concert, for the good of neutrality and its peoples, the
Westerners."

Colbey frowned at Shadimar's stiff formality: Although he came from a
Northern tribe, technically under the protection of the Northern
Sorceress, who championed goodness, he had long ago pledged his
services to the Westlands.

Shadimar continued.  "Some have physically worked together as a team.

Others have worked separately for the same cause.  I would like to work
closely with you.  In harmony."

His glance sharpened.

"You were the one who broke our bond of brotherhood," Colbey reminded
him.

Shadimar's mouth clamped closed, and he dismissed his disloyalty as if
it held no significance.  At the time, his actions had followed logic,
and apologies were not his way.

"That matter has not been fully laid to rest."  Secodon rose, pacing
between Wizard and Renshai.  Shadimar's brow wrinkled, as if he sought
an answer to a question he had not asked.

Annoyed, as always, by the Eastern Wizard's subtlety, Colbey struck for
the heart of the matter.  "What do you want from me, Shadimar?  I could
read your mind, but we both

know that would be impolite."  Colbey understated the seriousness of
the offense.  Shadimar had made it quite clear that only the four
Cardinal Wizards were capable of invading thoughts, and then only those
of other Cardinal Wizards.  To do so uninvited, however, was considered
a crime equaled only by blasphemy.

"That, Colbey, is exactly what I want from you."  Shadimar measured
each word as a swordsman in a battle on ice watches every movement.

"You once told me you had nothing to hide.  You gave me permission to
enter your mind.  But when I tried, you built barriers against me.  I
want another entrance.  This time, unhindered."  Shadimar's gaze
dropped to the sword at Colbey's left hip, an enchanted weapon that
bore the name Harval, the Gray Blade.  As an end result of the Seven
Tasks of Wizardry, the Wizards' apprentices became immune to harm from
any object of Law; therefore, the Cardinal Wizards and their
apprentices could be physically harmed only by their chosen ceremonies
of passage, by demons, and by the three Swords of Power.  Harval was
one of the three, all the more dangerous since Shadimar had placed it
in the hands of the most competent swordsman in existence.

Colbey remained calm, though the incident that Shadimar recalled
'brought memories of a bitter time.  Then, assailed by doubts about his
own long-held religious beliefs and his loyalty to the tribe he had
served since birth, Colbey had needed the comfort of his blood
brother.

Shadimar had chosen that moment to turn against him.  Colbey had tried
to assert his innocence by giving the Eastern Wizard access to his
thoughts, but his mind had not permitted Shadimar's entrance.

"I'll do my best.  I don't know how to convince you that I never
intended to block you out.  Just tell me how to get rid of those things
you call barriers, and I'll do it."

Shadimar retreated from the edge of the fjords, propping his back
against an irregularity in the crags.  The cover of clouds thickened,
and the windless stillness remained.  "You need to do nothing.  All it
requires is that you don't fight me."

Colbey did not believe that to be the case.  His few excursions into
other men's minds had cost him more dearly in stamina and energy than
days of continuous battle.  But the other time that Shadimar had
attempted to read Colbey's thoughts, the old Renshai had expelled him
without any con scious attention or will.  He knew that his mind
powers worked differently than those of the Cardinal Wizards.  His had
come to him even before he had met Tokar, a product of his martial
training in endurance and control.  He could read the minds of mortals,
where the others could not; and his intrusions into the Wizard's mind
had gone unnoticed, 'although they always recognized one another's
presences.

Still, Shadimar seemed fixed in the belief that Colbey was resisting
him.  Rather than fight the misconception, Colbey chose to try to give
the Eastern Wizard what he wanted.

"I'll do my best:" Colbey crouched, spine flat against a jagged tower
of stone, his position defensive.  A single breeze riffled the short
feathers of his hair, then faded into the brooding stillness of the
day.  He closed his eyes, turning his thoughts inward.  He concentrated
on keeping his mind as flat and still as the weather.

A foreign presence touched Colbey's mind tentatively.

Though he noticed the intrusion, Colbey willed his consciousness away
from it, struggling against curiosity and his natural need to defend.

Still, Shadimar's being seemed to burn a pathway through his mind, its
presence so defined and out of place it pained him.  And, in seeking to
invade Colbey's thoughts, Shadimar inadvertently brought some of his
own essence and emotion with him.  Though Colbey made no attempt to
counter the exploration, he could not stop the inklings of Shadimar's
judgment that seeped through the cracks.

At first, Shadimar waded through seventy years of war technique and the
private battle maneuvers invented by the R enshai tribe.  He met these
with a patient self-satisfaction.

Obviously, this mass of knowledge neither surprised nor interested
him.

Colbey kept his own emotions at bay.  To lose control meant thwarting
Shadimar, and he knew from experience that that would hurt the Wizard
as well as destroy the fragile friendship they had tried to
reconstruct.  Still, Shadimar's cavalier dismissal of the tenets that
had driven and guided Colbey's life since birth bothered the old
Renshai.  Attributing it to cultural differences and closed-mindedness,
he let it pass unchallenged.

Soon, Shadimar found the supporting tendrils of Colbey's Northern
religion, and he followed one of these toward the core.  As the Wizard
read the all-too-familiar rites and faith

of a Northman, he paused at another concept, this time obviously
impressed.

Colbey resisted the urge to focus in on the abstraction, aware that his
sudden channeling of presence would drive the Eastern Wizard from his
mind.  Instead, he satisfied himself with the wisps of Shadimar's
thoughts that diffused to him.  The answer came slowly, from a source
that Colbey never expected, the same war tenets that the Wizard had
viewed with contempt moments before.  Having looked more closely this
time, Shadimar had discovered the intricate judgments and mathematics
that allowed Colbey to size up an opponent instantly and in explicit
detail, by a single sword stroke.  He followed the complexity of
Colbey's examinations, though the old Renshai had learned to compress
them into an instant: the knowledge of anatomy that told him, by the
length, development, and insertion points of tendon and sinew, which
maneuvers a warrior should favor ...

and which ones he did favor; the angle and speed of cuts and sweeps
that told him an opponent's strategy, often before his foe had himself
determined it.  For the first time, the Eastern Wizard understood that
competence in warfare was based on more than just quickness, strength,
and blind luck.

For several moments, Shadimar concentrated on his discovery.

Then he turned his attention to following one of the solid threads of
Colbey's religion.

The Eastern Wizard's change of focus pleased Colbey.

The Renshai had developed sword maneuvers over the course of a century
of exile from the North, during which time his tribe had culled the
finest techniques of every warrior race.  Vows to the Renshai forbid
Colbey from teaching those maneuvers to anyone outside the tribe.  Had
Shadimar chosen to examine their intricacies, Colbey would have had no
choice but to expel the Wizard.

Now, Shadimar sifted quickly through the religion, which was integrally
entangled with the fighting skills.  The Northmen's faith hinged as
deeply on battle glory and death as on deities, and many of the gods
personified concepts of war.

Each of the eighteen tribes chose a patron or two.  For the Renshai it
was Thor's golden-haired wife, Sif, and their son, Modi.  The son's
name literally meant "wrath," and its call stirred the Renshai to a
frenzy in battle that allowed them to fight, not despite pain, but
because of it.  Colbey smiled at the thought, driven to dim, racial
memories of chiming steel, wolf howls, and the god's name echoing
through the ruins of a ravaged town.  So long ago.  Nearly three
decades had passed since the other Northern tribes had banded together
to exterminate the Renshai, three decades during which Colbey had
recreated the tribe from a scraggly group of five swordsmen, only three
of whom had any Renshai blood at all.

Colbey and Shadimar reached the deep-seated pocket of bitterness
simultaneously, though from different directions.

Though weeks had passed, Colbey could still see the hawk-nosed visage
of Valr Kirin, a Nordmirian officer who had proven the noblest enemy he
had ever faced.  At that final battle, Colbey's sword, Harval, had
accidentally claimed an arm as well as Kirin's life.  By Northern
religion, the loss of a body part should have barred the Nordmirian
from Valhalla, the haven for the finest warriors slain in battle.  Yet
Colbey had personally seen a Valkyrie claim the body for Valhalla.

Shadimar's consciousness circled the event, alternately horrified and
awed by the disruption of a faith Colbey had clung to since birth.  It
was the Renshai's practice of dismembering

Northern enemies to destroy morale that had led to their exile from the
North, an exile that had turned an entire world against them.  Yet, all
of the pain and hatred, all of the racial prejudice, and all of the
fiery vengeance that had led to the extermination of the tribe had
hinged upon a lie.

On the day of Valr Kirin's death, Colbey had waffled between denying
his vision and denying the very foundation of his belief and being
through seventy-seven years.

Shadimar's discomfort turned to interest as he held Colbey's choices
and deeds in judgment.  Now Colbey backed away, already knowing what
the Eastern Wizard would find.

At the time.  Colbey had combed his memories, using logic and
experience to decide which religious tenets to keep and which to
discard, which came from the gods themselves and which from the more
arbitrary laws of mankind.  In the end, the event had redefined and
strengthened, rather than shattered, his faith.

Momentary pleasure radiated from the Eastern Wizard, liberally mixed
with surprise.  Obviously, he had never anticipated such complexity
from a Renshai sword master.

Though Colbey expected nothing else, the Wizard's un-derestimation
grated on him.  He had tired of the jokes that

had become standard belief, the foolish gibes that the

quicker the warrior, the slower his intellect.  These, Colbey knew,
sprang from the need of those unwilling to suffer the constant pain and
effort required for competence at anything to explain away ability as
magic or natural from birth.  Un derestimating Colbey Calistinsson had
cost more than one man his life.

Shadimar poked into a few pockets of memory that Colbey felt were
better left undisturbed.  Among those, Shadimar found an agony of grief
for a young man, Episte Rachesson, the orphaned child of the last
full-blooded Renshai other than Colbey.  The boy had seemed as much a
son as a student to Colbey.  Lost to chaos' madness, Episte could not
be salvaged, though Colbey had driven himself to the edge of death
trying to fix the damage.  Shadimar found the sorrow the old Renshai
knew over leaving what remained of the Renshai to fend for
themselves.

He also discovered a tie whose strength even Colbey had not recognized,
until that moment.  He had left his white stallion, Frost Reaver, with
a farmer in Bruen.  He had owned the horse for less than a year, yet he
missed the animal's surefootedness, agility, and loyalty.  And then,
Shadimar found the heart and core of Colbey's existence, the thing that
had driven and steered his life since birth: the need to die with
courage, honor, and glory in battle.

Shadimar withdrew.

Colbey dropped his concentration with an eager sigh.  Exhaustion
gathered at the edges of his awareness, and he lowered his center of
balance to relax.  The effort of protecting Shadimar's hunt had taxed
him more than he had expected.

Shadimar sat back against the stone, his head bowed and his eyes
closed.  His white beard trickled over his laced fingers and curled
knees.  Secodon remained before his master, watchful and alert,
revealing the fatigue his master hid so well.

For a long time, Wizard and Renshai sat in silence.  The quiet
windlessness seemed to stretch the moment into an eternity, and
Colbey's patience broke first.  "Did you find what you were looking
for?"

Slowly, Shadimar raised his head.  His gray eyes flared open, fixed
stolidly on his companion.  "Can you truly say I was looking for
something, when, in truth, I hoped not to find it?"

Colbey had no desire to discuss semantics.  "Fine, then.

Did you not find what you weren't looking for?"

"Yes," Shadimar replied.

Colbey considered the reply, eyes narrowing as he tried to interpret
the answer in the wake of a doubly negative question.

Shadimar let him off the hook.  "I did not find what I wasn't looking
for.  No evidence of demons.  No sign that you are other than -you
claim."

Tired of others doubting his integrity, Colbey pressed.

"Did that surprise you?"

"Many things about you surprised me."  Shadimar dodged the question,
creating many others in the process.

Colbey let the initial issue drop.  Shadimar's doubts had been
quelled.

And, though it bothered Colbey that Shadimar questioned his integrity
enough to require a mental exploration, it was over now.  The healing
process could begin for both of them, as long as the Eastern Wizard did
not mistrust him again.

The darkness deepened.  Colbey glanced upward, concerned that the
mental process had taken far longer than it had seemed to and that day
had passed into night without his knowledge.  But the sun remained
high, all but lost beneath a thickening cover of clouds.  Streamers
poked through tears in the clouds, their light feeble and diffuse.

"You are a more capable thinker than I ever would have guessed."

Shadimar brushed his beard away from his hands.

Colbey did not reply to the faint praise.  A thank you did not seem in
order.

Apparently recognizing his words as a backhanded insult, Shadimar
added, "I think you could make a competent Wizard."

Something about Shadimar's tone did not ring solid enough for Colbey's
liking.  "If ...?"

"If?"  Shadimar repeated, brows rising in question.

"I could make a competent Wizard if what?"

Shadimar opened his mouth, as if to remind Colbey that he was the one
who had added the qualifier.  Then, apparently seeing the futility of
such an argument, he pursed his lips and started again.  "Colbey, no
man is born a Cardinal Wizard.  As a Wizard comes within about half a
century of his time of passing, he selects an apprentice.  He then
spends the half a century training that apprentice.  After the
Wizard's

rite of passage, his successor has the strengths, knowledge,

and experience of his predecessors to call upon.  Without training or
knowledge, none of us expects you to slip right into your niche."  He
hesitated only an instant, his composure unbroken, but the lapse spoke
volumes to Colbey.

The Renshai caught a flash of realization that Shadimar wanted to
explain some detail about the tasks that an apprentice who had
undergone the proper training would have known.

The concept disappeared as quickly as it came, suppressed by a law and
propriety as old as creation.  Only a splash of guilt at his need for
silence lingered, and Shadimar finished his previous thought.  "Some of
the best prepared have fallen prey to the power or to the strange
eclipsing and dragging of time that comes with near immortality."

Colbey shook his head, not pressing the matter.  To admit he had read
Shadimar's thoughts, even unintentionally, would reawaken all the
suspicion he had only just set to rest.

Instead, he considered Shadimar's words.  All his life, Colbey had
cared only for his sword, his tribe, and his goddess.

He had dedicated his soul to his honor and to earning the glory of a
death in battle that would bring him the promised rewards of
Valhalla.

Neither the power nor the responsibilities of becoming a Cardinal
Wizard enticed him.  "Becoming a competent Wizard means nothing to
me.

I'm not interested in becoming a Wizard at all."

Shadimar's eyes went as dark as the roiling clouds.  "You are the
Western Wizard already.  The time for choices is past."

Colbey scowled.  "The choice was never given to me."

"That is of no consequence any longer."

"Perhaps not."  Colbey gathered his composure, though anger still
hovered tangibly, easily sparked.  "But don't expect me not to question
or resist now that I'm starting to understand what Tokar forced
on.me."

Shadimar's expression softened.  "That is a point well taken.  Still,
it doesn't change the facts.  The sooner you accept the way things are,
and that they cannot be changed, the better Wizard you will become."

"You don't understand, do you?"  The lengthy pause had restored
Colbey's lost energy.  He rose suddenly.  "If I don't care to be a
Wizard why do you expect me to care to be a competent one?"

"Because you are a Wizard.  And I can't imagine Colbey

Calistinsson not working to become the best at whatever he might be."

Colbey's rage receded.  This compliment inspired all the goodwill and
appreciation that the other had not.  "You are assuming, my friend,
that there's no way to refuse the title.

That may be so, but I won't take that as fact until I prove there's no
escape."

"You selfish, arrogant bastard."  The Wizard stood, the taller of the
two by a full head.  "Would you leave the peoples of the West,
including your own beloved Renshai, without a guardian?  Would you let
Trilless' goodness eat at the northern border and Carcophan's evil
infect the east and south until nothing remains but absolutes?"

The names of the Northern and Southern Wizards rekindled Colbey's
anger.  Trilless had misinterpreted a prophecy, hounding Colbey with
champions and a demon sent to slay him.  Although the three Swords
coming together on the world of men had caused Episte's madness, it was
Car-cophah who had ignorantly summoned the final blade and placed it in
the young Renshai's hands.  Then, the Southern Wizard had preyed upon
the damage he had caused, turning the youngster against his own tribe
in order to further the causes of evil.  Thoughts of Episte Rachesson
drained away the rage as quickly as it had come, and grief replaced
it.

Shadimar continued his tirade.  "You were the one who claimed that law
and morality become too fixed and rigid when strict definitions are
placed on good and evil.  You are the Northman who abandoned the tenets
of good for those of neutrality.  Now, when the time has come for you
to defend those bold words and choices, you would abandon your
responsibilities and the many whose lives depend on the Western Wizard
because someone made one decision for you."

"The Westlands have you.  And you can find another Wizard to fill my
place."

Shadimar turned away.  He gazed out over the ocean, and his voice fell
nearly to a whisper.  "It's not that easy.  When he created the world
and banished chaos to its plane, Odin created the system of the
Cardinal Wizards, placing us as the mediators between gods and men.

Clearly, the balance he created between us has a purpose.  If he
believes we need

four, then four is what we need.  At this time, we can't risk any
deviation from Odin's plan.  Too much lies at stake."

"Fixed and rigid."

Shadimar did not deny the accusation.  He continued to stare out over
the Amirannak Sea.  "But still less so than good or evil.  And it's
better than the alternative."

Colbey followed Shadimar's gaze to a black spot on the horizon, an
approaching ship.  "Ragnarok?"  he guessed.

Once, he had intruded on Shadimar's mind, and that search had uncovered
an ancient prophecy: "A Sword of Gray, A Sword of White, A Sword of
Black and chill as night.

Each one forged, Its craftsmen a Mage; The three Blades together shall
close the age.

"When their oath of peace The Wizards forsake, Their own destruction
they undertake.

Only these Swords Their craftsmen can slay.

Each Sword shall be blooded the same rueful day.

"When that fateful day comes The Wolf's Age has begun.

Hati swallows the moon, and Skoll tears up the sun."

The rhyme foretold that the day of destruction for men, gods, and'
Wizards would come after the three Swords of Power were all called to
man's world of law at once.  Colbey carried the Gray Sword, Harval.

The others he had faced, in the hands of Trilless' and Carcophan's
champions, first Valr Kirin then Episte Rachesson.  Shadimar had
banished the White Sword back- to the plain of magic as soon as the
battle had ended.  Yet, clearly, there had been at least a moment when
all three swords had existed on their world at once.

Colbey recalled the chaos attack he had shared through Episte's
memories, a brutal assault that had left neither time nor thought for
defense.  Chaos had accentuated every shred of bitterness and rage that
Episte had known, inflaming them far out of proportion, turning the boy
into a warped and

vengeful caricature of his former self.  Having relived the
remembrance too many times, Colbey forced emotion away, concentrating
on the approaching ship.

"The final destruction.  The end of the world.  Do you want to be
responsible for causing that?"

As the vessel approached, Colbey realized that its size had made it
appear farther than it was; it seemed too small to call it more than a
boat.  "Ship" would be a kindness.  Yet, from Colbey's experience,
"boat" would insult its captain, so he chose to think of it as a
ship.

Around it, the air lay too calm before the growing storm for it to
remain in motion.

Colbey had joined enough pirating raids to know that it should have
sat, in irons, on the darkening sea.  But the ghostly white sails,
devoid of symbol or standard, spilled wind.  Faint ripples on the water
showed that the gaily-painted craft was gliding toward them at an
impossible speed.

Colbey watched the ship, his mind clicking through the combinations of
wind that could account for its movement on the Amirannak Sea.  But,
always, his calculations fell short.  Something felt misplaced, beyond
the realm of logic.

Still, he managed to pull his thoughts from the vessel to concentrate
on their conversation.  "I fail to see where my decision could cause
the Ragnarok.  In fact, you've often told me that prophecies don't just
happen.  The Cardinal Wizards have to make those prophecies occur.  It
seems to me that all that's needed to avert Ragnarok is for the Wizards
not to cause it."

Now, Shadimar returned his attention to the ship as well.

"You of all people know it's not that simple.  There is no single being
more powerful than Odin.  Some would say that all other life together
cannot equal him.  Yet even he could not destroy chaos, only banish it
to another realm.  And his hold on it has weakened.  You see that every
day when vows give way to lies and men violate the laws of their
countries.

There was a time, Colbey, within your lifetime I believe, when
falsehoods and treason did not exist at all."

"So what are you saying?"  Colbey no longer needed to struggle to focus
interest on Shadimar's words.  "That the Ragnarok is inevitable?  That
the world will lapse back into the primordial chaos, with or without
us?"

"I'm saying only that these are desperate times.  It was predicted that
the Great Destruction would occur during my

time as a Cardinal Wizard.  I now worry that it may come

sooner rather than later."  Shadimar caught Colbey's arm.  As the
Renshai turned, the Eastern Wizard met his gaze directly.

The ancient gray eyes became earnest to the edge of desperation.

"I'm not sure I can explain this in a way you can understand."

Colbey scowled.  "Remember?  I can spell sword as well as I can use
one."

The ship drifted closer.  Shadimar sighed deeply, trapped by his own
choice of words.  To avoid an explanation now would offend Colbey.

"Our ship is about to land."  He gestured around an outcropping toward
a low, relatively accessible flat amid the fjords.  "So forgive me if I
keep my clarification brief and to the point."

Colbey resisted a smile.  He could think of few things that would
delight him more than a short, direct discussion with Shadimar, without
the morals and Wizardly subtleties.

"Law is the direct opponent of chaos.  If we work within the tenets of
law to bring the Ragnarok, our efforts could do exactly the opposite.

If, however, we turn against Odin's laws and break our Wizards' vows in
order to avert the Rag-narok, we are virtually guaranteed to cause
it."

Without bothering to explain further, Shadimar motioned to Secodon and
headed for the docking site.  "When the time comes, I hope we will all
have the sense and competence to choose our actions wisely.  Quite
literally, the world and everything in it will lie in our hands."

Colbey's gaze traced the rain squalls stalking the horizon, and the
idea of sea travel seemed as illogical as the tiny ship's movement
across a windless ocean.  The Eastern Wizard's words sat in his mind
like lead, unpondered.  Too many questions remained unanswered for him
to make decisions of such earth-shattering proportions, so he left the
idea to lay idle for the moment.  Decades on the battlefield had forced
his gravest decisions to be made in an instant.  When the time came, he
trusted his own instincts.  But he and the Renshai as a tribe had
suffered from misinterpretations by Trilless, Carcophan, and
Shadimar.

Though he felt embarrassed to the point of sacrilege to place his
judgment and knowledge over that of Cardinal Wizards centuries old,
experience told him to believe in himself rather than them.  He
followed Shadimar to the cliffs leading down to the flatter lowland of
the shore.

Shadimar climbed gingerly down the rock face, choosing

each hand and toehold with patient care.  "You should know our Captain
is an outworlder."

Colbey waited at the peak with Secodon, seeing no reason to crowd the
Eastern Wizard.  The ship had drawn close enough for him to see the
carved dolphin on its prow and to read the name, Sea Seraph, written in
the Western trading tongue on the bow.  "What's an outworlder?"

"A creature of Faery."  Shadimar clambered the last short distance to
the plain.

Secodon looked at Colbey.  The old Renshai gestured for the wolf to go
first.  "Like an elf?"  Even the most pious priest that Colbey had
known believed in elves only as cute mythology to draw children to
their religious studies.  The irony of discovering the tales to be
fact, after the shock that had shaken the more deeply rooted
foundations of his faith, did not escape Colbey.  He loosed a bitter
laugh, gaze channeling naturally on the tall, slender figure at the
tiller.  From a distance, the sailor held the appearance of a gawky
teenager.

"You're joking, right?"

Secodon leapt from the jagged peak of the fjord to the stone beside
Shadimar.  The Eastern Wizard raised a hand in greeting to the
approaching ship.  "Not at all.  Elves are real.

Like chaos, they exist on another plane or world.  Captain's probably
the only elf you'll ever meet.  He's navigated these waters for
centuries, at least, carrying the Cardinal Wizards to the Meeting
Isle.

There's no other way that I know of to get there."

The captain returned Shadimar's greeting with a brisk wave.  Colbey
analyzed the movement from habit, finding a grace that contrasted
starkly with the awkward adolescent image of the figure at the helm.

As the boat touched the rock flat and Shadimar moved to help with
docking, Colbey measured the jump that Secodon had taken.  It looked
dangerously far to land on solid rock.  Compromising, Colbey caught the
first few handholds in a quick sequence, then made a graceful leap to
the rocks below.  The maneuver scraped skin from his palm, tearing
loose a callus, and blood welled in the hole.

Lightning flared beyond the sail.  The hull of the Sea Seraph grated
against rock.  Colbey cringed.  The open sea should have dashed the
tiny craft to matchsticks; surely it

would in the upcoming storm.  Already, rolling gray haze

limited vision.

The captain sprang to shore with an agility that nearly matched
Colbey's own.  Gold tinged his red-brown hair, faded from a life lived
in the open sun.  He wore the thick locks knotted at the nape of his
neck.  High, sharp cheekbones and broad, slanted eyes gave him a
pleasant, animal look.  His eyes glowed amber, a color Colbey had only
seen on a cat.  His full mouth bent into a friendly grin, and the stiff
wrinkles that marred his face seemed to come from excessive smiling.

The visage defied Colbey's attempts to guess his age, even within a
decade or two.  He noticed that the elf's arms and legs were
proportionately longer.  His muscles arose and inserted in locations
slightly different from men, built more for quickness and agility than
strength.

A leather jerkin and silk pantaloons peeked from beneath a frayed wool
cloak.

"Greeting, my lords!"  The outwodder spoke the Western tongue with a
unique accent that seemed closest to general Northern.  He threw his
slender arms around Shadimar.

"Greetings, Captain."  Shadimar squeezed momentarily.

Pulling away from the Eastern Wizard, the captain embraced Secodon's
shaggy neck.  The wolf's plumed tail flailed excited circles.

Colbey found himself with a thousand questions, including how one came
to sail an ocean for centuries, but he knew these would have to wait
until he had the Wizard in confidence or knew the elf better.

The captain did not share Colbey's polite hesitancy.  Releasing
Secodon, he hugged Colbey in turn, with the exuberance of an old
friend.  "A Northman, eh?  And a young one.

I've a fondness for Northmen.  But you know that, don't you?  Welcome
aboard the Seraph, Colbey," He gestured his charges to the ship.

The captain's familiarity confused Colbey momentarily.

Then he recalled that the Wizards had passed their collective
consciousness from successor to successor for millennia, and the elf's
reaction made more sense to him.  In a way, he been greeting the same
four Cardinal Wizards forever.

Shadimar headed for the ship.  Colbey hung back.

"Shouldn't we wait out the storm?"

"Nay.  Nay."  The captain shook his head, waving for the

Renshai to follow Shadimar.  They had a thousand years to learn this
sea.  We can run before the gale."

Shadimar clambered to the deck, and the captain followed.

Colbey shoved the hull into the water, then leapt aboard with the
others.  Though his intuition told him that the captain was dead wrong,
he dared not argue sea gales with one who had survived for centuries
and had not yet gone gray.

The instant the ship left the shore her sails caught a wind that drew
her swiftly northward.

Captain perched with one foot on the dolphin-headed prow.  "Blessed be
the gods who watch over my lady and my charges.  Thank you, Aegir, may
your mercy stay with us always!

Thank you, Weese, may your winds always blow true.

Thank you, Ciaccra, she of the eight-legged.  Thank you, Morista, may
your charges rest easy beneath the sea.  And thank you, Mahaj, whose
likeness graces the Seraph."  The captain lowered his foot and ran a
fond hand over the ornament on the prow.  Surely, he had spoken that
prayer a million times, yet his sincerity made it sound fresh and
new.

Colbey recognized only the names of the Northmen's sea god, Aegir, and
the Westerners' god of winds.  He studied the darkening sky as the
first gust rose, wet with the promise of violence.  No sailor he knew
would chance such a storm.

But the captain remained calm and beaming.  His prayers finished, he
gestured his charges to the central cabin.

Colbey and Shadimar went.

CHAPTER 2

The High Seas The clean, white walls of the Sea Seraph's cabin enclosed
an area that seemed impossibly large for the tiny ship.  Three cots, a
wooden chest, and a decoratively chiseled table with four matching
chairs filled it only sparsely.  A narwhale horn hung on the wall,
mounted above an open case-crammed full of books.  While Colbey
Calistinsson studied the layout, the captain pointed to one of two
doors at the opposite end of the room.  "We'll need to bunk together.

If Shadimar will prepare his famous herbal stew, I'll man the
tiller."

Shadimar smiled.  "I presume you've gathered all the proper
ingredients."

"Of course."

The Eastern Wizard nodded, then headed for the indicated exit, his wolf
trotting across the planks behind him.  He opened the panel, slipped
through, then closed the door behind Secodon.

The captain winked at Colbey.  "I don't always get them exactly where
he asks.  Waterroot is waterroot, whatever ocean grows it, and the stew
always comes out the same."

The captain laughed at his own wit, then spun on his heel.

"Feel free to look around."  He left through the door by which they had
entered.

Aside from the Western Wizard's library, 'which he had not dared to
disturb before he learned of his title, Colbey had only rarely seen
texts, usually a single one treasured by its owner.  Now, Colbey knelt
before the book shelf, scanning titles in a variety of languages.  He
recognized labels in the trading tongue of the West, in the West's main
language, and in Northern.  He found one titled in the stiff, heavy
print of the Eastern tongue, though the meaning of the words escaped
him.  Others held runes as incomprehensible as an infant's random
scrawl.  Of the titles he could read, he found most to be nautical
texts or collections of seamen's tales.

Most of the others contained detailed monologues on religion and its
history.  Though, at a quick glance, the words spanned the belief
systems of all three divisions of the world, the collection seemed
weighted toward the Northern faith.

Pleased, Colbey singled out The Trobok, the book of the faithful.  It
contained the spiritual wisdom that guided Northmen's lives, mankind's
gift from the gods.  Most believed that daily reading from the work
strengthened Odin's hold on law, keeping chaos at bay from their own
day to day existences.

Colbey had heard priests read from the great book, but he had never
before come so close to an actual copy.

Tentatively, he touched the binding, running a finger along it.  The
well worn leather felt comfortable, but not in a deeply celestial
manner.  Cautiously, he levered it free and carried it to the table.

Colbey set The Trobok on the surface.  The tome thumped gently against
the wood, falling open to a weathered page near its end, marked by a
string of dried seaweed.  Curious about the marker, Colbey read: "Men
shall slay fathers to lie with mothers.  Swords shall run with
brother's blood.  The wolf, Skoll, shall swallow the sun and Hati the
moon.  There shall follow three bitter cold winters without a summer to
break them.  So shall begin the Wolf Age and the great battle which
will see the passage of the Gray Lord, Odin.  The new age that follows
shall be ruled by the survivors of the gods: Vidar and Vali, Baldur and
blind Hod from the dead, and the sons of Thor who will together wield
their father's hammer."

Images of the world's fated destruction pulsed a shiver through Colbey,
though it pleased him that the Renshai's patron, Modi, as one of Thor's
sons, would survive the carnage.

No text he knew of mentioned the fate of the goddesses, so Colbey had
always chosen to believe that sir endured as well.  He flipped the book
to its first page and began to read.

The toss of the Sea Seraph and the creak of her mast kept sleep from
Colbey.  He had lain awake half the night, listening to the clank of
sheet clamps and Shadimar's heavy breaths, yet he had never heard the
captain come below from the helm.  Surely even elves have to sleep.

Remarkably unwearied, Colbey rose from his cot, donning his tunic and

sword belt.  The pressure of the two swords at his hips felt

reassuring.  He threaded past the sleeping Wizard and the wolf beneath
his master's cot, padding to the starlit deck.

The captain sat on a bench, manning the rudder and singing a sweet tune
of the sea.  His mellow alto lilted across the deck, as natural as the
slap of waves against the stern.  The wind caught his damp hair,
tossing it gaily about his sun-baked face.  Colbey leaned over the
rail, staring at the trails and sparkles of color the moon drew in
their minuscule wake.  He squinted against the rash of ice-grained
wind, the pellets stinging his face and eyes.  A cloud enwrapped the
moon, all but choking it from vision.

The outworlder finished his song before speaking.  "Is the Western
Wizard brooding?"  He spoke the Northern tongue cleanly, without
accent.  "Did you leave a little lady behind?"

Colbey kept his gaze on the horizon.  The darkness huddled, as if to
block the sun from rising.  He considered the captain's question.

Longer ago than he cared to remember, he had married, but none of their
lovemaking had resulted in children.  Himinthrasir had left him for a
man who had sired a family with her.  Since that time, no woman had
wanted more than a brief relationship with him, and none of those
encounters had resulted in an heir.  Instead, Colbey had lavished his
love and time on his swords, and he had known women only as friends and
colleagues.  Half of the Renshai's most competent wariors were female,
every bit as savage as the tribe's men.  The image made him smile, and
he thought of Mitrian, one of two women in the tattered remains of the
tribe called Renshai.  "The only little lady I left could raze a
city."

The elf chuckled.  He groped beneath his bench, opening a compartment
that Colbey had not previously noticed.  He drew out a pair of matching
goblets and a crystal flask half-filled with amber liquid.  Pouring
some into each glass, he offered one to Colbey.  "Hold tight.  The
wind's strong."

COlbey accepted the drink.  "Forgive the passenger arguing with the
captain, but that storm will catch us."

"Midday."  The outworlder seemed unperturbed.  "About the time we reach
the portal.  Oddly, I find it more navigable in a squall."  He grinned
at Colbey.  "You know something of sailing, Wizard?"

bey."  He sipped at the wine.  It tasted sweet and held a pleasant
salt tang.  "And what should I call you?"

"Captain is fine."  The elf took a long pull at his wine.

"But as formal and distant as 'Wizard."" "It is what I'm called."

"Perhaps because you tell people this when they ask your name."

"It is what I'm called.  Does that not make it my name?"

Colbey laughed at the circle of the captain's reasoning.

"I'm called many things.  Wizard, for example.  But my name is Colbey
Calistinsson."

The elf downed the remainder of his wine.  He topped off Colbey's
goblet, though the Renshai had only taken a single swallow, then filled
his own glass.  He set the carafe aside.

"Why is Colbey your name?  What makes it more your name than The Golden
Prince of Demons or The Deathseeker or torke or Kyndig?"

Colbey took another sip of wine.  He had been called all of those
things, the first from a prophecy, the second from his style in
warfare, and the third was the Renshai word for teacher or sword
master.  The last meant "Skilled One," and he had heard it only once
before, from Valr Kirin.  "My name is Colbey Calistinsson because it's
how I think of myself.

As is my tribe's way, my mother named me for a hero who died in battle
and found Valhalla, my guardian and namesake.  The Calistinsson keeps
my father's memory alive.  He was a fine warrior as well."

The elf moved up beside Colbey, propping one bare foot on the
railing.

"Perhaps, Colbey Calistinsson, I think of myself as Captain."

Colbey considered, seeing how the elf had trapped him neatly.  He
watched water vapor condense to a fog on his glass.  "Then I guess your
name is Captain.  I'll call you that, though I think it's a slight to
your parents.  Surely, they picked a name for you that they considered
important."

"Surely," Captain replied.  "But I've lived millennia.  Do you think I
remember it?"

Colbey whipped his head to directly face his companion.

"Is this some sort of test?  Do you really think I'm feeble enough to
believe you've forgotten your name?"

Captain ran a finger through the condensation on his glass, tracing a
crooked line that barely disrupted the fog.

"That's the great thing about being a Wizard.  You have the knowledge
and insight to believe what you wish."

Colbey grunted, taking another drink.

"When you think about the reasons that humans have names, my claim may
become more believable."  The captain took another swallow of wine.

"Humans have names to preserve an image of immortality, for an
individual or a family, and to fit comfortably into an era."  He
lowered his foot from the gunwale to meet Colbey's gaze with his
red-flecked eyes.  "Take your name, for example.  You use Colbey to
honor the dead warrior who held the name before you, thereby keeping
him alive long after his passing.  You use Calistinsson to honor your
father.  Carrion now, I presume?"

Colbey nodded grudgingly.  "We prefer to use a more polite term for
it.

But, yes, my father died in battle."

"Those children not named for elders usually get some name that sounds
beautiful or special to their parents or that's common to their
generation.  Beautiful and special ceases to be either after enough
time passes.  And an era means little to an immortal."  Captain raised
his brows, as if to question whether he had made his point.  "Names
have significance only to mortals.  For us, it's just away to
distinguish between one and another.  A title or description works as
well."

"So you are immortal?"

"As we define it, yes.  Our lives far outspan yours.  Elves do- die,
though.  When we do, our souls are stripped of body and memory, placed
in the body of a newborn, and we start again.  Death always precedes a
new life."

"Interesting," Colbey said, glad for Valhalla.  The idea of a life
dragging and cycling into infinity did not sound desirable, though he
knew many would see it so.

The conversation came to a temporary halt.  Wind howled through the
silence.

Captain spoke first.  "You were going to tell me how you came to know
about ships and sea gales."

"Was IT' Colbey took a longer pull at the wine.  Over time, the flavor
became more inviting, and he did seem to recall the elf's question from
before he'd sidetracked the conversation.  "Decades ago, I visited a
tavern in Talmir.  A healthy quantity of ale convinced me to join a
pirating raid."

Colbey laughed at the memory, long buried.  His thoughts of the other
Northern tribes had become bitter since they had

banded against and all but exterminated the Renshai.  "We had three
ships, oars and sails, and a crazed band of young men willing to hurl
themselves on ax and spear for glory or scant pleasure.

"When our lead ship's captain had his brains dashed out by a stone
dropped from a coastal city's ramparts, they gave me his command.  They
chose me for swordsmanship and savagery.  I'm sure no one knew it was
my first time aboard any ship larger than a seal boat, and I certainly
wasn't going to open myself to ridicule by telling them.  We fought the
winter storms of the Amirannak on the way home.  I learned quickly."

Man and elf fell into another hush, watching darkness enwrap the stars
and gradually dim them to memories.  The moon struggled behind
thickening clouds.  The captain refilled his goblet.

Colbey stared at the amber wine, curiosity finally getting the better
of him.  "What is this anyway?"

Captain's smile stretched nearly the length of his face.

Good wine.  Fermented from kelp."

"Seaweed wine?"  Colbey examined the yellow liquid a trifle less
fondly.  "Bleh."  Still he did not protest when the captain refilled
his glass.

Releasing the tiller, Captain leaned over the gunwale to free the
ground tackle.  He let the anchor fall into the dark, churning waters
with a splash.  "Without the stars, I can't guide us."  He turned back
to face Colbey.  "But I'm still curious.

If you're not brooding over a woman, then over whom?"

Colbey responded with a wry chuckle.  "I didn't think I was brooding,
though there is one I worry about more than any other.  My students
will do fine without me.  My horse, Frost Reaver, may not.  I left him
in a farmer's care, with more than enough gold to cover his needs and
with explicit instructions."  He sipped at the wine again, conveniently
forgetting its source.  Droplets pelted him, and he wondered whether
they came from damp winds or waves, or if the storm had already begun
to catch them.  "I have this fear that I'll find him pulling a plow.

Or sold."

They both laughed.  Captain replenished the glasses, though they were
both over half full.  "A horse?  Now that has to be a first for the
Western Wizard."

Colbey let the title pass, not wanting to delve into another
discussion on names.  "What do you mean!"

"I hardly need to explain.  We all know it's the Eastern Wizard who's
lord of furred beasts."

The captain's words reminded Colbey of information he did already know,
though only indirectly.  "That's right.  I'm supposed to have some kind
of bird rapport."

Captain's canted eyes widened.  "Haven't you ever tried bonding with
the birds?"

"No," Colbey admitted, flushing.  Such an attempt would have made him
feel foolish.  "Actually, I did once try to talk to the red falcon who
brought me a message from Shadimar."  Colbey considered the incident
briefly.  "The bird didn't answer."

"I don't think it's a matter of answering di'rectly."  Captain
shrugged, revealing his ignorance.  His long fingers rested on the
railing.  "Besides, Swiftwing is different.  He serves all four
Cardinal Wizards."

"Like you?"

The captain closed his grip around the railing.  "Oh no.

No.  I serve Trilless and goodness."  He looked up in surprise.

"You know that."

Colbey opened his mouth to deny the possibility of that knowledge.

Until the previous day, he had believed in elves only as children's
legends.  Then, he realized the captain referred to the memories and
understanding Colbey should have had from the collective consciousness
of the previous Western Wizards.  If Captain did, indeed, serve
Trilless, Colbey saw no reason to reveal his lack.  The champion of
goodness would see it as a weakness and find a way to exploit it.

Still, he liked the captain, as a being and as a source of
information.

Although Colbey had not yet read any stray thoughts from his host,
candor radiated from the elf.  At the least, a Cardinal Wizard's
servant could not lie.  "I try to learn as much as I can on my own.

It's not my way to rely on information gathered by others."

The captain laughed.  "Not even other Wizards?"

The bitterness returned.  "Especially not other Wizards.

I've seen the results of their mistaken conclusions."  Like everything
in his life, Colbey related gathering knowledge to sword mastery.  "No
one becomes competent by taking shortCUTS."

Captain laughed again.  "You're talking like an elf now, you know.  If
we take shortcuts, we spend half our existence in boredom.  Mankind
always seems eager for an easier, faster way, and I can hardly blame
them.  You have to work with the Span you have."

Colbey shrugged.  A limited lifetime only partially accounted for most
people's search for the quick and simple, but he saw no reason to
malign his fellows.  Again, he steered the conversation back on
track.

The mythology described the lighter breed of elves as capricious and
silly.

Colbey saw little of that in Captain, but the elder did seem to have a
knack for driving conversations on tangents.  "So you serve
Trilless."

"I do."

"Yet you're transporting us, even though our cause, neutrality,
conflicts with hers."

"I transported Carcophan before you.  He's already waiting for you on
the Meeting Isle."

Colbey rested his goblet on the railing, brows raised.

"You, a minion of good, transported the champion of all evil?"

"More than once."

"If I had known about your loyalties, I'd have never boarded with that
storm brewing.  Doesn't Carcophan worry that you'll drown him or
slaughter him in his sleep?  At least that you'd leave him in the wrong
place?"

Captain shook his head vigorously, the red-brown hair flying.

Surrounded by a wild mane, his not-quite-human features looked even
more animal-like.  "First, there's not much that can hurt a Cardinal
Wizard.  You know that.  Second, as a close minion of one of the
Wizards, I'm bound by the same laws.  Trilless can't directly harm
Carcophan.  And neither can I. Of all the Wizards' vows, Odin made that
the most binding."

Captain's words reminded Colbey of the very reason he had no wish to
become a Cardinal Wizard.  He frowned.  "So, when I complete these
tasks, I'll become bound by the same monstrous list of dos and don'ts
as the others."

"Certainly."  Captain drained his glass, questioning Colbey with his
expression as well as his words.  "If by monstrous you mean large,
that's true.  If by monstrous you mean awful, then you sadly
misinterpret the truth.  Perhaps you should learn to rely more on your
predecessors."

Colbey made a thoughtful noise by way of reply.

Captain's look went from quizzical to concerned.  "Odin wrote these
laws and created the system of the Cardinal Wizards.  Surely he had the
best interests of men and gods in mind."

"Surely," Colbey admitted easily.  "Millennia ago.  Times and
situations change."

The statement walked the fine edge of blasphemy.  "Don't you think Odin
has the knowledge to guess the future and its needs?"

"Yes.  To a point."  Colbey borrowed the words of a song he had heard
long ago, called "Sheriva and the Blue-nosed Fly" and sung by the bard
who was also the guardian of the high king in Bearn.  Then, the words
had only seemed interesting.

Now, he recalled them verbatim, and they became eerily appropriate: "To
the immortal, centuries pass like months; But the shortest-lived see
every moment's glory.

It is they who first notice the need for change And they who adapt most
quickly to it."

The translatiOn from the Eastern to the Northern tongue lost the rhyme,
but the message came through as clearly.

The captain balanced his wine on the gunwale.  "Perhaps I've had too
much of this, but I'm not certain of your point.

You're saying that perhaps it's time Odin reconsidered the system of
the Cardinal Wizards."

"Yes."

"But it's worked so well for so long.  why do humans feel the need to
mend things that aren't damaged?"

Now, Colbey laughed, though the sound was strained.

"Perhaps it's our strange habit of living every moment we have.  Or
maybe surviving moment to moment allows us to see the detail that
immortals miss.  I do know this."  Wind howled across the stern,
plucking the lines into humming dances.  Colbey raised his voice.  "All
of the other Wizards tried to destroy me, based on a misconception.

Now, we're perched on Ragnarok's brink.  One way or another, something
has to change."

Captain threw a worried glance at the sail, apparently weighing whether
to unfurl it or chance the storm he needed to navigate the final
journey to the Wizards' Island.  "And you're going to affect that
change?"

"Only if I refuse the tasks."

Captain took the goblet from Colbey's hand, pouring the remainder of
the golden liquid over the railing.  "Now I know it's you, not me,
who's had too much.  If you refuse the tasks, you leave yourself
vulnerable to mortal weapons.  My experience with humans, though small,
tells me that you have fewer years than I have fingers on one hand.  If
that long."

"I'm not afraid of death."

"I'm sure you're not."  The captain balanced Colbey's glass beside his
own.  "But if you're dead, there's little you can do to cause those
changes you seem to feel are so necessary."

"Are you giving a Cardinal Wizard advice?"

"No."  Captain replied defensively, paused, then laughed.

"Yes, I guess I am.  As long as I'm doing so, I might as well do a
competent job of it.  I don't know exactly what happens during the
Tasks of Wizardry, but I do know this.  It involves battles, both
external and internal.  And it involves choices.

Remember, each Cardinal Wizard may spend centuries seeking out and
choosing his apprentice.  And they do.  It's only in each Wizard's best
interests to make his or her line stronger and more powerful through
the millennia.  Yet, despite the caution of their selection and
training, fewer than half of those chosen survive the tasks.  The worst
that can happen to you during those tasks is death.  If you refuse the
many laws and oaths that bind the Cardinal Wizards, I imagine that you
will fail the tasks.  The result of that is death.  You say you don't
fear death.  So what are you risking?"

Colbey rested both hands on the railing, using his body to shield the
cut glass goblets he would hate to see the wind destroy, The darkness
had thickened, and Colbey could no longer see the waves that lashed at
the Sea Seraph's hull.

Much about the Cardinal Wizards and their honor bothered him, but the
Captain's questions helped him organize his thoughts and find the
deeper reason buried beneath the others.

Being bound by law never bothered him; the Renshai had a code of honor
more restrictive than any he knew, and he followed it with a devotion
that left little room for doubts.  Arbitrary rules had no place in
Colbey's fierce heart, yet his own religion guided him to trust ones
created by Odin, no matter how long ago.  Buried beneath all of his
bitterness and concern for the Cardinal Wizards' responsibili ties and
competence lay the crux of his discomfort.  "When a Cardinal Wizard
chooses his time of passing, his memories are passed to his
successor."

The captain nodded slightly, the movement nearly swallowed by the
darkness.

"What about his soul?"

"His soul?"

Colbey read discomfort in the elf's tone.  He stood in silence while
the captain stalled.

"My research leads me to believe a Wizard's soul is ...

well ..."

"Well?"

The elf's words cut through the blackness.  "Utterly destroyed."

"Utterly destroyed."  The phrase sat in Colbey's ears, unable to
penetrate further.  His mind had to focus on each syllable
individually, define each word separately before the implications
became clear.  Then rage speared through him, as ugly as the
threatening storm.  Like all Renshai, he had clutched a sword from the
day his tiny fingers could close around a hilt.  His first word had
been "war," his only long-term goal to die in valorous combat and earn
his place, beside his namesake, in Valhalla.  Unless I fight the title,
the decision of one dying Wizard will cost me my soul.

The idea sparked an even deeper anger, one that washed Colbey's vision
red and made the gusts and darkness seem to disappear.  He thought of
the decades of crashing steel, of pitting only skill against the guile
and armor of the Renshai's enemies.  He thought of the daily practices,
the time stolen from sleep and food and friendship to hone his
abilities and demonstrate his faith and devotion to the Renshai's
goddess.  He thought of the throbbing agony of muscles torn and wounds
healing, daily driving himself beyond exhaustion for the honor of
serving the gods in Valhalla when war finally claimed him.  All stolen
from him at once.

Despair eased through the outrage, bringing with it a responsibility
that Colbey could not deny.  He had raised his skill to a degree that
thwarted death.  Honor bound him to fight every combat to the limit of
his ability.  Yet it was the very skill that came from experience and
giving his all that had made him too competent to die in the battles he
sought.

Without the Western Wizard's interference, Colbey knew he would almost
certainly have succumbed to age.  And that would have condemned him to
Hel as surely as cowardice.

My soul for the chance to make the changes I believe necessary not only
to avert the Ragnarok, but also to keep our world from becoming as
static as death.  As grand as the prize was, Colbey dreaded the cost.

One thing he knew for certain: he needed to do a lot of thinking.  And,
just as on the battlefield, he would have to do it quickly.

CHAPTER 3

The Scene in the Pica

A dying glaze of sunlight filtered through cracks in the base of
Stalmize's cobbler shop, diffusing into the cramped darkness beneath
the building.  Pain pounded every muscle of Khitajrah's body.  Her neck
felt on fire from sleeping in the same curled position for the last two
nights.  The niche in the building's base that served as her hiding
place left her no room to move or turn, and the urge to stretch had
become an obsession.  For three days, she had watched the city's crowds
scurry about their business, dwindle to a trickle, then give way to
only the ceaseless, pacing search of Stalmize's guardsmen.  Now, as
evening again gave way to darkness, she knew she would have to leave
the tight safety of the hole.

Khitajrah's belly felt pinched and empty.  Now that she had awakened,
it gnawed incessantly at itself, reminding her that she had not eaten
in days.  Licking at the condensation on the boards had kept thirst at
bay, but it did not ease the burning in her throat.  Throughout her
second day smashed and aching beneath the shop, she had counted the
patterns of the watch, noting that their search had become more
haphazard and lax.  That night, their patterns had grown farther apart,
less tight.  Apparently, they had turned the bulk of the troops
elsewhere, guessing that she had escaped the city of Stalmize.

Khitajrah hoped the guards had become sparser and even less alert this
night.

Cautiously, ears attuned for movement, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow backed
through the crack and into Cobbler's Alley.  Each movement rippled pain
through her limbs, and a sensation of swirling pins and needles nearly
felled her.  She gritted her teeth, bulling through the many aches
returning blood flow caused.  In time, she knew, she would feel much
better for the change in position.  She drew her head out of the
confining, damp darkness.

Once free, Khitajrah studied the alleyway.  She found it unexpectedly
bright, the dull gray of sunset rather than the moonlit night she had
expected.  She hesitated, at a crouch, as the throbbing settled into a
quiet numbness.  Too early.

There might still be stragglers on the streets.  She glanced back into
the yawning blackness of her cubbyhole, hating the sight of it.  Just
the thought of crawling back into that self-imposed prison reawakened
the ache of tortured muscles.

She would rather take her chances on the street.  She rose, the
movement awakening soreness in her chest, abdomen, and neck that only
time and food could heal.  She pressed into the shadows of the wall,
weaving a careful path along the cobbler's shop.

As Khitajrah reached the mouth of the alley, she heard booted footfalls
clomping between the buildings.

Guards.  Khitajrah flattened against the wall, waiting for them to
pass.  She had no doubt that every member of the city guard, and
perhaps all of Stalmize's citizens, had been instructed to kill her on
sight.  She cringed, wondering how many innocent women had lost their
lives because they resembled her or had once been her friends.  Eastern
law already allowed rape, murder, and other violence against its
women.

She hated the idea that the Eastlands' most cruel would use her
disappearance as an excuse for their cold-blooded pleasure, but she
dismissed the thought.  People who would hold her crimes against all
women would find other excuses to inflict their brutality.  If not over
her, they would simply find a different justification.

The guards passed, their footfalls fading to dim thumps that became
eerily distanced from their echoes.  Knowing the street they had just
vacated would be safe until the next patrol, Khitajrah hurried out into
it.  Almost immediately, she collided with a boy moving as quickly in
the opposite direction.

Momentum sprawled them both.  His woven sack fell, spilling bread and
vegetables.  From a broken crock, milk washed in pulses over the
cobbles.

For an instant, they stared at one another.  The boy's eyes widened in
recognition.  His lips parted.

Khitajrah moved first.  Leaping over the scattered foodstuffs, she
seized the child's arm, hauling him to his feet.

The boy started a scream that Khitajrah's hand clamped to silence.

"Quiet.  Not a sound.".

The boy struggled madly, doubling over to pull her offbalance, kicking
backward at her legs.

Khitajrah sidestepped beyond his wildly flailing feet.  "Be still.  I'm
not going to hurt you."

The boy twisted in her grip.

Khitajrah swore.  Keeping her arm wrapped around the boy, she made a
quick search of his pockets.  Ignoring coins, marbles, and string, she
found and drew his utility knife.  She pressed the blade to his
throat.

"Be still, damn it.  I'm not kidding.  One more movement and I might
just open your throat."  It was an idle threat.  Hunted and condemned
to death, Khitajrah had no legal reason not to add murder to her list
of capital crimes; but the pain of losing her own son still ached
within her.  She would not take the innocent child of another woman or
man.

The boy froze in place.

Khitajrah glanced around the familiar street of the shopping
district.

Plain, flat-topped buildings stood, wedged between the crumbling
minarets and spires of the older architecture.

Streets radiated like the legs of a spider.  Ancient roads crossed,
branched, and fused with newer, making every part of the city look like
a central square.  All of the shops lay dark and closed for the
night.

"I won't hurt you.

All I want is a promise that you won't scream."

The boy made a muffled sound beneath Khitajrah's hand.

"Just nod if you agree not to scream."

The boy hesitated.  Then he made a slow, solid movement with his
head.

Khitajrah released him.

The instant she freed him, the boy broke into a sprint, shrieking at
the top of his lungs.

"Damn you."  Hunger got the better of Khitajrah.  She snatched up a
slender, brown loaf of bread from the scattered remains of abandoned
groceries, then ran in the other direction, ducking into a narrow
alleyway.  Shoving the bread into her belt and the knife into a pocket,
she looked for one of the more decorative buildings.  The tailor's
shop, with its ledges and gargoyles, seemed the best choice.  Using the
cracked masonry and stone ornaments for toeholds, she clawed her way
toward the rooftop.

Footsteps bounced through the maze of the Eastlands' royal city, all
converging on the boy's cries for help.  As the shouts and pounding
drew closer, Khitajrah quickened her

pace.  Jagged edges of rock tore at her fingers.  Her cloth shoes
protected her toes, though they made purchase more difficult.  Her left
foot slipped.  The remains of a ledge tore a hole in the cloth.  The
sudden jar of weight on her hands opened the knife wound across her
fingers, and blood trickled along her fingers.  She bit off a gasp of
pain, flailing for a new toehold.  The shoe flopped, useless on her
foot.  It slid nearly free.

"This way!"  A bass voice rumbled through the alleyway, and running
footsteps followed.

Khitajrah froze in place, toes cinched around the dangling shoe.

Afraid tO move, she rolled her gaze downward.  Half a dozen guardsmen
with swords bustled along the roadway beneath her.  A cramp settled
across Khitajrah's toes, raw agony.

She felt the shoe slip further.  She forced her grip tighter, silently
mouthing a fervent prayer to Sheriva, though she expected little from a
god whose laws had brought her to this state.

"Over here!"  The guards passed beneath Khitajrah, making the correct
turn into the street, though the boy's screams had ceased, The shoe
plummeted to the cobbles behind them, the soft patter of cloth hitting
stone lost beneath the slam and echo of their footfalls.  Khitajrah
groped for and found a foothold with her toes.  She scrambled to the
roof.

Once there, Khitajrah gnawed at the bread, staring out over the city of
her birth.  Despite its familiarity, it looked strange and
unwelcoming.

The flowering mazes seemed without beginning or end, and the town
itself spread cancer-like tendrils throughout what had once been woods
and countryside.  In the decade since the war had taken more than half
of the male population, the city's sprawl had slowed.  But repeated
plantings of the same crops in the same fields had sucked all of the
nutrients from the soil.  In a constant attempt to escape the densest,
oldest parts of the city, and its crumbling architecture, the citizens
built more houses at the outskirts, impinging deeper onto pale, barren
fields no longer able to provide sustenance.  Nearly every forest had
been burned or cut down to provide new land for the farmers to make as
cold and sterile as their fields: Khitajrah lowered her head, the
tangled black locks falling into her eyes.  Though she hated the
ugliness the Eastern men inflicted upon its women, she could not help
feeling a

loyalty to the culture she had known since birth.  For all of its
evil, the Easterners lived by a rigid code of honor, ruled by a strict
morality that the warlike Northmen considered immorality.  Any man who
wished to better his life or his lot could do so as long.  as it did
not impinge on his neighbors, unhindered by the myriad ties to family
and colleagues that burdened Northmen.  Self-interest, the key to
Eastern society, bore the name evil; while the Northmen's bonds to
family and community made them good.  In a way, Khitajrah believed,
evil was another name for personal freedom.  At least for the
Eastlands' men.

Khitajrah knew that the Eastlands had honor, too, that every society
lived within its rules.  Only in her lifetime had lies, theft, and
betrayal come to exist, and they had only become more than a shockingly
rare occurrence since the Great War.  Not so long ago, she could have
trusted anyone's promise not to scream.

Khitajrah took Larger bites of bread, the first morsel fueling a hunger
that made the plain loaf taste honey-soaked.

She could not recall having eaten anything so delicious, though she
scarcely chewed in her rush to swallow.  She glanced over the side of
the building where a host of guardsmen examined the scattered remains
of the boy's groceries.

Suddenly, the boy's indiscretion had turned from danger to
distraction.

Smiling, Khitajrah stuffed the last of the loaf into her mouth and
headed down the opposite side of the building.

Waves slammed the Sea Seraph's hull, tossing the ship like flotsam.

Her captain raced from one end of the slippery deck to the other,
securing sails, clutching at the tiller, and lashing stray items to the
rail.  Poised at the bow, Colbey marveled at the agility of the elf
trotting across his rollicking ship.  Water darkened the captain's
jerkin.  His silk pantaloons had become dirty and tattered.  Still, a
smile graced his angular features.

The deck bucked like a half-broken stallion.  Captain lost his footing,
tumbling toward the deck.  Colbey sprang forward, catching the elf just
before he fell.  The captain grunted his thanks, staggered to his feet,
and dove for the jib sail as it tore free of its mounting.

Colbey's time sense told him that morning should have arrived, yet the
clouds choked out the sun more completely

than they had the moon.  Darkness veiled the sky from end to end,
broken by a sudden; jagged flash of lightning that revealed a shape in
the distance.

Colbey shouted.  "I--" Thunder crashed, and the old Renshai saved the
remainder of his sentence until the sound rumbled to a conclusion.  "I
saw something ahead!"  Even without the thunder, the gale hurled the
words back into his face.  The slap of waves against the hull and the
pounding drumbeat of the rain swallowed his cry.  He could see the
object more clearly now, a shimmering haze that stretched from sea to
sky.

Somehow, the captain heard Colbey.  He came up beside the Renshai and
screamed a scarcely audible reply.  "That's it!"  He had spoken in the
Western tongue, but he quickly switched to Northern.  "Man the rudder,
and set a course for it."  The elf lurched for the cabin, where
Shadimar and his wolf had been left sleeping.  Surely, the storm had
awakened the Eastern Wizard, but he had wisely chosen to remain below
decks.

Colbey fought his way aft across the wave-washed planks.

The deck pitched, tossing him against the rail.  A jagged burst of
lightning lit his path, revealing the dark bulk of the tiller.  He
lunged for it, catching it in both fists, then slammed it against the
stern.  The bow lurched through mist and rain, leaping for the glowing
curtain.  A pulse of white light blinded Colbey, and he closed his lids
against pain.  Almost immediately, the sea went calm, as if the storm
had never existed.

Colbey opened his eyes, seeing only the colored afterim-ages the flash
had carved onto his vision.  He stared at the tiller, waiting for the
brilliant circles to fade.  When they did, he turned his gaze to a sky
as smooth and blue as a sapphire.

The sun blazed down on the Sea Seraph.  The sea mirrored the deep, rich
color of the sky.  A breeze filled the sails, and the sun warmed the
deck.  Under ordinary circumstances, Colbey would have found the change
pleasant.  Now, the breeze cut through his soggy tunic, its dryness icy
cold.  He huddled over the tiller, with no idea in which direction to
take the tiny ship.

The captain emerged from the cabin.  "Splendid, Colbey.

Thank you.  Go get some comfortable clothes.  You'll need them."

Colbey accepted the invitation, letting the cryptic warning

that had followed pass unchallenged.  He trotted below decks.

Shadimar glanced up from a thick tome that rested on the table.

Secodon stood, tail wagging, beside his master.  "Ah, Colbey.  Good
morning.  I trust that you got a good night's rest before you went to
help our captain with his ship?"

"Good enough," Colbey replied, though he had not slept at all.  Many
times in his life he had become engrossed in creating new sword
maneuvers, or perfecting old ones, and day had passed to night, then
back to day without his knowledge.

He knew that, forced to face matters of any importance, he would find
the strength and alertness he needed.

Fatigue only made him less patient with long-winded liturgies from
self-important speakers, simple matters twisted into emergencies by
alarmists, and insincere politeness.

Unfortunately, Colbey knew that a meeting with the Cardinal Wizards
would probably mean dealing with all three things.

"Good."  Shadimar closed the book.  "You'll need your wits about you.

To understand the nature of the tasks before you ...

Colbey tuned the lesson out, not even granting the Eastern Wizard the
occasional grunt to acknowledge his words, if not his points.  He
walked to the foot of his cot, swung his pack onto the rumpled covers,
and pawed through it for a dry shirt and breeks.  The true measure of
the tasks would come when he faced them.  Until then, the Cardinal
Wizards could talk about them forever.  And Colbey suspected that they
probably would.

A stroke of rebellion drove Colbey to choose the flashiest garb he
carried: a red silk shirt, black breeks, and a wide sash to hold his
swords.  He pulled them on quickly, shoving both of his sheathed
longswords through the loop on his right hip.  Like all Renshai, he had
trained equally with both hands, working one harder whenever it lagged
behind the other.

Shadimar trailed off into silence, studying Colbey's choice of costume
with obvious disapproval, though he said nothing about it.  "I presume
the ship's sudden steadiness means we passed through the portal?"

"That depends on whether 'passing through the portal' means suffering a
stab of light that probably destroyed my sight until I'm a hundred."

Shadimar smiled.  "That would be it."

"You could have warned me."

"What?  And miss your endearing sarcasm?"

"Mmmm."  Colbey let Shadimar's cutting witticism pass.

He spread his wet clothing across the cot to dry.  "Why is it you feel
the need to detail the importance of the Tasks of Wizardry into
infinity, but little things like blinding agony and souls becoming
destroyed utterly slip your huge, perfect, Wizard mind?"

Shadimar rose, stretching his long, lean frame delicately and with
dignity.  He stood nearly a head taller than Colbey.

The Renshai maneuvers relied on quickness instead of strength, and
Colbey was not large in height or breadth.

Still, he guessed that he probably outweighed the ancient Wizard who
now answered his accusation.  "When you become my age and you are
burdened with the lives of thousands of men, present and future, the
survival of the world itself, and the wishes of the gods, you may
understand."

Colbey snorted.  Suddenly, he thought-he understood the gods' decision
to allow mortals less than a century of life.

Any more time would make the differences between elders and youths so
great, they would lose any possibility for coherent communication.  He
wondered how the elves managed, guessing he would find the answer in
the cyclical nature of their lives and deaths.  Perhaps, their world
simply did not change as quickly.  "You may have outlived me by a
century or two, but don't mistake me for a teenager.  And what does it
mean to 'pass through the portal'?"

Secodon stood, yawning, stretching each foreleg in turn.

The ship jolted, and the wolf slipped, sprawling to the deck.

He scrambled to his feet, looking around, as if to find the person who
had tripped him.

Colbey took the sudden movement in stride.

Shadimar caught a steadying grip on the table.  "It means we entered
another world, a small one that holds only the Meeting Isle and the
ocean around it.  And that bump means we've arrived."  Grabbing his
pack, he strode from the cabin, Secodon trotting cautiously after
him.

Colbey tossed his own pack across his shoulder, leaving his wet
clothing in the Sea Seraph's cabin to retrieve on the trip home.  He
followed the Eastern Wizard out onto the deck.  The sun beamed down
from a huge expanse of blue sky.  Tide lapped at the shore and at the
hull of the Sea Seraph.

The captain had beached the ship on an island that

colbey could see end to end.  It held a single stone building

at its center that appeared nearly as natural as the weeds surrounding
it.  Only the perfect rectangle of its Shape and the obvious door
destroyed the image of an ordinary rock formation on a deserted
atoll.

Colbey leapt down to the beach.  Shadimar and Secodon clambered after
him.  Grasses scratched through the openings in Colbey's sandals.  A
breeze stirred his gold-flecked, white hair.  The sun shed warmth and
light from a cloudless sky, uncomfortably hot to a Renshai who had so
long known the frigid summers of the North.  Despite the island's
simplicity, its lack of trees, birds, and insects unsettled him.

Captain appeared from around the starboard side of the ship.  "All
ready?"

Shadimar nodded.  "Thank you, Captain."

The elf shoved the bow free of the sand, seized the railing, and hauled
himself back aboard.  He waved a friendly good-bye.  "When you need me,
just call.  I'll come as swiftly as I can."  His gaze shifted from
Shadimar to Colbey.

"Good luck, Western Wizard.  I'm looking forward to many more talks."

Colbey made a brisk, but friendly, gesture of farewell.  The quiet
austerity of the Wizards' Meeting Isle brought back all of the
apprehension he had banished aboard the Sea Seraph.  Despite Shadimar's
long-winded and too frequent explanations, the practicalities and
specific realities of the Tasks of Wizardry still escaped him.  All he
had were vague theories and grandiose descriptions of its deep
significance to the Cardinal Wizards and to the world.

Shadimar turned toward the cottage at the center of the island.

"Let's go."  He clapped a hand to Colbey's shoulders, the touch the
first contact in a long time that felt sincere.  A gesture of
friendship, it did not patronize or direct.  For a change, it did not
seem geared to remind Colbey that he was younger or less experienced,
ignorant of the wonders that came with the passage of millennia of
wisdom.  It was a gesture between equals, and it awakened faded
memories of the time before Trilless had made her accusations against
Colbey and before Shadimar had tried to kill him for a misinterpreted
prophecy, a time when he and Shadimar had shared a brotherhood and a
friendship.

In silence, the two men walked to the dwelling.  Just before the door,
Shadimar stopped and turned to face his com panion..He opened his
mouth, clearly to speak words of encouragement or to once more explain
the significance and urgency of the tasks before Colbey.  Apparently
realizing another lecture would only alienate the Renshai, he echoed
the captain instead.  "Good luck."

Then he seized the handle of the plain, granite door and hauled it open
with a creak of old hinges.

Instantly, the sweet aroma of honey, sassafras, and fresh bread
assailed Colbey.  Inside, a fire burned in a hearth carved into the
farthest wall.  Though the building lacked a chimney, no smoke obscured
the room, and the fire burned without an odor.  A table filled most of
the remaining space.

To Colbey's left, Carcophan sat.  His salt-and-pepper hair hugged his
scalp, a dark contrast to his yellow-green eyes, clean-shaven face, and
deeply impressed scowl.  His tunic stretched taut over a bulky chest
and widely-braced shoulders.

His large hands rested on the table, curled closed.  The frayed
remnants of calluses still marred the edges of his fingers.

Once, Colbey felt certain, the Southern Wizard had learned the art of
war.

At the exact opposite end of the longest part of the table, a shapely
woman perched on a chair.  White robes fluttered around her slender
form, the skirts cascading from her seat like sca foam.  Long white
hair framed delicate, timeless features, and her blue eyes, though
watery with age, seemed kind.

One other occupied the room, a man familiar to Colbey.

Mar Lon Davrinsson sat in a shadowed corner, strumming his compact,
ten-stringed instrument and mouthing silent lyrics.  He wore his brown
hair short and without adornment.

His hazel eyes rolled upward.  Finding Colbey's gaze upon him, Mar Lon
smiled in greeting.  Colbey stared back.  The bard's presence among
somber, genteel Wizards shocked him.  Experience had shown him that the
Cardinal Wizards rarely lowered themselves to consort with mortals,
except for an occasional champion or where the prophecies they were
bound to fulfill drove them to the association.

"Mar Lon.  What a pleasant surprise."  Colbey ignored the Great Wizards
to address the only mortal in the room.  "Why aren't you in Bearn
protecting King Sterrane?"  He asked from genuine concern, not the
desire for small talk.  In the years before the Western high king had
claimed his throne, Sterrane had traveled with Colbey and Mitrian.  His
simple

justice and fierce loyalty had endeared him to the remaining

Renshai.  It had become Mar Lon's job not only to protect

King Sterrane from usurpers, but also from his own childlike
innocence.

Every gaze riveted on Colbey.  Shadimar's hand slipped from the
Renshai's shoulders and gripped his arm in warning.

The bard lowered his instrument, glancing from Wizard to Wizard as if
seeking permission to speak.

No one addressed the question.

Apparently, Mar Lon accepted the Cardinal Wizards' silence as
consent.

He sighed, placing the lonriset into playing position.  Odin's Curse on
his ancestors drove each eldest child, male or female, to a constant
and desperate search for knowledge that he could only impart to others
through his music.  Though the curse did not include his dealings with
Wizards, Mar Lon found it easier to respond to Colbey's question by
singing: "A man named Jahiran became the first bard His line cursed by
Odin: Bearn's king to guard, All knowledge to seek and for all lore to
long But never to teach it, except in a song.

"When the great times in history are known to occur, The current bard
will be there, you I can assure.

Unless his vow to Bearn keeps him away Then his firstborn may replace
him for affairs of that day.

"As of the time this song is being written Mar Lon the bard has yet to
be smitten.

Without a marriage and with no wife to bear it Mar Lon is damn glad
that he has no heir yet."

Despite its silliness, haphazard rhyme scheme, and obvious
instantaneous authorship, the song spanned three octaves and its melody
was striking.  Mar Lon hit every note and chord with solid
assuredness.

Colbey admired the decades of constant and dedicated practice that had
created a talent that all who heard enjoyed, although few could
understand the bard's sacrifice.  Mar Lon had told Colbey the basis for
his musical skill came from his inheritance of the bard's curse, but
Colbey knew the fine details of his talent could only be mastered
through years of daily practice.

Throughout the concert, the Cardinal Wizards sat in impassive
silence.

Time meant little to them.  Apparently, they chose to indulge the
exchange between the mortal and the

one of their own closest to his previous mortality.  As the last

notes fell from the lonriset, Trilless addressed Colbey.  "Welcome,
Western Wizard."

With a last squeeze of reassurance, Shadimar strode around Trilless to
a vacant side of the table, leaving the seat nearest the door for
Colbey.

The old Renshai turned his gaze on the speaker.  Though wrinkled, her
face still held a mature beauty.  Its set and the pallor of her skin
revealed her Northern heritage, though her hair had gone fully
silver.

Her white robes against pale skin, ocks, and eyes made her seem
ghostlike and frail.  In Northern society, white symbolized coldness as
well as purity, and

Colbey found equal amounts of both in the woman's manner.

"Spare me your insincere greetings, Trilless.  The army of

Northmen, Valr Kirin, and the demon you sent to kill me told me what
you really think of me."

Carcophan laughed regally.

Trilless glared, first at Colbey, then, with more venom, at her evil
opposite.  She returned her gaze to the Renshai, and her features
softened.  "A logical mistake and one I've come to regret.  No harm
done."

"No harm done!"  The cavalier dismissal outraged Colbey.

"Your Northmen destroyed the city that harbored me, slaughtering its
army and the finest strategist the West ever had."  Memories of
Santagithi's gutted town surfaced immediately, followed by images of
the final battle in a cave in the Granite Hills.  Colbey and Santagithi
had held off a troop of Northern warriors to allow the last handful of
Santagithi's citizens to escape.  Santagithi had died in the battle,
and

Colbey had spent days in coma.  An angry, red scar still spanned his
chest in a long diagonal.  "Your Northmen hounded us across the
continent.  Because of you, the world lost two Renshai and two of the
dearest, closest friends the

Renshai ever had!"  Colbey avoided the details of those others' deaths,
afraid the memories might sever his control.  Un til he took the oaths
and vows that accompanied the Tasks of

Wizardry, nothing but common sense could keep him from attacking the
Northern Sorceress with a sword that could kill her.  At one time, he
would have cherished the opportunity.

Now, he struggled against his need for vengeance for the

sake of mankind and Odin's laws.

Carcophan laughed again.  His receding, black-speckled hair lay brushed
flat against his scalp, and his features appeared to be permanently
sneering.  "The man has a point, dear colleague.  Had you gathered as
much information as I did, you would have realized that my champion was
going.

to come to me, without need for me to seek him.  Had you watched for
him to come to me, instead of assuming, you might have killed my
champion rather than wasting your time and resources chasing down a
colleague."

The tactless coldness of Carcophan's reference to Episte all but
shattered Colbey's already tenuous control.  He called upon heroic
depths of composure to keep from responding with violence he might
regret.

Immediately, Trilless turned her attention from Colbey to Carcophan.

"You poisonous snake.  You creature of evil.  I spent months in
research, tracking down the tiniest footnote in a text so old it
crumbled with every touch."

Carcophan grinned.  His tiny eyes glittered.  "I read, too.

Then I had the sense and the competence to use my skill to confirm what
I found."

Colbey remained silent, the Wizards' bickering cutting through his
rage, his point only half made.

Trilless tapped a fist on the tabletop.  "Maybe I care enough about our
world and its law not to risk summoning demons and their chaos just to
clarify questions."

"So, instead, you take a bigger risk and loose one to slaughter the
Western Wizard."

Incredulity replaced Colbey's ire.  He had wanted to agitate the
Northern and Southern Wizards and to force them to face the
consequences of their misconceptions.  However, the two seemed quite
capable of inciting one another without his help.  On man's world, each
was charged with destroying the cause of the other.  Colbey guessed
they probably had spent their rare moments together through eternity
baiting one another.

He took his seat, suddenly enjoying the spat.

Trilless answered Carcophan's accusation.  "I constrained that demon.

And I kept its task specific.  It could have harmed no one else."

"No one else but the Western Wizard.  How clever."

Trilless smoothed a hand through her hair, her placid demeanor unbroken
despite the Southern Wizard's sarcasm.

"Who could have guessed Tokar would do something so stupid?

Destroy his own apprentice.  Make a Renshai a Wizard."

She lowered her hand, eyes flashing at the ludicrousness of Tokar's
actions.  "And don't tell me you knew Colbey was the Western Wizard.

If you had, you would have also known that Hayval would come into
existence."  She made a vague gesture that came nowhere near its
target, yet they all knew she indicated the Sword of Power at Colbey's
hip.  "And you might have used what little judgment you have not to
summon the Black Sword."

As Colbey became more relaxed and less irritable, the knowledge gained
during his years with General Santagithi allowed him to see that the
Wizard-opposites' quibbling went far beyond childish name-calling.

They read one another's strategies, ideologies, and methods in every
phrase; and the seeds of future way were born from every gibe they
traded.

"Three Swords, it took, not two."  Carcophan kept his voice low,
pitched to provoke.  "You called .."

May Lon strummed the lonriset's strings harder, and a minor chord rang
out over the argument.  His crisp tenor rose over it in new song.

"...

the meeting began with great pomp and fanfare.  Wizards squabbled like
children where each sat in his chair ..."

Trilless and Carcophan went suddenly quiet, and all eyes swiveled to
the bard.

"... They argued of demons, each seething and blather-ing.

Forgetting, in anger, the cause of their gathering."  Mar Lon looked
up.  He lowered the instrument with a brisk gesture that parodied
embarrassment.  "I'm sorry.  Was I playing too loud?"

Colbey smiled.  In the past, he and May Lon had had a relationship
based on mutual suspicion.  Colbey's background and history unnerved
the bard, especially when the Renshai came too close to King
Sterrane.

And Mar Lon's mistrust had naturally made him unlikable to Colbey.

Suddenly, Colbey developed a new respect for the bard's style.

"You'd take about half a heartbeat to kill," Carcophan said.

Even Colbey knew the threat was idle.  To kill any mortal meant risking
the possibility of jeopardizing future prophecies.

The law allowed the Cardinal Wizards to drive mortals

into killing one another.  Rarely did those rules allow them to

interfere more directly.

"Colbey, you have seven tests to complete."  Shadimar re-directed the
conversation by attending to the task at hand, too dignified to care
that the diversion was shallow and obvious.

The tonelessness of his voice suggested a standard speech given to all
apprentices at this point in the proceedings.

"Successful completion of each yields a ring of Wizardry.

Once you have any given ring, the task is considered completed, and the
next begins."

Carcophan and Trilless regained appropriate decorum, abandoning their
differences to fix their attention on Shadimar.

"When you pass the seventh and last of the tasks ..."

Shadimar glanced sharply at the other Wizards, as if to challenge
either to turn his "when" to an "if."

"When you pass the last task, you may be offered an eighth.  You must
refuse it."

Colbey raised his brows, intrigued.  This was the first time anyone had
mentioned this complication.

Again, Shadimar looked from Wizard to Wizard, his expression
imploring.

When no one else spoke, Shadimar leaned across the table, as if to
whisper.  His thoughts and manner struck Colbey first.  The Eastern
Wizard apparently struggled with a desperate concern he saw no way to
defuse.

A thought drifted from Shadimar to Colbey, obviously without
intention.

I know Colbey, and, in this, he is like a child.

The more I forbid it, the more it will entice him.  Yet to send him in
unwarned and unprepared for the Guardian of the Task's tactics will
doom him forcertain.  "There is a guardian who will become insistent.

He will offer ultimate power.

You must resist him, though it is not my right to tell you why.  Refuse
repeatedly, and he will send you back to us, perhaps with some crucial
information or advice that you or we can use to avert the Ragnarok.  If
you attempt the task, his advice will become forever lost.  As will
you."

Colbey gleaned far more than just Shadimar's words.  The intensity of
the Eastern Wizard's thoughts sent them wafting clearly to Colbey.  He
understood that, over the millennia, no one who had survived to become
a Cardinal Wizard had ever attempted the eighth task.  He also learned
Shadimar's theory, nurtured by his collective consciousness.  Shadimar
believed that Odin had added the eighth task to protect the

gods, the world, and the system of Wizardry.  Anyone interested in
ultimate power could not be trusted to obey the many laws that hemmed
in and restricted the Wizards, and

Shadimar guessed that the simple act of accepting the eighth task meant
failing it.  To his mind, the eighth task was, itself, the decision of
whether or not to attempt an eighth task.

Colbey considered the possibility.  It did seem exactly the sort of
warped logic that the Cardinal Wizards used, to his continued
annoyance.  And Odin's wisdom seemed to work in much the same way.

"There is no eighth task," Carcophan added.  "Better to think of it
that way."

Trilless nodded her support.  Colbey hoped Mar Lon had captured the
evil and good Wizards' concurrence in song.

Their agreement on any matter seemed like a grand event that should
have documentation.

Though no one had actually asked a question, the three studied Colbey
in silence, brows raised.  He saw no reason to delay the inevitable.

Every Wizard had far more patience than he did.  "It doesn't matter,"
Colbey said, then explained.

"Like all Renshai, I rely only on the strength of my own mind and
body.

These are eternal."  He raised his hands to indicate self-reliance.

"Your powers are not your own.  They come from the creatures you
summon, your demons and your Power Swords."

Mar Lon hunched over his instrument, stunned into motionlessness.

A moment later, his lips moved furiously.  He drew paper and a stylus
from his tunic, as if to capture the many thoughts that came too
quickly for his mind alone to retain.

Carcophan's reply was abrupt and angry.  "You speak of eternity, yet
how long do Renshai live?  Mortal strength withers and dies."

Shadimar remained leaning forward.  His hands slipped from the table,
and he rummaged for something in his pocket as he spoke.  Knowing
Colbey better, he chose a different tack.  "These tasks won't make you
a Cardinal Wizard.

You are already one, and there's no place any more for personal
grudges.  You don't have to like Carcophan or Trilless.

In fact, you'll work against them, and their successors, every moment
for centuries.  But if you refuse to take your title, the people who
suffer will be those who follow neutrality.

phire from his pocket, a gem Colbey recognized as the Pica

Stone.  Once it had belonged to the Renshai, a symbol of their
greatness and durability.  Before the Renshai had conquered it and
taken the Pica, the town of Shadimar's birth had kept it as their own
talisman.  After the destruction of the

Renshai, Shadimar had engineered the gem back into his own hands.  As a
gesture of peace, Colbey had allowed the

Eastern Wizard to keep the sapphire without fear of retaliation, and
they had made their pact of brotherhood over it.

Colbey scowled, curious as to why Shadimar had chosen that moment to
remind him of a blood-sworn relationship that Shadimar had broken.

Shadimar placed the Pica on the table.  "... including the Renshai."

He paused for a moment, head lowered, as if in consideration.  A
strongly directed thought radiated from Shadimar, obscure in its
translation and underlying intention.

Surely, he had not meant it for Colbey.

Accustomed to accidentally reading private ideas and emotions from
others, it occurred to Colbey too late that the thought seemed too
deliberate to have wafted inadvertently from the Eastern Wizard.  He
didn't mean it for me.  But the others in the room are Cardinal Wizards
as well, the only ones, besides me, with whom Shadimar could choose to
communicate in this fashion.  Colbey went wary.  He glanced at
Carcophan.  The Evil One returned the look, his lips tight in a quiet
smirk.  His yellow-green eyes found and held the Northman's blue-gray
ones, and the gaze they exchanged held candor and danger.

Shadimar seemed oblivious.  He stroked the Pica Stone with both hands,
his fingers hrushing and closing in grand gestures that reminded Colbey
of swimming.  "Carcophan's Eastlanders may have lost the war, but
they've destroyed their lands and will come again for ours.  Trilless
has infused her rigid goodness all through the northernmost parts of
the Westlands.  I am not strong enough to stand alone between good and
evil.  Neither of them has use for our people."

Colbey turned his attention to Trilless.  She had a coiled restlessness
about her that Carcophan had lacked.  Colbey wondered whether
Shadimar's message had gone only to her, or if both had received it.

Carcophan's war training would make him the better at hiding active
intentions.  Trusting that he could move faster than any other in the
room, Colbey prepared for defense only mentally.  And waited.

Shadimar's voice dropped so low Colbey could no longer differentiate
the syllables.  Just as he began to question whether the Eastern Wizard
spoke true words at all, Shadimar again became clearly audible.

"Trilless will slay kindly.  She'll infuse the West with diseases that
kill in sleep.

Carcophan's followers will capture our people; then slaughter them in
agony and dance over their corpses.  Either way, they won't reach
Valhalla," Rage again built in Colbey.  He reassured himself with the
knowledge that no one, Wizard-mediated or otherwise, could kill the
Renshai without a fight.

Shadimar removed his hand from the Pica Stone.  He stared at Colbey
until the Renshai pulled his gaze from the Northern Sorceress to meet
Shadimar's stony, gray eyes.

"You will learn that Wizardry encompasses far more than trickery and
summonings.  Though it is traditional, no one ever asked that you
become a user of magics, only that you dedicate the skills you do
possess to the cause of the world and to the true gods, the same gods
you've worshiped all your life."  Shadimar looked quickly at each
Cardinal Wizard in turn, excluding only Mar Lon.  "The future lies in
what you see in the Pica.  Good luck, my friend."

Colbey's attention strayed naturally to the sapphire.

Streaks and flecks of brown, green, and yellow obscured the blue.  The
colors swirled in a cryptic blotch, then settled into a pattern.

Colbey squinted, attending closer to unite the sequence of lines and
curves into a complete picture, much the way he would focus on the
whole of an artist's canvas rather than individual brush strokes.

While his eyes picked out the image of a forest, he remained alert for
movement.  Still, the quiet, coordinated motions of the Cardinal
Wizards did not seem bold enough for threat, and Colbey sensed no
violence.

The attack caught him only half prepared.

Something unseen struck Colbey from behind, hard enough to drive his
gut into the edge of the table.  Breath rushed from his lungs.  Yet
Colbey still had the wherewithal to rise and spin, whipping Harval from
its sheath in a tiny fraction of an eye blink.  His gaze and attack met
nothing.

The force had no form.  It surged around him, its screams filling his
ears, then whirled him into wild circles.  The Meeting Isle's room
disappeared, replaced by an endless void, without sound, shape, or
color.

Colbey fought for control, gaining it only for himself and

his sword.  His world still spun, but the movement came from
without.

He managed to maintain his equilibrium, keeping his focus fully
internal, orienting himself and waiting for the world to re-form around
him.

The spinning stopped abruptly.  The instant it did, a new reality
blinked to life around Colbey Calistinsson.  He stood on solid ground,
hard mud smothered beneath a carpet of ancient leaves.  Towering elms
surrounded him, a vast forest that seemed endless, with weeds, copses,
and vines filling the spaces between the trunks.  Sunlight sprinkled
between the sparse upper branches, filtering down to the undergrowth.

Though Colbey had managed to brace his mind and body, his stomach
lurched from the combined effects of the Cardinal Wizards' magic.  He
controlled its heaving mentally, stroking absently at it through his
shirt.  Then, a rustle in the brush froze him.  He levered backward,
pressing his back against a trunk, and his right hand found the hilt of
his other sword.

Suddenly, a creature stepped from a tangle of vines.  It resembled a
man, but it stood shorter, and its back hunched like an angry cat's.

Scrawny arms dangled to its knees, tapering to feline claws.  Red hair
sprouted in clumps from its oversized head.  Two eyes, like heated
coals, glared at the Renshai.

"Who are you?"  Colbey asked, politely avoiding the more obvious
questions of its parentage and right to existenCe.  He kept the swords
between it and himself, his stance wholly defensive.  It was not
Colbey's way to initiate battles, only to finish them.

The beast made a noise deep in its throat that sounded like "quarack"
to Colbey's ears.  He suspected that this was its cry, not its name,
but he did not ponder.  His mind told him two things at once.  First,
the creature had no intelligent thought wafting from it, only a promise
of swift and sudden violence.  It saw the old Renshai as prey.  Second,
movement thumped, brushed, and rattled through the forest for as far as
Colbey could see, hear, or sense.  This creature, whatever its name or
origin, had hundreds or thousands of companions.

And every one hungered for blood.

CHAPTER 4

The Tasks of Wizardry Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow padded along one of the
straight mud pathways of Stalmize's graveyard, pale mud sucking at her
bare feet.  The cemetery perched on a hill that had once stood far from
the city, before the homes and shops had penetrated into the crippled
farmland and forests.  Now, it stood just beyond the last, sparse
dwellings.

Soon, Khitajrah guessed, the cemetery would become a part of the
city.

Stalmize would swallow the corpses of its citizens and move on,
collecting ever more of the surrounding countryside, and the dead would
become as forgotten as the central, older portions of the city.

Khitajrah had not entered the cemetery in the decade since her sons'
and husband's ashes had found their final rests, beneath the scarlet
shafts that marked them as heroes in Sheriva's war.  As she headed from
the entrance toward the middle of the graveyard, she glanced over the
rows of · painted metal shafts that denoted the remains of each
cremated corpse.  Most of these were green, the color indicating a
natural death, by illness, accident, or legal dispute.  Those who had
dedicated their lives to Sheriva, through his churches, lay beneath
markers of royal blue.  War heroes' graves bore the blood-colored
markers that drew the eye, and black shafts dishonored the criminals
and cowards.

Benches lined the walkway, becoming older and more ornate, though
crumbling, the farther she went.

Khitajrah paused at the central mausoleum that honored Sheriva's
chosen, the dead kings, including the wild, granite horse that marked
Siderin's grave site.  She hesitated, not to gawk but to think.  From
the center, eight pathways radiated, like spokes.  The north and south
pathways led to vaulted exits.  The other six ended dead, against an
enclosing stone wall.  Her husband's grave lay down one of these.

Ordinarily, the position of the sun would have reminded her of his loca
tion.  Now, dawn washed the darkened sky a uniform red, scarcely
bearing enough light for her to see her way, let alone to determine
it.

At length, Khitajrah recalled that the general-king's horse faced the
graves of his high lieutenants, and she headed in the indicated
direction.  It was not her husband's tomb that she sought.  She had
laid him to rest too many years ago, and her memories had become as old
and treasured as her attraction to the deeper parts of Stalmize.  Women
did not get grave sites or markers, but the diggers did try to keep
sons and fathers in the same location.  She had seen Bahmyr, still and
bleeding, in the women's court and believed him dead.

Yet she needed to know for certain.

Although Khitajrah had had difficulty finding the correct path, once
there she knew precisely when she had reached the familiar plot.  The
twin red markers of her oldest and youngest sons brought tears to her
eyes, blurring the names inscribed.  She pictured Nichus, the eldest,
short and broad like his grandfather and always full of wit.  She
thought of the baby, Ellbaric, only twelve at his death.  Paler than
his brothers, he had sported brown hair instead of black and soft,
doelike eyes.  Always serious, he had penned poetry and joined a tiny
group of young peace supporters led by a Western musician, until the
war had claimed his loyalty and his life.

Grief seared Khitajrah, making her forget the throbbing of her muscles
and the ache of the knife wound across her hand.  She had to force her
gaze onward, and what she saw there surprised her.  At first, she
thought the next grave site was empty, without a marker.  Then, her
gaze carved through the darkness, outlining a black shaft nearly lost
in the dusk.

She froze in place, staring until her eyes finally made out the letters
she already knew she would find: Bahmyr Harrsha's-son.

For three days, Khitajrah had known her last son was dead.  Huddled
beneath the cobbler's shop, she had mourned him with tears that had
stung her eyes to fiery redness.  Yet the reality of his grave proved
too much.  She collapsed to the bench, sobs wracking her body and grief
suffocating the bittersweet memories her other sons' markers had
dragged to the surface.

For some time, Khitajrah lay, while dawn turned the sky from red to
gray.  Finally, she managed to raise her head, and

her gaze found the second marker, that of her husband Harrsha.

Someone had painted over the scarlet honor that had denoted the high
lieutenant's grave.  It now lay as flat and black as Bahmyr's, except
between the letters of his name, where the vandal had not bothered to
carefully blot out the remaining spots of red.

Although the agony of Bahmyr's death ached more deeply, Khitajrah
focused on the painted marker.  This, at least, gave her a target for
her rage.  She gripped the metal shaft in both hands and pulled.

Hammered by the same blacksmith who made many of the Eastlands' swords,
the marker felt as heavy and sturdy as a blade.  Though un-sharpened,
the edges dug into Khitajrah's palms.  Bracing her feet, she hauled at
the obscene steel stake, needing to get it as far from the remains of
her family as possible.  Ground shifted beneath the deeply buried
point.  Then, suddenly, it tore free.

The abrupt change in resistance sent Khitajrah staggering backward.

She scrambled for balance, catching it with an agile back-step, her
hands still winched around the stake.  She loosened her grip, studying
the lines of purple-red blood welling beneath her skin, directly
matching the edges of the marker.  Dirt clung to the tapering barb.

She kicked it free.

A man's voice startled Khitajrah .. "Ah, so the pig comes when you lure
it with garbage."

Khitajrah whirled to face the speaker, the stake clutched defensively
in her fist.  Two men stood on the path, between her and the central
hub of the radiating grave sites.  She recognized them at once, the way
a deer knows the scent of cougar.  The larger, Diarmad, had initiated
the blame-laying against her husband.  The other, Waleis, had brought
the charges against her in the women's court.  Both had slaughtered
Bahmyr, using knives from behind, while her son had fought an honest
battle against guardsmen's swords.

The two men closed in on Khitajrah, each with a hand on his sword
hilt.

Diarmad remained directly in front of her.

Waleis circled, trapping her between himself and the graves and
benches.  Diarmad spoke again.  "The hunt is over, Khita.

We've found you, and we have the right to execute your sentence.

The law demands that you yield willingly."

Khitajrah said nothing, feigning calm, the stake lax in her grip.

Against swords in veterans' hands, it would prove little more than no
weapon at all, yet she clung to it.  Her sense of

honor told her that she had no choice but to submit, yet hatred
forbade it.  The same burning ember that had driven her to petty theft
and urging uprising, that had goaded her to resist her sentencing in
the courtroom, flared into a wild bonfire.  Bahmyr had given his life
for hers, and he would not die in vain.  It should have gone the Other
way.  I should have and would have traded my life for any of my
sons'.

Diarmad drew his sword.  "Come here."

"Wait," Khitajrah said, needing time to think.  To run would be
folly.

Unless she pushed directly past them, she could only corner herself
against the outer wall.  She stalled, forming images of the graveyard
in her mind.

Diarmad took another step toward her, his huge bulk silhouetted against
the grayness, his Eastern-dark features lost in the lingering night.

"You may grovel.  It is expected."

The suggestion only fanned the growing fire of Khitajrah's anger.

Suddenly, a presence sparked to life within her, and she no longer felt
alone.  Though she knew she must be imagining the other, it gave her
strength.  She shouted.  "Expected only by a coward who doesn't know
me.  Did you show this same courage in the war?  Tell me, how many
unarmed civilians did you slaughter?"

Red tinged Diarmad's features.  His stance tightened, wholly on the
offensive.  "You're under sentence of execution, Khita.  You're walking
the borders of disobedience."

Walking the borders?  Had Khitajrah felt any less desperate, she would
have laughed.  The thing inside her mind throbbed in amusement.  "And
you're walking the borders of manhood.  At least my husband bravely
faced the woman who killed him, weapon to weapon.  And she was a
Renshai warrior."

Waleis watched the exchange, open-mouthed, hand still on his hilt.

Diarmad scowled, his face twisted and ugly with rage.

"She was not bound under Eastern law and sentenced to die."

"Warriors fight.  Cowards make excuses."  Khitajrah shoved the
sharpened grave marker through her sash with a grand gesture that hid
the motion of slipping the utility knife she had taken from the boy
into her hand.  She kept the hilt curled against her palm, fingers
spread and bent to hide it.

The blade rested comfortably against her forearm.  "All I ask

is for a chance to die in fair combat.  Nowhere does our law say I
can't ask that nor that you can't grant it."

"Nor does it say I must."  Diarmad opened his mouth to say more, but
Khitajrah interrupted.

"True, our law allows your cowardice, if you so choose."

She smiled slightly.  "My husband earned this for dying at the hands of
a warrior."  She gestured to the vandalized stake with her free
hand-"If you're too afraid to face a peasant woman weapon to weapon, I
hope there's enough black paint in all of Stalmize to soak your
grave."

Diarmad's mouth snapped closed so suddenly, his teeth clicked
audibly.

He motioned briskly to Waleis.  "Give her your sword."

"What?  But ...?"  Waleis started, but Diarmad waved him silent.

"Give her the damned sword!"  he roared, then addressed Khitajrah.  "I
had thought to make this quick and painless.

For your impudence, you will know every agony and indignity we can
inflict on you."

Deep within Khitajrah, the thread of unidentifiable being laughed, its
disdain transforming Diarmad's threat to a child's bluster.  Its
presence strengthened her, hammering thoughts through Khitajrah's mind
that defied centuries of law, always before accepted without
question.

It defined every indecency of which even the evil Easterners knew only
the barest trifle: lies, blasphemy, and betrayal.  Its surge nearly
stole Khitajrah's focus.  Though bold, her words sounded strange in her
own ears.  "Be cruel, then.  I would rather this than a helpless death,
without honor."

Diarmad jerked his head toward Waleis, again wordlessly commanding
him.

This time, the smaller veteran obeyed.  He drew his sword one-handed,
holding the other arm out before him, his elbow crooked.  Taking the
blade, he laid the sword across the level surface formed by his other
arm, parodying a servant offering a fine wine to a king for
inspection.

He kept his movements bold and deliberate, a mockery.

Neither soldier could see a woman as a threat.

Khitajrah stepped up to Waleis, his position forcing her close to claim
the sword.  She could see the raised track of a war scar across his
cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  His black eyes seemed depthless.

She took the hilt in her left hand.

Waleis tightened his grip on the blade, lips bunching into

a smirk.  Fully in control, he teased.  Clearly, he had not yet

chosen whether or not to actually let her have the weapon.

Khitajrah made the decision for him.  She whipped up her right hand,
slashing the knife across his fingers, feeling the blade gouge flesh to
grate against tendon and bone.

Waleis screamed, instinctively releasing the sword and leaping
backward.  His retreat gave Khitajrah the range she needed.  Dropping
the knife, she wrapped both fists around his sword hilt.  Placing her
weight on her back foot, she reversed the motion of the heavy blade.

It caught him across the throat, a slice without power.  Yet the razor
sharp edge did its work.  Blood fountained from a severed artery, and
the soldier crashed to the dirt.

"Demons!"  Diarmad's expletive combined shock, rage, and disbelief.

All of his war training could not have prepared him for blatant
deceit.

For an instant, he hesitated.

Khitajrah seized the moment.  She ran.  Horror chilled through her, and
she could scarcely believe what she had done.  Her bare feet sank into
the mud.  It clutched and clung, hampering every movement, and each
sprinting step left a massive hole in her wake.  This is madness.  I'm
running toward a wall Khitajrah knew she had to change her course, or
she would corner herself, but she saw no other direction to run in
except toward Diarmad.

Apparently, the soldier had paused to help his dying companion because,
when he shouted, his voice came from farther away than she expected.

"It's futile, you wretched, murdering frichenkarboh!  Give up now, and
I'll kill you cleanly, though you don't deserve it."

"Guile.  Use guile.  In a straight fight, he'll kill you."  Though the
thought came from Khitajrah's mind, she did not recognize it as her
own.  Desperation sped her thoughts.  A plan formed, wholly her own,
yet deeply-ingrained honor forced her to discard it.

"Do it, Khita."  The command came to Khitajrah more in picture concepts
than words.

She argued back, certain, she had gone insane.  "The law forbids ..."

"Piss on the law."

"The world is law.  Law is everything."

"You rallied women, Khita.  You killed a defenseless man.

You've already abandoned law."

"No more.  What I did was wrong."

"He killed your son."

The words rekindled the boiling torrent of her rage.

Khitajrah struggled against the release from honor her anger
promised.

"No excuse."

"They both killed Bahmyr " Hatred speared through Khitajrah, shaking
her control.

She clung to her honor, dredging a response from the deepest core of
her being.  "The crime I committed shouldn't exist.  A mind capable of
creating dishonor must be destroyed."  The being hesitated.  "Where did
that come from?"

'I don't know," Khitajrah admitted.  Other certainties followed as
swiftly.  Though she had never thought of them before, the ideas felt
wholly hers, in a way those of the goading presence never could.  "The
world is law.  It is not Prepared to stand against lies and
deceptions.

I could destroy all of mankind."  Terror chilled through her, and her
steps slowed.

"Think of the power!"  The alien presence echoed through Khitajrah's
mind.  She shrank from its promise.

"I don't seek power.  I don't want it."  Khitajrah rejected the need
with a will so primal she would not have battled it, even had she
wanted to.

"Do it, Khita!  Live, and I will tell you how to bring Bahmyr back to
life."

Hope cut through Khitajrah's distress.  She quickened her run until she
felt as if she flew.  She took the remnants of her torn shoe from her
pocket, wrapping it around a coin for weight.  Then, just beyond sight
of her pursuer, she dropped the sword on the pathway.  She hurled the
rag-wrapped coin to the opposite side of the pathway.

A dozen more running steps brought her to the cemetery wall.  She
sprang to one of the decorative benches that lined the walk, doubling
back over her trail without leaving a print.  Mud from her feet broke
loose with each movement, but she trusted the last lingering darkness
to hide the traces.

The huge holes on the muddy path would surely hold Diarmad's attention
more.  Once back to the place where she had tossed sword and shoe, she
ducked behind the bench and waited.

Khitajrah's vigil was short.  Diarmad appeared, following her trail
with ease, his own sword readied in his fist.  Apparently noticing
Waleis' sword in his path, he stopped, surely recognizing it
instantly.

A smile inched across his features.

Without a sword, they both knew she had almost no chance

at all to put up any kind of fight.

Soundlessly, Khitajrah pulled Harrsha's grave marker from her sash.  It
would not last long against honed and tempered steel, but it might
serve its purpose.  She had had little choice but to use the better
weapon as a distraction.  Nothing less would have drawn Diarmad's
attention.

Diarmad crouched, reaching for the fallen sword.  He kept his attention
fixed on the shoe, studying it through gray dawn, blithely turning his
back to the real threat.  He kept his own weapon clenched in his right
hand.

Khitajrah raised the marker and sprang for his back.

Some sound, motion, or soldier's instincts caused Diarmad to twist
toward her.  He raised his sword to block.

Instantly, Khitajrah changed her target.  The point of the marker cut
across the back of his hand, drawing blood.  The sword fell from his
fingers.

Khitajrah lunged as Diarmad rolled.  The marker stabbed through empty
air.

The soldier scooped up Waleis' weapon, catching it in his injured sword
hand.  "Sheriva's damnation, you bitch!  The god will curse you, and
you'll live out eternity in withering agony."

Bahmyr had taught Khitajrah never to talk in battle.

Though she believed she already had Sheriva's support and his voice in
her head, she did not return Diarmad's gibes.  Instead, she snatched up
his fallen weapon, facing him sword to sword, the honest battle neither
of them had wanted.

Blood ebbed from the man's hand, staining his hilt and fingers the
scarlet of the heroes' markers.

Diarmad cut for Khitajrah's head, splashing his own blood in a wide
arc.  Khitajrah dodged beneath the stroke, then hammered for his
injured fingers.  He jerked backward, saving his hand, but her sword
slammed against his hilt.

Though her blow lacked power, blood slicked his grip.  The collision,
though slight, sent the sword sliding from his fist.

Diarmad dove for his weapon.  Khitajrah continued her cut.  The
sharpened edge of the soldier's sword in her fist opened his shirt and
tore through his abdomen.  He crashed to the ground, shrieking.

Khitajrah back-stepped, sides heaving as much from fury as fatigue.

"You bastard!  You killed my son!  You dishonored my husband and my
son!"  She shoved the sword through her

sash, oblivious to the bloody trail it smeared across her clothing.

The presence applauded her work, though she did not share its
enthusiasm, and it told her to let the enemy die in slow agony.

Khitajrah's conscience would not allow it, though her rage still drove
her to one last act of vengeance.  Seizing the painted black grave
marker, she drove it through Diarmad's throat.

Diarmad's screams turned into a watery choke, then ceased abruptly.

His eyes remained opened, as if to stare at the stake that now marked
his death, if not his future grave.

The sight revolted Khitajrah.  She collapsed, vomiting on the cemetery
pathway.  The hatred she had held against these men dulled to an ache,
but it did not disappear.  She turned it inward, despising the deed,
the flaw in herself that had allowed her to defy laws millennia old,
and the price her lapse might cost the world.

Within her, the alien creature seemed to weaken, and it lunged for the
grip her dispersing rage had lost it.  "There is more, Khitajrah.  Much
more."

"No," she responded weakly, the questions she had tossed aside
converging on her at once.  "I'm not crazy.  You're not just a part of
me.  Are you Sheriva?"

A strange and foreign amusement sifted through her, but Khitajrah did
not share the joke.  'I am not Sheriva.  Sheriva does not exist.  He is
a construct, a symbol of too longstanding laws we both know should be
abandoned."

"Not abandoned.  Changed."  Khitajrah clung to the shaky foundations of
her honor, preferring even injustice to lawlessness.

The being ignored the semantics.  'I am older than the gods and
infinitely more powerful.  All of them together cannot keep me at bay
forever.  I am Chaos.  And I am the force that the gods themselves
worship."

Silence hovered in the single room dwelling on the Cardinal Wizards'
Meeting Isle, every eye on the scene in the Pica Stone.  Shadimar
watched forest stretch endlessly through the expanse of the
clairsentient sapphire.  Colbey crouched, swords readied, like the
double sting of an insect.

In front of him, the creature known only as a quarack, waited.  Colbey
watched it, his stance confident, his darting eyes revealing his
knowledge of its fellows, though they

were still hidden by the trees.  From his broader perspective,

Shadimar could see that the forest seemed alive with movement.

Black fur shifted between the trunks as far as the boundaries of the
Pica stretched.

"Quarack!"  A second creature joined the first within the circle of
Colbey's vision.  Shortly, another drew up beside the first two.  Then,
the squat creatures stepped from the brush in all directions.  They
appeared from stands of bushes, from around trees, and from beneath the
tangled undergrowth.

They swarmed, surrounding the Renshai from every side.

Carcophan's long fingers curled around the table's edge.  "Dead
already."  Though soft, his voice shattered the hush, enhancing the
smug satisfaction in his tone.  "Without magic here, he's helpless."

His cat's eyes sparkled, and his broad mouth fanned into a smile.

Apparently, he recalled his own trial with the quaracks, though
Shadimar, the youngest of the current Wizards, had no knowledge of the
Evil One's method.  Nor had Carcophan and Trilless witnessed Shadimar's
trials.  Throughout history, the Pica Stone had alternated between
being a possession of Wizards and of men.  At the latter times, the
Cardinal Wizards had no means to observe an apprentice's progression
through the tasks.  Shadimar's performance had gone unobserved.

As the quaracks tightened their ranks, and Colbey tried to speak to the
animals, Carcophan detailed his method briefly.

"My fire spells killed most of the creatures.  None of the survivors
dared to confront me."

"I remember."  Trilless' contempt came through clearly.

The oldest of the Cardinal Wizards by two centuries, she had witnessed
Carcophan's technique.  "I achieved the same results without
bloodshed.

I filled the sky with colored lightning.

They knew my power, and they trembled before me."

She considered both methods briefly.  Though they had approached the
problem differently, she and the colleague she hated had come to the
same conclusion.  "Without magic, what can Colbey do?"

Shadimar's gaze remained fixed on the Pica.  The quaracks and Colbey
waited, and the swordsman's patience surprised the Eastern Wizard.

"You both survived.  That proves there's more than one way to pass the
test of leadership."  Unable to pass up the rare opportunity to correct
his companions, he detailed what he felt to be their flaws.  "And I
used yet an other method, one that left me neither vulnerable, nor
without followers."  He placed a hand on the Sorceress' arm.

"You earned their obeisance for a short time.  But, as your followers,
the quaracks would have questioned your pretty fireworks in time.  A
surprise mutiny might have found you exiled or killed."

Carcophan's lips bowed up ever so slightly, his gloating cut short by
Shadimar's next words.

"Carcophan, you were more foolish.  If the quaracks were your
followers, you wouldn't need to fear plots or counter-attacks.

But destroying your followers weakens your armies and bases of
power."

"Indeed?"  Carcophan laughed again.  "Would the youngest and weakest of
the Cardinal Wizards enlighten me with his strategy?"

Shadimar smiled, glad for the opportunity.  "I used magic to divine who
their chieftain was, then struck down only him.  That way, they knew my
powers were controlled and efficiently lethal, and I disposed of the
one among them most capable of organizing revolt."

Colbey remained still.  He had stopped speaking, obviously finding
words futile.  Only his eyes moved, measuring the closing enemy.

"Point made."  Trilless acknowledged Shadimar's technique
diplomatically, without a spoken judgment.  "There's more than one way
to use magic to turn a horde of enemies into followers.  But how do you
propose this Renshai should do it?  Feeble-minded masses fear what they
can't comprehend: magic, demons, works of chaos.  Quaracks have seen
swords.  As skilled as he is, even Colbey can't defeat creatures in
such numbers!"

But he'll try.  Shadimar kept the thought to himself, bothered by a
concept his exploration of Colbey's mind had revealed more vividly than
all of his historical texts on Northmen.  Colbey wants to die in
battle, while he still can.

And his words in this room tell me that he'll place that goal over
passing the Tasks of Wizardry.  The implications sent annoyance and
concern twisting through Shadimar, though he revealed none of it to his
companions.  When he had believed Tokar dead, without a successor, he
had found no man or woman except Colbey skilled enough to become the
Western Wizard.  Every moment that the Cardinal Wizards' number
remained at three, instead of the four decreed by

Odin, made their world and its peoples more vulnerable to

chaos.  And Shadimar knew he did not have the power to stand against
Carcopha and Trilless alone.

A quarack sprang.  Colbey's sword met it, and the creature exploded
into gore.  The odor of blood roused its companions to tribal frenzy.

A great wave of red-eyed humanoids surged at Colbey, their canines
snapping and their nails bared.

Colbey howled, but neither in pain nor fear.  His call was a challenge,
a demonic cry of pleasure and raw, innocent fury.  The claws tore his
clothing and his flesh, and every wound made Shadimar ache in
sympathy.

Yet Colbey did not flinch or acknowledge the pain.  His wolf screams
echoed through the trees, nearly drowning the coarse croaks of the
quaracks.  Colbey's sword relentlessly sliced, severed, and bit.  It
fed upon the warped creatures with the savage power of its wielder.

The scene in the Pica Stone washed red, as if some alchemist had
mutated the sapphire to a ruby.  Mar Lon sat in a corner near the door,
clutching his lonriset the way a child clings to a favorite blanket.

His position gave him a clear, though distant, view of the stone.

Trilless turned away under the pretext of stoking the fire; she reviled
unnecessary bloodshed.  Carcophan stared, fascinated.  It was the first
time he had watched the old Renshai fight for more than a few moments
at a time.  Unversed in combat, Shadimar lost Colbey's movements in the
wash of red clothing and blood.

He concentrated on the swirling gray blur he knew as Colbey's left-hand
sword, Harval.  It dipped and rose, spinning in controlled arcs, then
reversing direction in an instant.

Corpses littered the ground around Colbey, enough to make Shadimar
wondered whether or not he had underestimated the Renshai once again.

For a moment, he dared to hope that Colbey could reap his way through
the entire tribe of quaracks.  Then his vision opened to encompass the
bigger picture.  The creatures still filled the extent of forest and
Pica, and more came to replace every one killed.

Shadimar lowered his head.  Mar Lon's eyes went moist and he huddled,
his position revealing all of the despair the Eastern Wizard did not
dare allow himself to feel or show.

Soon enough, it seemed, the Westlands would be lost forever.

CHAPTER 5

The Task of Leadership

After hours of slash, thrust, and parry, Colbey's war joy gave way to
fatigue.  Uncountable wounds throbbed into one torturous ache.  Not a
single quarack moved with half the speed of his swords, but he could
not guard every direction at once.  They overwhelmed him with numbers,
slipping and clawing over the corpses of their companions to attack
with tooth and nail.  Fluid from a forehead wound blinded Colbey, and
blood loss finally dizzied him, stealing the endurance he had developed
over half a century.  He fell to one knee on the stacked bodies.

"Modi!"  Colbey screamed, the wrath god's name driving a second wind
through him, as it always did.  He leapt to his feet.  Dodging a
sweeping clout, he drove a blade through an animal throat, secure in
the knowledge that he had given his all to a battle he would soon
lose.

He strove to assess every movement around him through eyes stung to
blindness by blood.

Unexpectedly, Colbey found himself with an opening in the tide of
enemies.  The attacks against him eased, then ceased altogether.  He
swung in wild figure eights to keep the next wave at bay while he
cleared grime from his eyes with a sleeve.  Quaracks still surrounded
him, though the closest all lay in scarlet death.  The others knelt,
their bulbous skulls touching the ground.  Their strongly radiating
emotions told Colbey they were engaged in some sort of religious
ritual.

They chanted, their not-quite-human lips slurring the syllables.

It took Colbey an inordinately long time to identify which god they
called: "Loki!  Loki!  Loki!"

"Damn."  Colbey gathered his reeling wits, and what little strength
remained, taking the time to reposition for another round of battle.

He had never known gods to directly answer a summons.  Although Sif had
twice sent manifestations to Colbey to advise him, she had never
directly joined a battle

or engaged in conversation with him.  Still, the Cardinal Wizards'
contention that he had entered a god-mediated testing ground made him
wonder.  He waited, suspecting that the quaracks had turned to gods
because of Colbey's own cry for Modi.  They could not know that it was
not Modi himself that Colbey had sought, but the battle wrath the god
inspired.

Nor could they have guessed that the shout had incited Renshai on
battlefields throughout history.

But no crazed, blond god stormed down on Colbey.  Nor did the quaracks
renew their attack.  Gradually, the Renshai's dazed mind cleared enough
for him to realize that he had become the central figure of the
quaracks' ceremony.  Apparently unaccustomed to swordsmen with Colbey's
skill, the quaracks had mistaken him for a god.  Colbey had never
compared himself to any deity; he would have considered it a
blasphemy.

Now, faced by adoring worshipers, the cruel and agile god of mischief
did seem to fit his description best.

Once Colbey realized the quaracks' misconception, he turned it to his
advantage.  Feigning strength and inner calm, he casually wiped blood
from his swords, glaring about at the oddly-shaped faces.  Exhaustion
battered at him, even with this simple movement.  It took nearly all of
his concentration not to stagger.  A fullness ached through his head,
dimming vision.  Weakness made his head sag, but Colbey fought
fatigue.

If he lost consciousness, he would lose the illusion his sword skill
had gained him.  And the quaracks would shed their fear and murder
him.

Hesitantly, one of the quaracks rose and edged toward Colbey.

The Renshai made a brief, short gesture with his sword, conserving
energy yet making his threat clean In response, the creature shrank
back, but it did not retreat.  Slowly, without menace, it raised its
right hand and uncurled its stubby fingers.  A copper ring lay in its
palm.  It took a cautious half-step toward Colbey.

Memory seeped through Colbey's fatigue, and the ring sparked Shadimar's
words: "Successful completion of each task yields a ring of Wizardry.

Once you have any given ring, the task is considered completed, and the
next begins."

Afraid for his own tenuous consciousness, Colbey waited until the
quarack moved within easy reach.  Then, placing both swords in one
hand, he plucked the ring from its rest and dismissed the man-creature
with a wave.

The quarack scuttled back to its fellows.

Colbey studied the ring.  It was small and crudely fashioned, marred by
hammer marks.  Some artisan had etched shallow runes into its surface,
and their intricacy contrasted sharply with the rough-hewn
craftsmanship of the ring.  It read: "A leader must earn loyalty."

The phrase seemed trite to Colbey, the wisdom too obvious to ponder.

With a shrug, he fit the trinket to his finger.

Instantly, the quaracks and their forest muted to green-brown blurs,
streaked red.  Colbey blinked to clear his vision.

Even as he did, the colors crushed together, blending to a uniform gray
that defied identification or outline.  Colbey's vision disappeared,
taking with it sound, smell, and touch.

Even the natural sensations he had known since birth disappeared: he
could not divine the locations of his own arms and legs in relation to
his body.  His grip felt nonexistent, devoid of the reassuring press of
the swords he had carried since infancy, and he could not even find-the
normal touch of clothing against his skin.  Wildly, he grappled for
orientation, His hand touched something solid, and he pressed his back
against it, waiting for situation and self to resolve.

In the meeting room on the Wizards' Isle, with Trilless, Carcophan, and
Mar Lon as fellow witnesses, Shadimar watched mist swirl through the
Pica Stone.  Its glaring blue muted to the gray of winter clouds.

Then, suddenly, the haze exploded to a breathtaking mass of color.

This, too, faded, then the sapphire's depths cleared to reveal a bleak
scene, completely unlike the preceding splendor.  Colbey crouched
against-the wall of a small, stone room without windows or doors.  A
mass of green fire capered in the center of the floor, fed by no fuel
or wind.  It threw sickly highlights across Colbey's ashen face.  And,
for the first time Shadimar could remember, Colbey seemed to have lost
his grace and confidence.

Colbey's tunic still hung in tatters, but his many wounds had healed.

The Renshai seemed oblivious to the gods' gift.

His left hand hovered defensively before him.  His right hand

explored his empty sword belt frantically.  Suddenly, his head snapped
upward, and he stared at the granite ceiling like a priest beseeching
the heavens.  "Damn you, Wizards!  I spit on you all.  There's no task
in the world that'll turn me into a coward and make me hide behind
magic!"  His fist slammed the wall.  "You put me here.  You might be
able to keep me here till I finish what you ask.  But when I get free
..."  He trailed off, leaving the threat unfinished.

Secodon whined softly at his master's feet.

Shadimar stared at the display, unable to fathom the reason for
Colbey's rage.  True, Tokar had forced the title of Western Wizard upon
Colbey.  The current Cardinal Wizards had sent him to the tasks rather
suddenly, but not wholly without warning or preparation.  Colbey had
boarded Captain's boat of his own free will, aware of the fate that
awaited him once they reached their destination, at least in a general
sense.

Apparently having ascertained that he was alone in the room, Colbey
paced furiously.  "No one takes my swords!"  he screamed at the
ceiling.  "Not without killing me first."

His tone softened, but it remained equally threatening.  "You can call
me a Wizard.  You can insult me.  But this is the greatest outrage of
all!"  Again, he plucked at his empty sword belt.

Suddenly, Shadimar understood, and Colbey's anger only seemed more
misplaced and ludicrous.  The old Renshai faced the most grueling
perils of his life, tests that would strain every ability available to
him, tasks created by gods to single out the four most powerful mortals
in the world at any time and to make them nearly invincible.  And here
Colbey stood, shaking with fury over the loss of two swords the gods
would return, if not by the next task, certainly by the conclusion of
the Tasks of Wizardry.

Trilless nudged Shadimar.  "Doesn't he know?"

Her words awakened a familiar guilt that sprinkled through Shadimar,
easily banished.  He had realized long ago that Colbey's ignorance of
enchantments and their workings would cause other difficulties in
addition to the inability to throw spells.  Unlike those who had
attempted the tasks before him, he could not inherently know that
placing the rings on his fingers would transport him from one test to
the next and that he was at the mercy of gods between them.  It had
seemed simple enough to tell him, yet Odin's Laws were

specific regarding what information an apprentice received before
undertaking the Tasks of Wizardry.  Shadimar suspected thes facts did
not appear among the others because they seemed unnecessary rather than
from any need to keep them secret; an apprentice with magical training
would divine the details on his own, Shadimar had agonized over the
decision of whether to explain to Colbey these small trappings the
Renshai could not guess for reasons that were no fault of his own.

But, as always, law had to prevail.

The bard, Mar Lon, sat in the corner, furiously scribbling notes.

Occasionally, he shifted his position to catch a glimpse of the scene
in the Pica.

Trilless did not await an answer.  "He should know.  If for no other
reason, the previous Western Wizards would tell him."

Carcophan laughed, the sound rich with ancient evil.  "He has none of
their memories.  The collective consciousness of the Western Wizards
was destroyed.  Had you done your research, you would have known
that."

Caught off-guard by Carcophan's knowledge, Shadimar stiffened.

Trilless glared at Carcophan over Shadimar's head.

"That's impossible."

"By definition, lady, truth is never impossible."  Carcophan gloated,
reveling in his minor victory.

Tired of his companions' bickering, Shadimar waved them silent,
focusing his attention on Colbey.  "I'll explain later.

The color had returned to Colbey's cheeks.  His hands fell to his sides
awkwardly as he consciously avoided the touch of his empty sword
belt.

He approached the fire, and its steady glow shed grave highlights
across his face.  Through the flames, Shadimar could see the spark of
silver that was the ring of endurance.  The green tint from the fire
made the ring appear tarnished.

Colbey stopped abruptly, motionless as stone before the fire.  The
flickering green light seemed more alive than the man standing in front
of it.  Recollection of his own trial brought Shadimar vivid memories
of pain, and he tried to guess the Renshai's thoughts behind the ugly
scowl collecting on his face.

He probably thinks we could just wave an arm and quell the fire with
magic.  Shadimar shook his head.  If only it had been that easy.

Colbey circled the fire, studying it from every side.  Then, having
returned to where he started, he removed his battle-torn silk tunic and
stood only in his breeks.  Though Colbey was small in height and
breadth, every muscle of his exposed chest and abdomen lay explicitly
defined.  Holding the sleeves of the tunic, he flipped the silk
upward.

It spread above the fire.  Colbey whipped it suddenly downward,
blanketing the flames.  Emerald-colored flickers jabbed through the
cloth.  In an instant, the tunic darkened, flared, and fell to ash.

Colbey jerked back his hands, retreating a few paces.

Mar Lon flinched in sympathy, clutching his lonriset protectively.

Shadimar regarded his colleagues.  Under other circumstances, Carcophan
might had laughed in scorn at the Renshai's efforts.  But, apparently,
even the Southern Wizard recalled the agony of the test of endurance.

His gaze followed Colbey's every movement.  Trilless clenched her
fingers on the table, her thoughts otherwise well-hidden.

The ring sparkled, a single star unwinking in the green expanse of the
fire.  It taunted.  Absently, Colbey reached to his flask, where he
would have carried a waterskin in war time, though surely he suspected
he would not find one.

Shadimar knew that the gods would 'have barred it, just as they had his
swords.  He knew only one way to pass this trial.

Suddenly, Colbey's jaw went rigid with defiance.  He flexed his
fingers, and his left hand hovered over the fire.

Trilless and Carcophan observed without expression.

Shadimar watched, too, trying to detach himself from the comparison to
his own trial.  Though he failed at banishing remembrance, he did
manage to fully maintain his outward composure.

Colbey's hand darted forward, met the flames, and slowed, as if he
pushed through an element with far more substance.  With a shocked cry,
Colbey jerked his hand to safety.

Colbey examined his hand.  Again, he studied his few remaining
possessions: breeks and sword belt.  Shadimar guessed that he sought
some object he could use to prod the ring free.  Shadimar also knew the
Renshai would not find one; the gods would have seen to it.  He watched
as Colbey came to the same conclusion, and both men returned their
attention to the fire.  The blaze whirled in a condescending

dance, as if daring Colbey to challenge it again.  Colbey stared at
his hand for several moments, unblinking, as if mesmerized.  Then, he
lowered his head in preparation.  His hand snaked into the fire and,
again, strained slowly toward the ring.

Trilless loosed an involuntary groan, covering the lapse with a more
dignified clearing of her throat.  Carcophan said nothing, but his face
drew tight.  Though charged by an onslaught of predecessor memories,
Shadimar found no other's pain that could compare with his own
firsthand recollection.

Colbey gritted his teeth, and the fingers of his right hand curled into
a fist.  Though moist, his eyes remained open, focused on his left
hand's course to the ring.  In his mind, Shadimar relived the searing
anguish of flesh blistering from his skin as the fire ate through
vessels and nerves to tendon.

Colbey's fingers touched the ring, and he whisked it from the fire,
jerking his hand free in the same motion.  The silver band rolled.  It
struck a granite wall, and its movements grew more awkward.  It rolled,
balancing from edge to edge, then lay still.

To Shadimar's dismay, Colbey ignored his prize.  Instead, he pressed
his back to a corner, examining the blistered remains of his hand.  The
nerve endings had burned away.

Surely, he no longer felt much pain.  Methodically, he ripped cloth
from his breeks and fashioned himself a crude bandage.

"What's he doing?"  Trilless leaned forward for a better look.  "Why
isn't he putting on the ring?"

Carcophan glared at Shadimar, a cruel half-smile on his lips.  "Because
someone didn't tell him."

Shadimar ignored the Evil One's baiting, not bothering to grace the
gibe with an answer.  Carcophan knew the law as well as he did, knew
Colbey had no way of understanding that the gods would heal the worst
of his injuries between each task.  Needlessly, the Renshai suffered
while the silver ring lay waiting on the floor.  "I could have done
nothing differently ..."  He let the thought drop as Colbey finally
rose and walked to the ring.  The Renshai moved with his usual
unperturbable confidence, and that both pleased and unnerved
Shadimar.

At that moment, he was glad Colbey chose to keep his thoughts to
himself.

The Renshai slipped the ring on his finger and promptly disappeared.

Colbey's world exploded.  The room shattered into gray pinpoints that
rapidly acquired color.  Air rushed around and through him, a swirling
maelstrom of wind and darkness that tossed him like a feather and
knocked him to the edge of oblivion.  He tensed, grounding his thoughts
on reality and self, rescuing his mind from unconsciousness.  His gut
lurched.  He fought the waves of nausea, and they gradually settled to
a dull ache within him.  He found himself in a dimly-lit cavern.  A
sound like the buzz of a giant insect echoed through the passage.

Instinctively, Colbey caught for the hilts of his swords, and their
familiar split leather grips filled his hands.  Startled by the ease of
the movement, he raised his hands to his face.

They appeared as he remembered them from before the task of endurance:
pale and scarred, but whole.  A ring of copper and another of silver
graced the index and middle fingers of his right hand.  Relief inspired
a shiver of delight, but he 'dared not laugh until he knew what dangers
awaited him in the cavern.

Wall brackets held burning torches at constant intervals through the
hallway.  Moss coated the wall stones, giving the passage an eerie,
greenish cast; but Colbey paid this little heed.  He caught a glimpse
of his own unfamiliar garments, bright gold and sewn from a material he
did not recognize.

A black belt at his waist held his swords.  In the past, Colbey had
preferred dark and neutral colors, those less likely to draw attention
or to be discriminated from forest or night.

But the clothing he wore now seemed better than none at all.

His tunic and breeks appeared skillfully tailored, gaudy but
formidable.

As Colbey walked silently through the corridor, the buzzing sound grew
louder.  Confidence restored by the feel of his weapons and his healed
hand, he felt prepared to battle any monster the Wizards or gods could
summon against him.

Once again, the tasks became a challenge, rather than a burden, and
curiosity replaced his need for violence and vengeance.

The corridor bent, limiting Colbey's vision to a few arm's lengths in
front of him.  The ceaseless humming resolved into mingled human
voices, apparently several simultaneous

conversations.  Colbey could not discern individual words or topics.

Without changing his pace, he continued around the bend and found
himself at the doorway to a room packed with people.  Men and women
mingled in a press, every one with neutral brown hair and eyes and the
medium-toned skin of most Westerners.  Most wore clean homespun.  If he
forced himself to forget the Wizard's tasks, Colbey might have
convinced himself that he had entered the city of Pudar.

The conversations disappeared, and all eyes turned to Colbey.  Though
they watched him, the men and women seemed to take his appearance in
stride.  They moved aside, leaving him a pathway toward the center of
the room.

Colbey hesitated, studying the crowd before glancing down the path they
had created.  He saw no evident weaponry, and his ability to assess
movement told him that no one in his field of vision had half his
agility or weapon skill.

The' pathway led to the center of the chamber where a man sat in a
plain wooden chair.  He wore robes of tan and brown.

Sand-colored hair hung in tangles around his face.  His eyes were
deeply set and dark with intelligence.  A purple cloth covered a low
table before him, and a clear globe of crystal rested upon it.

"Welcome," the seated man said.  "I am the seer."

An uncomfortable hush fell over the spectators.  They widened the
walkway.

Colbey approached, eyes on the speaker, though his peripheral attention
did not leave the press around him.  An attack would not catch him by
surprise.

"Your name?"  the seer demanded in a monotone.

In the past, the pronouncement of his name in Western towns familiar
with the Great War had induced fear and awe.

"Colbey Calistinsson."

The seer's milk white hand passed over the globe once.  It poised in
the air, then returned delicately to his side.  He stared into the
crystal, nodded, and looked at Colbey.

"Which is your tribe, Colbey Calistinsson?"

Poised for action and certain he was missing something significant,
Colbey grew irritable and bored-with the questioning.

"I'm Renshai."  He glanced from face to face, awaifng the violence or
panic that usually accompanied such an admission.  In much of the West,
it was considered a cardinal offense even to speak the name; and the
Northern

tribes had found being Renshai enough reason for cold-blooded murder
of the entire tribe.

But these spectators watched curiously, their expressions unchanging.

Again, the seer made motions over the crystal.  "How old are you?"

The query brought rage.  Colbey's callused fingers caressed his sword
hilt.  "The Wizards who trapped me here know my age to the day.  And
they know it irks me."  His hard, blue-gray eyes went lethal.  His
words echoed through the vast hall.  "The warriors of my tribe were
never meant to live to half my years.  How old am I?"

The crowd backed away further, leaving Colbey more than enough room to
swing a sword, if such became necessary.

Colbey continued, "Nearly fifty years older than the next oldest
Renshai."

The seer made several grand gestures over the crystal, and Colbey saw
that the man wore a gold ring that matched the silver and copper ones
on his own hand.  The seer's smile went sober as he gazed within the
orb, but it was still a smile.  "Who are your parents?"

Still annoyed by the previous question, Colbey scowled.

The tedium of the seer's interrogation wore on him.  "My parents are
dead.  In Valhalla, where Renshai belong."

"Their names please."  The seer persisted.

Believing he had blundered into the task of tedium, Colbey responded
with a sigh.  "Calistin the Bold and Ranilda Battlemad."  Probably a
test of patience.  He swallowed his rage; he might be answering
questions for days.

The audience remained hushed, shifting restively.

The seer gave a routine nod and sought answers in the crystal globe.

Suddenly, his eyes widened.  His 'chair toppled backward, shattering on
the granite floor and spilling the seer to the stone.  He jumped to his
feet, sputtering.  An instant later, he vanished, along with the ring
of Wizardry that Colbey needed to complete the task and return to his
own world.

The room went painfully quiet.  The crowd stared, their silence
becoming so complete, a background ringing filled Colbey's ears.

"Where did he go?"  Colbey asked the spectators, his voice thunderous
in the too-quiet room.

His words reverberated, without reply.

Colbey circled the table, hoping to find an answer in the globe that
had condemned him.  He saw only a smoky haze.

Stung to fury, Colbey reached for the crystal.

Terrified screams broke the silence in a wild alarm that came too
late.

As Colbey's hand closed around the crystal, a bolt of amber split the
room, lancing through Colbey's chest.  Agony slammed him, his nerves
seizing into a tight convulsion against his will.  Glowing shards of
crystal fell from his hands, stained crimson with blood.  Darkness
enclosed him.  Colbey collapsed, writhing, pain wrenching gasps from
him despite his efforts to contain them.  The sound of running feet
grew increasingly distant.  His mind foamed madly, utterly beyond his
control.  The thud of enormous paws filled the room, and Colbey could
direct neither his mind nor his body to identify the sound.  This time,
he could not stop darkness from overtaking him.

Shadimar poured fragments of shattered Pica Stone from his hand,
watching the last bright traces of magic fade from the shards.

Disbelief stunned him to a silence that he could not seem to break.

Trained through centuries, his mind remained clear, yet his body did
not weather the shock quite as well.  His lips pursed, but no words
emerged.  Because it involved chaos, magic was unpredictable, even in a
Cardinal Wizard's hands.  The simplest spells did not always take shape
exactly as the caster expected, and items imbued with chaos rarely
remained reliable or consistent with time.  Since the inception of the
system of the Cardinal Wizards, the Wizards had avoided using their
power as much as possible.

When necessary, they employed brief spells.  Shadimar could count
magicked items, through the millennia, on the fingers of one hand.  The
Pica was the oldest and most powerful.

Now, it lay in pieces on the Meeting Room's table.

Carcophan broke the hush, uncharacteristically stating the obvious.

"He's dead."

"Who could have guessed," Trilless added.  "The easiest task of all.

The one of truth."

Mar Lon remained still and silent in the corner, all but invisible.

Secodon rested his chin on his master's thigh, sharing his concern.

Shadimar tented his fingers in his beard, certain he could

never find another mortal with enough skill and guile to pass

the Tasks of Wizardry.  He felt cheated.  As far as he could determine,
Colbey had told only the truth.  Yet somehow he had failed the test,
destroying the Pica Stone and the seer's crystal along with himself.  I
have to find another, and quickly.  Knowledge cr ushed all hope.  But
there's no one to fill the position of the most powerful of the
Cardinal Wizards, even if we had the collective consciousness that
Tokar and Colbey sacrificed.  Shadimar knew Trilless and Carcophan
would help him search; the Cardinal Wizards' vows bound them to it.

But, in the meantime, Shadimar's loss would become their gain.  Without
the Western Wizard, neu trality would weaken until no barrier stood
between good and evil.

For the moment, Shadimar did not waste time mourning his lost friend.

Driven by need, he set to the task of finding another Western Wizard.

CHAPTER 6

The Woman of Gold and the Shape Changer The Eastlands' flat, eroded
fields provided Khitajrah with little cover between the dwindling
patches of forest.  Spring winds hurled nutrient-poor topsoil into her
eyes, and weeds rolled and tumbled across the flat lands.  Waleis'
boots clomped, too large for her feet but necessary protection from
stones and debris.  She kept Diarmad's cloak wrapped tightly around
her, her face lost in the shadows of its hood, her hair tied and hidden
beneath the folds.  She hoped that the over-large cloak and the sword
at her hip would convince anyone she saw that they looked upon a boy or
young man rather than a woman on the run.  Loneliness ate at her.  One
by one, she had lost every member of her family, and she clung to
chaos' promise regarding Bahmyr.

Khitajrah pulled the cloak more tightly about her, protecting her
cheeks from the battering sand.  A week had passed since she had slain
the veterans in the graveyard, and guilt had flared to an all-consuming
fire that filled her conscience and ached constantly through her
chest.

Each night, she sought the comfort of a sheltering woodland or rock
formation.

Then, doubt, self-hatred, and regret would war within her, holding
sleep at bay.  When she finally slept, her dreams came in wild,
incoherent snippets that enhanced her sense of dishonor and
lawlessness.  She punished herself for the same crime a thousand times,
and still it did not seem enough.  She awakened with an anxious tingle
in her chest that reminded her she had matters to mull, and those
matters occupied her mind throughout the day.  In the moments her
thoughts let go · of the crime, she wept for her slaughtered son.

Chaos had lain low since identifying itself in the graveyard, yet
Khitajrah could still feel its hovering, animal presence within her.

It lay dormant.  Waiting.  At times, she found

a guilty pleasure in its presence; her aloneness drove her to find
company and solace where she could.  Other times, she contemplated its
being; considering ways to expel it from her life and from her mind,
its ugliness too horrible to support.

Yet, always, her thoughts brought her back to its promise.

She would pay any price to get Bahmyr back.  And by breaking the
Eastlands' laws, she had already.

Still, it was not until Khitajrah passed the city of LaZar and headed
toward the passes through the Weathered Mountains that would take her
to the Westlands that she found the will to question.  She stood,
staring at towering forests of oak, hickory, and white mirack, the
hulking, dark shapes of the mountains filling the horizon, and a sudden
fear clutched her.  She remembered her mother's stories of the
Westlands, a vast territory crammed full of apathetic peoples of all
shapes, colors, and backgrounds.  Unlike the Easterners, they followed
few causes and never with the fanatical honor of the Eastlanders.  They
worshiped a diverse pantheon of gods, each specialized and, thus, far
weaker than Sheriva.

Yet Khitajrah remembered positive things about the West-lands as
well.

Their forests and farmlands flourished, easily supporting their myriad
and diverse cities.  Though they did not stand together as one people,
that might work to Khitajrah's advantage now.  Offending one Westerner
would not necessarily make her an enemy of them all.  And their varying
backgrounds might make them more accepting of an Eastern stranger, even
only a decade after the Great War.

Still, Khitajrah hesitated.  Born and raised in the Eastlands, she had
never expected to leave.  Now, in her forties, she wondered if she had
become too old to try to start a new life in a strange country whose
language she did not speak.

"You know the common trading tongue.  That is enough.

Go."  Chaos sent its first words since the graveyard.  "You're not safe
in the Eastlands any longer."

Confusion blossomed into rage.  Chaos spoke the truth, yet it had
little significance now.  "You promised me my son's life back.  "
"Yes."

Khitajrah's anger and fear retreated slightly before a growing trickle
of hope.  "Where is he?"

"Dead."

Khitajrah fumed, not gracing the cold joke with a reply.  Amusement
flickered through her, wholly foreign, its

CHLO OF THvNott 99

source the chaos-being within her.  "There is a way to bring him back
to life."

"How?"

'I never promised to tell you that."

"Yes, you did!"  Anxiety and fury drove Khitajrah to shout .  aloud.

"You specifically said that if I lived, you would tell me how to bring
him back."

· No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did!"  Khitajrah's voice rose in octave and volume.

"Damn it, you did.  Don't you think I'd remember every word of such a
thing?  You said, 'Live, and I will tell you how to bring Bahmyr back
to life."" · No, I didn't."  · You did.  You said it exactly like
that."  · All right.  I did."

Joy replaced ire.  "So what do I have to do?"  · I'm not telling."

"What?"  Khitajrah roared.  · I'm chaos.  That's what I do.  I break
vows.  I lie.  It's from whence my power stems."  A flicker of cruel
satisfaction touched Khitajrah's mind.  "If I'm even telling the truth
now.

How would you know?"  · Quit playing with me."  Warm tears stung
Khitajrah's eyes.  "You lied from the start.  There's no way to raise
the dead."  · Actually, there is.  That time, I was telling the
truth."

· But you always lie."  · Not true.  If I did, I'd be as dull,
predictable, and static as law."  · Sometimes you tell the truth?"

Khitajrah tried to hold her emotions in check, with little success.

Her heart pounded, hard and fast, with anticipation.  She tried not to
hope too hard about Bahmyr.  · Usually, I tell the truth.  It lulls
people into a false sense of security, so my lies and tricks catch them
completely off-balance."

Khitajrah frowned.  hating the sound of chaos' technique.  · Guile is
the key to power.  See how I got what I wanted from you, and it wound
up costing me nothing?  Imagine how rich, happy, and important a woman
could become with that technique.  You could be queen."

"I have no wish to be queen.  I just want my son."

"I can tell you how to get him back."

"But you won't."

"Maybe I will."  Khitajrah threw up her hands in frustration.  'I don't
care if you are more powerful than gods.  You're wasting my time.

Either tell me or don't.  Then go away."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Then you didn't love your son much, did you?"  Again, anger stabbed
through Khitajrah.  "More than anything in the world.  How dare you
...?"

"If you loved him, you would deal for his life."

"You're not dealing.  You're just running me in circles.  I won't have
my hopes lifted and dashed again and again.  It'll only drive me
insane, and that won't bring Bahmyr back."

"What if I promised that, if you bond with me, I'll tell you how to
raise your son?  In detail."

Khitajrah did not fall into the trap.  "I'd assume you were lying.

Again."

To her surprise, chaos seemed pleased with the answer.

"Good.  You're learning.  This world's gone so long without chaos, its
people don't know how to mistrust.  They're prey, Khita, and why
shouldn't someone as competent and right as you rule them?  Would you
rather I went elsewhere?  I'm sure I could find someone who would take
my power and use it to his own ends.  Someone without your basic
morality."

Khitajrah considered, seeing a logic to the words, though the
underlying concepts seemed too corrupt for her law-based mind to
grasp.

"First, you tell me how to bring Bahmyr back.  Then, we discuss this
bonding."

'I will give you the basic knowledge you need to raise your son.  Then
I will start the binding process.  When you've performed one task of
significance for me, and the binding is complete, I will go through the
life-restoring procedure with you, step by step."

"You're untrustworthy.  I get all of the information first--" Chaos
interrupted.  "And you're getting paranoid."  Complacence trickled
through the thought.  'I like that in a companion.

But don't worry.  Once bound, all my knowledge is yours, and I cannot
lie to you."

"What happens to me?"

"Nothing.  You remain as you are.  I simply become a small part of your
day to day thoughts, completely under your control.

I will no longer remain a separate entity."

Still skeptical, Khitajrah asked, "What do you get out of such an
arrangement?"

"It's difficult to explain."

"Try."

"I'm not truly an entity in and of myself.  The Primordial Chaos is
without form, and I am merely a tiny piece of a bodiless whole.

Therefore, I have no power of my own on a world where shape and form
are necessary.  Without a person, I'm impotent.  Bound to someone, I
still have little influence, but at least I can share my ideas."

The explanation made sense to Khitajrah, though she suspected that
chaos had not told all.  She considered.

"You can do with my ideas as you wish.  You and I both know that the
world has grown too stale.  That's why I chose you.  You're wise enough
to understand that without change the Eastlands will die.  All I
promise is a freedom for your thoughts and ideas for ways to accomplish
what must be done.  You will still have your own judgment and the power
to execute it."

Kitajrah's heart rate slowed as she mulled chaos' offer.

About this, it seemed genuine, yet logic told her it could seem no
other way.  Still, its words carried a reasonableness that held doubt
at bay.  She believed it was being honest, at least mostly.  She had
little experience to fall back on when gauging deceit, and nearly all
of at had come in the last few days.  Her best guess was that chaos
would gain a larger toehold in her decisions than it would admit.

Still, she might prove stronger and tougher than it expected as well.

And Bahmyr meant too much for her to dismiss chaos' promise out of
hand.

"How do I free Bahmyr?"

Chaos hesitated.  "We have a deal, then?"

"Though I fear I'll regret it, yes.  We have a deal.  That is, so long
as Bahmyr comes back as the same son I remember."

"Nothing will change.  He will have all of his memories up to the
moment of death.  And he will not have aged."

Now eager, Khitajrah pressed.  "So tell me the procedure."

"Quite simply, when an item instilled with magic undergoes a
transformation, it can develop properties at random."

'I don't understand."

"Magic is chaos.  Even when used correctly, the results can be
unpredictable.  When it is placed into an item, it al ways has
unexpected side effects.  That's why Wizards so rarely use props."  ·
So there are magical things in the world?"  · A few."

· Made by the Cardinal Wizards?"

· Do you know of any others?"  · There are rumors--" · They are
false."

· And the fairy tales about the four Wizards--" · Are not fairy tales."
 · And Sheriva ...?"  This time, Khitajrah trailed off intentionally,
anticipating chaos' interruption.  · ... is a construct.

Not real."

Khitajrah shook her head.  "If you're right, and I'm not admitting you
are, the Eastlands based an entire religion on fiction and faith
alone.

It'll collapse the whole foundation of our civilization, especially of
the temples."  · I'm counting on that."  If it had had a face, chaos
would have smiled.  · So, somewhere, there's an item instilled with
magic that got ruined, and now it can bring people back to life."

"Close.  There is an item that was instilled with magic.  It got
damaged, but only partially.  Now, it can bring a person back to
life."

One.  If you take it to Bahmyr's grave and touch it to any part once
his, you will have him back."

Khitajrah held her breath, needing one more piece of information.

"And' that item is?"

Chaos laughed.  "A detail.  As promised it comes later.

There are other matters to consider first: a binding, and a favor."

Arduwyn stared out the chamber window of his castle suite, listening to
the wild chime of steel from the Renshai's practice in the courtyard.

A spring breeze riffled his spikY, red hair, and his single, brown eye
followed the graceful war dance of his daughter's intended, Rache
Garnsson.  Even in the face of an imminent wedding, Rache's mother,
Mitrian, had not allowed her charges a rest from their daily
practices.

Arduwyn knew he should have expected nothing else.  In the months he
had spent traveling with Colbey Calistinsson, the old Renshai had never
allowed danger, excitement, or injury to keep himself or his charges
from giving less than their all to their sword drills.  Still, Arduwyn
had anticipated that

Mitrian would let the importance of her only child's marriage come
before at least one practice, the one on the day of the ceremony.

Clearly, this was not the case.

Arduwyn shifted his gaze to the village beyond the castle wall, the
Western high king's city of Bearn, nestled in the arms of the Southern
Weathered Range.  Though tastefully crafted from piled and mortared
stone, the cottages and shops paled before the towering palace.  Strong
and ancient, it had been carved directly from the mountains, and the
artisans had spared no expense, inside or out.  Still, despite Bearn's
finery, Arduwyn felt alone.  In the last half decade, illness had taken
his wife and two of her three children, whom Arduwyn had adopted after
his best friend's death.  The eldest girl had married years ago and had
her own family and problems to attend.

Now, Arduwyn was about to surrender his last child, the only one Bel
had borne for him, and he was about to give her over to a life with
Renshai.

Arduwyn sighed, now balancing guilt with his sorrow.  In his youth, he
had been taught to hate and fear Renshai by relatives old enough to
remember the tribe's killing rampages.

Yet, it was the Golden Prince of Demons himself, the most savage and
dedicated of all Renshai, who had taught Arduwyn that there was more to
the tribe than merciless slaughter.  He had watched Mitrian
indoctrinated into the sword skill and the culture; and he had remained
her friend before, into, and after Colbey's training.  Rache seemed to
have inherited the best qualities of both of his parents, and Arduwyn
never doubted that the boy loved his daughter dearly.  He tried to
console himself with these thoughts.

Arduwyn's eye strayed to his daughter, Sylva, perched on a courtyard
bench, watching the practice.  In many ways, she, too, had found the
best features of both parents.  She sported her mother's oval face,
full lips, and doelike eyes, softened by youth.  Though red, like her
father's, Sylva's hair had the long, thick texture of her mother's.

She was too thin, again like her father; yet she bore the first traces
of her mother's robust curves.  He had given his consent to the union,
expecting it to occur many years in the future.  Yet Sylva and Rache
had pressed for sooner rather than later; and, to Arduwyn's surprise,
Mitrian had supported their decision.  Fifteen years old.  Barely
fifteen.  What the hurry?

Arduwyn rose, seized by a sudden urge to enfold the child in his arms
and hold her, safe, until old age claimed him.  A

tear rose in his eye.  He had been a friend of the Renshai for

a long time, and his loyalty to Mitrian and her son would not.

falter.  Yet there were too many tragedies his mind would not let him
escape.  The Renshai's life of violence killed them young.  Worse,
death seemed to strike bystanders first, the innocent who dared to bond
their lives with Renshai.  In the last year, Arduwy n had witnessed
more slaughter than his heart could handle, and the Renshai had lost
half of their members and friends before his eyes.  Though not of the
tribe, Rache's father, Gain, had lost his life to an enemy of the
Renshai.  A barbarian who had become Colbey's blood brother had died at
the elder's own hand.  The Renshai had lost three of their members as
well.  Though months had passed, Arduwyn had still not regained full
use of the arm he had broken escaping Renshai enemies while delivering
an innocent m essage.

Just fifteen years old today.  Prior to the Great War, a woman could
not marry until she came of age at sixteen.

But, with the Westlands' population whittled by wars and disease, the
kingdom had found need to relax the laws.

Arduwyn drew some solace from the realization that not even two years
separated Rache from Sylva, a couple in love rather than an adult man
ravaging a child.

A knock sounded on the suite's main door, the sound echoing through the
confines.  It reminded Arduwyn how massive the connected series of
rooms seemed since he had lost his family.  Without Sylva, he saw no
reason to keep the suite.  Every scrap of furniture and every corner
reminded him of the woman and children who no longer shared his life.

Solace came to him in one place only, in the woodlands he had traipsed
first with his father, then by himself, and later with Sylva.

Surrounded by the trees, all worldly problems fled Arduwyn, and he knew
nothing but animal needs, instinct, and survival.  Now, he remained in
place, hoping the person at the door would assume he had left and would
go away.

But the door handle turned, and the panel made its familiar soft creak
as it opened.  "Ardy?"

Arduwyn recognized the voice instantly as that of King Sterrane.

Despite the somberness of his thoughts, Arduwyn could not help
smiling.

More than a decade ago, when Mitrian, Gain, Colbey, Sterrane, and he
had traveled together, Sterrane's slowness, simple justice, and
inability to

master the common trading tongue had convinced them that he had the
mentality of a child.  After Mitrian, Garn, and the Eastern Wizard had
restored Sterrane to his throne and Arduwyn had seen the king make
decrees and judgments in his native language and in his own element,
Arduwyn had discovered a depth of thought and person he had never
believed possible.  Wealth and power had not corrupted Sterane at all;
he shared it freely.  And it seemed not to affect his sense of fairness
either.  In his sluggishly methodical and guileless way, he seemed the
central epitome of neutrality.

And he always knew What to do or say to make even the worst situations
seem better.

"Ardy?"  Sterrane repeated.  His heavy boots clomped across the floor,
and he stopped at Arduwyn's back.  "Ardy?"

He shuffled closer, staring out the window over Arduwyn's shoulder, his
beard tickling Arduwyn's ear and his enormous chest and belly warm
against the little hunter's back.  "What look at?"  Apparently
following Arduwyn's gaze, he did not wait for an answer.  "Get handsome
new son."

Arduwyn laughed, unable to remain sullen in Sterrane's presence.

"Leave it to Sterrane to see the good' in a bad situation."

"Bad?  What bad?"  Sterrane seemed genuinely confused.

"Sylva marry Rache.  That good."

Finally, Arduwyn turned, finding himself staring directly into
Sterrane's huge chest.  He tried to back-step, but the window ledge
gouged his back.  "My daughter's about to go live with Renshai."

Sterrane said nothing, clearly waiting for Arduwyn to go on.

"And that means ... well, you know ..."  The conversational positioning
finally got the better of Arduwyn.

"Sterrane, as much as I love the royal tunic, it's easier to talk to
your face.  Could you find a chair, please?"

Sterrane retreated immediately.  He glanced around the sparse
furnishings of the sitting room, from its three chairs, to its padded
chest, to Arduwyn's favorite stool.  He sat on the chest, watching the
hunter expectantly.

"I don't want my daughter in a tribe constantly at war."

Arduwyn paced.

"Renshai not start war anymore."  Sterrane's soulful, dark eyes watched
Arduwyn.  "No war."

"But at the earliest inkling of war, anywhere, you know the Renshai
will be the first to take a side and fight."

"Rache fight.  Not Sylva."

"But everyone around Renshai seems to get killed."

"Not me.  Not you."

Arduwyn came to the end of his track and turned.  "Garn did.  And that
barbarian."

"Bel not fight.  Children not fight.  Not near Renshai.  They die,
too."

"They died of illness."

Sterrane's huge shoulders rose and fell.  "What difference?

Renshai not catching, like consumption.  Garn not die of Renshai
nearness.  Renshai just people.  Good people.  Friends."

Arduwyn turned in his tracks, though he had not yet reached the end of
his course.  "It's one thing to die of illness and another to die of
violence before you get a chance to get ill."

"Death is death," Sterrane said.  "More people here.  More sickness
here.  Renshai there.  More chance violence there.

Death go every place, and everyone die of something.  Some people think
sickness better death.  They live here.  Some people think war better
death.  Live in North."

Again, Arduwyn turned, this time facing Sterrane directly.

"I can't lose Sylva, Sterrane.  I just can't.  I love her too much."

"You not lose her."  Sterrane looked pained, clearly from sympathy.

"She nearby, with Mitrian and Rache.  They let you visit as much
want.

I come with you."

Arduwyn lowered his head, trying to explain to Sterrane that the loss
he feared was death, not marriage.

Sterrane obviated the need.  "Sometime happy more important than
safe.

And sometime safe not safe."

Though the final statement seemed nonsensical, Arduwyn understood.  The
last time he had seen Bel, she had tried to force him not to go on a
trip to help the Renshai.  She had feared for his life.  Yet, when he
returned, she was the one who had succumbed to illness.  "Sometimes
safe not safe."

Arduwyn repeated the words numbly, his eye becoming moist.

"Only gods know whether Sylva safer here or there.  But we know she
happy with Rache.  Can't know safe, so have to do happy."  Sterrane
rose, taking a step toward his friend.

"Anyway, not your choice.  It Sylva's."

"You're right about that at least."  Arduwyn allowed Sterrane to wrap
him in an embrace, and his last words emerged muffled against the
king's tunic.  "It's Sylva's decision."

And though Arduwyn tried to console himself with the king's points,
experience and worry held him captive.

And he feared for his daughter's life.

The man awakened confused, empty of all thought and memory, sprawled
across a fur-covered floor.  He opened his eyes, cringing in
anticipation of a pain he had no reason to expect.  But his body
remained numb,, beyond his control, and he rolled his eyes to find some
familiar object to spark his identity.  His gaze scarcely moved before
riveting upon a woman crouched at his side.  Her skin looked so smooth
and pale that he at first believed her to be an ivory statue.

Her perfection only gave credence to the misconception.

Surely, no living woman could have captured the male fantasy so
exhaustively, yet it appeared that this one had.  She wore a short, low
cut dress of some gauzy material that hid just enough to enhance beauty
with mystery, and the man could not stop his mind from completing the
figure with the same flawlessness as that which he could see.  Yellow
hair billowed around her face, enhancing widely set, blue eyes that
caught light into a sparkle, heart-shaped lips, and a straight, fine
nose.  She wore several brooches, and a gold choker entwined her
throat.  The world beyond her faded to a blur.

"Ah, so you've awakened," she said.  Her voice matched her appearance,
moderately pitched and distressingly elegant.

"You were fortunate."

"FOrtunate," the man repeated, still fully disoriented.  He ried to
focus on self and identity.  When that failed, he locked his attention
on the woman.  Surely, if he considered for a time, he could remember
the name for perfection.  Fortunate, indeed, if I have friends who look
like this.  He tried to rise, but his body would not obey: The woman
stepped around his prone form and knelt directly at his head.  He
focused on her hands, nervously clasped.  A gold ring striped every
finger.  "I had no right to take you."  She glanced around, as if
afraid someone might overhear.  "I can take my share of the dead, but
only from the battlefield.  I can steal from the AllFather, but not
from Hel."

The woman's discomfort made her seem vulnerable.  Some

men might have found that attractive, but it distressed the man on the
fur-covered floor.  For reasons he could not recall, he preferred his
women strong and competent.

"I'll put you back.  No one has to know.  No one can enter my hall
without my permission.  You're safe here."  She fidgeted, her obvious
concern incongruous with her statement.

The man knew that the woman had already made a mistake.

Beyond her, he could hear the faint patter of footfalls, and he sensed
another presence nearby.  He opened his mouth, trying to warn her, but
no words emerged.  He willed his hand to touch her.  It did not move.

He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the woman whose beauty nearly
blinded him, trying to send a mental message that would make her
understand.

The other entered the room and crept toward the woman's back.

"Behind," the man managed.  "Look."

Before she could turn, a new voice filled the air, light and taunting,
yet certainly male.  "Is this the Thunder Child, lady?"

The woman whirled.  The man on the floor rolled his eyes far enough to
study the newcomer.  He looked fair enough to pass for the woman's
twin, pretty with youth and finely featured.

Only his mouth broke the image, thin-lipped and leering.

His green eyes sparkled with mischief.

The woman hissed, rising.  Brooches, rings, and golden threads that
wound through her dress winked and gleamed.

Her necklace seemed to writhe, snakelike.

The man on the floor willed himself to stand and protect her, if not
from the newcomer, from the jewelry that seemed to have come alive.

But he scarcely managed to crane his neck further.

"Shape Changer."  The woman appeared capable of handling the
situation.

"Only you could slip past my defenses, and only you would dare to
try."

She stepped toward him menacingly.

The other laughed.  "No answer is it, then?  That is in itself an
answer."  His leer became an insolent grin.  "I see I have matters to
discuss with the AllFather."

The woman opened and closed her mouth wordlessly.  Her fists clenched,
and gold flickered as she moved.  "If you reveal me, then you're a
fool.  He has the potential to bring

chaos back into our world."  Her hair slid along her cheeks,

as smooth and yellow as melted butter.  "That, my loathsome friend,
would serve only you."

"Only me, yes.  So what purpose did you have in rescuing him?"

"I have my reasons."

"Your reasons?  And what might those be?"

The man on the floor tried to make sense of the conversation, but he
could still find no base on which to ground the information.  Without
knowledge of self and location, he could not place their words into the
proper place in a universe he could not remember.

"My reasons are none of your business."

"Your reasons, wanton one, are every man's business.

Leave it to Freya to think only of her crotch.  Isn't that what most
women accuse men of doing?  Who but you would save a man's life to
complete your collection of bedroom trophies?"

The woman quivered with rage.  "Your mouth is full of lies and your
head full of treacheries.  For all you claim I've slept around, at
least I never bore babies.  But you, Shape Changer, you mothered a
horse.  You fathered a wolf and a snake.  Your mischief may bring us
all down."

Anger sharpened her motions, and the dazzling sparkle of gold
mesmerized the man on the floor.  He tried to maintain his attention on
the conversation, but it seemed like meaningless sounds.

"Perhaps," the Shape Changer seemed proud of her condemnation.

"But you're not blameless.  Admit it.  You rescued him from curiosity
or for your own torrid pleasure.

Now we have little choice but to set him free, despite the prophecies,
Your treachery, not mine, will bring the Ragnarok."

"Liar!  Trickster!  Cheat!"  she screamed.

"I'm all of those and more," the Shape Changer admitted cheerfully.

"This time, I'm correct.  You took him alive, and you could no more
slay the Thunder Child than you could me.  You know his parentage."

The woman hissed.

"Just you and me and Sif ..."

"Sif.  The name seemed to hold a significance to the man.  He seized
the thought fanatically, trying to build self and understanding from
it.  "Sif," he repeated aloud.  "Sif."

The woman went rigid.  "Quiet," she said to her companion.  She drew
the Shape Changer away, continuing in a low whisper, beyond the man's
hearing.

The man willed himself enough strength to lift his head, but it felt
heavy as an anchor.  He moaned.  The word "Sift' floated through his
otherwise empty mind, but no meaning accompanied it.  Gratefully, he
returned to unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 7

A Power Challenged

Colbey Calistinsson awakened cradled in the folds of a blanket.

He jerked to consciousness with the sudden and clear-minded alertness
he had trained himself to for decades.  Even before he opened his eyes,
he knew that he lay on a bed and a heavy silk coverlet enwrapped him to
the chin.  He opened his eyes.  An image of richly crafted furniture
filled his vision and his mind.  His gaze found and held the only other
living being.  She sat in a chair by his bedside, her curves defined
beneath a skintight dress.  Long, golden hair framed sturdy,
traditionally beautiful features, the locks a shade yel-lowet than her
necklace, brooches, and rings.

Colbey sat up, the blanket falling in a jumble at his waist.

At first, the need to define location and danger held his attention
fully.  Then, as he recognized no threat, he could not fully suppress
the first stirrings of desire.  "Hello," he said carefully, uncertain
what to expect.  He had no way to guess whether he had started another
of the Wizards' tasks or if the seer's crystal had sent him
elsewhere.

The woman said nothing.  She only stared, blue eyes dancing, a strange
smile taking form on her lips.  Colbey felt a twinge of twice-meeting,
as if he had seen this woman before.

Colbey considered exploring her mind, but the idea disbanded as it
formed.  For now, she was a stranger.  But he would not steal the
thoughts of friends, and he hoped that was what she would become.

Also, something about her seemed curiously divine.  He thought it not
just improper but unwise to access her mind.  "Who are you?"  His hands
wandered unobtrusively to his swords, and their presence reassured
him.

Much about this woman was gold, but not all seemed pure or
comforting.

The woman's smile faded, and her expression grew grim.

"You won't be damned because one truth-seeker could not

handle what he found."  She ignored Colbey's question.

"There's too much at 'stake.  More than either the AllFather or the
Trickster understands."

Colbey swallowed hard, letting the woman speak.  She had used the
familiar names for Odin and Loki too casually.

That, coupled with the knowledge that gods mediated the Tasks of
Wizardry, allowed him to believe he sat in the presence of a goddess.

He froze, uncertain whether to kneel, bow, or offer his services
unconditionally.

The woman continued, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.

"Here.  Finish your tasks."  She pulled a gold ring from her finger and
tossed it to Colbey.

Colbey caught it easily.  He looked back, awaiting explanation or
instruction.

"Go ahead," she encouraged.  "Put it on."

"Thank you."  Colbey squirmed.  He had many more questions, yet it felt
rude to try to interrogate her.  Glimpses of the woman/goddess enticed,
dizzying him with a longing that shamed him, obvious blasphemy.

Needing to escape the discomfort, he slipped the ring onto his ring
finger, beside the ones of silver and copper, steeling himself for the
sudden rush of energy that preceded transport between the tests.  He
closed his eyes.

White light burst against Colbey's lids.  His world spun in tight
circles, then released him in a small, granite room with a single door
constructed of the same stone as the walls.  A scrawny man sat on a
plain wooden chair, eating a slice of honey bread.  Otherwise, the room
stood empty.  Colbey waited, watching the other for some time.  After
several heartbeats, when the man did not speak but only continued
eating, Colbey explored the chamber Finding nothing of interest, he
took the knob and eased open the door.

The chamber beyond lay empty, four bleak, granite walls without even a
layer of mold to break its monotony.  Colbey frowned, recognizing the
logic missing from its construction.

The only door led from one empty room to another.  The building had no
entrance or exit.  intrigued, Colbey walked into the second room and
studied the stone.  Though smooth and sterile, it bore none of the
scratches he would have expected of walls frequently scrubbed.

A footfall behind Colbey sent him into a spin.  The little man stood in
the doorway, smiling with haughty interest.

"You're late, Wizard."

"I came via Hel," Colbey said, not at all certain he had not.  He
sighed, hoping to bypass the amenities and posturing.

"So, what do I have to do to win the ring of... of ...?"  He looked to
the other man to finish as well as answer the question, doubting he
would get more than a dodge.

"Faith," the man said easily.  "The test of faith."  He swayed in the
doorway.  "I'm a messenger from Odin; that you know.  And he has
decreed only one way to pass this test."  The little man's face drew
into a condescending sneer.

"You must take your own life."

"Suicide?"  Dedicated to dying in glory, Colbey found the suggestion
heinous and its implications intolerable.  His discovery that a missing
body part would not necessarily bar a brave soldier from Valhalla had
eliminated that consideration from his decision to brave the test of
endurance.  But self-murder was a coward's escape, and he would not
become party to it.  "Get out of my way!"  He lunged toward the door.

The man laughed.  He stepped back, reached leisurely for the granite
door, and jerked the stone block toward closing.

Colbey sprang for the crack, just as the other made a sudden, desperate
yank.  Granite slammed Colbey's arm and head.  He leapt back, and the
door crashed shut, flush with the wall.  An instant later, the pain
came in a wild rush that sent him reeling.  His head throbbed, his
upper arm ached, and a ringing filled his ears.  "Damn you, open this
door," Colbey shouted.  His own yelling worsened his headache.

Even if the little man could hear him, he doubted he would get an
answer, let alone satisfaction.  And, even if the other did open the
door, it only led to another room like this one.

Colbey examined the wall, finding no seam to indicate where the door
had been.  He trusted his memory of its location, but his fingers and
eyes failed him.  It seemed as if the door had never existed.  More
likely, it had disappeared completely, the work of the gods.  Now,
Colbey considered, the pain settling to a dull ache and the constant
ringing becoming familiar enough to dismiss.  He studied the wall
finger's breadth by finger's breadth, seeking the one flaw that would
allow his freedom.  He found no crack, niche, or outline.  His knife
could not make so much as a scratch in the stone.

Colbey searched his gear, the need for attentiveness turning his head
wound into a pounding agony.  One by one, objects fell beneath his
scrutiny and were rejected.  He discovered that, this time, he was
missing only his edible

supplies, and that unnerved him.  He could survive for weeks without
food, but thirst would take him in days.  The lack of mold or mildew on
the walls convinced him that the structure was watertight.

When Colbey finished exploring the unyielding barrier, he turned his
attention to the remainder of his prison.  From floor to ceiling, end
to side, he searched for some minuscule defect or difference that might
suggest a concealed exit.  The search took him well into the night, but
the steady, source-less grayness did not change.  He examined the floor
from corner to corner.  When that proved fruitless, he returned to the
walls.  When eye and hand failed to find escape, he pounded the base of
a sword against the stone.  He found no hollow echoes or areas where
the pitch of the knocking changed to suggest a weakness, except where
the door had been.  And that seemed only a quarter tone higher.

Well into the following night, fatigue caught Colbey.  He sat with his
back to a corner, quelling the ramblings of his empty stomach.  Cotton
seemed to fill his mouth, and he wondered when he had taken his last
drink.  He could not guess how long his frenzied examination of the
chamber had taken, nor how much time he had spent with the unearthly
woman.  Exhaustion weighted his limbs.  He placed Harval across his
knees, fixed his gaze on the far wall, and fell into a wary sleep.

Colbey awakened.  He rose and, from habit, executed a deft sequence of
sword feints.  Pain stabbed through the back of his head and threw off
his delicate timing.  A black and white curtain of spots wove across
his vision.  His legs went weak.  Suddenly, he felt stone beneath his
fingers, though he did not recall moving.  He clutched at the wall,
waiting for the dizziness to pass.  Fool.  Would you waste what little
fluid your body has left for one dance with your sword?  Colbey knew
that he would, but he also believed his time to die had not yet come.

He needed to find a way free, while he still could.

Colbey collapsed twice during his search.  The second time, he lay
unconscious for longer than he cared to guess.

Desperately, he sought moisture at the corners of the floor.

He found none.  His entire body ached.  His lower back throbbed from
hip to hip, and every breath came as a dry and tortured waste of
energy.  A burning in his eyes and the

buzzing in his head became relentless.  He fell once more, tried to
rise, and lost consciousness again.

Bugs swarmed the walls, gaunt cockroaches with beadlike eyes.  When one
grew bold enough to crawl over Colbey's arm, he slapped it.  His hand
struck only dry flesh.  The roaches came from his imagination.  The
instant he realized this, they disappeared.

"Modi."  Speech was nearly impossible, and the effort stole the
reserves his call had raised.  Die, I will.  But not as a raving
lunatic.  I'll die as I was meant, on the point of a sword.

Drawing the blade sapped all of Colbey's strength.  He lay, staring at
the weapon, knowing he would never find the vitality to perform the
deed.  He knew that if he summoned the strength of his will, he could
stand, but suicide by sword cut required a dexterity that most men did
not possess.  The time it would take to properly position the blade
might not prove enough, and he dared not take the chance of falling
prey to thirst before the sword took him.  He knew, without the need to
ponder, that the next time he lost consciousness would be his last.

Colbey lay the sword aside respectfully, fighting oblivion and
insanity.  Without a battle, he would never reach Valhalla, but he
still held the vague hope that the scrawny man had spoken the truth.

In either case, he would rather die of wounds than slow oblivion.  He
fumbled his knife free, then plunged it into his wrist.

The abrupt, sharp pain cleared his mind, a welcome change from the dull
aches of his parched organs.  His courage did not falter for an
instant.  He tore the blade the length of his forearm.  Then, leaning
peacefully against the wall, Colbey closed his eyes and waited.

A pink and green fletched arrow cut the air, then thunked into the
waiting hay bale perched upon a stump.  Sylva nocked another shaft.

"What do you think?"

Seated on a deadfall, Rache Garnsson stared at the slender redhead.

Moonlight drew lines along the folds of her dress, glittering from the
V-shaped collar that outlined her breasts.

The sight stirred him.  Now that they had become one, he could scarcely
wait for bedtime.  "I think you're beautiful."

ment fanning long waves of hair around her cheeks.  When

she found his eyes fixed on her, she pouted.  "I meant the arrows.

Their pattern.  What do you think?"

Reluctantly, Rache tore his gaze from Sylva to look at the shafts
jutting from the hay bale.  Two dozen fletches poked from it, outlining
the perfect figure of a sword.  He laughed.

"I love it.  But not as much as I love you."  He patted the trunk next
to him.

Sylva shook her head.  "I love you, too.  Now, come here, you big
ox!"

"You come here."  Rache patted the trunk again with a huge hand.

Though only sixteen, his mother's massive bone structure and his
father's gladiator musculature already made him a giant among men.

"I want you to try something," Sylva insisted.

"What?"

"Something.  Come here."

"I'll try something all right."  Rache bounded deftly to his feet,
charging Sylva.  He caught her into an embrace, squeezing until he all
but mashed the air from her lungs.  Then, he released her.  He caught
her lips on his, one hand wandering to a breast.

Sylva laughed.  "No, stop it.  That's not what I wanted you to try."

"Are you sure?"  Rache teased.  He pulled her closer until he saw his
own desire echoed in her dark eyes.

"You ox."  Sylva planted a hand on his chest and pushed, her touch
light as a bird.  "Later, I promise.  I want you to try this first."

She shoved the bow into his hand.

Rache readjusted his breeks, waiting for need to ebb enough for him to
listen.  His hand closed around the bow, though it felt wrong in his
hilt-callused hand.  "Come on, Sylva.  Don't make me do this.  You know
how Renshai feel about bows."

"Coward's weapons."

"I know.  I'm not asking you to shoot anyone with it.  Just a hay
bale.

Even your own mother uses a bow to hunt."

"Compared to you, my mother shoots like she's holding the bow upside
down."  Absently, Rache fitted an arrow to the string.

Sylva caught Rache's hand.  "And you're about to shoot with the arrow
upside down."  Gracefully, she spun the shaft halfway around, refitting
the notch.

Rache studied the arrow, trying to understand how it could have an up
and a down.  His eyes riveted on the only asym-merry, the third
feather, pale green to the others' pink.  Their colors matched the
painted crest just before them, the green sandwiched between the
pink.

Now, he could see that if he had fired the arrow the way he had nocked
it, he would have sheered off the cock feather.

"What are you looking at?"  Sylva asked.

Rache flushed, embarrassed at the length of time it had taken him to
deduce the obvious.  He covered neatly.  "Just wondering why green and
pink."

"Why not?"

"Well, I guess I can understand green.  So the deer don't notice it."

Sylva laughed.

"What's so funny?"  Rache wondered if he had missed something
self-evident again.

"Deer don't see colors.  They don't care how you dye your feathers."

The information took Rache aback.  "How do you know deer don't see
colors?"

"My father told me.  He knows everything about the forest and the
animals."

"But how can he possibly know how deer see?"  Rache lowered the bow,
glad for the delay.  If he had to make a fool of himself, he would do
it with one issue at a time.

"By the way they act and react.  They don't care if you wear brown,
purple, or glowing red.  All they seem to notice is smell and
movement."

"But ..."  Rache started, about to ask how Arduwyn could know about a
deer's sense of smell.  He dismissed the question as fruitless.  If
anyone would know how to smell like a deer, Arduwyn would ... for both
meanings of the word "smell."  Realizing he had never gotten an answer
to his original question, Rathe returned to it.  "So why green and
Pink?"

Sylva shrugged.  "I like green.  I used to use green and white, so I
could find the arrows.  Green gets lost, but white's easy to see."

"So why pink instead of white?"

"One time, my father and I hunted apart.  He noticed that, from a
distance, the white feathers in the quiver looked like a deer's tail
bobbing through the trees."

The implications shocked Rache.  "He shot at you?"

"My father?  Of course not.  He's too careful.  But he worried that
other people might."  Sylva considered, her hand still resting lightly
on Rathe's.  "It seemed strange at the time.  I thought my father knew
everything about the woods.

I guess there's some things you can only learn when you have a
partner."

"There're lots of sword maneuvers like that."  Rache considered,
finding a new respect for archery, though he still saw no place for it
in honorable combat.  Colbey had taught him too adamantly.  However,
bows did seem to have their place when it came to hunting and
coordination, and he could not help feeling proud of Sylva's skill.

"Quit stalling."  Sylva released Rache's hand.  She pointed at the hay
bale and the jutting arrows forming the shape of a sword.

Rache raised the bow.  "I'll put it in the middle of the blade."

Sylva smiled.  "I'll be happy if you just put it in the hay bale."

"Hey!"  Rache chafed at the insult.  "I'm well practiced with my
hands.

And my eyes."

"No one does perfectly first shot."

"I will," Rache insisted.  Aiming, he released the shaft.  It flew in a
high arc, then plummeted, stabbing into the grass halfway to the
target.

For a moment, Rache stared in an unbroken silence.  Suppressed laughter
slipped from Sylva in a dry snort.

"You wench!"  Rache dove on Sylva, feigning rage.  They went down in a
giggling, rolling heap, Rache pretending to pummel her but hitting
himself instead.  He harbored no doubt at all that he had found true
love.  And he liked it.

Colbey could not understand why, in his last moments of life, he
smelled the perfume of wild flowers instead of the redolence of
death.

The vitality that had seemed so natural throughout his life, that had
only become more reliable with age, that starvation and thirst had
recently sapped from him, had returned.  He could feel his own life and
awareness, like a loyal friend.  And though no stronger than in the
past, he felt vibrant and significant in a way he never had before.  He
touched his hands to the hilts at his hips, and the presence of his
swords only added to the sensation of power.  He opened his eyes.

Colbey lay in a field of weeds and wild flowers.  Beyond it, forest
obscured the horizons, A blue sky spread above the meadow, and an edge
of sun burst forth over the tops of the trees.  Colbey sprang to his
feet, charged with new energy.

He reached for his swords instinctively, needing a practice to make his
joy complete.  Even as he reached for the hafts, he noticed a new
addition to the rings on his fingers.  A copper band encircled the
first finger of his left hand, a perfect mate to the one on his right
that the quaracks had given him.

Apparently, someone had slipped the ring onto his finger while he had
been in no condition to do so for himself.

So this is how I came to lie in this pleasant field.  Colbey inched the
newest ring from his finger and examined it.  Inside, a single word was
inscribed: "Faith."  Colbey laughed hollowly.  I've discovered a flaw
in the Tasks of Wizardry.  It wasn't faith but pride that goaded me to
take my own life.  Then another idea hit him with more force than the
first.  Did my thoughts at the time matter?  In the end, I did what
they wanted.  Colbey guessed he had been taught a valuable lesson about
leaders, that their followers responded to actions, not thoughts or
attitudes.  If he is good to them, subjects won't care whether their
king hates or loves them.  If he overtaxes them, for good or ill, they
will revolt.  Another, simpler explanation presented itself to
Colbey.

Or, perhaps, gods can't read minds any better than Wizards.  They can
only respond to our actions.  Colbey returned the ring to his finger.

Suddenly, Colbey sensed another presence.  The other's hostility
touched the Renshai even before his indecipherable shout rang through
Colbey's ears.  "Crshtk!"

Colbey sprang aside.  Only then, his gaze caught and held the other
figure amid the jungle of grasses.  A jagged beam of amber lanced into
the circle of crushed grasses where he had stood, leaving a charred
hole the size of a man's head.

Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end.  The reek of ozone
replaced the bouquet of the flowers.

Colbey crouched, facing a thin-lipped stranger who stood well beyond
sword range.  He wore a brown cloak over robes of the same color.  A
curly mane of gray-flecked, black hair tumbled down his back, and a
matching beard nearly hid his mouth.  Fleshy growths crooked his
nose.

Abruptly, he jerked

up his hand, repeating the bizarre command.  An angry electrical burst
shot toward Colbey.

Again, the Renshai sprang aside.  The bolt crashed to earth where he
had stood, grounding into the dirt until it disappeared.

The pain of concussion slammed Colbey's side, nearly stealing his
balance.  Eery instinct screamed at him to charge the other man, but
logic told him that the wizard could drop him with enchantments before
he significantly narrowed the gap between them.  And, if I rush him, I
won't have the momentum to dodge.  Colbey's mind raced.  To hurl a
weapon meant showing it disrespect as well as disarming himself.

Renshai saw any weapon that did not require constant skill and
direction as cowardly, yet he might not survive long enough for a
direct conflict.  Still, Colbey knew that he would never abandon honor,
even to spare his own life.  Though his enemy had chosen to fight a
coward's battle, Colbey would not.  A code of honor lost all meaning
when a man expected his enemies to also adhere to-its tenets.

Unable to attack, with weapons or with magic, Colbey sought
information.  He thrust a mental probe into the wizard's mind.

... not fighting back, and he seems so calm.  What's he planning?  No
matter.  Let's see him avoid this.  All thought fled the wizard,
replaced by an orderly string of bizarre syllables and gestures.

Colbey could not comprehend their meaning, but he found that he could
use the wizard's understanding to fathom pronunciation and gesture.

There: must be a way to use that knowledge.  The answer came to Colbey
with the thought.  When the wizard began his chant, Colbey mimicked
it.

At first, he said each word an instant behind the other, slowed by
inexperience.  Then, as he caught the pattern of thought to action, he
let his superior quickness and agility take over.  As fast as the
wizard could think the phrases and gestures, Colbey spoke and performed
them, until he had become the faster of the two.

The wizard faltered.  Same spell.  He'll finish first!

In the moment of hesitation, Colbey drew his swords and charged.

Desperately, the wizard began a new spell, presumably a shorter one.

Even as he shouted the first command, razor-honed steel met his neck,
cut, and retreated.  The spell became an incoherent shriek.  He
collapsed to the ground, his blood staining the grass the deep
purple-red of a bruise.

Dead.  Colbey kicked the corpse.  Though trained to kill and skilled
in war, he had always hated slaughter without cause.  I have no idea
why, but you started this fight.  Sheathing his sword, he searched the
dead man's body for the ring he needed to continue his tasks.  He found
it amid bits of gemstones, which he kept, and vials, powders, and
feathers, which he left.  He also took a pack of rations and a
wineskin.

Removing the wizard's cloak, he cleaned his.  sword methodically,
sheathed it, then covered the body with the cloth.

Finding a quiet space amid the wildflowers and away from the corpse, he
crouched and studied the silver ring.  The engravings on its inner
surface read: A power has no power until it destroys another power.

Colbey frowned, pondering the words.  My power comes from practice and
from within, not from other men.  He glanced at the horizon.  The sun
had risen over the trees and beamed its radiance on the wildflowers.

Colbey knew now that placing the silver ring on his finger would take
him to his next test, but he savored the moments of peace on this world
whose task he had already completed.  He drew Harval, launching happily
into one of the devil dances that had spread his name throughout the
Westlands.  He felt at peace, swelled full of joy for the first time
since well before the tasks had started.

The heady aroma of the flowers, the warmth of the sun, and the beauty
of the sky only enhanced the wonder of a perfect spar/prayer.  Alone
with his weapons and thoughts of his goddess, Colbey practiced with a
flawlessness and a passion few could match.  His body and every
extension of flesh or steel became a weapon of unequaled lethality.

The splendor of the slim, pale Renshai and the two swords that sang
about him was rivaled only by the radiance of the rising sun: two
golden giants shedding glory on this world between worlds.

Strengthened by exhilaration, Colbey felt invincible.  Finished with
his practice, he ran a hand through his hair, feeling the soft, thick
waves he had known in his youth.  Startled by its fullness, he caught a
lock between his fingers and rolled his eyes to examine it.  It bore
the solid, goldenrod hue of his younger years, freed of the gray-white
that had started with a few strands, then had gradually taken over
until little of the yellow remained.  Surprised, he seized another
clump, equally devoid of signs of aging.  Colbey stared at his hands.

They still bore the deeply etched calluses that had become as

familiar as his fingers, but the skin at his wrists and forearms had
tightened like the flesh of a younger man.

The discovery gave Colbey another thing to ponder, and he did so over a
meal of jerked meat and water scavenged from the wizard.  Repeatedly,
he turned the fifth ring over in his hands.  Apparently, the task had
been designed to prove that he, as those before him, was more capable
than the best mortal mage the gods could place before him.  The causes
and reasons for the change in his hair and skin remained more
elusive.

Colbey guessed that it had come about before he had battled the wizard,
rather than as a result of that test.

Forced to guess the timing of the transition, Colbey placed it at the
moment he had met the woman he believed to be a goddess.

Colbey finished his meal.  He gained a vague, defiant sense of
satisfaction from making the beings responsible for the tasks wait for
him for a change, gods or not.  He lay back, watching the sun hover,
unwinking yellow against blue, while the food digested.  Then,
comfortable and charged by his practice, he placed the silver ring onto
the middle finger of his left hand.

CHAPTER 8

Spawn of Fenrir

More accustomed now to the wild flashes of color and the spinning
motions of the magical transport between tasks, Colbey staved off
travel sickness.  As his vision cleared, he found himself in another
stone room, far different from the last one.  Some craftsman had carved
and painted the walls until none of the granite showed through.

Despite the possibility of enemies and danger, Colbey could not keep
his eyes from straying repeatedly to the masonry.  Caution did allow
him to tear his attention away long enough to ascertain that he was
alone in the room and to locate the exits, three doors along the same
wall, each as competently decorated as the walls.  Colbey gratefully
let his gaze fix on the carvings.

The stonework depicted tales of the Northern gods, illustrations of
Characters and stories he had revered since childhood.

The colors ranged from the subtle grays of Odin the AllFather to the
bold and glittering golds of wanton Freya.

The figures appeared so stark, Colbey's mind sensed movement
repeatedly, and it took an effort of will to keep his hand from his
weapons to counter imagined attacks from the artwork.  His instincts
and scrutiny told him that he was the only living creature in the
chamber, and he trusted those far more than tiny flashes of vision:
Still, the tide of Aegir's ocean seemed to surge and recede.  Thor's
hammer appeared more than capable of smashing the giant that the god of
law and storms faced.

One figure held the Renshai's gaze longest, a wiry male clothed in
reds, tans, and black.  Colbey recognized the carving at once.  Loki,
the Shape Changer, the god destined to betray his peers in the
Ragnarok, looked oddly familiar, with an unrealistic, hazy quality that
made Colbey wonder if he had seen a similar picture with the god in the
same pose.  He supposed that the flashy red and black silks he had
chosen to wear at the beginning of the Tasks of Wizardry did resem ble
the Shape Changer's garb.  Suddenly, the quaracks' misunderstanding
seemed to make more sense.

Colbey found his own patron on the left-hand wall.  Sif sat, her
flowing hair crafted from metallic gold.  The painting had captured the
color perfectly, and Colbey wondered if the artist actually used gold
plating in his colors.  He did not check, however.  To chip at such a
masterpiece seemed foolhardy as well as sacrilegious.  Other goddesses
filled the scene on this particular wall.  He saw Idun with her magical
apples of youth, Odin's wife Frigg, and the three Norns: past, present,
and future.  He followed the painting to Freya, and he averted his
eyes, guilty over the thought that the woman he had met between tasks
put even her beauty to shame.

Colbey found the others on the right-hand wall.  He looked first for
the Renshai's other patron, Modi.  He found the sons of Thor together,
Modi and Magni, wrath and might, watching their father battle the
giant.  They seemed happy, perhaps because of their destiny to live
through the Ragnarok, when most 'of the other gods would perish.  The
other survivors stood nearby, casually involved with their own works, a
subtle grouping by the artist.  The symbolism intrigued and horrified
Colbey, and he stared from one to the next: Vali and Vidar, two of the
AllFather's sons; Hod and Baldur, also Odin's sons, who would rise from
the dead at the war's end; and long-legged Honir whose wisdom would
guide the new age.  On Other parts of the wall, Colbey discovered more
of the gods who had filled the elders' stories, like Frey, Tyr, and
Heimdall.

A click echoed through the chamber.  Colbey whirled, hands falling
naturally to his hilts.  His right palm found leather-wrapped metal.

The other met nothing.  Ire flared, then quickly dissipated.  When
Colbey traversed the limbo between tasks, he apparently fell to the
mercy of his testers.

Once before, they had taken both of his weapons, and he drew solace
from the one blade they had left him.  From its position, apparently
they had even let him keep Harval.

While Colbey watched, the central of the three doors opened, cutting
the carving of the Midgard serpent into halves.  A stranger stood in
the doorway, backlit by daylight.

Beyond him, Colbey believed he could see cottages, roads, and
buildings.  Before he could focus more closely, the other stepped into
the room, closing the door behind him.  The serpent re-formed, and the
room returned to the dingy grayness that Colbey had been too distracted
by the artwork to notice.

The stranger stood taller than Colbey.  Though medium-framed, his
stomach bulged.  He sported the white hair of a man who had been blond
in youth, and he wore a pair of doeskin breeks.  His fine silk shirt
was midnight blue, like his eyes.  A lavender cape hung from sagging
shoulders.  He carried no evident weaponry.  He seemed to take no
notice of the carvings.  His gaze riveted on Colbey, and his person
radiated doubt, hope, and fear.  "Kyndig?"  he asked carefully, giving
it the proper Northern pronunciation: Kawn-dee.

Politely, Colbey kept his hand from his sword.  "I've been called
that."

"Praise Odin."  The man smiled, his aura transforming to one of pure
pleasure.  "The legends grow old.  I--" Disdainful of uncontrolled
excitement, Colbey cut to the heart of the matter.  "Who are you?  And
what test must I pass to escape this room?"

"Escape?"  The man regarded Colbey curiously.  His joy faltered.  "You
only need to exit through the door."  He gestured at the portal behind
him, sandwiched between the other two.  "It'll take you to our town,
Asgardbyr.  I'm King Sivard.  I'm not holding you hostage, Lord Kyndig,
but there are the legends and we do need you."

Colbey attributed little of significance to these stories.  It made no
sense that a town created strictly for testing Cardinal Wizards would
have legends and history.  "Why do you need me?"

"To kill Fenrir's spawn.  He's plagued my people for decades.

But now, it's worse.  Beyond that door ..."  He indicated the exit to
his left, "... lies our temple to Thor.  The great lord Thunder god
Justice-keeper placed his hammer, Mjollnir, in our keeping.  Fenrir's
spawn fought past my guards and stole the weapon."

Colbey could not suppress a chuckle at the thought of Mjollnir
entrusted to humans, though stranger things had occurred in recent
days.  Tired of gods' games, Colbey searched the king's mind
directly.

Aware that the invasion would cost him physical energy, he kept his
exploration brief, and it revealed that Sivard believed every word that
he had spoken.  Still, this attested only to his honesty, not his
veracity or sanity, and Colbey seriously questioned the latter.

King Sivard continued.  "Of course, no one but Thor has the strength to
lift Mjollnir, so the spawn of Fenrir was foiled.  Still, it apparently
decided that, if it can't wield the

hammer, neither will Thor."  The king pressed thick fingers

to his temples, as if to staunch a headache.  "The creature has killed
all the champions we sent to slay it."  His voice fell to a whisper, as
if he feared the beast might hear him through a forearm's thickness of
granite.  "'And without Mjollnir, I'm not cer tain even Thor can best
the monster."  He shivered, lacing his fingers, and his voice grew
higher in pitch and volume.  "Oh, how the god will rage when he learns
of this.

I'm so glad you've come to help us, Kyndig."

Colbey scowled.  He turned, finding the image of Thor and Mjollnir on
the painted walls.  The golden hammer gleamed, its handle
disproportionately shortened due, according to the legends, to one of
Loki's tricks during its forging.  "The great wolf has a spawn?"

Memory crowded upon him, mothers' stories of hybrid monsters created to
frighten children into behaving.  He shook his head to clear it.  Too
much that he had attributed to tales had recently proven truth.  Weeks
ago, he had met an elf.  Within the year, a demon that he had dismissed
as country legend had all but lost him his hand.

"Fenrir's spawn By his own mother!"

Colbey puzzled the pedigree.  Grandson of the god, Loki, son of a wolf
and a giantess.  The king's sanity fell further into question.  "What's
it like?"

"It has the head of a wolf, the body of a man, and the strength of a
rampaging boar."  The description sounded rehearsed.

"It rips my townsfolk apart and feasts on them."  He shivered, his
voice shaking with impotent rage.  "And it waits beyond the door for
the death stroke your sword must deal."

Colbey's cold eyes held the king's, until Sivard turned, his gaze to
his feet uncomfortably.  There followed a long silence.

At length, Colbey broke it.  "This beast has terrorized your people for
some time?"

Sivard nodded dully.  "Decades."

"It shreds men and has killed every champion you sent against it?  You
say even Thor might not be able to slay it, without his hammer?"

Sivard did not reply.

Colbey stared.  What is this?  The test of stupidity?  "You expect me
to walk into a room with it?"  Colbey snorted with self-righteous
indignation.  "I have no feud with Fenrir's son.

What makes you think I'd just march to my death?"

"I-I..."  King Sivard stammered.  Apparently this thought

had never entered his mind.  "You're a hero.  That's what heroes
do."

Abandoning that line of thought, he tried another.

"If you want a reward, we can pay you whatever silver we can find.  You
can have your pick of our women.  I'd sell my own daughter to the man
who kills that... thing.  But it carries a treasure more valuable than
any I can give you.  It has a golden ring.  Those few who got close
enough to see it died, but tales of its worth survived them."  Only
then, his gaze strayed to the collection of copper, silver, and gold on
Colbey's fingers.  He looked up quickly, apparently not wishing to be
caught gawking, and his eyes betrayed sudden disappointment.

"I guess money isn't really something you need."

Nothing the king had mentioned had interested Colbey, except for the
beast's ring, presumably the one he needed to start the next task.  But
the challenge promised by Fenrir's spawn offered intangibles that did
intrigue the Renshai.

Whether or not he won the match, he could not lose the fight.  If
Fenrir's spawn killed him, Colbey would die in battle and find
Valhalla.  If Colbey killed the beast, he would simply continue his
trials.  That had problems and implications of its own, but Colbey
already had those to face.  He drew his sword.

Frightened by the sudden movement, King Sivard sprang aside.

The grip nestled into Colbey's callused fist, as if molded to fit it.

Even so, the Renshal realized that it was not Harval.

The balance felt nearly perfect, but Colbey knew his sword like his own
arm.  He swung the blade a few times, testing, reassuring himself that
it would serve as well as any other.

He would never allow himself to become dependent on a single sword or
its magic.  The weapon was only a tool; he was the power.  Without a
word or qualm, he strode to the indicated door.

King Sivard pushed past Colbey gingerly, unable to hide a grin.  He
produced a long brass key, which he positioned in the hole beneath the
knob.  "I'll lock the door behind you.

The previous champions had a key, too, and it's still in there.

You can find it and escape when you've killed Fenrir's spawn."

The door swung open a crack on well-oiled hinges.

Though Colbey's thoughts and attention turned naturally to the task at
hand, he had the presence of mind to wonder

why Sivard had not passed him the key that had just opened

the door.  The answer came with little thought.  For all of the king's
bold chatter, he did not expect Colbey to survive the battle.  Colbey
suspected that, if the previous champions did have a key, it did not
fit the lock.  Only a fool would chance the key fa lling into the hands
of a beast he sought to contain.

Still, becoming trapped did not bother Colbey.  Presumably

Fenrir's spawn carried the ring he needed to leave.

Colbey slipped inside, and the door slammed and clicked closed behind
him.  The room seemed huge and oddly chill.

A corpse sprawled just inside the door, its helmet shattered and its
armor dented.  A wooden shield lay across the body, and it still
clutched a battle ax in its lifeless hand.  A gilded table in the
center of the room supported an enormous, gold hammer with a
disproportionately short handle.  Mjollnir, hammer of Thor.  All doubt
fled Colbey at the sight, and he stared in awe and wonder.

The gut-wrenching odor of carrion seemed to suffocate Colbey then.  It
did not emanate from the dead man he had stepped across, but from a
second one deeper in the room.

By craning his neck around the table, he saw a half-staved skull.

Thick strands of scarlet-stained, yellow hair poked at random from the
ruined head.  The sword at the corpse's side lay unblooded A
hideous-looking creature crouched, feasting upon the rotting flesh.

As Colbey approached, the creature rose, towering more than half again
Colbey's height.  Coarse, gray fur tumbled along its head and neck.

Its face resembled Secodon, but Shadimar's wolf had soft, brown eyes
and those of Fenrir's spawn glowed red.  It sported the body of the
most muscle-bound caricature ever drawn of Thor; its chest jutted like
two boulders on a massive torso.  Triceps and biceps bulged from its
arms, and smaller muscles stretched along its forearms.

Its legs made its arms look tiny.  To Colbey, it seemed like a mountain
covered with rugged crags.  Yet he did not fall prey to belief in the
common myth.  Large did not necessarily mean slow.

Sword readied, Colbey stepped around the table.  Fenrir's son leered,
brandished a club as thick as a tree trunk, and growled a warning.

Without hesitation, colbey swung for its abdomen.  The spawn leapt
backward.  Its riposte fell short.

For a full minute, not a single blow landed.  Colbey's strokes came
swift, short, and fine, always directed toward

his opponent's face.  Less sure, Fenrir's spawn swatted pendulously at
the golden-haired flea who had spoiled its dinner.  Withdrawing from
the steel waving in its face weakened the beast's strokes, yet Colbey
knew a single blow could smash any bone it hit.

For a moment, the beast hesitated.  Colbey thrust.  The tip of his
sword gashed his enemy's side, then the resistance disappeared.

Half of his blade clattered to the stone floor.  The hilt remained in
his fist, stubbornly supporting a hand's breadth of blade.  Shocked,
the Renshai lost his timing.  He stumbled aside.  A wave of air lifted
the hair on the side of his head, and Colbey realized he had narrowly
escaped death.

Broken?  How?  Unable to comprehend how such a minor strike could snap
tempered steel that he had deemed sturdy, Colbey reigned a dodge to the
left and dove sideways.  A back muscle tore painfully.  He rolled
across the stone, grabbing for the dead man's hilt.  Catching it, he
rose and brandished the sword.

Back in the fight, Colbey howled wordlessly.  The sword lacked the fine
balance and meticulous edge of one of his own, but it was still a
sword.  He sprang at the beast.  The blade carved the air with
controlled power, lunging at the creature from all directions.

Fenrir's spawn heaved madly in defense.  A lucky sweep met Colbey's
sword and smashed it.

Shards flew, struck the back wall, and scattered to the floor like
metallic rain.  Colbey paused in disbelief, weaponless once more.

Countless times, he had seen swords break in battle, but never before
had he seen steel fragment.  The club grazed his hand, snapping a
finger like a twig.

Pain mobilized Colbey.  He dodged the wild sweeps with the same agility
he had lent to his now-broken swords.  Croaking noises erupted from
deep in the beast's throat.  Laughter.  Its confidence pleased rather
than cowed Colbey.  Smug opponents grow careless, he reminded himself
as the hurricane strokes forced him to retreat But the beast could
afford arrogance against a weaponless foe.  Though not fast, the
monster's attacks seemed ceaseless.

Colbey's concentration channeled into dodges, and his steps grew less
sure as he approached the room's center and tried to recall the precise
location of the table by memory.

He skirted it successfully, but the beast's club crashed against it.

Wood splintered, spilling Thor's hammer to the floor with a jolt that
seemed to shake the entire room.

Each of the spawn's broad sweeps sent Colbey straggling toward the
door that he knew he could not open.  He slipped on the corpse,
fighting for balance, and his other heel touched the back wall.  No
place to go.  No way to avoid the next strike.  The club swept air from
Colbey's left to his right.  As it flew past him, the Renshai followed
its course.

When the return stroke came, he hoped it would not have gathered enough
impulse to damage him severely.

Colbey gauged the distance to the dead man.  The club slammed into his
gut, stealing breath.  He wrapped both arms around the weapon and
clung.  The beast bellowed, thrashing to and fro to shake Colbey
free.

The stench of Fenrir's son nearly overwhelmed the Renshai.

Suddenly, timing carefully, Colbey released his hold.  Momentum bowled
him across the floor.  He scrabbled for the dead man's ax, only to find
the pole broken and the head detached from it.  Instead, he snatched up
the shield, securing a hold before the wolf-man turned to resume its
attack.  In normal combat, Renshai spurned shields and armor as
cowards' protections, used by soldiers too unskilled or lazy to dodge
and tend defense.  In a direct one on one conflict, Colbey would still
have to counter each strike.  The shield would only replace the sword
as a parrying tool.

A string of saliva oozed from the beast's open jaws.  Oily sweat added
a sheen to its massive frame.

Colbey's limbs ached from overuse.  The strained back muscle throbbed,
and his broken finger jabbed pain the length of his arm.  He caught the
next bone-wrenching assault on the shield.  His evasions remained
nimble, but fatigue slowed him.  Even his mind could-no longer pump
reserves to his failing body.

Fenrir's spawn also panted, but the gross swings did not tax him to the
extent they did his quarry.  Colbey caught more blows on the shield as
his strength diminished.  He allowed the beast to herd him where it
would.

Thoughts closed in on Colbey, self-deprecating realities he had never
needed to consider before.  Perhaps Episte was right and I am a fool.

I put so much time and effort into swordplay, I became the best.  But,
without a sword, I'm as helpless as a townsman.  Colbey dodged a
blinding stroke.  Perhaps not helpless, but another man might know how
to use this damned shield as a weapon.

Again, the club thumped against the shield.  The wood

cracked open, and Colbey's arm went numb.  The force of the blow drove
him to his knees.  Agony dazed him.  He watched the club rise.  As
quick as he was, Colbey knew he could not avoid this stroke.  And,
although he had faced death before, this time he did not feel at
peace.

Flung wide, Colbey's right hand touched a pipe-shaped object and closed
around it.  Thrilled to find anything to place between himself and the
oncoming beating, Colbey jerked it before him.  The bar rolled on a
rounded base.  the club struck gold with the fury of a galloping
horse.

And, this time, the wood exploded.

The beast loosed a terrified shriek and ran.  Colbey's gaze found the
object in his fist, and he could not help staring.  He held Mjollnir's
haft.  The shortened handle of Thor's hammer rested in his palm, and
the head lay on the floor.  Colbey laughed with sudden understanding.

He bulled through pain with need, wrapping his tingling left hand below
his right.

With a surge of strength more mental than physical, he raised the
hammer and hurled it.

Mjollnir tumbled through the air, swift but unsure.  A crash slammed
through Colbey's ears, and the whole room jarred and shook.  When
Colbey staggered to his feet, his opponent had gone gray, the wolfish
sneer transformed into a grimace.  His chest had become a mass of
crimson speckled with gray-white chips of shattered ribs.  The flaming
eyes had gone cold.

It's not Mjollnir.  Colbey approached his dead foe.  It was never
Mjollnir, but it looked so real, I believed.  He knelt beside the
crushed wolf-man and poked a finger in its eye.  It gave no response.

Colbey took one of the beefy hands and examined it.  On the smallest
finger, it wore a ring of gold.

He eased the jewelry free, studying the fine runes carved inside,
uncertain what sort of instrument could have engraved the tiny letters:
A wise man knows his limits.  A hero achieves beyond them.

"Audacity!"  Colbey said aloud and the word echoed.  How could I
possibly have failed this test?  He laughed, thinking of the many
people who had cursed or ridiculed his brashness in battles mostly men
who would rather attribute skill to luck of birth than believe any man
had more self-motivation and will than themselves.  He guessed that the
nature of this task changed from Wizard to Wizard, that each faced his
own "Mjollnir" true to his faith-and beliefs.

Colbey rose, and the sudden movement sent a wash of

spots across his vision.  He kept his balance by an act of will, and
the weakness reminded him how near he had come to death.  One task
remaining.

Colbey raised the ring, but he could not leave without a word to the
finest, strongest enemy he could ever remember facing.  "Thank you for
a noble battle, Fenrir's spawn."

Then, Colbey placed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

This time, the swirl and flash of magic proved too much for him, and he
spiraled into oblivion.

Colbey awakened to the mingled odors of sweat and alcohol, and the
combination made him queasy.  He opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of
rows of men.  Before he could fully gain his bearings, an angry shove
sent him airborne.

Colbey swore, twisting like a cat.  He landed on his feet on a floor of
cold earth, and he glanced about quickly, needing to understand
position and situation.  A circular granite wall enclosed him, spanning
as much territory as the whole of the Wizards' Meeting Isle.  Seats
rose in tiers from the walls, crammed full of men whose shouts wafted
to him, disparate and indecipherable.  Although he had never entered an
arena before, Colbey drew on the dying memories he had gleaned from an
ex-slave and friend named Garn, The gall of men who would treat him as
a common gladiator outraged Colbey.  His cheeks flushed hot, and his
hands fell to his hilts.  He scanned the opposite end of the ring,
seeking the opponent he guessed he must face as his final test.  Once,
Shadimar had promised Colbey that the tasks would herald the finest
battle of his life.  Now, Colbey felt certain he faced the trial the
Eastern Wizard had meant.

Another man waited at the far end of the pit.  From a distance, Colbey
could see that he was not large, and he bore none of the brawny
musculature that kept gladiators alive in the pit.  But his sinews
stretched taut beneath a plain gray tunic and breeks, the figure of a
man accustomed to war.  A pair of longswords graced his belt, and that
surprised Colbey.  He had met only one other man who, like himself,
used two swords at once.  That other had been a Renshai, a student of
his, now more than a decade dead: The man approached.  Colbey studied
his movements in fascination.  The opponent carried himself with
enviable grace and unshakable confidence.  Each sinew shifted with a

fineness Colbey envied, and the Renshai instinctively knew that many
of the stranger's best maneuvers would be similar to Colbey's own.  Ire
was forgotten as excitement suffused the Renshai, and he felt torn.  He
harbored no doubt that this man could give him the finest battle of his
life, and the need to know who would prove the better ached within
him.

Still, as a companion, this man would prove invaluable and, as a team,
they would surely be unstoppable.  His heart pounded a slow, joyous
cadence, and the voices around him might have disappeared for all the
heed he paid them.

Colbey tore his gaze from movement and form to features.

The man's hair was bright yellow.  His eyes gleamed, blue-gray, evil,
and painful to view.  His face was of indeterminate age, and Colbey
recognized it as his own.  He gasped.

No movement betrayed the other's attack, yet Colbey drew his swords.

His opponent reached him before they came fully free.  Colbey had never
seen anyone move as swiftly nor with such practiced agility.  His foe's
first strike was a Renshai maneuver invented by Colbey.  His own parry
redirected it from a death blow to a sweep that nicked his chest.

"Modi!"  Colbey's cry came naturally, though it seemed to spur his
opponent as much as himself.  He managed to catch both blades on
Harval.  His other sword creased his opponent's thigh.  Then, they dove
at one another, merging into a swirling gold and silver cloud.  Surely,
no one but the combatants could follow the leaping blades, and it
seemed ironic to set a battle between indistinguishable enemies in an
arena.  How can the spectators tell us apart to lay bets?  The thought
quickly faded as Colbey discovered that he needed his full
concentration to counter the constant attacks.

Steel rose and dove, lethal accuracy lost to supreme defense.

Despite the need for full attention to battle, Colbey could not stop
himself from pondering the Wizards' final test.  Surely half or more of
the potential Cardinal Wizards died during this one task.  He imagined
that the gods had created it to assure that their prospects could force
themselves to do battle at their fullest potential, since the doubles
probably fought as the apprentice usually did.  But Colbey threw
himself into every battle, even into every spar, with maximum effort.

His could only be an even match.

The clamor of ringing steel became pleasant and rhythmical.

Colbey felt a rising pity as he faced the same enemy he had loosed on
so many others.  His parry fell short.  An open ing appeared for a
fraction of a second.  His opponent's blade bore through.  A fiery pain
coursed along Colbey's left forearm.

Harval dropped from his grip, and his arm fell limp.

The tendon!  Colbey realized he had lost the arm's use and the battle
in less time than it took to blink.

A strangled cry wrested from Colbey's throat.  He used the damaged arm
as a shield.  With the time this bought him, he scuttled backward and
across the pit.  As the other man closed on him, Colbey gathered all of
his mental will for a final surge.  So long as he lived, he was not
beaten.  His chances had shrunk nearly to nothing, yet he had never
played the same odds as other men.

Colbey tensed to channel all of his mental power to his languishing
muscles, when another idea came to him.  As always on the battlefield,
he made his decision instantly, weighing consequences in a heartbeat.

When his opponent sprang, Colbey gathered the stream of his
consciousness, and hurled the mental energy into the other's mind.

Colbey's thoughts crashed into an empty skull.  The being was no
being.

It had no mind or sentience, only the carefully patterned competence of
the man it mimicked.  Colbey would have spat an oath, but no strength
remained even for this simple action.  He had risked everything.  And
lost.

Drained, Colbey staggered, his probe still lodged in the void of his
opponent's head.  A black and red curtain wove across his vision,
blinding.  He did not know how near his enemy's sword hovered, when his
mind touched a threadlike projection in the otherwise empty head.

Instantly, he grasped for it, unconsciousness battering at the little
awareness that remained.  Already his mental strength began to
dissipate, yet his probe shot along the cord to embed in a brain more
powerful than any he had ever read or assailed.

Shock registered in the other mind.  It dropped its animated
Colbey-double to face the intruder in its mind.

Colbey's opponent fell limp.

Colbey's concentration flickered dangerously.  "Modi," he whispered,
the call providing only a glimmer of strength.  Yet that proved
enough.

Before the other could retaliate, Colbey pulled his mental probe
free.

He collapsed, sword first, upon his double.

CHAPTER 9

The Black Door

A steady glow issued from a high, semicircular fireplace, its strangely
uniform light washing over a pile of blue shards on a table.  Standing
beside this single piece of furniture, Colbey could count every muscle
in his body by the burning, throbbing, and sharp aches that defined
them.  Certain he was alone, he waved his left arm, testing the tendon
that he believed he had lost during his last trial.  It worked, but the
movement sent tortured waves along his arm, like all motion did after
an especially grueling workout.  It was a discomfort to which Colbey
had grown accustomed, and it always pleased as well as pained him, his
reward for having forced himself to work.  There can be no skill
without pain.

Colbey's mind felt fuzzy as he regathered the energy he had hurled from
it.  As he slowly regained function, he began to notice more about his
surroundings than just the absence of threat.  The Seven Tasks of
Wizardry seemed like a distant nightmare.  Only one of the rings
remained on his fingers, the gold one that the goddess had given him.

The room seemed much like the one in which the Wizards had gathered
before the tests began, except it lacked a door.  Now, Colbey
recognized the shards on the tabletop as remnants of the Pica Stone.

"No!"  Colbey stared in horror and revulsion at the symbol of his
people, now reduced to ruin.  He had taken a vow of brotherhood with
Shadimar, one that was to have lasted as long as the Eastern Wizard
kept the Pica Stone safe.

The sapphire had stood as the symbol of a fellowship that the Wizard
had already broken and the strength of a people, the Renshai, now
devastated.

Colbey hefted a sliver in the shape of a droplet, his revulsion turning
to shaking rage.  It lay, still and sterile, in his palm, not even a
glimmer left to remind him of the power it had once held and the tribe
it had once defined.  I let you

keep it, and you promised to safeguard it.  Now, Wizard, all your
conjured demons could not stay my wrath.  He let the fragment slip
through his fingers and click back onto the table.

Carefully, he swept the shards into a pile, prepared to bury them and,
with them, the memories of an empty brotherhood and a slaughtered
tribe.

"Kyndig!"  The voice lashed, whiplike yet beautiful as the melody of a
running stream.

Colbey had not heard or sensed another's entrance; He whirled to face a
man in silk and fur, a Northman by the flaxen locks poking from beneath
his wide-brimmed hat.  His single eye glared, as piercing as Colbey's
own.  The Renshai guessed he must have sacrificed caution to rage to
get caught so off-guard.  The lack of a door meant the man must have
been in the room all along.  "Who are you?"

"The Keeper of the Eighth Task," said the other.  And his voice seemed
more akin to wind.  "It awaits you, Kyndig."

"There is no eighth task."  Colbey parroted Shadimar, still unnerved by
his own lack of vigilance.

"Ah, but there is.  Even should you decline my offer, simply making the
choice is a task.  You see, Kyndig ..."  He stepped toward Colbey.

The Renshai crouched, fingers locking on the hilts of his swords.

Recklessly heedless of Colbey's defensive stance, the Keeper continued
without missing a beat, ".... in a situation that demands action, a
Wizard must believe himself capable of anything.  But he must also know
when not to attempt a thing he cannot achieve.  A Wizard must be a
leader.  He has no right to involve his followers in matters in which
they need take no part."

"I don't like riddles.  I don't know magic.  And I'm no Wizard."

Colbey felt discomforted by the Keeper.  "It's a title forced on me by
fools.  It is a thing they would believe and have me pretend to be."

"You are a Wizard, Kyndig."  The strange man's voice cackled.  "You
can't deny it any more than you can deny manhood.  Regardless of his
intentions, a man is exactly what others believe him to be.  you are a
deathseeker, a prince of demons, an evil-bringer, and the skilled one
of legends.

You are the Western Wizard, too."

Disinterested in mental warfare, Colbey scowled.  "So what is this
eighth task?  And what bearing does it have on

you or on me?"  Angrily, he shrugged a cramp from his shoulder.

"Me?"  The fur-clad man laughed, the sound like hunder.

"It doesn't matter to me whether you try or not, nor if you live or
die.  But I will warn you of this.  No one before you who chose to
attempt the eighth task survived."  His face went grim and
taut-lipped.

Curiosity tweaked the edges of Colbey's consciousness, and the
challenge beckoned.  "Would you answer questions about the task?"

"Candidly."

"How many have attempted it?"

The sun glinted on the shattered Pica, flinging blue highlights along
the walls and ceiling.  The glow grew most intense on the cruel-faced
stranger, giving his pallid skin a gray cast.  "Few," the one-eyed
Keeper admitted.  "But you have to recall how few complete the first
seven.  Most are ready to take their title and ignore what I offer."

Colbey refused to accept vagaries.  "You didn't answer my question."

The man laughed.  "Ten, Kyndig.  And no man knows What became of
them."

Colbey doubted that the being before him was a man.  His single eye and
commanding appearance fit the descriptions of Odin the AllFather, yet
Colbey dared not believe he faced the gray god himself.  "And what did
become of them?"

The other raised his shoulders noncommittally, though he did not deny
the knowledge.  "They died.  That is certain.  I won't tell you the
cause.  I have to leave some secrets to those brave or foolish enough
to try the eighth task."

Colbey wiped a damp palm on his breeks.  Shadimar and Captain had told
him that only the most competent were chosen to attempt the Seven Tasks
of Wizardry, and even most of them did not make it through.  The
challenge flared to a jabbing need to know and understand.  Yet the
sincerity of Shadimar's warning stayed him.  He continued to delay.

"Why does anyone try it?"

The Keeper rolled his eye.  "Insecurity, perhaps?  I can only
surmise.

I am the Keeper of the Task, not the keeper of men.  I believe they all
tried to overcome their fears of death."

Colbey raised his head as proudly as the speaker.  "Then I have no need
of your task.  I don't fear death."

"Many men believe that."  The Keeper dismissed the statement as
bluster.

Colbey recalled his last encounter with death and the beautiful woman
who had rescued him.  "I'm as candid as you, Keeper.  I know myself as
no one else can.  I don't fear death."

"Ah!  Very well, then."  The Keeper accepted the statement, though he
did not seem convinced.  "Then you may be the one who can succeed."  He
yawned, bored with the questioning.

"My time is not easily bought, Kyndig.  You may ask one more."

Colbey did not ponder long.  He stretched his stiff fingers.

"Is there some purpose to this task?  What reward were these dead
Wizards seeking?"

Surprise added color to the Keeper's otherwise white features.

"You don't know?  Why even the least capable had heard mention of the
Staff of Law.  You seem to prefer simple terms, Kyndig, so I'll tell
you in a word.  Power.  Ultimate power."

Colbey laughed, the fires of need receding.  "I already have more than
I ever wanted.  It seems to find me."

"So you refuse the task?"

Colbey opened his mouth to confirm.  Even as he did, he made one of the
split second decisions that had become his trademark on the
battlefield.  "No.  I accept it."  His own words startled him, and he
analyzed his reasons aloud.  "In the future, if someone else asks why
men choose to attempt the task, you can tell them that, for me, it was
curiosity."

The expression on the One-Eyed One's face never changed, but a strange,
unreadable emotion wafted to Colbey.  It seemed akin to distress, yet
the Keeper's confidence warped it to something else, a grim acceptance
of an unknown that seemed inevitable.  The Keeper turned to face the
back wall.  He traced a rectangle across its surface with his
fingers.

The stone quivered beneath his touch, then darkened within the
boundaries.  A door took shape there, black as night, yet shimmering as
if from the radiance of a moon on the opposite side.  It looked hazy
and unreal, as if it spanned worlds and time.  "Then it's time for you
to-determine your future, Kyndig.  If you have one."  He gestured to
the door.  Its substance disappeared, replaced by an opening that
seemed equally dense.

Now, Colbey no longer doubted the identity of the being

before him, certainly a god.  The manifestation of the door was magic
of a sure and true sort, unlike the petty illusions and the summonings
that were all the sorcery he had ever seen performed by the Cardinal
Wizards.  His decision made, he did not hesitate.  He approached the
portal and passed through it.

Once through the door frame, he entered a room without boundaries.  It
seemed more like a plain, for a room has walls and this had none.  Yet,
for reasons he did not ponder, Colbey clung to the image of
enclosure.

His mind seemed to become semisolid, folding across itself as if molded
by a god's hand.  He grasped the concept of constraint more tightly,
forming a barrier to contain the straying pieces of his mind.

Multihued spots waltzed before his eyes, blocking his vision.

Then as suddenly, the spots dissolved; and a scene leapt to vivid
clarity.  There was light, but no sun.  A ceiling hovered overhead,
unsupported by walls.  In the distance, Colbey saw an object too far
off to identify, though it seemed large and significant.  He headed
toward it without any preconceived notions, finding it futile to try to
imagine what had taken the lives of ten apprentice Wizards.  Long ago,
he had discovered that the things that induced panic in heroes seemed
like simple annoyances to him.  If the test could be won, Colbey would
succeed.  If not, he would join those before him.

As the distance between the object and the Renshai narrowed, it
resolved into the shape of a thick, straw ticking.  A figure lay upon
it, swaddled in blankets.  With each step, the nauseating reek of
illness grew stronger, and Colbey's pace slowed.  The odor of
pestilence and death made him cringe in pity, and he harbored no wish
to share whatever had withered the pathetic creature in the bed.

Still, Colbey had learned the healing arts to rescue warriors from
illness and to help them find honorable deaths in battle.  During his
travels, he had used the Renshai tribe's herbal and rehabilitative
knowledge to earn money for food and lodgings, and his conscience would
not allow him to watch illness claim another without at least trying to
give aid.  He pushed on.

At length, Colbey stood over the bed and stared.  The blanket stirred,
revealing two liquid eyes, deeply sunken into sharply angled, bony
sockets.  Parchment-thin skin stretched from bone to bone and sagged in
ghostly pale wrinkles be tween them.  The creature reached a trembling
hand toward

Colbey, and its green-crusted, toothless mouth opened to croak a
warning.

Colbey's mind twisted free of his carefully-constructed barriers,
detaching from self and control.  It stuffed his thoughts into the body
on the bed.  Strength drained from him in an instant, leaving him
frail, fever-ravaged and aching in every part.  Disease crawled over
and through him, un-resisted, like a creature that seemed more alive
than the man it afflicted.  Death hovered, a friend waiting for the
signal to c ome and take the pain away.

All of Colbey's doubts assailed him them He had become, in every way,
the being on the bed.  His own body disappeared, and his rheumy eyes
saw nothing but a blurry plain and death's promise.  Regrets hemmed and
hammered him.

He recalled the young Renshai, called Episte, who had seemed more son
than student to him.  His mind conjured images of the child, grand and
glorious, his potential with a sword so natural that dedication could
have made it flawless.

Yet Episte had shown more loyalty to people than to his swords; the
Renshai maneuvers had seemed little more than duty and distraction.

Over his fifteen years, he had sought Colbey's love and approval, both
of which he had won.  Yet Colbey's need to make the boy the best had
driven the elder to goad and chastise.  He would never forget that his
last memory of the sane Episte was his own harsh words and a slap.  His
last vision of the Wizard-warped madman the boy had become was of his
own mercy dagger, the nadenal, shoved through Episte's back.

Colbey felt the sting of rising tears that would not come.

Heat and sickness had dehydrated the body he now occupied, the
disease-wracked creature that had become himself.

Yet though the bony arm moved as his own, Colbey forced himself to
disbelieve.  He would not complete the transformation for the Keeper of
the Eighth Task.  If death wanted him, it would not find him an easy
victim whether from illness, age, or battle.  He walled off his mind
from the body, drove agony away, and called war against the fantasies
that assailed him.  Enchantments bounced from his defenses, flashing
colored streamers through his eye-closed world.

Colbey threw off the restraining blankets and sprang from the bed.

"Illness, you won't have me.  If I can't defeat you, I can evade
you.

Now that we've met at last, you no longer daunt me."

A ball of light struck the floor and exploded into stunning
whiteness.

Abruptly, the being in silk and fur stood before Colbey again.  "Ah, so
it's true.  Nothing in the nine worlds frightens you.  What a man must
endure to pass this test is all that he fears.  Since all mortals fear
death and those things that can kill them, none but you survived.  You
feared only illness, and you conquered that fear.  You were quite
correct.

You don't fear death.  If you did, you would have died, and from that
trial, there is no escape."

Colbey scowled, believing he had sustained more than enough to prove
what he had claimed from the start.  "Of course, I was quite correct.

I don't lie.  Not even to myself."

The one-eyed being frowned.  "Don't become arrogant.

You will make me regret the power I ofter.  You do still fear one
thing.  And although you wouldn't have any way to know it yet, that
fear has been recognized.  You will never reach Valhalla."

The pronouncement slammed into Colbey, rousing him instantly to-rage.

"You lie!"  He crouched, drawing both swords.

The Keeper smiled, heedless of the weapons and their deadly wielder.

"Do I?  You're welcome to disbelieve.  Or you can accept the truth."

Colbey remained in position, anger ebbing slowly.

"I'm not obligated to explain further," the Keeper continued.

"But I now have a personal interest in your future."  He stepped aside
to reveal a copper rack that his body had concealed.

"It is time to meet your reward and another decision."

Carelessly, the Keeper turned his back.  Still enraged, Colbey
considered attacking just to discover whether skill or foolishness made
the Keeper so indifferent to an armed Renshai.  Guessing the futility,
Colbey sought calm within himself.  Curiosity helped to quench the
fires.

When the Keeper turned back, he held the two staves that had graced the
rack, one in each hand.  He gripped them in fists so tight his fingers
blanched, and he chanted in a skjaldic rhythm: "In Odin's day The world
was fey, And we dwelt in the nether.

Asgard was naught, With changes wrought, As quickly as the weather.

"The staff was made As Odin bade To hold the Chaos raging.

A weapon new For Odin who A great war was a-waging.

"To free the land From Chaos' hand And make the young lands hale.

Once beset, The Norns did fret, But Odin could not fail.

"The Staff fared well As the bards now tell, The new world it
a-forging.

As Odin laughed And brandished Staff With battle lust a-gorging.

"With Law's reach long And new grip strong The world could little
change.

Is as it was Was as it is For none to rearrange.

"But Odin's hand Still ruled the land, Strong as the great wolf's
maw.

The Gray One bade A new Staff made: Behold the Staff of Law.

"With neither free The earth shall be Fit for man and beast.

Till one great mage

 \

Shall close the age And lead Hati to feast."

A silence beyond life settled over the room.  Colbey watched the
one-eyed being.  Finally, the Guardian of the Staves spoke again.  "I
leave you to your choice.  But, before you decide, I have more for you
to ponder.  With this Staff ..."  He raised his right arm and the staff
it held.  "... I control all but have no rule.  With this ..."  He
raised the other, identical-appearing staff.  "I control none, but my
reign is sure and long.  Which will you have?  Make your choice well,
Kyndig."

Colbey's anger had faded during the poetry.  Now faced with an
unexpected decision, all traces disappeared, and he considered the
Staves with the seriousness that the Keeper · apparently expected.

The.  earliest of the gods' legends ran through his mind repeatedly, in
an endless cycle.  No doubt, the Keeper had spoken of creation, when
the gods first came into existence and Odin had banished the Primordial
Chaos to create a world existing entirely of Order.  In the last two
decades, Chaos had begun to touch the world again, apparently through
cracks in the gray god's defenses.  Colbey saw its work in the form of
mistruths and betrayals, swaying loyalties and thefts.  Though he had
never before recognized it consciously, the lapse had shaken even his
fixed faith in the omnipotent AllFather of the gods.

Yet in the moments since the Keeper's chant, several answers avalanched
into Colbey's mind at once.  Many times, he had questioned Shadimar
about the need for four Wizards to champion only two forces, good and
evil.  Every time, the Eastern Wizard had insisted that neutrality,
itself, was a concept so significant that it needed two guardians where
the others needed only one apiece.  Now, Colbey finally understood.

The Eastern and Western Wizards had been created to champion law and
chaos.

Though Colbey felt certain of its truth, the conclusion confused as
well as pained him.  If the two were made to wield law and chaos, why
have they not done so over the millennia?  Why have the staves remained
in the gods' keeping?  Many possibilities presented themselves then,
but only one seemed plausible.  All these years, Odin has waited.

Waited for what?  Colbey considered an instant longer.  Waited for
someone to complete the eighth task, someone

who does not fear death, someone capable of wielding the

Staff of... There, Colbey's logic faltered.  Law or Chaos?

Which has he waited for?  He felt sweat bead beneath his collar,
suddenly aware of the significance of his choice.

Colbey knew for certain that the fate of the world hung in the balance,
waiting for him to make a single choice.  His inStincts told him to
take the Staff of Law, to keep chaos from the world a bit longer.  But,
for once, Colbey did not follow his natural inclination.  This decision
required more thought and more information.

"Now I understand why so few attempt the final task.

There is no reward.  I'll take neither staff."

The One-eyed One stared impassively at Colbey, his single eye
unwinking.  "The reward is what it is.  Every tool requires a man to
wield it.  The man, not the tool, determines its significance."  The
hush that followed stretched painfully.

"No questions will be answered this time.  There is nothing left,
Kyndig, but your choice."

No sane man would willingly decide to serve or distribute chaos.  Yet
two ideas gave Colbey pause.  First, he knew that one god, Loki the
Shape Changer, had been charged with instigating the Ragnarok, though
he knew it would lead to his own doom as well as that of most of the
other gods and men.

Colbey did not profess to understand the motivations of the gods;
surely their immortality and millennia of experience gave them insight
and wisdom that men could never contemplate.

But Shadimar's words strack more deeply: "Law is the direct opponent of
chaos.  If we work within the tenets of law to bring the Ragnarok, our
efforts could do exactly the opposite.  If, however, we turn against
Odin's laws and break our Wizards' vows in order to avert the Ragnarok,
we are virtually guaranteed to cause it.  When the time comes, I hope
we will all have the sense and competence to choose our actions
wisely.

Quite literally, the world and everything in it will lie in our
hands."

Colbey harbored little doubt that the time mentioned by Shadimar had
come, yet no vision of the consequences came to help him make the
decision.  Only one thing about the choice seemed certain.  Without
balance between the forces shaping the world, it would have no
direction.  The staves complement one another.  Neither alone could
serve mankind.

It could only destroy us.  Again, logic told him to refuse both, yet he
knew the Keeper would not allow it.

Colbey sheathed his swords, kneading Harval's hilt with a
sweat-slicked hand.  Usually even a foolish action accomplished more
than immobility.  He reached inside himself and called on the power
remaining in his body to strengthen his mind.  The muting haze of
exhaustion lifted, and he shaped a mental probe, stretching it
delicately toward the Keeper.

He braced himself, expecting a solid block or a massive retaliation.

Yet he found neither.  His probe entered without difficulty, and he
explored a mind more complete and intricate than any he had encountered
in the past.  Although the Keeper seemed not to notice the intrusion,
Colbey found the ignorance difficult to accept.  Still, he probed
deeper.

Colbey's mind extension entered a labyrinth of twisting thoughts and
abstract concepts.  Barely beyond his comprehension, they beckoned him
deeper into the vast, convoluted pain of the Keeper's subconscious.

Then, suddenly, a barrier dropped behind his probe, blocking his only
retreat.

Every instant his mind wandered through another's thoughts, physical
strength drained from Colbey.  Needing escape, he spun the probe,
battering the barrier with all the power of his will.  The mental wall
remained, and Colbey managed enough contact with his body to feel it
weakening.  Unable to go back, he soght escape ahead.

The maze wound, thought twisting upon thought, concept crossing
concept.  He felt the barriers shudder and dissolve behind him, but he
no longer knew the route back.  Too late, Colbey realized he had become
lost, trapped inside another's mind.  He hurried forward, staking his
life on the possibility of another exit, and the One-Eyed One's
mentation led him to a great void.  Around him, Colbey sensed only
emptiness, as if the massive brain that had surrounded him had
disappeared completely.  He realized that he might never free himself
from this limbo, and he sought escape with little hope of Success.

Abruptly, Colbey discovered texture.  Curiosity now fueled a new
enthusiasm.  He explored the irregularities.  Silhouettes hovered,
barely discernible at the edges of his consciousness.

With maddening slowness, vague outlines sharpened to hauntingly
familiar concepts of war, sword forms, and deeply etched religion.

Colbey recognized the phantoms as a mirror image of his own mind.

Stunned, Colbey struggled against the reflection, but the transposed
images remained.  They were real.  Another

Colbey?  Itseemed impossible.  True, the gods had once copied his body
and his actions, animating it with a will of their own.  Yet their
failure to fill it with true life or sentience had made him certain
that they could not.  Even the gods created offspring as men did.  And,
though Odin and his two brothers had crafted th e first man and woman
from an ash and an elm, Colbey had never heard stories nor legends of
humans coming from anywhere but one another since then.

Colbey followed the memories, finding Renshai maneuvers and sword cuts
he alone knew.  This was a second Colbey, and yet it was not.  The mind
he had entered initiated no actions.  Although it demonstrated evidence
of mind control, it did not react to his intrusion.  The pictures and
concepts endured, a reversed duplicate of the Renshai's own mind, as if
the two Colbeys examined the same scene from opposite sides at the
exact same time.  Colbey realized that he stood outside, looking into
his own mind.  He entered the reflection and turned to stare out
through his own eyes.

Again, Colbey faced the one-eyed being.  For the moment, the Renshai
silently reveled in the return to his own body.

He found it as strong as always, and the familiar supple quickness and
deadly precision restored his brashness as well.  "How did you
manipulate me?"

The other smiled.  "Very well, I thought."  The grin vanished at once,
back into the casual nothingness of his previous expression.  "Now,
choose."

"I want neither staff.  I told you that."

The Keeper glowered.

"But if I have to take one, then I'll take them both."

The Keeper did not move.  "So be it.  You completed the' task, and you
must have your reward.  I will give you both, but understand one thing,
Kyndig.  Though men straggle, they change nothing.  What you see, feel,
and do is only a matter of perspective.  You alter appearances only.

Reality remains inviolate.  Had you not realized this truth, you might
never have returned to your own body."  He extended the staves, one in
each hand, toward Colbey.  "With these, you change reality itself."

Hesitantly, Colbey reached forward and took the staves.

White light exploded around him, blinding him with its brilliance.

When vision returned to Colbey, the Keeper of the Eighth Task was
gone.

PART II

THE KEEPERS OF LAW AND CHAOS

CHAPTER 10

The Keepers of Law and Chaos Shadimar sat in passive silence, staring
into the space where the Pica Stone should have lain until his vision
smeared and the blue shards merged into the expanse of blurry
grayness.

This charade could not continue.  If the woman that he, Trilless, and
Carcophan had sent to complete the Tasks of Wizardry did not return, it
would mean they had condemned five competent humans to their deaths in
as many weeks since Colbey's failure.  Damn the Renshai anyway.

Frustration and grief drove the Eastern Wizard to blame Colbey for a
demise even the Deathseeker could not have sanctioned, a shallow
attempt to convince himself that the Renshai's slaying meant nothing to
him.  Death in any other fashion would have left the Pica intact and
dispensed with this infernal waiting in blind ignorance.  A stray hair
tickled his cheek.  He raised a hand to brush it away, his movement
scattering fragments of sapphire to the floor.  The pieces sprinkled to
the granite with tiny, high-pitched noises.  Not even a spark of their
former magic remained.

Secodon stalked the remnants, sniffing delicately, as if trying to
understand their fascination.  Mar Lon sat quietly on the floor,
seeming out of place in a roomful of solemn Wizards.

Carcophan spoke in a low growl that seemed to be the most comforting
voice he could manage.  "Shadimar, we have to send another.  Weave
given her enough time."

Shadimar glanced up.  Carcophan and Trilless sat in their usual places,
across the longest part of the Meeting Room table.  The Northern
Sorceress nodded tacit agreement, her concurrence with the Evil One
unnerving Shadimar nearly as much as the events of the last several
weeks.  Over the centuries, he had learned to keep his emotions a step
back, never to become attached to mortals.  To do so might mean putting
individual interest over cattSe as well as watching

friends wither and die.  Yet the events he had shared with

Colbey Calistinsson bore a significance his heart and mind would not
allow him to forget.  For all of Shadimars aloofness and Colbey's
savagery, he missed the old Renshai as a friend as well as a promised
'colleague.

Avoiding the other Wizards' gazes, Shadimar pushed himself away from
the table and rose.  He turned his back, watching the uniform glow in
the fireplace without seeing the flames.  His mind slid to a memory
that had never been his own, a mental vision of a story Colbey had
told.

Shadimar imagined himself as the Previous Western Wizard, Tokar, faced
with a decision of world-shattering significance.

Wind soughed through his white locks and beard, and the sky had already
become sprinkled with the hues that preceded a Wizard's ceremony of
passage.  It was a time when Tokar should have had nothing more to
consider than the sequence of magic that would end his mortal life and
link his consciousness with the Western Wizards before him, a
collection that would live on in the mind of his successor.

Secodon whined, nosing his master's cupped hand.

Shadimar ignored the wolf.  He imagined Tokar studying his apprentice,
a weak Pudarian named Haim.  Somehow, Harm had passed the Tasks of
Wizardry, though they had cowed rather than strengthened him, as if the
gods had sanctioned Tokar's plan.  Now Shadimar tried to understand his
colleague's choice.  Had Tokar, as Colbey thought, chosen Harm because
he knew the ceremony would kill his apprentice?

Had this been Tokar's way of ending a line wracked by insanity, of
forcing Shadimar to begin the Western line fresh and untainted by the
madness it had incorporated and, unwittingly, nourished?  More likely,
Shadimar believed, Tokar hoped Haim's weakness would make the
apprentice little more than a puppet.  Though now only a part of the
collective consciousness, Tokar could control Haim, protecting him from
the older portions of his predecessors' thoughts.

Tokar's motivations mattered little, as did the events leading to
Colbey's presence at the time of the Western Wizard's chosen passage.

But recognition of the Renshai's potential had given the old Wizard a
choice that few would have considered or even have been aware of.

Surely, neither Trilless nor Carcophan would have thought of passing
their Wizard's line to anyone other than their long-trained
apprentice.

Yet when Tokar stood amidst the thunder and light show of his

summoned magics, he had had the wherewithal to place strength over
weakness.  He had risked putting the Western line into the hands and
person of the most powerful mortal he had ever met, though it meant
annihilation of the' collective consciousness and hi apprentice.

Surely, it had never occurred to Tokar that Colbey might fail the Tasks
of Wizardry.

Trilless interrupted Shadimar's considerations.  "You're tired, my
friend.  Would you like me to look for another?"

Another.  Shadimar did not move or reply.  Why not send another to his
death?  Carcophan and Trilless are only aiding my search to honor their
vows, but they know there's no one left capable of serving as Western
Wizard.  Eventually, one will come along.

Shadimar scratched Secodon absently, aware he did not have the luxury
of time.  Alone, I'm not strong enough to stand between good and
evil.

Soon they would overcome me and attack one another openly.  War between
them would begin the destruction heralded by the calling of the three
Swords of Power.  Shadimar knew he had little choice but to keep his
companions occupied with obtaining more prospects for the tasks, yet
the idea of sending more innocents to their deaths to delay the
inevitable seemed abhorrent.

Carcophan responded to Trilless' offer as Shadimar had not.  "You look
for another?  You'd like that--" Suddenly, a door appeared directly
opposite the one to the outside.  Shadimar stared.  Carcophan stopped
speaking.  Mar Lon and Trilless turned their heads to look as well.

They all knew this magical panel.  It appeared only when an apprentice
returned successfully from the Tasks of Wizardry.  Relief thrilled
through Shadimar, and he prepared himself for the speech he would need
to give to the woman who emerged from that door.  Then, another
possibility filled his mind, bringing a twinge of guilt.  Only one
apprentice could perform the tasks at any given time.  If one of the
earlier candidates emerged, it meant that every subsequent recruit had
simply been sent to an immediate death.

The door swung open, its breeze fanning the magical fire into a ragged,
orange blaze.  The man who stepped through the frame wore a
gold-colored shirt and breeks, held in place by a black sash.  Yellow
hair framed handsome features and burning blue-gray eyes that did not
seem mortal.  A sword dangled at each hip, and he carried a staff in
either hand.

Though the face seemed familiar, its youth and vigor threw

Shadimar completely off target.  His mind answered impression before
logic.  Loki?  Has the god come to mock us?

Worse possibilities haunted Shadimar then, concerns about the Cardinal
Wizards' interactions and the drawing of chaos.

APparently, Trilless came to the same conclusion.  She rose, her stance
graceful yet stiffly formal, and her voice held power and rage.

"You're not welcome, Shape Changer.

Enough trouble has befallen us already.  You hold no power here.  In
the name of Odin, I deny you entrance."

The man in gold laughed.  "An excellent speech, Trilless.

It's a shame Loki couldn't hear it."  He raised the staves, drawing
Shadimar's gaze directly to them.  A faint white glow traced the edges
of each, revealing their magic.  "Behold the reward of the eighth
task."

Mar Lon went so still he seemed to stop breathing.

Trilless studied the newcomer and the staves.  Carcophan came slowly to
his feet.  Shadimar found himself rooted in place.  Colbey.  It's
Colbey.  The voice and confidence could belong to no one else, yet the
Staves of Law and Chaos commanded Shadimar's full attention.

Trilless found her voice first, though she focused on what seemed to
Shadimar to be the less important question.  "I don't understand.  We
watched you die.  What happened after you touched the seer's
crystal?"

Carcophan struck for the more salient point.  "Explanations later.  You
have both staves!  By Fenrir's teeth, you condemn us all.  Fool, you
..."

"You call me fool?"  Colbey's reply rose in anger.  "I call you
coward.

At least I had the courage to attempt the eighth task."  Colbey came
fully into the room, and the portal disappeared behind him.

He brought the Staff of Chaos.  The Staff of Chaos!  Why?  Shadimar
considered probing Colbey's thoughts.  But he recalled the awesome
power of the Renshai's mind and chose words instead.  "Colbey, listen
to me.  You don't understand."

A smile creased the Renshai's now youthful features.

"Perhaps I do, and that's why you fear me.  How many times have I
talked about our own rules and protections stagnating us into
oblivion?

Times change.  We can't advance when ancient needs still govern
civilization.  Law is rigid and uncompromising.

It's not good and evil that are unyielding, as I once thought.  It's
our world wholly without chaoS."

Although trained to maintain composure in crises, Shadimar had never
before reasoned with one who held the future of every world in his
hands.  The Wizard's heart pounded, and his argument drew desperate.

"Chaos is rampant and destructive.  It has no shape and form.  It
drives lies, betrayals, crime, and dishonor.  In the end, it will
destroy us all."

"Perhaps," Colbey concurred.  "But without it, we'll smolder into
changeless oblivion, one moment the same as the next.  Law is only the
structure.  Chaos is what lives, grows, and evolves."

Shadimar saw some logic in Colbey's words, yet experience showed him
the flaws in the argument.  Odin had driven the Primordial Chaos from
the world because of the need for structure.  For millennia, the
Wizards had protected that structure, and Odin had ensured that the
system would continue for eternity..Without it, all of the gods,
Wizards, and mortal civilization would collapse into chaos'
decadence.

"You speak madness!"

"I speak only of balance."

Carcophan came forward menacingly.  "With chaos, there can be no
balance.  There is only destruction."

"I don't believe that to be the case."

Trilless leapt to her feet.  "Wiser minds say otherwise---" Colbey
smiled.  "I don't believe yours to be wiser minds."

Mar Lon remained rigid.  Trilless went silent, blue eyes flashing with
anger.  Shadimar tried to appeal to the Renshai who had once been a
brother.  "Colbey, we have millennia of knowledge to draw upon.  You
have to believe that we know better.  You have to listen."

"I have listened.  And I've made my choice."  Colbey headed further
into the room.  "Your millennia of so-called wisdom only make you more
rigid and stagnant.  Again, I propose balance."

"Law is structure and reality!"  Shadimar was shouting now, groping for
the right words that would make Colbey understand the terminal
significance of his decision.  "It's what men themselves are composed
from, as well as our world and all that's in it!  There can be no
balance between form and nothingness."

"I believe there can be."

Trilless glowered, arms folded across her sagging chest.

"Then you're every bit the fool Carcophan named you.  And we have no
choice but to stand against you."

Again, Colbey grinned, his expression smug.  "I expected nothing
less.

And I'll revel in the challenge."

Carcophan nonchalantly placed his bulk between Colbey and the exit.

"Even one as strong as you believe yourself to be can't triumph over
the three of us."  He waved his arms to encompass Trilless and
Shadimar.  "We are the Four."  This time, he added Colbey to the
equation.  "We can still work together.  Destroy the Staff of Chaos,
and we'll all wield the Staff of Law.  The world will remain powerful,
large enough for us all, and we will control it as one.  Or, if we
wish, we could divide it and each take a quarter."

Trilless approached Colbey and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Kyndig ..."

Colbey did not look at the Sorceress.  "Remove your hand, lady, or I
shall, with Harval."

Trilless' arm returned to her side with graceful dignity despite the
threat, and she continued.  "We can't divide the cosmos, but otherwise
Carcophan is right.  You must dispose of the Staff of Chaos.  Should
you tap its power even once, you would wreak chaos and ruin upon a
world meant only for law."

Colbey leaned one of the staves against the wall near Shadimar and
rested his callused Palm on Harval's hilt.  Still holding the other
staff, he measured his steps to the doorway.

"The three of you mock what you claim to represent, If you constitute
balance, then I am the counterbalance.  All forces must have opposition
to exist."  He headed for the door in a straight line, stopping in
front of Carcophan's impeding form and meeting the Southern Wizard
stare for stare.  With obvious deliberateness, he closed his grip on
his hilt.

Shadimar studied the staff beside him, casually shielding it from
Trilless and Carcophan with his body.  Secodon crouched before it, less
subtly on guard.  In either of the other Wizard's hands, the staff
could be used for a cause other than itself.  He watched his
companions, waiting to see if either would try to stop the Renshai
despite his hold on a sword that could slay them.  Patience usually
accompanied near-immortality.  Though the least methodical and tolerant
of the three, Carcophan surely realized that any attempt to physically
restrain Colbey would result in-a brawl that would leave at least one
of the Cardinal Wizards dead.  With a Staff of Power readied in one
fist and Harval in the other, Colbey held the clear advantage.

Carcophan moved aside.

Momentarily taking his fingers from his sword, Colbey opened the
outside door.  "I offer you the power to oppose me and prevent my
loosing chaos.  The one weapon with which you can avert destruction
stands there."  He pointed to the staff that he had abandoned.

The Staff of Law.  Shadimar grasped it before either of his companions
could make a move in its direction.  The polished ash felt right in his
grip, as if created for him.  Suddenly, his hand felt as unsteady as
that of a frightened child.  It's the only thing powerful enough to
confront chaos.

Colbey sees our world as a plaything.  Before his transgression, the
eternal battle between good and evil seems nothing more substantial
than a petty squabble.  Colbey, not Carcophan and Trilless, will doom
the world.  We must resist and hope time will bring him to his
senses.

Shadimar expanded his consciousness, touching the minds of Carcophan
and Trilless.  In their own way, their thoughts mirrored his own.  "We
will stand against you.  You know that."

Colbey nodded.  "I trust the staff will fare better in your keeping
than the Pica.  Farewell, old friend."  Without turning his back,
Colbey left the room.  He closed the door behind him.

Immediately, Carcophan's heavy fist crashed against the table.  "We
have the Staff of Law.  With it, we can control a demon powerful enough
to kill Colbey.  The arrogant bastard has no magics to bind it, and the
sword will help only so much.  We can't let him leave this island
alive!"

Mar Lon seemed to awaken from his trance, his attention bobbing from
Wizard to Wizard as each spoke his or her piece with an emotionality he
had never seen any of them display in the past.

With confidence inspired by the staff he held, Shadimar quietly seated
himself at the table, Secodon restless at his feet.  Carcophan had
spoken in anger, and he had to see the error in his plan.  "Any
decision we make now affects the future of all worlds, including the
gods'.  We have to consider all possibilities and consequences before
we act."

Carcophan shook with rage.  "The least Wizard speaks

thus!  You would have us sit here hashing plans until Colbey's gall
and stupidity destroys us all."

Trilless dismissed Carcophan with a wave.  "Someone must pay dearly for
the summoning of a demon, and magic will only draw more chaos into our
world.  Don't forget our vows not to harm another Cardinal Wizard.

That's a promise we can't break."  She again took her seat at the
table.

Shadimar clutched the staff until blood drained from his fist, hating
his position.  Whatever the decision, his own fate remained
unchanged.

Whether Trilless and Carcophan or Colbey set the destruction in motion,
it would come, and he stood alone in its path.  Without the Northern
and Southern Wizards, I can't stop Colbey and his chaos.  Shadimar knew
what he had to do.  For the good.  of eternity, men, Wizards, and gods,
he had to league with Carcophan and Trilless against Colbey.  Only then
could he deal with the others.

Carcophan sat grudgingly.  "The Staff of Chaos has already driven the
Western Wizard mad.  We have no choice."

"We have four choices."  Trilless' lilting voice rose above the scrape
of Carcophan's chair.  "We can reason with him, capture him, steal the
staff, or kill him."

"We have only one choice."  Carcophan remained insistent.

"We tried reason already, and Colbey has none.  He's far too dangerous
to hold prisoner, even if we could capture him.  Only a fool would let
the Staff of Chaos out of his sight.  Despite his decision, Colbey's no
fool.  We can't steal the staff.  And only one option remains."  He
rose abruptly, and his chair toppled over backward.  He shouted over
the slam of its fall.  "I'll use the Staff of Law and summon a demon to
deal with Colbey.  Give me the staff!"

Shadimar clutched the staff more tightly.  Carcophan would not have
it.

All softness left Trilless' voice.  "We have to speak to Kyndig
again.

He is the Western Wizard.  We owe him that much."

We must destroy Colbey.  Although Shadimar despised the thought, he saw
no other way.  His hatred for the old Renshai turned as strong as the
enmity he had watched between Carcophan and Trilless for centuries.

But he would never surrender the Staff of Law to Carcophan.  With its
power, he could contest them; without it, he became their pawn, as
easily manipulated as any mortal.  The Eastern Wizard slid his chair
back and stood.  He met Carcophan's catlike eyes and

managed a slight sneer.  "You alone do not decide who wields the Staff
of Law."

Trilless took Shadimar's side.  "Carcophan, you know I'll never permit
you to wield it, as you would never permit me.

About one thing, you're both right.  We need to use its power to repair
the damage that Kyndig does.  It only makes sense that Shadimar should
keep the staff."

"Very well," Carcophan returned to his place, hooking the chair with
his fingers and hoisting it back into position.

"Though Shadimar's not strong enough to wield the staff, we've no time
for bickering."  He motioned at Shadimar with a wave that rejected even
as it 'indicated.  "Use your small power to summon the demon to destroy
Colbey."

Trilless fondled shards of the Pica Stone on the tabletop and sucked
air through pursed lips.  "We may summon a demon for information.  We
need to know how Kyndig came upon the staves and how he survived
touching the globe of truth.  But we can't release the demon to
attack.

Any chaos creature strong enough to slay Kyndig could resist our
control.

After it dealt with him, it would break free and ravage the
countryside.  I won't have that."

Carcophan scowled, leaning across the back of his chair.

"Countryside, lady?  We're on the Meeting Isle.  There is no
countryside.  Demons can't move from.  world to world without
summoning.  It could only kill the captain and Mar Lon."

Trilless winched her hand closed around sapphire fragments.

"That's two lives too many."

Carcophan persisted.  "A small price.  That's why we need to kill the
Prince of Demons before he leaves this island."

Shadimar struck the heel of the staff on the floor to emphasize his
possession of it.  "Carcophan, have you gone mad?  We'll not shed the
Western Wizard's blood on the Meeting Isle while I hold the staff."  He
pressed his elbows to the table and leaned toward the Southern Wizard,
trying to look menacing.  "If that reason doesn't suit you, perhaps
this one will.  If a demon powerful enough to kill Colbey escapes our
control, it could kill any or all of us as well."

Carcophan would not be intimidated.  He, too, leaned forward until his
face nearly touched Shadimar's.  "I've summoned demons before.  With my
experience and the Staff of Law's power, I can't fail."

Trilless shrieked, leaping to her feet.  At regular intervals, drops
of blood oozed from her palm, pattering to the table.

"A sliver of the Pica cut me."

Shadimar stared in horror at Trilless' bleeding hand, his mind
scrabbling desperately for an answer.  To damage a Cardinal Wizard,
some magic must remain in the stone, yet his own eyes told him
otherwise.  The rupturing of the Pica Stone had left it empty of
sorcery, and the splinter of sapphire that had cut the Northern
Sorceress held no magic at all anymore.

Carcophan paced with the vengeful fury of a wounded jaguar.

"It's Colbey's doing.  Normally, a battle ax couldn't trim my beard.

Now, a piece from a shattered gem draws blood from the only Wizard
nearly as powerful as mYSelf."

He glared at Shadimar.  "Chaos heralds our destruction!

We've waited too long.  Colbey spilled the first blood on this
island.

Summon the demon to rid us of the Renshai!"

Trilless clutched at the heel of her hand, strangely silent.

The implications boggled Shadimar's mind.  So much of the Cardinal
Wizards' power came from appearance, and so much of that appearance
from the need to fear nothing but demons and the Swords of Power.  Now,
suddenly, everything in the nine worlds had once again become a
weapon.

The protection won by completing the Seven Tasks of Wizardry had
disappeared, and he could only surmise that Carcophan was right about
the cause.  Shadimar closed his eyes, trying to draw upon the power of
the staff.  It gave him nothing direct, no specific ideas or feelings,
just a vague sensation of invincibility that contradicted Tril-less'
injury.  Strength ruffled through the collective consciousness, and
Shadimar knew, without being told, that his capability had
heightened.

When the time came, the staff would enhance his competence, confidence,
and abilitY--Another possible answer came to Shadimar, though dredged
from his own supposition rather than' any work of the staff.  He spoke
it aloud.  "We all know the risks of permanent magics and placing chaos
in an item.  Rarely does it turn out as we expect, and there are always
side effects to deal with.  The Pica exploded.  Who knows what might
have happened as a result of the sudden release of chaos?  Perhaps the
Pica, not Colbey, caused this thing."  He flicked his fingers toward
Trilless' bleeding hand.

"Perhaps."  Carcophan ceased his pacing to again rest his forearms on
the back of his chair.  "But that's immaterial.

Colbey caused the destruction of the Pica, so he would still be
responsible."

"That changes nothing."  Shadimar rose, still clinging to his honor
though his instincts told him that the issue of Colbey and the Staff of
Chaos went beyond any vows they might have taken.  He smiled,
attributing his last shreds of loyalty to the Staff of Law.  He clung
to it, glad for its reassuring presence.  Soon enough, a time might
come when he needed its grounding.  The world might have to center its
focus on Shadimar and the staff, and he would be there.

Bleeding staunched, Trilless added carefully.  "At least Colbey, too,
will have remained vulnerable.  His recklessness may obviate our need
to be rid of him."

Shadimar did not mention that Colbey had always been headstrong,
especially in battle.  Yet he had already survived for seventy-seven
years.  "Colbey didn't intentionally hurt Trilless.  We'll call the
demon, but only for information."

Carcophan seized his chair and flung it aside.  "By Fen-rir's black
tongue.  Don't you realize ... I" Shadimar shouted back.  "I hold the
Staff of Law, and my decision is made!"  For an instant the power
seemed to swell through him, and Shadimar felt like the central focus
of the universe.  His voice grew more restrained.  "Of course I
understand the significance, but acting in panic will prove more
dangerous now than ever.  Unless you wish the demon to escape and turn
on us, help with the wards and summoning or stand aside.  If you
interfere, you may destroy us

Carcophan's eyes narrowed, but his voice became deadly calm.  "I think,
Shadimar, that the mastery promised by the Staff of Law has driven you
mad.  You would.  never have taken that tone with me before.  Common
sense would have prevailed."

Shadimar laughed, amused by Carcophan's posturing.

"The staff simply evens the power between us.  If you have problems
dealing with equals, that's a problem you must deal with on your
own."

An idea clicked in Shadimar's mind.  It came to him that Odin had
always meant for him to wield the Staff of Law.  That's why he made the
Eastern Wizard the weakest of all.  He.didn't want us to become too
superior when the staff finally came to its proper place.

Another idea followed naturally.  With me as powerful as Carcophan or
Trilless, we no longer need a fourth Cardinal Wizard.  The celestial
plan seemed to fall into perfect order.  So long as I have the Staff of
Law, we can destroy Colbey with impunity.  Odin prepared the Cardinal
Wizards through millennia for this very time.  Colbey has become the
vehicle of chaos.  When we destroy him, we finally banish the
Primordial Chaos for eternity.  Joy suffused Shadimar at the
realization that he would become the one to serve the nine worlds and
complete the AllFather's final plan.  "I am the One.  I shall become
the worlds' savior.  Happiness became an inner contentment and peace.

Secodon's wagging tail whacked the floorboards like a drum.

"The summoning begins."  Shadimar stepped forward, tracing a circle On
the tabletop with his finger, to indicate exactly where he planned to
call the creature from the plane of magic.

Trilless moved away from her seat to stand beside Shadimar, and
Carcophan joined them.  Shadimar lowered his head, pushing aside the
gladness that had come with understanding.

For now, thoughts of the demon and its binding had to take
precedence.

One gap, lack, or flaw in his wards or technique would allow the demon
to shatter his control.

His readings suggested that its first target would be himself.

Then it would rage across the land, killing until it ran out of victims
or someone managed to slay or dispel it.  Shadimar closed his eyes,
recalling the method of summoning from his readings yet calling upon
his predecessors for more direct knowledge.

The previous Eastern Wizards shifted restively in Shadimar's mind, but
they gave him nothing concrete.  Gradually, he sifted the problem from
their joint consciousness.  Not one had ever summoned a demon.  Each
gave Shadimar glimmers of Gherhan, the sixth Eastern Wizard, and Ascof
the eighteenth.

Both had been killed by summoned demons.  Each loss had caused a break
in the collective consciousness, and no Eastern Wizard since Ascof had
attempted a summoning.

Hating his weakness, Shadimar considered faking the knowledge, but
common sense intervened.  This is not a matter to take lightly.  Better
that my colleagues know my weakness than that I destroy myself and them
through igno rance.  "I'll need help from you both.  This is my first
summoning."

Trilless and Carcophan nodded together, neither pressing the issue, to
Shadimar's relief.  Even Carcophan had no taunts.  The stakes had
become too high for childish banter and insults.

"I'll give my thoughts to you," Trilless promised.  "I'll put the
experiences of my two summonings to the forefront for you."

"And my six," Carcophan added, without gloating.  Even he recognized
the ugliness of bringing chaos creatures into a world where they did
not belong.

Mar Lon scribbled silently in the corner, distanced from the
proceedings.

"There's still a matter to deal with before we begin."

Trilless flaked dried blood from her palm, watching each crumb fall
with obvious fascination.  "If we bring the creature, we have to pay
its price in blood.  The longer it stays, the stronger it becomes.

Even if we hold it until we've finished asking all we need to know,
when we finish, it will become free.  Then we must either slay it or
give it a suitable sacrifice to distract it until we can dispel it."

Trilless shivered at a memory.  "My first time, I gave myself.  I won't
do that again."  She rolled up her sleeve far enough for Shadimar to
catch a glimpse of a withered forearm and four deeply etched scars.

Surely, the demon's attack had stolen some of the coordination from the
fingers of that hand as well.

Carcophan tried to see around Shadimar, but Trilless shook her sleeve
back into place.  She would show no weakness to her evil opposite.

Shadimar's gaze swept the room briefly.  His attention fluttered past
Mar Lon without focusing on him, though his mind registered the mortal
presence more completely.

Secodon whined softly, apparently unsettled by his master's mood.

All eyes riveted on the wolf.

Carcophan measured each word.  "He is the least important of us "Yes,"
Shadimar replied, not at all certain they discussed the same "he."

Secodon had proven a constant and loyal companion for too long to
sacrifice.  Besides, he doubted demons would take animals; he had never
heard of a single

case in all his readings.  He hated to surrender any life to chaos,
but the island's only mortal made the most sense.  Except one.

Shadimar cleared his throat.  "I believe the Staff of Law will give me
the support and control to hold the demon long enough for us to slay
it.  If not, the information we get may tell us to send it after Colbey
first.  We may solve two problems at once."

Carcophan grinned.  Trilless scowled, but she did not protest.

She had already registered her opinion.  To repeat it would only waste
more of the precious remaining time.

Shadimar hoped Colbey's ignorance would delay his summoning Captain for
the sail home.  For now, at least, he could not yet have left the
island.

Again, Shadimar lowered his head.  This time, he felt the gentle nudge
of an intruder in his mind, then Trilless' presence joined his.  She
did not rove or seek; to do so would have constituted a rudeness
bordering on attack.  Instead, she fed him the necessary incantations
to form the wards to bind a demon.  Then another probe was thrust into
Shadimar's mind, heavy-handed and twisted.  The strangeness of the
other Wizards' presences sapped Shadimar's attention.  For some time,
he could not continue.  Finally, he forced his thoughts to adjust to
the intrusion, accepting the knowledge they gave, blending it with a
certainty and edge that could only come from the staff he held.

Shadimar used the base of the staff to trace a circle on the wooden
table that graced the center of the Meeting Room.

Mar Lon moved to a far corner, near the door.  Cursed with the bard's
curiosity, he could not bow to the normal instinct to flee.  He watched
with the others as Shadimar pulled three gold-colored candles from his
cloak and placed each an equal distance apart on the perimeter of the
invisible circle.

"What's that for?"  The thought issued from Carcophan.  "Cardinal
Wizards need no props."

Shadimar felt Trilless' annoyance at the interruption, and he shared
it.  "Feels right."  He kept the answer brief, hang to spread his
attention.  "Staff's idea, I think."  Shadimar knew the comfort came
from familiarity rather than from any need to enhance magic with
physical components.  Simply put, the candles belonged to him, and
their presence grounded him to self.

"No matter!"  Trilless sent.  "Don't disrupt his concentration!

You'll kill us all."

"Fah!  I could summon a weak one, like we're going for, in my
sleep."

'I wish you would," Trilless shot back.  "Then I wouldn't have to deal
with you and your evil anymore."

"Stop it!"  Shadimar roared.  "If you're going to snipe, do it in your
own damned heads!"

The other Wizards went appropriately still, both minds returning to the
matter at hand.  Again, they concentrated on previous summonings.  A
sequence of syllables coursed through Shadimar's mind in letter
combinations that had seemed unpronounceable before his Wizard's
training.  He followed the patterns, choosing appropriately for the
spell.

He spoke each word carefully, eyes locked on the Meeting Room table.

His staff blurred in his fist, then burst suddenly into blue flames.

Highlights spun through the room like stars, emphasizing lines and
crow's-feet on his companions' ancient faces.  Shadimar concentrated on
his wards, glad for the two more experienced Wizards beside him.  Using
the staff, he lit each of the candles.  When the last wick caught, the
tapers exploded into colored mist.

Trilless startled, nearly detaching from Shadimar's mind.

A touch of awe wafted from Carcophan before both Cardinal Wizards
regained their rock-steady contacts.  For an instant, doubts hammered
Shadimar, and he wondered if his more experienced colleagues would
prove more hindrance than help.  Every fragment of thought or movement
diverted his concentration, and it made more sense to rely only on
himself and the staff he wielded.

Even as the thought came, the halo that Shadimar had traced
shimmered.

It leapt to vivid relief against the table, and the room went white in
its radiance.  Red, green, and black vapor from the candles braided
above the ring.  Then, suddenly, the tracing dimmed, like a cloud
passing before the sun.  Smoke swirled into a shapeless form, with
random protrusions.  A sense of horror tore and squeezed at Shadimar,
its source still uncertain.

The circle tensed about the thing that seemed more void than being.

Shadimar spoke faster, winding ward after ward around the darkness in
the circle's center.  Gradually, it assumed an insectlike shape, with a
shell, more legs than Shadimar could count, and red eyes glaring from
every part.

An instant later, its features melted and re-formed into the shape of a
stag.

Stunned by the transformation, Shadimar sought the advice of his
colleagues.  From Trilless, he got only a stunned silence.  Carcophan's
thoughts held the sharp edge of fear."  Kraell!"

Though desperate to define the unfamiliar word, Shadimar did not drop
his concentration to ask.  His vision dimmed until his own wards seemed
to blind him.  Light striped his sight, appearing to become a part of
the cycle of the demon.

Repeatedly, Shadimar told himself that the creature had to remain a
uniform black, except for its eyes.  He forced himself to carve magic
from chaos, but they fought to merge.

Terror ground through him.  If I lose the form of the wards to it, I
will give it all of my power.

"Hold free/" Trilless' thought shrilled 'through Shadimar's mind.

"Bind with the staff and hold free!"

Carcophan's mental voice came equally loud.  "Kraell!  Too dangerous!

Shadimar, SEND THIS ABOMINATION BACK!"  With the warning came
knowledge.  Carcophan believed that the kraell dwelt only in the
deepest regions of chaos' realm, and it should not be possible to
summon one.

Lesser demons swore the kraell possessed strength unmatched by any
creature of another universe.  And a kraell had never been slain,
except by another of its own kind.

The demon bucked against the barriers confining it.  It took man-shape,
and its arms swelled with unwholesome vitality.

Shadimar trembled from the effort needed to maintain his constraints.

He hurled all of his substance, mental and physical, into defining
every strand of his wards, drawing strength from the other Wizards
across the bond.

The kraell clenched massive fists.  Its flesh oozed.  Great masses of
muscle shifted beneath its scaly hide.  With a bellow of rage, it
whirled its melded appendages about its head and crashed them against
Shadimar's magic.

Pain exploded in the Eastern Wizard's skull.  Trilless moaned and
slumped to the table.  Realizing that she had taken the blow meant for
him, Shadimar screamed the frenzied incantation necessary to banish the
kraell from this world.  Carcophan joined him, their voices a single,
united shout.

The demon howled in recognition.  Its mountainous shoulders heaved, and
it drove mallet hands against the wards.

Agony smashed through Shadimar's body, and he collapsed

glass.  Unconsciousness promised escape from the pain, weaving palling
curtains across Shadimar's senses.  As if from a distance, he heard the
demon roar through the blackness that descended upon him.

CHAPTER 11

Chaos' Task

By day, birdsong filled the Western forest, and the sunlight stabbing
through gaps in the foliage glazed trees and underbrush in emerald
glory.  The thick overhang of branches and new, spring leaves trapped
heat and light, enfolding Khitajrah in comfortable warmth.  At night,
however, unidentifiable rustling replaced the trills of songbirds.

Khitajrah shivered through the cold darkness.  Some nights, icy rain
pattered through the branches, and the ancient leaves on the ground
turned from soft bedding to a sodden mulch that seeped through her
clothing.  Those times, she found shelter where she could, curled into
a bail that left her aching in the morning.  After the sprawling cities
of the Eastlands, the West seemed barren.  Khitajrah felt sick for the
familiar architecture of the older quarters of Stalmize.  She ached
even for a glimpse of the anemic soil of the Eastern farms.  Compared
to what she knew, the Western forest ground seemed black and sticky.

Chaos accompanied Khitajrah through the Westland forests.

Most of the time, it remained silent, a scarcely noticeable presence
hovering in the corner of her mind.  Other times, an idea drifted from
it or it started a conversation, seemingly at random.  Yet Khitajrah
expected nothing else.

Had chaos become predictable, Khitajrah would have worried for her
freedom or her sanity.

Gradually, the forest thinned.  The trees became more familiar, the
younger, sparser first growth that dotted the areas between farm fields
in the East.  Chaos stirred restlessly.

Shortly, its disquiet became frank agitation, and it blurted a thought
devoid of its usual self-assured caution.  "That task you must perform
for me."

Khitajrah had not forgotten.  Once COmpleted, she had condemned herself
to a binding with the being in her mind.

Then, too, she would discover details about the object that

would bring her son back from the dead.  Her heart quickened, and the
too-familiar sensation of trepidation and hope rose within her.  The
need to restore Bahmyr had only grown stronger, but she still harbored
uncertainties about the cost.

"Yes.  What about the task?"

'I know what it is now."  A strange sense of purpose wafted from the
chaos fragment, more focused than anything it had sent before.

A shiver traversed Khitajrah from neck to buttocks.

Chaos continued without waiting for a response.  "You understand, it
will go against your general nature."

'I understand I can still refuse it."

" And the chance for your son to live."

'I would do almost anything for Bahmyr.  Almost.  There are some things
I won't do."

"And those things are?"

"I'm not going to guess at what you want."  Khitajrah refused to become
trapped by exclusion.  "Tell me the task.  I'll tell you if it's on the
list."

A wave of humor flitted across Khitajrah's thoughts, chaos' substitute
for laughter.  "Very well.  There is a man you must kill."

" No."

" No?"

"No!"  Morality flared into a bonfire.  'I won't take another woman's
son in exchange for mine."

" He has long outlived his parents."

'I won't take a child's father."

Chaos' amusement grew.  "He has no offspring."

" A brother?"

" No siblings."

"No matter!"  Khitajrah knew frustration as she ran out of
relationships.  Somehow, chaos had discovered the world's loneliest
man.  "Just because a man has no children doesn't make him less worthy
of life."

Chaos had an answer, even for that.  "This man is seventy-seven years
old.  He's lived a long and productive life already.

And he's Renshai."

The single word both intrigued and bothered Khitajrah.

Another chill spiraled through her, sending her into a convulsive
shiver.  "Renshai?"  she repeated cautiously.

"His name is Colbey Calistinsson.  He trained the woman who slaughtered
your husband.  Without his teaching, she

would never have gone to war, and Harrsha would still

live."

And so would Bahmyr.  And my life would be happy, as it was.  Khitajrah
kept these thoughts to herself.  She sent chaos another.  "What's her
name?"

Apparently preoccupied, chaos missed the cue.  "Whose name?"

The woman who slaughtered my husband."

· Mitrian.  Her name is Mitrian."

The radiating thought gave Khitajrah spelling as well as the strange,
Western pronunciation.  She let the name burn into her consciousness.

"Couldn't I just kill her instead?  I could do that in the name of
justice."  · You can kill her, too, if you wish.  But it's Colbey's
death that will earn you the information you seek."

Khitajrah continued brushing through forest, catching glimpses of an
opening ahead through the trunks.  She fell silent for some time.

Chaos did not press.

At length, Khitajrah questioned cautiously.  "If I decided to do as you
ask, and I haven't yet, where would I find this ColbeY Calistinsson?"

'I don't know."

The reply caught Khitajrah off-guard.  "You don't know?

What do you mean, you don't know?"

Chaos remained calm.  'I believe the phrase is self-explanatory."

"How can you not know?  YoU claimed to be the being that the gods
themselves worship.  How can you not know?"  Internally focused,
Khitajrah ran into a cluster of vines.

Thorns scratched her face, and the limbs enwrapped her arms and
throat.

She backed away slowly, disentangling herself from the brush.

'I claimed to be a tiny tendril of the being that the gods worship.

The Primordial Chaos might know, or it might not.

Not all is logical, nor should it be.  Chaos knows things the gods do
not.  It has none of the constraints of the beings with form, the
creatures of law.  It can learn without structure or sequence, and it
can create new wisdom.  Law can work only with what it has.  It can't
destroy, it can only shape and build.  Chaos is design and thought; law
is the architect.

Without chaos, knowledge can only be lost, never created or
recreated.

You've seen that in the buildings of your home

city.  Compare the grandeur of the older dwellings and shops with the
newer Without chaos to interject new ideas, law will obliterate
itself."

Freed from the vine, Khitajrah considered, finding more understanding
than she cared to 'admit in the explanation.

Still, she could not shake the feeling that chaos wanted more than it
would let her know: She turned the conversation back to the matter at
hand.  "So how do you expect me to find this Colbey?"

'I do know he tends to stay in the Westlands.  Ask.  A man who killed
as many as he did in the Great War does not remain anonymous."

Resentment flashed through Khitajrah, then disappeared.

She could not help wondering which of her friends or relatives Colbey
had killed in that war.  "You say he's Renshai.  And he's a good enough
warrior to train the woman who killed my husband?"  · If you're asking
me if Colbey is competent, the answer is yes."  · I'm no soldier I
never killed anyone."  Khitajrah's conscience throbbed.  "At least not
until recently.  How could I possibly kill a Renshai?"  · Guile, Khita,
guile."  Chaos' laughter filled her head again.  "For that, you have
the best teacher in existence."

Colbey strode briskly across the Meeting Isle, toward the inlet where
Captain had docked the Sea Seraph.  He used the staff as a walking
stick, its presence awkward in his grip.

His skill lay in quickness and deadly accuracy, and he feared that the
staff's bulk might cost him both.  He hoped a time would come when he
grew accustomed to its shape and weight.

Sand shifted beneath Colbey's feet as he shuffled between the island's
few trees, trying to remember Captain's instructions.

He thought he recalled the elf saying that he only needed to call for a
ride back to the world from which they had come.  At the time, more
serious matters had preoccupied Colbey, and he had never suspected that
he would need to find the way home without Shadimar.  Now, he doubted
that a simple shout would bring the elf across leagues of ocean.

The air around Colbey lay tranquil, calmed into stagnation.

The sun beat down upon the sand, raising shimmering

glazes of heat.  Ahead, the ocean lay flat, devoid even of the tiny,
white ruffles that the wind usually chopped through the surf.  He
shaded his eyes from the sun, seeking a distant dot that might be the
Sea Seraph.  His thoughts went easily to the Cardinal Wizards.  He
imagined their divergent viewpoints would keep them tabled for days or
weeks.  He had never seen any of them act quickly or without tediously
long discussion, and they worked against one another too much to come
to quick agreements.  Colbey felt sure about his own hand in the events
to come.  He hoped but doubted that the other Wizards would find the
best answers in time.

Suddenly, a roar ripped apart the quiet peace at Colbey's back.  He
spun, drawing Harval in the same motion, the Keeper's staff tumbling to
the beach.  A densely black creature with an ox's head and batlike
wings landed gracefully on the sand behind him.  The ground trembled
beneath its impact.  Its wings dissolved into massive arms, and it
lumbered toward him on jointless legs.  Colbey knew at once that he
faced a demon, and the challenge excited him.  His heart rate
quickened, and he smiled.

I've misjudged.  The Wizards can come to a quick decision.  Colbey ran
to confront the beast.  Once before, he had battled a demon.  Then, he
had thrust and cut fruitlessly, his standard sword too grounded in the
world of law to damage a creature of chaos.  Shadimar had called forth
Harval, vowing magic could cut the chaos that ordinary swords could
not.  Now, Colbey lunged without hesitation.  Harval arched toward the
oxen head.  Even as it moved, the demon's face ran like liquid.

Colbey's stroke sliced through the unformed features as if through
water.

How?  Surprise broke Colbey's timing.  Experience told him the Eastern
Wizard could not have lied about Harval's power, and the Cardinal
Wizards' fear of the sword had assured its potential.  Colbey stared as
the demon's visage molded into the shape of a bear's.  Its giant fist
crashed into his chest.  The strength of the blow hurled him like a
toy.

Colbey hit the ground hard enough to slam the breath from his lungs.

He bit his tongue, barely managing to roll.  He gasped desperately for
breath.

With one leap, the demon again closed the gap between them.  A
long-nailed foot struck for Colbey's head.

Mobilized by the attack, Colbey dodged.  The demon's claws gashed
burning lines across his cheek.  He spun to his

feet and swung.  Harval sprang like a mad thing, and Colbey's attacks
struck repeatedly.  But the demon dissolved before each blow, and the
sword sliced harmlessly through its fleetingly solid form.

The demon twisted away.

Colbey's mind raced.  Air wheezed into his lungs in trickles.

Warm blood coursed in dribbles to his chin.  The wound smoldered raw
agony across his cheek, and the pain seemed to penetrate his skull.

Once again, his sword appeared powerless against the demon, and he
could not help wondering if the gods had stolen the real Harval during
the tests.  But his instincts told him that he held the same sword as
before.

The last time he had fought a demon, the creature had held a constant
shape, and his sword had clearly cleaved through it without inflicting
damage.  This demon's shape-shifting seemed more like a defense.

The demon charged, its fists muting to hammers with hawk talons.  It
swung for Colbey's head.

Colbey retreated, weaving Harval into a defensive web of steel.  One
strike met resistance and split the demon's hand half the length of its
forearm.  Black fluid gushed from the wound.  The demon screeched high,
dark syllables.  It struck for Colbey with its other arm.

Colbey skipped aside.  He lashed for the beast, and Harval sliced
nearly through its wrist.

The demon recoiled.  Its chaos-stuff flowed into itself, reshaping.

New hands sprouted from its dripping appendages, and all sign of injury
disappeared.  With a cry of scornful triumph, it lunged again.

Shocked, Colbey barely sidestepped in time.  It takes a more solid form
to attack.  I can hit it then.  But what good?

It repairs itself.  For the first time outside the Tasks of Wizardry,
Colbey found himself in a battle that required strategy as well as
skill.  Gathering his concentration, he shot a bolt of mental energy
toward the creature's head.  His probe met nothing of Substance, and
the attempt stole Colbey's attention from the battle.  The demon's fist
smashed into his chest.  Ribs snapped beneath the blow.  COlbey slammed
into a tree trunk.  Impact shot pain through every part of his body,
but he managed to keep his feet.

"Modi!"  Colbey moaned.  He fought for breath.  No air came, and he
tasted blood.

The demon mocked him with a high-pitched, broken whine.

Colbey fought every instinct, forcing his attention from the desperate,
natural need to breathe onto plotting.  Eventually, his lungs would
function.  He could not weather another attack.  It becomes solid when
it attacks.  Have to wait for an attack.  It heals itself.  Have to hit
it in a place it can't heal.

Kill it in one stroke, or it'll kill me.

The demon's head narrowed into a serpent's, with sharp, slender horns
jutting from forehead, skull, and chin.  Red eyes glared from between
them.  Its snake's body matched its head, but it sprouted four clawed
legs, bird wings, and a barbed tail, Its mouth splayed open, revealing
fangs that dripped venom, and it struck for Colbey.

Colbey's diaphragm relaxed, and he sucked air in huge, reflexive
gasps.

One bite, and it got me.  He jabbed for the face.

The demon jerked back with a hiss.

Colbey flinched taut, channeling his energies to skilled dodges and
feints.

Apparently guarding its head, the demon switched to claw attacks,
hammering relentlessly.  Colbey parried each strike, not bothering with
offense, seeking the opening that would bare the creature's head or
heart.  If such a thing has a heart.  The demon's unnatural strength
wore on him.  Harval slowed.

Apparently emboldened by the Renshai's weakness, the demon snapped at
him.  Colbey riveted his focus on the head, ignoring the claws that
closed around him.  He drove Harval up and through the creature's
chin.

The blade wedged in the demon's skull, and it thrashed horribly.

Caught between the claws, Colbey felt bone shudder and give.  Nausea
struck like physical pain.  Then agony slammed him to oblivion.

Sunlight blinded Khitajrah after more than a week ensconced in Westland
forest.  She shielded her sight with a hand against her brows,
excitement, curiosity, and trepidation warring within her.  In the
distance, she could see the solid blur of a town.  A field stretched
before her, striped green by the first sprouting of a crop she did not
yet recognize.

iar from the woodlands, but the massive stretch of dark,

moist soil left Khitajrah staring in awe.

Since the southernmost tip of the Great Frenum Mountains that harbored
the only pass from the Eastlands to the Westlands, Khitajrah had
covered more different types of terrain than she knew existed.  She had
crossed the barren salt flat that the Westerners called the Western
Plains, the battleground where so many Easterners had lost their
lives.

The land had seemed much like the farm fields she knew, except that no
one tended it and she had found no signs of cities or life.  She had
wondered who owned it seeking a cottage or palace, unable to believe
that land could lie fallow.

The Eastlands' ceaseless battle between the need for more farmland to
feed its citizens and the need for more cities to house them had raged
since long before Khitajrah's birth.

Khitajrah walked through the field, intrigued by the mark each step
dimpled into the yielding ground.  She moved with a steady caution,
careful to remain in the narrow lanes between the crops, even
methodically avoiding the occasional misplaced plant in her path.  She
recalled how she had easily found one of the many passes through the
Southern Weathered Range.  Since that time, she had traveled through
forests more vast and lush than she could have guessed existed.  The
woods had seemed to stretch into infinity, and she felt certain the
entire Eastlands did not contain as many trees as she had passed.

As Khitajrah continued through the field, she saw a horse-drawn wagon
rattling toward the city.  She headed toward the sound, guessing she
would find a road; without packed earth or stone, wheels would mire in
the rich, wet soil.  By the time 'she picked her cautious way around
the crops, the wagon had long since disappeared.  A pathway of
hard-packed earth mixed with crushed stone cut through the field, from
the forest to the town.  As she stepped onto the roadway, the idea
occurred to her that it probably cut right through the woodlands as
well.  If she could have found it, her walk through the woods would
have become shorter and easier.  As it was, she might well have passed
other towns without noticing them.

Khitajrah approached her first Westland town, uncertain what she would
find or of the reception she would receive.

ted even encouraged, Eastlanders to slay foreigners.

Khitajrah hoped she would find a kinder welcome.

As the village came fully into sight, Khitajrah's attention riveted
first on its central structure.  Two towers rose from an otherwise boxy
dwelling.  Other buildings surrounded it in four concentric circles,
becoming smaller and squatter further from the middle.  The outermost
ring consisted almost exclusively of simple, thatch-roofed cottages,
but they did not sprawl onto the field as the Easterners' cottages
did.

It gave the town a solid, compact feel.  Though no larger than LaZar,
and lacking the Eastern city's walled fortifications, the Western town
appeared stronger.  Khitajrah attributed that to its cleanliness and
the unity of the dwellings.  She continued toward it.

Soon, Khitajrah could make out figures walking through the city
streets.  Uncertainty clutched at her, and she hesitated.

The idea of facing a mass of hostile strangers made her queasy, and she
fought down the images of townsfolk chasing her down with swords and
pitchforks.  Only then, she recalled that she still carried Diarmad's
sword.  Certain it would not make a positive impression, she removed
his cloak, the weapon, and its belt.  Kneeling in the roadway, she
wrapped the sword into the cloak in a bulky, misshapen lump.  She
lashed the whole onto her back, hoping it looked like extra clothes or
supplies.  The effort reminded her that she needed both, as well as a
full meal and a warm bath.  She hoped that the few coins she had found
on the veterans in the graveyard would pay for lodgings and a meal, and
that the villagers would not find their Eastern mintage offensive.

When Khitajrah rose, she discovered half a dozen men walking toward her
from the village.  She froze, the strangeness of her situation
immediately sparking the worst possibilities.

She forced herself to think logically, studying their dress and
demeanors for clues.  They wore' cloaks of brown and green over
homespun tunics and breeks.  Two carried longbows, three had similar
bows slung across their shoulders, and the last carried a handful of
sacks and a huge, empty pack.  Arrows with varying crests filled their
quivers.

They moved with a casual briskness, their attention, at first, on one
another.  As they came closer, all eyes riveted on Khitajrah.  Their
pace did not change.

Hunters.  Just hunters.  Khitajrah willed herself forward, trying to
look composed, with little success.  Though she still

wore her dress, she felt naked without Diarmad's cloak to hide her
gender and features.  Her thick, black hair and swarthy skin would
reveal her heritage at once.  In the Eastlands, had six hunters come
upon her alone, she would have run in terror and considered herself
lucky to emerge undamaged.  Now, she held her ground, secretly wishing
she had not bound the sword.

The men stopped as they came upon her.  One said something in a
language she did not understand.

Khitajrah retreated a step, hating herself for the obvious weakness.

She shook her head.

The same man spoke again, this time in the common trading tongue.  "Did
you come from Wynix?"

"No," Khitajrah admitted, although she did not offer more
information.

"What's the name of your city?"  She gestured toward the town.

The men shuffled their positions so they could all see Khitajrah
clearly.  Although this blocked her path, nothing about their demeanors
seemed threatening.  A different man, the one carrying the sacks,
replied this time.  "Ahktar."

"Achtair," Khitajrah repeated, her thick Eastern accent changing the
vowels and adding a guttural.

The men laughed.  "Where are you headed?"  another asked.

"Ach-tair," Khitajrah said again.

This time, the men broke into howling laughter.

Khitajrah smiled, enjoying the interaction, even at her own expense.

She preferred becoming the brunt of a verbal joke to the cruelties the
Eastern men would have inflicted on a Western woman.

The first speaker gasped for breath.  "What do you hope to find in
Acccch-tayr?"  He mimicked Khitajrah's pronunciation poorly, but it
still made his companions laugh harder.

"For now, a good meal would be nice."

One of the men in the back made a fluttering motion to indicate that
they had a job to do and his companions should continue.  The same
speaker addressed Khitajrah.  "Look for the men in tan, single-piece
outfits.  That's our town guard.

They can direct you."  The men stepped aside to let Khitajrah pass,
then continued on their way.

Khitajrah went by, then turned to watch the men.  One glanced over his
shoulder and gave her a friendly wave.  Embarrassed to be caught
staring, she whirled and headed back

toward Ahktar.  Her mood soared, and she fairly skipped

down the pathway.  She had a feeling that she would like the Westlands
and its attitudes.  The encounter had gone almost too easily.

The road took Khitajrah to just outside the periphery of the village,
then funneled into narrower lanes that wound between the houses.

Paddocks of horses, pigs, and goats lined the boundaries, the pastures
were green.  Chickens fluttered between the fences or pecked at crumbs
in the streets.  Crude shacks sheltered plows and wagons from the
elements.  Citizens wandered the walkways in singles or pairs, carrying
jugs or unloading hoes and pitchforks from the carts.  Aside from the
bows that the hunters had carried, Khitajrah saw no weaponry, and she
felt glad of her decision to place the sword out of sight.

At length, Khitajrah sighted two men in tan, single-piece uniforms.

She followed them with her gaze to where they stopped in an alleyway to
help a woman rescue a chicken from a rain barrel.  Seeing her chance,
Khitajrah trotted over to them, arriving just as one of the men caught
the bird by the feet and heaved it from the water.  He clutched it
upside down 'until it went dormant, water streaming from its dirty
white plumage.  Attentive to the hen, neither the woman nor the guards
seemed to notice Khitajrah.

"Excuse me," Khitajrah said in her clearest trade tongue.

All three looked up.  Their stares went from startled to curious in an
instant.  "Who are you?"  demanded the guard clutching the chicken.

Water plastered his dark hair, and the droplets discolored his uniform
in a stream of spots.  His green eyes found Khitajrah's brown, and the
color intrigued her.  They looked strange and animal-like.

When Khitajrah gave no answer, the other town guard spoke.  "Do you
need something?"  He sported short, sand-colored hair, but his eyes
looked as dark as any Easterner's.

"Well ... yes," Khitajrah stammered, encouraged as much by their lack
of complete antipathy as by any particular courtesy.  "I'm looking for
a place to eat and sleep."

The second guard pointed down the alleyway, then crooked his finger to
indicate a right turn.  "Second row.

Third building.  That's the inn.  You come from Wynix?"

"No."  This second mention of the same town intrigued Khitajrah.

"Why?"

The first guard righted the chicken, then dropped it to the

ground where it scooted around Khitajrah and out of the alley.

"'Cause if you're used to big city inns, this one'll seem pretty
unimpressive.

Foreigners don't come to farm towns, even ones as big as Ahktar, except
Wandering from a trading city.  Especially now, what with us still
recovering from the War and such.

Pudar's farther, and you didn't come from that direction.  So it only
makes sense you came from Wynix."

Recovering from the war?  Khitajrah became fixed on the phrase, hearing
little after.  The vast, fertile croplands and the plump chicken the
guardsman had so casually rescued seemed worthy of rejoicing, not
complaint.  The Eastlands did not support such bounty in the best of
times.

The Western woman remained by the rain barrel, watching the
conversation without making a sound.

The sandy-haired man added, "But you didn't come from Wynix.  So where
did you come from?"

Trapped by her own ignorance, Khitajrah hesitated.  Then, realizing she
had no real way to divert the question, she told the truth.

"Stalmize."  She gave it the Eastlands' pronunciation, Stahl-meez,
rather than the Western, Stal-mihz.  The wet guard grunted.  "Never
heard of it."

His companion shrugged.

Khitajrah felt a need to shift the direction of the conversation.

Both guards seemed less than a decade younger than herself, which meant
either or both might have served in the Great War.  Surely, they
recognized her heritage, but she saw no reason to let them know how
recently she had emerged from the lands of their enemy.  "I'm just
passing through, not visiting."  Khitajrah doubted she had changed the
subject far enough "I'm looking for someone."

That seized their attention at once.  The one who had freed the chicken
wiped his wet hands on his pants, smearing a line of dirt and water.

"Someone in particular or just a random someone?"

"A man called Colbey Calistinsson.  I'm told he's Renshai."

The woman gasped a sudden breath, clutching her chest.

Cued by the other's horror, Khitajrah back-stepped, suddenly
cautious.

"What did you say?"  The darker-haired guard's manner changed
abruptly.

All friendliness disappeared from the men's expressions.

Khitajrah cleared her throat, mind racing.  She searched for chaos'
guidance or explanation, but it seemed to have completely disappeared
from her mind.  "I said I was looking for a man ..."  She measured
their reaction to each word individually.  "called ... Colbey ...

Calistinsson."  She wondered if this Renshai had committed some heinous
crime that his name induced this reaction in Ahktar's citizens.

The Western woman glanced rapidly from guard to guard.

"She said it before.  You heard her say it."

The sandy-haired guard frowned at the woman's display, then encouraged
Khitajrah to continue.  "After that.  What did you say after that?"

Khitajrah's brows knit.  "I'm told he's Renshai?"

The guards glanced nervously back and forth.  "What's your' name?"  the
green-eyed one asked.

"Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow.  I'm called Khita.  Why?

What's wrong with repeating what I'm told?"

The dark-haired guard made an almost imperceptible nod, and the other
worked his way to Khitajrah's opposite side.

The Western woman pressed her back to the wall, standing as far away as
the alley allowed.

The sandy-haired man's voice became monotonal and businesslike.

"Khita, you are now in the king of Ahktar's custody.  By joint law of
the West's leagued farm towns, quote, 'any person speaking the word
..."" He cringed at the need to speak it himself, "'... Renshai within
the boundaries of any town, except in the official capacity of
enforcing the law, is subject to maximum penalty under the law,'
unquote."

The formal .speech in a language she scarcely-knew confused Khitajrah,
though the threatening manner of the guards did not.  "I don't
understand.  What does that mean?"

-"It means," the other guard interpreted, "that you are under arrest.

If you're found guilty, you will be sentenced to die."

CHAPTER 12

Mainland

Colbey awakened covered by sheets.  Shadows whirled before the muted
light of an oil lamp strung from a gimbal ring.  The floor rolled and
bucked beneath him, and every swaying motion sent waves of pain through
his chest, back, and abdomen.  His cheek felt on fire.  Where am I?

Instinctively, Colbey's hands drew to his hips where he found neither
his swords nor his belt.  Gone.  He opened his eyes, studying his
unstable quarters.  He lay on one of the room's three cots, and no one
occupied either of the others.  Leather bound books crammed into an
open ease.  A sturdy wooden table with four chairs filled the center of
the room.  A nar-whale horn above the bookcase clinched the location.

Apparently, he was in the cabin of the Sea Seraph.  That reality
brought a sudden flood of memory.  I killed the demon.  He smiled.

Pain flashed through his skull with the movement.  But I've lost my
swords.  And the staff, too.  Am I a prisoner?

Colbey tried to rise.  His vision swam, and vertigo drove him back to
the bed.  Every muscle ached, and each breath jabbed the shattered
points of ribs into his lungs.  He could move freely, limited only by
the agony that lanced through him with every insignificant movement,
but he had not yet tried the doors to the galley or deck to see if
anyone had locked him in the cabin.

A pressure tapped against Colbey's mind, seeking entry.

The sudden realization of a presence defensively snapped closed his
thoughts.  Gradually, he managed to pry open his barriers enough to let
the other touch the barest edges of his consciousness.  It came to him
with emotionless gentleness, providing information without demands or
accusations.  'I am here," it told him, and understanding accompanied
the declaration.  The staff that Colbey had accepted from the Keeper
awaited him beneath his cot.  'I am here."  Though its sending seemed
quiet and gentle, rock stable, the power be yond the message defied
boundaries.  It promised control of the world and its people, yet it
did not differentiate whether staff or Renshai would become master.

Having determined the staff's location, Colbey blocked its further
contact from his mind.  It was a symbol, a tool, and he would carry
it.

But he would use it only as the need arose.  To give the instrument
power or judgment would undermine the balance he had accepted both
staves to establish and protect.  Like good and evil, law and chaos
knew only extremes, and either would struggle for utter dominance.

Colbey believed it was the job of the Cardinal Wizards to represent
these extremes, but ultimately to maintain balance.

With that thought in mind, Colbey knew he was expected to champion the
staff with every scrap of mortal and Wizardly ability.  But he had seen
the effect of extreme and sudden chaos on Episte Rachesson.  Carcophan
had given the Black Sword to the young Renshai, the third Sword of
Power to appear on man's world at once.  With the weapon had come a
blast of magic that scrambled and destroyed the youngster's mind,
infusing a bitter madness too strong to expel.

Grief and rage accompanied the memory.  Colbey's fists clamped closed,
and he forced his mind to another significant truth.  Though advocating
assigned causes seemed inevitable to the other Cardinal Wizards, Colbey
saw the flaw from which tradition blinded the others.  Maintaining the
world's balance by having immortal opposites scramble for power works
only so long as their abilities are nearly equal, minor or temporary
shifts in the balance are safe, and all of the parties follow the same
rules.  The fallacy seemed glaring and blatant.  Once chaos becomes
introduced into the system, there can be no rules, at least not for he
who champions it.

The method breaks down without a central anchor to maintain balance.

After that point, ignorance limited Colbey.  He did not know whether he
could master the staff and the balance.  Nor did he understand how much
the staff could do without his communication or support.  Still, new
situations intrigued rather than paralyzed Colbey.  When the time came,
he would understand the cosmic purpose.  In the meantime, he would
champion balance, at least in his own mind.  Even amid the agony of his
wounds, he trusted himself to meet any challenge the gods or Wizards
threw at him.

The hatch swung open.  Though it made no sound, the movement drew
Colbey's attention immediately.  He watched as the captain descended
the stairs to the cabin.

"How may I serve the Western Wizard?"  Though friendly, the captain had
a reserve in his manner that did not suit him.  His gaze roved to the
claw strike on Colbey's cheek, and his face knotted in sympathy.

"Where are my swords?"  Colbey then added, mostly to test the elf's
honesty and knowledge, "And where's the staff I carried?"  The effort
of speech ached through Colbey's head.

Captain twisted one of the four chairs from around the table.

He placed it at Colbey's bedside and sat.  Withdrawing a pipe and a
pouch from his tunic pocket, he packed the bowl.  "Your swords and
staff are under the bed."  Colbey struggled to sit up, but Captain
pressed his shoulders to the cot.  "Be still.  There's no danger
here.

You'll have them all back."

Colbey trusted the captain.  "How did you find me?"

The elf tightened the pouch string and returned it to his pocket.  He
squinted, as if in pain himself, then lit the pipe.

"I hear all that happens on the beach of the Meeting Isle, and it was
fighting that got my attention."  He took a long draw on his pipe and
released the smoke through his nose.

"I went to have a look and found you on the dunes all battered and
bruised like a torn sheet in a gale."

Colbey opened his mouth to explain, but the captain waved him silent.

"I don't want to know how you came to lie there."  He continued, as if
to convince himself, "No, better I didn't know."

The Sea Seraph lurched, and Colbey instinctively braced against the
abrupt motion.  His body flinched taut, jarring agony through every
sinew.  "I have to get back to the mainland."

Smoke curled from the elf's thin lips.  "You said that when I found
you.  Didn't even open your eyes.  Didn't even move.

That seemed urgent enough for me."  He waved in a direction that looked
random in the closed quarters.  "We're already through the gate.  I'll
have you back to Asci by morning."  Like direction, Colbey had no way
to judge time now.  The captain fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable.

"While you slept, you talked about the others and about destruction.

Little made sense to me, but I feel obligated to remind you

that you can't harm the other Wizards.  What about the Wizards'
vow?"

Colbey realized that the gods had never subjected him to the laws and
rules that governed the Cardinal Wizards.  He supposed this related to
his completion of the Eighth Task and the paired staves he had carried
when he left the testing ground.  "I've never taken the Wizard's vow,
though I have obeyed it.  You're scolding the wrong Wizard, Captain.

The type of creature I fought on the beach doesn't just appear.

The Wizards summoned it to kill me."  As Colbey recalled the demon
writhing with Harval wedged in its brain, he smiled.  "Ah, such a
fight."

Concern lined Captain's brow, and he shivered.  "That makes no sense.

There has to be another explanation, and you owe your colleagues a
chance to discuss it with you.

Don't destroy the world for the adventure."

Colbey sat up carefully, swinging his legs over the side of the cot.

Pain seared every muscle and tendon in his body.

The claw marks tore at his cheek, and agony stabbed his lungs so that
it took him a long moment to breathe.  "I did listen, and they heard
me, too.  We just didn't agree.  But I can tell you this.  I'm not
causing the rampant destruction that the Wizards, and now you, seem to
believe.  Had I wanted to kill Wizards, I could have done so already.

Harval could have cut down all three in the Meeting Room," Captain rose
stiffly.  He turned toward the steep steps that led to the deck.

"Enough!  You've spoken much of chaos, but your words hold a spark of
truth.  I have to clear my head."

He glanced over his shoulder.  "I'll deliver you to shore2

Don't worry for that.  It's my duty and my vow.  I've enough fear in
myself for both of us."

The captain pushed open the hatch, and afternoon sunlight streamed
through the crack.

Colbey groped beneath the bed, withdrawing the swords and the staff.

He strapped on his sword belt, the weapons a heavy comfort against his
sore hips.  He staggered up the stairs after the elf.

Captain whirled and stared, aghast.  "Stay below!  Are you mad?"

Fighting nausea, Colbey stumbled to the gunwale and caught the rail.

"You're not the only one who needs to clear his head."  He mimicked
Captain's fine, high voice.

The captain managed a chuckle as he manned the tiller, and Colbey
wondered if he would ever hear the elf's full-throated laughter
again.

The odors of hogs and illness assailed Khitajrah's nostrils.

Though locked in Ahktar's prison through the afternoon and into the
night, she seemed incapable of dismissing the smell as familiar or
tolerable.  Fresh straw covered the stone floor of her cell, and the
constabulary had obviously tried to make her stay comfortable.  But the
so-called prison more resembled a barn; and the mingled reek of animal
excrement, urine, and disease made it clear that these barred cells
held sick animals more often than human offenders of the law.

Aside from the straw, the cell held only a chamber pot.  Thus far, she
had managed to ward off the call of nature, if only because she had a
male neighbor, the only other occupant of the prison.  As the sun set
and darkness descended over her cell, the urge to urinate had grown
stronger.  Still, she waited, as the last sun's rays faded through the
window.

I can't believe this/Unable to escape the smell, Khitajrah sat.  The
straw seemed clean enough.  The odor wafted from the floor deep beneath
it and from the walls.  From one death sentence in the East to another
in the West.  The thought had cycled through Khitajrah's mind so many
times, she had long ago given up on receiving an answer or
explanation.

But this time, chaos replied.  "Ironic, isn't it?"

Having finally found something on which to safely vent her frustration,
Khitajrah turned it inward.  "This whole thing amuses you.  Doesn't
it?"

Chaos responded with a smug matter-of-factness.  "There's a certain
humorous lack of pattern to it."  · Humorous!  I'm about to die for
speaking a word--a word, by the way, that you coached me to say--and
you find that humorous?"  Khitajrah shook with incredulous rage.

Chaos maintained all the calm Khitajrah lost.  "First, I never coached
you to say anything.  Second, you're not going to die."  · You heard
the guard.  I'm sentenced to death.  Again."

· So?"

· So, I'm going to die."  · You're not going to die."  · I'm going to
die."  · You're not going to die.  I'll see to that."

'Hope rose, guardedly.  "How?"

"Same as last time.  Guile.  In that, I'll coach you."

The guilt of her last violation still shuddered through Khitajrah.

"No.  I'm not going to break world law again for you.  You've driven me
to enough destruction."

"You won't seduce the guard?"  The idea of coupling with a man other
than her husband, especially a stranger, repulsed Khitajrah.

Chaos ran with the emotion, rather than waiting for a specific
thought.

"You don't have to sleep with him.  You only have to promise to do
so."

Deceit had never occurred to Khitajrah.  She wanted to have the thought
purged from her head, though she had not initiated it.  'I won't lie.

Besides, no guard would let a prisoner free in exchange for... for
favors."

Chaos' amusement spread.  "We're in your head, Khita.

There's no need for euphemisms.  We both know exactly what you mean.

Besides, he doesn't have to agree to do it.  He only has to come close
enough for you to kill him.  I'll tell you how--" "No!"  Khitajrah
covered her ears, as if that might shut out the voice within her
head.

Chaos chose to abandon the description anyway.  "So you .  won't trick
the guard?"

"No."

"And you won't kill him?"

"Absolutely not!"  Khitajrah released her head, taking a more natural
position.

"Then I guess I was wrong.  You ARE going to die."

"And you'll die with me."  Khitajrah could feel chaos considering.

'I don't think so.

I'm not an entity, remember?  I'm part of the Primordial Chaos.  I'm
pretty sure I'd just get pinched off the whole and dispersed.  Or I'd
find someone else whose ideas give me access.

To leave this world, I think I have to get banished."

Khitajrah lowered her head.  The conversation had done little to settle
her annoyance and anger.  "Maybe I didn't like all the laws in the
East, but at least they made sense.  Why didn't you warn me I could get
sentenced to die for a word?"

"Why didn't I warn you?"  The ludicrousness of the question touched
Khitajrah with the reply.  "I'm chaos.  Law and its matters aren't
exactly my strong point."  Its laughter toiled through her head, then
died to a nothingness that made her feel even more wholly alone.

Khitajrah sighed deeply, uncertain which she hated more, chaos' taunts
or the penetrating quiet that followed them.

Although her formless companion had done little to place her at ease,
at least it gave her a familiar object to turn to in this strange
land.

She sighed again.

"Are you well, lady?"

The voice came from Khitajrah's right.  Startled, she sprang to her
feet and whirled to face the speaker.

Her neighbor regarded her through squinty, blue eyes.

Greasy curls fell around his face.  Though dark, the color seemed more
from dirt than any effect of nature, as if the hair itself bore no
pigment of its own.  He knelt near the bars that separated their cells,
his expression curious.  "I asked if you're well," he repeated, using
the common trading tongue again.

"I'm fine," Khitajrah gave the standard answer instinctively.

Then it seemed stupid, so she amended.  "At least as fine as someone
condemned to death can feel."  The feeble attempt at humor fell flat,
and even Khitajrah did not smile.

"Condemned to death?"  Sympathy tinged the other's tone, but there was
a falseness to it that made it seem more curious than concerned.

"Without a trial?  You must have done something horrible indeed."

Khitajrah forgave the man's inquisitiveness.  Under the circumstances,
it only made sense for a stranger to place interest before pity.  At
least she had found someone with whom she could talk.  Once the initial
amenities regarding crimes and charges had been completed, she hoped
the conversation could proceed to more soothing topics.  "Actually, I
do get a trial, but I don't see as it'll do me much good.  All I did
was ask a question.  I said a word.  One word.  And here I am."

The stranger in the next cell switched to the Eastern tongue.  "One
word?"  His bland Western accent mangled the pronunciation, but he
spoke with an easy fluency.  "Which of the Golden-Haired Devils did you
inquire about?"

Khitajrah could not guess which stunned her more: the man's ability to
speak and understand Eastern or his guessing her crime immediately.

"The Golden-Haired Devils?

That's the same as Renshai, I presume."  She whispered the offending
term.

The man nodded.  "It's the only word I know that can get you in that
kind of trouble.  In fact, it's the only thing you could say, short of
treason, that could get you in any kind of

trouble at all.  Before the ..."  He squirmed, obviously
uncomfortable.

"... well ... before the Great War ..."  He watched her closely for a
reaction to mention of the battle between his people and her own.

Khitajrah could not help stiffening a little, but the ensuing decade
had deadened much of the bitterness.  She also switched to Eastern.

"Before the Great War, what?"

Encouraged, he continued.  "About every town and city in the West,
except Barn and Erythane, considered mentioning the Golden-Haired
Devils form the North, even with euphemism, ugly and insulting, at the
very least.  Once nearly all of the smaller villages held it a capital
offense to say the word.  Now, only a few still do.  But you happened
to find one."

"That's my luck again."  Even as Khitajrah spoke the words, her
conscience told her she had earned her own bad fortune by following the
way of chaos.  She dismissed the self-deprecation that had occupied her
thoughts for too long already, instead returning to her current
crime.

"What's so bad about these Renshai people?  They fought on your side in
the Great War, after all; and they killed lots of Easterners."

"The one or two Devils still alive at the time," the man agreed.  "But
it's not common knowledge that they were ..."

He lowered his voice to a scarcely audible hiss, apparently not wanting
to stand trial for the same crime as Khitajrah, "... Renshai."

"It is in the East.  And I'd thought more than one Or two.

A dozen, at least."

"That's because the East apparently hadn't heard about how the other
Northern tribes massacred the Devils, supposedly every one, twenty-six
years earlier.  King Siderin probably figured every Northman in the War
was one."Khitajrah considered the truth of the man's words.  Geography
and attitude severed nearly all cmmunication between the ancient
enemies of East and West.

The other prisoner finished his explanation.  "Half a hundred years
ago, the Golden-Haired Devils ravaged the Westlands nearly end to end
just for the joy of war and slaughter.  That's how the laws against
them got started.

The one Northman rumored to be Renshai at the Great War was a soldier
of unmatched war exuberance, a general who

inspired men to wild battle frenzy.  More than a few Western widows
blame him for their husband's deaths."

Now, the law seemed understandable, if not wholly sensible.

"So because of a fifty-year-old prejudice against a dead tribe of
Northmen, they would kill an innocent stranger for speaking one word in
ignorance?"

The man shrugged.  "We're still rebuilding from the War.

King Siderane's had more serious matters to tend to than an archaic law
that never existed in the royal city.  Including a reshuffling of the
monarchy, a traitor, and a plague."

Discovering that she would die for a law that, in a year or so, might
no longer exist only enhanced Khitajrah's irritability and
desperation.

More interested in her own lot than in politics, she veered off on
another tangent.  "So, do many Westerners speak the Eastern tongue?"

The man grasped the bars between them, peering at Khitajrah through a
gap.  "Very few.  I'm the only one I know."

Khitajrah crouched to the same height as her kneeling neighbor.  "How
do you know it?"

"Business."

"What business are you in?"

"Sales.  I'm also a Purlarian town guard."

Khitajrah had heard of all three of the Western cities her neighbor had
mentioned.  She knew Barn as the home of the high king, Erythane as the
town of knights, and Pudar as the largest trading city in the world.

"What do you sell?"

"Everything.  Tangibles and intangibles."  A slight smile framed his
lips, so fleecing Khitajrah felt uncertain whether she had actually
seen it.

"Oh," Khitajrah said, though she felt as if she had missed something
subtle.  Chaos stirred, and she sensed its instinctive liking for the
man.  She felt rather drawn by his manner as well, if not by his
physical appearance, and the duality of purpose between her and chaos
unnerved her.  "And you're a guard, too?"

The man nodded.

"Then how'd you wind up here?  Imprisoned, I mean."

"Ahck."  The man made a noise and a gesture of calm dismissal.

"Happens all the time.  I try to acquire something difficult to find,
and someone misinterprets my methods.

Ahktar has a grudge against me, for no good reason, but

they've never managed to find a charge that sticks."  This time, he
smiled obviously.  "I'm also a lawyer."

"A lawyer," Khitajrah repeated.  She lowered her head.  "I could use
one of those right now."

The man's smile seemed frozen in place.  "What an interesting
coincidence.  What's your name, frilka?"  He used the most formal title
for women in the East, one that brought them nearly to the level of
men.

"Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow.  I'm called Khita."

"In the West, we'd say Kayt.  Do you mind?"

A new land.  A new life.  Why not fit in?  Without a family, Khitajrah
had few attachments to her name any longer.

"Why not?  Kayt is fine.  And your name?"

"Lirtensa.  Lir for short."  Again, he smiled.  "There's an Eastern
merchant who calls me Leertab.  I'm not sure how that'd be spelled."

Hope trickled to life within Khitajrah, and chaos amplified the
feeling.  "You would represent me at the trial?"

"I would."

"But I did say ..."  Again, she lowered her voice to a whisper.  "...

Renshai."

"That doesn't matter."

"And I can't pay you."

Lirtensa sat back on his heels.  "Yes, you can.  I saw when they took
your things.  You had a sword of Eastern design.

Nothing special in the East, and not many Westerners would be
interested in it.  But I've got connections and buyers for just about
anything."

Khitajrah considered only a moment.  If the Ahktarian court put her to
death, she had little use for a sword.  "It's yours.  I presume that's
one of your tangibles.  What's an example of an intangible?"

"I'm glad you asked that."  Lirtensa retreated slightly, making it
easier for Khitajrah to view him through the bars.

"Let me give you the perfect example.  Which of the Golden'-Haired
Devils were you inquiring about?"

Khitajrah had a vague recollection of him asking this question
previously, but she knew she hadn't given an answer.

"Colbey Calistinsson."

"Ah."  Lirtensa dropped back to a sitting position.  "The
Deathseeker.

The Golden Prince himself."  He shrugged.  "I think he's dead."

"He's not."

"He'd be about eighty."

"Seventy-seven."

"Oh."  Lirtensa looked perplexed.  Then, he dropped all seriousness and
laughed.  "Well, well, well.  Who'd have thought I'd meet a woman with
more knowledge than myself?

I'm not sure I can help then.  What did you want to know?"

"Where I can find him."

"Why?"

Khitajrah hesitated.

"I'm your lawyer, remember?  Nothing you say goes past me unless it's
in your best interests.  The more I know, the better I can serve
you."

Lirtensa spoke with a placating sincerity.

Still, Khitajrah shook her head.  "Careful," chaos cautioned.  · It
wouldn't do to have someone warning Colbey about you."

Lirtensa went to the obvious root of the problem.  "If it makes you
feel better, my feelings toward Colbey are neutral.

He led the Purlarians in the Great War.  He was heroic, but to the
point of stupidity.  And he is still a Re--well, you know what."

Chaos judged.  "Tell him."

"Are you sure?"

"Tell him.  IF I'm wrong, it jeopardizes my task.  I'm not going to
make mistakes with this one.  Tell him.  Just don't get specific."

"I'm going to kill him."

Lirtensa nodded multiple times.  He started to speak, stopped, and
started nodding again.  Again, he opened his mouth, but all that
emerged was a stream of laughter.  He clamped his mouth closed, turning
it into a snort.

The reaction outraged Khitajrah.  She seized the bars, wrapping her
hands just below his.  "Death is not funny."

"I'm sorry," Lirtensa managed between spurts of laughter.

"I'm not laughing at death, or at you.  It's just that I've seen this
Northie fight.  If someone could talk him into a battle against the six
best warriors I know, I'd pull all the money I own on the
Deathseeker.

With that in mind, imagine me imagining you attacking him."  He lapsed
into peals of laughter again.

Khitajrah's annoyance dispersed as the reason for Lirtensa's mirth
became clear.  She had wondered about the same thing, and she would not
hold a grudge against him for having a similar thought.  She could
worry about chaos and strategy later.  For now, nothing could happen
until she found Colbey Calistinsson.  "Do you know where he is?"

Lirtensa sobered quickly.  "I thought he was dead, remember?

I do think I could send you in the right direction though.  I know some
friends of his that he used to travel with.  In the meantime, I could
hunt down my sources and find out the truth.  If you don't find him
where I tell you to go, we'll meet back in Pudar in, say, two weeks."

The meaning of intangibles finally clicked in place for Khitajrah.

"And you charge me for this information?"

"That's the way it works."

"How much?"

"The first one's free, since I'm not sure it'll get you anywhere.

If we need to meet again, we'll discuss payment then."

The terms sounded fair to Khitajrah.  "Where are you sending me?"  The
coldness of the bars against her palms reminded her of more pressing
matters.  "That is, if you get me through this alive."

"Trust me," Lirtensa said.

Khitajrah wanted to do exactly that, but she could not help noticing
the joy that chaos seemed to feel in this man's presence.

"The first thing I need to know is this."  Lirtensa became
businesslike, removing his hands from the bars as if to write on a
nonexistent piece of paper.  "Who have you spoken to in the West?  And
what did you say?"

Khitajrah began her story.

The Sea Seraph rose and dipped, lifting from swell to swell in a
bobbing dance.  At the fore rail, Colbey leaned against the staff and
stared at the familiar craggy fjords of the Northland's coast through a
misty film of fog.  The whistling refrain of Captain's sailing song
floated from the aft tiller, the melody ghostly through the damp, close
haze.

Colbey remained still.  Every movement caused a wild chaos of pain,
though the stab of broken ribs into his lungs had become familiar
enough to fade to an aching background.  Now

that he had left the Tasks behind him and was returning to the world
he had known since infancy, his thoughts went to concerns that Wizard's
matters had dwarfed.  Soon, Colbey would ride Frost Reaver again.

The image made Colbey smile, despite the dull throbbing in every part
of his body.  He pictured the white stallion, its proportions nearly
perfect and its every movement responsive to his command.  Colbey had
won the horse by besting a Knight of Erythane in fair challenge.  The
Renshai had been knighted in the other's place, as was the custom; but
the Erythanian king had never called in his loyalty or service.

Apparently, the king had the wisdom to curry Colbey's favor rather than
enter a battle of wills.  So the horse remained Colbey's, identifying
him as a knight without burdening him with the responsibilities.  And
Colbey had the finest steed he could remember.

For horses, Colbey's memory stretched far.  The great beasts had
fascinated him since childhood.  Of the Renshai maneuvers from
horseback or against horsemen, he had created nearly every one.  Still,
despite all the mounts he had ridden or trained, he could recall none
as well conformed or as intelligent as Frost Reaver.  In his youth,
Colbey had never allowed bonds of emotion to chain him.  It was the way
of Renshai to die young in battle, and the dead who reached Valhalla
were celebrated, not mourned.  He would have willingly fought and died
for his parents, friends, or tribe, but not because of love.  Even his
own life had been unimportant; only his death mattered.  More recently,
he had become concerned for the welfare of the last remaining Renshai,
especially for the teen, now dead, who had seemed like a son.

And now, too, he cared for Frost Reaver, an animal.  I've grown from
and sentimental.  The thought intrigued and satisfied him.  The sweet
chorus of the captain's song fit the mood, coming nearer as the elf
approached.

A shadow appeared on the deck, expanding like spilled ink.  The
movement drew Colbey's attention at once.  He crouched, glancing up;
prepared to face any monstrosity the Wizards might muster against
him.

Instead, he saw only a hawk gliding in narrow circles above the ship.

It perched in the rigging, studying Colbey through a black-rimmed, blue
eye.  Sunlight struck aqua highlights from the black trim of throat,
wings, and tail.  Dark bars striped its underbelly vertically, from
neck to feet.  Otherwise, its plumage was russet.

Suddenly, it loosed a musical warble, dove from its perch,

and plummeted toward the Renshai.

Dropping the staff, Colbey drew Harval.

Less than a man's height above Colbey, the hawk checked its swoop.

Strokes from its powerful wings carried it beyond sword range.  It
orbited the Sea Seraph once, then wheeled for the mainland.

A fresh breeze stretched the sails taut, and the Sea Seraph skipped
toward land.  Captain went suddenly silent, abandoning his song in the
middle of a verse.  "An omen, Colbey.

Hawks of any type seldom fare so far from land, and that was an
aristiri.  It welcomes you home and brings a fine wind."  Without
awaiting an answer, Captain trotted back to the tiller.  He hove to,
and the ship lurched forward.  "Aye, a fine omen indeed."

Surf crashed against the distant shore.  Colbey recognized the same
beach where Captain had met him and Shadimar nearly a month ago.

Retrieving his staff, the Renshai walked aft and sat on the gunwale
near the captain.  "An aristiri.  Those are hawks that sing."

"The males do.  In the spring.  And it's well worth hearing."

Captain stared into space, less attentive than the rocky landing
required.  "Used to be you couldn't walk through woods without spotting
half a dozen.  I always wished we had some on the world of elves.

Thought of taking some there, but we wouldn't have anything for them to
feed on:" Captain adjusted the tiller, adding sadly, "Of course, the
hawks have gotten shy as wisules since men started hunting them for
challenge and trophies."

It seemed ludicrous to mention the graceful hawks in the same breath as
wisules, rodents so timid they would abandon their young rather than
face a potential threat; but the analogy fit in this case.  The details
of bird history meant little to Colbey, but oddities and things out of
place raised wariness.

"Why would a hawk come to us here?"

Waves slapped the deck, and the fog tightened.  Captain responded
despite his obvious attention to steering.  "It came for you, of
course.  You're the Western Wizard.  You're supposed to have a rapport
with birds."

Colbey frowned, not liking the unsteadiness of the ship, yet trusting
the elf's millennia of experience.  "I felt scant mastery over that
hawk.  When it stared at me, I felt more like prey."

Captain smiled.  "You might ask whether master or subject serves the
other.  Or you could find the bird and discuss the problem."

"Discuss it?  You mean I can actually talk to these birds?"

Captain's grin broadened, and he burst into laughter.

"Talk to the birds."  He voiced a random series of whistles, squawks,
and trills.  "As far as I can tell, it's like Shadimar and Secodon.

You can share basic emotions, within the birds' understanding.  There
may be magics, that actually let you converse.  That's beyond my
knowledge ..."  He added carefully, "... and into your own."  All
laughter fled him.  "I appreciate your need for self-reliance, but it
might be in everyone's best interests for you to call upon your
predecessors once in a while.  At least for this kind of rudimentary
information."

A sudden jolt saved Colbey from an answer, though it reawakened every
ache.  The ship's prow sank into the surf until he feared she would
pitch pole.  He clutched the rail, agony flashing through his body,
watching the fog whirl dizzily about him.  Then the ship leveled.  It
rode a wave, dangerously close to shore.  Sand scraped the hull, and
the Sea Seraph ground to an abrupt halt.

Colbey relaxed, and the pain settled back into its familiar dull
throb.

"I guess it's my turn to laugh now."  He brushed spray-dampened hair
from his eyes, not cruel enough to crack even a smile.  "You've got
hours before the tide rises enough to lift the Sea Seraph, if she can
still sail."

Captain strode to the bow and lowered a rope ladder.  A surge of foam
tore at it, and it fell back to slap the ship's hull.  "I apologize for
your wet walk to land, but I'll get no closer.  Don't worry for the
Seraph.  My lady is a strong one."

He pointed to the ladder.

Colbey approached, looking doubtfully at the eddies.

"You're going to need some help.  Your 'lady' will need caulking after
grounding so hard."

The captain shook his head.  "Thanks for the offer, but we'll be
fine.

Already, the other Wizards are calling me back."  He smiled wickedly.

"It'll be well worth the time spent driving cotton between planks to
watch a Cardinal Wizard wade through ocean.  Granted, watching
Carcophan 'or Shadimar try to preserve their precious dignity would
make a better show.  But you'll do."

Colbey thought Trilless floundering through the waves in her white
gown would prove even more amusing, but he did not voice the comment.

He understood Captain's racial loyalty to the champion of goodness.

Everyone needed a cause to follow blindly.  In this world, faith was a
given; the worth of the man depended on the choice of his cause.  Soon
enough, that will change.  The thought brought Colbey back to the
burden he had inflicted upon the world.  He bound the staff to his
sword belt, despite its awkwardness.  Clambering over the rail, he
balanced on the outer edge of the gunwale.

His many wounds ached, but concern allowed him to ignore pain for the
moment.  "Captain, a time will come when loyalties clash, and the
boundaries between opposites blur.  I have had a hand in that, but I
did not and will not work alone.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No!"  Captain admitted.  "You're becoming as vague as the other
Wizards."

The insult stung, but Colbey did not have enough knowledge himself to
speak details.  For reasons he could not quite fathom, he wanted the
elf to understand, if not condone, his decision.  It was not a matter
of recruiting allies; it was a matter of one kindred soul capable of
comprehending the need for a balanced change, even if his loyalties
forced him to fight against it.

Apparently afraid he had offended, Captain amended, "But don't worry.

The Cardinal Wizards' subtlety never bothered me.  Their words give me
puzzles and deep thoughts to ponder on the sea."

"Good," Colbey said.  He fitted his feet onto one of the higher
rungs.

"Then think about this.  There comes a time when every child has to
learn to walk alone.  Men and elves are the gods' offspring, and the
time has come for the rigid, easy definitions of good and evil, honor
and loyalty to disappear.

Change is frightening but not always bad."  He descended into the
frigid water.  The riptide's swift water eddied around his boots and
buried his feet in sand.  A wave drenched him.  He clambered to the
safety of the rocks.  His clothes clung in places and sagged heavily in
others, like an old man's skin.

Captain watched from the fore deck.  His eyebrows rose and lowered once
as he fought to restrain a wry smile, without success.

"Good-bye, Captain.  I hope the show was as amusing as

you hoped."  Colbey believed that, if the elf did not tend to the Sea
Seraph, he would ultimately end up wetter than he

Renshai.

Without obvious impetus, sand rasped beneath the Sea Seraph's hull, and
the ship glided back toward the ocean.

The ride drove her toward the open sea.  From the stern, Captain
waved.

"Farewell, Western Wizard."

Colbey raised a hand to return the salute, but a shrill screech stole
his attention.  He glanced upward, ears tracing the sound.  Stone rose
in craggy increments.  On a shelf just ahead and above him, the
aristiri eyed him impatiently.  It hopped along a pale line of sand.

Colbey drew Harval and dried the blade on his sleeve.

Pulling his opposite sword free, he tended it as well.  He carried them
both in one hand to allow their sheaths to drain and dry.  Grasping the
ledge he had jumped down almost a month ago, he clambered, aching, to
the crest.

The hawk stayed three handholds ahead of Colbey.

At the summit, Colbey stared out over the Northlands.  A rocky beach
rose gradually to a series of grass-crowned dunes that paralleled the
shoreline.  Beyond them, evergreen forests stretched to the horizon.

Still clutching the swords, Colbey headed south.  His wet breeks clung
to his thighs, and sand grated against his skin.  The grit chafed as he
walked, and he had to keep adjusting the staff to stop it from slapping
against his leg.  The hawk fluttered and flapped along the sand.

Nothing about it seemed threatening, yet Colbey watched it
cautiously.

Shortly, exhaustion pounded Colbey, reminding him that he needed sleep
to heal his many wounds.  The aristiri's presence became familiar.

Twice it flew toward him, and twice Colbey dodged from its path.  The
third time, curiosity and fatigue kept him in place.  The bird flapped
upward, its wing beats hammering Colbey's eardrums.  It alighted on his
shoulder, and he braced for the pain of its claws.  But the needle
sharpness never came.  The hawk sat, still and contented, using balance
rather than grip to keep its perch.  Ignorant of hawks, Colbey did not
try to guess how strange this action might seem to ones more versed.

For now, Colbey lowered his head and trudged onward.

Though he wanted to reunite with Frost Reaver, his injuries had to take
precedence.  Directly south, cradled in the Weath ered Mountains that
formed the boundary between the Northlands and the Westlands, he would
find the familiar cave of the previous Western Wizards.  And there,
Colbey hoped, he would find a secure and protected place to rest.

CHAPTER 10

The Ahktarian Trial

The sun hovered behind the highest crags of the Southern Weathered
Range, spreading first light across the crushed grasslands of the
Fields of Wrath.  Mitrian Santagithisdatter balanced atop a boulder,
performing sword maneuvers with a vigor that never seemed to die.  Her
sandaled feet skimmed over the rock surface, as quick and light as any
cat's, and her sword cut gleaming arcs through the spring air.  Her
hand felt familiar and right upon the haft, as if molded to fit both
its stillness and its every movement.  The wolf's head hilt had become
the one stable focus in an otherwise frenzied existence.

Violence had taken the lives of her father, husband, and friends.  War
had stolen the town of her birth and childhood, and it had thrust the
legacy of the Renshai upon her.

That challenge, she had taken gladly.

As the rosy glow of dawn touched the sky, Mitrian leapt from the rock
to the barren patch that served as the open practice ground and turned
her attention to the small cluster of cottages.  At any moment, before
the sun edged above the mountains' crests, Tannin Randilsson would
arrive for his sword lesson.

The thought made Mitrian smile.  Since infancy, she had loved to watch
her father's sword master, Rache Kallmirs-son, perform svergelse or
train the guards, his sword flinging highlights that her eyes could not
help but follow.  Standing still, Rache had been more attractive than
any man Mitrian had ever known.  With a sword in his hand, nothing
could match his grace or beauty, and he honored his swords and his
training more than any person except Colbey.  In many ways, Tannin
reminded Mitrian of that first Rache, the man after whom she had named
her son.

Mitrian drew an image of Tannin in her mind.  He had the standard
Renshai features: blond hair, blue eyes, and a lithe firm body that
came from long hours of training and prac tice.  A strange racial
feature tended to make the Renshai look younger than their actual ages,
though Tannin had inherited little of this.  He carried every one of
his twenty-six years with dignity, and Mitrian appreciated that.

Having no

Renshai blood of her own, she appeared little younger than her own
thirty-two years.  And, for reasons she could not explain, she wanted
the six years between them to disappear.

Since the other Northern tribes had all but decimated the Renshai, most
of the survivors chose to follow Western styles.  Tannin alone emulated
the North, keeping his yellow locks long and braided.  At one time, the
practice had bothered Mitrian.  She had learned to associate the look
with the wild hordes of Vikerians who had swept into her father's
village and killed all but a handful of his men.  But during the last
year, it had come to symbolize only Tannin, and Mitrian had learned to
love the war braids as well as the rugged face they framed.  Though
Tannin had more true Renshai blood than any other in the current tribe
except his sister, he had not had the opportunity to learn the Renshai
sword maneuvers until the past year.  At that time, he had tracked the
tales of Colbey Calistinsson until he found the Renshai elder, Mitrian,
and Rache.  Therefore, Tannin approached the practices as an honor,
with a seriousness that only Mitrian and her son matched.

Mitrian sheathed her sword, waiting, still lost in consideration.

Thoughts of Rache Garnsson turned her mind in a new direction.  When
Tannin had first joined the Renshai, he had become locked into ferce
competition with Rache.  Though Rache had the advantage of Renshai
training by Colbey since infancy, Tannin had age, exuberance, and a
devotion that drove him to work.  They had also competed for Sylva's
attention.

Mitrian frowned.  At the time, Garn had still lived, and she had had no
reason to consider other men as anything but friends.  She had
encouraged Tannin's identification with her young son, though Rache was
more than a decade Tannin's junior.  Now, she worried that Tannin would
always see her as a generation ahead of him, the six years stretched
into a gap impossible to bridge.  Their positions as teacher and
student only widened the chasm; in the Renshai culture, no position
demanded more respect and reverence than a torke, the Renshai word for
sword master and teacher.  Still, there had been a few times when she
had directed his sword arm

to demonstrate an angle or maneuver and believed she saw an emotion in
his soft, blue eyes that matched her own.

Mitrian's frown started to edge back into a smile.  Then the sun tipped
over the far peaks, glaring into her eyes, and her lips arrested
midway.  Tannin should have arrived, yet he had not.  Lateness to a
sword lesson was a blatant display of disrespect, a crime second only
to cowardice in the Renshai culture.  Mitrian had only seen one student
late to one of Colbey's practices, Rache Kallmirsson's son, Episte.

She had watched in sympathy while Colbey had grilled the boy long after
the other Renshal had quit for the night.  Outside of war, it was the
only time she had seen someone lapse into unconsciousness from
exhaustion.

ire rose in an instant, almost immediately replaced by fear.  If
Tannin's not here, he's injured or dead.  Concerned over Tannin's
welfare, Mitrian charged toward the four cottages that made up the
Renshai's town.  She came first to the newest, the one they had built
for Rache and Sylva.  The Renshai's six horses grazed on brush in the
yard, joined by Arduwyn's stocky paint2 The couple waved to Mitrian
from the window, and Arduwyn called out an uncomfortable welcome from
the front stoop.  Mitrian made a brisk gesture that she hoped passed
for a greeting.  She slowed to a trot.  Ducking around her own home
next door, she headed onto the dirt pathway that led froM her own
dwelling to that of Tannin's elder sister, Tarah, her husband, Modrey,
and their year-old child, Vashi.

Near the front door, Tarah sewed a tunic.  Vashi toddled in circles
before her mother, her fingers wrapped around a tiny, blunt-edged
sword, proportionately balanced like a real weapon.  Mitrian could see
Modrey hacking weeds from the garden between their cottage and Tannin's
own.  They appeared calm and their actions seemed normal.  If some harm
had befallen Tannin, they knew nothing of it.

Tarah looked up as Mitrian galloped past.  "Good morning.

What ...?"  She broke off as Mitrian did not slow.

Only then, Mitrian skidded to a stop.  She whirled, biting down on her
rage.  "Where's Tannin?"

"Tannin?"  Tarah's hand stilled, and she dropped the needle to her
lap.

"He's ... well ... he should be at his sword lesson.  With you."

"I know where he should be!"  Mitrian fairly snarled.  "I want to know
where he is!"

Apparently frightened by the shouting, Vashi scooted to

her mother's side.

Tarah let the toddler clutch her leg, but she did not coddle.

She would allow Vashi to feel safe, yet she would not reward running or
hiding.  To do so would only reinforce childish fears.  To become
Renshai, Vashi would have to learn to face threats with boldness.  "I
..."  Tarah started, obviously cowed by her torke's rage.  "He ... I
don't know.  I haven't seen him.  You don't think ...?"  She stammered,
leaving the question open-ended.

The normalcy of the other Renshai's routine only reinforced Tannin's
lapse.  Mitrian spoke slowly, each word solid and menacing.  "I think
that he had better be sick, trapped, or dead.  Or he's going to wish he
was."  Without awaiting a reply, Mitrian stalked toward Tannin's
cottage, only half as outraged as she seemed.  She had called upon
anger to cover the worry that threatened to suffocate her.  Finally,
she had discovered a man she believed she might come to love as much as
the husband she had lost, a man with whom she could have another
child.

And he probably lay dead on the floor of his cottage.  Mitrian
quickened her pace.

At length, Mitrian veered around the garden and came to the front of
Tannin's cottage.  Without bothering to knock, she opened the wooden
door and charged through, finding herself in the familiar entry room.

Old ashes filled the hearth.  Two chairs stood crookedly askew before a
central table.  A stained, empty mug perched on the seat of one
chair.

Another mug, half-filled with cold tea, sat on the table.

Tannin's clothing was flung across the backs of the chairs, and an
undergarment lay crumpled in front of the fireplace.  Despite the mess,
Mitrian saw no evidence of a battle.  She jerked open the only door in
the room, the one leading to Tannin's bedroom.

Sun rays funneled through the outer door and into the bedroom, throwing
light across two figures in the bed.  The creak of hinges awakened
Tannin, and he sat up so abruptly he bashed his skull against the
headboard.  His golden hair fell around his head, wildly disheveled and
still kinky from the braids.  Instinctively, he yanked up the blanket
to cover his nakedness, and the movement bared the woman beside him.

Her eyes remained closed, and she rolled toward him, flopping an arm
across his abdomen.  Long, dark hair dragged into a sparse curtain
across her unfamiliar, teenaged

face.  The high cheekbones and small nose identified her as an
Erythanian, and Mitrian estimated her age at between sixteen and
nineteen.

Rage exploded through Mitrian's mind.  For an instant, no coherent
words came to her.  Then she shouted.  "Tannin Randilsson, what in
Loki's dark, ugly, icy cold Hel are you doing?"

The teen's eyes flew open, and she sat up, without both'ering to cover
pendulous breasts that seemed more suited to a woman Mitrian's age.

Tannin had enough modesty for the two of them.  He tightened the
blankets around himself, shielding his body to the neck.  Though
Mitrian's startlement should have given him time to think, he had an
even more difficult time finding words.  "I'm late, aren't I?"  His
voice contained all the remorse his words did not.

Mitrian took a threatening forward step, her foot miring on a homespun
dress.  She kicked the offending garment aside, and it skidded across
the planks.  "You've dishonored your swords, and you've dishonored your
torke."  She glanced at the Erythanian who was arching her back so that
her breasts jutted, as if daring Mitrian to compete.  Mitrian added,
with obvious disgust, "And you've dishonored yourself."

Tannin lowered his head.  His eyes were moist, and it was all Mitrian
could do not to soften her tone.

"I'm going back to the practice ground.  You are going to get dressed
and arrive ahead of me.  When I get there, your sword had better be
perfectly tended and your maneuvers flawless.  Then, you're going to
work through everyone else's practice and into the night.  You're not
going to stop to eat.  You're not going to stop to drink, and you're
not going to stop to piss!  And, if you're ever late for a practice
again, I'm just going to kill you.  Understand?"

"I'm sorry, torke."

The Erythanian threw off the covers, fully exposing herself.

"I think his maneuvers were flawless."  'She snuggled against Tannin,
mashing her breasts against his ribs and sliding a hand beneath the
covers to touch him.  "Are you going to let your mother talk to you
that way?"

Tannin's whole body stiffened momentarily, then he pushed the
Erythanian away.  "Not now, Sharya.  Please."

Rage speared through Mitrian, and she all but lost control.

Her hand whipped to her sword hilt, and the blade rasped free.

Sharya recoiled.  Tannin froze, weighing options, obviously not liking
what he found.

But Mitrian maintained her composure.  She skewered Sharya's dress on
the point of her sword, then thrust it toward the Erythanian.  "Put it
on.  Get out."

Sharya's dark eyes widened, and she shifted closer to Tannin.

She opened her mouth, presumably to appeal to the man.

"One word," Mitrian added, her blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on the
teen, "and I drive this sword right through your guts."

Sharya made a squeal of frustration, fear, and rage.  But she gingerly
unhooked her dress from the sword point and pulled it over her head.

"Out!"  Mitrian pointed at the door with the sword.

Sharya threw one last glance at Tannin, goading him to do something.

But the man sat in miserable silence, still clutching the blankets to
hide his nakedness.  The Erythanian spun, her dark hair swirling into a
fan, then stalked out the doorway.  The outer door slammed violently
shut, and ash pattered to the hearth.

Mitrian channeled all of her hurt and anger against Tannin.

"How dare you!  How could you!"

Tannin gripped the blankets between fingers white with strain.  "Torke,
I'm sorry.  I lost track of time."

"No excuses!"

"It's not an excuse.  It's an explanation.  I dishonored my sword and
my torke.  I deserve every punishment you said."

Tannin squirmed, and his voice sank.  "It was all my fault.

Did you have to scare Sharya?"

"I shouldn't have scared her."  Mitrian's eyes narrowed.  "I should
have killed her.  She's a dirty, rude, ill-bred whore, and I can't
believe you or any Renshai would lower himself to sleep with her!"

Mitrian glared at Tannin, her rage coming as much from emotional pain
as from actual anger at Tannin's transgression.  She knew she should
leave now, while she had the upper hand, and let Tannin contemplate his
crime.  Yet, deep inside, she needed a personal apology, something to
explain why he would chose a teenaged trollop over the only unmarried
Renshai woman.

Finally driven to the edge, too, Tannin threw the blankets

aside, revealing himself to the waist.  His blue eyes bunched to
slits, and his cheeks flared red.  "With all the respect due you,
torke, I have one thing to say."  He pronounced each word definitively,
his voice bland with rising anger.  "Men fuck."  Without another word,
he turned his back.

The urge to slaughter Tannin rose instantly, then disappeared as
quickly.  Unexpectedly, tears stung Mitrian's eyes, and she knew she
was about to lose control completely.  Instead, she whirled.  The need'
to cry struck suddenly then, welling into a torrent; and it was all she
could do to keep from rushing, sobbing, from the cottage.  But she kept
her steps measured, forcing her breaths to normalize until she left the
cottage and bashed the door shut every bit as hard as Sharya had
done.

Grief rushed down on her, mingling with self-pity and rage.  She felt
hot as fire, seized by an urge to curl into a ball in some private
corner where no one could find her, where the flames could consume her
and she had to answer to no one.  Instead, she ran, choosing a course
that would not take her past anyone.

At length, Mitrian left the Renshai's cottages behind her.

She stopped short on the grassy plain, out of sight of the training
ground, not wanting to arrive before Tannin despite her threat.  Men
fuck.  Mitrian noted he had switched to the Western tongue to find the
most vulgar euphemism for sex.

Logic told her that she should find nothing attractive or interesting
about a man who would sleep with women like Sharya.  Yet her mind clung
to the image of his kind gentleness and savage dedication to the arts
she taught him.  Her heart ached within her, and the tears quickened.

She tried to drive away sorrow with violence, concentrating on the
anger and leaving the hurt behind.  She whipped her sword from its
sheath and launched into a wild svergelse.

The sword sang around Mitrian in controlled arcs and gliding slashes.

Escaping into the practice, she thought of her fondness for the weapon,
recalling the day of its forging.

The Eastern Wizard, Shadimar, had given her a pair of amber gems to
become the eyes of the hilt's wolf head, once forged.  He had promised
her the "only magic sword of the Eastern, Western, and faery worlds."

In fact, the sword's enchantment had come from a Renshai soul locked in
the gems, the last remnant of a warrior who had died of illness and had
begged a previous Eastern Wizard to trap him rather than let him slip
sway to Hel.  Mitrian had learned nearly as

much of the Renshai sword maneuvers and philosophy from the soul caged
in topaz as she had from Colbey.

Mitrian's strokes grew bolder and stronger, and her tears evaporated in
the breeze raised by her movements.  She recalled how the excitement of
the Great War had sent the Renshai in the gems into a wild battle
madness.  It had dragged her with it, stealing the self-control she
needed to experience the war herself and to keep track of her
loyalties.

His war passion had caused her to slaughter one of her father's own
men.  Then, Mitrian had cracked one topaz, freeing the soul to its
rightful place in Hel and taking, so she had believed, all magic from
the sword.

Mitrian allowed herself to become conscious of the gems, feeling the
solid facets of the wolf's left eye and the irregular pinch of the
crack winding through the right.  Apparently some sorcery remained, or
else the Wizard had enchanted the blade in other ways, because the edge
still held the sharpness and shine of first forging.  No notches marred
the blade, and its steel remained as strong and straight as always.

Then, abruptly, Mitrian's thoughts collapsed back to memories of
Tannin.  The hot mixture of agony and rage returned in a rush, and her
eyes burned with the threat of reemerging tears.

Arduwyn's voice cut through Mitrian's thoughts and her practice.

"There you are!"  It held accusation.

Mitrian froze in position, the sword poised in a high arc, her stance
closed.  Her eyes rolled, finding the little archer riding toward her
from the direction of the cottages.  His spiky red hair looked more
disheveled than usual, and his single brown eye held no sparkle.

Though Colbey's height, his scrawny frame made him seem tiny.  The
random black and white blotches of his paint horse only added to the
unkempt appearance of the hunter and his mount.

"Not now, Arduwyn.  I'm busy."

Arduwyn did not slow, but continued heading toward her.

"This can't wait."

"Anything can wait."

"Not this."  Arduwyn reined up at the border of comfortable speaking
range, just beyond a sword stroke.  His eye narrowed, and his voice
softened.  "Are you crying?"

"No!"  Mitrian lowered her sword, but she did not sheathe it.  She
wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand, trying to keep the
gesture casual.  The suggestion only made her

feel more like crying, and the effort of preventing it did nothing to
improve her temper.  "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about giving a sword to a baby."

The archer's tone made it clear he was chastising, not seeking
advice.

"What are you talking about?"  Mitrian had no interest in riddles and
even less in lectures.  "Be direct and quick.  I have students to
teach!"  It was a lame excuse off the practice ground and alone,
especially since she taught daily and Arduwyn would find no other time
more convenient to speak with her.

Still, Arduwyn went straight to the point.  "I just watched an infant
drop a sword on her foot.  It's badly bruised, and she probably broke
some toes."  The paint snorted.

Mitrian cringed in sympathy.  'Was she hurt?  I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"  Arduwyn sounded incredulous.

"Yes, I'm sorry.  Do you think I want her to be in pain?"

"I don't know," Arduwyn admitted, the accusation fully returning to his
tone.  "Why would you give a sword to a baby?"

"First, if she can hold a sword, she's not a baby.  Second, it's the
Renshai way."

"The Renshai way of what?  Killing off its children?"

"No one is killing off anyone."  Mitrian jabbed the sword back into its
sheath.  Though this took the weapon out of her hand, the violence of
the gesture served as equal warning.

"It's how the Renshai became the finest swordsmen in the world."

"It's stupidity!"

The insult jabbed straight to the heart.  "It's none of your
business."

"It's my business when I see an adult I admire and respect giving
weapons to a child as toys."  Arduwyn changed his tactic.  "Come on,
Mitrian.  I've got a daughter of my own.

It's torture to see a little girl injuring herself because she has
something she shouldn't have."

"Shouldn't have!"  Mitrian knew that her own son had been given a tiny
sword in place of a rattle.  His early training would allow him to far
surpass her, as he nearly had already.

Because of the training she had missed her first sixteen years, Mitrian
understood that she could never become the best.  So long as she lived
and led the Renshai, no man, woman, or child would ever feel cheated of
that oppor tunity.  "We're Renshai, Arduwyn.  Renshai!  Not
flabby-butted, floppy-breasted, Erythanian farm whores.  If you and
your people choose to train your children to become cowards, that's
your decision!"

Arduwyn's face flushed scarlet.  "Are you calling Sylva a
flabby-breasted whore?"

"No, of course not."  Mitrian knew the insult was aimed at a completely
different Erythanian girl, but she had no wish to detail her target
now.  "I'm just saying that Renshai didn't become the best swordsmen by
accident.  It's 'training.  It works.  And it's none of your damned
business."

The paint snorted again, pawing at the ground with a fore-hoof.

Arduwyn jerked-on the reins, and the pawing stopped.

"Mitrian, don't you see.  It's not the training in infancy that makes
Renshai the best.  That's just tradition and superstition.

An infant can't learn sword maneuvers; it's impossible.

What makes Renshai the best is technique and a dedication to their art
once they become old enough to understand it."  Mitrian gathered her
thoughts for a retort.

Arduwyn continued, leaving her no time to consider.

"Look at you.  Right now, you're the most competent Renshai, and you
didn't start your training until you had become an adult by Western
standards.  My father wouldn't let me carry a bow until I learned to
carry a stick in a safe and respectful manner.  He took my first bow
away the day I drew it back, without an arrow, and pretended to aim it
at my sister.  It took me a year to get it back.  But, with all due
modesty, I'm probably the best archer in the West, even without an
eye.

Having the bow denied me until I became old enough to understand
technique and safety only made it more sweet and me more dedicated when
I finally got one.

My ardor to become the best grew stronger."

Mitrian found logic in Arduwyn's words, but her mood would not allow
her to compromise or consider.  "Look, Arduwyn.  That's all very cute
and maudlin, but it has nothing to.  do with Vashi.  You can't compare
pulling back a string and letting go to Renshai sword mastery.  Bows
are for people who stand back and let others do their fighting."  It
was an unfair accusation.  Arduwyn had lost his eye to an Easterner's
sword in the Great War, while fighting with his scimitar.

"Damn it, Mitrian!  I used to chide Colbey for his closed-minded
blindness to anything not a sword.  Once I got past

my own prejudice against Renshai, I discovered him to be far more
thoughtful and tolerant than I ever expected.  You, on the other hand,
have become as rigid as I accused him of being."

Arduwyn's words drove Mitrian beyond even the modicum of restraint she
had managed to rally.  "Get out of here!

Just go away!  Cowards don't belong among Renshai!"

The horse shied.  Arduwyn opened his mouth, prepared to defend himself
against her harsh words.

Mitrian whipped her sword free, jabbed it toward the forests and away
from the Fields of Wrath.

The paint whipped into a half rear.  Regaining control, Arduwyn forced
it to twist a quarter turn before its hooves again touched the
ground.

Without another word, he rode toward the woodlands.

Mitrian collapsed into another bout of tears.

Lirtensa left his cell the following morning, and he did not return.

Khitajrah spent the day stretched out across the piled straw, playing
counting games to avoid the deep contemplation that kept bringing her
back to the same guilt and the same conclusions.  The dung-reeking
quiet seemed to stretch into an eternity.  She slept intermittently and
fretfully, day marked from night only by the glow through the single
high window and the occasional entrances of guards carrying food in the
lighter hours.  This she ate, more from boredom than hunger.  And,
though surely they gave her the dregs of winter storage, she ate better
now than she had while foraging for berries and buds.  The vegetables
tasted heartier and fresher than at Eastern first harvest.

On the morning of Khitajrah's third day of imprisonment, the outer door
swung open.  Three men stood framed in the doorway, two wearing the
single piece outfits of the town guard.  The third man was lean and
tall, dressed in flashy purple and green silk, With a ring gracing each
finger.  At first, Khitajrah did not recognize Lirtensa.  His crouched
figure in the cells gave her no impression of height, and the memory of
his squinty, greasy countenance ill-prepared her for this very
different look of wealth.  Then her eyes met his, and he smiled.  He
had combed his hair back away from his face, though it still appeared
more dirty than colored.  A single, oily strand curled across his
forehead.  He waited, lean ing casually against the door frame, while
the guards approached Khitajrah's cell.

One produced a key.  The other waited, staring at Khitajrah until she
met his gaze.  He spoke in the common trading tongue, enunciating each
word carefully.  "We're taking you to trial.  Will you come peacefully
and without need for restraint?"

Though Khitajrah had no intention of doing otherwise, she glanced at
Lirtensa for guidance.  He nodded slightly, She looked back at the
guard.  "I will come peacefully."

The other man stabbed the key into the lock and twisted.

He opened the door and motioned Khitajrah out.

Chaos saw the loopholes at once.  "He didn't say you had to remain
peaceful all the way to the courthouse.  And he never said you couldn't
run away.  So long as you do it peacefully .  . ."  · All of that was
implied."  Khitajrah cut off chaos' ramblings, annoyed that she had
found herself considering the same outs.  To break the law, whether its
letter or intention, would violate the basic foundations of society.

"Now, leave me alone.  I have to talk to Lir.

And I have to think."

"I'm only trying to broaden your thoughts, to present options that your
elders' narrow views of reality might have stifled."  · How generous of
you" Khitajrah hoped her sarcasm came through clearly.  "When I need
your help, I'll let you know."  She stepped out of the cell, looking to
the guards for her next move.

The man who had opened her cell pocketed the key.

Sidestepping around Khitajrah and his companion, he led the way to the
door.  Khitajrah followed him, and the second guard trailed her.

Lirtensa moved aside to let the three through, then he came to
Khitajrah's side.

The direct sunlight seemed blinding after three days trapped in the
prison's dank grayness.  Khitajrah blinked several times as she
shuffled along between the guards.  Lirtensa walked briskly, neck
chains clicking with each bouncing step.  Citizens stopped to watch the
parade of guards, prisoner, and lawyer, whispering among themselves.

Though much of what they said emerged loudly enough, Khitajrah could
make no sense of their strange Western language.  The foreignness of
the proceedings and her own ignorance made her uneasy, and every muscle
tensed to a cramping pain.

Needing something on which to ground the odd swirl of experience, she
turned on Lirtensa.  "Where have you been?"

Though Khitajrah had asked in the trading tongue, Lirtensa replied in
Eastern.  "I had to get myself free first.

Couldn't represent you from prison.  I spent the rest of the day
tracking down witnesses."

"Witnesses?"  Now Khitajrah also used Eastern.  "Witnesses to what?"

"Different things."

"There were two guards and a woman who heard me say--" Lirtensa made an
abrupt gesture to indicate that she should not speak the offending word
again.  The guards glanced over at the sudden movement.  One said
something angry in the Western tongue.  Lirtensa's reply was terse.

"What did he say?"  Khitajrah asked.

"He's annoyed because he can't understand our conversation."

"Oh.". It occurred to Khitajrah that she'd had the same problem a
moment ago, but she saw no reason to antagonize the guards.  "Should we
use trading?"

"Hell, no."  Lirtensa grinned wickedly at the guard who had addressed
him.  "I'm the lawyer.  You're my client.  We can use barbarian hand
signals if we want.  What we're saying is none of his damned business,
and I'm tempted to keep talking long after either of us has anything to
say just to irk him."

Khitajrah smiled.

Chaos fairly howled.  'I like him.  Can we marry him?"

"Didn't I ask you to go away for a while?"

"Yes," chaos' admitted.  "Of course, I don't sleep.  I have no eyes to
close or ears to plug, and I'm stuck in your mind.

Where did you expect me to go?"

The first guard came to a halt before a long, thatch-roofed building
and made a brisk motion.  "We're here."  He headed toward the door.

Khitajrah and Lirtensa followed him, and the last guard brought up the
rear.  Fear clutched Khitajrah.  She tried to ward it away, placing her
trust in the man who had managed to free himself from prison more than
once.  Still, she could not escape the fact that she had blatantly
broken the law in front of three witnesses.  Ignorance of that law
would gain

her nothing in the East nor, she suspected, here.  "I'm not going to
have to lie, am I?  I won't do that."

Lirtensa placed a hand on Khitajrah's arm and squeezed reassuringly.

"Kayt, if things go as I hope, you won't have to speak at all.  I'll
keep the proceedings in trading, so you can understand it all.  Just
stay quiet.  And it wouldn't hurt for you to look a little confused and
scared."

"That won't take any effort at all."

The lead guard opened the door, revealing a meeting hall packed with
Western citizens in dirt-caked work clothes and patched homespun.  At
the opposite end of the hall, two elderly men and a woman sat behind a
table, their countenances grizzled and grave.  The guard who had
rescued the chicken from the rain barrel sat in a chair to the
tribunal's left.  Two chairs stood empty to their right, and the lead
guard gestured Khitajrah and Lirtensa to these.  Behind the tribunal, a
hefty, bald man perched above the proceedings on a piled stack of
chests.  As Khitajrah and Lirtensa sat, the guards closed the outer
doors and took up positions beside it.

Khitajrah studied the layout, seized by a sudden panic.

Her mouth went dry, and her eyes glazed the courtroom to a blur.  She
trembled uncontrollably, the stiffness of the movement aching through
her muscles.  Her mind flashed slowed motion images of Bahmyr rushing
to her aid, of Diarmad's dagger dripping blood, of her son lying still
on the courtroom floor.

"Whoa, whoa?  Lirtensa grasped Khitajrah's upper arm.

"I said a little confused and scared.  You look like you're about to
drop dead."

Can't help it," Khitajrah managed, her voice emerging in an unfamiliar
squeak.  "Been through this before."

"Huh?"

"Been through this before," Khitajrah repeated, the words more
difficult the second time.

"You've been tried over a sentence of death before?"

Khitajrah nodded.  Her jaw trembled, and her teeth clicked together
repetitively.

Lirtensa studied her, and his look seemed to hold as much admiration as
surprise.  "Gods, frilka.  And I thought I skirted the edge.  Where did
this happen?"

"East."

Lirtensa chuckled.  "So what are you worried about?  You

got acquitted there, right?  if you lived through Eastern women's
court, this'll seem like racing a snail."

You got acquitted there.  The thought echoed, tainted by chaos'
amusement.  In her discomfort, Khitajrah could not tell whether she or
it initiated the thought.  She stared at the tribunal, soothed by the
presence of a woman there.  At least, she would have a chance here to
dispute her guilt.  And she could think of no one she would rather have
on her side now than Lirtensa.  Though she found him physically
repulsive, and many of his philosophies discomfited her, she suspected
he would prove competent as a lawyer.  For now, her life depended on
it.

Lirtensa gave a quick summary of the participants.  "The judge, that's
the hairless one, is named Unamer.  He directs the trial and keeps
things fair.  You want him to like you.  The elders are called Xylain,
Avenelle, and Clywid.  Avenelle's the woman.  The other two I can
never-remember which is which.  I think Xylain's the one with the snout
and Clywid's got the pancake ears."

Khitajrah blinked multiple times, until her vision cleared enough to
differentiate the tribunal.  The woman sat in the middle.  The man to
her left had a broad nose and a thick, brown beard.  To her right,
Clywid wore his hair closely-cropped, emphasizing large-lobed ears.

Though cruel, Lirtensa's descriptions took the edge from Khitajrah's
panic.

Judge Unamer's head turned toward Khitajrah and Lirtensa in increments,
the movement smooth and unhurried.

His gray brows rose.

Uncertain what was expected of her, Khitajrah looked to Lirtensa.

"Are you ready to start?"  he asked.

"I suppose so," Khitajrah said, not at all ready, but equally certain
that more time would make no difference.

Lirtensa raised a hand, fluttered his fingers briefly, then lowered
it.

The judge turned his attention to the crowd.  He lifted both arms, and
the Ahktarian audience went silent.  He spoke in the common trading
tongue, his voice ponderous.  "Here now we have gathered to try this
woman, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow ..."  His Western accent mangled the
name.  "... on the grounds that she allegedly spoke the word
'Renshai."" He lowered his arms.

The crowd made a collective gasp, presumably at Unamer

freely speaking the offending word.  Surely, they already

knew the charge.

Unamer continued, his neck now swiveling to the tribunal.

His lack of movement and his preference for turning only his head
reminded Khitajrah of an ancient, wise owl.

"It should be remembered that this particular charge, if founded, holds
a guaranteed penalty of death.  Therefore, the case should be
considered with utmost care."

The two men and the woman nodded somberly.

Unamer twisted his neck to the guard seated to his left.

"Tell your story."

The guard described the incident briefly, precisely as it had
happened.

As he neared the end of the tale, Lirtensa whispered to Khitajrah.

"Answer without head motions.  Did he get that right?"

Khitajrah consciously kept herself from nodding in agreement.

"Yes."

As the guard spoke his final words, Judge Unamer looked at Lirtensa.

"Any questions?"

"No, sir."

Again, the judge's head turned to the guard.  "Dismissed."

Then, back to Lirtensa.  "Who would you like to call?"

"Whidishar Hunter."

The crowd whispered about his choice.  A moment later, a man stepped
from among them and headed toward the front.

Khitajrah recognized him at once as the hunter she had spoken to just
before entering Ahktar.  She noticed that several of the men who had
accompanied him then sat with him now.

The guard vacated the seat to go stand with his two companions by the
door.  Whidishar gave Khitajrah a friendly smile as he passed, then
took his seat beside the tribunal.

Unamer spoke at his usual monotonous pace, each word clear.  "Tell your
story of the incident, please."

"I wasn't there, sir."

"Very well."  Unamer turned his attention to Lirtensa.

"Yourquestions."

Lirtensa leapt to his feet, briskly crossing the floor to stand before
Whidishar.  "Whidishar Hunter, have you seen or spoken with my client
before this trial?"

"Yes, sir.  I've done both."

"And when did that occur?"

"Two days ago.  In the morning.  My friends and I were going hunting,
and she was headed toward the town."

Lirtensa brushed the curl from his forehead, and it immediately fell
back into place.  "Did you try to talk to her in Western?"

"Yes, I did.  At first.  It was pretty obvious she didn't understand
me, so I switched to Western trade.  She responded to that."

"So you would say that my client is a foreigner?"

Whidishar shrugged.  "Obviously."

Judge Unamer interrupted.  "Lir, if you're trying to establish that
your client didn't know our laws, you may as well stop here.  At best,
ignorance would reduce the sentence.

We're here to establish whether or not the crime was committed."

Lirtensa raised his hand.  "I swear, sir, that this is all relevant.

I have no intention of claiming ignorance.  In fact, the law is
universal and old enough so no one should be ignorant of it."

Khitajrah frowned, but she said nothing.  Lirtensa had phrased his
comment so as not to lie, but he treaded a dangerous boundary.  They
both knew she had had no prior knowledge of the crime or its
consequences.  Worse, the judge had clearly stated that ignorance might
have lessened the sentence.  Now, should they lose the case, she would
surely die.

"Proceed," Unamer said.

Lirtensa turned his questioning back to Whidishar.  "We have now
established my client is a foreigner.  In fact, she's a recent
immigrant from the East."

Whidishar nodded.  "That would have been my guess."

"Now, at one point in time, she spoke the name of this town, didn't
she?"

"Yes."

"How did she pronounce that?"

Whidishar considered for a moment.  His lips jerked into a smile.  "I'm
not sure I can get it exactly right."

"It sounded something like Accccch-tayer."  Whidishar exaggerated the
guttural.

The crowd twittered.

Lirtensa also smiled.  "Did you correct her?"

"Yes."

"And afterward, how did she say it?"

"She said it ..."  Whidishar chuckled again.  "Accccch-tayer."

"Thank you," Lirtensa said.  "No further questions."

Crossing the room, he returned to his seat.

"Dismissed."  Judge Unamer kept his attention on Whidishar, then
rotated his head to Lirtensa again.  "You said two witnesses this
morning.  Who would you like to call as the other?"

"Gertrina.  The tailor's wife."

A murmur swept the crowd.  The woman who had called for the guards'
help with the chicken waddled forward.  She waited until Whidishar rose
and vacated the chair, then plopped her wide bottom in place.

"Tell your version of the story."  The judge instructed.

Gertrina held her head high, obviously pleased at becoming the center
of attention at an important trial.  "It was just like he said."  She
pointed at the guard with a thick hand.  "I heard it all.  I was
standing right there.  She said... well, you know ... the word."

Judge Unamer nodded, brows screwing in toward his nose.  He seemed as
confused by Lirtensa's choice of witness as Khitajrah was.  "Any
questions, Lir?"

"Yes."  Lirtensa rose, striding across the chamber floor to confront
Gertrina directly.  "Gertrina, exactly what was the offending word that
my client said?"

Gertrina threw a startled glance at the judge.

Unamer nodded.  "You may safely answer the question.

For the purposes of trial, it is no crime to say the word.  It is
important that we establish the offense solidly and without
euphemism."

"She said ..."  Gertrina trailed off, obviously still uncomfortable.

"She said, 'I'm told he's Renshai."" She whispered the final word, but
it wafted to Khitajrah clearly enough.  She suspected that the people
in the back did not hear, but the judge did not press for a
repetition.

All those who mattered had heard.

"She said it just like that?"

"Oh, yes.  In fact, she said it twice.  She was asked to repeat it."

"Well, that confuses me, Gertrina."  Lirtensa paced out a circle, and
the pause grew into a tangible silence while he, apparently, gathered
his thoughts.  "Whidishar just got fin ished saying that Kayt has a
heavy.  accent.  That she couldn't even speak the name of our town
after he coached her."

Gertfinn stuck with her story, though she seemed more hesitant.  "Well,
she said ... that word ... clearly enough."

"So you're saying that, somewhere between the border of the town and
its second street, Kayt completely lost her Eastern accent."

"No.  She still had an accent," Gertfinn admitted.  She fidgeted, all
of her proud confidence disappearing.

"So, Gertrina."  Lirtensa pinned the woman with his gaze.  "Is it
possible that Kayt actually said raynshee."  He spoke the common
trading word for elder.  "Or granshy, baronshei, or even rintsha?"

Khitajrah recognized only one of the three.  The middle term was
trading for bald.  "Could she have said rhinsheh?"  Khitajrah
recognized this as an Eastern term, meaning morning.  In her country,
it would be pronounced ran-shay, though Lirtensa took the emphasis off
of the last syllable.

Gertrina avoided Lirtensa's piercing stare, glancing from the judge to
Khitajrah to the crowd in rapid succession.

"Well, I suppose so.  But I really think she said... well, you know." 
· "You think she said, Gertrina?  You think?  Would you really condemn
a woman to death because you think she might possibly, maybe have
committed a crime?"  Lirtensa snorted with disgust.  "No further
questions."

"Wait," Gertfinn said.

Lirtensa continued to walk away.

Judge Unamer did not dismiss her as he had the others.

"Did you have something more to say, Gertrina?"

"Yes, I did."  Gertrina became bolder.  "She was asking about a
person.

I guess I could understand raynshee and baronshei.  I don't even know
what rhinsheh means.  But why would this woman, Kayt, have described
some man by calling him plums or cat?"

Lirtensa whirled back to face Gertrina so suddenly that she cringed
away.  "We have already established that knowledge of the crime and its
punishment is universal.  Even if Kayt had accidentally said Renshai
..."

The ease and suddenness with which Lirtensa used the offending term
obviously startled and unsettled Gertrina.

"... why Would she have repeated it unless she believed she was saying
something very different?  Something inof fensive.  I was just trying
to make the point that Kayt's accent makes her difficult to
understand.

Do you think it's possible that you mistook one word for another?"

Gertrina swallowed hard.  "Yes," she said at last.  "It's possible."

"No further questions," Lifterisa repeated.  Again, he walked away.

This time, Gertrina said nothing, and the judge dismissed her as he had
the others.  His owl's head swiveled to face Lirtensa again.  "Do you
have anything else to say?  Any other witnesses?"

"No, sir."  Lirtensa turned his back on the crowd to face the tribunal
directly.  "I think it's clear that my client tried to describe a man
using a perfectly normal and innocent word.

It also seems obvious that her accent rendered that word difficult to
understand; and, thus, it was understandably misinterpreted by Gertrina
and the guards.  It is my recommendation that all charges be dropped
and that Kayt be permitted to go free and enjoy the pleasures of her
new country."

Khitajrah held her breath, heart fluttering in her chest.

From the nods spreading through the crowd, Lirtensa had convinced
them.

All that remained now was to see the effect of his words on the
tribunal.

"I have only one more question."  Judge Unamer's voice boomed through
the chamber.  Startled, Khitajrah looked up, only to find his gaze
directly upon her.  "Lady, what, in fact, was the word you said?"

All color drained from Khitajrah's face, and her throat seemed to
become paralyzed.  In an instant, she had gone from likely acquittal to
a guaranteed death sentence.  And she, herself, would speak the
deciding word that would seal her fate.

"NO!"  Chaos' shout echoed through Khitajrah's mind.

"Don't say it.  Not now.  Not so close," Lirtensa froze, unable to
help.  'I have to," Khitajrah sent back.

"You don't have to do anything.  The law is stupid, it needs to be
changed."

"It is the law."

"And you've never said raynshee in your life?"

" What?"

"The judge didn't ask what you said at any particular

time.  He just asked what word you.  said.  You've said

raynshee."

"We all know what he meant."

" And we all know what he said."

"Yes, we all know what he said."

"I said Renshai," Khitajrah replied softly, letting her accent twist
the vowels as much as possible.  Guilt flared.  If I'm going to lie,
I'm not going to do it under the guise of truth.  "And I meant that to
mean 'elder."" Pain shocked through her, mixed with chaos' triumph, and
the combination nearly made her vomit.

Lirtensa smiled nervously.

The tribunal did not bother to deliberate.  "Innocent," said the
first.

"Innocent."

"Innocent."

But even as the words emerged, Khitajrah's conscience had a "guilty"
for every one.  She went docile as a lamb when Lirtensa led her from
the courtroom, a free woman in every way but spirit.

CHAPTER 14

Long Way Home

Shadimar stood at the Sea Seraph's forward rail, watching spray foam
and curl around the bow.  His fingers caressed the dolphin figure that
graced the prow, but it was an absent gesture, without meaning.  His
other hand clutched the staff, its base grounded on the rocking
planks.

His gaze barely penetrated the fog, and the ocean seemed to stretch
from horizon to horizon and beyond.  Sound carried easily through the
dense mists that surrounded the ship.  The Eastern Wizard listened to
the sweet duet of Mar Lon Davrinsson and the otherworld captain who
manned the tiller.  The chords and runs of the lonriset formed a
perfect background for the ancient sea songs the bard and the elf sang
together.

Secodon lay at Shadimar's feet, eyes open, muzzle resting on his
paws.

The cabin door creaked open.  Trilless' light footsteps pattered across
the deck, and the heavy thump of Carcophan's boots followed.  The
Southern Wizard's strong bass boomed across the deck.  "... surely even
you can see that."

Trilless replied with obvious disgust.  "What I can see is that you
have the insight of a donkey and the manners of a pig."

"Oh, so we're back to name calling, are we?"

The notes of the lonriset died away, and the pair ceased their
singing.

A smile touched Shadimar's lips.  Despite the burden of massive
responsibilities and the need to handle situations that had no obvious
answers, Shadimar found comfort in the familiar bickering of his
companions.  The power of the staff swelled through him, promising the
straightforward answers he sought and the authority to deal with the
problems, once detailed.  For now, many questions needed answers.  One
thing seemed certain; the spread of chaos had to be stopped, and Colbey
with it, in any manner possible.  Odin had made

the Cardinal Wizards' responsibilities clear for millennia.

No matter which of his predecessors Shadimar tapped, he always found
the same answer.  All of the Cardinal Wizards championed law first and
their own causes second.  All, that is, except Colbey.

Shadimar tightened his hand around the dolphin figure.  Its weathered
smoothness fit his hand easily, and the beak jutted through his
fingers.  The fins indented the flesh of his hand.

Though minor, the pain unnerved him, reminding him of the
invulnerability that the shattering of the Pica Stone had cost the
Wizards.  The last suggestion Carcophan had voiced in front of him
returned now, its logic seeming even more obvious in the wake of
Shadimar's current train of thought.

They would all need to find apprentices who could serve as
successors.

First, it would double their numbers so they could deal with Colbey and
his ugly trail of chaos from several directions at once.  There was
also a necessary security.

Losing an apprentice to Colbey's sword might save them a Wizard.  And
if the Western Wizard gone mad did slay one of the Cardinal three, an
apprentice would immediately stand ready to take his or her place.

Hopefully, the Wizard would not die at once and would have the presence
of mind to transfer his memories to his successor.

Still, despite the obvious logic of the decision, Shadimar felt trapped
and alone.  He had already depleted the store of competent individuals
to serve neutrality in looking for the one to replace Colbey.  They had
sent the five most promising to their deaths, not realizing that Colbey
still occupied the single placement in the Seven Tasks of Wizardry.

Since there would be little or no time to train the apprentices to
magic, it only made sense to choose competent fighters to stand against
Colbey.  Yet Shadimar balked at the idea of selecting a successor based
on weapon skill.  He was already battling the tragic results of the
Western Wizard's decision to replace himself with a Renshai rather than
a sorcerer.

Trilless' voice came clearly through the fog.  Apparently, she had
chosen to ignore her opposite's taunt and address her follower
instead.

"Captain, my friend.  Good sailing.  Now that we're through the portal,
do you have time to chat?"

Captain laughed, the sound like bells.  "My lady, of course.  Did you
think I have time only for old songs and

fine music?  How may I serve the Northern Wizard?"  He

added carefully, "And the Southern Wizard?"

Shadimar released the dolphin and turned.  He placed his back against
the rail, clutched the staff in both hands, and used its support for
balance.  It felt strong, and it lent him the stability that the
rolling ship stole.

At the movement, Secodon scrambled to his feet.  He shook moisture from
his coat.

"We wondered if you had seen the Western Wizard since he passed his
tasks."

"Aye," Captain said.  "Took him to shore days ago."  The elf's voice
held a discomfort that did not suit the carefree playfulness of his
race.  Though more serious than most of his ilk, the captain had a
somberness to his tone now that seemed misplaced, even for him.

Trilless apparently noticed the change as well.  "You're bitter.  Did
he give you trouble, too?"

"Nay, none of it," Captain.  replied quickly.  "But he did say.  things
that upset me now."

"What did he say?"  Carcophan encouraged, his graveled voice and
guttural accent sounding misplaced after Trilless' lilt.  "We need to
know."

Captain paused for a long time, apparently trying to pluck events from
confidences.  Odin's Laws limited him severely, and he would not reveal
another Wizard's words unless he felt certain the speaker would condone
the others gaining such knowledge.  "He said you had tried to kill
him."  A short pause followed, then anguish swallowed Captain's words
so that Shadimar had to strain to hear.  "How could you do that?

How could you break the most basic of the Wizards' vows?"

"He lied," Carcophan said.

"He's a Wizard," Captain clung to his point.  "He can't lie."

"Neither can we," Carcophan pointed out as quickly.

"I found him nearly dead from wounds only a demon could inflict."

"Ah, so that's where it went."  Carcophan laughed cruelly.

The revelation struck Shadimar hard, though it explained much.  He had
wondered why the creature had not, as the others expected, turned upon
its summoner.  They had believed that Shadimar had managed to banish it
back to the plane of chaos before he had lost consciousness.  Certain
he had worked no such magic, Shadimar had attributed the mir acle to
the staff.  Now, he knew better.  Yet now, too, he wished he had
dispelled the creature.  The idea that Colbey would slay a demon of the
kraell's power sent a chill through him, trebling the danger of the
chaos-wielding Renshai to the world of law.  Surely, the Staff of Chaos
must have aided the fight.

"Why would it have gone to him?"  Trilless asked, even as the same
question came to Shadimar's mind.

"What?"  Carcophan asked.  · "Why would the demon attack the one Wizard
who hadn't summoned it?

Certainly, it didn't worry about the damage Kyndig might inflict on our
world."

A pause followed as Southern and Eastern Wizard pondered
simultaneously.  Although he surely had questions, Captain did not
interrupt a conversation between Cardinal Wizards.

"Probably, the Staff of Law took over when Shadimar lost control."

Carcophan added, apparently not caring whether or not the Eastern
Wizard overheard, "I told you he wasn't strong enough to wield it.  Had
I held it--" Shadimar tightened his grip on the staff, more convinced
than ever that, even aligned with the other Cardinal Wizards, he
remained very much alone.  Carcophan would not have it.

Trilless interrupted Carcophan's posturing.  "We've gone over that
ground for the last time."  Her words emerged as a clear warning.  "If
you have a new point to make, do so.  If not, don't belabor issues put
to rest."

Perhaps because of the' presence of mortals or the importance of the
point he wished to make, Carcophan did not quibble.  "Clearly, the
Staff of Law wants Colbey dead, and the staff serves Odin more directly
than any being can.  I say our course is clear."

"No!"  Captain screamed.  It was the first time in the centuries
Shadimar had known the captain that he ever heard the elf lose
control.

Intrigued, Shadimar crossed the slippery deck, heading toward the
conversation, the wolf trotting carefully at his heels.  Apparently
equally Surprised, Carcophan and Trilless let the' outworlder speak his
mind.

"Your course is as fog-clouded as the Seraph's.  You can't harm another
Cardinal Wizard.  It'll bring the Ragnarok for certain."

"Times change," Carcophan said.  "Situations change.

Elves placed on the world to serve the Cardinal Wizards become
insubordinate.  When we decide we need the opinion of an inferior,
we'll demand it of you.  Until then, mind your station.  And your
business."

"Quiet, Evil One," Trilless returned.  "The captain is my underling,
and I'm interested in what he has to say.  Perhaps you're the one who
needs to learn his business."

"Stop it!"  Shadimar slammed the base of his staff onto the deck, and
the noise drew every eye.  Mar Lon perched on the gunwale, meekly
clutching his instrument and avoiding a direct role in the argument.

Captain clutched the tiller so tightly it looked as if he might need to
have his fist magically opened to release it.  In front of him,
Trilless and Carcophan stood, nose to nose, on the aft deck.

Having gained their attention, Shadimar continued.

"Sometimes I think you two just take opposite sides for the sake of
arguing, with no thought given to the issue itself.  I can think of
another reason why an unsecured demon would head straight for Colbey.

Remember the nature of chaos.  It's formless, masterless, and without
t'les or loyalties.  Locked in a staff, law becomes concentrated.  In
the same situation, chaos becomes trapped.  Therefore, it serves the
interests of chaos to slay Colbey and release the mass of chaos he
carries."

Trilless faced Shadimar, all momentum against Carcophan lost.  "You're
saying we should league with Colbey?"

Carcophan frowned, glaring.

"No."  Shadimar thumped the base of his staff against the planks again,
this time only for emphasis.  "I think we need to slay Colbey first,
get the staff, and destroy it before chaos gets control of it."

The captain quivered, features tight with anger.

Trilless and Carcophan considered in a silence that lasted several
minutes but seemed like seconds to Shadimar.

The Sorceress broke the silence.  "So you believe we have to compete
with chaos coming to release itself?"

Even Shadimar could see the strange circle his logic seemed to be
taking, but the staff in his hand supported the complexity of his
thoughts.  "The details aren't clear to me, but I don't think it's
anything to worry about so long as we don't summon demons.  By evoking
the staff, Colbey can take control of all of the chaos on our world.

Therefore, he

need fear only that chaos which we summon from its own plane."

"Let me make sure I understand."  Carcophan went pensive as well.

"Summoned chaos wants Colbey dead.  We want Colbey dead.  But if we
kill Colbey with summoned chaos, the summoned chaos will take control
of his staff and use it against us."

"That's how I understand it," Shadimar admitted, though he knew much of
the explanation still eluded him.

"Wait, wait, wait."  Trilless still clung to Carcophan's remark.

"Like Captain, I still take exception to the idea that we want Colbey
dead.  That's not been decided for certain."

Carcophan ignored Trilless' comments, continuing on his own track.

"So, if we can't summon demons or the Swords of Power, how do you
suggest we fight Colbey and his chaos?"

"We have the best weapon of all."  Shadimar smiled.  "Every object and
being of law.  On a lawful world, the possibilities are infinite."

Trilless cleared her throat, flinging her white cloak back to reveal
her equally white dress.  "Are Captain and I the only ones here with
sense?  Breaking the Wizards' vow against harming one another is as
chaotic an act as anything Colbey could perform."

Carcophan bowed gallantly, with mock respect.  "Sometimes, my dear, to
win the battle you have to fight by the enemy's rules."

"But chaos has no rules.  That's what makes it chaos."

Carcophan rose with a flourish.  "That's my point.  Whatever Shadimar's
theories on chaos rescuing chaos, it is still my belief that the Staff
of Law wants Colbey dead.  First and foremost, our vow is to uphold law
in its entirety."

Trilless snorted.  "Since when does the master of evil speak with
Odin's tongue?  You're arrogant to purport to know what the staff
wants."  She hesitated only a moment.

"In fact, you're arrogant, period."

The answer to the argument came to Shadimar in a flash.

To know what the Staff of Law wanted, he only needed to ask.  "Give me
a moment, and I'll tell you the will of the Staff of Law and,
therefore, of Odin."  Turning, he strode across the deck, opened the
door to the cabin, and slipped below decks.  Leaving Secodon with his
companions, he

pulled the panel shut behind him.  Nothing would jeopardize his
concentration.

Alone, Shadimar sat in one of the hard wooden chairs that surrounded
Captain's table and fixed his gaze on the nar-whale horn above the
books.  His heart pounded, revealing all the anxiety he had hidden from
his colleagues.  The staff felt vibrant in his fist, and magic hummed
through it with a current stronger than he would ever have guessed
existed.

There was something horrible about its power that Shadimar could
attribute only to its intensity and concentration.  So far, he had
feared to tap more than its barest edge, even when he had tried to
control the demon.  Its vitality dwarfed his own, making his centuries
seem like an eye blink in the cosmos and his life itself less than the
last twist of steam from a candle's flame.  Afraid to lose himself in
the depths, Shadimar slid the staff between his knees, trapping it
between the edge of the chair's seat and the table.  He gripped the
staff in both hands, resting his forehead against its smooth wooden
surface.

A massive wave of presence pulsed against Shadimar's being, as if to
suffocate him with its otherness.  Nearly overcome, Shadimar reeled
backward.  His chair toppled over, spilling him to the floor, and the
staff hit the planks with a resounding clatter.  The surge of the force
receded to a trickle, a message that touched Shadimar's mind like a
whisper."  You are my champion.  You need not fear me."

"Too much."  Shadimar gathered his remaining composure and dignity.

Righting the chair, he picked up the staff gingerly and retook his
seat.

The staff held its Sending to a cautious ebb.  'I did not mean to
overwhelm you.  We are one.  You are my champion."

"Your champion?"  Shadimar repeated, not quite understanding.

The intensity and enormity of its power quailed him.  He had met
nothing so formidable since his one and only meeting with the Keeper of
the Eighth task, a god he believed might have been Odin himself.  Yet
where the Keeper's whole being had seemed to clutch and pull, as if to
drag Shadimar into eternity, the staff seemed drawn to him, as if it
might drown him beneath its own vitality.

"Yes, my champion.  Of course.  Did you not notice how right we felt
together from the moment you touched me?  It has always been the
intention of Odin for the Eastern Wiz ard to wield me.  It is your
destiny, and the destiny of all those who share your mind."

The collective consciousness stirred, roused by the staff's words.

Shadimar's predecessors knew a calm rightness about the staff's
presence, yet its scope and vigor still cowed Shadimar.  It promised
strength, yet the current Eastern Wizard worried about dominance,
concerned that the device might become sovereign and the Wizard
servant.  · You doubt yourself too much, Eastern Wizard.  I told you
before, you need not fear me.  I am no being, just the portal to a
force.  And you are the champion destined to direct and advance my
realm."

The concept confused Shadimar.  "Your realm?  What realm is that?"  ·
You know what I am."

· You're the Staff of Law."

· And what is my realm, then?"  · Here."  Shadimar made a grand gesture
to indicate the worlds of men, elves, and gods.  "We are your realm."

The staff gave nothing, waiting for Shadimar to continue.

Shadimar frowned.  "So you're a portal from our world to itself?"

From the gods to men.  The Staff of Law opens onto the repository of
law itself.  The gray god, Odin.  That is the source of law power."

Shadimar suddenly felt paralyzed.  Though he had no need to speak
aloud, his mind seemed unable to even form words for speech.  But where
Shadimar failed, the collective consciousness swarmed forward to ask
the obvious questions.  · It has, from the start, been our job to
champion law?"

Though addressed by the others, the staff sent its answer directly to
Shadimar.  'I have always been the Eastern Wizards' destiny.  Unlike
good and evil, Odin kept the Staves of Law and Chaos while the Cardinal
Wizards became more knowledgeable and competent.  The time has come for
you to wield me."

A conclusion followed naturally.  "And for Colbey to wield chaos."

Shadimar had spent centuries guarding the balance between good and
evil, long enough to understand that one force could not exist without
the other.  The insight opened a whole new area of thought, and guilt
gnawed at him.  Perhaps he had been wrong from the start, and Colbey
right.

ence Mocked the wail.  "No!"  The forcefulness of its insistence
hammered through Shadimar's head.  "Law and chaos cannot be compared to
good and evil.  Good and evil are degrees of law; they cannot exist in
chaos.  Without law, there can be no faith, loyalty, or honor.  Without
form and definition, the world can have no absolutes, no right or
wrong;

and all that has become solid and real on this world will lose
meaning.

There is no such thing as a little bit of chaos.

Its leaks will widen, until the tiny breaches in Odin's de fenses split
open, admitting its destruction like a torrent.

Should Colbey league with his staff as you have with me, he would fling
wide the portal to the banished plane of chaos, exposing our world to a
deluge that Would wash all honor and morality away."

Buoyed by the confirmation of faith and the staff's strength, Shadimar
became bolder.  "How, then, do I stop him?  Do I listen to Carcophan?

Or to Trilless?"

The staff fed into the wave of enthusiasm.  "You listen to neither.  Or
both, or either as it suits you.  You follow your instincts, and you
follow my advice.  The other Wizards can help you, but the difference
between their causes and your own is like that between plain daggers
and the Swords of Power.  Good and evil are constructs of law.  And you
ARE law."

Vitality seemed to course through Shadimar, and he reveled in the
power.  Even knowing that normal weapons and accidents could harm him
now, he felt invincible.

The staff's voice pulsed through Shadimar with its advice.  · You must
destroy Colbey's staff, whatever the cost.  Sometimes, my champion,
like it or not, you have to turn an enemy's allies and tactics against
himself."

The concept seemed wrong, even now.  "Are you, the device of law,
suggesting that I use chaos?"  · Never!  But I will remind you of
this.

You are the Lawbringer.  You make the rules."  The staff withdrew then,
leaving only a tangible reminder of its physical presence.  Its final
words came softly, but were no less formidable.  "And when the need
arises, you can change them."

The following morning, Shadimar perched upon the Ascilan fjords with
Secodon, Carcophan and Mar Lon.

Though it was early spring, the Northern winds howled bitterly around
them, sending Carcophan's cloak into a whip ping dance.  The Sea
Seraph glided northward, becoming a dot on the horizon in the short
time it had taken them to scale the cliffs.

Shadimar leaned upon his staff, enjoying the feel of the breeze twining
his beard about the wood and the high-pitched hum of the wind's passage
through the hollow of Mar Lon's lonriset.

"He's been here," Carcophan said, drawing Shadimar from his vigil.

"What?"  Shadimar turned, facing his colleague, who examined the stony
sands.

"Colbey's been here.  He went south."  Carcophan looked up, fixing the
Eastern Wizard with his catlike eyes.  "You know this land better than
I. Where will that take him?"

Shadimar easily drew a mental map.  "After he got through Trilless'
territory, he'd come to the Weathered Range.  Once through the
mountains, the first town he'd reach would be the great trading city,
Pudar."  He considered a moment longer.  "Of course, the Western
Wizard's cave lies just about directly south of here.  In the
mountains."

"Mmmm."  Carcophan's brow crinkled in irritation.  "Do you think he
knows he's safe there?"

"Not for sure."  Shadimar considered.  "He might, though.

He's been to the cave, so he can find it.  When he stayed in my ruins,
he knew I had them permanently warded."  Shadimar went beyond the
direct question.  "It's not like Colbey, though, to hide from
anything."

Mar Lon remained in place, watching the Sea Seraph disappear,
deliberately adding nothing to the conversation.

"You heard the captain."  Carcophan did not taunt, apparently ill at
ease on his opposite's home ground.  He did not belong there.  "Colbey
was badly injured.  And the uneven spacing of his tracks makes me
certain he fared worse than even Captain guessed.  He fell at least
once.  Probably, he'll hole up for a while to heal."

Shadimar knew the warping of time sense that accompanied the Wizards'
immortality tended to make them withdraw into solitude for months,
years, or even decades at a time.

Apparently, Carcophan's thoughts had taken the same turn.  "We should
have Plenty of time to pick out our successors, if not to train
them."

Shadimar straightened, still keeping a solid hold on his staff.  The
wolf lay down at his feet, waiting.  "Don't count

on huge amounts of time.  Though a Wizard, Colbey hasn't yet learned
patience."

"Nor magic, Carcophan added.  "Which means he'll need at least a few
weeks to recuperate."

"Don't underestimate the Staff of Chaos.  It may do it for him, Or
teach him."  it may kill him."  In his own way, Carcophan let Shadimar
know that it was useless to speculate about the unknown.

"I'd suggest bringing books to study while each apprentice runs through
the tasks.  The more research we gather about the staff, the less power
Colbey holds.

Shadimar nodded, Carcophan's point a wise one.  Then, recalling the
manner in which the Evil One tended to obtain his information, Shadimar
qualified.  "But no demons.  Only books."

Carcophan returned a tight-lipped smile, but he did make a gesture of
accord.  "No matter what Trilless thinks, you and I know we have to
kill Colbey."

"Yes.  And I believe Trilless understands that now, too."

Again, Shadimar glanced out over the waters.  The Sea Seraph and its
two passengers had disappeared from sight.  Displeased with her choices
on man's world, Trilless had decided to obtain her successor from among
the elves.

Carcophan continued warily, "And you and I know that the strongest of
us should wield the Staff of Law."

Anger stabbed through Shadimar, but the security of the staff's power
allowed him to keep the comment in perspective.

Compared to what the staff had to offer, the difference between his and
Carcophan's abilities became insignificant.

He did not bother to meet Carcophan's gaze, though he let a slight grin
play across his lips.  "You couldn't wield it any more than I could
champion evil."

"That's nonsense," Carcophan insisted.  "All of us champion law.  Any
of us could wield it."

Now Shadimar pinned Carcophan's yellow-green eyes with his own gray
ones.  "The Staff of Law would not have you."

Carcophan held the Eastern Wizard's gaze, turning the exchange into a
war of wills.  "When chaos' day comes, you may despise your greed.

Farewell, Shadimar.  May you find a successor who exceeds the average
man, if any neutral prospects remain.  And farewell, Mar Lon, on your
long and lonely walk."  Still glaring at Shadimar, Carcophan trans
ported himself back to his own territory without fanfare.

One moment, he played a staring game with the other Cardinal Wizard.

The next, his place stood empty, without evidence that he had ever been
there.

Free of the other two Wizards, Shadimar felt as if a great weight had
lifted from his shoulders.  Then thoughts of Colbey and his chaos
filled Shadimar's mind, and he shivered.

He harbored no wish to face the enraged and corrupted Renshai by
himself.  He returned his attention to his remaining companions.

Secodon lay in place.  As his master's gaze found the wolf, his tail
whisked against the sand, flinging sparkling grains into the air.  Mar
Lon sat, cross-legged, on the beach.  He balanced the lonriset across
his knees, pressing out chords with his left hand while his right
alternately mimicked strumming and plucking.  His mouth moved as he
whispered new rhymes amid the silent runs and riffs.  The sword in his
belt lay twisted awkwardly to accommodate the instrument and Mar Lon's
position.

A strange thought came to Shadimar's head.  Once formed, the idea found
the staff's support.  Why not Mar Lon?  He knows more about the
Cardinal Wizards than any other mortal in the world, and he can
fight.

"Mar Lon."

The bard looked up.  His fingers stilled on the strings.

"What are you going to do now?"

Mar Lon stroked Secodon absently with his left hand.  The wolf's tail
rose, waving like a flag.  "I think I'll just stay here.  King
Sterrane's done without me this long, and there's still more business
to attend at the Meeting Isle."  He spoke with a bold
matter-of-factness, but his tone betrayed sadness and a concern for
responsibilities unperformed.  The bard's god-given tasks, to gather
the knowledge of the world and to guard the king in Bearn, now
clashed.

"By the time I finished traveling home, you and Carcophan would have
returned here, ready to test your apprentices."

"You're going to stay here?  In Asci?  On this empty beach?"  Shadimar
crouched before Mar Lon, lowering himself to the bard's level, yet
still clutching the staff.

Mar Lon shrugged, obviously less worried about his own discomfort than
over leaving the king unprotected.  "It'll give me the chance to seek
more knowledge of the North.

And it's not as if I don't have a thousand new songs to write."  He
smiled, clearly referring to the events of the last

few weeks.  "I'll do fine.  You have more important things to

concern yourself with than my plans or comfort."

"Perhaps."  Shadimar considered.  "Listen, Mar Lon.  I need to talk
with you.  Would you object if I transported us both back to my
territory?"  Shadimar thought over his own offer briefly.  Technically,
his realm extended from the Northern Weathered Range south to the ocean
and from the Great Frenum Mountains westward to an ill-defined line
through the farm towns near Sholton-Or.  Since the Eastern and Western
Wizards championed neutrality together, they had never needed a strong
physical barrier like the ones that separated Carcophan's far eastern
realm and Trilless' Northmen.

Mar Lon would find less of interest in Shadimar's realm than in
Colbey's, although he would find security in Shadimar's ruins until the
time came for the Wizards to reconvene.

And Shadimar did not forget that the high Western kingdom, Bearn, was
considered joint territory by the Eastern and Western Wizards.  "Better
yet, I'll transport us to Bearn.  We can chat freely there, and you'll
have a closer watch over the king."

Mar Lon rose hesitantly, brushing sand from his breeks.

"Naturally, nothing could please me more."  His manner did not match
the enthusiasm of his words.  "But isn't it dangerOUS?"

Shadimar snapped his fingers, signaling Secodon to his side, and the
wolf obeyed instantly.  Shadimar understood the bard's concern.  Though
competent to perform magics of many sorts, the Cardinal Wizards rarely
exercised the privilege; the peril was too great.  Shaped of chaos, the
spells could easily escape a Wizard's control or come out far
differently than the caster's intention.  Clearly, when it came to one
Wizard leaving the territory of another, the benefits outweighed the
risk.  When it involved shifting mortals from place to place, the
effort quadrupled and the hazard with it.

Still Shadimar recalled two instances when his own predecessor had
magically transported him, and the staff made him bolder.  "Not very
dangerous.  A simple enough spell, and I have the Staff of Law to alert
me to chaos leaks.  Will you come?"  Crooking the staff in his elbow,
he placed one hand on the wolf's head and held out the other to Mar
Lon.

The bard came to him, and Shadimar seized one of the man's wrists.

Muscles shifted around bone, the attachments well-developed from his
sword training.  Shadimar triggered

the transport spell.  The cold touch of chaos rippled through him, a
sensation devoid of substance or loyalty, yet terrifying for its alien
impurity.  Always in the Past, its contact sent chills through
Shadimar, reminding him of its destructive wrongness, a presence he
tried to forget from day to day.

But, this time, he scarcely noticed the feeling, concentrating instead
on the wonder of the magic itself, the beauty of an act that only four
beings on man's mortal world could perform.

The workings of the spell stretched before him in multicolored bands
and streamers as complex as, yet less ordered than, a spider's web.

Within the shimmering lines and planes that seemed to mock order,
Shadimar found the otherworld words of the spell sewn into the maze.

Though he had thought each syllable with rulered exactness, the visual
image had cut and decapitated the lettering, sprinkling it in random
sequences about the infrastructure.

Then, suddenly, the sequenceless patterning disappeared.

Mar Lon, Secodon, and Shadimar stood in a valley just outside the
kingdom of Bearn.  Carved from the mountain, the palace rose among the
other peaks, chips of quartz and py-rite glimmering through its
spires.

Secodon wagged his plumed tail, obviously caught up in his master's
excitement.

Mar Lon hugged himself tightly, looking chilled to the marrow, though
the temperature here was twice that of Asci's sea air.

Shadimar saw no need to announce their arrival.  Mar Lon had lived in
Bearn long enough to know precisely where he stood.  He credited the
Staff of Law with showing him the details of magic that he could only
have surmised before.

Chaos had its place, and clearly that place was on another plane where
its destruction and dishonor could not touch the citizens of law's
realm but it could be summoned for spells such as the one Shadimar had
just performed.

Mar Lon bobbed his head in wary appreciation.  "I thank you, friend
Wizard, for the knowledge of a new experience."

He made a formal bow to soften the words that followed.  "It would
please me if I never had occasion to experience it again."

Shadimar laughed.  "Chaos never feels right.  But it does become less
frightening when you brace for its touch."

"Is that what I felt?  That shiver that tore through my soul and set
every muscle in my body on edge?  The only other things that came close
to making me feel such horror were

sounds: the dying scream of a rabbit and the terminal crack

of a tree trunk before it fell.  But there was also a personal
wrongness to this that made me feel ashamed for every man's barest
thought of dishonesty."

Shadimar loosed another wry chuckle.  "A poet to the heart, Mar Lon.

I've never heard it described better.  You have a talent for seeing
detail, a talent that would serve the Cardinal Wizards well."

Mar Lon lowered his gaze to his instrument, apparently embarrassed by
the praise.  Surely others had complimented his imagery before, but
never a Wizard who served the gods directly.  "Thank you."

Shadimar continued.  "It was a new experience for me as well.  The
Staff of Law showed me subtleties I never had the power or
understanding to see on my own before.  It could do that for you,
too."

Mar Lon looked up suddenly.  "I don't understand."

"Someday, you could wield the Staff of Law."

Mar Lon's brow crinkled in confusion.  He shook his head once, as if to
clear it.  Then he shook his head several times in quick succession,
negating the possibility.  "I don't see how, sir.  If the staff
wouldn't have Carcophan, I don't see why it would accept me.  Besides,
it would serve the world far better in your hands."

Shadimar's laugh echoed between the peaks.  "Of course I shall wield it
for now.  Your time will come."

Mar Lon clung to his lonriset, though the instrument was securely tied
in place.  "Are you asking me to become your successor?"  The wind
turned his dark hair into a tangle, and his hazel eyes found Shadimar's
briefly, then skittered away.

"Can you think of anyone better suited?"

"Surely there's someone.  I'm not suited at all."

"You're too modest, Mar Lon."  That flaw did not bother Shadimar.  The
Tasks of Wizardry had enhanced boldness in the unpretentious, though
they tended to kill the timid.

Shadimar had little trouble distinguishing between the two.

A coward would never have accepted the transport spell so easily nor
performed before crowds as the bards were trained to do.  "You
understand our concerns and procedures.

You've seen glimpses of the Seven Tasks, and I feel confident you could
survive them.  You know enough swordplay to stand against Colbey, at
least for a time."

Mar Lon flushed, still holding the lonriset.  "You flatter

my weapon skill immensely.  Even if I could stand against

the prince of Renshai for a time, I would choose to avoid that
situation.  I've dedicated my life to peace, through my music and the
way I live."  Cursed to teaching and giving complicated replies only
with his music, Mar Lon launched into song.  His fingers flickered over
the strings, as lightly as leaves fluttering in a summer breeze.  The
chords that pealed forth sounded fuller than any Shadimar had heard,
except from others in the line of bards.  The notes rang with a purity
that matched Mar Lon's perfect ea r for pitch, the sound not Straying a
quarter tone, even long after the string's plucking.

After a short introduction, Mar Lon's voice joined the music's
flawlessness, spanning three octaves, at times, between single notes.

He sang of peace between peoples, calling on animals, forests, and
nature for imagery.  The pictures he painted with words drew mental
visions as solidly real as any artist's paintings or carvings.  The
song soothed, its tones turning from early discordancy to a crystalline
beauty that intertwined notes like lovers.  The message stressed
tolerance of all men's views as well as the settling of those
differences through speech instead of war.

As it continued, the melody and message unnerved

Shadimar, and he grew impatient with the five verses and choruses that
answered a question Mar Lon could have addressed with a sentence.

Odin's curse upon the first bard and his line demanded they express
themselves to mortals in song, but that rule did not apply to
immortals.  Among the

Cardinal Wizards or gods, Mar Lon could speak freely.  This time, he
had chosen not to.

The last notes scattered into Bearn's spring air, the crags bouncing
imperfect echoes that detracted from the song.

Shadimar did not wait for Mar Lon to lower his instrument.

"I'm not asking you to attack Colbey.  I'm certainly not asking you to
stand against him alone or directly.  Taking on the responsibilities of
Wizardry means giving up personal concerns, but it doesn't require you
to abandon personal honor.

In fact, serving law can only concentrate faith and principles."

Shadimar drove home his point.  "When's the last time you saw any
Cardinal Wizard dive into battle, violently or otherwise?"  He added
quickly, "Excepting Colbey, of course."

Mar Lon let his lonriset go loose on its tie.  "I know you're right."

Excitement pulsed through Shadimar, enhanced by the staff.

Secodon barked Once.  "So you'll become my apprentice?"

"No," Mar Lon said.  "I can't."

Shocked by the reply, Shadimar found himself at a momentary loss for
words.  He recovered nearly instantly.

"Certainly you can."

"I can't."  Again Mar Lon raised his instrument to explain.

Shadimar laid a heavy hand on the bowl, pressing the lonriset to its
resting position.  "You don't need that.  You can speak with me without
limitation."

"I'm sorry.  It's as much habit as curse anymore."  Mar Lon 'seemed to
run out of words then, and he reached for the lonriset again.  "I can
express myself better this way."

Shadimar kept his palm on the instrument, irritated by time constraints
and new responsibilities.  "Talk.  I've more important matters to
attend than wasting my time listening to your concerts.  Why can't you
serve the world as those competent to become Wizards have the
obligation to do?  Would you rather I sent a thousand less able mortals
to their deaths trying to succeed at tasks made for ones such as me and
you?"

"Me and you?"  Mar Lon repeated with obvious incredulity.

Unable to play, he seemed uncertain where to place his hands.  His
fingers darted from nervous strokes at his dark hair to his sword
hilt.

Whatever his proclivity toward peace, the bard's training had made him
a competent warrior.  "You flatter me."

"It's not my job or intention to flatter.  Only to serve the world
within the confines of Odin's Law."  The last of Shadimar's patience
evaporated.  "If personal honor and privilege are not enough, do it for
the good of the world.

The world stands on the brink of destruction, and it needs your
guidance.  How can you refuse that?"

Secodon watched Mar Lon with the same interest as his master did.

Running out of places to fret, Mar Lon trapped his hands in his
pockets.  "I think you overestimate the value of my guidance, though
I've hardly kept it from the world.  I've traveled from Blathe to the
Western Plains, from the twin cities to Stalmize, spreading the
messages of peace and tolerance.

But the bard's curse limits me to song.  Could you imagine a general
and his Officers detailing strategy in four part harmony?  How can I
lead men when I can't even speak with them?"

Shadimar saw the way around Mar Lon's handicap.  He wedged his staff
into a crevice for support, then leaned heavily upon it.  "Your voice
and your talent are a god-given gift.  With a little training in the
arts and the knowledge of my predecessors, you might create a new form
of magic using music.  The possibilities are limitless."A vast new
plain seemed to open in Shadimar's thoughts, and the future became
boundless and unbridled.  Excitement thrilled through him.  Mar Lon's
ability could add a whole dimension of · power to the Eastern Wizards'
reign.  The staff tingled with a joy of its own, its support
tangible.

Even more than Shadimar, it wanted Mar Lon's acquiescence.

"No," Mar Lon said.  He lowered his head, his hands ball-ing to fists
in his pockets.

The reply caught Shadimar by surprise, and his dream seemed to fragment
around him.  He felt a hot splash of rage that seemed tO originate from
the staff.  "No to what?  What do you mean by 'no'?"

Secodon whined.

"I mean 'no,' Shadimar."  Mar Lon's gaze played over the distant
spires.  "I mean that I respect the offer and I'm honored that you even
considered me."  Now the bard fixed his gaze on Shadimar, meeting the
ancient, gray eyes bravely.

"But I cannot and will not become the next Eastern Wizard."

It was an honor no man or woman had ever refused, and Shadimar stood in
an awkward, ugly silence.  Anger pulsed through him in waves as solid
as gale-tossed ocean.

Freeing his hands, Mar Lon again clutched the lonriset.  He ducked
through-the leather strap that bound the instrument, needing the
musical support to explain his decision.

Balancing the bowl on one knee, he placed his fingers with practiced
skill.  The left depressed strings, skipping from chord to note with a
dancer's grace.  The right sounded out the notes with mellow
confidence.  After a short introduction, he launched into song, the
lyric beauty of his tones putting the instrument to shame: "Odin laws
constrain us all To tasks we must fulfill--" But Shadimar wanted none
of it.  Impulsively, his wrinkled hand slapped the lonriset.  Though
light, the suddenness of

the movement drove the ten-stringed instrument from the

bard's hands.

Secodon leapt aside, clearly startled.

Mar Lon made a muffled noise of horror, trying to catch the instrument
in midair.  He managed only to send it into a spin.  It crashed to the
mountain stone, amid a loud cacophony of splintering wood and chiming
strings.  The awful discordance slapped echoes from peak to peak, and
the silence that followed seemed as complete as death.

Guilt and rage warred within Shadimar, and the staff supported the
latter.

"No," Mar Lon whispered.  He dropped to his knees, oblivious to the
stone tearing gashes in his breeks and flesh.

He caught the Lonriset, examining the damage with moist, anguished
eyes.  His jaw clamped closed so tightly his cheeks twitched, and his
hands fluttered over the mangled wood.  Two pairs of strings had
snapped, one side of the bowl had been staved in, and a tuning stake
had broken off at the base.  He clutched the instrument for a time,
then lowered it back to the ground like a soldier long past the skills
of a healer.  "Why did you do that?  How could you do that?"

His dark, green-flecked eyes flashed, meeting Shadimar's with none of
his previous trepidation.

Shadimar considered his reply, trying to sort through the boil of
emotion for the right words.  He had not intended to destroy the
lonriset, yet experience warned him not to allow his actions to appear
unplanned or foolish.  He would not pay the price for impetuousness
with dignity.  His own abrupt movement had caught even himself by
surprise.  It did not fit his methods nor his deeply ingrained pride to
do anything reckless.  Yet, once done, he had little choice but to
defend it.  "I asked you not to play, Mar Lon."

Mar Lon hugged the remains of his lonriset to his chest.

Tears brimmed in his eyes.  He looked away, lowering his head.

Shadimar softened, hating the pain he had inflicted but concerned that
Mar Lon's refusal would cause far worse.  "I didn't expect you to lose
your grip.  I'm sorry it's broken.

But I hope even you can see the irony of weeping over a construct of
wood, steel, and gut while refusing the chance to keep mothers from
crying over their babies.  It's the curse of Ragnarok to pit brother
against brother; sons will rape

mothers and fathers daughters.  The heavens will run with the blood of
gods."

Mar Lon's back heaved.

Secodon brushed against the bard, nose questing for his face in
sympathy.

"We can build a hundred Lonrisets, lutes, and mandolins.

The gods and mankind cannot be replaced."  The sentiment rang hollow,
even to Shadimar.  Though he tried to stay with his point, his mind
explored the knowledge that had come with the idea of music as magic.

Logic told him that an argument could be made for destroying an
imperfect world to make way for a new one, one formed from bold ideas,
intelligent vision, and concept.  Still, the destructiveness inherent
in such a notion made the whole seem heinous and foreign: and Shadimar
discarded it for now.

Mar Lon wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.  He did
not look up.  Grief and the surrounding crags muffled his words.  "I
understand the significance of Ragna-rok, Shadimar.  More than
anyone."

His head sagged further, and his reply became even more difficult to
decipher.

Shadimar dropped to a crouch beside the bard.

"But Odin placed nearly as many shackles on me and my line as on the
Cardinal Wizards themselves.  I took the vows I took, and the fact that
they were inflicted on me by blood-line makes them no less sacred.  In
fact, it makes them more sacred."  Mar Lon looked up briefly, and red
vessels already marred the whites of his eyes.  "My loyalties lie,
first and foremost, with King Sterrane.  That's a duty I won't
sacrifice."

"It's a minor concern."  Shadimar persisted, goaded by the staff.

"Once you become a Wizard, your life will outspan Sterrane's by
centuries."

"It doesn't matter."  Mar Lon allowed the lonriset to slip from his
hands, and it rang against the stones.  "Whether for a year or for a
moment, I can't stand against what he represents."

The suggestion behind the words shocked Shadimar.  "The king of Bearn
stands for neutrality and the West.  By the gods, I raised him
myself.

How could his views clash with your becoming my apprentice?"

Mar Lon rose, leaving the shattered instrument on the stones.  "Because
the neutrality that Sterrane represents isn't

a force that can be championed.  It's a lack of all forces or,
perhaps, the presence of all forces."

The simplicity of Mar Lon's teachings mocked Shadimar's centuries of
knowledge.  "I hardly need you to explain neutrality.  I've championed
it for almost two centuries and my predecessors for millennia before
me."

"You did.  And they did."  Mar Lon scooped up his instrument, carrying
it in the crook of one arm.  "But not anymore.

From the moment you accepted the Staff of Law, you became its champion
in the same way Carcophan upholds evil and Trilless good."

Shadimar stared.  "That's ridiculous, Mar Lon."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is.  It's an inappropriate comparison.  You can't
correlate good and evil with law and chaos.  Without law, there is no
good or evil.  Our world is law.  Chaos has its own world.  Here, it
would destroy the very fabric of the universe."

Mar Lon back-stepped, as if fearing Shadimar might harm his lonriset
again, though the damage was already done.

"Colbey made a good case for balance."

"What!"  Though he had once contemplated the possibility himself, now
the idea that anyone might seriously consider Colbey's proposal rattled
and outraged Shadimar and his staff.  "Surely you didn't buy his
rationalizations.  He's as mad as his chaos.  And he doesn't have any
knowledge from Which to draw but his own, as sparse and
inaccuracy-fiddled as it is."

Mar Lon drove his point home.  "You sound exactly like Carcophan
talking about Trilless."

Shadimar held rage in check from long decades of practice.

The staff intervened.  Odin's Laws demand that the Cardinal Wizards
kill any creature espousing chaos.  Shadimar had little choice but to
define Mar Lon's intentions.  "Are you saying that you believe we
should allow chaos on the world of law?"

Mar Lon shook his head, taking another backward step.

"What I believe has no significance.  I'm as bound to serve consummate
neutrality as you are law.  For me to forsake that loyalty would be to
violate the very law you claim to uphold.

Odin determined my course long ago, free of my personal biases.

Because we do live on a world of law, I would

have to break oaths to champion it.  Then, I would make it the poorest
proponent indeed."

Shadimar saw much sense in Mar Lon's argument, though a nagging in the
back of his mind suggested that he had missed the deeper loopholes.

Before he could argue the matter further, Shadimar wanted to mull it
over first.  One thing seemed certain, he needed solitude.  "Very
.well, Mar Lon, though I think you're drawing a distinction where it
doesn't exist.  I'll find another to become my apprentice.  Let all
those who die in the coming wars weigh heavily upon your conscience."

With that, Shadimar waved a hand.  The necessary incantation coursed
through his mind, and he transported himself and his wolf to the safety
of his ruins.

CHAPTER 15

Aristiri Song

Colbey awakened disoriented, opening his eyes to a close grayness that
seemed warm, dry, and secure.  He lay upon blankets piled on the floor,
his body forming a hollow among the cloth.  Patterns of light and
shadow alternated on a craggy ceiling formed from natural stone, and
the room contained little in the way of furniture.  A desk occupied the
opposite corner, near the door, simple but sturdy, with a matching
chair.  On the wall above it, shelves rose in two rows.  Books stood in
a neat line, gingerly placed and arranged from tallest to shortest.  An
eye studied Colbey from over the shelves.  Catching light from beyond
the open doorway, it glowed red.

Red.  Suddenly shocked fully awake, Colbey sat up.  The abruptness of
his movement flashed pain through his entire body.  He knew from
experience that most animal eyes shone green or amber at night.  Still,
no human could fit, crammed above the books, and it bothered him that
even a change in position had not"brought the second eye into view.  He
had once seen a blue-eyed cat whose eyes gleamed red in darkness, and
he had heard that skunks' and foxes' did the same.

Colbey Studied the area above the books.  The creature there bore no
white markings to reveal it, but Colbey's intense scrutiny carved shape
from random blackness.

Bird.  It's a large bird.  The form explained the single eye, and
Colbey presumed he faced the same aristiri that had followed him from
Captain's ship.  He tried to recall the color that bird eyes usually
reflected at night, only to draw a blank.  Other than nighthawks and
owls, he had never seen or heard of birds doing anything after sundown
except sleeping.

And the owl eyes he had seen shone gold.

Once identified Colbey turned his attention from the bird, and memory
came to him in a painful rush.  He remembered staggering southward over
stony beach and into evergreen

forest.  He recalled a need to collapse there and sleep, but something
had driven him onward, something with a sharp beak and talons and wings
that buffeted like a street fighter's fists.  The crawl through the
forests became a blur of forward movement, and memory of the mountain
passes came only in broken pictures.  Somehow, he had made it to the
Western Wizard's cave.  And that somehow, he believed, now perched on
the shelves above the desk.

Maybe there is something to this Wizard/bird rapport.  Colbey tried to
think of the hawk as a leathered Secodon, but the comparison would not
fit.  The wolf seemed far more pet than guardian, no different than a
farmer's obedient dog except that it seemed to read and reveal the
Eastern Wizard's moods.  Clearly, this aristiri had some intelligence
and agenda of its own.  Either that, or I'm making far too much out of
this.

Colbey rolled to his side, feeling the chorus of aches shift through
him, then settle into silence.  After Tokar's death, he had spent
months living in the Wizard's cave, long enough to know it as a haven,
to grow familiar with its furnishings, and to add touches of his own.

Though songbirds flittered and played before the entrance through the
day, never before had any creature chosen to enter the cave.  Men
walked right by without seeing it; Colbey, too, would have missed it
his first time had the Western Wizard not summoned him with explicit
instructions and called out to him on arrival He did not know for
certain how the permanent magic of the wards worked, whether as simple
camouflage or active defense.  He felt certain that Odin's Laws would
forbid the other Cardinal Wizards from invading his haven, but he no
longer trusted rules alone to bind them.

Colbey reached his left hand to the floor beside him.  His fingers
touched naked steel, his two swords reassuringly within reach.  The
staff lay beside them, warm and vibrating.

Only now, Colbey realized that the pain in his head came, not from
injury, but from a force repeatedly battering against his barriers,
seeking entrance.  'I am here."

Sleep beckoned, but Colbey knew he must first deal with the staff if he
did not want to spend the rest of his life with a pounding headache.

He concentrated on mental fortifications that seemed natural, though
Shadimar had stated otherwise, prying open a gap just large enough for
commu nication.  He could feel the other hovering outside, massive,
its lifelike force tangible.  "What do you want?"

Surprise quivered through the entity stretching to lengths far beyond
those Colbey had any desire to follow.  Its size seemed infinite.  "I'm
here, and I can help."

'I know where you are and what you are.  Stop bothering me."  · We are
one, and you are my champion."  It tried to squeeze through the crack
Colbey had opened, but he blocked it with a wordless aura of threat.  ·
I'm your champion, not your slave.  I'm the Master; you're the tool."

Colbey recalled the day Shadimar had given him Harval.  At first, he
had refused, concerned that the magic of the sword might wield him,
protect him, or that he might become dependent on its feel and power.

Renshai honor forbade him from relying on luck or artificial defenses,
on anything but his own skill.  "If you try to control me, I'll destroy
you."  · And the world with me."  · Grand generalizations irk me.

Whether or not dispatching you would affect our world remains to be
seen.  For now, I want your promise that you won't try to sneak into my
thoughts again.  It's rude at the least; Shadimar taught me that.  And
I won't tolerate it.  I want a vow from you that you'll work with me
and that my judgment will always take precedence.  You won't enter my
mind without permission."  · You want a vow from ME?"  The staff seemed
both insulted and incredulous.

Exhausted and wanting the matter finished, Colbey did not mince
words.

"Yes."  · I'm older than mankind.  Can't you trust that there will come
times when I know better than you?"  · Then you may advise me.  And
I'll choose whether or not to act on that advice."

Resentment flowed through the staff, but it presented no new
argument.

· Shadimar used the same older equals wiser point.  Age, by itself,
doesn't make a man clever.  Elders only become wiser if they seek
experience and wisdom.  But you're a force with a specific goal.  All
you know is what you are.  My judgment is clearer, no matter how men,
gods, or Wizards see me.  I'm not always right, but I won't trust the
world itself to another's insight."

Shock radiated freely from the staff.  "You truly believe your
judgment is superior to mine?  To all other men's?  To the other
Cardinal Wizards'?  Even to 'the gods'?"

Colbey laughed aloud.  'I doubt there's any man who se cretly does not
believe the same about himself.  It's one of the things that has always
made me proud of being mortal: the ability to question even that which
we know as truth."

The staff made its disgust obvious.  "You're not fit to wield me."  ·
Clearly, Odin believes I am."  Colbey gave his own smug satisfaction
free rein.  "The promise, please."  · Consider it made, though it's a
mistake.  It's not your job to champion balance.  I am your charge."  ·
If it's my cosmic purpose, eventually I'll find it.  The Renshai not
only had a strict code of honor, they also taught me to think for
myself.  Over the years, men and Wizards have called me and my judgment
many things, few of them kind.  None of those matters now.  I'll
Champion the cause I feel is right.  And I sincerely believe that, in
the long run, it will work out best for us all to find a compromise."

You already make me regret my vow.  Between law and chaos, there can be
no compromise."

And that, in a phrase, is your blind spot."  Colbey shut off the
conection with a finality that said more than words.  The staff
quivered beneath his touch, though whether in frustration, fear, or
anger Colbey could no longer tell.  He freed one of the blankets,
pulling it over his body.  He felt dirty in the tattered silks he had
now worn for days, and the urge to change nearly overwhelmed him.  But
for now, sleep had to take precedence.  Early in his career as a
healer, he had learned that the body could repair damage most quickly
and easily when its unnecessary functions shut down.  He had long held
the theory that sleep itself was the body's way of fixing the stresses
and strains that occurred throughout the day.  Men who spurned sleep
shortened their own lives.

Still, despite an exhaustion that had dragged Colbey to a previous
unconsciousness, devoid even of his usual instinctive wariness, the
pain of his injuries now stole his ability to rest.  Each breath jabbed
his lungs into shattered ribs and set off a wild clamor of braises and
strains.  He felt battered in every part, and his muscles tensed
against the pain, making sleep impossible.  He rolled, trying to find a
comfortable position, the movement only waking every ache again.

The aristiri fluttered from the upper shelf to the desk, studying
Colbey through one really-glowing eye.

Colbey tried to resist the urge to shift position again.  As before,
his mind promised respite in a new pose, and he accepted it.  He rolled
to his back, tensed for the jangle of pain that raised frustration.

"Damn it!"  he said aloud.

The hawk flapped to the floor beside him.  It perched on the grounded
staff, loosing a delicate squawk that sounded sympathetic.

Colbey sighed.  Its nearness gave him one more thing to distract him
from sleep, and he considered driving it away.

Even as the thought came to his mind, the bird threw back its head and
started singing.  The notes warbled forth in a mellow rush so unlike
the shrill chirps and tweets of northern songbirds.  Music echoed
through the cavern, and the aristiri seemed to match its own notes to
the reverberations, so that the melody sounded more like a planned
duet.  it anticipated the repeated notes and their changes, matching
its tones into perfect chords.

Colbey smiled, captivated by the beauty of the song.  He focused on its
mild harmony, and his consciousness seemed to float and glide with the
song.  He let it take his concerns and his pain, sparing no guilt for
the sleep his body needed.

Later, he would need his wits fully about him.  For now, he was safe.

As darkness settled around Colbey, he recalled his mother's voice and
the lullaby she had used to sing him to sleep as a babe:

"Soft, little Renshai Time's come for dreaming Of battles and honor And
swords brightly gleaming.

"The morning sun will dawn With glimmers of sword light And chance for
glory comes Once sleep has filled the night."

Buoyed bY the memory, Colbey found sleep.

Forest travel became a pleasure now that Khitajrah had discovered the
road.  The packed soil yielded spongily, but

the crushed stone kept her from sinking deeply with each step.  The
earth smelled pleasantly of damp, and it mingled with the aroma of
greenery and Pine.  There were other odors: a momentary tinge of musk
where a fox had marked, the decay-smell of brackish water, and others
unfamiliar to Khitajrah.  Together, these came to define the
woodlands.

Without the ceaseless need to tear, duck, and clamber, she came to
enjoy her time in the Westland forest.

In the Eastlands, the closely packed population kept her from finding
privacy, except among the more ancient, crumbling sectors of the city
or by slipping to a rooftop where few would think to look.  The idea of
walking miles without seeing anyone intrigued and frightened her.

Early on, the occasional passage of rattling horse carts or riders
cheered Khitajrah.  Later, they seemed only to disturb her solitude.

On the ninth day of Khitajrah's journey to Bearn, lacy clOUds blotted
the sky.  Sunlight snuggled through the laice-work of clouds and
branches, lending the forest a dull, gray-green glow.  Concern touched
Khitajrah for the first time in days.  The guilt for her lie in
Ahktar's court had faded quickly, and the long-held repentance for
slaughtering Diarmad and his companion in Stalmizc's graveyard seemed
finally to have evaporated with it.  What's done is done.

Chaos concurred.  "The Eastern veterans got what they deserved.

And the one not-quite-true word you spoke in the courtroom hurt no
one.

In the end, Khita, that single word will save your son's life."  An
internal calmness accompanied its assessment.

Khitajrah nodded absently, though there was nO one to see the
gesture.

Though not fully laid to rest, she had managed to suppress the twinges
of conscience that accompanied actions that did not fit the rigid
loyalties and faith she had known since birth.  For now, something more
basic bothered her.  She had agreed to meet Lirtensa in Pudar in two
weeks.

Yet, after nearly a week and a half of travel, she had not even reached
Bearn.  Irritated by the thought, she tossed back shoulder-length,
black hair curled into frizzled tangles by moisture-laden air.  She
still had to arrive in the kingdom, manage an audience with its
monarch, and travel to the great trading city.  "I'll never make it."

A more horrifying thought struck her.  "What if I went the wrong
way?"

That's impossible," chaos soothed.  "Lirtensa said this trail would
take you to Bearn.  You haven't veered from it."

Khitajrah sighed, knowing chaos was right, though not

pacified by the realization.  She had seen Lirtensa riding out of town
on a hardy, buckskin mare.  Only now did it occur to her that he must
have expected her to have a mount as well.  "If I did, I'd probably be
through with Bearn and half way to Pudar by now."  The mistake agitated
her.  The clouds darkened, and a light sprinkle fell, pattering
hollowly to the leaves overhead.  The rain only added to her
exasperation.  · What now?"

For a moment, chaos seemed to have no answer.  "Continue.

Perhaps Bearn's king will know Colbey's location, and you won't need to
meet with Lirtensa.  Otherwise, you'll just arrive late.  If he's a
guard, as he claimed, he shouldn't be hard to find."

The idea that Lirtensa might lie about his job had never occurred to
Khitajrah.

Chaos responded to the flicker of idea.  "That's because you're still
chaos-innocent.  I'm working on that."

Khitajrah still cared little for arriving late for a promised meeting,
but she did take some solace from chaos' explanation.

The rain quickened, drumming against the foliage.

Strands of hair dribbled into her eyes.  She pawed them away, only to
find herself staring at a crossroads.  To her right, the path made a
ninety-degree turn.  It headed north, away from the mountains, and
Khitajrah dismissed that direction easily.  Two other pathways radiated
from the meeting point.  The larger, the more obvious continuation of
the path, headed west or slightly northwest; without the sun, Khitajrah
found exact pinpointing of direction difficult.

Though poorly defined, the other showed signs of recent traffic and it
clearly bent southwest.  Aware Bearn nestled in the Southern Weathered
Range, the southernmost city of the Westlands, Khitajrah froze in
indecision.

The rhythmic rattle of rain on leaves became the only sound in the
Westland forest.  Khitajrah approached, not daring to believe she faced
a choice now, when she had already fallen well behind schedule.  Her
dress clung wetly to her legs and body, and she tugged irritably at the
fabric.  She approached the crossroads slowly, hoping something would
send her in the right direction.  Within a few steps, a wooden sign
came into view.  The squiggles and lines of the printed Western letters
meant nothing to her.  'I don't suppose you read ...."

Chaos did not wait for Khitajrah to finish the thought.  "No."

Khitajrah stared at the sign, as if time might make the writing
comprehensible.  But after several moments, the lettering seemed
equally incoherent.  Needing a target for her irritability, she turned
to her only companion.  'I thought chaos represented knowledge."

"Concept and idea.  Writing as creation is chaos.  Its structure and
form come of law."

Khitajrah considered, glad to be drawn from her dilemma for a moment.

"How can that be?"

Though chaos had seemed capable of reading intention before, this time
it ran with words.  "Chaos is creation and destruction; law is building
and execution."

Khitajrah defined her point.  "If chaos is needed for creation; how did
mankind come up with language in the first place?  Or anything else for
that matter?"

"From the gods."  Chaos drove the point home, its aura triumphant.  'I
told you they worship me."

Wet and confused, litajrah found little patience for theology or
vanity.  Not wanting to contemplate the significance of such power in
her own mind, she turned sullen.  "Fine.  If you're so damned almighty,
you tell me which way to go."

"Follow the straight path.  That makes the most sense."

"But this seems to head more in the direction I would expect Bearn to
be."  Khitajrah pointed at the southwest track.  "So take that way."

Khitajrah sighed, getting nothing of use from her mental companion.

"You're no help at all."

"Roads, paths; not my strong point.  Any way has to get you
somewhere."

At first Khitajrah thought chaos mocked her.  The simplicity of the
statement made it seem like sarcasm.  But she soon abandoned that line
of thought, guessing that a creature without form from a world without
dimension might not have much understanding of destination and
location.  If only the gods would point the way.  She edged into the
crossroads, studying each direction cautiously.  Again, she disregarded
the northward path.  The straight course did seem like her best
possibility, but the southwest path better fit her image of heading
toward Bearn.  And it offered the additional advantage of thicker brush
with more protection from the rain.  When you don't know where you're
going, one way seems as

good as another.  Slinging her few remaining supplies more securely on
her shoulder, she took the smaller trail.

Khitajrah had taken only half a dozen steps, when a rustling in a
bordering copse caught her attention.  She went still, listening.  Rain
clattered on the leafy overhang.  Otherwise, she heard nothing.

Shrugging, she dismissed the noise, preparing to take her next step.

Before she lifted her foot, the sound recurred.

Khitajrah went still, one leg poised to move.  She swiveled her head,
seeking the source of the sound.  It seemed to come from her left.

Cautiously, she edged toward the copse.  Once upon it, she jerked vines
aside to reveal the ground beneath.

Sticks cracked.  Leaves scattered to the black dirt in a wash.

Nothing unexpected met Khitajrah's vision.  She stepped back,
considering.  An animal?  A person?

Khitajrah did not have long to contemplate before the underbrush
swished more loudly and obviously ahead.  Curious, she followed.

Within half a dozen steps, she found herself on the pathway she had
rejected, headed due west.  What?  Rain soaked through her dress until
its floral pattern appeared to be painted onto her skin.  Khitajrah
cocked her head, alert for more movement that did not come.  Whatever
she had followed seemed to have disappeared.

Turning, Khitajrah saw the crossroads behind her.  With a sigh, she
headed back the way she had come, again turning southwest at the
intersection.  This time, she passed the copse in silence, and she
managed to walk for nearly half an hour before she heard movement in
the brush again.  She stopped short, unnerved by the presence.  In the
East, wild animals had always run from men.  Her earlier walks through
Westland forests had given her reason to believe animals here behaved
the same way.  Many times, she caught a glimpse of undefined brown
creatures scuttling through foliage or a line of snapped twigs growing
more distant as they fled.  Occasionally, squirrels had perched on
branches far beyond her reach, scolding her intrusion with rapid,
high-pitched chirps.  She had heard remote birdsong, but those nearest
made more raucous calls, as if to warn every animal in the forest of
her presence.  Khitajrah's imagination warned her that a creature not
fearing humans might have a reason for its boldness.  If there's
something out there that eats people, I'd better find it before
night-fall.

The sound came again.

Khitajrah had heard that even predators backed down from creatures they
perceived as more dangerous than themselves.

Loud noises, sudden movements, and directed stares might prove useful
as bluff.  She knew the first thing she needed to do was overcome her
own nervousness; many animals could sense fear.  "Who's there!"  she
shouted, holding her voice as steady as possible.  "I'm bigger and
meaner than you.  Go away!"  Though she knew no animal would understand
the Words, they helped her maintain courage.

Once again, she heard the noise.  It seemed not to have changed
location.

As a young child, Bahmyr had told his mother about a massive wild dog
he and his elder brother, Nichus, had disturbed in a field.

Apparently, it had seen the two small boys as prey, charging with teeth
bared and hackles raised.  Nichus had held his ground, shielding Bahmyr
with his body, and staring down the attacking dog.  But Bahmyr had lost
his nerve and fled, his terror drawing the beast's attention like a
beacon.  Desperate to save his brother and himself, Nichus had rushed
the dog as fast as his legs could carry him, without wavering.

Apparently fearing for its own life, the dog had checked its attack.

Swerving from the sobbing Bahmyr, it had retreated across the field.

Now, Khitajrah concentrated on the memory sifting out the sweet sorrow
that accompanied it.  Boldness clearly intimidated animals as well as
people.  If I stalk it, it may leave to hunt less dangerous game.  She
headed toward the noise.

Even as Khitajrah parted the brush, the rustlings recurred some
distance ahead.  Again, she followed, only to find that the creature
had moved once more, this time forward and to her right.  Intrigued and
caught up in the hunt, she trailed the sound through the tangled brush,
certain she followed something though no glimpse or snagged clump of
fur revealed it.

The overcast sky darkened early, suffusing the forest in gray.

Still, Khitajrah only heard the thing she pursued, and no visual
movement betrayed it.  Then, abruptly, forest broke to the familiar
pathway westward.  The sounds of swishing brush disappeared.

Frustrated, Khitajrah went still, listening for signs of the creature
she had shadowed.  Finding none, she considered.  It's as if it wants
me on this trail.  Khitajrah remembered asking for divine assistance in
finding her way, yet she felt too

grounded in human reality to believe a god would take interest in one
woman's choice of direction.  One thing seemed certain.  Clearly, I'm
not dealing with an animal.  She glanced up the trail to the west.

Much could be said for continuing in the direction it had suggested.

Impatience prompted her to continue west without questioning.  Yet
curiosity, chaos' as much as her own, held her back.  She grasped for
its expertise, trusting it more when it came to affairs of gods and
otherworld creatures.  "You once told me Sheriva did not exist, that my
god is a manmade construct."  · That's true.  I told you that.  And I
spoke truth."  · Westerners worship lots of gods.  Right?"  · Also
true."  Chaos paused, awaiting a point.

Khitajrah flushed, embarrassed to fall so quickly into sacrilege.  ·
And their gods are real?"  · Constructs also."

Khitajrah frowned, finding an obvious contradiction.  "But you claim
gods give knowledge to mankind.  And supposedly worship you."

Another truth."  Chaos found humor in its own words.  And you worried
that I might lie too much."

Khitajrah ignored the gibe.  "So which are the real gods?"  Chaos did
not answer for some time, but mirth swirled through its silence.  It
seemed too amused to find a coherent reply.  "Mankind spends far too
much time trying to second-guess the world, the gods, and the motives
of the gods now and in the past.  The immortal and omniscient don't
think like humans, and any attempt to project mortal emotion and
purpose on outworlders is doomed to fail.  Think of the odds, Khita,
that any society of men and women just happened upon the right mixture
of gods and laws."

The possibilities did seem astronomical, although every religion
claimed to have gotten its knowledge directly from deities at some
point in its early evolution.  "So no mortal religion is correct?"

In its usual circular, frustrating manner, chaos contradicted itself.

"Actually, the Northmen have it closest, if you take away their bias
toward good.  At least, they have the names, general bents, and history
right.  Why the gods chose to do things that way, I don't know."  Humor
turned to joy.  · But I support the asymmetry."

Naturally.  Khitajrah abandoned this line of thinking, seeing no need
to waste more time.  For now, she had a decision

to make, and philosophical discussion would not help her do

it.  She returned to the crux of her question.  "Is it possible that
some sylvan spirit warded me from that other trail?"

Chaos did not consider long.  "Doubtful."  It changed its tack.

"Unless said 'sylvan spirit' is human.  Man world is the only one fully
grounded in law.  Outworlders would have little means or reason to come
here."

Human.  It seemed unlikely.  "It would take a sneaky, competent human
to stay just out of sight like that."

Chaos dismissed the thought.  "Such humans do exist, I believe."

Human.  The idea intrigued as much as it discomforted.

Khitajrah had spent years slinking unseen through Stalmize's roadways
and climbing its structures to obtain necessities for less fortunate
women.  She found it difficult not to think of someone who could do the
same in woodlands as a colleague.

Though Khitajrah did not direct her thoughts to chaos, it responded to
the general gist.  "Guile might give you the answer.  · The single
sentence veered Khitajrah's thinking in a new direction.

Her mind naturally worried the problem, and years of hiding and
tracking brought a plan.  Her conscience told her that it made more
sense to just continue on; she had already lost enough time to on-foot
travel and the other's manipulations.

But inquisitiveness and a warped sense of justice intervened.  This
being had delayed her purpose even longer, If it indicated the wrong
path, that interference could become critical.  She needed to know who
and why, and she relished the chance to match wits with a colleague.

He or she would have a good reason or pay for the interference The
excitement of the challenge wafted through her, its sOUrce as much
chaos as herself.  For now, she did not care.

Chaos had presented some interesting points that her lawful upbringing
had never allowed her to entertain.  So far, it had caused her to do
nothing hurtful outside of protecting herself and the son she loved.

Her lies had harmed no one; the two men she had killed deserved to
die.

Khitajrah whirled, headed back the way she had come.  It took quite
some time to find the crossroads; the thing in the forest had led her
far astray with its winding course.  By the time she reached the fork,
the rain had ended.  Cold night air washed her wet skin, and a half
moon replaced the setting

sun.  At the crossroads, she did not hesitate.  As before, she

headed southwest.  But she took only a few paces before catching hold
of an overhead' limb.  Tensing her arms, she hauled her body onto the
branch.  Hidden by a cluster of leaves, she waited'.

For some time, nothing happened.  Wind stirred the leaves into a
rattling dance, and the cold cut through her soaked dress.  Finally, a
human figure emerged from the moonlight, approaching, silent and
graceful.  It moved slowly on the main pathway, apparently tracking her
footprints in the moist, black earth.  The silhouette revealed a narrow
shadow rising above the person's head, obviously a bow slung over a
shoulder.

The weapon caught Khitajrah by surprise.  Curiosity and annoyance had
kept caution at bay.  Berating herself, she remained in place, keeping
her breathing to a calm, easy pattern.  Extreme attempts to hide would
give her a stiff unnaturalness that might draw the hunter's
attention.

Now, more than before, her boldness would become significant.

She took some solace from the fact that he traveled alone.

The figure drew closer.  Now, Khitajrah could glean some details.  Her
perspective gave her little impression of height, but the body seemed
narrow, almost skeletal in its lack of bulk.  A shock of hair perched
atop the head, so short it seemed to stand on end.  The style revealed
him as male in a way his physique had not.  He took the turn onto the
southwest path, trailing her foot tracks to their end.  Suddenly, he
stiffened.  His eyes rolled upward, and his head followed slowly.  His
gaze swept the oak, including the branch where Khitajrah perched,
directly over his head.

"Hello," she said, the word friendly but not the tone.

The man sprang aside, drawing his bow and crouching at once.  An arrow
was put to the string, but he did not draw.

"Very clever."

"Thank you."  Khitajrah kept her reply short, vying for control of the
situation.

"I wasn't finished."  The man trained his arrow directly on
Khitajrah.

"Also very stupid.  You've trapped yourself neatly, with no means of
escape.  I can see you don't have a bow, so you'd better have damn good
aim with twigs and.

leaves."

Khitajrah knew a quick and brash retort would serve her best, yet
words failed her.

"Come down."

"No."  It was hardly the sage response Khitajrah was seeking, but she
found no other.

"I'm sorry," the man said, clearly finding the biting wisdom that
evaded Khitajrah.  "Did I accidentally convey the idea that you had a
choice?"  The arrow remained level.

"Very well, my mistake so I'll remedy it.  This is your choice.  Climb
down on your own or plummet down with my help."

Khitajrah clung to her belief that courage, however feigned, would
serve better than timidity.  A chill swept through her.  This reminded
her too much of her confrontation with Diarmad in the graveyard.  Then,
she had based her strategy on male pride.  What worked once can work
again.  "Valiant words from an armed man facing an unarmed woman.

Tell me, do you come from a line of cowards or are you the first?"

The man's jaw clenched.  Clearly, she had gotten to him.

"Come down.  Now.  You're making me regret giving you a choice.  It's
not too late for me to withdraw it."

Cornered, Khitajrah frowned.  About one thing, this man was' clearly
right.  In a tree, she remained trapped.  On the ground, she had a
chance for escape.  Cautiously, she clambered down.

The arrow traced her route.

Once on the trail, Khitajrah studied the man before her.

Closer, she could see that he stood a few fingers' breadth taller than
her, although she guessed she might outweigh him.  His strange, spiky
hair was red.  The oddity caught and held her attention.  She had seen
brown- and sandy-haired Westerners.  Rumor claimed that most Northmen
sported white or yellow hair, the color of wheat stalks in summer.

The hue of this man's stubbly locks seemed like no color nature had
planned for anything but sunrises and blood.

In contrast, his single eye bore the same dark hue as most
Easterners'.

A brown silk patch covered the other.  His cheekbones jutted from a
thin face that more flesh might have made handsome.  She guessed his
age was close to hers.

He studied her equally thoroughly before speaking.  "Who are you?  And
where are you-headed?"

Khitajrah's gaze drifted to the nocked arrow, then back to the man.

"My name's Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow.  I'm called Khit--" Catching
herself, she cut off the second syllable to keep the name sounding more
like the Westerner's "Kayt."

"Kay-t," the man repeated, putting the same overemphasis on the "t.""'
Having given her name, Khitajrah begged the same courtesy.

"Who are you?"

The man stared.  "YOu really don't have much feel for this, do you?

Let me explain.  This is an arrow."  He inclined his head toward the
shaft, without taking his eyes from her or his hands from the weapon.

"It can punch a hole in whatever vital organ I choose at the distance
you could run in eighty heartbeats.  Now, the deal is, the person on
the leathered end asks the questions.  The person on the point end
answers.

With that in mind, where are you headed?"

Khitajrah developed an instant hatred for the stranger.

Chaos waffled, uncertain.  Still, she had no reason to lie, so she told
the truth.  "Bearn."

"Why?"

Now, Khitajrah found reason for falsehood.  "Just visiting."

The twisting of the truth came easier than it had before, due either to
practice, to working through her aversion to it, or to a general
dislike of the man before her.

"Who?"

The question seemed nonsensical.  "Who what?"

"Who are you visiting?"

"The king," chaos offered.

Startled Khitajrah spoke aloud.  "What?"

"Who are you visiting?"

"The king.-If he thinks you're a personal friend of the high king,
he'll have to back down."

"I'm not telling him I know the king," Khitajrah snapped back.  'I
don't even know the kings name.  He'd catch me for sure."  She
addressed the red-haired stranger.  "I'm not visiting a someone.  I've
just always wanted to see the high kingdom."

"You're an Easterner."

The observation seemed to come from nowhere.  "I'm aware of that,"
Khitajrah returned.  "Did you think it would surprise me?"  She
considered adding something about whether or not anyone had told him he
had red hair, but she abandoned the idea as unwise.

The arrow retreated slightly.  "What's an Easterner doing here?  And
what business could you have in Bearn?"

Khatajrah sighed, disliking the circles the questioning seemed to be
taking, though she realized her evasiveness had some bearing on the
matter.  The delay made her more irritable than frightened.  As fear
ebbed, she became aware of the rumbling protestations of her stomach.

She had not yet eaten dinner.  The cold night air sliced through her
wet dress, making her shiver.  "Look, archer without a name.  I have as
much right to be here, on this road, as anyone.  As far as I know, I
haven't broken any laws.  If you want my money, here."  She reached
into her pocket, emerging with the two Eastern coppers that remained
from those she had taken from Diarmad.  She held them out to the
stranger, hoping he would advance to get them.  She still carried a
knife that he apparently had not noticed or considered.  Up close, it
would prove a far better weapon than his bow, The stranger did not
approach, but he did lower the bow.

"Put your money away.  I'm not a bandit."

Having gained this small victory, Khitajrah pressed.  She sensed a
twinge of regret in his demeanor, and chaos encouraged her to take full
advantage of it.  She also caught a faint odor of horse about him, and
she hoped she would find a way to buy or borrow the animal.  "So you
just stop innocent people at arrow point to delay them and ask
questions?"  She returned the coins to her pocket, using the movement
to locate the knife in the folds of her cloak.

"Not usually."  He kept the bow low, but his eyes explored Khitajrah
again.  Despite the darkness, his demeanor told her much.  She had
learned to read mood from gesture in Order to counter her son's
unhappiness, to find those Eastern women who most required her help,
and to anticipate her husband's wants and needs.  From this red-haired
stranger, she detected a lonely sadness that did not fit his
boldness.

She also thought she saw a spark of interest in his single eye.

"He thinks you're pretty.  And I think he respects your courage as well
" Khitajrah flashed, embarrassed as much by the man's unspoken
compliment as bY a third party noticing the attraction.  "Well, he's
not pretty at all.  And I told you before, I'm not interested in
marrying again."

"Who said anything about marriage?  He thinks you're

pretty.  That gives you the upper hand.  Take advantage of

him."

"What?"

"Take advantage of him," chaos repeated, though Khitajrah had
understood the words well enough.  It was the intention she
questioned.

"Take whatever he offers, then take whatever else you want."

Khitajrah frowned, still not fully comprehending, but her need to keep
her attention externally focused did not leave time for
contemplation.

"These Westerners complain about recovering from the War, and yet they
have so much.  Why shouldn't you take your share of a bounty they don't
appreciate?"

Khitajrah ignored her internal companion.  "I'm cold, tired, and
hungry.  And now I'm also late.  Apparently, you didn't just want to
kill an Easterner, or you would have shot me from a distance.  You
don't want my money.  Did you lead me in circles and threaten my life
just so I'd have to stand in the cold dressed in wet clothes?"

The man flinched, caught staring at the way Khitajrah's rain-wet
clothing hugged her curves.  He became inordinately focused on her
eyes, and the embarrassment apparently stole his conversational skill
as well.  "No."

Khitajrah pressed.  "If not for you, I'd be halfway to Bearn by now."

The man shook Off his discomfort, defending himself.

"You'd be halfway to nowhere."  You were going the wrong way.  The main
path leads to Bearn."  He gestured toward the route onto which he had
twice directed her.  "I was trying to help you."

"Oh, sure," Khitajrah challenged.  "And you knew I was headed for Bearn
before you talked to me."

"It was a logical guess."

"What's that way?"  Khitajrah pointed beyond the stranger.

He hesitated, then answered carefully.  "A town."

Now the man's actions started to make sense.  "Your town?"

"No."

Suddenly, all reason seemed to disappear.  "So, if I put this all
together, I get a man misleading, delaying, and threatening a woman he
doesn't know in order to lead her away from a town that's not his."

Khitajrah shook her head, her brash annoyance no longer the slightest
bit feigned.  "I'm

short on supplies.  When you were sending me in circles for my own
welfare, did it ever occur to you that I wanted to find a town and
restock before continuing to Bearn?  In fact, did it ever occur to you
that I have the right to go where I want to go?  Did you think I'd
attack this town and destroy it all by myself?  Or did you think my
Eastern blood might leap from my body and taint these poor Westland
people?  Maybe you thought I wanted to sleep through a cold night in
soaked clothes and waste my last night of food.  Or maybe you thought I
had nothing better to do than worry about when some obnoxious, nameless
archer put an arrow through me."

The man slipped his arrow from the String, clutching bow and shaft in
the same hand.  "Are you quite finished?"

"Until I get some answers, yes."

Clearly, he had paid attention, because he addressed her questions in
the order she had raised them.  "First, I have more supplies than I
need.  I can't stand meat going to waste, and I'm more than willing to
share.  My camp isn't far.  You can dry yourself and your clothes
before the fire.  You're welcome to stay, and sleep in a warm, dry
place."  He kept his single eye fixed on her face.  "As to the town, I
told you it wasn't mine.  Believe me, I wasn't protecting it from
you.

Quite the opposite.  You'd have to look far to find a group of people
half as savage.  And as for your Eastern heritage, well forgive me for
noticing.  Although I've got one, it doesn't take a Sharp eye to tell
you look different and talk different.

Seeing those differences doesn't make me racist.  Not seeing them would
make me blind.  I would have done the same for a Northern or Western
woman."  He added quickly, to cut off her other Possibl protestation,
"Or even for a man."

He turned suddenly, heading back the way they had come.

"My camp is this way.  You're welcome to join me."

Khitajrah paused.  As if to help her make the decision, the wind rose,
icy against her wet clothing.  She trotted after the man.  "All
right.

Fine.  I'm coming.  But it's just for warmth and the food you
promised.

I don't need a man for protection.

And if you touch me, you'll regret it."

The redhead mumbled as he walked, the words barely carrying to
Khitajrah's ears.  "I guess that answers the question of why you're
traveling alone."  He glanced back over his shoulder.  "By the way, my
name's Arduwyn.  And I prefer 'hunter' to 'archer."  Obviously, I'd
rather kill game than people."

Khitajrah ignored the underlying threat.  She followed Arduwyn through
a winding shock of brush to an oak-ringed clearing.  There, smoke
trickled from a circle cautiously surrounded by stones, and a spit held
an undefined piece of meat.  A round-bellied horse parted weed stems to
graze on the green grass beneath.  Splotches of black and white
decorated its hide, the mane alternating colors, taking its hue from
the skin from which it originated.  A skinning knife balanced on a
stone before a log the perfect size for a seat.

Blood still streaked the blade.  Parcels of meat lay in neat piles, one
of which held only, entrails, hooves, and antlers.  A battered pack and
the horse's gear lay nearby.

"We're here," Arduwyn announced unnecessarily, gesturing Khitajrah into
the clearing.  "I'll gather kindling.

There're roots in the fire and venison on the Spit.  Eat as much as you
want.  I can cook up more.  While I'm gone, feel · free to change into
dry clothes or do whatever else you need to do.  I promise I won't
peek."

"Thank you," Khitajrah said grudgingly, overwhelmed by his generosity,
though irritation would not quite allow her to become fully civil.  She
could not forget that he had pointed an arrow at her heart.

"Nor should you," chaos inserted.  'I don't trust him."  Arduwyn
turned, melting into the woods as if a part of them.  Khitajrah did not
hear him move.  For a moment she went perfectly still, concerned that
he watched her from the brush.  Then she recalled how swiftly and
soundlessly he had moved while luring her from path to path, except for
those times when he clearly wanted her to hear him and follow.

Yet she shivered in the night air, and she hated the idea of wearing a
wet dress that itched and clung with every movement for one moment
longer.  Though she believed Arduwyn had spoken the truth, when she
reached to pull the dress over her head, she felt as if dozens of
unseen eyes watched her from the brush.  Dismissing her fears, she
removed her clothes and undergarments, spreading them before the coals
to dry.  The aroma of the meat struck her then.  Her stomach growled a
long, grinding objection.

Chaos thrust a thought into her head.  "Naked when he gets back?  Why
don't you just beg him to rape you?"

"What do you want me to do?"  Khitajrah removed the spit and cautiously
tore free a piece of meat.  A trickle of watery grease burned her
fingers, but she paid it little heed, She

placed the meat in her mouth, then licked the oil from her

fingers and wiped the stinging pads on the cold, wet fabric of her
dress.  "You know I spent all my money on food.  It seemed more
important than spare clothes at the time."  She continued eating the
venison, and hunger allowed her to abandon decorum.  "Beside s, I don't
think he'll try to rape me.  He's no bigger than me.  If he tries, I'll
kill him."

"I'll bet he has dry clothes in his pack."

"Good.  If he has clothes on, he won't try to rape me."

"He's about your size.  And he did say you should change into dry
clothes.  In fact, he said you could do whatever you needed to do.  And
that he had more supplies than he needed."

Khitajrah shoved the last of the venison into her mouth, chewing
thoughtfully.  She wiped her hands on her dress.  'I don't think he
meant for me to get into his personal gear."

"Why not?"  chaos pressed.  "He promised you food.  He said he wouldn't
peek while you changed.  Obviously, he didn't expect you to sit around
naked."

"Obviously."  Though loath to leave the coals' warmth, Khitajrah
rose.

She wandered over to Arduwyn's pack.

Glancing about to make certain he had not yet returned, she looked
inside.  She found several dry cloaks and tunics, most brown, black, or
gray.  She hauled all of these out.  Choosing a' tunic, she donned it,
drawing a cloak over her shoulders.

The fabric was warm and soft against her skin, and she felt
protected.

Peering back into the pack, she found neat packets of jerked meat, a
waterskin, two more knives, a multitude of dried herbs, and feathers.

Two vials rattled in the bottom,

one containing a thick, blue liquid, the other a gold fluid, equally
dense.  Khitajrah guessed these might hold the dyes he used for the
crests on his arrows.  A pouch in the bottom contained string, and a
ball of gut twine lay rolled up in a rag.  Khitajrah mulled over the
uses she could find for his supplies.  The mea t would easily get her
to Bearn, then to

Pudar, if necessary.  She could refill the waterskin.  And his clothes
fit her well.

"Take it, " chaos hissed.  "Take it all."

"What are you talking about?"  Khitajrah guiltily shoved the spare
clothing back on top of the remainder of the gear, shocked her
intentions had seemed so shallow.

"You.  know you want it.  You NEED it.  He owes you."

"He owes me."  Khitajrah repeated, knowing what chaos

suggested was wrong.  Yet she knew the pack contained nothing Arduwyn
could not easily replace, and chaos had earlier made a point she could
not refute.  The Westerners did seem to have far more possessions than
they appreciated.

Arduwyn had stacked enough meat on the ground to feed a small village,
and he clearly knew how to prepare it for travel.  By his own
admission, the nearest town would prove hostile to her; but he seemed
to have no qualms about wandering and camping near it himself.

Chaos encouraged, prodding similar thoughts to the fore.  "Take the
horse, too."  It did not dwell on the pack, obviously feeling that the
mental tug of war over that had ended.

The cruelty of the thought jarred Khitajrah's deeply buried
conscience.

She knew a vague, undefinable feeling of wrongness that came from the
core of her being.  "No!  And .

I'm not taking his supplies either."  She grabbed handfuls of cloak,
preparing to remove it before he returned.  'I shouldn't even have
taken this."  Though she believed she now chose the moral course, she
could not quite bring herself to abandon the warm comfort of the
linen.

"Don't be a fool, Khita.  Don't try to act like an ignorant child.

You've taken food and clothing before."

Khitajrah defended herself.  'I took things from those who had too much
and gave it to women in need " Chaos became jubilant with triumph.

"You're both of those things.  You need these supplies; he doesn't.

It's well within Eastern law to do for yourself anything you would do
for another of your status."

Khitajrah frowned, convinced by chaos' argument.  "You're right."

"Usually."

" But not the horse."

"Then you had best leave all.  Otherwise, he'll overtake you and
probably kill you."

Khitajrah recoiled, her hand falling naturally to the saddle.

Again, chaos had a point.  Arduwyn could move silently and unseen
through the forest.  He had trailed her twice.

Surely, he could follow the hoof tracks more easily, but he would have
no way of catching her without another horse.  "He delayed you.  The
horse can regain you lost time."

"And more.  Enough to get to the meeting with Lirtensa only a few days
late."

Chaos added nothing.  Khitajrah was, doing a fine job of convincing
herself.

"You'd better hurry.  The archer'll come back soon."

"Hunter," Khitajrah corrected.  Even as she replied, she hefted the
tack and headed for the paint mare.

CHAPTER 16

Shadimar's Apprentice

Rain pounded the ruins of the city of Myrcid, and wind howled through
the many gaps and cracks that riddled the Eastern Wizard's haven.

Lightning speared the sky, its sudden flash leaving lined impressions
inscribed on Shadimar's retinas.  One day melted into the next, and the
answer still eluded him.  Even the deepest recesses of his mind had
yielded no one worthy of the title of Eastern Wizard, no man or woman
he could train as his apprentice.  Empty days stretched into empty
nights, bringing no solution.  And day after day, Shadimar sat in his
library, slung across his chair, his feet propped on the sitting room
desk and his gaze focused outside the single window.  A few times each
day, Secodon would leave to hunt, always returning by nightfall.

Only one other thing disturbed Shadimar's vigil.

The staff leaned against the table, nearly upright in its
positioning.

Though it did not address Shadimar in words, he could feel the steady,
comforting wash of its presence.

Mostly, it seemed to enhance his contemplation, though it had no
details with which to steer his choice.  Occasionally, trickles of an
idea seeped into Shademar's mind, the source arguably himself.  These
sent him off on long tangents against Colbey.  Memories of the Western
Wizard's foolishness and philosophies that sounded more like blasphemy
sent Shadimar into quiet rages that did little more than disrupt his
considerations about a successor.

When these thoughts grew most intense, Shadimar would seek solace in
remembrances of the friendship he and Colbey had once shared.  But the
Renshai's wit now seemed more like self-serving arrogance, and the
memories of happy times disappeared beneath an avalanche of
bitterness.

The companionship seemed ancient and faded in a way few things ever
became to immortals.  And always, Shadimar turned his thoughts back to
the matter at hand.

As the third night blossomed into the fourth day, Secodon whined,
pawing at Shadimar's outstretched legs, reminding the Eastern Wizard
that the time had come for him to get some food as well.  Shadimar
sighed.  It was not the first time days had passed without any thought
for nutrition.  Fated to live until his ceremony of passage, Shadimar
had had nothing to fear from starvation.  Even now that the Cardinal
Wizards had lost their invulnerability to objects of law, apparently
some of the tenets still applied.  Clearly, age did not affect him.

Already, he had lived more than two centuries; if the shattering of the
Pica Stone had made him mortal, he would have died from decay alone.

The lack of food did not seem to have weakened him, and he never
doubted illness would continue to shun him.  Apparently, the effect had
negated Only those protections brought about by achieving the Seven
Tasks of Wizardry, leaving those won in a predecessor's ceremony of
passage.

Shadimar lowered his legs from the tabletop, stretching to work the
circulation back into his feet.  He rose.  The movement brought a dark
spot into view through the window.

Something flew toward the ruins of Myrcid, and Shadimar could think of
only one winged beast that would dare to brave the eternal storm that
warded his ruins.  Swiftwing?  He headed for the window, peering
outside.  Rain striped his vision in narrow diagonals, but he managed
to discern the falcon's shape against the background of the gale.

Shadimar waited by the window, perplexed.  The red falcon had served as
the Cardinal Wizards' messenger for as far back as Shadimar's
collective consciousness could remember, and he had found references to
the hawk in the earliest Wizards' works.  He doubted it was the same
falcon, guessing rather that the gods replaced it with an identical
bird every few decades.  Now, he wondered whether the message came from
Trilless or Carcophan.  Or Colbey.  Momentarily, uneasiness seized him,
relieved almost immediately by realization.  Colbey would have no
knowledge of the magics required to summon Swiftwing.  Another thought
required pondering.  Unless Colbey's staff can teach him.

Shadimar's staff addressed the silent question.  "It can't."

Though he had become aware of the staff's presence in mind since he had
tapped its knowledge on the Sea Seraph, the direct response startled
Shadimar.  Though he kept his eyes on Swiftwing, he turned his question
to the staff.

"The Staff of Chaos can't teach magic?"  The statement surprised and
pleased Shadimar at once.  Since sorcery came directly of chaos, he had
worried about the power of the other staff.

"It can guide Colbey.  It can offer understanding of that which is.  It
can add to the abilities he already has, but it can't give him ones
he's never known."

"And you?"  Shadimar pressed.  Now that his initial concern about
becoming overwhelmed had fled, he became more curious about what his
staff had to offer.

"This is my world.  Understandably, I'm less limited.  Over time, you
will come to know all I have to offer.  In the meantime, I will guide
you as you need."

The offer seemed reasonable to Shadimar.  With its direct link to Odin
and eternity, the Staff of Law had to have sounder judgment than any
mortal or Wizard.

Swiftwing glided through the rain, then alighted on the window's
ledge.

Once out of the storm, it shook its red plumage, flinging water onto
the stone edges of the window.

Dark gray spots splattered the granite.  The bird waited, its feathers
ruffled and a message bound to its leg.

Shadimar abandoned his conversation with the staff to concentrate on
this new concern.  He stripped the parchment from the falcon's scaly
leg.  It bounced from the sill to the Wizard's shoulder, then glided
the last short distance to the desktop.  Shadimar ignored the falcon,
noticing its weight momentarily on his shoulder.  He opened the note
and read: "Meet me on the south path through the Great Frenum Mountains
as soon as possible."

It was signed with the curvilinear rune that served as Carcophan's
symbol.  The meeting place seemed logical, located directly at the
border of their territories; but the summons seemed less so.  Still, he
had no choice but to respond to the message.  It would take Swiftwing a
few days to cover the distance, and it could convey only as many words
as could fit on a piece of parchment.  Then Carcophan would have to
answer again, a process that would cost more days.

'Again, Shadimar studied the note.  What Carcophan's message lacked in
politeness it conveyed in urgency.  Better to meet him face-to-face.

It was an option Shadimar would have long considered before current
circumstances had

bonded them to a cause.  Other than on the Meeting Isle, he had met
Carcophan directly only twice: once when their respective champions,
Colbey and Episte, had had their confrontation.  The second time had
occurred in Asci, immediately after stepping from Captain's boat.  Both
experiences had left a sour-impression in Shadimar's memory.

Having made the decision to travel, Shadimar did not delay.

He dismissed the falcon, indicating he had no response to send, but the
bird chose to preen its feathers on the desktop rather than brave the
gale again so soon.

Shadimar seized the staff.  Secodon lay beneath the chair, his legs and
tail jutting through the gaps.  Shadimar snapped his fingers, and the
wolf stretched, gingerly inching his way from beneath the furniture
before standing.  Tail wagging, he came to Shadimar's side.

Despite neglecting his nutrition, Shadimar felt strong as 'he prepared
his mind for the necessary transport incantation.

The words of the spell came easily to him.  Again, he saw the weblike
patterns of sorcery that accompanied the call to chaos and the warped,
slashed syllables sprinkled through the net.  Caught less by surprise
this time, he managed to focus on some of the individual tendrils,
silken threads that glowed with ever changing colors and promised vast,
untapped knowledge in every direction.  Briefly, Shadimar understood
the bard's unquenchable hunger for all things new, and the quest for
wisdom that had cost Odin his eye.  A moment later, the image snapped
out, and Shadimar found himself surrounded by the world of law he knew
so well.

Pale blue sky stretched between the horizons, a welcome change from the
ceaseless crash of thunder and tap of rain on the ruins of Myrcid.  To
the west, a flat, brown wasteland of sand stretched as far as Shadimar
could see, broken only by the Conus River that mirrored the aqua
radiance of the sky.  Mountains enclosed the trail to the north and
south and forest blocked Shadimar's view of the East.  A pair of human
silhouettes approached unhurriedly from the woodlands.

Shadimar identified the one to the left as Carcophan.  He did not
recognize the other.

Turning his back on the Southern Wizard, Shadimar knelt at the bank of
the river, leaning the staff against his knee.

Sunlight sparkled from the rushing water, and plant matter bobbed and
fluttered in the current.  He dipped his cupped hands into the stream,
feeling the icy liquid fill his palms.

Raising water to his lips, he drank, reveling in its cold
tastelessness after days without water.  Having slaked his thirst, he
shook droplets from his hand, wiping his wet hands on his cloak.  With
his fingers, he combed excess moisture from his beard.  Secodon lapped
at the river, his tongue flinging spray that sp arkled in the hairs of
his muzzle.

By the time Shadimar had finished his routine, Carcophan awaited him on
the path.  The Evil One stood with a hand casually curled around a
mountain crag.  The sun highlighted the whitest strands of his salt and
pepper hair, and his dark eyes fixed keenly on Shadimar.  The stranger
at Carcophan's side stood taller than the average man, nearly the
Southern Wizard's height.  Ebony hair, hacked as short as any
soldier's, topped features that could never be mistaken for male.  Her
bangs splayed over a delicate forehead and large, long-lashed eyes
whose blackness identified her conclusively as an Easterner.  A
well-shaped nose and full lips completed a face that formed a perfect
oval.

Yet, despite her beauty, there was nothing delicate about the woman at
Carcophan's side.  Though slender, her large-boned frame hinted of
sturdiness, and her expression made her seem mentally strong as well.

She wore a leather jerkin over a tunic and britches of masculine cut
that could not hide large breasts, a narrow waist, and Wide hips.  The
single-edged sword at her side curved twice from hilt to tip, like no
weapon Shadimar had seen, and the haft took the crafted shape of a
cobra's head.  Rubies glared like red pinpoints from the carven eye
sockets.  Despite the.  gaudiness of its design, the worn split leather
wrapping identified it as a real weapon, well used and not just for
show.  Shadimar's sharp gaze detected calluses on the woman's right
palm.

Clearly, she had wielded the sword before and often.

"Shadimar, I'd like you to meet Chezrith."  Carcophan gave the name the
Eastern pronunciation CHAZ-rayth.  "My apprentice."

Chezrith made a respectful curtsy.

Shadimar followed the movement with his eyes, frowning, not daring to
believe Carcophan had made his decision so swiftly.  It belittled the
process.  Surely, the Southern Wizard must have had previous dealings
with this woman, though the possible specifics of those dealings
unnerved and · disgusted Shadimar.  The relationship between a Cardinal
Wizard and his potential apprentice must retain some profes sional
distance.  Much of the training, for the tasks and of a Wizard, went
toward making his apprentice confident and self-reliant.  Yet Shadimar
sensed that the relationship between these two went farther back and
deeper.  Her casual courage in the presence of two of Odin's chosen
both pleased and discomfited him.  Her boldness would serve the Wizards
well, but her lack of anxiety made her seem as potentially dangerous as
Colbey.

Shadimar made no attempt to hide his dissatisfaction.  He gave Chezrith
only a brief nod of acknowledgment.  "Would you excuse us, please?"

Chezrith rolled her huge, black eyes to Carcophan, awaiting
confirmation.

Carcophan nodded.  "We'll only be a moment."

Obediently, Chezrith turned, headed east on the path, and perched on a
boulder beyond earshot.  Curling long legs to her torso, she pulled a
book from her pocket and studied.

Shadimar clenched the staff close to his body, allowing Carcophan the
first word.  Less patient, the Southern Wizard obliged.  "Wonderful,
isn't she?"

Apparently sensing his master's irritability, Secodon paced between the
Wizards.

Shadimar kept his tone low and steady, as tight as his hold on the
staff.  "That depends on what you want her for."

Carcophan's speckled brows eeled together.  "What do you mean by
that?"

"I mean, a Wizard's apprentice isn't competently chosen in three
days.

Beauty may serve her well in bed, but it, Won't get her through the
Seven Tasks."

"You think I'm sleeping with her."

"Aren't you?"

Carcophan dodged the question.  "That's not the issue.

First, I've had my eye on her for some time.  She's self-assured,
proficient in many ways ..."  He smiled at some private thought before
adding, "... and nearly as brazen as the Prince of Demons himself.  I
considered her as an apprentice some time ago, then dismissed her
because I thought I had seven or eight centuries before I'd need to
make such a decision."

"So you considered her for other things."

Carcophan's grin was evil.  "Why not?  I wouldn't want a mortal of her
potential to go wholly to waste."

Secodon sat, attentive to Carcophan.

Shadimar glared.  "So you couple with her."  More than a century had
passed since Shadimar had lost all interest in sex; world-significant
responsibilities had replaced such mortal concerns.  "Lust has no place
in choosing a Cardinal Wizard."

The smile disappeared.  Carcophan's brows seemed to merge with his
nose.  "Is that what you think?  That I would jeopardize the cause I
pledged myself wholly to for a few nights of ecstasy?"  He shook back
his dappled mane, and his forearms swelled beneath the sleeves of his
cloak.  "Then you're as much a fool as I named you.  And more."

Shadimar scowled, saying nothing.

Though under no obligation, Carcophan explained.  "You have to remember
the society I took Chezrith from."  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder
to indicate the Eastlands.

"There, women have no more rights than livestock, and men self-serve as
they please."  Carcophan did not apologize or moralize; it was a system
he endorsed to the core of his being.

"To be considered strong, a woman has to become twice as powerful as
any man.  To win notice for skill, she must become the best.  Shadimar,
the men of Prehothra actually fear Chezrith.  They let her do as she
pleases.  I don't think I could find an apprentice more callous,
brutal, or shameless.

There's not a single voice among my predecessors that doesn't support
my decision."

In this new light, Shadimar found it more difficult to condemn, but One
thing still bothered him.  He delved for the source, and the 'staff
helped him find it.  "But this time, we're not supposed to choose for
wizardly qualities."

Shadimar's words surprised himself.  Habit, his and that of every
previous member of his line, had goaded him to seek exactly that in his
own apprentice.  "We're looking for sword masters and killers, someone
to stand against colbey.  If he's not annihilated, the world will be;
and we'll have no use for apprentices.  If we do slay Colbey and
destroy the Staff of Chaos, our apprentices will die of old age before
our passing."

Carcophan blinked, his yellow-green eyes fixed on Shadimar.  "I fail to
see where Chezrith doesn't fit that description."

"She's a woman."

"You noticed.  I was afraid your predecessor's ceremony of passage
included castration."

Shadimar ignored the gibe.  Soon enough, Carcophan would probably lose
his mortal cravings, too.  "Colbey's the best swordsman in the world.

Skill alone works for the Renshai women because their sword techniques
are uniquely designed for speed and agility, delicate yet accurate cuts
and precise jabs rather than power.  But any other system relies as
heavily on strength.  Women are simply not as strong physically as
men."

Carcophan shrugged.  "You hardly have to argue the differences between
men and women with me.  My realm is the Eastlands, remember?"  He
swiveled his head to glance at the distant figure of Chezrith.  "She
can fight adequately.  There are other ways to kill besides one-on-one
combat.  I believe Chezrith can get closer to Colbey than any man."

Returning his attention to Shadimar, he met the hard, gray eyes
directly.

Shadimar conceded that point as well, his thoughts on his own words.

Since coming home, he had directed his efforts to seeking the finest
replacement for the Eastern Wizard, ignoring the very tenets he had
condemned Carcophan for disregarding.

Now memory teased him, a spoken threat against Colbey whose source now
hovered just beyond Shadimar's reach.  He recalled a day in late
summer, a youngster's voice raised in a plea to the gods: "Damn this
demon to the coldest, deepest part of Hel.  See to it that he dies 'in
the same agony and ugliness he has inflicted upon so many."

Details came slowly.  So much had happened the day Colbey fought his
final battle against Tillless' champion, Valr Kirin; so much had been
at stake.  Kirin had denounced Colbey as Carcophan's champion, a demon
hell-bent on destroying Renshai as well as Northmen.  The Nordmirian
lieutenant had planted the first seeds of doubt in Shadimar's mind.

Despite Trilless' misconception about Colbey's title, she had proven
right when it came to assessing his danger.

And Shadimar had also 'had the Swords of Power to consider.

He had created Harval from necessity, never guessing that Carcophan and
Trilless would call the other two Swords.  Yet Valr Kirin had wielded
Ristoril the White.

Shadimar cast aside concerns that had become too familiar in order to
recall the one who had called gods' damnation down on Colbey.  The
remainder of the speech resurfaced first, words that had preceded the
warning: "Mighty Thor, my lord, creator and sower of storms, gods'
champion of

law and honor, please forgive my transgression against you.

I will atone however you would have me, and I would dare to ask one
more thing ..."  Details Of the voice came next, a young man's, filled
with the anguish of a father killed.  Valr Kirins son.  The name came a
moment later.  Olvaerr.  If the boy has any of his father's intellect
or skill, he would make a tolerable Wizard as well as a warrior.  And
he has reason to stand against Colbey.  Shadimar knew Valr Kirin had
served goodness and would have trained some of that into his son.  But
Olvaerr had also attacked Colbey, placing peace between Renshai and
Northmen at risk, abandoning goodness' group mentality for the
single-minded greed of evil.

Clearly, he could sit in the center and ride both sides.  Neutral.

Apparently mistaking Shadimar's silence for a war of wills and
patience, Carcophan grudgingly broke the hush.  "I can choose who I
wish for my apprentice, and I don't have to justify that decision to
anyone.  The gods will decide her worthiness.  That's the purpose of
the Tasks."

"You're right," Shadimar said, his thoughts still fixed on the new
distraction.  "But if you feel comfortable with your decision, why did
you call me here?  Were you seeking my approval?"

"No.  My reason for calling you has nothing to do with Chezrith."

Shadimar gave Carcophan his full attention.  "You have other
matters?"

Carcophan's cat's eyes glimmered, as if he had suddenly brought all of
his massive evil to the fore.  "I've given some thought to Colbey, his
actions and his motivations.  I think I know where he'll go once he's
healed.  With proper preparation, I believe we can deal with him once
and for all.  Will you help me?"

Though excited by the prospect, Shadimar held his emotions in check.

So much could go awry with any plan.  It was simple for Carcophan to
commit himself directly to thwarting Colbey, since he had already
chosen his successor.  Limited by time and the need to lure Olvaerr
from Trilless' territory to his own, Shadimar did not have the same
freedom as his evil colleague.  To risk his life now, with so few
competent prospects and the other neutral Wizard warped by chaos meant
taking an unacceptable risk.  Soon enough, he would have an apprentice,
too; and he could commit himself

to retrieving and destroying the Staff of Chaos with the same boldness
as Carcophan.  "I can't.  Not until I have my apprentice."

Carcophan went rigid.  "By then, it may be too late."

Shadimar held firm.  "I have little choice but to take that chance."

Carcophan drew breath, as if to rant, then released the air through his
teeth in a hiss.  "Then grant me this: the rest of this day to help me
set the trap.  One part alone requires your expertise.  After that, I
only need your permission to work freely in Westland territory."

Secodon rose, pacing restlessly.

The request rankled, and Shadimar had to fight his immediate negative
response.  Another Wizard, not neutral, given access to his
guardianship made him feel violated.  Yet if Carcophan had a way to
best Colbey and was willing to take the full risk of facing the Renshai
himself, giving Carcophan license to move about the Westlands seemed
little enough to ask.  The staff added its approval, tipping Shadimar's
decision.

Still, he maintained the presence of mind to qualify.

"So long as you limit yourself to setting up and executing plans
against Colbey, you have my permission to act freely in the West."

"Thank you."  Carcophan met Shadimar's sacrifice with the seriousness
it demanded.  "And the rest of today?"

"I'll help you as long as it doesn't go against my own tenets."

"I wouldn't have suggested it if I thought it did."

Mitrian perched upon a sun-baked boulder, its warmth seeping through
the thin fabric of her tunic and undergown.

The wolf's head hilt of her sword nestled against familiar calluses,
and she stared into the topaz eyes until her vision blurred.  In front
of her, Tannin repeated a complicated Renshai maneuver, his war braids
flying and his sword slashing gleaming paths through the mid-morning
air.

Though she needed to assess technique, Mitrian avoided looking directly
at her student.  More than a week had passed since she had found him in
bed with the Erythanian farm girl, but the pain had scarcely dUlled.

He had not come a moment late to any practice since that time.  Though
polite, he remained deferentially distant; no unnecessary words had
passed between them.

Beyond Tannin, the Fields of Wrath stretched to forest.

Near the edge, Sylva and Rache played a game that apparently consisted
of her shooting blunted arrows at him while he tried to hack them from
the air with his sword.  Occasionally, they paused for a hug or to
tumble into a heap on the weed-carpeted ground.  The giggles wafted to
her, soft on the wind, and their joy raised a mixture of vicarious
happiness;

ancient sorrow, and mild envy.  She remembered her one

love, Garn.  The sweet excitement she had known in his presence had
become dampened by the threat of pursuit, war, and Colbey's insistence
from the first day that she was carrying Garn's son.  Then, too, Garn
had been obsessed with a need for vengeance against Rache Kallmirsson,
the man who had been a great hero as well as a brother to her.  By the
time Garn had come to grips with his unreasoning rage, their love had
matured to familiarity and stability.

Now, Mitrian craved the lighthearted play of courtship that
circumstance and choice of mate had stolen from her.

She'd never regretted her time with Garn; he had become every bit the
considerate husband and loving father she had wanted.  But Garn was
long dead, and Mitrian needed something more than memories.  At least,
she reveled in the knowledge that her son had found the peaceful
exhilaration for which his mother yearned.  And she could not think of
a woman more deserving of Rache's love.

That thought turned Mitrian's contemplations to Sylva's father, and
guilt speared through her.  Arduwyn, too, had suffered tragedy.  He had
lost his wife just before Garn had died and two of his adopted children
a few years earlier.  Now that her anger had dulled, Mitrian guessed
that Arduwyn's confrontation over Vashi's training had masked his true
concern.

When he agreed to Sylva's and Rache's marriage, he had believed it a
distant occurrence.  Even when it became a reality, he had argued
against their living together, citing multiple examples of youngsters
in love who had married but lived with their own parents until they
came of age.  By visiting the Fields of Wrath, Arduwyn had discovered
that Rache and Sylva shared a bed as well as a roof.  Fear for his
daughter's health, Mitrian believed, had driven him to argue; but his
loyalty to Rache and herself had stolen the words he needed.

Mitrian understood the logical and legitimate worry: women who carried
babies young had a higher risk of complications and death.  And when
Mitrian thought back to her own preg nancy, she had not been
emotionally prepared for a child, even at.

sixteen.

Mitrian berated herself, wishing she had recognized the real issue
before her rage had driven Arduwyn away.  She could have shown him the
other side.  At fifteen, Sylva had a maturity that Mitrian had not
developed until she was much older.  She could scarcely compare her
coddled up, bringing to the plagues, war, and death Sylva had
weathered.

Also, fertility did not run high in Mitrian's family.  Her mother had
borne only one living child, and Mitrian's fifteen years with Garn had
never resulted in a sibling for Rache.

For the Renshal tribe to survive, her son would need to start his
family early, especially when Tannin seemed destined to create nothing
better than a whore's bastard.

Arduwyn has a right to share in his daughter's happiness, too.

Instead, he suffered the humiliation and pain of a friend's
rejection.

I owe him a major apology, and I'll offer it the instant he returns.

Mitrian considered seeking Arduwyn only briefly.  It would prove as
difficult as finding one specific deer in the woodlands.  She would
have to know exactly where to look and, even then, she could find him
only if he wanted her to do so.  While she wandered through the forest
on a hopeless task, her students would fall behind on lessons too
important to miss.

Mitrian turned her attention back to Tannin.  He stood in the final
position, his sword parallel to the ground, closing · his guard and his
other hand low, near, and slightly backward for balance.  She had no
idea how long he had held the pose, awaiting her assessment.  She
studied him methodically, first noting balance, stance, and
positioning.  But desire betrayed her.  She could not help also seeing
the glimmers the sun drew through his golden hair, the sculpted
features most women would find too harsh, and the sinewy grace of his
body.  Swordplay had made his limbs strong and his hands rugged.  His
eyes had always seemed fascinatingly unique, the blue-white of sea
foam.

Tannin waited, frozen in a position that, though balanced, could not
remain comfortable long.  His eyes rolled to Mitrian, met her gaze
briefly, then skittered away.

Mitrian found many things she wanted to say, few of them pertaining to
sword forms.  Yet she held her tongue.  Personal emotion had no place
on the battlefield, nor in practice.  It occurred to her that if she
found Tannin distracting enough

to hinder his lessons, she should drop him as a student.  Still, she
knew such an action would prove cruel.  Currently, she was the only
Renshai with enough knowledge of technique to teach, and it seemed
unfair to Tannin to withhold the knowledge from him alone.  Mitrian
also realized she owed too much to two other men to slight any of the
few remaining Renshai.  Rache KallmirsSon had given up his heritage to
serve her father as the finest guard captain, Mitrian believed, that
any city had ever had.  Rache had taught her the maneuvers, and she had
little choice but to keep the last of his people competent and alive.

More importantly, Colbey Calistinsson had charged his people to
Mitrian, and his was a trust she had too much respect to violate, even
if she dared.

Still, Tannin held position, his patience heroic.  Mitrian imagined
that if he could channel that same dedication to a woman he would make
the finest of partners.

For someone.  Mitrian let the fantasy slip from her mind.

In many ways, it seemed, Tannin was still a child.  "Again," Mitrian
said as if no time had passed.

Tannin broke form.  Then, without a word, he launched into the sequence
for the fourteenth time.

CHAPTER 17

Frost Reaver

As Colbey Calistinsson traveled south, he skirted the great trading
city of Pudar, gliding through the forests west of town to avoid the
crowds and bustle.  His wounds had settled to a distant ache he
scarcely noticed, and the joy of movement after a long and healing rest
that spanned weeks made the soreness seem almost pleasant.  He bore a
wicked scar across his cheek from the kraell that matched the claw
strikes Trilless' summoned demon had gashed across the back of his left
hand.  Yet vanity had never had a place in Colbey's life.  Always, he
simply strove to become the best.

What others thought of his appearance or his methods mattered little,
and then only when the opinion came from someone he respected.  So long
as his body functioned and his technique consistently improved, beauty
held no significance.

The staff tUcked into Colbey's belt slowed his gait, its end tapping
his shins no matter how many times he repositioned it.  The aristiri
still accompanied him, alternately hopping along the leaf-, twig-, and
needle-strewn ground and fluttering from branch to branch.

Occasionally, it trilled and warbled, its clear voice floating through
the confines of the forest.  Apparently lulled by aristiri song, the
forest animals paid Colbey's presence no heed.  Birds filled the trees,
their chirping sounding raucous in the wake of the aristiri's talent.

Squirrels pranced along limbs, occasionally vaulting from one tree to
another.  Three deer fed on leaves and underbrush.

Another jumped from its bed, its tail bobbing erratically.

Even a wisule skittered from beneath a deadfall, but nature's biggest
coward took only so much courage from the hawk's rousing melody.

Sitting on its hind legs, the rodent watched ColbeY's approach for some
time before turning tail and racing back into its burrow.

Poplar and beech gradually replaced the pines that had

dominated the woodlands nearer the Northlands.  The ground

became firmer, but less regular.  Roots and boulders lay exposed by
erosion, littering the path.  Colbey selected his route more carefully,
tempering his excitement for the coming reunion with Frost Reaver with
the need to watch each step.  The hawk winged after him, flying short
distances to maintain his pace.

Colbey halted, uncertain.  Clearly, the aristiri planned on
accompanying him, and it had wearied.  It had coaxed him to safety,
then watched over him like a guardian while he slept.

It was not his way to form attachments, especially with animals, but
his bold self-assurance seemed to naturally draw followers.  He could
not allow the bird to delay him, and he already carried enough gear to
hamper him.  Its weight would seem negligible in the wake of the
staff's inconvenience, and it could fly if danger struck.

Colbey stopped, wrapping bandages around his left arm to offset the
talons.  Hefting the aristiri would not noticeably hinder him, but
making it understand what he intended seemed more difficult.  Kneeling,
he extended his arm, tapping his wrist With the opposite hand.  Without
hesitation, it flapped toward him, landing in the indicated position.

It preened, then shuffled up and down his forearm.  Though it moved
past the protected part of his arm, it again used balance rather than
grip to hold its place.

Colbey rose, and the aristiri scuttled painlessly to his shoulder.  He
wondered how it had so easily known what he wanted of it, attributing
the nonverbal communication to the Western Wizard's affiliation with
winged creatures.  Then, realizing he might find an answer, he turned
the question to the staff.

"That's probably part of the answer.  The bond between Wizard and
animal is empathic.  It can tell that you mean it no harm that, in
fact, you mean to help it.  But this hawk seems unusually
perceptive."

"Is this how Secodon and Shadimar came together?"  The staff returned
nothing for a moment.  "Somewhat.  I'm certain Shadimar chose Secodon
for loyalty and intelligence.

But there's magic involved in that relationship.  Sorcery allows more
extensive communication and manipulation."

Colbey wished the staff would use shorter, simpler words in its
explanations, but he understood well enough.  His mood remained high.

He felt comfortably rested, no longer

plagued by his wounds, and he had spent the previous day practicing
sword strokes from morning until night.  He had lost two weeks of
training, and the minuscule improvement that time would have gained
him, but he seemed to have regained his agility and timing quickly
enough.  The familiar excitement that suffused him with every practice
seemed a welcome friend he had sorely missed.

As Colbey cut back east toward the town of Bruen, forest opened onto
the crest 'of a hill.  Below him, a fertile farm valley stretched,
cleared of trees.  Near the horizon, a stream twisted, silver beneath
the sun.  Splotches of dark green and gray wooden buildings dotted the
countryside, and the sight stirred Colbey.  Just after the Great War,
some fields had lain fallow, their farmers lost to the battle tide.

Houses, barns, and fences had lapsed into disrepair as those left
behind gave their all to the most essential chores, like the tending of
crops and livestock.  Now, again, Bruen looked much as it had before
the War; and one of its barns, Colbey knew, housed Frost Reaver.

Apparently sensing his anticipation, the aristiri hunkered down on his
shoulder, chuckling contentedly.

Birches and tangles of thorny vines choked the mountain-side.

Great charred hulks of trees punctuated the landscape.

Game trails crisscrossed the underbrush, tunneling through brambles and
across ditches.  Bluebirds picked at clusters of berries growing from
long stalks, seeming to take no notice of his presence.

Colbey knew that descent anywhere along this mountain would prove
difficult.  The last time the farmers had cleared brush from the
valley, their fire had raged out of control and consumed all of.  the
forest between the mountain and the stream.  He forced his way through
the matted foliage.  Almost immediately, a deer trail opened before
him, headed down to the valley and wide enough for a lone man to
walk.

It cut a clear swathe through the chaotic jumble before him.

The path ran parallel to a gully clogged with briers and the berries
the birds enjoyed.  The thick, musty odor of rotting vegetation issued
from the depths of the trough.

The hawk trumpeted a sudden squawk directly into Colbey's ear.

Startled, Colbey froze, painfully alert.  He scanned the path in front
of him and to either side, and his gaze found motion.  A rust-colored
snake with gold and blue diamonds

slithered from beneath a log, poising directly in his path.

Another step, and it could have struck.  Its triangular head swayed
rhythmically, almost touching the ground.

The strangeness of its presence and actions touched Colbey at once.

When it felt his approach, it should have fled.  He eased Harval from
its sheath.

The snake glided toward the movement.  Suddenly, its head flashed
forward, lunging for Colbey's leg.  As quickly, Colbey swung.  The flat
of his sword crashed into its face, stopping the strike.  Its body
curled into a knot.  Colbey flicked his wrist, and Harval's tip split
the snake's neck.  He kicked the still-roiling body into the gully.

Throughout it all, the hawk remained perched on his shoulder,
undisturbed.  Yet without its call, Colbey doubted he would have
noticed the snake in time.  He stroked its crown with a finger.  "Maybe
we can communicate, after all."

Colbey back-stepped.  His foot hung up on the staff's base, the wood
cracking against his shin, and he stumbled.  Catching his balance, he
sheathed Harval and pulled the staff free.

Had his battle with the serpent required even a single retreating
movement, he might have tripped and lost the fight.

Annoyed, Colbey continued along the trail more cautiously,
contemplating the snake.  The shape of its head, keeled scales, and
brash coloring marked it as poisonous, though Colbey did not know its
type.  Its boldness made him suspicious; it had seemed almost to be
awaiting him.  Carcophan?  Colbey frowned.

Though he knew the Southern Wizard had a rapport with such creatures,
it seemed like a paranoid leap in logic to believe Carcophan stood
behind an attack that could be as easily explained by coincidence.  Yet
placed in context, his hunch seemed less irrational.  If they would
summon a demon to kill me, why not a snake?

Colbey glanced about, seeking some sign of another's passage.  Finding
nothing, he dismissed his concern.  He had little means to predict or
understand the Wizards' magic: To run scared of every slight variation
from the expected meant spending the rest of his life in place, muscles
knotted and heart racing.  Always before, he had relied on his
instincts and his nearly instantaneous reactions.  Caution had never
served him as well as premonition.  He would not allow the Cardinal
Wizards to make him a prisoner to speculation and fear.

cance.  If the other Wizards had found him already, escape to
anonymity required him to move quickly.  The surefooted stallion would
increase his speed and mobility.

Colbey doubled his pace toward the valley.  The path grew steeper and
threaded its way between boulders encrusted with bird droppings dried
as hard as stone.  Colbey sought handholds to control his descent, and
the aristiri hopped from his shoulder to an overhang.  He kept the
staff clamped to his chest, supported by his upper arm.  The sharp
crest of rock cut into his callused hands but did not draw blood.

The trail ended at a low cliff.  Colbey suspected the deer who had made
the path could leap down the sheer face, but they required a different
route to climb back to the top.  For him to jump would result only in
more broken bones, yet he was too impatient to clamber all the way back
up the mountain to seek a different trail.  He believed he could find a
way down, but it required freedom of movement.  Rummaging in his pack,
he shoved aside clean clothes, sword oil, food, bandages, and his
knife, emerging with a rope.  He looped the end in strong figure eights
around the staff, hitching it securely.  He lowered it over the side,
intending to dangle it well above the reach of passersby.  But gravity
slid the narrow rod of wood through his knot.  He jerked upward, hoping
sudden movement would spin the staff back onto his perch, but it
detached, tumbling free of the cliffs and to the ground.

Colbey swore, watching as the staff spun then righted, landing tip
first and sticking upright in the soft ground.  The fall took longer
than Colbey had originally judged.  If he fell and only broke bones, he
would consider himself lucky.  "Sorry," he sent.

The staff returned an indecipherable message that took the form of
disgruntled concepts rather than words.  It indicated displeasure and
the need to come fetch it as soon as possible.

Colbey returned his concentration to his route down.  To turn back now
would leave the staff out of sight, so he chose to trace a path from
where he stood.  A series of slender, intersecting ledges led to a
vertical crack that stretched nearly to the ground.  This appeared to
be the only possible descent.

He took another glance at the staff.  It seemed safe, tan against the
green and gray of the cliff.  Yet the idea of backtracking and leaving
it unseen and untended seemed too dan gerous.  In the hands of the
power hungry, it would prove a crucial tool.  But in the hands of the
weak, it would simply take over, giving its wielder all the power
Colbey had refused and controlling its so-called master like a
puppet.

Colbey lay facedown at the edge of the precipice and swung his legs
over it.  His boots scraped over the bare stone, seeking the ledge he
had previously seen.  Pebbles dislodged and clattered against the
cliff, then silently plummeted through space.  Finding the shelf, he
edged along its gently sloping course.  The forest disappeared above
him, and the rock face became his entire world.

The ridges widened as Colbey progressed.  Though he could now place his
entire foot firmly onto stone, he could not escape a feeling of
uneasiness.  He had always relished the tight alertness that came to
him in battle, his life precariously balanced on a knife's edge.  Here,
he had no control over the knife.  Squatting, he braced a hand on the
ledge.  He cautiously lowered his left leg and wedged his foot in the
vertical crack.  He allowed himself another glance at the ground.  The
height of two adults beneath him, a familiar, broad-shouldered man with
gray and black hair held the staff that used to belong to Colbey.  He
froze.

Catching Colbey's gaze, Carcophan smiled.  "Drop something?"

The Southern Wizard threw back his head and laughed mockingly.

"Perhaps I can speed your journey down to claim what you so foolishly
lost."  He waved his hand, and fist-sized pieces of flint cascaded down
the cliff face.

The aristiri flew to the safety of a tree, silently watching.

Colbey flinched flat to the mountainside, but the hail of stones
crashed painfully against his head and shoulders, nearly battering him
from the cliff.  Dizzied, he clutched rock, mind sprinting for
answers.

His only hope lay in desperate action.  A flash of memory brought the
image of Arduwyn, tumbling from a tower window ledge twice Colbey's
current distance from the ground, escaping with only a broken arm and
bruises.  Colbey had no sand to cushion his fall, but he could die,
sword in hand, and possibly kill Carcophan as well.  As larger blocks
of stone spilled toward him, the Renshai kicked himself from the
cliff.

"Modi!"  Colbey shouted, drawing and raising Harval as he fell.

Carcophan went still, staring for a moment in horror.  He opened his
mouth, the first syllables of a spell rushing forth

in an explosion of breath.  Then, apparently realizing he would not
finish in time, he dodged.

Harval swept for the Southern Wizard's head, but struck his arm
instead.  The blade bit deep.  The staff fell from Carcophan's grasp.

Colbey pitched to his side, then rolled to his feet.  He thrust for
Carcophan's lungs.  The Wizard spun away from the attack.  Harval tore
cloth and gouged a furrow across his chest.  Then Carcophan waved his
uninjured hand.

Without flash, sound, or preamble, he disappeared.

Colbey crouched at the ready, feeling the hot excitement of battle
course through him, masking any wounds he might have taken from the
fall.  The freedom of his breathing and movements told him he had not
broken any bones.  At the worst, he had sustained a few more bruises,
and those would become lost in the dispersing wash left from his battle
with the summoned demon.  He cleaned and sheathed his sword.

Catching the staff, he rose, hurrying toward the farmstead.

Though he believed the wound he had inflicted would occupy Carcophan's
attention for a long time, he dared not take a chance with Frost
Reaver.  It would fit the Evil One's tactics to try to demoralize an
enemy by killing a loved one.

Colbey ran, finding some solace in the realization that the Wizards had
no instantaneous spells of slaying.  If Carcophan had known such a
thing, Colbey felt certain he would have died.

"He appreciated my power.  He would have used me to my potential."

Annoyed by an interruption that sounded suspiciously like childish
whining, Colbey responded absently as he raced toward the farms, gaze
Selecting the familiar wood-roofed structure that belonged to the
farmer keeping Frost Reaver.  "He would have used you for his cause,
not yours."

"He would have tried, Master.  I'm more powerful.  I would have swayed
him to my way."

"At what cost?"

"The balance isn't my concern."

Colbey disagreed.  "It is.  You just don't know it yet."

Colbey felt a wash of mirth and outrage, a strange mocking
combination.

"You profess to know more than I do?"

"Only to have a more balanced view of the world.  And more common
sense."  Colbey continued before the staff could interrupt.  "I've got
more urgent concerns than arguing station with you.  Things are as they
are.  You know as well

as I that the Western Wizard was meant to wield you.

Whether either of us likes it, I am that Wizard."  He said nothing
more, hoping his mood would make it clear that he had no intention of
listening to or saying more about the matter now.

The ground leveled.  The trail led into a solid wall of holly.  A low
tunnel cut through the dark green leaves.

Colbey skittered through on hands and knees, emerging in a cleared
field.  Rows of stems jutted from the soil, weighted with fat leaves.

Avoiding the crop, Colbey followed the field's edge to a road he
knew.

Deep ruts betrayed many years of cart traffic, and the buildings of the
farm that housed Frost Reaver became discernible ahead.  Just beyond a
shed, a trio of young men worked in a large, egg-shaped hole, flinging
shovelfuls of mud to the surface.  Their cheerful work song rose over
the wet slash of steel through earth, interspersed with laughter.  In
the field directly in front of the house, one broad figure and several
smaller ones knelt in the dirt.

As he came abreast of the second group, Colbey switched his course and
headed toward them.  Soon, he could make out the hefty figure of the
farmer from whom he had bartered barn space for his horse.  The others
were children, plucking scrawny weeds from amid the growing crop.

Apparently, this farmer had done his part to replace the hands lost to
battle and disease, and all of his offspring appeared robust.  They,
too, sang as they worked, finding exhilaration in what others saw as
drudgery.  Colbey watched for a short time, glad for a new generation
springing from the ashes of the last, one that took pride in their work
from a young age and appreciated the freedom their elders' blood had
won.

When a dirty-faced girl looked up and noticed him, Colbey stopped,
hailing the farmer from a distance.  "Hello."

The farmer looked up, the singing stopped, and all of the children's
heads swung in Colbey's direction.  The man rose, his homespun filthy,
and clapped soil from his palms: Dark eyes regarded Colbey from a
red-cheeked, pudgy face, and the farmer smiled.  "Returned at last,
have you?  Come for your horse, I'd guess."  He approached Colbey.

Though the farmer seemed happy, Colbey could not help the concern that
rose.  "Is he well?"

The children quit working, nudging one another and commenting on
Colbey's swords and staff in loud whispers.

"Healthy like a horse," the farmer said, laughing as if he had said
something funny.  "Bit restless these last days, though.  Hope you
don't mind, we used him for what a stallion's good for.  It seemed to
calm him some.  And neighbors who have horses thought his blood would
do their stock good; lots of the best ones got lost in the War, you
know."

The farmer spread his lips in a gap-toothed grin.  "I think he missed
you."

Too eager to chat, Colbey dug a pouch full of gold from his pocket and
tossed it to the farmer.  The man caught the offering one-handed, coins
clinking through the fabric, then placed it in his pocket uncounted.

Colbey's previous payment had been more than generous enough to insure
competent care.

The farmer half-turned to address his children.  "Back to work."

The boys and girls obeyed, still exchanging low-pitched comments.  The
farmer headed toward the buildings, stepping over each planted row, and
Colbey followed.  Mud caked his boots, and every step left heavy prints
in the moist earth.  "Fine, strong animal you got there.  Wish all my
cows could be so hardy, though I can't complain.  It's been a good
year."

The splash and plop of wet earth grew louder as they approached.

Colbey watched the shovelers work.  "What are you digging for?"

The farmer grinned, obviously pleased by Colbey's interest.

"Noticed the fish pasture, did you?"  He continued talking as they
headed around the house to the barn.  "Got my first taste of fish after
the War and loved it.  The fish, I mean, not the War.  We fought by the
ocean, you know.  Now that we're all rebuilt again, I got this idea.

Why not farm fish as well as cows and crops?  No one's ever done that
before far as I know."

"Not as far as I know either."  Colbey approved, pleased to see that
war and chaos had sparked new thoughts and innovations in addition to
doing harm.

"My oldest's got some ideas, too.  He's working on a new kind of
harvesting tool that'll pick corn faster than any man can alone.

Horse-drawn, of course."  The farmer stopped before the pasture fence
around the barn.  Recently rebuilt, the poles and slats looked pale and
unweathered.  Clearly, the Bruenian farmer had chosen to invest
Colbey's money back

into the farm and his children rather than spend it on beer

and gewgaws.

The farmer whistled.

An answering whinny echoed through the confines of the barn, followed
by welcoming whickers in several voices.

Three horses ran around the corner, Frost Reaver at the lead.

Dirt and grass stains striped his white hide, yet Colbey turned his
attention to what lay beneath.  Muscles rippled through the horse's
rump and hindquarters, and no ribs showed.  Neither did the belly hang
as if overfed and under-exercised.

The stallion moved with a grace and ease that made the farmer's two
trailing plow horses seem ungainly.

The three stopped short at the fence.  Frost Reaver stood with his ears
cocked toward Colbey, betraying the direction of his gaze.

Excitement flashed through Colbey.  Time had dulled his memory of the
animal's perfection.  Now, he stared at the fine, wedge-shaped head
that perched high on the delicately bowed neck.  Strong shoulders
arched deeply.  Massive nostrils and a broad chest promised the
endurance Frost Reaver had delivered on more than one occasion.  The
horse approached Colbey slowly, ears flickering backward and eyes
rolling to reveal the whites.

The farmer scrambled over the fence without bothering to open the gate,
his agility surprising for his bulk.  "I'll get his things."  He headed
toward the barn, the plow horses plodding methodically at his heels,
nuzzling his back at intervals.

Frost Reaver remained in place, nostrils wide and red, snuffling
Colbey's scent.  "It's me, Reaver.  You remember me."  Gradually, he
reached up a hand and stroked the soft, pink muzzle.  The stallion
froze in position, though he stayed tense and coiled.

Soon, the farmer reappeared, carrying Frost Reaver's halter and
bridle.

Colbey preferred to ride bareback, without a saddle to blunt the
bunching and shift of muscle that warned of coming movement.  Sword
maneuvers required free hands and that the horse respond to the
slightest kneed commands.  A saddle would have hampered that
communication.

As the farmer approached, Frost Reaver's ears returned to a neutral
position, and he remained still as the farmer adjusted the halter, then
the bridle, on his head.  Catching the lead rope, the farmer headed for
the gate.  Colbey tripped the

latch, then Frost Reaver was led up beside him.  The farmer passed the
lead rope, and Colbey accepted it happily.  He could scarcely wait to
feel the massive power of the animal beneath him, to know again the
rapport that blossomed whenever they worked together on a precise sword
maneuver.

"Thank you," Colbey said.

"Thank you, sir," the farmer returned gruffly.  "Anytime you need your
horse watched, just let me know."

The stallion relaxed then, apparently catching his cues from his
master.  Colbey led the horse past the farmstead and out onto the road
to Pudar.  Unclipping the lead rope, he used it to lash his pack to the
animal's back.  Still clutching the staff, he vaulted onto the horse.

Frost Reaver quivered slightly, with the same anticipation he had shown
so many times in the past.  For an instant, Colbey knew the camaraderie
that had seemed almost telepathic, the grim certainty that told both
animal and rider that he belonged here.  Catching the reins, Colbey
sought a hole in his bindings through which to wedge the staff.  Its
previous slipping made him wary.

Suddenly, Frost Reaver stiffened.  Though the motion was nonspecific,
Colbey knew horses well enough to sense impending violence.  "Easy,
boy."  He prepared to jump down and calm the animal.

Before Colbey could dismount, Frost Reaver lurched into a rear.  He
twisted as he came down, immediately lunging into a wild jump that
threw Colbey into a wall of air.  The Staff tumbled as the Renshai
concentrated on the more urgent matter of clambering down without
injuring himself or the horse.  He leaned left to leap clear.

Apparently sensing the movement, Reaver spun in the opposite direction,
ending with a buck that thrust his hind legs skyward.  Instinctively,
Colbey threw his weight to the right, keeping his seat.  An instant
later, Frost Reaver launched into three consecutive hops, all four legs
bunched beneath him.  Again, the stallion reared to vertical, momentum
all but taking him over backward.

Colbey clung with his knees, feeling himself begin to slide toward the
horse's rump.  He shifted his balance, just as Reaver rocked back into
a bucking, stomping kick.  Hurled suddenly forward, Colbey scarcely
managed to remain aboard.  His face struck the pack, and he lost his
hold for an eye blink.

gle motion.  Humping his back, he gave one more solid kick that
unhorsed the clinging Renshai, Colbey sailed through the air, landing
hard on the packed dirt path.  He rolled, tucking his head, seeking the
location of the crazed horse.  Before he had come halfway around, he
caught a glimpse of movement overhead, steel-shod hooves speeding down
on him.

"Reaver, no!"  Colbey writhed out of the path.  The hooves slammed to
the ground, their impact quaking.  Immediately, the stallion twisted
into another wild rear.  Colbey managed only to skitter into a
half-crouch before the hooves screamed down on him again.  "Modi!"  He
swore as he eeled out of the way once more.

The stallion waited only until its hooves struck empty ground, then it
rushed Colbey, legs thundering, head low, and ears swept flat to its
skull.

Colbey's first thought, to draw Harval and let the beast impale itself,
passed quickly.  He would not kill any friend for a fit of unreasoning
rage, especially one that had served him so faithfully in the past.

Instead, he scrambled to his feet, sprinting for the first gap in the
roadside forest.  A hoof clipped his boot, tripping him.  Flat, hard
teeth tore his tunic, pinching skin.  He dove forward, rolling, twigs
and stones gouging his back2 He ducked through a line of twisted
hadonga trees, their upper branches twined into an archway over the
road.

Frost Reaver shrilled his fury, the neigh rebounding in deafening
echoes.  His forehooves slammed into wood, spilling a shower of leaves
onto Colbey's head.  The Renshai recoiled, confused, aching from a
rabid betrayal that seemed irrational.  Yet the stallion had seemed
tractable in the farmer's care.  There was nothing undirected about an
attack that had become nonsensically relentless.

The white hooves crashed against wood again, a snap echoing through the
woodlands.  The trunk leaned slightly, but it did not fall, and another
wash of leaves spiraled down over Colbey.

"Kill the horse and come get me."  The staff sent from where it lay in
the roadway.  "Before another Wizard comes and takes me."

Colbey doubted Carcophan would come after him again so soon, and he had
never known the Cardinal Wizards to work together, except on the
Wizards' Meeting Isle.  Still, he

understood the staff's concern.  "Not until I understand.  Not until I
do all I can for Frost Reaver."

The hooves buffeted the trunk again, and Frost Reaver screamed another
wild cry.

"There's nothing you can do.  It's out of your hands."  Bracing himself
against one of the trunks, Colbey gathered mental energy and thrust his
consciousness into the horse's mind.  It was the first time the Renshai
had even considered invading an animal's head, and the organization of
thought surprised him.  Immediately, his probe touched a red wash of
rage that seemed endless, uninterrupted by other interests and
concerns.  Colbey found a definitive target that centered around
himself.  Clearly the animal bore no interest in harming any other
human.

The hammer of hooves against wood sounded like a distant, hollow
reverberation as Colbey turned his full concentration internally.  He
found vague impressions of basic needs: food, drink, sleep, and the
fleeting odors of enemies on the wind.  But the scarlet fog pervaded
and suffocated these necessities, masking them beneath an all-consuming
need to kill: A foreign thought.  A driving force without reason.

Colbey delved deeper.

The staff'joined Colbey in the horse's mind.  "Caution.

You're weakening yourself A few more batterings, and it'll have you."

Colbey ignored the warning.  Diverting his thoughts now, while
ensconced in another's mind, would only delay and steal his vitality.

He dug more quickly through the rage-haze, desperate to find some
semblance of the animal he had known.  Though he had never before
intentionally entered Frost Reaver's mind, he had caught glimpses of
emotion and idea that had made them seem more team than beast and
master.  This frenzied stallion bore no likeness to the horse he had
loved.

Colbey swam through the fog, too directed to notice the fatigue
replacing his own usual agile strength.  At length, he came to the
edges of the shell.  In the center of Frost Reav-er's mind, a spark
still burned.  Colbey dove for the light, memory slamming him with the
force of the speeding hooves.  Not long ago, he had scrambled through
another enemy-warped mind, one far more complicated and twisted by a
malicious, vengeful bitterness that had destroyed happy memory and
logic.  For an instant, the comparison to Episte

nearly paralyzed Colbey, and strength ebbed through the contact.  Then
he forced himself to see and feel the many differences.

Episte's madness had come as a result of his receiving the third Sword
of Power on the world of law, and only the Wizards and gods could guess
the broader complications of that trio.  Chaos itself had warped the
youngster, its being spreading and destroying like acid, its sudden and
massive presence destroying humanity Colbey had had no ability or
opportunity to recover.  Desperately, he had searched Episte's mind for
one crumb of remaining self, finding a glimmer that chaos had stolen as
quickly as Colbey found it.

Yet, here, Colbey found something different.  He could still feel the
pervading wrongness that was chaos; but it did not compose the rage, it
only tinged it.  The staff gave Colbey the answer.  "Magic.  The change
itself is the work of a creature of law.  Using magic."  The
explanation addressed future queries as well.  Only Wizards could use
sorcery, and Carcophan's nearness pointed to him as the cause.

The staff corrected the misconception.  "Furred beast.

Shadimar's work."  It kept its reply clipped, moving on to a more
urgent topic.  "The hawk's helping.  Even so, the horse'll have you
soon, too weak to fight.  Pull out now!"

The staff's words only galvanized Colbey to action.  He delved into the
central' spark, finding the familiar strength, dedication, and
innocence that had characterized the Frost Reaver he knew.  He also
found the depth of spirit that accompanied the finest steeds, a
property he had heard a trainer call "heart."  Colbey shouted in
triumph.  Even as he thrust into the pocket of surviving temperament,
the red fog closed around him.  It pressed the edges, devouring the
boundaries in an instant.

Damn!  Colbey sent his consciousness in a wild circle, battling the
squeezing madness.  He had long ago lost track of his body, but he
could now feel his mental thread weakening.

Almost certainly, he had fallen, and he would have no way to run from
Reaver's attack.  "Can you assist?"  · Yes."  The staff returned,
though it made no move to prove its assertion.  "In trade for more
freedom."

Rage speared through Colbey, momentarily strengthening him.  He kept
his pace cautious and methodical, halting the infusion as long as
possible.  'I won't give in to blackmail.

Either you serve me or not.  My death would leave you mas-terless.

" "Pull out!"  the staff drove the command into Colbey's mind.

Colbey responded in concept, not daring to waste the energy forming
words would take.  He made it clear in an instant that things had gone
too far for him to withdraw, dodge, and use his sword.  His only hope
lay in stopping the attack.

A crack wound through Colbey's hearing, sounding leagues away.  He felt
something massive swish over his head.  A flicker of concern touched
him from the staff, then disappeared as it set to work.

"I'll stop the spread of magic permanently.  It'll take too much to fix
things now.  You'll die before you bring that horse back to what it
was.  Just latch onto something that'll stop the assault and send it
away.  We can put things right some other time.  Go!  Hurry."

Colbey let the staff handle the horse's alien fury.  Within an instant,
the sorceries ceased their inward movement, and Colbey muddled through
the horse's emotions and memory.

He found himself featured prominently in the stallion's mind, but
remaining flickers of affection stood little chance beneath the
avalanche of magically conjured hatred.  He gathered a flight reaction
as well as triggering a deep and inner calm, certain he needed to
funnel these into a specific direction if he ever hoped to find the
horse again.  Clearly, he needed to steer the white stallion into the
hands of someone who cared for animals.  The red haze had blunted its
natural pursuit for food and drink.

"Quit gawking!  Send it away!"  The staff continued to hold magic at
bay, but it knew a danger Colbey could only imagine until he found the
way back into his own person.

The Renshai did not respond, channeling his focus to the horse's
memory.  It knew people as nameless odors and movements.  Colbey knew
that, given time, he could sort one from another; but time was a luxury
he did not have.  Instead, he found the memory of the one other person
who had ridden Frost Reaver since Colbey had become the horse's
master.

Arduwyn.  He understands animals.  He'll know what to do.  The forest
odor that seemed to linger on the hunter would guide the horse enough
to keep it in the woodlands, away from main pathways.  He drew the
three concepts to gether, funneling his own power to highlight their
importance.

Frost Reaver's mind collapsed into darkness, and it took Colbey a
moment to realize the draining of his power had hurled him from the
animal's mind.  The musk of horse filled his nostrils, strong after the
odorless interior of the stallion's thoughts.  Steel-shod hooves
hovered over Colbey's head.

Colbey gasped, attempting to dodge.  His usual reflexes failed him, and
he seemed rooted in place.

The aristiri swept from a branch above his head, driving its beak
toward one of the stallion's dark eyes.

Frost Reaver twisted, though whether in response to Colbey's
manipulations or the bird's attack, he did not know.

The horse came halfway around before his hooves fell.  The instant they
did, he took off at a gallop down the main pathway, headed south.

Colbey relaxed, not daring to waste his final energy even on something
as simple and basic as remaining wary.  He knew the quiet passage of
time would gradually restore his vitality, while even the most
straightforward of movements -might steal his consciousness at a time
he needed it most.  If Shadimar had caused Frost Reaver's madness, the
Wizard might still be in the vicinity.

The thought brought a rage as vicious as the one Colbey had been lucky
to survive.  Whatever friendship remained between him and the Eastern
Wizard vanished in an animosity that pained as well as soothed.  Though
obvious blasphemy, Colbey could not help but hold Odin responsible.

When subjected to the very forces the god had built it to protect, the
system of the Cardinal Wizards had shattered like an ancient,
sun-bleached bone.  Now the one Wizard who had wanted nothing to do
with magic and should have championed an assigned cause fought a
single-handed battle for balance against the world's most powerful.

Though surely it still had some contact, the staff made no judgment.

Colbey did not currently have the power to keep it from the deeper
recesses of his mind.  He had little choice but to trust its vow.  And
for all its stubborn blindness, he could think of no one of the four
forces that could serve him better.

Colbey turned his thoughts to his current position.  He lay in a
thicket of vines.  The tree Frost Reaver had battered its way into a
fork of

the hadonga that had supported Colbey's back.  Had exhaustion not
pounded him to the ground, it might have staved in his skull.  He also
assessed his own strength, finding it not as fully tapped as he had
feared.  He had drained himself longer and lower in the past, and he
guessed he could probably wander over and rescue the staff without
problem.  However the longer he lay still now, the quicker he would
recover The slightest weakness in himself obsessed him.

The aristiri alighted on the leaning trunk, watching Colbey through one
round, blue eye.  It warbled softly, as if to reassure him that no one
shared this part of the forest.

"Thanks, fellow," Colbey murmured, though the effort of speech dizzied
him.  If you're going to accompany me, you'll need a name.  It had
never been Colbey's way to give titles to animals, but one for this
hawk seemed to present itself at once.  "Formynder."  The word meant
guardian.  It also held connotations of teacher, which seemed less
appropriate in this circumstance.

The aristiri warbled again2

Colbey closed his eyes, concentrating his attention and empowering
himself to normal, trusting the bird to warn him of another's
approach.

Though still unmanned, the staff did not complain.  Apparently, it
trusted the aristiri's perception as well.  And the day wore on.

CHAPTER 18

The Bard of Bearn The paint mare's hooves drummed on the packed earth
of the forest path.

Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow had ridden through the night and into the
following day, irrationally afraid Arduwyn might catch her if she
rested for even a moment.

Exhaustion rode her with as little mercy as she had, so far, shown the
horse.

As the sun shifted halfway across the sky, the Southern Weathered Range
loomed.  The soil changed from a rich brown that seemed nearly black to
a gray, stony mulch.

Hearty Erythanian forest disappeared, replaced by scraggly, sparse
vegetation that twisted from the rocky ground.  She passed occasional
farm fields, cradled into hollows between sheer, unyielding.

mountains·Greenery speckled the valleys; apparently, rain washed the
usable soil into the lowlands and mountain streams watered the cropland
well-enough.

Halfway into the afternoon, Khitajrah discovered the king's city of
Bearn.  The castle rose, carved directly from a central mountain and
surrounded by gray cottages.  Though the town seemed far smaller than
she had expected, a quarter the size of the Eastern kingdom of
Stalmize, the architecture fascinated her.  From beginning to end, it
reminded her of the older, more beautiful portions of her home city,
when the craftsmen had used more permanent constructions and had
personalized their work with statuettes and flourishes.  On' the outer
boundaries of Stalmize, identical wood and thatch dwellings cheapened
the labors of the central craftsmen, echoing the changes that had
overtaken Eastern society.

Quick efficiency had taken the place of pride and permanence.

When money became scarce and needs many, art always suffered first.

Yet in Bearn, Khitajrah saw no such pattern.  As the path became rocky,
she slowed the horse to a walk, listening to

the rhythmical crunch of shards beneath its hooves.  Though
disappointingly small, the city clearly took pride in its station and
its appearance.  At least one statue decorated every dwelling, perched
upon crafted ledges or recessed into welcoming doorways.  Even the
rudest of peasant cottages had some stone-crafted object in its yard,
though the skill of the artisans varied widely.  As Khitajrah rode
through the West-lands' high kingdom, she found some yards choked with
statues, grouped by themes or, occasionally, in clever scenes.

Apparently, these dwellings housed the craftsmen who carved the many
stone works that decorated their neighbor's cottages.

As Khitajrah headed toward the center and the jutting spires of Bearn's
castle, even hovering fatigue could not keep her from staring.  The
predominant motif appeared to be bears.  She discovered them rearing,
pacing in pairs, or roaring in fierce defiance.  One stylized creation
merely gave the impression of "bear," though Khitajrah felt uncertain
whether the hold swirls and lines made her think of a bear for some
artistic reason or only because of the town's major theme.

Oddly, Khitajrah found her eyes glued to the artwork, though the
Bearnides posed more danger.  She noticed their movement and bustle
through the king's city only indistinctly, from peripheral vision.  She
guessed her own tiredness as well as the captivating stonework made her
reckless.

The swarthy Bearnides, with their black hair and dark eyes, reminded
her more of Easterners than any humans she had met since crossing the
Great Frenum Mountains, and that also put her at ease.

However, there the resemblance ended.  To a man, the Bearnides stood as
tall as the largest Eastern warrior and as broad as a bear.  Even the
women seemed as massive as any Eastern man, and the children showed
promise of their parents' bulk.  Long black beards predominated,
joining with sidebums and mustaches into manes that seemed to surround
the men's stout, coarsely-featured faces; Eastern men usually remained
clean-shaven.  When they did grow beards, they tended to keep them
short and well-groomed, 'always accompanied by a mustache.  Their
sparser hair patterns rarely allowed head and facial growth to link.

The Bearnides spoke a rapid language that seemed delicate compared with
the Easterners' harsh gutturals, and it did not seem to fit their

size.  Their population seemed as sparse in daylight as

Stalmize's did moments before curfew.  Obviously, the plagues and power
struggles Lirtensa mentioned had taken their toll on the populace where
the Great War had not.  Eastern King Siderin had bought off the
previous Bearnian king, and the city had not joined its fellow
Westerners in battle.

Khitajrah forced her attention to other sights in the city of Bearn.

In addition to the citizenry, the architecture, and the myriad statues,
she discovered tall, unrecognizable contraptions composed of pulleys,
logs, and ropes.  The wind stirred clamps that thunked musically
against wood, and racheting noises filled the streets as men yanked at
the ropes.  From what Khitajrah could see without gawking, these
apparently hauled blocks of stone from place to place, mostly from the
farm valleys to the crags.  Wagons waited at the sites, presumably to
carry the rescued granite to the mason.  Clearly, even the nuisance
stones that dulled farmers' plows did not go to waste here.

As Khitajrah neared the castle of Bearn, fatigue seemed to vanish,
replaced by nervousness.  In Stalmize, had a woman insisted on coming
before the king, the guards would have laughed her down.  Then,
perhaps, they would have attacked and raped or killed her just for the
practice.  In the West, she knew, laws forbade the latter actions.

Lirtensa's matter-offactness only confirmed the impression.  Yet
Khitajrah did not know if she would have the words to obtain an
audience.

She rode directly to the castle, reining up before the iron gates.

A half-dozen men in mail glanced down at Khitajrah from the ramparts.

Each wore a blue tabard decorated with a tan figure of a bear, and a
blue feather arched delicately from one man's helmet.  Another man
perched in a semi-oval window.

Though also dressed in Bearn's blue and tan, nothing about his garb
seemed official.  He wore a tunic and cape, and one breek-covered leg
dangled from the ledge.  Though he wore a longsword at his hip, a
mandolin occupied his hands.  Through the bars of the gate, Khitajrah
could see two more guards standing at attention just inside the
entryway.

These had swords at their hips and halberds in their hands.

Her position had not allowed her-to assess the weaponry of the
others.

Beyond the sentries on the ground, a courtyard filled with stone
benches, statues, and flowers beckoned; and

a lowered plankway led into the interior over a moat filled with
brackish water.

While Khitajrah studied the castle and its sentries, the guards watched
her in the same, thoughtful silence.  At length, she flushed beneath
the intensity of their stares.

The paint pawed the ground with a forehoof, flinging gravel, as if
impatient to enter the gates.

Khitajrah spoke hesitantly, in the trading tongue.  "Hello."

No one replied in words, but one of the gate sentries gave a single nod
of acknowledgment.

Encouraged by this simple gesture, Khitajrah addressed this man
specifically.  "I'd like an audience with the king."

She pulled the paint around, and it pranced, snorting, legs continuing
to move long after it came into position.

"No one without hostile intentions is denied an audience with King
Sterrane."  He passed his halberd to his companion, who took the shaft
but remained rigidly at attention.  The speaking man pulled parchment
and a stylus from his pocket.  "Your name, please."

"Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow."

The man penned the first letter or two, then stopped, frowning.  He
scratched out what he had written and re-started, again quitting after
only a few marks.  "Kay-tahj-i-what?"

Khitajrah cursed herself for not taking Lirtensa's hint.

"Kayt will do fine."

"Kayt."  The guard studied Khitajrah more carefully for a time, then
returned to his parchment and wrote.  "You're not a ctttzen.  It was a
statement, not a question.  He went on.

"What village, tribe, town, or city do you represent?"

"I represent only myself."  The mare began pawing again, wearing a
trench with its forehoof.  Khitajrah jerked the horse's head up.  "Stop
that!"  she said to the animal.

"Mmm."  The guard did not bother to write anything.

"And what is this audience in regard to?"

"It's a personal matter."

"And that personal matter is?"

"Personal," Khitajrah repeated with finality.  She dismounted, allowing
the horse to paw as it would.

"Personal."  The sentry frowned.  "Very well.  You may see his majesty,
King Sterrane of Bearn, high king of the West-lands in the afternoon,
exactly one week from today.  Thank you for--"

"A week!"  Khitajrah shouted, caught off-guard by the pronouncement.

"Yes, lady.  The king's a busy man."

"I haven't got a week."

"Others have been waiting longer."

"I need to speak with him today."

The sentry's brows arched over his flinty eyes.  "I'm afraid that's not
possible.  The day is scheduled."

Chaos added its opinion.  "Use guile, Khita."

Upset; Khitajrah did not mince words.  "Easy for you to say.  You're
not two days shy on sleep."

The sentry returned parchment and stylus to his pocket, collecting his
weapon.  "Merchants and nobility often send a servant ahead to set up
the meeting for When their master arrives."

Khitajrah transferred her rage to the guard.  "Do I look like a
princess to you?"  · Easy, " chaos cautioned.  "He's just doing his
job."

"That's not for me to determine," the Bearnide said carefully.

Chaos prodded further.  "Tell him it's important.  It concerns one of
the king's friends."  · But ..."  Khitajrah started, immediately
recognizing the flaw in her own argument.  "That's not guile.  That's
the truth."  · Sometimes it works."

It seemed worth a try.  "But this is too important to wait.

It concerns a friend of the king."

The sentry seemed appropriately serious, but he had not seemed any less
so in the past.  He exchanged a glance with his companion.  "What's the
matter?"

"I'd prefer to discuss it directly with his majesty."

"I'm sure you would," the sentry said.  "But I need to have adequate
knowledge for the king to decide if the matter is urgent enough to
require interrupting scheduled audiences.  It would disrupt more than
just routine, you understand."

Khitajrah lowered her head, defeated.  "I understand."

"You're giving up so easily?"  · What choice do I have?  I can hardly
call my wish for information an emergency.  Lying to the guards won't
earn me any goodwill from the king.  When he finds out I called a bunch
of irrelevant questions urgent, he'll probably throw

me in the dungeon.  I'm not going through that again.  Better to just
see what Lirtensa found."

Chaos saw the logic in Khitajrah's words.  It did not push further,
though she could still sense disappointment and a certainty of triumph
if they played the situation well.  Exhaustion pressed Khitajrah, and
she dared not attempt cunning with her mind blunted and so much at
stake.  The time lost hurt; but, on horseback, she could still regain
most of it.

"Lieutenant, you'll forgive my intrusion for a moment?"

The voice came from over Khitajrah's head.  She glanced up in time to
see the sentry with the plume make a friendly gesture of dismissal
toward the man in the window.

Khitajrah naturally turned her head in his direction.

The musician no longer held his mandolin; apparently, he had replaced
it in his room to free his hands.  Now that he held her full attention,
Khitajrah noticed things she had missed on first inspection.  Though he
sported dark hair, it bore a hue lighter than the Bearnides', with a
touch of red.

He was clean-shaven, more slender and delicate in build, though he did
not lack for muscles.  There was a calmness about him that seemed
genuine and permanent.  Clearly, though not one of them, he had earned
the Bearnides' respect.

He called down to her.  "Hello, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow."  He gave
the name a passable Eastern pronunciation, his own accent similar to
Lirtensa's.  "My name is Mar Lon.

I'm King Sterrane's personal bodyguard."

Mar Lon had said nothing that required a reply, but Khitajrah felt as
if he expected one.  "Quite an honor."

"The greatest of my life."  Mar Lon agreed The guards remained in
position, silent.  Their furrowed brows made it clear they had no more
understanding than she did of why the king's personal bodyguard had
chosen to spend his off-duty time supervising a standard exchange
between a stranger and castle sentries.

Mar Lon seemed oblivious to the intensity of the guardsmen's silence.

"That's a nice-looking horse you have there."

Khitajrah blinked.  Though he still had not questioned, she again
believed he wanted an answer or comment.  "Yes, I ..."  Chaos buzzed an
incoherent warning, and Khitajrah trailed off.  · Careful.  Either he
knows something he shouldn't, or he's interested in your mount.  In
either case, if you answer right, you may get your audience."

"What's "right?"

Chaos gave no answer, as uncertain as its host.

Mar Lon did not seem to notice that Khitajrah had not finished.

"Where'd you get such a fine steed?"

The question seemed harmless, free of accusation, yet Khitajrah felt
cold sweat cling to her back.  Though she knew less guilt than she
expected for the theft, she had hoped to trade the paint mare in
Bearn.

She had told Arduwyn her destination, and he could surely track her to
the high kingdom.  The idea of a man as cautious and silent as Arduwyn
hunting her tightened every muscle with dread.

His bow could end her life before she saw him coming, and horse
stealing might prove enough motive to allow him to do so within the
law.  In the Eastlands, a woman who took a horse from a man could be
tortured and slaughtered in any manner of the victim's choosing, and
death in the Eastlands was rarely painless.  Here, she suspected, a
verdict would come slower and punishment swifter; but the end result
would be the same.  However, if Arduwyn got his horse back here, he
might not hold a grudge.  "I ..."  she started.

"Careful," chaos warned unnecessarily.

"I found it in the woods."  Khitajrah skirted the truth, not quite
lying either.  "I thought someone here might know its master."

Mar Lon said nothing, just waited for Khitajrah to continue.

She rambled on.  "If not, well, since this is the closest town, I
figured its master might come here.  I hoped I could sell it or trade
it.  I'm in a hurry.  I really do need a mount, but I wouldn't want to
leave someone else without a favored horse."  She looked at the paint,
which was pawing and stamping more than ever.

Mar Lon crouched gracefully in the window, as if tensed to leap to the
ground.  Khitajrah estimated he could make the jump, but not without
the near certainty of broken bones.

But Mar Lon remained in place, studying the mare in the sunlight.

"Well, the king likes a good horse as well as any man: I'm certain he'd
want to see this one."  He drew back, then made a wide gesture to the
officer on the ramparts.

"Viridis, I'll make the arrangements.  Please have your men escort
Khitajrah to the king's court."

The trading tongue term for "court" came dangerously close to
"courtroom," and Khitajrah barely suppressed a

shiver.  She felt chilled and excited at once, alternately joyful that
she had achieved her goal and cautious about the way the opportunity
seemed to have fallen, unexpectedly, into her hands.  She guessed
either curiosity or attraction had goaded Mar Lon to take her side, but
she wondered whether it was herself or the horse that he found
appealing.  After a full night and day of travel through woodlands, the
odds seemed on the side of the mare.

Mar Lon ducked inside the tower.  The sentry who had addressed
Khitajrah made no move to open the gates.  Instead, he stood at
attention, waiting, The lieutenant called down to his men.  "Escort her
to the king's court.  Procedure standard."

As One, the sentries leaned their halberds against the wall.

The one who had remained silent throughout the exchange, the shorter of
the two, worked the latches and bars.  He gestured for Khitajrah to
move out of the way, and she retreated several steps, drawing the horse
with her.  The mare paced backward with short, excited steps.  Neck
arched, it kept its head low, chin tucked.

The gate swung outward.  The instant an opening appeared, the horse
bolted for the courtyard.  The sudden movement ripped the bridle from
Khitajrah's hands, drawing a burning line across her palm.  Jerked
abruptly forward, she dropped to one knee to keep from falling on her
face.

The guard caught the reins as the horse thundered by, jerking its
head.

Spun by its own momentum, the paint staggered, and its hooves skidded
furrows through the rock-speckled mud.  Pulled to a sudden stop, it
snorted its dissatisfaction; but it did calm.

The sentry who had done the speaking took Khitajrah's arms gently and
assisted her to her feet.  Wind flicked the soft fabric of his tabard
across her wrist.  Though slight, the touch brought memories of strong
hands and casual nearness, and the odors of leather, oil, steel, and
sweat enhanced a sorrow that exhaustion would not allow logic to
displace.

The eleven years since her husband's death seemed more like eleven
hundred.  She missed rolling over at night, arm flopping across the
warrior largeness that was the man she loved.  Without awakening, he
would draw her convulsively closer, his massive hands making her feel
fragile yet, at the same time, warm and secure.  For all of her driving
need to protect the women of Stalmize from ancient laws desper ately
in need of change, there were times when she had enjoyed feeling safe
herself.  In Harrsha's arms, she could say anything, tell any secret,
knowing he shared her deepest concerns; and he could do the same.

Khitajrah met the sentry's dark eyes, and the emotion disappeared in an
instant.  A single glance told her that she shared nothing with this
Bearnide and never could.  Yet just the fact that she had considered
the possibility made her realize what she had long resisted.  Somewhere
in the world lived another man, perhaps more than one, who could
replace what she had lost.

Oblivious to Khitajrah's thoughts, the sentry released her and stepped
aside.  "Horse stays.  Pack stays.  Weapons?"  He looked at her,
awaiting a response.

"None."  Khitajrah still carried a knife, but most people did so
routinely.  If they wanted it, too, she felt certain they would ask.

She had secured Arduwyn's pack to the horse, carrying nothing that did
not fit easily into a pocket.

"You'll get everything back when your audience is finished.  Come with
me."

Khitajrah walked through the gates, and the sentry pulled them closed
behind her.  Seeing his companion had taken charge of the horse, he
replaced the latches and locks.  Then he gestured her into the
courtyard.

Khitajrah stared at the tended flower gardens and the intricate statues
and benches interspersed between them.

Women in gowns and men dressed in satiny garments perched regally on
benches while children chased one another along the winding pathways.

Here, too, Khitajrah noticed bears as the predominant theme of the
statues.  Before she could stare too long, the sentry led her across
the sturdy planking that bridged the moat and through great iron doors
decorated with a crest that included a rearing bear.

It took a moment for Khitajrah's eyes to adjust to the sudden absence
of the sun, though lines of torches lit the corridors almost as
brightly.  Brackets carved into animal shapes held the burning torches,
tan and blue brocade dangling from their undersides.  The guard's armor
clinked as he walked, and the decorative bands swayed in the breeze of
his passage.

As she became less concerned with light, Khitajrah noticed old carvings
scrawled over part of the wall.  Stories unfolded on what seemed like
leagues of corridor, interrupted by cross-corridors and doors.  The
portion she saw showed a vast army in armor of leather and chain
engaged in battle with a sparse band of savage, blond reavers who wore
no protection and wielded only swords.  Before she could see how the
battle ended, the sentry stopped before a set of teak doors.  The royal
crest, surrounded by fire opals, filled a fist-sized space on each
door, at eye level.  A pair of sentries dressed like the ones at the
gate stood rigidly before the portals, their halberds crossed before
it.

Reluctantly, Khitajrah pulled her gaze from artwork so detailed it
seemed to change the depth and dimensions of the hallway.  One of the
sentries at the door spoke first, in the bland language of the
citizens.

Khitajrah's escort gave a monosyllabic response.

The door guards lowered their weapons, and the speaker said something
further in the same language.  Both men nodded.  The escort spun on the
ball of one foot and headed back the way they had come, the back of his
tabard flapping with the briskness of his walk.

Though Khitajrah had not found the gate guard friendly company, his
absence left her feeling uneasy and alone.  She had never met with a
king before and understood amenities and respectful gestures only in a
general sense.  Though Harrsha had held General/King Siderin's next
highest rank, Khitajrah, as a woman, had never come into the king's
presence, From conversation overheard, she knew the Eastern king would
as soon slaughter a man as hear his complaint, and his moods had been
nearly unreadable even to his closest officers.  She hoped King
Sterrane would prove more tolerant and less moody and that guards would
brief her on court formality.

But the guards pulled the doors open without a word.  As the crack
widened, brief snatches of conversation escaped, uninterpretable to
Khitajrah.  A thick, tan carpet stretched from the opening to a granite
throne, and benches lined the area on either side of the aisle.

Currently, less than a dozen people occupied the benches.  All but two
were sturdy, dark Bearnide men, one a woman and one a child of about
ten years old, perhaps the king's heir learning affairs of court.

Eight figures stood in formation around one man perched on the
throne.

From a distance, she could make out few details of the king and his
entourage.

Khitajrah's mouth dried, and a sudden urge to flee seized her.  Only
the momentum of the paired sentries kept her

heading toward the throne.  She had rehearsed her questions

and speech to the king a thousand times, yet it seemed to have escaped
permanently from memory.  And chaos remained strangely silent, its
composure only mildly soothing.

As an entity without form, it had nothing at risk and no punishment to
fear.

As they drew closer, details of the king and his entourage became
apparent.  Chaos studied the men through her eyes, dragging her into
its curiosity.  They examined the king first.

Even sitting, he exuded size.  Clearly, he would stand taller than even
most of the Bearnian men, and his muscled arms and protruding gut would
make him seem like a giant in the Eastlands.  She guessed he would
outweigh her three times over.  He wore the standard Bearnian beard,
and his gray-flecked, black hair framed features younger than her
own.

He wore a silk shirt, linen pants, and an embroidered, multicolored
cloak trimmed with fur.  A band circled one finger, and the oddity of
the jewelry caught and held Khitajrah's attention.

Crafted of gold and detailed down to individual hairs, an impeccably
etched bear clutched a gemstone like nothing Khitajrah had ever seen: a
milky pearl surrounding a central black one.  If the craftsmen had cut
one stone to fit the other, he had used tools beyond Khitajrah's
understanding.

More likely, she looked upon a perfect, singular act of nature.  The
king also wore a gold necklace, the medallion disappearing beneath his
shirt.  Otherwise, he wore no adornment.  His thick cascade of hair
bore no crown nor compressed areas to indicate it habitually did.

Mar Lon stood at Sterrane's right hand.  He had not bothered to change
clothing, which explained how he had managed to arrange the meeting so
quickly.  His simple tunic and breeks seemed out of place amid the
uniforms of the surrounding guardsmen.  He wore a sword at his hip, and
she saw no sign of his mandolin.  The only other man who specifically
attracted Khitajrah's gaze stood at the king's left hand.  He wore the
same blue cloak over the familiar royal tabard and guardsmen's mail,
but a blue plume arched rak-ishly from his helmet.  An occasional black
curl peeked from beneath his headgear, and his features revealed him as
a man well into his thirties.  His sword and hilt seemed wider and
longer than the others, a promise of great strength.

As Khitajrah came to the carpet's edge, her escort took a step back, as
one.  The focus of the room turned on her, and

she felt as if every eye in the court burned her flesh.  Rooted in
place, she could not even back away, and it seemed wiser to overguess
her gesture of deference than to risk insulting the king.  She fell to
her knees, then prostrated herself, face flat to a carpet that smelled
of soap and deeply ground soil.

A murmur washed into silence.  A bass voice directly in front of
Khitajrah said something booming in Bearnese; Mar Lon replied, Then the
first speaker addressed her directly.

"No!  Not lay on floor.  You fall?  Sick?"

Though the tone emerged strong, with authority, the speech pattern
mimicked that of a young child.

Khitajrah looked up to find the king's huge, brown eyes focused on her
face.  He had left his chair to crouch closer to her level, and the
guards had shifted with him.  Stunned Speechless, she found herself
capable of nothing but returning the stare.  Her mouth seemed too
painfully dry to allow speech.

"You not well?"  King Sterrane asked.

"No," Khitajrah managed through lips that felt thick.

Then, uncertain whether she had responded correctly to the question,
she amended.  "I mean, yes."  She clarified, forcing herself to
breathe.  The words came more easily.  "I'm well ...

majesty."

Despite the reassurance, the king persisted.  "You trip?"

His gaze rolled to the paired escort, noting positions of feet and
halberd butts.

Khitajrah had no wish to cause any guardsman trouble.

They had treated her well enough, and every man in her family had been
a soldier.  "No, majesty."  She clambered to her knees.  "Just showing
my respect, majesty.  I'm honored you would agree to see me,
majesty."

Mar Lon said something too low for Khitajrah to hear, and the king
rocked back on his heels.  He turned his attention to his personal
bodyguard.  "Throwing self at floor?"

Mar Lon said something equally soft.  This time, Khitajrah caught only
the word "custom."  He gestured her to her feet with obvious
impatience.

Khitajrah stood.

King Sterrane shrugged.  Taking a backward step, he returned to his
throne and sat.  "Greetings," he said, this time in perfectly
enunciated trade.  "I hope you fared well in your travels and that your
business with Bearn is handled to your satisfaction."

Having just become accustomed to the king's broken speech pattern, his
sudden fluency completely confused Khitajrah.

Yet, though chaos usually thrived on inconsistency, it seemed more
pensive than excited.  "Don't let things rattle you.  Feigned or real,
the appearance of composure will serve you better most times."

Khitajrah found the advice currently impossible to followl but it did
give her a moment to think.  She had met people who found any language
but their own birth tongue impossible to manage.  She had believed them
lazy or chauvinistic until she had watched a neighbor's son struggle
himself into tears trying to learn a few words of Western trading.

Apparently, the king had learned a few pat phrases and little more.

She could not help admiring him for his attempt.  Few men would have
the courage to risk their dignity, and a king could just as easily use
a translator.

When Khitajrah said nothing for some time, King Sterrane prompted
her.

"State your business, please.

"Yes, majesty."  Khitajrah glanced around the room, unsettled by the
king's undivided attention.  Discovering that everyone else watched her
as carefully, she returned the king's scrutiny again.  "There are two
matters.  First, I brought a horse, majesty.  Your... um... Mar Lon
told me you'd like to have it.  I would like you to have it, majesty.

A gift."

"What!"  Chaos seemed to roar through her head.  "What are you doing?

We need that horse."

There was more guile to Khitajrah's idea than chaos seemed capable of
grasping.  "Right now, the information about Colbey is more important
than speed.  We need the king's goodwill more."

Sterrane nodded.  "Mar Lon know horses.  He say me want horse, so want
horse.  He pick trade.  If not think fair, let me know."

Khitajrah wondered if she had heard correctly, so she chose her reply
with care.  "I didn't ask for reimbursement, majesty.  I'll give you
the horse for nothing."

King Sterrane frowned, in obvious consideration, though it did not last
long.  "Thank you.  Me take horse."  He kept his gaze on Khitajrah, not
bothering to seek counsel with Mar Lon or his guards.  "Then me give
you gift.  Other horse."  He raised his brows, placing the burden of
graciousness upon his guest.

Khitajrah wondered if the king were less naive than his broken speech
patterns made him seem.  In one transaction, he had switched the favor,
losing nothing in the deal.  Yet, in truth, it worked well for her,
too.  Though she no longer held the king on the receiving end of a
gift, she did still have a mount to reach Pudar.  "Thank you,
majesty."

"That all?"

Khitajrah hesitated, for a moment concerned that her gratitude had not
seemed heartfelt enough.  But the king's demeanor seemed curious, not
annoyed, and she rerouted her train of thought.  Apparently, he wanted
to know if she had come before him only to trade horses.  "No,
majesty.

I have an important question, too."  She glanced around the court,
reluctant to speak in front of an audience.

The courtiers, including the child, watched with mild interest.

Sterrane encouraged Khitajrah with raised brows, saying nothing.

The question seemed innocent enough.  To look uncomfortable about it
would only raise suspicions.  "I'm seeking a man who traveled with you
once, majesty.  I wondered if you could tell me where to find him."

Khitajrah glanced casually from the king to Mar Lon.

A slight smile formed on the bodyguard's lips, but it was
uninterpretable.  Both men watched Khitajrah.  "Might know," Sterrane
said.  "Who man?"

Recalling the trouble she had gotten into the last time she mentioned
the Renshai, Khitajrah found his name difficult to pronounce aloud.

"Colbey Calistinsson."

Mar Lon's smile vanished at once, and wrinkles appeared around his
eyes.  Clearly, he had expected her to inquire about someone else.

Sterrane stroked at his beard, head swaying in a negative response.

His thick lips pursed, nearly lost in his beard.  "Travel together long
time ago.  Long time ago.  Before king.  See only once since.  He come
here then."

He.  gestured to where Khitajrah was standing.

Disappointment fluttered through Khitajrah, and she gathered breath to
thank the king for his help.  However, Sterrane did not seem finished,
so she held her breath and waited.

"Not sure where find Colbey now.  Not North, sure.  Not East.  Would
try Pudar."  King Sterrane changed focus so smoothly, it took Khitajrah
a moment to follow his tack.

"Why you want know?"

Caught off guard, Khitajrah responded without thinking.

"What?"  She added quickly, "Majesty."

"Why you look for Colbey?"

Anticipating the question earlier, Khitajrah had rehearsed tactful ways
of proclaiming the knowledge private.  However, she had done so in her
mind.  Now, she seemed unable to form words from the concepts,
especially in a second language when she already felt exhausted.

Approaches that had seemed clever and facile currently sounded like
flimsy excuses.

No matter the words, telling a king to mind his own business while in
his court seemed blatantly disrespectful, if not dangerous.

Following the obvious direction of Khitajrah's thoughts, chaos
intervened.  "Fool!  Don't tell him.  He's a friend of the Renshai."

Though bothered by the need to lie again, Khitajrah found the sin easy
enough to dismiss this time.  She had come too far to let small
untruths stand in the way of rescuing Bahmyr.  Not wanting to delay too
long, she responded with the first words that came to mind.  "He's my
father."

Mar Lon's eyes went hard.  Otherwise, his expression did not change.

Sterrane's lips bent into a massive smile befitting his hugeness.

Suddenly, he leapt from his throne and rushed Khitajrah.

Caught by surprise, Khitajrah never thought to dodge.  A moment later,
she found herself smothered in a giant embrace.

The king's presence felt warm and strong against her, his joy so
genuine it reawakened her conscience to a dull ache.

"Colbey daughter."  King Sterrane's voice boomed in Khitajrah's ear,
and his chest rumbled as he spoke.  "Celebrate.

Need feast."

The guards pressed in closer.  ClearlY, they had not anticipated the
king's reaction either.

"No, majesty.  Please."  Khitajrah tried to formulate the remainder of
her story in an instant.  If he insisted on discussing details with
her, especially without sleep, she would surely make a fatal mistake.

"I'm in a hurry, and I'm already late for a meeting elsewhere, sire."

Finally, Sterrane's grip loosened, and Khitajrah caught a huge
breath.

"Mar Lon give fast horse.  Rested horse.  You need sleep, too.  Stay
night?"

Nothing sounded more attractive to Khitajrah than a night

of sleep between royal silk sheets in a well-protected castle.

But she dared not take the risk that Arduwyn might catch up to her.

"Thank you, majesty, that's most generous.  But I have to leave as soon
as possible.  My father doesn't know I'm looking for him, or even that
I exist.  Majesty, if I don't keep moving faster than he does, I'll
never find him."

Sterrane fully released Khitajrah, disappointment clearly etched on his
features.  The guards shifted closer, the one that had stood at his
left hand politely edging between the king and his guest.  Sterrane
turned his head to Mar Lon.

"Take care Colbeys daughter.  Give best horse can.  Help find right
way.  Pack whatever need or want."

"Right away, sire," Mar Lon responded briskly and cheerfully, though
the look he threw Khitajrah still seemed rock hard.  He studied her for
only a moment before turning to the other officer.  "Captain Baran?"

Baran nodded crisply.  "Things are under control here.

Take as long as you need."

"Come with me please, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow."  Mar Lon trotted past
the woman, then made a beckoning gesture behind his back that indicated
she should follow.

Something in the bodyguard's manner worried Khitajrah, and his
formal-emphasis of her name hinted at things unsaid.

Cautiously, she complied.

Fatigue became a hovering fog that dulled Khitajrah's senses and made
thinking a chore.  She waited on a garden' bench in the Bearnian castle
courtyard near the royal barn while stable boys and grooms scurried to
prepare her mount.

It seemed strange to lounge while men worked to assure her comfort, but
exhaustion drove all irony from the situation.

Gradually, she nodded off on the hard granite and, warmed by the sun,
she slept for a few moments.

Mar Lon's voice awakened Khitajrah.  "Ready now, lady.

Come with me."

Khitajrah jerked awake, stifling a yawn with her hand.

"Thank you," she said, only half oriented.  Mechanically, she rose,
following Mar Lon and a muscled bay gelding toward the outer gates.  It
moved with docile self-assurance, placing each hoof solidly on the
ground.  It seemed clearly the equal of the paint she had brought, with
one important benefit.

Presumably, this horse had no enraged master hunting her as a thief.  A
well-oiled bridle graced the animal's head, its

buckles glittering in the evening sunlight.  The flaps of the Saddle
held intricately tooled Bearnian bears with pearls set as eyes.  Two
bulging packs hung on either side of the horse's rump, bound together
and to the back of the saddle.

Khitajrah had only requested food and a clean cloak, so the amount of
the supplies surprised her as much as the expensive tack that far
surpassed what she had brought.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Khitajrah considered appropriate
responses as she followed Mar Lon from the courtyard, past the
sentries, and into the streets of Bearn.

When Mar Lon still did not stop to allow Khitajrah to mount, the focus
of her attention shifted to her host.  Although she could not muster
alarm, she could feel chaos fretting in her mind.  Either something
seemed amiss to it as well, or it damned the delay caused by waiting
for preparations.  Now that she studied Mar Lon directly and closely,
Khitajrah noticed that he carried his mandolin again, slung across his
back.  He wore a close-fitting pair of leather work gloves.  though the
sword still hung at his hiP, his hands checked the instrument's
fastenings repeatedly, never settling near the hilt.

Apparently, he was more prepared to play than to fight.

Mar Lon continued leading the horse, Khitajrah following a step
behind.

Bearnides watched them pass from cottage windows or looked up from
chores.  Some waved at Mar Lon, and he responded with efficient
gestures that seemed friendly yet foiled conversation.  A few of the
more persistent citizens shouted or begged for songs, all of which Mar
Lon dismissed with hand signals.  He did not bother to speak.

As they continued toward the outskirts of town, Khitajrah started to
wonder if some law forbade riding horses through Bearn.  Her eagerness
to arrive in Pudar turned into impatience, and lack of sleep added a
belligerent streak that she scarcely managed to stifle.  Silence taxed
her least, and she worded what might emerge from her mouth if she tried
to speak in her current mood.  Yet she knew she would have to say
something soon, or Mar Lon might accompany her all the way to Pudar.

As cobbled street gave way to forested, earthen pathways, Khitajrah
cleared her throat.  She concentrated on the amenities she had
considered earlier to keep from saying anything inappropriately harsh
about Mar Lon's delay.  "Your king is too generous."  She indicated the
fancy tack and protruding packs.

"Yes," Mar Lon replied, though whether out of rudeness

or because his thoughts had distracted him from the gist of

Khitajrah's comment, she could not tell.  At length, beyond sight of
the city, Mar Lon fastened the lead rope securely around an oak and
turned to face Khitajrah directly.  "Sit."

He indicated a rock.

Khitajrah hesitated, wariness finally cutting over exhaustion.

"Why?"

"Consider it part of the king's generous hospitality."

Khitajrah responded in kind.  "The king has been far too generous
already," she reminded, her voice as steady as his.

"I'm in a hurry."

"I know," Mar Lon said.  "And I believe I know why.  Rest assured, no
one else will harm you here.  I'll see to that."

"Else?"

Khitajrah did not need chaos' help to find the important word in Mar
Lon's promise.  "No one else?  So you would hurt me?"

"I have no plans to do so."  Mar Lon removed his plumed cap, spilling
brown hair to the nape of his neck.  "So long as you grant me an,
audience."

"Ah."  Khitajrah nodded sagely, though she spoke with sarcasm.  "You
must be one fine musician to need threats of violence to hold your
audience."  Nevertheless, she sat in the indicated place.  The
townsfolk's entreaties for his talent had sounded sincere and so had
his threat.

Mar Lon's expression did not change, and he gave no sign that he took
offense at the comment.  "You may assess my competence after you've
heard me play.  But you will hear me play."

Many questions came to Khitajrah's mind at once.  She wondered why Mar
Lon believed she feared an attack.

Though it was fact, he had no way to know such a thing.

Even if he did, he had given no sign that he understood the
specifics.

It seemed madness for a king's bodyguard to insist on accompanying her
beyond the borders of the royal city and even stranger to insist on a
concert once there.  The oddity brought a flicker of memory to the
fore, though she could not quite place its detail or significance.

Mar Lon ducked through the strap of his mandolin.  Leaning against the
horse's oak, he balanced the instrument on his knee.  His body shielded
the lead rope.  Clearly, he was

taking no chances that Khitajrah might try to grab the horse

and escape before he finished.

Khitajrah settled comfortably on the stone.  For now, Mar Lon seemed to
have no intention of violence.  His king had spoken; and the law bound
Mar Lon to obedience, unless he sensed some threat to Sterrane.  Since
she had no designs against the Westlands' high king, Khitajrah did not
see such a thing as a legitimate concern.  If Mar Lon wanted her dead,
it made no sense for him to serenade her first; though Khitajrah could
think of no logical reason for him to sing to her in any case.

The first chord chimed from the mandolin: each note crisp and clear,
the blend so pure it seemed like a single note itself.

Those that followed held equal skill, intermingled with runs and trills
that came so fast Khitajrah's mind longed for each previous note before
the next pealed out and made her forget the one before.  Despite her
fatigue, she found herself becoming lost in the fragile web of sound,
and that pleased her.  Her body felt light, free of the ponderous
burden lack of sleep had laid upon her.  Her mind stretched and lifted,
as if it might float into a distant eternity, a world without war or
responsibilities, where sons lived out their natural lifespan in
happiness.  Though wary, she reveled in the freedom the bard's song
gave her.  A long time had passed since she had known joy, and its
source did not matter.

Then, Mar Lon began his song, using the Eastern tongue, striking each
note so solidly they seemed to have no resonance: "Our world began in
chaos shadowed, Nothing could be real.

Then Odin banished magic, placed Man's world on even keel.

"Law has ruled us since that day With honor and faith and form.

It gives our world logical pattern: Night follows day; clouds storm.

"But Odin guides things near and far His hand too strong for men.

So he placed four Wizards here As mankind's guardian.

"One champions evil in the East,

His manner cruel and vile.

Northward, the Sorceress of good

Combats him all the while.

"The last two champion the West, Neutral, it appeared.

Never dreaming of the fate That Odin deemed their weird.

"With law alone, the world remained Stable and safe for all.

Yet long routine brings stasis that Slows genius to a crawl.

"Though chaos harbors Odin's doom And that of gods and men.

With law alone, our worlds stagnate Into oblivion.

"A day would come, Odin declared A Wizard would arise.

Bold enough to wield the source Of dishonor, sin, and lies.

"The Gray God made a trial that Would kill all but the best.

Millennia later, Colbey came And passed Odin's great test.

"Now causes four and Wizards four Trained to sanction extremes.

Yet three to one they champion law And the last must die, it seems.

"Generations lived and died

While Odin picked the one, Competent to moderate The amount of chaos
done.

"Yet the Cardinal Wizards see only Their own causes to fight.

The dedication that empowers them Also blinds them to the light.

"They say: battle chaos with its own, Forgetting in their rage, That
law embodies honor kept No matter the war they wage.

"When chaos conquers Wizards four Mankind seems sure to fall,
Especially when some have already Heeded chaos' call.

"The gods Cannot come to our aid Their power too vast to balance.

The Wizards all have fallen prey Our world to them a dalliance.

"The time has come for men to join Together in desperate need, To
sacrifice personal interest, To cast aside their greed.

"No champion left, men must fight Or collapse again into the void.

Chaos' promises: hollow lies boding A ruin even gods can't avoid."

As the last notes pealed forth from the instrument, Khitajrah found
herself in tears.  The individual words had not registered, rather the
seamless combination of melody and voice had seemed to flay open her
soul to reveal the ugliness inside.  She felt innocent as an infant,
cleansed of the crimes she had committed, in her own name and in that
of chaos.  The music of the forest replaced Mar Lon's talent, revealing
the steady wash of leaves in wind, the first faint chirrups of birds,
and the muffled clanks and rattles of working Bearnides.  Reality
returned to Khitajrah in a rush, making camaraderie between communities
of mankind seem like a naive and foolish dream.  Chaos' presence felt
like a lead weight in her mind.  Though it lay still and silent,
Khitajrah directed her thoughts at it accusingly.  "Is what he sang
true?"

"It is his interpretation of truth."

The answer seemed like a dodge.  "What does that mean?

Are you afraid to answer the question?"

"No," chaos seemed unruffled.  'I simply see no reason to bother
answering.  If I told you he spoke lies, would you believe me?"

Khitajrah considered for a moment.  "Probably not."

"Then the question is as pointless as the answer."  Chaos made sense to
Khitajrah this time, though she cared little for its approach or its
attitude.  "Tell me which parts you find truth and which lies!  I'll
form my own opinion, but wouldn't you like to have a say?"

Apparently, the logic behind her comment convinced it.

"He's right about the history; I've told you that before.  Odin did
banish chaos, and the world has stagnated under the influence only of
law.  But the Chaosbringer's bounty is knowledge and cleverness, not
destruction."  Chaos lapsed into its vibrating equivalent of
laughter.

"And this singer-man has sadly misinterpreted the Wizards and their
motives."

"Which are?"  Khitajrah pressed.

"You're not ready for the explanation at this time."

"Try me," Khitajrah insisted.

Chaos went dormant, spreading its formless tendrils through her
thoughts, its touch almost imperceptible.

Before Khitajrah could protest further, Mar Lon's singing again caught
her attention, the chords forming a golden harmony to his words.  This
time, he used the trading tongue, though he chose an Eastern rhyme
scheme: "War raged like a stallion across the dark plains; Eastern
sword met Western in a wild clash of steel.

The West for its own, the East for land gains, Each soldier concerned
for the hand death might deal.

"The Great War spawned heroes, much more than its share: Child,
swordsman, then corpse in less than a day.

West, Santagithi's strategies blazed the battle fare, His soldiers
bedecked in his black and his gray.

"Grand in his helmet of spires and spines, Sheriva chosen, Siderin,
sparked his Eastern horde Two skilled lieutenants kept his ranks in
perfect lines Boldly, they stormed westward for love of their lord.

"As prophecy promised, the West's proven champion: A Golden-Haired
devil from the North tribe of Renshai.

Colbey slashed through East ranks in a reckless run And every blade
slash drove an Easterner to die.

"The great axman, Narisen, met death in this fashion, Skull staved by
the hooves of the Renshai's bay mount.

Siderin's other sent many men crashin' Harrsha's skill claiming too
'many Westmen to count.

"The War's other two Renshai brought Harrsha to bear.

Killed amidst many, in the war's thickest heat.

Sword mistress Mitrian and Captain Rache did share The burden of
slaying the Eastlands' elite.

"Colbey fought the final battle as the Eastern king fled.

Renshai blade against poison and spiked chain flail.

Yet a moment before sword could stab Siderin dead, A blue and gold
arrow pierced Siderin's mail.

"So the West won the war, thanks to a demon prince And a one-eyed
archer who dared steal a Renshai's kill.

And I hope that you've gathered from all of my hints, That I know who
you are and that you serve chaos' will.

"Your lies are transparent; Colbey's sterile, I know.

And you came riding the horse of the king's best friend.

Warriors never hold grudges against fair-fighting foe, Honorable death,
not for mother nor wives to defend.

The first mention of her dead husband had stunned Khitajrah deeper into
her silence.  Initially, she believed Mar Lon had responded only to her
name and her quest for Colbey, yet the last verses told otherwise.

Clearly, he had ad-libbed the song, or at least its final lines; and
the wisdom inherent in it shuddered panic through her.  "He knows
everything!

How could he know everything?"

"Calm!"  chaos demanded.  "He doesn't know everything.

There were mistakes in his history, and he's wrong about you, too.  He
thinks you're after Colbey from revenge."

Chaos' explanation soothed Khitajrah enough to delve rational thought
from beneath fear and fatigue.  She forced

composure to settle over her expression and voice before at tempting
speech.  "How do you know so much?"

Mar Lon lowered his instrument, but he did not duck back through the
strap.  "It's the curse of the eldest child of my line to seek
knowledge, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow.  And it's also my job to support
the king of Bearn.  He stands for neutrality, true central balance.  He
doesn't judge, and neither do I."

Khitajrah yawned, pressed by the need to give the bard her full
attention.  Even the threat of death seemed unable to breach the fog.

"So what happens now?"

"That's your decision."  Mar Lon stepped aside, no longer blocking
Khitajrah's route to the horse's lead rope.  "I know Arduwyn well, and
I can think of no more competent judge of human nature than him.  In
the woodlands, no one could find Arduwyn, or his camp, unless he
arranged it.  If he let you come close enough to steal his horse, then
he trusted you.  That means he saw something he respected deep within
you, perhaps something chaos has suppressed."  Mar Lon frowned at a
thought that must have just arisen.  "I don't believe you harmed him.

You carried no weapon, and even Colbey would find slaying Arduwyn a
challenge in the forest.

I can only hope that the spark Arduwyn saw grows strong enough to shake
the yoke chaos has lain upon you."

Rage coursed through Khitajrah, though the fired haze precluded strong
emotion.  Clearly, chaos had responded to Mar Lon's words, and the
intensity of its reaction gave Khitajrah pause to wonder.  Later.

Right now, I'm too tired to think.  She studied Mar Lon again.  His
features seemed plain, yet the plumed hat shadowing his face lent him
an air of mystery and the coordination of his movements marked him as a
trained warrior.  Though mousy hazel in color, his gaze tended to fix
unwaveringly on subjects, deeply socketed and hard with character.  His
dress seemed conservative and flashy at once, the cut allowing free
movement.  Yet the tailoring was crisp and the colors boldly Bearn
royal.  Surely, he had deduced much from the moment he heard her name
and saw her perched upon Arduwyn's horse.  But he had had the patience
· to keep his understanding to himself, directing events with a gentle
hand that gained him knowledge yet yielded nothing.

When Khitajrah did not speak, Mar Lon added one more thing.  "You may
go.  I'd like to leave you with another song."

Though Khitajrah hated the idea of more delay, she saw

no means to refuse the request.  Mar Lon's information, in some hands,
would surely prove another death sentence.  It seemed madness to do
anything but remain as much in his favor as possible.  And, although
she hated to admit such a thing, she longed for mor e of the bard's
sweet talent.  Despite their topics, his songs had relaxed her in a way
she had not known in more than a decade, since the first hint of the

Great War had touched the Eastlands.

This time, the gentle desperation of Mar Lon's melody nearly soothed
her into sleep.  He sang in the Eastern tongue, of harmony in a time of
strife, of wolves and rabbits curled together in quiet sleep, and of
enemies laying aside weapons to teach one another the best of their
cultures.  Within half a verse, Khitajrah found herself humming along
with the tune.

And, by the second verse, the words came to her as he mouthed them.  I
know this song.  It seemed impossible.  I do know this song.

The answer followed in an instant, bringing a rush of the memory that
had defied her and now filled her eyes with tears.  The words and tune
had come to her in a much cruder form, from her youngest son who knew
poetry, not music.

She pictured his soft, brown locks and eyes.  Lighter colored and
smaller than his brothers had been at the same age, he seemed frail in
every way.  Yet, she remembered the excitement that had made him prance
around the cottage, strumming an imaginary instrument, his eyes alight
with purpose.

Khitajrah waited only until the echoes of the last note partially
faded.  "You're him.  You're the bard, Marlon."  She twisted the crisp
Western pronunciation to fit the Eastern vowels.  It sounded more like
My-er-layne, the three syllables slurred into a single word and the
last part enunciated.

"That's what Ellbaric and his friends called me."  Mar Lon's expression
remained serious, and genuine sorrow filmed his eyes with tears as
well.

"Ellbaric," Khitajrah repeated.  The name she had given her youngest
son sounded strange after so many years.  "You remember him?"

"I remember all of the young men who supported peace.

They could have started a new generation of tranquillity between all
men and women, if Siderin hadn't grabbed them for 'his troops."

"Ellbaric died in that war."

"I know that."

"He never wanted to be a soldier, like his father and brother.  He
wanted to become a bard."

Mar Lon restrung his mandolin.  "I'm flattered.  He had talent with
poetry.  With the right teacher and a world at peace, he might have
succeeded."

"Yes," Khitajrah said.  She had many things to consider, but for now it
seemed easier to let them lie.  Currently, she could not feel certain
she knew chaos' will from her own.

One thing seemed certain, talk of her youngest child only made her long
more for Bahmyr and the single act of violence, killing Colbey, that
stood between them.

"Someday," Mar Lon said.  "When and if our causes ever come together,
I'll sing you the lyrics that Ellbaric wrote for me."

Khitajrah's first instinct, to beg for the tune, passed quickly.  Even
through exhaustion's veil, she remained dimly wise enough to understand
that the timing was wrong.

Someday, she might hear that song; but, for now, the price of another
son's life seemed too much to pay.  "I look forward to that."  She
headed for the horse.

Mar Lon untied the lead rope, holding the gelding in place while
Khitajrah mounted.  "Take the forest path north.

Whenever you come to a branch, always take the largest and best
traveled route.  Pudar is the center of trade, even for Northmen and
Easterners.  Every road in the West, by land or river, will eventually
get you there."

Khitajrah placed a foot in the left Stirrup, then flung her other leg
over the bulging packs.  Once she settled into the saddle, Mar Lon
handed her the lead rope.  "Farewell," he said.  "But I hope you'll
understand that I won't wish you luck."

Khitajrah looped the rope around the saddle horn.  "Well, good luck to
you, then.  And to King Sterrane.  Please thank him profusely for
generosity I have no way to repay."

"Kindness is simply his way.  Your gratitude will only confuse him, but
I'll deliver it anyway."  Mar Lon let the obvious answer to repayment
remain unsaid.

Kicking the horse into a slow trot, Khitajrah headed toward Pudar,
looking from the first for a likely place to set up camp.

CHAPTER 19

Crossroad Fyn's

A quarter moon straggled lines through Pudar's straight, wide streets,
glimmering silver from irregularities amid the cobbles.  Dressed in the
tan shirt and britches of his guard uniform, Lirtensa patrolled the
upper east side, his partner pacing a parallel course several streets
farther westward.  He marched a winding path between the dark shapes of
the flop-houses and rented cottages that housed most of Pudar's
temporary visitors from more distant locales.  This late, even the
rowdier foreigners had settled into taverns or gone to bed for the
night, and only an occasional individual or small group whisked through
Pudar's alleyways.

Unlike the majority of his fellow guardsmen, Lirtensa preferred night
duty.  The cool twine of fresh night air through Pudar's alleyways
seemed like an old and welcome friend.

He especially preferred the western breezes that brought the smell of
damp from Trader's Lake.  During the day, the ceaseless rush and
shuffle of patrons through Pudar's market, and the petty skirmishes
this caused, annoyed him.  He found nothing interesting or exciting
about breaking up housewives tussling over fruit or pacifying enraged
patrons who felt they had gotten the raw end of a sale.  The all or
nothing pattern of Pudar's nights intrigued him more.  Usually, the
city remained quiet once the shops and stands had closed, leaving
Lirtensa to conduct his own personal business.

When a problem did occur at night, it was rarely trivial; but his
connections to the seedier parts of the great trading city often
allowed him to resolve the situation quickly.

Lirtensa turned into one of the threadlike alleyways between a row of
shops that pandered to the foreign soldiers on furlough who stayed on
Pudar's upper east side.  The gaudy architecture of the gambling house
included a jaggedly edged rain gutter.  Its pattern drew scalloped
shadows

through the alley, plunging it into a darkness that did not faze
Lirtensa.  Through the years, night had become as familiar as his
guardsman's uniform, and he prided himself on perceiving presence and
movement without sight.

Yet, this time, Lirtensa's talent failed him.  Without warning, an arm
looped around his throat.  A stifling hand clamped over his mouth, and
he felt the cold touch of steel through his shirt against his spine.

Accustomed to rough dealers, Lirtensa did not panic.  He went still,
waiting.  As professionally as the stalker had ambushed him, if his
attacker wanted him dead, he would be so already.

A voice hissed into his ear, low and coarse, Eastern in accent.

"Lirte?"

Easterners had called Lirtensa by this designation before.

He also knew they shortened names to indicate station, reducing those
of inferiors in much the same way Westerners did so as to indicate
informality and friendship.  He nodded once cautiously.

"You will not scream," the Easterner said.

It was a statement not a question, and the implication that he might
shriek in terror offended Lirtensa.  Again, he nodded.

The hand disappeared from his mouth, and he no longer felt the dagger
at his back.  The stalker released him with a brisk, strong movement
that spun him completely around.

Lirtensa caught his balance with as much dignity as possible and
studied the other through the darkness.  Bold defiance and composure
seemed to work best with the compassionless.  Gradually, his eyes
carved form from blackness.

The stalker was a woman, though she stood tall enough to meet his gaze
directly level.  She wore a single-piece black outfit that buttoned
from neck to crotch.  Her short, raven hair seemed as blunt as her
manner, and her swarthy skin made her appear like the incarnate figure
of darkness itself.

Despite his courage, Lirtensa could not escape a jolt of surprise.  He
had never seen such confidence exuded by any woman.  From an Eastern
woman, it seemed horribly misplaced.

For the first time in months, Lirtensa knew the stirrings of fear.

The woman's black eyes roved over Lirtensa only briefly.

She seemed bored by him.  "You have a client who plans to

kill Colbey Calistinsson."

Lirtensa brushed a greasy curl from his face.  Though intimidated, he
would not allow himself to seem so.  "A strange assumption, lady.  One
I couldn't admit even were it true."

Her expression went even more stony.  "My name is not lady.  It's
Chezrith.  Do not change or butcher it, or I will respond in kind."

Clearly, "in kind" did not refer to Lirtensa's name.  "And I didn't ask
you a question.  Until I do, you need not speak."  Steel flashed
momentarily as she tossed her dagger from right hand to left, then
plucked another, fully sheathed, from a slit in her boot.  "Give this
to he or she who plans to kill the Renshai."

Lirtensa fixed his blue eyes on Chezrith, saying nothing, simply
waiting for her to explain.  Information volunteered cost nothing, and
a quiet calm usually fared better than chattiness.  Besides, she had
not questioned him, and Lirtensa knew better than to antagonize one who
had already proven her competence.

"It contains a deadly poison."

Poison.  The promise intrigued Lirtensa nearly as much as the woman
discomforted him.  He had obtained toxins for clients before.  Enough
money would send him in search of even the illegal types, most of which
required milking deadly reptiles or distilling massive quantities of
Eastern herbs.  But few dared to handle a substance that posed nearly
as much danger to wielder as victim.

"The assassin will need to get close to him; a passing scratch won't
do.  A vital stab would be best, of course.  The poison works quickly,
but nothing can kill instantaneously; and Colbey will fight to his last
breath."

A chill shuddered through Lirtensa; he managed to suppress the outward
signs.  He had worked with Easterners and their evil before, but the
depth of this woman's casual cruelty went beyond his normal
clientele.

He had no wish to work with her and even less to arouse her rage.  He
'sought a tactful way out of the association.  He made no move to take
the dagger.  "I can't pay for this."

"I have no use for your money, Lirte.  I want only one thing, the staff
Colbey carries.  Handle it as little as possible and with care.  Its
danger makes even my own seem paltry."

Chezrith sneered.  "Just see to it my gift finds the right

hands."

Lirtensa avoided the woman's direct and solid gaze, hating to become
indebted to such a creature, yet seeing no way to refuse.  "Thank you,"
he said, modulating his voice to sound respectful but not too
grateful.

Gushing, like begging for mercy, seemed to incite the cruelty in people
such as Chezrith.  He reached for the proffered dagger balanced on her
palm.

As Lirtensa took the weapon, Chezrith closed her fingers over his.  He
swiveled his eyes to meet hers, finding them a flat, depthless black
that did not differentiate pupil from iris.

She spoke, her voice passionless.  "If I find out this weapon got used
against any enemy but Colbey, I will extract payment."

The corners of her mouth flicked upward into the most repulsive grin
Lirtensa had ever seen.  "And it won't be in money."

Threats of any kind angered Lirtensa, but he held his tongue.  He had
not lasted so long among Pudar's ugliest by delivering faulty goods or
promises.  "I'll see to it that the dagger reaches my client.  I can't
vouch, nor become responsible, for a client's competence.  If you want
me to hire a professional, I'll try to arrange it.  I'll have to pay
him dearly, assuming I can even find one willing to stand against
Colbey."

Chezrith laughed.  "There are advantages to amateurs.  Ignorance sires
courage.  A man can't fear obstacles he doesn't see."  She released
Lirtensa's hand.

Lirtensa took the dagger.  Thumbing aside the hidden flaps in his belt,
he nestled it inside.  The knot of its presence against his skin made
him want to squirm, irrationally afraid it might poison him through two
layers of leather and one of cloth.  "There are still some obstacles I
can see.  First, my client was supposed to meet me two days ago.  More
importantly, I haven't made much progress finding Colbey."

Chezrith back-stepped slightly, deeper into the shadows, The darkness
hid her eyes and her expression.  "The Renshai has many enemies.  If
this client doesn't come, have patience.

Another will.  As to Colbey's whereabouts, he's in Bruen.  If he
survives there ..."  She paused, apparently savoring some private
knowledge.  "... chances are almost certain he'll come here.  Anything
he wants, he can find in Pudar, and I have reason to believe he'll have
need of a

horse."  Another smirking pause ensued before she f'n'shed.

"If he doesn't head for Pudar, surely you can track him elsewhere."

Lirtensa tried to phrase his dilemma without sounding demanding.

"Spies cost money, Lady Chezrith."

"Money."  Ehezrith made a sudden movement.

Before Lirtensa thought to move aside, a fist-sized pouch carved an arc
through the air, landing at his feet with muffled clinks.  Lirtensa's
heart quickened.  He knew the sound of coins too well, and no music
seemed more beautiful.  Cautiously, he crouched, the offering
disappearing into his callused, dirt, grimed hand in an instant.  Even
as he rose, sudden pain blossomed through his thigh.  Startled as well
as hurt, he skittered aside, his other hand clawing his sword free in
an instant.

Chezrith remained in the same place.  Though Lirtensa could not see her
face, her stance alone told him she was smiling.  Now safely distanced
from her, he let his attention stray momentarily to the agony of his
leg.  A blade had sliced a gash in the fabric of his uniform
britches.

A jagged cut in the skin of his leg gaped, trailing blood in a long
stain.  He pressed his back to the wall, sword angled between himself
and the threat.

When Chezrith still did not move but simply watched him with
unconcealed amusement, Lirtensa applied pressure to the wound.  Pain
and rage banished all thought of politeness.

"You bitch!  Why in hell did you do that?"

Chezrith let the silence hang before answering with the same deliberate
composure she had maintained from the start.  "I just wanted to give
you something to remember me."  Her laugh rumbled through the
alleyway.

The shouts and rumbling waves of conversation that filled Pudar's
market streets echoed in Colbey's ears, and he wondered if he would
ever fully adjust to the noise.  Westerners from scores of towns
pressed along the city roadways, a single solid mass of movement.

Occasionally, a swarthy Easterner or a bearded, braided Northman
wandered through the crowd, looking conspicuously out of place and lost
amid the hubbub.  Yet, despite the size of the crowd crammed onto the
cobbled streets, and its seemingly constant motion, Colbey found method
to the chaos.  The citizens did not touch one another as they moved,
whether with the steady flow of

traffic or at a separate, personal pace.  And they seemed to take
extra care not to trample or shove the children, a commodity war and
disease had made more precious than any item sold on the streets.

Taking advantage of the conventions that left at least small gaps
between the shoppers, Colbey threaded a swift steady course through the
Pudarian square.  Years of combat had taught him to assess distances
and decisions in an instant, as well as to know the position of every
part of his body, and of those around him, at all times.  Disinterested
in the shine and glimmer of the merchants' wares, he kept a pace triple
that of the general cadence.  Not once did he brush another, even with
the awkwardly long staff or the two swords at his belt.

A mixed conglomeration of spices thickened air already Choked with the
odor of warm, unwashed bodies.  Merchants or their assistants screamed
for attention, trying to catch individual gazes in the mass of
movement.  Any patron who paused to look became the instant focus of
the sellers, and even Colbey found fruit and trinkets pressed on him by
merchants extolling the virtues of their products.  Colbey shifted to
the center, away from the shops and stands, where the traffic tended to
remain thinner.

Though Colbey hurried, the vigilance that had become necessary routine
showed him a general aura of contentment that had not been a part of
the trading city's past.  Job openings had become myriad and varied,
left by citizens turned soldiers then corpses and the offspring they
did not sire.  As a result, youths found more choice when it came to
apprenticeships, and they gravitated toward the traders they preferred
rather than those who needed them.  As a teacher, Colbey had always
found enthusiasm the greatest boon to education; few students
frustrated him more than those with natural talent but no will to
learn.  By selecting preferred livelihoods, the 'youths brought new
fire, flare, and competence to their labors and a bright future to a
Westlands that the Wizards believed would soon fall to chaos'
destruction.

The elders' need for extra hands forced them to treat their children
with the seriousness and respect due adults, as the constantly warring
Renshai had done for centuries.

The aristiri perched on Colbey's shoulder, calm despite the shove and
bustle of the Pudarian square.  FormYnder's composure surprised and
pleased the Renshai.  He had not

expected the shy hawk to remain with him through the clamor of a
trading town, yet- it seemed unruffled by the sights and sounds around
it: It hunkered down on Colbey's shoulder, shifting with each dodge
through the crowd, its talons clasping only onto cloth and sparing the
Renshai's flesh beneath cloak and tunic.

At length, the roadway opened onto a central crossroads from which five
streets radiated like the legs of a beetle.  In its middle, too many
horses crammed into a trampled, muddy pasture.  They stood in lines,
nose to rump, swatting flies in circular patterns that fanned their
tails across neighboring muzzles.  A barn abutted the building, the
odor of hay wafting from it and a gaily painted sign tacked to the
side.

It read: "Crossroad Fyn's World's Best Horses."

The motley sampling of animals in the pasture gave Colbey little on
which to pin his hopes.  He had come more from a need for completion
than any hope he might find a suitable steed.  He had already visited
every other stable in Pudar, and he had left this one for last.  In the
heart of the marketplace, its prices would far exceed those of the
farmers or dealers on the fringes and travelers would daily pick over'
the best of its stock.  He had hoped that the imminence of evening and
market closing would thin the crowds.  Yet, as the sun approached the
horizon, its sinking rays silvering the last hour of open marketing,
Colbey still found himself weaving through the masses, Little traffic
filled the square itself.  Horses had a specific clientele, rarely
impulsively bought, and nearly all of the patrons quickly dispersed
along their chosen path without giving the stable a second glance.

Colbey approached the pasture, savoring the clean, crisp air and the
elbow room he had gained.  He studied the horses, each stomping hoof
and whisking tail.  He saw nothing irresistible, nor even particularly
interesting.  He dismissed twelve of sixteen simply because of the
position and shape of their muscles.  Three of the culls shifted
forehooves as well as hind, apparently lame.  Most of the others would
serve as short distance riding horses, reasonable transportation to
nearby towns in the West.  Of the remaining four, two carded too much
weight to manage the quick escapes or narrow maneuvering required for
combat.  Another kept its head low, spirit broken by some previous
master.  The last had rheumy eyes and cracked hooves, sick or aged.

The aristiri hopped to the upper rail, skittering back and forth.

Apparently, it, too, appreciated the open space and a chance to stretch
its legs and wings.

Colbey sighed, wondering if he had become too picky.  A mount like
Frost Reaver came once in a lifetime or never, selectively bred by the
Erythanian king and chosen by knights to whom a horse was as important
as a sword was to a Renshai.  He knew he would probably never find
another as valuable, in looks, competence, or temperament; nor did he
have such a need.  I only have to find something that can take me to
Bearn.  The thought brought a nervous smile.

When he reunited with Frost Reaver, he had no guarantee that he could
win the horse's confidence back.  And to take a risk on an inferior
steed with Wizards chasing him was folly.  His only defense against
their magic was a swift attack.

A horse that bucked or shied would prove worse than no mount at all.

Apparently in response to Colbey's scrutiny of the horses, a man
emerged from the stable.  He wore a stained, homespun shirt and
britches, and a leather apron protected his legs.  Hay spotted his
hair, and wisps jutted from every pocket.  He rubbed grimy hands
together, redistributing the dirt, and grinned at Colbey.  "Good lot of
horses there, eh?"

"Eh," Colbey repeated, disgusted.  He had spent the day studying
inferior horses while farmers and merchants extolled the virtues of
nags.  "If you don't mind walking."

The man's smile disappeared.  "There's one or two out there that's not
the.  best.  But any of them would serve a traveler well enough."

Formynder ruffled its feathers, but otherwise remained still.

"Not this traveler."  Colbey shook his head, knowing he should never
have bothered to come here.  The wade through hordes of shoppers had
made him irritable, and he had no patience for another merchant's
pitch.  "Got anything inside?"

He jerked a thumb toward the barn.

The horse merchant glanced over Colbey briefly, taking in the plain but
well tailored clothing, the staff, and the paired swords at his hips.

Though unadorned, the steel weapons should tell the merchant that he
carried at least some money, though he had given nearly all of it to
the farmer in Bruen.

Then the stranger's gaze alighted on Formynder, and he

stared.  Without taking his eyes from the bird, he asked.  "Is

that an aristiri?"

Colbey followed the merchant's focus.  "Yes."

"Is it male or female?"

The question seemed ludicrous.  As far as Colbey could tell, neither
this bird nor any other had obvious sexual orientation.

"Male, I think.  I wouldn't know."  Recalling something that Captain
had said, he added.  "It does sing."

The merchant nodded.  "Male, then."  Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from
the bird to Colbey.  "May I touch it?"

This query seemed even more ridiculous.  "That would have to be the
bird's decision."

Hesitantly, the man extended a finger, moving it slowly toward the
hawk.  It turned its head so that one black-rimmed, blue eye gazed
directly at the approaching digit, but it did not move.  With an
expression of indignation, it allowed the stranger to run a gentle
finger along its crest twice.  Then, apparently having had enough, it
bounced to Colbeys shoulder.

Inside?"  Colbey reminded, scarcely daring to believe anything could
distract a merchant from a sale.

The man's gaze swept from Colbey's shoulder to his face.

"Two inside.  Two of the finest you'll have ever seen.  Come with
me."

Colbey doubted the claim.  Frost Reaver aside, he had plucked the
superior steeds from many herds.  Then, he had been able to settle for
underworked or overfed horses with potential; his training and that of
others had turned them into the Renshai's best war mounts.  Still, it
only made sense to peruse what the merchant had.  He followed the man
to the stable and inside.

Hay filled most of the stalls, and barrels of water and grain lined one
wall.  A portion of the building had been roped aside for well-oiled
bridles, halters, and saddles, apparently for sale.  An assortment of
pitchforks, shovels, and hay hooks lay propped against the walls or
scattered across the floor.  Ropes dangled from an overhead loft,
looped over pulleys anchored in the ceiling.  Two horses occupied
separate stalls, with an empty one between them.  The merchant
indicated a massive buckskin that pranced within the confines, its
hooves crashing repeatedly against the wood with a strength that made
it shudder.  It had chewed the upper lip

of wood into pale irregularities.  Light filtering in from the

doorway made its golden hide shimmer.

Colbey looked beyond the obvious beauty of its coloring, finding a
compactness that hinted of strength.  However, the comparatively narrow
chest promised little in the way of endurance, and the slender rump
would make it a poor sprinter.

Its obvious high-spirited nervousness boded poorly for training.

"Precious Prince of Gold.  A young stallion that would make any warrior
a spirited war horse ...."

Colbey paid no attention to the merchant's sales pitch.  Instead, he
focused on the chestnut gelding in the opposite stall.  Though it had
none of its counterpart's eye-catching color, its coat gleamed.  Wide
nostrils flared, and its dark eyes looked healthfully clear.  Though
not the most finely proportioned horse he had ever seen, it surpassed
anything he had yet found in Pudar.

"..  obvious leader, with sunlight glaring from golden horse 'and
silver buckles--" Colbey interrupted.  "How much will you take for this
one?"

"Aah!"  The merchant brightened at the prospect of a sale.

"A fine gelding.  Foaled and raised by a sergeant forced to sell to pay
off gambling debts.  It--" Colbey interrupted again.  "I don't need
historical references."

The more merits the merchant created, the steeper the price would
become.  "How much do you want for the horse?"

"For someone who knows horses as well as you?  Twenty gold chroarns and
worth every one."  It was ten times the asking price of the next most
expensive steed in Pudar and more than double the amount the Renshai
carried.

Colbey rubbed at the fur of the gelding's neck, scowling as he examined
it closely.

Intrigued by Colbey's interest, the merchant examined the area as
well.

"What are you looking for?"

"Gold plating."

The merchant's expression twisted in confusion.

"I'll give you six."

The confusion disappeared, replaced by a grimace that bordered on
rage.

"That's an insult," Colbey sighed, little adept at bargaining.  In his
youth, what the Renshai wanted, they took.  "I've only got eight."

"I paid more than that myself."  Despite his earlier irritation, the
merchant seemed more pensive than angry.

Annoyance fluttered through Colbey.  He sensed a salesman's game, and
he wanted nothing to do with it.  Money meant little to him.  Had he
carried the twenty, he would have given it without argument.  This
merchant could flatter and weasel all day, but it would not place the
money in Colbey's pocket nor in the seller's hands.  He had wasted a
day of travel coming to Pudar from Bruen, hoping to make up that and
more by having a mount to ride as well as obtaining enough food so that
he would not have to stop.  Yet during the past day, he had examined
horse after horse, finding nothing suitable until now.  And this one he
could not afford.

"I think we can work something out," the merchant said.

Hope trickled through Colbey, though it held an edge of wariness.

Twenty gold chroams would buy an expensive favor from a warrior, and he
would not compromise his honor for anything.  Still, it would not hurt
to hear the merchant's proposition.

"I'll trade you that horse."  He indicated the gelding.  "For the
aristiri."

Colbey's gaze went naturally to the hawk.  He did not reply, confused
by the barter.

The merchant tented his fingers, a nervousness to the gesture.

"Horse for hawk.  A fair trade, I think."

"More than fair," Colbey admitted carefully.  "Something you own for
something I don't own."

Disappointment colored the merchant's features.  "It belongs to someone
else?"

"It's a bird."  Colbey explained what seemed obvious to him.  "I'd as
easily give you ownership of the sky or the moon.  The aristiri decided
to travel with me, and I'd be hard-pressed to stop it if I wanted to.

I can't make it stay with you."

The merchant smiled.  "This is Pudar.  Anything not expressly illegal
can be bought and sold.  You give me the hawk.  I'll find a way to keep
it."

Colbey turned his head to examine the aristiri.  He did not own the
bird, and that alone was reason enough to refuse the merchant's
offer.

Yet his need for the horse was great enough to let consideration flit
briefly through his mind.

Realization accompanied it.  Despite his insistence to the con trary,
the hawk had become more than a bird that followed him without reason
or encouragement.  If it no longer accompanied him, he would miss it;
and he owed it a debt of loyalty.

As if to help Colbey make his decision, the aristiri drove its beak
into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

Sudden, sharp pain shot through Colbey's arm, though the bird drew no
blood He stiffened, resisting the urge to strike the source of the
attack.

Its warning given, Formynder rocked back into its balanced position,
its talons as gentle as ever.

Despite his predicament, Colbey laughed.  "The bird has made its wishes
clear."  He rubbed at the bite, and the aristiri watched his fingers
move.

"No trade?"  the merchant guessed.

"No trade," Colbey confirmed, dropping his hand to his side.

"No horse."  The merchant indicated the gelding, drawing Colbey's
attention to it and the proportions that had sold themselves.

Colbey shook his head sadly.  "If I come into some money, I'll
return."

The merchant scowled, obviously annoyed over the wasted time, yet still
interested enough in the aristiri to hold irritation from his words.

"Or if you change your mind about the hawk.  Think about it.  If it's
not yours, what do you have to lose?"

"My neck for one thing."  Colbey touched the site of the bite again,
though the pain had nearly disappeared.  "Thank you."  He headed for
the door.

By the time Colbey emerged from the barn, the sun had dipped beneath
the horizon.  The crowds had dispersed, as if by sudden magic.  The
scratch of drawing tarps and the clatter of collected objects replaced
the rumble of conversation and the cries of men and women peddling
wares.  A gray haze settled over the streets, obscuring the once gaudy
stands to dark blobs covered with blankets or canvas.

Colbey passed the closing shops and stands, ignoring the exchanges
between merchants discussing what items had sold well that day and
predictions about the tastes of Pudar's current mass of visiting
foreigners.  He had wasted another day searching for quality he could
not have afforded.  One way or another, he decided, he Would leave in
the morning

on the best horse his money could buy.  But Crossroad Fyn's gelding
still held a place in his thoughts.  If he could raise twenty gold
chroams this night, he might still buy it.  And he knew of only one
place to win or lose a fortune that quickly.

Colbey headed from the market area toward the upper east side that
catered to foreigners on holiday.  Once he had found himself some food
and a place to stay, he would visit one of the all-night gambling
houses.  Sparing enough to buy room and board, as well as what he
needed to purchase a mediocre horse, he would have little remaining to
gamble.  By the same token, he had a pittance to lose and much to
win.

Though light, the aristiri's continuous presence on his shoulder made
it ache.  He kept the staff in the same hand, hoping to support the
additional weight more comfortably.

Shortly, Colbey came to the Dun Stag Inn.  Composed of identical logs,
stained black, its dark exterior enhanced the brightly lit interion
Thick glass windows warped light into a glaze, disrupted by the shadows
of patrons shifting about inside.

Noise sifted through every crack in window or door, the surflike rise
and fall of conversation audible, though individual words were not.  A
pair of stone wolves guarded the entrance, their ears pricked forward
and their tails low.  The tavern sign swung from a pole extending from
the front of the building.  The name, "Dun Stag," scrawled over the
silhouette of a massive buck, its antlers branching beyond the arched
semicircular confines of the sign.  Beneath this ancient, proud
painting, the wolves seemed out of place, a newer addition to the
tavern grounds.  Almost certainly, the wolves represented the common
symbol of the combined Westlands armies in the Great War.  The Bearnian
craftsmanship seemed flawless.

Colbey passed between the-statues and approached the door.  Seizing the
handle, he pulled the panel open.  A wave of sound struck him, painful
in its sudden and intense volume.

Patrons chatted in loud voices, laughing at jokes that the sober would
have found scarcely worth a smile.  Light spilled through the crack he
had opened, diffusing into the darkness.  The suffocating odor of
alcohol churned Colbey's hunger into nausea.  Stepping inside, he let
the door bang shut behind him, the sound swallowed into the din.

Fifteen tables filled the Dun Stag, in three rows of five.

Currently, most of the patrons clustered on stools at the bar, as if
the effort of carrying drinks or calling a serving girl

might prove too much of an effort.  Of the tables, eight supported
patrons in groups of two to nine.  Most bore the brown hair and medium
frames of area Westlanders.  Dressed in their best linen, these gawked
at the other patrons and few sported weapons.  Those who did limited
themselves to what they could afford: unadorned shortswords and
knives.

Colbey guessed these Western travelers came only for the experience of
bragging to friends about the famed Dun Stag ale and its rowdy
clientele., Colbey saw fewer of the people 'who had given the Dun Stag
its reputation.  At one table, a cluster of three middle-aged men wore
the black leather of Pudar's army, their ancient jerkins stained and
stretched by bulging guts they had developed since the war.  One
clutched a mug of ale between his thumb and single remaining finger.  A
scar twisted another's face from one missing eye to his opposite
cheek.

Each of these carried a sword, their sheaths as old and battered as
their armor.  One sheath had cracked, revealing a notched and tarnished
sword edge.  The split leather grip had peeled from another's hilt,
hanging in a curl that insulted Colbey's sensibilities.  A true warrior
would never neglect his sword.

It looked to Colbey as if these men had never changed clothing or
manner since the Great War, drinking nightly and living off the glory
of the stories they shared between them or created for the attention of
the young.

Colbey saw no Northmen in the inn, though he had looked more from habit
than concern.  Once, the Northmen would have openly attacked him en
masse, simply for being Renshai.

But Valr Kirin had vowed an end to the feud between Renshai and the
other seventeen northern tribes in exchange for single combat with
Colbey.  Though their leader had died, a victim of his own challenge,
the Northmen would never violate their honor.  Still, Colbey knew that
did not exempt them from personal vengeances against individuals of his
tribe.  Though he no longer walked among Renshai, Colbey knew he would
take the brunt of that hatred.  And he preferred it that way.  He was
all that remained of the wild tribe that had mutilated neighbors and
slaughtered its way through the Westlands.  The new Renshai deserved
the peace predecessors had shunned.

Colbey headed for a table near the back, not wanting to tarry too long
in the doorway.  As he moved, he assessed the last few of the Clan
Stag's patrons.  He recognized the

swarthy, dark features of an Easterner, richly dressed in silks

studded with gems.  Clearly, he was a merchant, selling the gemstones
that were the East's most desirable and precious commodity in the
West.

He had chosen a table well away from the wounded soldiers.  Two men
large as Bearnides sat at his either hand, watch ful, one dark.  as the
merchant and the other sandy-haired.  Colbey counted thirty-two patrons
and guessed the common room could hold twice that many uncomfortably.

Of the bar's seven women, three sat among the gawking Western visitors,
two served drinks, an d the re maining two wore the tight clothing and
overly friendly expressions of barflies or prostitutes.

Colbey took his seat, leaning the staff against the wall near his
hand.

Though he kept his back to the wall, he chose his position so that the
table did not trap him into a corner.

It seemed rude to claim an entire table for a single individual, yet,
for now, the bar seemed the more popular place.

Formynder hopped from Colbey's shoulder to the tabletop.  It walked to
a position between Colbey's hands.  Cocking its head, it looked
directly up at him.

Colbey met the aristiri's gaze, studying the black rim that looked like
a tiny string of beads around its eye.  Intelligence seemed to radiate
from its depths, as well as a beauty that sank to the core.  On a
woman, those eyes could captivate any man.  On a man or woman, they
would have inspired trust.  Their appeal was far more profound than
color.  Colbey had seen eyes that precise shade on many Northmen and a
few Westerners as well.  But the power of the aristiri's eyes seemed
tangible, revealing an inner strength of character and person that drew
him like a starving wolf to a feast.

"Can I get something for you and your ... bird?"  The voice came from
directly in front of Colbey.

Caught admiring a hawk with the intensity of a lover, Colbey flushed.

He glanced at the speaker, a pudgy young Western woman in an apron.

Sweat trickled from her forehead, trailing a strand of honey blond
hair.

As the heavy odor of alcohol became familiar, Colbey's appetite
returned.  He also detected the smells of venison and bread beneath the
ale.  "Dinner, please.  And ale, of course."

"Of course," she repeated, smiling.  She turned her attention to the
aristiri, studying it curiously.

When the serving girl did not move for several moments, Colbey cleared
his throat.  "If you're waiting for him to order, you'll be sorely
disappointed."

It was the barmaid's turn to blush.  Red tinged her olive cheeks.

"I'll get that ale."  She turned, apron swirling about her wide hips,
and headed for the bar.

Colbey returned his gaze to Formynder, feeling foolish for having
attributed so much personality to a bird.  Still, he could not help the
way the hawk's name came to his mind at the sight of it, rather than
the generic term "bird" he used when discussing it with others.  Its
loyalty seemed unwavering, in a way no man's or woman's ever had.

Clearly, it trusted him.  And, oddly, where argument had failed, the
hawk's blind faith brought the very doubts the Wizards and staff had
tried to instill.  What does it mean when the most learned condemn a
philosophy that the ignorant embrace?

Colbey's self-confidence rose to combat skepticism.

Arduwyn had tried to enlighten the Renshai about nature's rhythms and
cycles, the unwritten laws of behavior that seemed to unite weather,
plants, and animals into a single, sentient entity.  Mar Lon believed
that the shortest lived first noticed the need for change, and few
animals had a life span approaching that of mankind.  If men can see
the need for change faster than gods, why shouldn't animals realize it
even sooner?

The staff tapped gently against Colbey's thoughts, seeking an entrance
that he denied.  The ideas required consideration that he alone could
sort.  Unbalanced advice would only skew, whether toward itself or in
counterbalance.

A shadow over the tabletop served as Colbey's earliest warning of
company.  A group of five men approached him.

Each wore the tan shirts and britches of Pudar's guardsmen, and they
edged closer with obvious hesitation.

Colbey skimmed his memory briefly, trying to think of some thing he
might have said or done to attract the attention of guardsmen.  Since
his arrival in Pudar, he had only spoken with horse merchants and the
serving girl; and he had argued with none of them.  More likely, the
guards' presence had something to do with events from the-distant
past.

During the Great War, Colbey had served as King Gasir's
second-in-command.  When Gasir had died, Colbey had become general of
the Pudarian army, the largest of the West-lands forces.  After the
war, Gasir's nephew, now King Verrall, had tried to talk Colbey into
keeping the military ti tle in the hope of aborting possible rebellion
backed by one of Gasir's other three nephews.  Burdened with
responsibilities of his own, Colbey had refused.

Thirteen years later, Colbey still recalled how Verrall had dispelled
each Of Colbey's cautious excuses until he had cornered the Renshai
into admitting the truth: "Sire, if you don't have the power to claim
your throne without me, what makes you think you can keep it after I'm
gone?"  Even then, Verrall had not quit.  Enraged by the very words his
persistence had forced from the Renshai, Vetrail had accelerated the
audience into a violence that only Santagithi's quick thinking had
averted.

Formynder stood at Colbey's left elbow, watching the men approach with
the same calm interest as the Renshai.  Soon, the guardsmen came close
enough for a detailed examination.

Colbey recognized four of the five from the war, and the glances they
exchanged suggested that they now knew him as well.  Still, their
manners revealed uncertainty as well as hesitation.  Throughout his day
in Pudar, Colbey had kept moving and avoided eye contact, hoping to
dodge recognition: soldiers' awe or the king's wrath.  Either would
delay him, and neither had purpose.

The guardsmen stopped just within comfortable speaking range.  Colbey
noticed that the volume of conversation in the common room had
diminished with their entrance.  Most eyes rolled to the center of the
guards' attention, and their focus bothered the Renshai.  Except in
battle, he preferred to remain anonymous.  Among Northmen, any warrior
would feel obligated to test his mettle against a sword master in
spar.

Though confident of his abilities, Colbey preferred his own practices
and schedule to that of every overconfident, would-be hero.

The central guardsman spoke, a hefty, bearded Pudarian who, Colbey
recalled, had had a weakness when it came to defending his left side in
battle.  He used the Western trading tongue.  "Excuse me, sir."

Colbey nodded, saying nothing.  He wanted some hint of intention before
revealing anything.

"We ... um..."  The guard glanced to the men at his left and right for
support.  The first did not move, a tall but narrow axman whose style
and lack of strength seemed more suitable to a single-edged sword.  The
other, a small, competent swordsman, nodded supportively.  Of the
remaining two, Colbey knew only one, an archer.  The other looked to
be in his early twenties, too young to have fought in the war.  The
speaker switched tacks.  "You look like a man we know from the War."

Again, Colbey nodded without response.  It made sense that the
guardsmen did not recognize him.  At the end of the War, his sixty-five
years had sat on him like forty.  Renshai possessed a racial feature
that made them seem younger than their ages.  War killed them young.

These, combined with naming children for warriors slain in battle, had
given rise to numerous rumors about Renshai drinking the blood of
enemies in hideous magical rites to remain eternally youthful.

Now, Colbey knew, his encounter with the gods had'taken all of the
white from his hair.  Training had only honed his agility, and the near
immortality forced upon him by the Western Wizard's passing had,
apparently, stopped or further slowed the aging process.  If anything,
he looked younger now than then, and those who knew his real age would
need convincing that Colbey felt little need to give.

"You look so much like him," the man continued, "we wondered if...

well... if your father might have served in the Great War."

Colbey glanced toward the wounded veterans sitting a few tables away.

Now that the guardsmen had come to him, all three watched him
intently.

Their expressions betrayed sorrow and jealousy at once.  Either they
had recognized him, or they envied the attention his presence alone had
gained him.

He pitied them, but not for the injuries they had sustained in
battle.

They wore those like a badge of courage, an excuse to cease all useful
labor while others cooed their sympathy.

He thought of Peusen, a one-handed Northman who had become the general
of a brave charge of injured soldiers and outlaws.  He considered
Captain Rache Kallmirsson, legs paralyzed, leading Santagithi's men to
battle with the exuberance befitting a Renshai.  This time, Colbey took
a lesson from his student.  Achievement is no excuse for sloth.  Past
glory is for the dead.  A true hero never rests, but always he drives
on one deed further.

Still, Colbey saw no need to inflict his philosophy on others.

If these men derived their pleasure from adulation from a war long
finished, he would not interfere with their need.

Neither would he cultivate the awe of the guardsmen before him.

During the war, he did not mind their reverence; it in spired them to
give their all to the battle.  Now their homage would only embarrass
him because it was unearned.  And Colbey found one more reason to
remain nameless.  He had spent longer than a decade trying to reverse
the world's hatred and superstition regarding Renshai.  His
youthfulness now and, later, his near immortality could only reawaken
prejudices only shallowly buried.  He would do nothing that might harm
the Renshai tribe.

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else," Colbey said, the
truth in the statement evident only to himself.

"My father died long before the Great War."  Again, he used only
honesty, though he knew it would mislead.  His honor allowed him to do
so for the greater good of his people.

The guardsmen exchanged meaningful looks, apparently sorting through
those who had believed him to be himself or his son and those who had
compared him to his years.  They never questioned his response.  It
made little sense for a respected hero to shy from due credit.

The serving girl arrived with the food, waiting patiently for the
guardsmen to disperse.

"Sorry to disturb your meal, sir," the axman said, his disappointment
obvious.  The Others mumbled similar regrets, then they all turned and
headed from the tavern.

The woman set down a steaming plate of venison, bread, and peas.  She
placed the ale beside the food.  "Here it is."  She added suspiciously,
"You in some kind of trouble?"

Colbey avoided the question.  "I've never known a warrior who didn't
have enemies."  He smiled reassuringly;"But I'm not in any trouble with
Pudar, if that's what you mean:" The mild reassurance, coupled with the
guardsmen's politeness, seemed to appease her.  "That's what I meant.

I'm sick of the rowdies getting themselves in trouble, then blaming it
on the ale."

"Rest assured, lady, I take responsibility for my own enemies, whether
or not they are rightfully mine."  Not wanting to go into details of
heritage and history, nor to waste time chattering with someone with
whom he would have nothing in common, he changed the subject.  "Any
rooms left here for tonight?"

"Tonight?"  The serving maid laughed.  "Just came down from the North,
did you?  Rooms here go days in advance.

But I can arrange for something nearby."  She looked him over,
apparently taking in the well-fitting clothes and metic ulously tendbd
weapons.  "Something suitable.  And by the way, your next ale's free,
compliments of that woman there."

She pointed across the tavern.

Colbey tracked the gesture to a woman sitting alone at the bar.  Though
ttraped in shadow, her figure and movements told him much.  Clearly,
she was no swordswoman, yet her grace and confidence intrigued him.

The solidness of sinew told him that she had not spent her life sitting
idle looking · pretty for men.  Curly black hair as dark as a
Bearnide's fell to her shoulders, though she carried none of the
Bearnian size.

The barmaid answered the unspoken question.  "Eastland-er, I think by
her accent.  You'd make the strangest pair in history, I'd think, what
with you being a Northman."

Colbey held little interest in single session affairs, and he already
had plans for this night.  "One ale will do me fine.

Please tell her thank you, but no."

The woman glanced toward them.  Apparently noticing Colbey's gaze upon
her, she rose and headed toward him.

"Tell her yourself."  the barmaid said, adding unnecessarily, "she's on
her way."  She whirled without bothering to conceal a smile and walked
back to the bar.  Obviously, she enjoyed her job as much as the young
merchants' aides and craftsmen's apprentices in the market square.

Colbey bit into the bread, concentrating on his food in the hope that
the approaching woman would take the hint.

Formynder plucked a piece of venison from the plate, dropping it to the
table.  The aristiri pecked repeatedly at the meat, tearing small
pieces from the whole not seeming bothered in the least by the cooked
fare.

Apparently oblivious to Colbey's distraction, the Eastern woman pulled
up a chair to his table.  "Hello," she said in thickly accented trading
tongue.

Colbey nodded acknowledgment without speaking.  Up close, he found her
features on the becoming side of average.

The careless disarray of her hair complimented thick lips and dark eyes
full of vigor.  She did not resemble the usual prostitutes and
barflies.  Though clean, her clothing seemed more fit for traveling
than flirting.  Its rich, Bearnian design appeared constructed for the
broad shoulders of mountain women.  She looked to be in her early
forties, an age when most loose women had either given up their trade

or clung desperately to their beauty with layers of cosmetics more
suitable to a mural than a face.

The woman watched Formynder wrestle with the venison, and Colbey
anticipated an inane comment on the order of "nice bird."  He tried to
think of a tactful way- of dismissing her.

"I saw you looking at horses.  You have a good eye for them."

Colbey sipped his ale, still silent, hoping she would soon give up and
leave him in peace.

"Did you find what you wanted?"

Colbey sighed, too polite to ignore' a direct question.  "I found one
suitable."  He did not elaborate further.  His financial problem was
none of this strangers business.  He let lie the question of why she
had watched him shop.  To ask would mislead her with false interest.

It was not that Colbey disliked women; half of the finest Renshai sword
masters had been female.  Under different circumstances, he might have
found the stranger's advance exciting or, at least, intriguing.

Those women not scared off by his sterility found his manner too savage
and reckless or his chosen trade too dangerous.  The need to- help
Frost Reaver goaded him to depart Pudar as soon as possible.  He had to
leave in the morning, and the evening belonged to money-making
efforts.

"In every movement, in every dealing, you carry yourself with a
confidence I've never seen in any man--" "Stop," Colbey said softly.

He set aside his fork, meeting the woman's gaze directly.

She recoiled slightly, apparently startled by something she saw in his
expression.  Colbey's cold, blue-gray eyes had quailed many.  Yet
though he sensed mild fear in her demeanor, it seemed internal.

Something she saw in him shocked her.  Where before he had felt none of
her emotion, and none of her thoughts wafted to him, now he knew a
glimmer of her attraction to him.  To his bewilderment, she quelled the
uprising of compassion, suffocating it beneath an emotion he could not
quite identify, something akin to hatred.

Then that, too disappeared.

Confused by the unexpected sequence, Colbey forgot what he wished to
say.  He managed to find other words to get his point across.  "You're
attractive enough in many ways.  But I'm not looking for
companionship.

If you'll excuse me, I prefer being alone tonight."

Now irritation and frustration radiated strongly to Colbey, seeming
much more normal in its scope.  She rose.  "If you don't learn to share
what you are, Colbey Calistinsson, you'll know only loneliness and
those who care most for you will suffer."  Without explanation, she
rose and walked with dignity from the bar.

Colbey watched her go in silence, sensing as well as guessing a deeper
meaning behind her words that required consideration.  Always before,
he had thought of what was best for the Renshai.  Though his absence
made the others safer, he knew they missed him as much as he did
them.

Still, though she had known his name, the woman surely could not have
meant the Renshai.  More likely, she had overheard the guardsmen.

Their disappointment seemed obvious enough, and he wondered if she
chided him for stealing an opportunity to honor a man they knew as a
hero.

Yet there, Colbey defended his actions.  His part in the Great War had
finished, and he had risen to higher responsibilities.

Like the other Wizards, he had little choice but to perform his duties
at a level few mortals could understand, in the realm of law, chaos,
and balance.  The Pudarians needed to find new heroes; better, to
become heroes themselves.

Colbey returned to his food, considering his strategy in the gambling
house.  But his mind slipped continuously and inexplicably to the
Eastern woman who had interrupted his meal.  Many questions remained
unanswered.

CHAPTER 20

The Gods' Council

Colbey cared little for the serving maid's idea of suitable lodgings, a
ramshackle cottage near Pudar's eastern exit.

The mud chinking had crumbled from between the logs, leaving gaps that
admitted and dismissed the wind in low-pitched whistling currents.

Someone had boarded the window shut.  Though the door latched, it did
not lock.  The furniture consisted only of a layer of straw spread
across the floor and bundled into a heap beneath the boarded window.

It made more sense to Colbey to camp outside the walled city than to
pay for quarters no more comfortable.  But the Pudarian gates closed at
midnight.  To leave before sunrise would mean fighting guards or
limbing walls, and it seemed nonsensical to break the law to save a
handful of copper.

Resigned to his lodgings, Colbey redistributed the straw to bury
whatever the last traveler might have slept directly upon.  The straw
had a musty smell that came with age, and its movement sent dust
swimming through the bars of moonlight that sliced through the
cracks.

He placed his swords beside the makeshift bedding, within easy reach.

Leaning the staff in the corner behind his chosen sleeping place, he
stripped down to his britches and hung his tunic carefully on a
protrusion from one of the logs.  Frost Reaver had galloped off with
Colbey's supplies, leaving him only the clothing on his person and his
swords.

Colbey curled up on the mound of straw, the night's gambling coming
back to him in memory.  He had done reasonably well, winning twelve
gold chroams in a card game with modest odds.  Then, luck had turned
against him, and he lost three coins before pulling out, with a total
of seventeen chroams in his pocket.  At least one of those would have
to go toward basic equipment, lodgings, and traveling food.  He hoped
Crossroad Fyn would be willing to bargain.  Other wise, he had no
choice but to purchase an inferior horse.  Extra days in Pudar would
only cost dearly in time and money.

Colbey realized he had one-other source of money, the gold band that
had graced his ring finger since the Tasks of Wizardry.  He had never
worn jewelry on a regular basis.  Appearances meant little to him, and
he had no use for adornments other than barter.  Solid loops, whether
placed on neck, fingers, ankles, or wrists reminded him of slavery and
only served as an adjunct to amputation in a sword fight.

He had once seen a student catch another's ring with his blade,
accidentally severing band and finger with a single sweep.  He had once
heard of a neck ornament repelling an arrow, the owner's life saved by
serendipity rather than skill.

Such a thing came close to violating the Renshal's moratorium against
armor.

Colbey twisted the ring on his finger.  A chroam's worth of gold.  Six
times that for the workmanship.  Yet the idea of selling or trading the
ring crossed his mind only for a moment.

It seemed sacrilege to consider using a goddess' gift for any but its
proper purpose.

The aristiri flew to the ceiling, perching among the rafters.

It hunkered down, eyes flicking closed as if it had fallen instantly
asleep.  Colbey glanced at his swords, so familiar with their forms
that the darkness did not hamper his view of them at all.  He had
practiced most of the morning, before entering Pudar.  When he
awakened, he would train again.

The thought made him smile.  The anticipation of a practice fluttered
an excitement through his chest that never seemed to dull.  Stripped of
other responsibilities, he would spend his life in a flurry of
swordplay, whether spar, svergelse, or combat mattered little.

Colbey closed his eyes, imagining life as it had been in his youth,
practicing sword forms until his parents dragged him to meals or to
bed.  Early on, they had given up on the possibility of getting him to
perform other necessary chores.

And by the time they died in the glory of combat, Colbey had become so
competent that none of the tribe wanted anything from him but
lessons.

Strangely, the last thought that came to Colbey as he drifted toward
sleep had come from a stranger in a bar: "If you don't learn to share
what you are, Colbey Calistinsson, you'll know only loneliness; and
those who care most for you will suffer."  The idea shifted him into
dreams of

days and nights spent honing Renshai of every age and ability,
teaching dedication to sword and tribe as well as the maneuvers
themselves.  Idly, he wondered how the Eastern woman had known his name
when guardsmen he recognized had not.

Sleep caught him with an image of a woman he had not seen for half a
century and had not thought about in longer than a decade.

Himinthrasir, she of strength and spirit, with golden ringlets and a
sword competence that sent many men to their deaths, had married Colbey
young, the first of two to leave him for a man who could sire
children.

The image haunted Colbey into his dreams.

The familiar music of swordplay roused Colbey to gentle awareness.

Steel chimed against steel, and he easily sifted the more frequent
clang of sword hammering shield from the softer rasp of blade
parrying.

He opened his eyes.  Moonlight flooded the drafty cottage, but the
surrounding darkness told --him he had slept for only.  a short time.

He listened, needing to ascertain that the nearby dispute posed no
threat to him or to innocent passersby.

The swordplay stopped abruptly, and a young male voice crowed in
triumph.  "Killing blow."

"All gods damn it!"  another youth shouted, tone hard with
frustration.

"I fall for that same stupid trick every time."

Metal clanked as someone repositioned weapon and shield.  A third
person responded, the enclosing, crack-fiddled walls muffling the sound
only slightly.  "If you fall for it every time, does that make the
trick stupid?  Or you?"

Colbey guessed the youngsters had chosen this sparse and decaying
corner of town so as not to disturb the citizenry with a late night
practice.  He smiled, pleased by their dedication, a welcome contrast
to the smug, old veterans in the tavern, In the past, it had seemed as
if each new generation of Westerners became more disgruntled and lazy;
years of peace had allowed the Pudarian army to grow soft.  But, since
the Great War, that pattern had reversed.  More and more, the
Westlands' youth held all the vigor and promise their parents had
lacked.  Briefly, Colbey wondered whether to credit the change to the
growing balance between law and chaos or to curse the destruction he
might have set inmotion against this favorable trend.

"Look, I'll show you."  The first one spoke again.  "All I have to do
is sucker you into an overhand strike."

The second defended himself.  "But everyone swings overhand
sometimes.

It's the most natural strike."

"That's what makes this maneuver so effective.  While you're coming at
me, I cut for your head.  Like this ..."  He paused a moment,
apparently setting up the situation.  "When you raise the shield, your
sword hand's in the way of your defense.

See there?"  Another pause.  "There's always a gap between shield and
sword.  There's no way you can close it.  I carve through it.  Killing
blow."

Another young man spoke, not one of the original three.

"So you have to recover from your previous attack, defend, and slice
through a narrow slot at once.  You'd have to be quick as a Renshai to
get any consistency."

The comparison brought Colbey fully alert.  He enjoyed hearing Renshai
mentioned for their skill rather than brutality.

Certain he would get no more sleep until the practice finished, he
rose, tucking his swords into the sash of his britches.  He left the
staff in the care of the sleeping aristiri, knowing he would remain
near enough to see anyone trying to break into his rented cottage.  He
slipped out the door and closed it silently behind him.

The voices grew louder, and he recognized the current speaker as the
third youth, one of the spectators.  "Quickness isn't the point.

Concentrate on smoothness, not speed.  That's where the Renshai's
ability came from: fluency not sharp, jerky jabs ..."

Colbey saw the four boys as soon as he left the cottage.

They stood on an open stretch of empty road, and ranged in age from
about thirteen to seventeen.  Each had a sword and shield and wore the
tan linen britches of the Pudarian guards.  Three wore standard
homespun tunics, the last bare-chested.

None wore the matching shirts that would complete the uniform of an
on-duty guard.  Colbey judged the speaker, a rangy blond, to be the
oldest.

"... Renshai practiced until the techniques became instinct.

Work to get your strokes smooth and easy, and speed will come with
time."

Colbey stepped from the shadows of his cottage.  "I like that.  I've
never heard it put quite that way before."

All four teens spun to face Colbey.  The eldest flushed.

"I'm sorry, sir.  I didn't know you were there.  I hope I didn't

offend."  Although Pudar did not have the moratorium on the word
"Renshai" that some of the farm towns did, it was generally not
something mentioned in polite company.  Colbey's obvious Northern
features compounded the potential error.

In the past, no one had hated Renshai more than their closest
neighbors.  ·

Colbey waved off the apology.

"Are you a soldier?"  the youngest asked.

"A warrior, yes."  Colbey preferred the term that implied fighting as a
way of life rather than a job.

A chunky youth of about fifteen spoke next, his voice that of the one
who had lost the spar.  "Did you fight in the

War?"

"Yes."

"Which army?"  the same one asked.

"Pudar's."  Colbey did not clarify by stating his rank.  Better the
boys did not know they chatted with the Golden

Prince of Demons.

"Did you ever fight Renshai?"  the shirtless one asked unabashedly,
though the eldest tried to wave him silent.  Colbey recognized his
voice as belonging to the one who had explained the "shield gap"
attack, the winner of the contest.

"Yes, I did."  Colbey did not explain further, that he did so only in
spar, with the intent to teach not harm.  He changed the subject
quickly.  He had intended to encourage, not interfere with, the
training.  "Would you like to know a more important flaw in your
attack?"

Colbey waited expectantly for the answer.  He had rarely chosen to
teach anything to non-Renshai, and the boy's interest would tell him in
an instant whether he should bother wasting his time.

The bare-chested one considered for less than an instant.

"Sure.  I'd be honored."

The envious looks the teen's companions gave him told

Colbey he had made the right decision.  Excitement trickled through him
at the prospect of aiding eager students, his first interest in
teaching since long before he had passed his title of torke to
Mitrian.

Even the realization- of more lost sleep did not faze him much.  A few
hours of rest after the practice would serve him well enough.

Colbey waited until the boy stepped into the open, away from his
companions.  He accepted a shield from the youngest, and the weight
felt awkward and heavy in his grip, the

ultimate symbol of cowardice.  Yet, without it, he could not make his
point.  He strapped it to his right arm.  He nodded, indicating that
the boy should take the first attack.

The youth slashed low.  Though he felt unbalanced, Colbey blocked with
the shield, as expected.  He executed the anticipated overhand
stroke.

The boy recovered quickly, drawing momentum to slash for a gap that was
not there.

With the shield in his right hand and sword in his left, Colbey could
continue the swing without hampering his defense at all.  The boy's
sword slammed against Colbey's shield.  The Renshal completed his
attack, the blade gently parting the other's hair.

"Killing stroke."  The boy's previous opponent smiled; obviously glad
to see the trick fail miserably this once.  He shook back a curtain of
dark hair to reveal pale brown irises.

Colbey lowered the shield to the ground and flipped Harval to his other
fist.  "About one in eight opponents will fight left-handed."

The youth nodded.  "I'll need something else for him."

"Lots of something elses."  Colbey hooked the shield with his foot and
rolled it aside, glad to be free of its encumbrance.

"Rely on only a few maneuvers, and one of those will cause your
death.

Deliver every blow with the confidence that it will kill, yet always
assume your opponent can deflect you.  For every attack, there're
multiple dodges, parties, and counterattacks.  Draw him into patterns,
then catch him off-guard with change."

"He's gotten me with that trick twelve times now," the chunky one
said.

"I'd like to see a few of those defenses."

Then realizing enthusiasm had made him rude, he added appreciatively.

"If you would, sir."

Colbey demonstrated half a dozen, including a disarming stroke that
sent the sword flying and left his student counting fingers.  The
Renshai caught the hilt in his free hand and waited for the boy to
realize he still had the full complement of appendages.

The would-be swordsmen pressed forward then, all speaking at once, each
begging a countermaneuver or situational attack.  The attention meant
nothing to Colbey, but the youngsters' raw and genuine zeal delighted
him.  He would have loved to spend the hours until the market opened
guiding responsive students to the way of the-sword, but his own need
had to take precedence now.  Without sleep, his wounds

would not finish healing, and he might have to face the world's most
powerful enemies weighted by exhaustion.

"I'll show one thing more, then we all need some sleep.

Many fights have been lost to a well-rested though inferior enemy.

Your enemies are still hypothetical, mine all too real."  Colbey
returned the captured sword to its owner, then gestured the oldest lad
to him.  The boy's dark blond hair probably came from having the blood
of Renshai conquerors distantly in his line.

The youth came forward, shield hovering defensively before him, the
sword solidly gripped and balanced.  Colbey wielded only Harval in his
right hand.  He gestured to the youth to attack.

Obediently, Colbey's opponent drove forward.  Instead of dodging and
retreating, Colbey lunged simultaneously.  His sword locked with the
other, parrying it aside.  He completed the momentum with a stop-thrust
to the head, a maneuver that combined attack and defense in the same
movement.

The teen reversed, raising the shield to block.  Colbey pulled the
feint before point touched shield, thrusting Harval beneath the youth's
guard instead.  The blade poked abdomen then slapped hip before the
other could reposition his shield, two effortless fatal strokes.  The
force of the second blow sent the boy tumbling to the ground.

Colbey sheathed his weapon and assisted the youth to his feet.  The
teen favored his left leg; a bruise would remind him of this lesson for
a long time.  Colbey could have spared him the pain, but he had chosen
to show that he had gathered the appropriate momentum without leaving
any doubt.

In a real fight, that stroke would have killed.

"I didn't see ..."  the blond started "Of course you didn't see."

Colbey kept his gaze fully on the eldest, though all watched with rapt
attention.  "You had.

a shield in your face."  Colbey detailed one of the reasons for the
Renshai prejudice.  "If you must have something in your off-hand, take
up dagger or shortsword.  Shields are bulky and slowing.  They teach
you to take blows instead of to dodge.  And used right, they steal your
vision."

Colbey sheathed his sword, a blond lock tickling his forehead.

"Thank you for an exhilarating night."  He shook his head, and his hair
fell back into its natural feathering.  "Keep practicing in your free
time, and the East won't dare attack us again."

The youths exchanged noises of approval and encouragement.  Colbey
left amid a chorus of thanks, never having given his name.  He returned
to his cottage with confidence in Pudar's future warriors.  Five years
ago ... Colbey amended the thought as he placed the swords back on the
floor beside his bedding.  Five hours ago, I wouldn't have taken the
time to teach even those basic techniques to non Renshai.  The
significance of the knowledge went deep.

About this, at least, Shadimar had spoken well.  Colbey was becoming
the guardian of the West as well as of the Renshai, and the process had
started even before he mustered farm towns and became King Gasir's
lieutenant in the Great War.

Perhaps from the moment Tokar made me his successor The idea bothered
Colbey only briefly.  He knew no magic or di vinity had forced him to
cast his lot with the West; he had chosen the alliance willinglY' and
with vast consideration.

This time, sleep came easily.

Colbey awakened to a sudden sensation of movement.  His eyes snapped
open.  Moonlight flashed from a dagger speeding toward his throat.

With no time for anything but a dodge, he rolled, flinging an arm
protectively between the weapon and his vitals.  Cold steel slit the
skin of his forearm, and his fist met something solid with enough force
to thrust it backward.

Colbey snatched up Harval as he rose, not wasting the moment grabbing
the second hilt would cost him.  His gaze carved a staggering figure
from the near darkness, female by its size and proportions.  He
circled, placing himself between his enemy and the door.  Warm blood
trailed down his arm.

The wound burned with an agony that went far beyond the familiar tear
of sharpened steel.

The woman crouched, knife clutched in her fist, attention riveted on
Colbey.

The aristiri screeched a warning that had come too late.

Apparently, the intruder's silent approach had caught Colbey's
guardian, too, by surprise.

The other stiffened, but she did not seek the source of the sound.

Either she knew Colbey traveled with a hawk, or she would allow no
noise to distract her.

Colbey poised, blocking the exit, awaiting a second attack.

Patience had won him many battles.  So far, he knew only that his enemy
could move silently.  Her method of of fense face-to-face Would tell
him much about her general strengths and weaknesses.  He assessed what
he could in an instant.  She stood slightly on the shorter side of
average for a woman, and her stance revealed more natural grace than
training.  Taut sinews hinted of an active lifestyle, though her grip
on the weapon told him she had little direct experience with combat.

Her black hair and dusky appearance suggested Eastern heritage.  Though
shadow obscured her features, Colbey believed he faced the same woman
who had tried to seduce him in the Dun Stag Inn.

The intruder remained still, saying nothing.  Either she shared his
patience, or she had reason to believe time would work to her
advantage.

The wound in Colbey's arm felt on fire, and its dull throbbing made him
switch his sword to the opposite hand.  Understanding struck with
violence.  Poison!  Rage flared, as hot as the pain in his forearm.  He
could think of nothing less honorable than to let chemicals take the
place of skill in battle.  Poison.  Now that he knew of its presence',
he could almost feel the killer substance coursing through his body,
his heart pumping it to every organ with his blood.  Soon enough, it
would take him down.  But she would die with him.  Raising his sword,
Colbey charged.

The woman dodged, attempting to parry with her shorter blade.  The
sword tip met the knife's hilt, and Colbey sliced it from her grip.

The knife thumped against the wall, then plummeted, lost amid the
straw.  Dizziness swam down on Colbey, and he swung with a wild
incaution scarcely tempered by skill.  She flung herself back, but not
far enough.

The blade caught her a glancing blow that slammed her to her knees.

Colbey's kick sprawled her.  He jabbed for the final, killing stroke.

The woman did not flinch.  She met his blue-gray eyes with brown ones
blazing with a familiar madness, one he had not seen in her the
previous night.  The sword raced toward her throat.

A thought wafted clearly from her, at the volume of a scream: "Move,
Khita!  Roll now and grab!  His other sword is at your left elbow!"

Though the words came from the woman's mind, the sentiment was clearly
not her own.

A reply welled from the central core of the woman's being, clutching at
law and honor like a drowning man at a

rope.  "No!  I was wrong!  Now that I understand what you really are,
I'd rather die than bond with you."

Colbey pulled the blow, the blade tip plowing through straw, though he
managed to save it from contact with the stone floor.  A mass of chaos
blasted him, slamming the woman's consciousness beneath a wild wave of
madness.

She screamed as she had not for her life or his attack.

Acid seemed to run through Colbey's veins, and his arm ached to its
depths.  Yet the presence of his familiar enemy fanned a deeper fire.

He had faced chaos too many times before.

He had lost Episte to it once, and the grief of that memory only added
to his rage now.  He had faced it in Frost Reaver's mind and met a
stalemate.  Yet he had defeated it once as well, in the form of
insanity-touched Wizards in his own mind.  Certain of his own death,
Colbey paid self-defense no heed.  Unhesitatingly, he gathered his
mental will and dove into the battle.

The formless chaos-stuff seethed and boiled around him, its focus
central.  Always before, Colbey had faced only picture-concepts in
another's mind.  Emotion had come to him as sensation and thought as
flashes of image or words.

This time, the entity that belonged in this mind crouched behind a
shield of human basics: structure, law, and all that memory made
familiar while the tide of chaos whirled toward the core in a
self-satisfied frenzy.  She appeared to Colbey's senses as a black
silhouette, drab and stagnant so close to chaos' grandeur.  Color
winked and splashed through the periphery, sending multihued sparks
arching from every Contact.

Quickly, Colbey drew himself into the picture, stretching his mental
being into' place between chaos and the woman's defenses.  He entered
the war less to aid her then to face and destroy a too-familiar
enemy.

Surprise filled the mind like a blanket, its source both of the
entities that occupied this mind.  At first, Colbey feared that fusion
had already occurred between them.  Then chaos tamed to wrath and the
woman to both doubt and hope.

"You?  But I tried to kill you.  Why?"

Colbey did not waste strength on an answer.  Already, he had lost track
of his body, and fever blunted his ability to think.  The staff
channeled its thoughts to the barest edge of the link between Colbey's
mind and body; true to its vows

it did not cross that line.  "Don't be a fool!  Kill her.  You need
your energy to fight the poison."

Colbey ignored the staff as well.  He fought like a Renshai, relentless
because of, not despite, the certainty of his own death.

The chaos oozed into a single lump, its voice massive and echoing.

"She- is mine."

Colbey channeled all of his own mental energy together.

"You cannot have her."

The energy of the staff writhed at Colbey's back, as eager as he to
join the fight.  It remained behind him, a mass of force ready to do
battle the instant Colbey gave the word.

Yet he kept it in place.  He had never let anyone assist in his
battles, and he would not start now, no matter the stakes.

"She's mine.  She pledged herself to me."  Chaos warped and twisted.

"Influenced by chaos, her vows have no more meaning than yours."

"She's mine!"  Chaos took the form of an eight-legged creature the size
of an ox, its head like a man's but hairless and broader.

Weaponless in thought form, Colbey held his ground.  He had never faced
an enemy directly in another's mind and could not begin to guess
formalities, if any existed.  One thing seemed certain.  Exertion and
the poison ate at the edges of his consciousness, and he could not
allow chaos to delay him into oblivion.  Without set rules of honor,
Colbey had little choice but to make his own.  "Do you know who I
am?"

"You're the Master," chaos answered without hesitation.

"But you don't rule me..Surely you won't risk oblivion for the soul of
a single mortal."

"Clearly," Colbey replied, "I would."  He could feel his body trembling
now, and even his mental consciousness began to flicker.  The urge to
call upon the power at his back was strong, but he resisted.  He delved
for second wind.  One way or another, this confrontation would end
soon.

Chaos hesitated, torn between anger and fear.  Ensconced in the mind it
filled, Colbey could read it easily, though it obviously had no inkling
of his own state.  If it had, it would have known how easily it could
defeat him now.  Apparently realizing that it could not hide its
reactions, chaos explained.

"It's not you I fear.  I cower from no man.  It's what hovers behind
you."

"I speak for what hovers behind me.  And the Wizards would call that
force your ally."  The simple effort of speaking made his thoughts seem
dim and hazy.  Each word sent him to the edge of collapse, the breaths
between scarcely enough to haul him back.

"The Wizards are fools, but you cannot bluff me.  I see beyond
structure to what is real."

Colbey hesitated to gather his thoughts, though the seconds cost him
dearly.  He felt the paralyzing poison clutch at his mind, holding
ideas in place so that he could not move to a higher level.  He crawled
for the words he needed, knowing he might soon lose both battles.

Already, he had little hope for his body or soul.  All that remained
was to cast out chaos.  To fail meant letting chaos run rampant,
opposed only by three Wizards who seemed already to have taken leave of
their senses.  If he could salvage this woman, she might have the
fortitude to take up his cause.  Given time, this was not the successor
he would have chosen, but their brief conversation had revealed 'a
competence of body and he sensed a solid moral foundation as well.  She
had let it crack once; he could only hope she would not do so again.

"You will not have her," Colbey's mind would not give him the words to
say more.

The woman's mental presence rose where Colbey's had failed.  "The deal
was that we would bond when I killed him."  Her words seemed to echo,
their placement far more natural than these strangers in her mind.

"Indeed," chaos sent back.

"But he's alive."

"For the moment.  I can remedy that."

"If you do that, then I won't have killed him.  You will.

I'll owe you nothing."

The demon recoiled, taken aback.

In its moment of hesitation, the staff slammed home a message.  "Banish
it."

Darkness filled Colbey's vision, and he could see nothing.

He had to ponder each syllable to make sense of the words.

"You had a cunning teacher, Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow."

"Yes.  And I am finished with him."

"Banish it!"  The staff sent again.  "You're the Master.

Send it away."

"You've damned your son."

Grief trickled through the black rock that Colbey's consciousness had
become, the only emotion strong enough to touch him.  The woman's
response seemed nonsensical.

"Had I known the price for Bahmyr's life, I would never have
bargained.

Better he stay dead and I join him."

"Banish it."  The staff's entreaty became entwined with an ancient
lullaby, and Colbey fought for understanding.

"That, too, can be arranged."  Chaos' laughter prodded Colbey, bringing
memories of Episte's mockery: "I gave my love and trust to a
Deathseeker so like my father, only to have him betray me."  And yet,
the betrayal had actually come much later, when Colbey gave up be
struggle to chaos.  Not again.  Not this time, chaos.  Though he had no
sympathy for nor ties to the woman who had tried to slaughter him,
Colbey's hatred for chaos remained stronger.  He struggled for breath
as well as words.  "Begone," he finally managed to say.

The demon abandoned its banter with Khitajrah.  "Is that really what
you wish?"

An instant later, Colbey's ears failed, and he spoke to a nothingness
he could neither see, feel, nor hear.  "I am the Master.  And I command
it."  He had no idea whether or not the words had reached chaos when
oblivion overtook him.

Sunlight filtered through blue-green trees of perfect confirmation,
beaming through Frey's hall window on Alfheim to illuminate the meeting
of gods.  They sat about a great table, Frey's servants, Byggvir and
Beyla, bringing food and drink as it pleased Asgard's mighty.  Frey
glanced about the gathering, As always, Odin claimed the head seat,
though Frey had called the meeting in his own hall.  Odin's wife,
Frigg, sat to his left and his sons, Vidar and Vali, to his right.

Thor and his wife, Sif, had also come bringing Thor's sons, Magni and
Modi.  There was Bragi, the god of poetry, and his wife, Idun, with her
golden apples of youth.  Aegir and Ran arrived from the ocean's
bottom.

Heimdall the watchman had also come, briefly leaving his post on the
Bi-frost Bridge to join the gathering.  Frey also saw one-handed Tyr
and his own father, Njord.  Others joined the group, their expressions
mimicking Frey's grim manner.  Yet Frey waited, missing two.  He had
not invited Loki, but he suspected the Trickster would come on his own
in time.  Loki would never

pass up an opportunity to stir up trouble.  It was Frey's own sister,
Freya, whose absence bothered the god of sunshine, rain, and elves.

Conversation stilled to empty silence as the gods ran out of words to
pass to their immediate neighbors.  Frey discovered every eye upon him,
demanding explanation for his conference.

Unable to delay any longer, Frey rose.  He looked first at Odin.  The
grim gray father of gods remained quietly composed, expression shaded
and unreadable beneath his broad-brimmed hat.  His single eye seemed
piercing, the repository for all knowledge.

Frey cleared his throat.  Accustomed to the lighthearted play of elves,
the solid greatness of his colleagues seemed ponderous and nearly
overwhelming.  He had not thought out the details of his words
carefully, hoping another would take over the task of speaker.  But
every eye remained fixed on him.  Even the massive, impulsive Thor
sipped at his drink and waited patiently for Alfheim's lord to speak.

Frey began: "I believe you all know why I called you."

He ran a hand through hair as golden as corn silk, and his strikingly
handsome features crinkled.  "Over the years, chaos has crept into
man's world: as the dispersing aftermath of the Wizards' magics or our
own presences on their world.

Yet recently, I fear, it comes in larger doses.  Someone has loosed
chaos on the world of man, and only one thing can come of this."  He
looked around the gathering.  Odin remained unmoving, expression
impassive.  Thor scowled, revealing the first stirrings of his quick
and deadly anger.

Several expressions went stony.  They had shared their plans to avert
the Ragnarok, with Frey and with one another; but all had carefully
avoided allowing the knowledge to reach Odin, Tyr, or Thor.  The first
two would not approve, and the last had a temper as potent and fickle
as his storms.  Others looked away uncomfortably.  Most of these Frey
guessed, had ideas too fresh or self-focused to divulge.  Vidar seemed
to develop a sudden, intense interest in his mead.

"Ragnarok is imminent," Frey said, knowing the revelation was
unnecessary but hoping that speaking the term of destruction would
force them all to bond to the cause.  Centuries of greatness and
diverse interests usually drove them to handle prOblems alone or in
small groups.  Now, with chaos loosed and championed, the time had come
to weave

every tactic together, to keep one from interfering with another, to
use Odin's wisdom and foresight to determine which might succeed and
which would surely fall.

"Imminent, yes," Bragi agreed.  "And sad, is it not?  It would seem to
me more appropriate to spend our last meeting together feasting rather
than in council."

The poet's response told Frey that his colleagues still needed coaxing
to reveal designs long-hidden in the AllFather's presence.  Frey
understood Odin might see their plans as futility or worse, cowardice;
but surely their leader did not expect them to sit idle knowing the day
of destruction was at hand.

"Last meeting, fah!"  Thor thundered.  "I, for one, won't go down
without a fight.  I'll find the one filling the world with chaos, and
Mjollnir will stave in his skull."  His hand gripped the hammer's haft
convulsively, and the movement rippled from fingers to shoulder.  It
was not Thor's way to plot far in advance, only to react with swift and
efficient violence when the need arose.

Sif gently placed a hand on her husband's arm.  "That will solve
nothing.  You know what happens when gods interfere on man's world.

Every small action we perform there snowballs into something huge.  You
might bring more chaos than you stop."

Thor's scowl deepened.  "We stand perched On the brink of Ragnarok
already.  Mjollnir may save us from it, or bring it sooner.  I say it's
worth the risk."

Frey placed one knee on his chair, still standing but no longer the
center of attention.  As he'd hoped, he had started the discussion
rolling, but it brought deep contemplation of his own.  He had known
for millennia that the end would come.  But it had always seemed too
far away to concern him.  He had seen elves born and wither, their span
so long they embraced the final oblivion when it came.  He believed he
would feel the same.  Yet, now that Ragnarok was almost upon them, he
only realized how much he enjoyed living and how much he still had left
to do.

"This is nonsense," Tyr said, rearranging his mug with the stump of his
missing hand.  "The Norns wove our destiny millennia ago, and we've had
all this time to accept it.  Are we a bunch of wisules to question 'now
that death is close at hand?"

Frey had expected nothing less from Tyr, the champion of

war and the bravest of the gods.  He had sacrificed his hand in order
for them to bind the Fenris Wolf.

Frey's father, Njord, added his opinion then.  "The youngest of the
Norns frequently rewrites the fate her sisters determine.

Prophecies do not happen without support, and the future can be
changed."

Frey regained the floor.  "I know the worlds' most intelligent beings
have not sat in passive silence while their lives hang in the
balance.

Who among us has not acted to avert his fate?"  The question was a
formality.  Over the centuries, he had discussed myriad possibilities
with the vast majority of his fellows.  He had helped more than a few
with ideas and/or the execution of projects to protect themselves or
others, and he had taken his need for survival fully as seriously.

He held more than his own life in the balance.  If he lost his battle
against Surtr, as was his destiny, the lord of fire giants would
destroy all of the nine worlds and nearly every living creature in a
massive conflagration.

The god of sunshine looked around the table at each god or goddess in
turn.  Only Thor, Tyr, Odin, and Vidar returned his stare.  The first
two, Frey suspected, held no secrets.  As usual, Odin chose to keep his
thoughts and actions to himself.

Frey did not try to guess whether Vidar, as a survivor of the
Destruction, had actually taken evasive action or simply felt the need
to abstain from answering.  As to the others, Frey suspected that, if
he detailed his activities, most would follow suit.

From beneath his chair, Frey drew a colossal sword.

Gently, he pulled it from its sheath and placed it upon the table
before him.  It spanned across his area, encroaching upon those of Tyr,
Njord, and the empty place where his sister should have sat.  The blade
shimmered with an icy blue light.

"This is Kolbladnir, the cold-bladed.  I paid the dwarves to forge it
and its magic to replace the one I gave away."  Frey recalled how he
had paid for his wife with a sword that would fight giants of its own
accord.  It was prophesied that, for the loss of the weapon, he would
die at the Ragnarok fighting the king of the fire giants.  "I've also
spent years working with a fine steed, teaching it not to shy from
magic or flickering flames."

Sif spoke next.  "I've gathered and studied every herb on the nine
worlds to find the one capable of neutralizing the Midgard Serpent's
poison."  She referred to her husband's

fate, that he would kill the monster only to die of its venom.

"I haven't found the answer yet, but my work with mixtures seems
promising:" She brushed back hair of spun gold, and the sunlight
capered like fires through her locks.  She took responsibility for the
project upon herself by not naming the many who had assisted, but Frey
knew that most of Asgard had some hand in Sif's endeavor.  Freya,
Heimdall, and he had collected a vial of Serpent spittle for her
trials, and Idun had donated one of her rare and precious apples to
finding the antidote.  "If anyone has suggestions, I'll take them
gladly."

Heimdall added his piece.  "When the giants come, they may find the
Bifrost sturdier than they expect.  When I battle Loki, he may fair
worse for a curse placed upon his sword."

The three confessions broke the floodgates.  Gods and goddesses opened
their various plans to discussion or ridicule until the whole blended
into an unintelligible maelstrom.

Unlike the other survivors of Ragnarok, who sat in an abashed hush, the
quietest of the gods, Vidar, managed to talk over the hubbub.  "I
reinforced the Fenris Wolf's fetters.

He'll find himself hard-pressed to get at my father.  I also outlined
battle strategies to give support where we know it's needed."

Frey smiled.  The damned had excluded Ragnarok's prophesied survivors
from their plans, believing they would see no need for averting fate.

The elves' god commended Vidar's courage, every bit as impressive as
Tyr's bold confrontation of The End.  Altering the course of battle
would probably lead destined survivors to die rather than allow those
slated for ruin to live.  On many occasions, Odin had indirectly
suggested that attempts to stave off the Ragnarok, no matter how
innocent, would more probably magnify the Destruction than hinder or
lessen it.

A more directed rumble followed Vidar's pronouncement.

Clearly, many others had chosen to detail combat strategy as well.

Frey mentally applauded his decision to gather the gods together.  The
finest strategists could work through the problem together, without
feeling alone in their plans to escape destiny.

Still, Odin passed no obvious judgment, his silence unbroken.

Tyr voiced his disapproval, "Fate is what it is.  Cowards run from
death; the brave embrace it.  Do we need lessons

from our own heroes in Valhalla?  We've all lived well.  We can go
down in glory or we can grovel for our lives like cravens.

I, for one, will have no hand in thwarting destiny.  The more we try to
change fate, the more the same it stays."

The door flew open, and Loki stood framed in the doorway, amid a blast
of cool air and sunlight.  Wind fanned his yellow locks into a mane,
and his green eyes danced with a mocking madness.  "Ah, so here you
are!  Sorry I'm late.  My invitation must have gotten lost."

"No loss," Frey said.  Though only a hint of breeze had funneled inside
with Loki's entrance, the entire hall seemed to have gone suddenly
cold.  "You weren't invited."

"An oversight, I'm sure."  Loki stepped inside, closing the door behind
him.  He snapped his fingers at the servant, Beyla.  "A mug of ale,
please.  It's a long trip from Asgard to Alfheim."

Thor flexed his massive fists.  Odin sipped his wine.  His gaze did
swivel to the newcomer, though he still showed no expression.

"You weren't invited," Frey repeated.  "You're not welcome in my
hall."

Loki ignored the hostility, turning his attention to Odin instead.

"My blood brother, at least, will bid me welcome.  Has even the
AllFather forgotten his vows?  Once, you promised you would never drink
unless a drink was brought to me as well."

Odin blinked.  He turned his head to his sons.  "Vidar, Vali, make a
place between you for the father of monsters."

Scowls scored the gods' faces, yet Frey saw the irony in Odin's
choice.

He had seated Loki between two of the Rag-narok's fated survivors and
directly across from two more, the sons of Thor.  Though Frey found
Loki's presence as distasteful as the others did, he understood the
need for tolerance.

A blood brotherhood was a tie more sacred than even marriage or family
relationship.  To shed the blood of a god on Asgard or Alfheim would
tear an irreparable gash in the barriers between the worlds of law and
chaos.  It would start the Ragnarok as surely as the prophesied attack
by giants.

Loki headed for the indicated place, but his need to incite got the
better of him before he reached it.  He stopped at Freya's empty chair,
and his sparkling eyes found Frey's.

"Where's your wanton whore of a sister while all her lovers

gather in one place!"  He made a gesture that encompassed every god in
the hall.

Though incensed, Frey chose to ignore the gibe.  Wanted by all, Freya
had slept with only one or two, an impressive record for an unmarried
deity over millennia; and Loki's indiscretions spanned dozens.  In the
days when Loki had practiced mischief instead of outright evil and
chaos, he had charmed many gods' wives.  Some claimed he had even
seduced chaste sir from her husband's arms.  In shape-changed form, he
had mothered a horse.  Still, Frey chose not to bandy insults with
Loki, the king of lies and caustic affronts.

No matter the facts, Loki would win any battle fought with taunts.

"Freya does not discuss her comings and goings with me."

"Strange, she does with me."  Loki framed a cruel smile.

"Perhaps she's decided to join my side and help spread chaos."

"That's absurd," Frey returned, no longer able to hold his tongue.  If
not for Loki's casual and self-serving evil, the gods would have no
need for this council and the nine worlds would not stand poised on the
brink of destruction.

"If you've harmed her, I'll tear your guts out, blood oath or no."

Loki laughed, continuing his walk to his indicated seat, turning his
back on Frey with a scornful lack of concern.

Frey let the matter drop, but Bragi found the opening more difficult to
resist.  The Lord of Chaos always inspired the worst in the gods.

"Loki couldn't hurt Freya.  If they fought, she would Wrest his
miserable head from his body."

Loki did not miss a beat.  "You should know, Bragi, soft cowering
craven.  Women have fought your battles forever."

Prey saw Bragi's wife Open her mouth to speak, and he rushed to talk
over her.  Her defense would only enforce Loki's ludicrous accusation
and start a chain of bandied venom he had no patience to suffer now.

"Where is Freya?"

Loki calmly took his seat, hooking Vidar's ale and sipping from it.

"Probably bedding every man on Midgard while she still can."  He
laughed, spraying half a mouthful of ale back into the mug.  "How
should I know?  Why not put the question to the all-knowing Father?

From the high seat, Hlidskjalf, he sees all that happens in every
world.  Except when he misses things I see.  Like the time Freya sold
her

body to four dwarves for a necklace after refusing the AllFather
..."

"Enough," Odin said, his voice echoing through the hall.

"Your nastiness has grown tiresome.  Make a point or take your
leave."

His eye swiveled to Frey then.  "Freya is well.

She's doing her own part to forestall the Ragnarok."

"Where is she?"  At last, Frey took his seat.  "What's she doing?"

Odin answered evasively, "If she wishes you to know, she will tell
you."

"I know."  Loki smirked.

"Perhaps," Odin replied.  "But your own rancor allows you to see only
what you can use.  In some ways, Loki, you're the blindest of us
all."

Loki gulped down several mouthfuls of ale, then loosed a massive belch
without apology.  "I can slip into places you would not think to look,
and I hear things others would never want me to know."  He glanced
about the gathering.

"Go ahead.  Hire the dwarves for magic weapons; their craft will only
draw more chaos."

Frey slipped his sword from the table, placing it back beneath his
chair.

Loki continued.  "Hone your battle skills.  Reinforce your bridges.

Plan your battles to the minutest detail.  It will do you no good.

Your strategies will fail, because chaos cannot be predicted."  He
locked his gaze on Frey then, his irises changing from green to orange
to violet in quick succession.

"Predestiny and fate are constructs of law.  Therefore, only the
followers of chaos can defy them.  Think about it."

A hush followed Loki's pronouncement.  Frey threw a quick glance around
the table, but only Tyr met his gaze.

The silence grew, blossomed, and seemed eternal.  Immortality made
every god and goddess patient, except one.

Thor's fist crashed' against the table with enough force to send mead
sloshing and mugs into a rattling dance.  "I've heard enough words for
one day.  Chaos must be destroyed.

Unless we act, the worlds will collapse into oblivion.  They may do the
same if we act, but at least we will have acted."

He clasped Mjollnir in his hand, striding through the door Loki had
left open and onto the plains of Alfheim.

Frey groaned, wishing Sif and her sons had found some way to exclude
Thor from the conference.  Tired of speculation, he pinned Odin with
his attention.  "Can we effect

change?  in this matter, do our actions make any difference at all?"

The fate of every man, elf, and deity, of every plan, rested on Odin's
answer.  With one query, Frey had summed up the entire purpose of the
gathering and of centuries of preparation.

Odin turned slowly and with dignity, drawing his face from shadow
though the hat still sheltered his eye.  "For nine days and nine nights
I hung from the World Tree, pierced by my own spear, a sacrifice to
myself.  I saw the worlds below and tried to trace the roots of
creation.  I gave away an eye.

I drank from the cauldron, Odrorir, a vintage brewed from the blood of
wise Kvasir; and I gained wisdom from Mimir's head.  Yet there are
things even I do not know, such as the roots of the ancient, windswept
Tree."

Frey grimaced at the answer, so full of information he knew and leaving
his question unanswered.

"I do know this."  Odin's eye found Frey at last, and the lord of
Alfheim felt lost in the gray depths.  "Change is necessary.

Every detail of that change may or may not yet be set in future
history.  Prepare as you will, but be certain your plans serve the
purpose of the worlds.  If we pay with the lives of gods, and doubtless
we will, we had best purchase a better future."

Frey considered Odin's words for some time, still uncertain of his
course.  Is there hope, or is it all inescapable pre-destiny?

The knowledge Odin had gained, and the wisdom he had acquired through
sacrifice and experience, could never be matched; yet he had mostly
avoided the question.  Does anything we do really matter, or will we
all fall into our fated roles regardless of our efforts?  Can we avert
the Ragnarok or only bring the inevitable prematurely upon ourselves?

Frey knew Odin would or could never answer these thoughts directly.  He
only hoped that, in his short time remaining, he would understand
enough to make the right choices and steer the others to do the same.

PART III

THE GRAY GOD'S DOWNFALL

CHAPTER 21

The Wizards' Successors The Sea Seraph glided toward the Meeting Isle,
a quiet shadow on a sea as calm as glass.  Captain stared out over the
aft rail, watching the perfect lines the hull etched through the
waters.  The sun beamed down, warming his red-brown curls, and the sky
seemed the uniform blue of a gemstone.

Yet the captain felt little of the joy that usually accompanied passage
through the portal and entry into the Cardinal Wizards' meeting
ground.

The three Wizards and their apprentices had paid him little heed from
the beginning of the journey to its end.  Instead, they gathered below
decks, huddling over their charts and plans.  Now, as the island and
its single structure came into view, the captain missed the Wizards'
fables, metaphors, and vagaries.  He had always hated the quibbling
between the Northern and Southern Wizards, but this time it seemed
conspicuously absent.  Their unity in a cause felt unnatural.

Footfalls clomped up the stairs from below.  The hatch door clicked
open, and the slam of each step shuddered across the deck toward him.

Captain identified Shadimar's heavy tread, interspersed with the tap of
his staff against the planking.  Behind the Eastern Wizard, the elf
heard Trilless' lighter movement.  He kept his back to them, staring
out over the waves, even when they joined him aft.

"Hello, Captain," Shadimar called cheerfully.  "Nearly there, I see."

"Nearly there," Captain echoed, knowing Shadimar would expect a reply,
yet in no mood to come up with one on his own.

Apparently recognizing discomfort in her follower's tone, Trilless
pressed.  "What's troubling you, Captain?"

The captain considered the question for a long time.  He had kept his
concerns to himself this long, it seemed wiser and easiest to remain
silent.  However, fear, hurt, and anger

gnawed at him.  He would never challenge Cardinal Wizards

in the presence of their apprentices, but this time he had found two
alone.  He might not have another chance to air his grievance.

Deliberately, he turned, abandoning the aft rail for the wheel; he felt
naked without some part of the

Seraph in his hands.  He quoted the oldest Wizards' prophecy: "When
their oath of peace the Wizards forsake, their own destruction they
undertake."

Trilless and Shadimar exchanged glances that seemed to imply the
reference was beneath them, too far beyond Captain's understanding to
bother to explain.

Trilless accepted the burden of discussing the matter with her
underling.  "Is that what's bothering you?"

"Partially," the elf admitted.

Trilless' voice went soft, though it patronized more than soothed.

"First, it's a matter for the Cardinal Wizards.  You have your own role
to play.  Second, recall that Odin assigned us the job of fulfilling
prophecies."

The Northern Sorceress' arguments collapsed like an ancient dwelling
devoid of its foundation stone.  "Ragnarok is a matter for all of us:
men, elves, and gods alike.  As to the prophecies, no Wizard's
predecessor mandated this one for a follower to fulfill.  You have no
obligation to it.  In fact, it bodes a destruction you're bound to try
to stop."

"I wasn't finished."  Trilless' tone hardened.  Though punitive, it
lost the condescending edge; and for that Captain felt grateful.

"Third, though we stand against Colbey, we've hardly forsaken peace.

Carcophan and I have never tolerated one another so well.  And last,
Colbey has become the harbinger of chaos.  It is he who threatens to
bring the Ragna-rok."

The captain remained unconvinced.  His discussion with Colbey had
revealed no such intention.  And something about the three Cardinal
Wizards on board seemed tainted, an intangible that made the captain
feel ill-at-ease in their presence.  Still, neither his vows nor
loyalty would waver.  He served Trilless, and he would serve her until
the last thready gasp escaped his lungs.  "Where's the Western Wizard
now?

No matter what feuds you are caught up in, he has a right to be present
when new apprentices are tested.  And where's the bard?  Your vows
forbid you from barring either one from the meeting."

tive arm around it.  "Neither was excluded.  We sent a message to
Colbey, informing him of our intentions.  Apparently, he chose to
ignore our invitation.  We sent a message to Mar Lon as well."  He
leaned forward, gaze boring into the elf's canter eyes, expression
angry.  "I'm tired of inferiors questioning our honor.  You have no
right to make assumptions about us .. Your ignorance is an insult."

Captain bowed humbly.  "Your forgiveness, Eastern Wizard.

Next time I'm asked to speak my mind, I'll try to edit my thoughts to
please you."  He felt certain Mar Lon would have come if he could have,
and he suspected the Cardinal Wizards had deprived him of the travel
time he needed to meet the Sea Seraph in Asci.  He could understand
Colbey's decision not to attend.  Surely he knew that Odin's Laws
forbade Cardinal Wizards from harming one another, and all conflicts
must be halted while on the Meeting Isle.  Yet, beset by his
colleagues' demon and possibly other dangers Captain did not know
about, Colbey had little reason to trust the others to follow the vows
they had taken.

Trilless gave her colleague a warning glare.  Her expression softened
as she turned her attention to the captain.  "You may always speak
freely to me; you know that.  I appreciate the knowledge you've
gathered over the centuries and from the other Wizards you've known
before me."  She took the elf's hand in her own, the sagging flesh of
her fingers still soft and supple.  "Desperate times and situations
have made Shadimar understandably irritable, but he does have a valid
point.  You have to trust us to use the knowledge and experience we
have to do what's best for the world.  It's our job and the basis for
our lives.  We have more to lose than anyone by the world's
destruction."

Captain believed total annihilation of the world and its powers would
affect everyone equally, but he did not press the point.  "I trust
you," he said softly.  "I just want to make certain details don't
become forgotten beneath more weighty problems.  More than one battle
has been lost to a single spy who thwarted a general's defenses.  One
tiny seed of disease can take down the mightiest army."

. True, Trilless replied, but there is still much to be said for
dealing with a raging enemy first."  She loosed Captain's hand.  "Trust
us, my friend.  Little escapes the Cardinal Wizards.

Our vows to champion law take precedence even over those to our
specific causes.  We will always work to that

end."  She met' the Captain's amber eyes.  "Do you feel better?"

Though little satisfied, the captain nodded.  He saw no reason to
linger over a dilemma that had no obvious answer.  It seemed clear that
they would never come to equal terms, and belaboring the point would
serve no purpose other than to anger the Eastern Wizard: "I still have
a lot to think about."

Trilless smiled, apparently pleased with the response.  "As do we
all."

Sunlight washed over the dull, gray stone of the building on the
Wizards' Meeting Isle.  The sun hovered directly overhead, a yellow
ball that seemed pasted over a sky so clear it defined the color
blue.

Yet, despite this beauty, Olvaerr Kirinsson walked solemnly at
Shadimar's side, glancing neither to the right nor left in order to
keep from appearing nervous.  His father had taught him that there was
no shame in feeling fear, only in displaying it.  Its price was the
morale or respect of colleagues and followers.  And it provoked
enemies, sometimes to killing frenzy.

At fourteen years old, Olvaerr was the youngest of the group by at
least two decades.  Discounting Chezrith, he was the youngest by
centuries, and he felt pinned beneath a massive weight of doubts.  It
seemed impossible that he could begin to understand the many
responsibilities that fell on a Cardinal Wizard's shoulders, but he was
determined to try.

His father, Valr Kirin, had never shirked any obligation, if he found
the cause right and honorable.  Few men had earned more deserved glory
or respect, and Olvaerr had long promised to follow in his father's
vast and mighty footsteps.

Olvaerr paused as Carcophan opened the door to usher Chezrith through
it.  She moved with a lithe, regal grace.

When it came to facing the Seven Tasks of Wizardry, the Eastern woman
seemed to harbor no doubts at all regarding her ability to handle
them.

Olvaerr studied her from behind: black locks, neatly short, only added
to her aura of confidence, and the set of her shoulders told the world
she was in control.  He envied her composure, but not her cause.  He
wondered how much of that calm demeanor was facade.

Trilless passed through the portal next, her new apprentice trailing in
the silky, flowing wake of her white cloak and gown.  Olvaerr found the
elf's moods difficult to read.  His heart-shaped lips always seemed to
outline a smile that

stretched from one high-set cheekbone to the other.  His canted eyes
bore a steady green color, like polished gemstones, uninterrupted by
the shadings of stellate cores of human eyes.  They seemed alert and
alive, yet they betrayed no emotion Olvaerr could read.  He spoke with
a mildly pitched, musical lilt that bore a resemblance to the accents
of the far North, yet it made even the Northern singsong sound harsh.

He carried himself with a light step that seemed almost a mockery of
the seriousness of the Tasks.

Shadimar gestured for Olvaerr to precede him through the doorway.

Executing a genteel bow to his mentor, Olvaerr obeyed.  In the North,
children learned respect for teachers and sword masters early, and Valr
Kirin had taught his only child well.  The attention to formality came
from deeply ingrained habit that even trepidation could not dislodge.

Unconsciously, he kneaded the hilt at his hip, glad that Chezrith had
also seen fit to bring an obvious weapon, a strange double-curved,
single-edged sword with a cobra's head for a pommel.

The meeting room contained only a long, wooden table with eight chairs
and a hearth at the far end of the chamber.

Carcophan and Chezrith took seats at one head, Trilless and the elf,
Dh'arlo'me, at the other.  Shadimar entered behind Olvaerr and closed
the panel.  He sat in the chair nearest the door, his back to the
exit.

Though it left the innermost seats empty and took all symmetry from the
table, Olvaerr took his cue from the other apprentices, sitting beside
rather than across from his mentor.  Shadimar placed a satchel that
Olvaerr knew contained books on the floor by his chair.

Trilless kept volumes stacked by her arm, and Carcophan's pockets
bulged with reading material of his own.  Each would need to find a
distraction, as well as train his successor, while the other Wizards'
apprentices attempted the Tasks.

Olvaerr lowered his head.  Blond bangs fell into his blue eyes, and
thick layers of hair shifted into a curtain to shield his face.  Though
nearly two years had passed since he had hacked off his war braids in
mourning for his father, he still had not gotten accustomed to the
half-grown feel of it.  He mouthed a silent' prayer to the patron god
of Nordmir: Lord Odin, master of gods and men ... He added carefully,
now in the presence of an elf as well... and all beings like men.

Please grant me the courage and understanding to succeed

at your trials and to take my position with the grace, wisdom, and
dignity befitting a Wizard if I am worthy of the honor.  And if you
find me unworthy, please grant me the opportunity to die in glory so
that I may still serve you in Valhalla.

Finished, Olvaerr looked up, shaking back his unruly, yellow mane, only
to find all the Wizards gazing at him.  He froze.  En route, the
Cardinal Wizards had decided to send him to the Tasks first.  They had
made their choice without his input.  Shadimar had mentioned casually
that he felt more comfortable with his neutral successor set in place
before those of the extreme causes made the attempt.  But the Eastern
Wizard's tone had suggested other unspoken reasons, and Olvaerr guessed
he was the most expendable and easy to replace of the three.  Also,
they must have considered him the most likely to fall; while the others
attempted the tasks, Shadimar would have the time to replace him if the
need arose.

"Are you ready?"  Shadimar asked.

Though he was not, Olvaerr nodded, certain he would never feel prepared
to face the testing grounds that the Cardinal Wizards had explained
only theoretically.  He knew each of his seven trials would tax some
property of his being to its limit, and that the ring each yielded
would take him to the next.  He understood that he might face an eighth
challenge that he must refuse, as it had proven Colbey Calistinsson's
undoing and the demise of many others.  Failure at any task would
herald his death, not necessarily in glory nor even in battle.  All of
this he understood, yet it told him nothing about the details of the
actual Tasks of Wizardry.

Those, he would discover for himself.  Again, Olvaerr nodded, more
securely this time.  "I'm ready."

Trilless, Carcophan, and Shadimar exchanged knowing looks, then the
Eastern Wizard chanted syllables that had no more meaning to Olvaerr
than the elf's nearly unpronounceable name.  Vertigo enclosed him, a
dark, whirling tomb that left him no understanding of up or down.

Without vision, he had no means of knowing for certain whether the
tingling forces of magic actually spun him or simply gave him the
sensation of movement.  The world became a black vortex that seemed to
suck him into its core.

Then, as suddenly, the sensation disappeared.  Still sitting, Olvaerr
lurched to his feet, fingers achingly clenched around

his hilt, his knuckles locked.  Though twirling in ceaseless

circles, the scene that filled Olvaerr's eyes looked too familiar.

He stood by the table in the Meeting Room on the Wizards' Isle.

Shadimar, Carcophan, and Trilless remained in place, brows furrowed in
mild confusion.  Dh'arlo'me and

Chezrith also studied him curiously.

Prepared for gods' magic and illusion, Olvaerr backpedaled beyond
Shadimar's reach, scanning every shadowed corner of the room in an
instant.  Someone stood near the hearth, a thick, imposing male figure
wearing a broad-brimmed hat that threw him further into the darkness.

He did not move; even his chest did not seem to rise and fall in the
normal rhythm of breathing.  The room's sourceless light highlighted an
empty eye socket and wisps of flaxen locks poking from beneath the
hat.

The other eye, trained unwaveringly on Olvaerr, reflected all the life
the rest of its owner did not.  All of Olvaerr's fear bunched into a
single packet that flared into panic.  He held his ground, more from
inertia than intent.  The being in the corner seemed to siphon the life
force from him.

Olvaerr managed to collect enough rationality to kneel in deference to
a presence he believed was Odin.  "Your blessing, Father of gods and
Master of men.  Your presence is more honor than any man deserves.  How
can I serve you?"

The eyes of every Wizard and apprentice whipped in the direction of
Olvaerr's stare.  Carcophan moved so quickly his chair legs scraped an
angry protest across the floor.

Chezrith rose also, crouching between her master and the previously
unseen threat.

Despite the others' sudden attention, Odin kept his single eye trained
on Olvaerr.  "Greetings, rvkir."  The name literally meant "Vigilant
One," and Olvaerr suspected it was Odin's way of acknowledging that he
had noticed the god's presence first, while his companions had remained
oblivious.

The Northern pronunciation, "Awr-vaw-keer," probably sounded enough
like "Olvaerr" that the others would not notice the difference.  But
Olvaerr did, and the subtlety of the gray god's joke amused as well as
awed him.  "Greetings, Wizards," the newcomer added.  "Greetings
Wizards' apprentices."

Of Olvaerr's companions, some-muttered polite salutations in various
words and languages.  Others bowed or

370

Mickey Zucker Reichert nodded their welcome.  The whole blended into an
uninterpretable grumble.

Odin seemed to take no notice of the garbled response.  Finally, his
gaze shifted from Olvaerr to rest upon the two empty chairs across from
Shadimar.  "I see one of you is missing."

Carcophan chose to speak for the group.  "We sent the standard
message.

The Western Wizard chose not to attend."

"Ah."  Odin said.  "Perhaps he'll change his mind when he recovers from
your poison and reads your note."  A smile crept across ancient
features, yet it softened nothing.  The craggy face only looked more
deeply etched and terrible.

"Perhaps you will have recovered by then as well."

Carcophan scowled, rubbing self-consciously at the sword wound hidden
beneath his sleeve.  Trilless glared at her evil opposite, apparently
discovering information she had not previously known and Olvaerr could
not begin to fathom.

Still on his knees, Olvaerr found his gaze at the level of Shadimar's
hand.  The Eastern Wizard's grip on his staff blanched, as if he
worried Odin.  might try to wrest it from him.  "As honored as we are
by your presence, it was not our intention to summon you.  We were only
trying to send my apprentice to the Tasks as per your law."

The smile disappeared, replaced by a hard look of amusement.

It seemed as if the god might laugh, but no one before him could share
in the joke.  "The staff you carry makes your power vast, but you
cannot summon gods.  I came because the need and reason for the Tasks
of Wizardry ceases to exist any longer."  His eye shifted to Chezrith,
as if to pin her where she crouched.  "State your full name and why you
believe you should become the next Southern Wizard."

The gaze the Eastern woman returned showed no trace of fear.  She threw
back strong shoulders, drawing to her full height.  "I am Chezrith
Fentraprim's-daughter from the city of Prehothra.  No mortal, perhaps
no one, epitomizes evil better than I do.  Carcophan could look long
and far, but he would never find a more capable apprentice."

Olvaerr stiffened, awaiting retribution for Chezrith's hubris, if not
from Odin then, at least, from Carcophan.  But neither showed sign of
surprise or offense.  Odin's attention turned to Dh'arlo'me.

The elf waited patiently, green eyes bright.  When the divine gaze
touched him, he rose.  For a moment, Olvaerr

thought the elf, too, had met Odin's gaze.  But a slight deviation of
the outworlder's head cued Olvaerr that he actually steered his
attention toward the empty socket.  He remained in position,
anticipating a command or question.

Odin obliged.  "State your full name and why you believe you should
become the next Northern Wizard."

Olvaerr felt sweat draw a ticklish line along his spine.  I'm next.

What answer does he want?  He tried to guess Odin's interest or need.

What could I say that would convince him of my worthiness in a way the
Tasks of Wizardry would have?  It seemed impossible to replace the
skill invoked by a series of god-mediated tests with a single
response.

A million questions descended on Olvaerr at once.  Is there one right
approach?  Did Chezrith pass or fail?  What am I going to say when he
gets to me?  He could not begin to fathom a god's motives, the
AllFather's even less so.

"I am Dh'arlo'm'aftris'ter Te'meer Braylth'ryn Amareth Fel-Krin.  As an
elf ..."

At first, Olvaerr thought Dh'arlo'me had chosen to answer in some elven
tongue, until he switched smoothly back to the Western trading
language.  The length of the elf's name astounded him nearly as much as
the elf's ability to remember every.  syllable.  He supposed one who
had lived for centuries might have the time to memorize endless
details.

"... I have no need for immortality or for power.  I agreed to succeed
Lady Trilless because it is the right thing to do.

I could champion no other causes than law and goodness.  If my mistress
believes I am best qualified to follow her, I would never presume to
doubt her judgment."  Dh'arlo'me executed an agile, elegantly formal
bow, then retook his seat.  Carcophan and Chezrith sat also.

Olvaerr fidgeted, knowing he had to come next, his mind still drawing a
blank on the proper response.  It only made sense for Odin to hold his
judgment of the answers until the end, though Olvaerr could not help
wishing for the added clue of a response to his colleagues' words.  He
glanced up, only to find every eye once again on him.

The god shifted, the movement, though slight, seeming oddly
significant.  A smile threaded across the ancient, shadowed features,
this time appearing benign.  "rvkir, why do you believe you should
become the Eastern WizardT' Though asked a direct question by one he
felt nearly certain was the father of gods, Olvaerr still hesitated,
almost

overwhelmed by the gravity of his situation.  He rose, considering for
many moments, though no one else seemed concerned by the length of his
pause.  "I would be lying if I told you I felt as confident about
Shadimar's choice as my colleagues do about the decisions of their
master and mistress.

It wouldn't surprise me to learn there are others who would make
stronger, more competent Wizards than me."

Olvaerr glanced at his companions.  A frown scored Shadimar's ancient
features, but he said nothing.  Chezrith and Dh'arlo'me looked
startled.  Trilless kept her gaze locked on the figure in the corner,
and Carcophan betrayed no emotion at all.

Olvaerr continued.  "My father taught me to commit myself to causes
with every fiber of my being.  No matter how small my skills, I will
develop them to fullest potential and dedicate them, without hesitation
or fail, to neutrality."

Though he had remained silent through the others' presentations, Odin
prompted Olvaerr.  "Your father devoted himself to goodness.  He was
Trilless' champion."

Olvaerr had an answer.  "My father's cause is not necessarily my
cause.

He encouraged me to find my own way, and he taught commitment to
ideals, not necessarily the ideals themselves."

"And your father's enemy?"  Odin prompted.

"Is my enemy, too."  Olvaerr did not consider falsehood.

"That's a benefit I didn't expect, but I could hardly refuse.

Colbey killed and mutilated my father, in the manner of Renshai.  It's
a pleasure to work against that demon, and I'll gladly slaughter him if
the need and opportunity arise."  Now the attention of every Wizard
switched from Olvaerr to Odin, awaiting some reaction to the
pronouncement of plans to destroy the Western Wizard.  Olvaerr turned
his regard there, too, needing comfort of his own.  "Colbey tried to
make me believe my father found Valhalla, though he lost an arm in the
battle."  He kept his gaze fixed on Odin's face, hoping for some
confirmation.  True to Northern religion, Olvaerr believed a warrior
must be set to pyre intact to obtain the final reward of Valhalla, but
he could draw a permanent solace from Odin's reassurance that Valr
Kirin had proved the exception and reached the divine battleground
anyway.

Odin gave no response, to Olvaerr or to the Wizards.  He stepped into a
more concentrated area of light, and he

seemed to grow there.  Olvaerr realized that the god stood

half again as high as the tallest man he knew.  He spread his arms, and
they seemed to encompass the back wall, his fists like boulders, cocked
upward.  He took two steps forward, his gliding strides and broad arms
bringing him within reach of both heads of the table.  He chanted then,
his voice a powerful monotone, his tone lacking even the standard,
Northern rising and falling pitches: "Men create myth To share with
their kith To fight what they cannot explain.

Fear mothers hate And violent fate When enemies they can't restrain.

"Man now or elf If hate turns to self And the need to atone should
arise: Break this stone Call justice home And follow the path of the
wise."

Odin's fingers edged open with an unhurried deliberateness to reveal
two matching sapphire chips.  As his hands came fully uncurled, the
fragments seemed to nudge themselves into rounded shapes so slowly
Olvaerr wondered if he imagined the transformation.  The gray father of
gods placed the gems on the tabletop, one before Trilless and the other
near Carcophan's hand.  He stepped back while the Wizards' attention
shifted to his offering, and his eye pinned Shadimar.

"You crafted your own destiny.  You have no need of this."  Without
explanation, his form faded into the dull stone of the back wall, then
disappeared.

Wizards and apprentices sat in uncertain silence.  With the impatience
of youth, Olvaerr broke the hush.  "Did we pass?"

Trilless responded with a bland tone indicative of a phrase
long-quoted, devoid of any personal emotion or interpretation.

"To fail even one of the Tasks of Wizardry means death
instantaneously."

Carcophan chose a harsher way to say the same thing.

"He didn't slaughter you, so he must have found you worthy

enough."  Apparently unable to resist, he added.  "The Eastern Wizard
always has been the weakest."

Shadimar had a ready answer.  "NO more."  He thumped the base of the
staff on the floor to remind the Southern Wizard of the force that more
than equalized their power.

"And the staff tells me that Odin sanctioned all of our apprentices."

"Did it also happen to explain the meaning of the poem?

Or the purpose of this?"  Carcophan curled his knuckles around the
sapphire Odin had given him.

"It seems clear enough to me."  Trilless deposited her own gemstone
into a pocket.  "He's concerned about our turning against the Western
Wizard, as am I. He worries that we've done so from ignorance and
fear.

And he's given us a means to realign our vows and priorities if things
go too far."

Carcophan sneered vindictively, and he turned his head toward his
opposite across the table.  "It's easy to twist one's own beliefs and
biases from rhyme.  When the Guardian spoke of ignorance and fear, he
specifically attributed it to men, not Wizards.  I believe he referred
to the Ragnarok.  He wants us to break the gems if the chaos touches
even us.

Then, he'll come or send minions to help us remain untainted."

Olvaerr saw merit to both interpretations.  He had drawn a total blank
on his own, but he could not help wondering why Odin would omit the
Eastern Wizard from his protection.  He questioned aloud.  "Why not
Shadimar, too?"

"Perhaps he only had two gems," Dh'arlo'me ventured, and was
immediately shut down by Trilless.

"Those shards came from the Pica stone, I believe.  I don't know the
extent of magic required to breathe life back into a shattered
masterpiece, but it might tax even the AllFather's sources.

Nevertheless, there are many more pieces."

"Odin has a direct link to me already."  Again Shadimar indicated the
staff, this time by running his hand along the shaft.  "That only
reinforces the probability that the gems somehow summon him."

Olvaerr's face twisted as he considered.  The description did not fit
the Odin he had studied as a child in Nordmir.  It was not the
AllFather's way to directly interfere with men or their decisions,
right or wrong.  With Ragnarok and his own destruction at stake, his
methods might change, though the legends also suggested he let gods
make their own mistakes

as well.  Unwilling to shed skepticism on the speculations of

his superiors, Olvaerr kept his opinion to himself.  He had promised
Odin to follow Shadimar and his cause unwaveringly.  That, at least,
the god appeared to have sanctioned.

Follow the path of the wise.  Though Olvaerr knew the last line of
Odin's rhyme referred to a course of action after the breaking of the
Pica remnants, it seemed appropriate here as well.  For now, the
Cardinal Wizards held more experience, knowledge, and wisdom than any
mortal.  Yet Olvaerr could not quite shake the religion lessons pounded
into him since infancy.  The wise gods, Kvasir and Mimir, both came to
horrible ends: the first murdered by dwarves, his blood brewed into the
mead of poetry and the second slain by gods, his head preserved to
advise Odin.

Dh'arlo'me prompted Shadimar.  "Does the staff tell you more?"

Chezrith had remained quiet since her brief speech to Odin.  Suddenly,
her low-pitchEd voice rang out, her guttural accent sounding animal in
the wake of Dh'arlo'mt's lyric quality.  "I know a way to get the Staff
of Chaos without harming Colbey."

Startled by the sudden interruption, Olvaerr switched his attention
instantly to Evil's apprentice.

"We only need to trade it for something he wants more."

Carcophan's jaw clamped shut, and he looked embarrassed for his
successor's outburst.

Shadimar answered both apprentices in turn.  "First, the staff seems
certain that Odin sanctions what we've done so far, though he does urge
caution.  That's understandable.

When you teeter on the brink of destruction, it doesn't take much to
drag world and self into oblivion.  Second, what could Colbey want more
than the Staff of Chaos?"

"The Staff of Law?"  Dh'arlo'me suggested.

Shadimar dismissed the possibility.  "He already had it.  He gave it
away."

"Besides, we can't give him the 'Staff of Law," Trilless said.  "I
won't cheat another Wizard.  If honor isn't a strong enough reason
..."

Trilless made it clear she had added the last for Carcophan, "...

Kyndig's vengeance might prove nearly as horrible as his loosing
chaos."

Olvaerr doubted anything could rival Ragnarok, but he did see Trilless'
point.

Chezrith leaned forward, elbows pressed to the table.

"We'll trade him the Renshai."

The resemblance to the events leading to his father's death tightened
Olvaerr's throat until he could barely speak.

When he did, it was to say something unnecessary.  "Which Renshai?"

"The entire tribe," Chezrith separated her hands in a gesture to
indicate the simplicity of such a plan.  "How difficult could it be for
three Wizards and three potentials to catch and hold five mortals and
an infant?"

A shiver shuddered through Olvaerr, so hard and quick his hip banged
the table.  He sat down to cover the movement.  Show no fear.  Memory
returned in a rush.  His father's men had kept three of the current
Renshai hostage in exchange for Colbey himself.  In the end, Valr Kirin
had gotten the one-on-one combat he sought, a death he had expected,
and an amputation he had not Yet.  Olvaerr saw the differences here.

The Wizards wanted an item, not a person.  Surely Colbey would exchange
a thing for promised peace for himself and his people.  Without the
staff, the trouble he could cause, though large, would become
comparatively insignificant.

Nods swept around the Meeting Room table, no objections raised by
Cardinal Wizards or apprentices.  And, in the same room they had taken
their vows, the Cardinal Wizards laid their plans against the Western
Wizard.

CHAPTER 22

Dreams of Gold and Demons Oblivion receded to a hazy gray curtain,
spliced through with flashes of thought and' memory.  Colbey chased the
bright spirals until he managed to assign identity to self, though
place and understanding eluded him.  Gradually, form appeared from the
ceaseless ring of movement surrounding him.  Demons circled, each pass
bringing them closer; and they changed shape with every cycle.  There
was no pattern to their alterations.  Human/animal mixtures melted to
black globs of shapelessness or detailed parodies at random.  The
rotations changed direction without warning so that the whole seemed
more like constant motion than directed attack.

In his mind, Colbey crouched in their center, his stance defensive and
his swords positioned for potential combat from any side.  En masse,
the demons rushed him.  Colbey hacked a furious framework of steel.  In
his left fist, Harval gashed through demon flesh as black and
substanceless as ink, flinging dark blood.  His right sword met no
resistance, cutting through the transmuting bodies without leaving a
mark.  Although he still jabbed and slashed with a speed few men could
match, his every action felt ponderous.  Exhaustion and something else
weighed him down, tying his mind and the mental image of his body
always to the edge of oblivion.

A gentle hand caressed Colbey's earthly arm from inner elbow to
wrist.

The mental demons retreated, their presences becoming distant threat.

Not for the first time, a woman joined Colbey's inner perceptions.  He
knew her at once, the same who had rescued him from the explosion of
the seer's crystal during the Seven Tasks of Wizardry.  Yellow locks
tumbled like waves around peerless features that defied capture by the
finest artist's talents.  Muscle and sinew defined shapely hips,
breasts, and buttocks.  Clearly, heredity had

played a hand in her beauty, but effort and dedication to sword also
had a significant role.  Her carelessness of stance and grace of
movement told him that she did not primp.  Her attractiveness came as a
natural result of training, her goal competence rather than appearance,
though she possessed both in equal quantity.

The woman's huge blue eyes had become familiar to Colbey in the time he
lay unconscious.  Wisdom as well as concern reflected from them.  He
also believed he saw affection, though he attributed that to his own
desire.  It seemed instinctive for any man to fall instantly in love
with this woman's beauty, yet it was not Colbey's way to study only the
superficial.  Function, not form, obsessed him.  Too often, he had seen
men choose the gem-encrusted or intricately carved hilt, only to have
the blade crack or the grip become impossibly slippery in battle.  Yet
this woman seemed to have it all: Northern f're and savagery,
dedication to sword, intelligence, and depth of character as well as a
blinding radiance that could enrapture the coldest man or draw envy
from the most self-satisfied woman.

Sword drawn, shield raised, the woman crouched at Colbey's side,
adorned with gold jewelry from a slender anklet to a necklace engraved
with' patterns that seemed to writhe like a metallic snake around her
neck.  The latter clinched her identity, though it still seemed
sacrilege to imagine he had drawn the attention of a goddess.  The
Necklace of the Brisings belonged wholly to Freya, defining her as
certainly as Thor's hammer did the raging, red-haired god of law and
storms.

Again the circle of demons closed, but this time Colbey had an ally in
the battle.  At first, as he slaughtered demons, he took care only not
to harm or hamper his companion.  As her skill with a sword became
apparent, he grew to expect her to handle those nearest her.  Her skill
excited him every bit as much as her beauty.  He had trusted few men or
women to guard his back, but he no longer doubted that this woman's
skill approached his own.

As each demon collapsed, Colbey felt his strength and clarity of mind
grow, no matter whether he or the woman took the creature down.  One by
one, they whittled the demons in a battle that seemed to last for
days.

No words passed between them.  The fight demanded concentration

that neither would sacrifice, as if the outcome meant as much to her
as to him.

When the last demon fell in black defeat, the bodies dissolved into
nothingness, and the vision-hazing grayness went with them.  Colbey
faced the woman of the dreams, wanting to express both his gratitude
and attraction.  Yet one thing obsessed him more.  Sheathing Harval, he
met her single sword to single sword.  "Now it's you and me."

The Freya-vision dropped her guard, her laughter hearty and
entertainingly musical.  "No wonder you're not married, Kyndig."  Her
voice emerged deep and sensual, as powerful as any man's.  "Do you
always feel this need to slaughter women who help you?"

Despite deep-seated pain, Colbey smiled.  "Not slaughter, just spar.

It doesn't matter who wins.  I just have to know who's the better
swordsman."  Having never known a Northman who could resist sucha
challenge, he reflected the need back on her.  "Don't you?"

"I already know."  The woman sheathed her sword and lowered her shield,
not bothering to share her so-called knowledge with Colbey.  "Some day,
Kyndig, we'll spar; but this isn't the time.  When I best you now, how
will you know if it's the poisoning or my skill?"

Colbey prepared a retort that implied she would not best him for either
reason.  But before he could frame his words with the proper respect as
well as challenge, awareness jolted through him.  The mental images
snapped out, replaced by the familiar desk and bookshelves of the
Western Wizard's cave.  He lay on the same straw ticking he had used
for his recovery from the kraell's attack.  A heap of blankets jumbled
near his right hand, atop his swords.  Part of the spread was pinned
between his hip and the wall, though his body lay fully exposed and
chilled.  A woman scrubbed at his left arm with a damp rag.

Embarrassed, Colbey flicked the blankets over his legs and abdomen.

The sudden movement startled the woman.  Dropping Colbey's arm, she
stumbled backward, then met his gaze squarely.  In nearly every way,
she seemed the opposite of the woman who had helped him disperse the
mental demons; though, apparently, her touch had inspired the dreams.

Her eyes held all the color Freya's had lacked, coal dark and full of
intelligence.  Black curls fell to her shoulders in random

spirals, her face swarthy and round to Freya's ivory oval.  He knew
her at once as the woman who had attacked and poisoned him, the one
from whose head he had expelled the seed of chaos.

She spoke first.  "I'm a widow with three sons.  You have nothing I
haven't already seen."  She amended.  "Except the scars.  Quite a
collection.  Where did you get them?"

Colbey ignored the question, not quite ready for casual conversation
with the woman who had tried to assassinate him in his sleep and had
nearly succeeded.  "Who are you?

And what do you want from me?"

"You can call me Kayt."

"Why would I do that?"

The hostile response apparently surprised her.  "Huh?"

"Chaos called you Kay-tah."  Colbey sounded the name out as well as
possible under the circumstances.  "If that's your name, why would I
call you Kayt?"

"Actually, my name is Khitajrah Harrsha's-widow.  Khita is how it's
shortened in the East.  Kayt in the West."

Colbey immediately recognized the name of Siderin's lieutenant from the
Great War, but he let it pass.  It made little difference now.  If this
woman could evoke images of Freya in his own dreams, it only made sense
that another warrior leader would have found her attractive.  "Then
I'll call you Khitajrah.  My people don't shorten names.  What do you
want from me?"

It seemed a simple enough question, but it made Khitajrah distinctly
uncomfortable.  The strength of her emotion sent it wafting to him,
easily read: concern mingled with regret and an unmistakable attraction
to a body riddled with old wounds.  "At first, I planned to kill
you."

She rubbed her hands, as if to wipe away the lingering feel of the
poisoned dagger.

Colbey knew enough from his time in her mind to delve for specifics.

"What did chaos promise in exchange?"

Khitajrah fidgeted.  Though she would not meet Colbey's gaze, he felt
certain she told the truth.  "My son's life."

Colbey struggled to a sitting position, the blankets clutched to his
lap and the movement driving dizziness through him.  He waited until it
passed.  "How did chaos get control of that?"

"Bahmyr's dead."  Khitajrah buried her face in her palms.

"Killed protecting me.  Chaos promised it could restore his life."

"Chaos' promises are not to be believed."

"This time, it told the truth, I'm certain."  Khitajrah's shoulders
heaved, and a tear dribbled through a crack between her fingers.

"The dead can't live again."

Khitajrah sniffled, anger giving her the strength she needed to
confront Colbey.  "Do you think I'm some idiot weakling dazzled by
chaosT' "No," Colbey started, "but--" Khitajrah let him get no
farther.

"Do you think I gave in to its dishonor and ugliness because I'm too
stupid to see through its lies?"

Colbey tried to shift the blame from a frailty in Khitajrah to chaos'
terrible cunning.  "The issue--" Caught up in her defense, Khitajrah
turned her rage directly on Colbey.  "My son's life hung in the
balance."

Again, she clamped her hands over her face.  "But you don't have any
children.  You couldn't possibly understand ..."

The words angered Colbey as no others could.  This time he shouted over
her.  "Damn it, Khitajrah, my seed doesn't have to course through a
womb for me to know what it feels like to love; or to lose a loved
one.

I had a son who died.

The fact that I didn't sire him made him no less mine by emotion, his
or my own.  Blood's just a liquid that leaks from wounds, and the
mystical connection between it and love is contrived.  A mother can
lose each of her children only once.

A barren woman or sterile man mourns a child with each empty attempt to
conceive.  Don't tell me what I can or can't understand.  At least you
had a son, three sons if I heard you right.  It sounds as if this one
died in battle, defending his mother.  What finer death could a mother
wish for her son?"

Colbey's fire only fueled Khitajrah's own.  "Good mothers don't wish
for their sons' deaths at all."

"You would have them live forever?"  Finally, Colbey thought to look
for the aristiri, gaze first sweeping the bookcase, then falling to the
desktop.  The hawk watched the argument with silent intensity.  Beside
it, the red falcon that served as the Cardinal Wizards' messenger
preened its feathers, patiently awaiting its turn for the Western
Wizard's attention.

The staff stood, propped against their perch.

"I would, at least, have them outlive me.  Every one of my

sons died in battle.  And my husband."  Khitajrah choked on

the final syllable, the sobs coming too hard and quick for her to talk
around them.

Remorseful for his harshness, Colbey placed a comforting arm around
Khitajrah, reminding himself that his own upbringing gave him no right
to belittle the customs of others.

He had simply grown tired of people thinking he lacked emotion because
he chose to keep his loves and sorrows private.

And he knew Khitajrah had to work through the guilt of her own
actions.

"I'm sorry.  I know you're not weak or stupid or gullible.  I was in
your mind, remember?  The core of honor I found there seemed rock
stable, and you've got more inner strength than most of the warriors I
know.  I've got a fair idea how chaos seized its hold, and I'm certain
you gave it a heroic fight."  His clarity 'of mind after coma surprised
him, although he still sensed a weighty ponderousness about his
movements that would soon pass; Embarrassment wafted from Khitajrah.

Clearly, she did not feel she had battled enough.  The tears stopped,
and she wiped her eyes with her fingers.  "I couldn't let go of Bahmyr,
and I didn't really understand the extent of chaos' bargain.  I should
have and could have fought harder."

"When it mattered most, you fought."

"It mattered from the start."  Khitajrah settled into the cleft between
Colbey's arm and shoulder.

Khitajrah's closeness alarmed as well as excited.  Decades had passed
since Colbey had allowed himself to become intimate with any woman, and
Khitajrah seemed so unlike what he would have chosen.  Still, he had
not lied about her inner strength, and her ministrations had given him
visions of the most desirable of all goddesses.  That seemed like a
sign too obvious to ignore.  Many things remained unanswered.

"How did I get here?  How long have we been here?

And how did I survive the poison?"

Khitajrah took the questions in random order.  "Two days.

Your bird tried to get me to take you here from the start, I think; but
I insisted on finding a healer in Pudar.  He described an herb and how
to use it, but he only had a little of it.  When the hawk found a huge
beakful but wouldn't let me have it, I had no choice but to follow
wherever it wanted me to go.  It brought the food and supplies.  I
administered them."  Khitajrah placed a hand, with feigned casualness
on his knee.  "It seemed the least I could do.  The very least..  I'm

so sorry and ashamed for what I've done.  And so glad to have had the
chance to make things right.  I'll never forgive myself the pain I
caused you.  And others, too."

Colbey freed her from obligations to him, at least.  "I forgive you.

But not chaos.  If you fell to its influence again, knowing what you do
now, then I wouldn't forgive."

"Never."  Khitajrah stroked his knee through the blankets, not quite
absently.  "Now there're things I'd like to understand."

Colbey met her gaze encouragingly.  "Ask."

"Are you really seventy-seven years old?"

Since Colbey had become a Wizard, the significance of age had
dwindled.

The question scarcely raised a twinge of annoyance, easily
suppressed.

"Yes."

Khitajrah nodded, clearly impressed.  "You've kept well."

"I've kept myself well," Colbey corrected, "and not without effort."

He ran a hand through his yellow locks, aware he had not maintained his
youth wholly without help.  He saw no reason to mention his encounter
with gods to a woman he knew well only because of an excursion into her
mind after she tried to kill him.

Khitajrah fidgeted, her next query apparently disconcerting to her.

Although she held his gaze, she looked as if she would have preferred
to avoid the cold blue-gray eyes.  "Is it true you're a Wizard?  And a
Renshai?"

"Yes, regrettably, and yes, proudly.  Who told you these things?"

"Chaos," Khitajrah admitted.  "And the Btamian king's personal
bodyguard."

Colbey studied Khitajrah carefully, certain she still had not come to
the part that made her nervous.  "What else did Mar Lon tell you?"

"He said you champion chaos."

"Did he now?"  Colbey smiled, amused by Mar Lon's impression.

He gave the bard credit, at least, for not claiming Colbey served
chaos.

"Do you champion chaos?"  Khitajrah remained relentless.

"No.  I champion balance."

"Balance?"

"Balance, yes, And proper equality between the higher forces that
define and oppose one another.  Perhaps if we had balance, those forces
wouldn't have to war against one another with such a frenzy."

"An interesting and simplistic interpretation."  The staff

touched Colbey's mind for the first time since his awakening.  True to
its vow, it remained at the edge of his thoughts, without challenging
barriers or defenses.

"And the other three Wizards.

"Believe they champion law."

"Do they?"

"That remains to be seen."

"Oh."  Khitajrah fell silent for the moment, but there was a tenseness
about her that defied completion, "You have another question," Colbey
prompted.

"Well ..."  Khitajrah considered momentarily.  "... yes.

Yes, I do.  Since you're a Wizard, you do know something about
magic?"

Colbey laughed.  "You've probably picked the one Wizard in history who
doesn't."  He gathered from her manner and radiating thoughts that her
current flow of ideas had some relation to chaos' promise.  Intrigued,
he encouraged her.

"But ask me anyway."

Khitajrah's hand stilled on Colbey's knee.  "Chaos claimed that the
power to restore life came unexpectedly, when a specific item instilled
with magic became broken."

Colbey's brow furrowed.  "If that's true, the object shouldn't be hard
to find.  There's no more than one or two that could fit the
description."  He considered.  As far as he knew, aside from the
Wizards' individual sanctuaries, the only magical items were the Swords
of Power, the Pica Stone, the Staves of Law and Chaos, and the gems in
the hilt of Mitrian's sword.  "Did it say the item was already broken
or that the power would come once it broke?"

"Broken already."  Khitajrah twisted in his grip to face him fully, her
excitement tangible.  "Do you know what the item might be?"

Colbey dodged the question.  "Did it tell you anything else about the
item?"

"Just that the life-restoring property would only work on a single
person.  And only once."  Khitajrah caught one of Colbey's hands,
chalky against her darker skin.  "Do you know?"

"There're two possibilities I can think of."  Colbey recalled the
dullness of the Pica shards, doubting any of its magic remained, even
if he could find the pieces.  But the

cracked gems in Mitrian's sword apparently still held enough power to
keep the blade sharp.

"What are they?  Where?  Tell me!"

Colbey shook his head.  He had no means to direct her to the location
of the Pica remnants.  As to Mitrian, finding Arduwyn and Frost Reaver
gave him reason to visit her side of the world as soon as possible.  It
made little sense to send Khitajrah there by herself.  Soon enough, she
would discover that the woman who could restore life to her son was
also the one WhO had killed her husband.  Although he had no reason to
believe Khitajrah meant himself or Mitrian harm any longer, Colbey
thought it best not to Send a woman blindly among Renshai.  Besides, he
would enjoy seeing his students, kin, and followers once again.  "I'll
do better than tell you.  I'll take you to it."

Though Colbey had not answered her question fully, Khitajrah seemed too
elated to care.  She threw her arms around Colbey's neck, planting a
kiss on his lips with such fervor it 'sent an involuntary shiver of
desire through him.

The aristiri screeched a sudden, high-pitched note that shocked
Khitajrah and Colbey.  It swooped from the desk, talons slamming into
the side of Khitajrah's head, one wing buffeting Colbey across the
face.

Khitajrah reeled back with a cry of pain.  Instinctively, Colbey leapt
to his feet, prepared to do battle, though he had no intention of
harming Formynder.  Apparently finished, the aristiri flapped back to
its perch, a few strands of dark hair wound around its claws.  It
fluffed up its feathers, making the vertical belly stripes stand out in
bold relief, then it preened as if nothing had happened.

Khitajrah rubbed at the wound, then stared at the tiny smear of blood
on her fingers.  "What's wrong with that · damned bird?"  She held
pressure against the scratch Colbey shrugged, rubbing an eye grazed by
a wing feather.  Despite the Western Wizards' supposed bird rapport, he
seemed unable to read anything of the aristiri's intentions.

"I guess it's the only way it has to remind us there're other matters
to attend."  Casting about, he located a pair of britches, pulled them
on, then turned his attention to the messenger falcon.  "Swiftwing?"

The falcon squawked.  It unfurled long wings.

Before the bird took flight, Colbey rose and covered the distance to
it.  The one other time it had brought him a mes sage, it had driven
its talons through the skin of his arm, accustomed to the Cardinal
Wizards' imperviousness to injury, a quality he did not share then or,
apparently, now.  As expected, he discovered a strip of parchment bound
to its leg.

He peeled it free.

Though Colbey knew the Western, trading, and Northern languages, the
grand strokes and spirals of this hand remained illegible.  He
recognized only the single rune that represented Shadimar's
signature.

"What's it say?"  Khitajrah came up beside him.

"I have no idea.  It's not in any language I've ever seen."

Khitajrah glanced at the note over his shoulder.  "It's not Eastern."

Colbey consulted the staff.  "Can you read it?"

"It's an archaic tongue.  If you had your collective consciousness, you
could read it."

The use of such a language confused Colbey.  "Shadimar knows I don't
have the Western Wizards' memories.  Why would he send such a thing?"

"They sent it.  All three Wizards.  Clearly, they didn't want you to
read it."  The staff's response seemed condescending as if the answer
should have been obvious.

Still, Colbey pressed.  "Why would Wizards who claim to hold the
knowledge of the universe send me a letter they knew I couldn't
read?"

Colbey sensed the staff's rigid patience, like a mother explaining a
straightforward concept to a dim-witted child.  "Clearly, they didn't
want you to read it."

Colbey ignored the staff's tone.  "Then why send it at all?"

"Law, propriety, and convention.  They only have to send you the
invitation.  Nowhere does Odin specify the language."

"Invitation?"

"To meet the other three Wizards' successors and to attend their
attempts at the Tasks of Wizardry."

"How do you know that?"

'I DO read the ancient tongue."

It seemed to Colbey that Shadimar, Carcophan, and Trilless should have
presumed the staff would interpret their message for him.  Still,
despite all of their knowledge, they had no more experience with the
Staves of Law and Chaos

then he did.  He crumpled the parchment, waving the messenger falcon
away to indicate that he would send no reply.

Swiftwing flapped into the air, winging from the room and toward the
cave mouth.

Khitajrah looked horrified by Colbey's destruction of a note not yet
read.  "Don't you think it might be important?"

"No," Colbey said.  I don't believe it is."  Turning, he gathered
blankets, sorting clothes from among them.  "Pack what you have.  I've
got a long overdue practice, then it's time to get started
traveling."

Khitajrah laughed.  "Don't you think we should wait until morning?"

Colbey fastened his sword belt around his waist.  Until that moment,
he'd felt naked despite the britches he had previously donned.  The
candlelight in the main chamber had given him no indication of time of
day, but that did not concern him.  "What makes you think I'll finish
my practice before dawn?"  Without awaiting a reply, he trooped through
the familiar corridor and into the night.

The cold air bathed his skin, aching through the massive scar across
his chest, a relic of his last stand with General Santagithi against an
army of Northmen.  Santagithi had died, and Colbey would have also if
not for a personally forced march and Shadimar's healing magic, magic
now aimed only against him.  The moon and stars jabbed glittering lines
and pinpoints along the Weathered Mountains' crags.  Pausing only to
mentally dedicate his sword work to Sif, he whipped both blades from
their sheaths and threw every shred of his being into perfect cuts,
arcs, and dodges.

Other concerns fled, mind and body locked into the flawless steel dance
of his swords.  Nothing mattered but the eternity of battle and the
patron goddess who ruled the Renshai.

Within moments, Colbey felt eyes upon him, knowing the certainty of
Khitajrah's presence.  Her obvious awe meant little, but her pride in
his skill warmed him.  He had forgotten the joy that came from those
few who appreciated who and what he was.  Equally, he missed the
satisfaction that accompanied the successes and failures of teaching
eager students.

He looked forward to seeing the other Renshai again.  He wanted to
watch the West find the promise of its new youth.

And, for the first time in years, he thought of the closeness that had
escaped him since his sterility had become apparent

and the Renshai women had shunned him as anything more

than a friend and teacher.

Colbey spiraled into a wild sequence of slash and counter-cut, amused
that his thoughts had turned to companionship at a time when world and
eternity hung in the balance.  What better time?  The ideas of love,
sex, and partnership seemed out of place in a mind that had long
discarded them as unnecessary distraction, and he wondered what it was
about Khitajrah that had reawakened needs long buried.  He doubted he
could have found a woman less like the type he had believed he wanted,
even up to the moment he had awakened; and he wondered if there lay the
answer.  One thing seemed certain.  The most beautiful of goddesses,
Freya, she who represented battle, fertility, and sex in its purest
form, sanctioned this union.  Colbey's loyalty lay with his religion
and its tenets: swords, death in combat, and law.  And now, the West
and Khitajrah.

CHAPTER 23

Thor's Solution The horses loped easily over the forest trails that ran
from Pudar toward Erythane.  Fat green buds clung to the branches,
swaying in a spring breeze; and sunlight beamed through the leafy
canopy.  Warm and surrounded by new growth, riding a well-conformed
horse and savoring the afterglow of a grueling sword practice, Colbey
reveled in the beauty of the woodlands.  The world felt right for the
first time since the Great War that had seen the deaths of so many,
Westerners and Easterners alike.

Khitajrah rode a responsive, docile bay gelding, muscled for endurance
as well as short bursts of speed.  Colbey admired the animal that
appeared to be Frost Reaver's equal in every way but familiarity and
ownership.  In some respects, it seemed superior.  Its brown hide and
sable hair would better handle the sun and would make it less of a
beacon when it came to quiet movement.  Still, Colbey knew he had an
attachment to the white stallion that no horse, no matter its virtues,
could match.

Colbey rode the chestnut gelding he had discovered at Crossroad
Fyn's.

True to her claim, Khitajrah had, apparently, watched him horse
shopping.  She had purchased the gelding for him sometime during the
days he had sprawled n coma from her poisoning.  He did not know where
one Eastland woman had come upon so much money, but he guessed the
answer lay with the simple saddles that graced the backs of both horses
and made her gem-encrusted bridle seem gaudy.  Once, he suspected, her
horse's tack had matched.  Clearly, the saddle had gone to barter,
perhaps purchasing his own mount and plainer gear.  The aristiri
perched on his saddle's cantle, taking no more notice of the mane
whipping into its face than the horse did of its presence.

Occasionally, it leapt into the air, gliding cautiously so as not to
slap horse or Renshai with its wing beats.

"So what is this broken magical thing?"  Khitajrah's ques tion
shattered a' long silence.  She, too, seemed affected by the beauty of
the day.  Despite her flirting the previous evening, she now treated
him like a new acquaintance, apparently uncertain or embarrassed about
how quickly she had taken to him.

"A gem," Colbey replied, unsure Whether to mourn or cheer the loss of
intimacy.  It only made sense for her to feel as if she knew him better
than she did.  They had, in a fashion, saved one another's lives.  The
mind link brought them closer than most lovers became in a lifetime,
and she had nursed him back from the edge of oblivion, though she had
been its cause.

"A damaged gem."  Although uncertain whether the topaz eyes in
Mitrian's hilt held the answer to Bahmyr's death, Colbey discovered the
staff he had slid through the bindings of his gear seemed positive this
was the item chaos had indicated.

"Well that narrows it down."  Khitajrah met Colbey's vagueness with
sarcasm.  "What kind of gem?  Who owns it?

Would he be willing to sell it?"

A warning, mental touch from the staff stole Colbey's attention.

Although he saw nothing unusual, it felt as if a power beyond his
comprehension hovered nearby.  He answered as briefly and quickly as
possible.  "It's part of a larger whole.  No, I don't think my friend
would sell it, but she might sell its one time use.  Now hush.

Something's wrong."

Khitajrah whispered, "What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure," Colbey admitted, still sensing a massive presence.  It
reminded him of the staff, limitless in its scope, not necessarily with
an intention of harm yet dangerous for its hugeness and alien sense of
unbelonging.  "What is it?"

The staff seemed equally uncertain.  'I don't know," it returned.

"Something feels out of place."  · Wizards' magic?"  Colbey guessed.

The staff returned a sensation that combined curiosity and
uneasiness.

'I don't think so.  I'm not certain.  Stay cautious."

Colbey broke the contact.  The staff had told him nothing he did not
already feel himself, and its warning was unnecessary.

It seemed more distraction than help.  If it had some sudden
revelation, he felt certain it would tap on his barriers for
attention.

He pulled up his horse.

Khitajrah drew to a halt also.  She opened her mouth, as if to question
again.  Then, apparently thinking better of it, she

said nothing.  Colbey's doubts must have come through clearly
enough.

Colbey dismounted, flipping his horse's reins over the furry head and
loosening Harval in its scabbard.  If a shape-shifting mass of demon
chaos attacked, he wanted as much mobility between the trees as
possible.  On open ground, the horse would have given him speed, power,
and elevation.  In the forest, the animal's size would hamper the
distinctive Renshai maneuvers he would need to face such a creature.

From the ground, he would not have to deal with the animal's panic.

Khitajrah shifted her weight in preparation to join Colbey, but he
stopped her with a gesture.  "Stay there.  If there's a fight, run for
Bearn.  You'd only get in my way."

Khitajrah frowned, but she did reseat herself.  "Your confidence in my
ability is touching."

"It's not your ability I'm doubting."  Colbey suspected from
Khitajrah's manner and movement that she had little or no experience
with battle.  Her grace and coordination came from some other form of
exercise.  "Fighting magic takes certain equipment you don't have."  He
did not specify further.

Should she prove weaker than he believed and fall prey to chaos again,
he did not want another enemy after the sword and staff.

"Magic?  You think there's magic about?"

"I don't know," Colbey reiterated.  "It may be nothing."

Khitajrah rode on, holding her mount to a walk so that Colbey could
keep pace.  Conversation disappeared.  The aristiri perched on the
saddle, head cocked, as if testing the air for Colbey's concern.  The
staff's presence seemed to hover nervously around him, its aura
difficult to separate from the more foreign sense of wrongness.

For some time, they continued in a silence broken only by the crush of
leaves and snap of twigs beneath the horses' hooves.  The roadway
opened onto a vast meadow of clover.

A deer glanced Up from its grazing, spotted the intruders and bounded
away, a spindly-legged fawn dogging its mother's leaps.  The fluidity
of their movement made the horses seem cloddish and ponderous.  Gaze
locked on the beauty of the deer's run, Colbey lost the edge of
wariness for an instant that nearly cost him his life.

The aristiri screeched, the flap of its Wings hammering Colbey's ears
as it took flight.  Gaze wrenched suddenly in

its direction, he caught a glimpse of something vast streaking toward
him.

"Run!"  Colbey shouted, diving and rolling from the path of the
oncoming object.  Something gigantic struck the ground just shy of his
head.  The earth trembled, bowling Colbey into a wild, uncontrollable
spiral.  For an instant, his limbs felt liquid.  Then ground and self
seemed to come back together, and his gaze fixed on the object that had
nearly crushed him.  It was a hammer, its head the size of his mount
and its handle proportionately short, the length of his arm from
fingertips to shoulder.

"Run!"  Colbey hollered again.  "Go!"  He staggered toWard the weapon,
catching a glimpse of Khitajrah's horse struggling to its legs, its
rider still clinging to the saddle.  It shot down the roadway at a full
gallop, though whether at Khitajrah's command or panicked beyond
obedience, he did not know or care.  His own horse sprinted after it.

Mjollnir.

Thor's hammer There Seemed no other possibility.  Channeling strength
from mind to body, he seized the handle and tried to lift.

But unlike his experience during the Tasks of Wizardry, the gold
rebuffed his efforts easily.  At first, he felt no movement.

Then, suddenly, the whole of the weapon shifted, rising of its own
accord.  Colbey flinched back as the hammer soared into the air, nearly
catching him in its retreat, then flew toward the heavens.

Colbey whirled, standing and drawing his sword in one motion.  He had
little doubt about what he would find standing behind him in the
meadow, and the sight did not disappoint him.  At the far edge of the
vale, a giant stepped from the forest.  He stood twice Colbey's height,
muscles massive and defined beneath skin as white as Frost Reaver's
fur.

Flame-red hair bristled from head and chin like a lion's mane.  The
face looked as hard and bright as polished steel, and the angry blue
eyes seemed to impale him.  Thor.  Colbey harbored no doubt.  He froze,
unwilling to move.  Always, he had dedicated himself to the will of his
goddess.  If Sif's husband wanted him dead, he had no right nor
intention of fighting the sentence.

Mjollnir returned to its wielder's hand.  A moment later, the hammer
sped for Colbey again.  Survival instinct drove Colbey to dodge.  He
discarded it, finding other reason.  What god could respect a man who
died without a fight?  Again, Colbey swerved from the path of the
blow.  Once more, the hammer slammed ground into crater; and the jolt
of its landing stole Colbey's balance.  He tumbled to the clover,
scarcely managing to roll to his feet before the weapon flew back
toward Thor.

Colbey charged,, swords clearing their sheaths in an instant.

The hammer tumbled over his head, outstripping him back to the hand of
its master.  As Colbey cleared half the distance between himself and
the god, Thor gave a mighty roar.  "Die, you miserable little traitor
to the gods!  Mjollnir will crush you like the insect you are."  The
hammer pounded air, screaming toward Colbey at impossible speed.

Colbey checked his rush into a side step, using his swords to parry the
hammer aside.  Gold shattered the steel of his right hand sword and
drove Harval from his grip.  Though only a light graze, the power
behind the racing weapon ached through Colbey's arms and the breeze of
its passage slammed him to the ground.  The hammer sank into the earth
so deeply, even its handle disappeared.

Thor growled something wordless.  The hammer twisted in its rest.

Gaining his feet again, Colbey retrieved Harval and ran at Thor.

Movement jolted through the ground as the hammer shifted.

Colbey managed to keep his balance, continuing his rush, giving his all
to the battle.  So many times, he had believed he had finally found the
death in glory he had sought; yet the Guardian's threat haunted him:
You do still fear one thing.  And, although you wouldn't, have any way
to know it yet, that fear has been recognized.  You will never reach
Valhalla."

Bothered but not daunted, Colbey sped toward the god of storms and
law.

He would not let his knowledge of such a prophecy, by itself, make it
truth, The ground quivered and shook beneath Colbey's feet as the
hammer lurched free of its pit.  Thor filled the Renshai's vision, a
towering giant all muscle and red hair.  This time, Colbey beat the
hammer to its wielder.  He launched himself at Thor.

Braced for the attack, Thor threw up a shield as broad as Colbey's
body.  His other fist raced toward the Renshai.

Colbey dodged between sword and strike.  Harval jabbed flesh and tore,
dragging an angry red stripe through leather leggings and up Thor's
leg.  The god kicked and spun.

Colbey's sudden side step barely saved him from a crushing.

He turned the movement into a high, whirling kick, foot slapping Thor's
armored hip with a force that sent pain lancing through Colbey's leg.

It seemed not to affect Thor at all.

The follow-through of Colbey's sword creased the links of mail,
splitting a few.

Mjollnir sailed back toward Thor.  The god raised his hand in
anticipation.  "World-destroyer.  Scum-eating slave of chaos!"

Colbey leapt again.  This time, his sword slashed a line into the
muscle of Thor's arm and missed his chin by fingers' breadths.  With a
roar of rage, Thor caught the hammer in his other hand and swung it for
Colbey.

The strength behind the blow seemed incalculable, but the speed
surprised Colbey more.  He ducked, the breeze of its passage cold on
his scalp.  A second of hesitation, and the hammer would have torn his
head, crushed and bleeding, from his body.  His riposte impaled Thor's
arm near the pit.

Though Thor grunted in agony, the pain did not slow his next attack.

He reversed the direction of his strike effortlessly.

Once again, the hammer sprang for Colbey's head.

ColbeY jerked Harval, to free it from its deeply buried rest.  The
sword came only partially loose, blood splattering Colbey in a sudden
wash.  He sprang aside as he pulled, hoping the direction of his dodge
would catch the god off-guard.

The hammer swished across in front of Colbey, skinning the knuckles
that gripped Harval.  He dodged Thor's kick as the blade came free.

Then the god's foot thrust between Colbey's legs, sending him into a
wild tumble.  He rolled to rise as the hammer screamed down on him.

"Modi," Colbey whispered, flinching aside.  The hammer slammed ground,
the shock of its impact momentarily stealing all power from Colbey's
limbs.  He regained equilibrium quickly, ducking around Thor's legs for
an open strike at the mailed abdomen.  As Thor tore his hammer from the
ground, dripping chunks of earth and roots, Colbey jabbed with the
intricate Renshai triple twist made for breaking mail.  The blade
sliced through space that seemed far too small, creating a slit that
the triple loop construction should have made impossible.

Before Colbey could thrust far, Thor's meaty hand closed around his
shoulder.

A shriek split the air.  From nowhere, the ristiri flapped

between Colbey and Thor, buffeting the Renshai briefly as it passed.

It dove for Thor's face, battering the red-haired god with wings and
talons at once.

Thor reeled backward, dropping Colbey, tearing at the bird with both
clawed hands.

Though this opened Thor's defenses, Colbey withdrew.

He would not fight an unfair battle, especially against a god.

"Formynder, stop!"  he shouted, hoping the hawk would read his anger.

"Off!  It's not your fight."

But the aristiri took no heed of its raging master.  It poked and
flapped, dodging the giant's hands that sought to enwrap its wings
repeatedly.

Sensing another presence, Colbey whirled.  He faced a lean, sinewy
Northman, handsome in features and form.

The other seemed to take no notice of the drawn sword, striped with
god's blood.  "Come with me."  He extended a hand.

Colbey glanced at Thor.  The god caught the aristiri a resounding blow
that sent it spiraling toward the ground.  Just before it hit, it
managed to reverse its momentum, wing beats strong as it soared back
toward the Thunderer's face.

"I have to ..."  he started.

The stranger interrupted, "You have to nothing.  Thor's a blustering
fool, and an ignorant one at that.  But the world needs both of you."

Colbey hesitated.  It was not his way to abandon a battle, especially
with a friend's life at stake.

"Don't be stupid," the man said.  "No winners here and more losers than
anyone can spare.  Should either of you kill the other, you would start
the Ragnarok at once."

Those words mobilized Colbey.  The man's casual and un-avenged
insulting of Thor gave the Renshai as many clues to identity as the
comeliness of his features.  Blond hair, youthfully tousled, danced in
the breeze.  Halfway between round and oval, the face seemed to define
perfect features.  Mischievous eyes currently reflected sincerity and
strong purpose, changing color with the light.  Not a shadow or wrinkle
marred the near-perfect features.  Loki?  Or Frey?  The legends claimed
both or either as the handsomest god as the story fit.  The serious
attempt to protect Thor made the latter seem more likely.  Yet the eyes
fit Loki.  And Colbey felt a distant certainty that he had met this god
before.  About the

figure's divinity, at least, he felt certain.  He had belittled Thor
with a frivolous ease that made it seem commonplace, and he had
approached too silently for any mortal.  In the forest, Arduwyn might
have come that close without Colbey's knowledge, but he doubted any man
could cross open meadow without alerting him, battle-occupied or not.

Grudgingly, Colbey gave his hand.  Light flashed, tearing his vision.

He straggled backward, groping blindly for substance.

His hand touched something huge and fuzzy, an animal where, moments.

before, a man had stood.  Through a brilliant haze of colored lights,
he caught glimpses of clover-filled meadow, his ears ringing with the
slap of wing beats and Thor's stalwart curses and shouts.  Then he
caught a glimpse of a horse, glossy black to the-root of every hair,
its eyes red as a demon's.  "Get on," the horse said.  "Hurry."

Colbey balked.  The transformation clearly identified the other as Loki
the Shape Changer, the lord of chaos destined to lead giants and Hel's
dead against the gods in the final battle.  Nothing good could come of
association with the god of destruction.

The horse made an abrupt dive, driving its head between Colbey's
legs.

Still mostly blinded and unprepared for the unhorselike maneuver,
Colbey found himself hefted and tossed onto its back.  Even as he
caught his balance, sliding down the darkly-maned neck, an abrupt and
wild leap carried them forward so fast and hard they seemed to fly.

Now astride, Colbey naturally concentrated on balance.  To leap free at
such speed would mean falling to his death, and he never doubted Loki's
hooves would smash in anger whatever remained of his body.  He fought
for positioning, crouched on the withers, knees crushing the muscles of
its upper forelegs, arm wrapped around its bull-like neck.  He kept
Harval clamped in a death hold.  Wind ripped at his grasp and his
balance.  Though smooth, each of Loki's mighty leaps shocked through
Colbey, all but sending him spinning off into the horse's whirlwind
wake.

Three huge jumps brought Loki and Colbey across the meadow in an
instant.  Then, the black stallion raced recklessly through the forest,
as if oblivious to the low-hanging branches and thorny copses.  Colbey
ducked flat to the animal's neck, its mane tangling with his hair, its
musk a constant, sweet odor in his nostrils.  Colbey clung; for the

moment he could do little else.  Yet, he wondered what the lord of
chaos and mischief wanted with him.  And he wondered if he would soon
fight another god.

Freya had grown familiar with the aristiri shape her robe of feathers
granted, though it stole her human voice and her hands.  She continued
to wage her frenzied war against Thor's face, now more concerned with
dodging than distraction.

As much as she hated the thought of owing gratitude to Loki, he had
come when she needed him and the others had not.  Mostly, she guessed,
curiosity and his own madman's plans kept him watching her every
movement and decision with the intensity of the hawk form she took.

She dodged another roundhouse punch, gracefully slipping beneath the
stonelike fists, listening for the last fading echoes of Loki's
hoofbeats.

Thor's other hand made a sudden slash that caught her across the side
of the body.  She plummeted, pain stealing all grace and
maneuverability.  Her light hawk's body slammed against the ground,
rolling and tumbling in a heap of feathers and talons.  Breath would
not come.  She opened her beak wide, gasping for the air her battered
lungs would not admit.

For an instant, she took her attention from the battle to breathe.

Mjollnir raced toward her, handle gripped in Thor's fist.

Freya's bruised side hampered her dodge.  Her empty lungs would not
allow song or warning.  Desperately, she wriggled free of the feathered
cloak that gave her aristiri form, her goddess legs emerging from the
collection of muddy feathers.

Thor pulled his blow, the hammer digging a crater into the earth beside
her.  Leaving the weapon entrenched, he approached hesitantly.

"Freya?"

A trickle of air wheezed into her lungs.  She struggled to shed the
remainder of the cloak, exposing a dress studded with gold brooches and
sewn through with metallic threads.

"Freya?"  Thor repeated, still uncertain.  The single word held a
myriad of questions, from her welfare to her motives for interfering
with his battle.

The breaths came more easily now.  Freya freed herself fully from the
feathered cloak.  She clambered to her feet.

Thor's blows ached through her, yet she showed no weakness.

She tossed the costume over one shoulder and met

Thor's gaze.  Her pale blue eyes flashed with rage, and the

many gold adornments seemed to wink and sparkle in echo.

The necklace of the Brisings writhed.  Her breasts rose and fell with
every soothing breath.

"Are you well?"  Thor asked, genuinely concerned.

Finally, Freya gathered enough air to speak.  "Have you taken leave of
your sense?"  She kept the last word singular to imply Thor had never
had more than one thought from the beginning.  "Just your presence here
could cause the destruction."

For all the insult Freya had given his intelligence, Thor caught the
discrepancy immediately.  "You're here."

"Yes.  But I have a grasp of the concept called subtlety.

I've interfered as little as necessary, not huffed about molding
meadows into hills."

Thor glanced about, as if noticing the valleys his hammer had bashed
through the clover for the first time.  What difference the contour of
this meadow when the fire lord kills Frey and sets all of man's world
to flame.  The others may cry over their fate, but I won't sit idle
while gods and our creations die."

Blood coated Thor's arm from shoulder to wrist, splattered by his
movement.  Also noting the gash on his leg, Freya drew closer.  "Sit.

Let me tend those wounds while we talk."

"Bah!  Scratches, nothing more."  Despite the dismissal, Thor sat
obediently, his bulk quaking the meadow ground.

"For all this subtlety you claim, you attacked me outwardly enough."

Freya drew bandages from her pockets, the same that she used while
collecting souls from the battleground.  By right, she had first claim
to the honored dead, even over Odin's Valkyries: "With you, subtlety is
unnecessary.  And useless besides."  She wrapped the stab, applying
pressure as the bandage unwound.  "Well-landed attacks.  He has all the
weapon skill of his father."

"Or the luck."  Thor remained still while she worked, but his gaze
scanned the forest.  "One blow from Mjollnir would have smashed him.

Kyndig must die."

Tying the bandage, Freya set to work on Thor's leg, twisting lines of
cloth over the opened leather and skin.  "I don't believe that to be
the case."

"I think--" Thor started.

"I don't believe that to be the case either."  Freya looked up from
her work long enough to glare.  "Odin created the system of Wizards to
keep us from interfering directly on the world of man.  You know our
tiniest actions here have unpredictable and enormous repercussions."

She knotted the bandage, annoyance causing her to draw it tighter than
necessary.

Thor tested the movement of his leg.  "Worse than the Ragnarok
itself?

I think not."

"In this case, so."  Freya met his gaze to deliver the coup de grace.

"Nothing could awaken chaos quicker than gods killing gods, and no
Crime is more heinous than a god slaying kin.  Kyndig is your son."

"My son?"  Thor snorted.  "Nonsense."

"Seventy-eight years ago, you lay with a mortal woman.

A Renshai named Ashetc.  And Loki saw you."

Thor swept his legs into a crouch.  "A sword mistress of unequaled
grace and skill.  How could I help wanting her?"

Freya smiled.  "The way of the gods.  To know love at a glance and need
it as swiftly.  It is to be my brother's downfall."

She referred to Frey's trading of his magic sword for the hand of his
giantess wife.  He had seen her only once yet pined for her after and,
now, centuries later, remained wholly faithful.  "And perhaps my
own."

She fingered the necklace, recalling how she had slept with dwarves for
love of the gold.  Yet her words went far deeper than Thor could
guess.

It had taken only a glimpse of Colbey for her to know they belonged
together, no matter his destiny.

As usual, Thor cut through history and the Norris' promises for the
future.  "Asnete died in her very next battle.  She bore no son."

"She carried your son before her death.  I knew that and so did Sif.

It is my way to know unions, and Loki's joy of spreading trouble
brought the news to your wife as well."

Thor shook his head, still missing the connection between Colbey's
birth and his illicit coupling.  His manner tightened.

Apparently he was nervous about the penalties that should have come
with his wife's knowledge of his action, yet had not.

"You know how Sif is about fidelity and marriage.  She bore neither of
your children, but she loves them for being yours.  When I discovered
Asnete dying on the battlefield, sif begged me to help her make a
switch.  Ranilda Battlemad

gave birth to Colbey, but the blood that flows through him is Asnete's
and yours."

"Are you certain?"

"I couldn't be more certain.  And the Tasks of Wizardry confirmed the
truth I already knew."

Thor stared, face darkening, as if about to accuse Freya of lies.  "My
son?  My son will cause the Ragnarok?  The Norns are crueler than even
I would have guessed."

Freya soothed as much as she could.  "It remains to be seen whether or
not he causes the destruction.  If you kill your own child, you will
bring chaos upon Us instantly with all its power."

Thor twisted a loose corner of his damaged leggings.

"What now?  I can't just let the Ragnarok happen.  Naming him my son
only increases my responsibility.  And my need to make things right."

"No."  Freya rose.  With Thor crouched, she met his gaze at eye
level.

"Leave the Thunder Child to me.  As much as Sif, I have watched him;
there's more here than even we understand.

You go home and rejoice in having the most loyal and understanding wife
in existence.  Had we been mortal, and I your wife, I would have killed
you and the child both.

Yet though I wouldn't share Sif's gentle, forgiving nature, it has its
place.  Go."

So saying, Freya tossed the cloak back over her frame.  In aristiri
form, she floated toward the forest to find her charge.

At length, the black stallion switched from a random track through the
tangled depths of forest to roadway.  Even here, brush clogged the
edges, curling into the pathway and partially crushed by the passage of
hoof and cart.  Overhead, branches meshed, turning the road into a
long, dark tunnel that seemed to suit Loki well, a shadow-figure in
every sense, darting over tarry dirt and through the closed
passageway.

Clinging became easier.  Colbey managed to sheathe his sword, the
horse's wind-blown mane stinging his face.  Despite the speed, he
measured the distance to the ground.  As much as he enjoyed horseback
combat, it made little sense when the enemy was the horse itself.

Well into an unfamiliar part of the forest, Loki's pace slowed.  Colbey
leapt free.  He hit the ground rolling, veered from a sapling in his
path, and came up in a ready crouch.

The sword remained sheathed, but he could draw and cut before most
warriors could think to do either.  The sheath on his left hip flopped,
conspicuously empty.  Though more valuable and powerful, the staff he
missed less.  He had bound it securely with his gear, lost again for
the antics of a horse.

But, for now, the presence and wrath of gods took precedence.

The horse skidded to a sudden stop, hooves plowing through fertile soil
and leaf mulch.  The instant it turned, a flash lit the forest.  This
time, Colbey managed to shut his lids more quickly.  Even so, colored
bands striped his vision as he looked upon the same man-shaped being
who had confronted him in the meadow.  Loki headed toward him.

With a leisurely deliberateness, Colbey drew his sword, more for
warning than threat.  "Stand where you are."

Loki went still, though not a trace of fear marred his stance.  Clearly
he had stopped from indulgence rather than concern.  "Forgive the rough
ride.  I knew you wouldn't willingly leave a battle.  I had little
choice but to force retreat."

Colbey guessed Loki's stake in the matter, and it enraged him.  "First,
I've fought my own battles since I could walk.

I don't need men, birds, or gods rushing in to rescue me.

Whatever you think of my ability, I might have won that battle.

If not, I would joyfully have died on Thor's hammer."

"Either would have been a tragedy."  Loki fixed his gaze on Colbey.

Colbey remained in place, his stance a perfect combination of offense
and defense.  "Save your lies, Lord of Chaos.

Your intentions are easily read.  You believe Thor would have slain me
and you would have lost the one who champions your cause.  But you're
wrong on both counts.  Go away."

Loki laughed then, the sound carrying bitterness and irony rather than
joy.  "For one bothered by undes'erved prejudice, you certainly are
quick to inflict the same on another."

Colbey could not help but consider the words.  Yet the conclusion
seemed obvious.  "It's no secret what you are.

Nor the death and destruction you work toward."

Loki spat, clearly disappointed as well as insulted.  "This from a
Renshai.  And a Wizard who many have described the same way."

Colbey doubted the comparison.  "So you deny backing chaos?  You won't
be the one who sets Ragnarok in motion?"

"I take both of those responsibilities very seriously."

"You don't deny them."

"Certainly not."

Colbey drove his point home.  "If I had killed Thor, it would have
strengthened your side in the Ragnarok, the side of chaos."

"Yes."

"Therefore, you had to believe I would lose the battle.

You kidnapped me from the fight, which means you didn't want me to
die.

I can only presume you think I work for your cause.  There, you're
wrong."

Loki's eyes assumed their more natural green, highlights dancing
through irises and pupils.  "Your mistake, Skilled One, is presuming I
want to strengthen my cause."

Colbey froze, brow furrowing in thought.  If Loki spoke truth, all of
his assessment of the Shape Changer's motives came crashing down.  "Why
wouldn't someone want to strengthen his own cause?"

Loki smiled.  "When he's placed in the position of championing a cause
the world needs only in moderation."

Chills spiraled through Colbey, but he managed to suppress them.

Loki's words sounded eerily close to those he had used to explain
himself to the elfin captain.  He tried to sort the situation from
Loki's viewpoint, knowing the effort was doomed to failure.  Loki had
millennia of experiences and situations to call upon.

Loki aided Colbey's effort.  "When Odin and his brothers created the
world, he didn't trust mankind with chaos.  He gave you a world wholly
at law, banishing chaos to a distant plane.  Yet, you and I and a few
others realize that the world cannot grow without the knowledge and
artistry that is chaos.  Form without plan or ingenuity moves
nowhere.

With time, it stagnates and dies."  Loki folded his arms across his
chest.  A beam of sunlight forced its way through the twining network
of branches, sparking white accents through his yellow hair.  "Odin
knew, of course.  He tried to interject small doses of chaos here and
there, but his power proved too great.  A god's drinking mug is a man's
ocean.  So Odin sought lesser gods to represent the chaos-forces
mankind needed: Bragi of poetry, Aegir who makes the oceans
unpredictable, and me."

"Fire," Colbey finished for the god.  "Loki" translated to this in the
Northern tongue.  "Glorious, grand, beautiful.

Necessary for security and warmth, when controlled.  Searing to the
touch.  Freed, it becomes mischievous, evil, and devastating.  As
unpredictable as chaos itself."

Loki shrugged, passing off insult and compliment alike.

"There's logic even to fire.  Remember, I was born of giants, not
gods.

Odin brought me among the others as his blood brother.  Often, his
actions seem frivolous or reckless, but he has more wisdom than the
rest of us together.  Odin does nothing without method."

Colbey followed the explanation, but it seemed to have deviated far
from the point.  "Interesting.  And well worth contemplating.  But what
does it have to do with you not wanting Thor or me to die?"

"Chaos is necessary.  Even some of the men and gods who realize it
refuse to be the ones who champion it.  What we truly need is
balance.

But, I'm one god working alone against many.  If I just stood behind
symmetry, I would accomplish nothing.  When so many back law, the only
chance for balance is to embrace chaos."

Colbey understood the concept; he did not agree with it.

"I stand for balance."

Loki's shoulders rose and fell again, as if to express the futility of
it all.  "You can do that because I'm backing chaos on a grander
scale.

Whether anything you do on man's world matters remains to be seen."

"So you 'rescued' me from Thor because ..."  Colbey trailed off, hoping
Loki would finish the sentence.  The gods seemed even more adept than
the Cardinal Wizards at dodging direct points.

Loki obliged.  "... if Thor killed you, it would bring the Ragnarok
early and possibly change the course of events.  If you killed Thor, it
would surely skew the destruction in chaos' favor."  He sighed, hands
dropping to his side as he tried to explain destiny to one who had
defied prophecies and played a huge role in man's history.  "As much as
I support chaos, the battles of Ragnarok have plan and reason few
understand.  Thor must live now, so he can kill the Midgard Serpent
later."

Colbey followed the weaving course of Loki's clarification, now seized
by' skepticism.  "You want Thor to kill your son?  I don't believe
that."

"Once the Ragnarok closes, and the opponents of law and chaos die, the
gods of moderation will remain.  Extremes

such as the Serpent and the Wolf will have served their purpose.

The same is true for Thor, Odin, Tyr and, of course, myself."

Colbey studied the Lord of Chaos, seeing him in a different light than
legend had described.  "That's always seemed the flaw in the gods'
stories to me, you know.  Why would Loki set such destruction in motion
knowing it would end his own existence as well?"

"Life," Loki corrected.  "Not existence.  Those gods killed will
continue in concept."  His eyes flashed orange.  "Thor as the storms
and thunder.  Tyr as the honor men follow and the oaths they swear.

Aegiras the tides.  And me."  Loki grinned, an expression as evil as
any Colbey had seen in the many renditions of the god.  "As fire, of
course.  At least I get to leave in a bold display of glory.  Surtr,
the king of the fire giants will set the worlds ablaze to scorch all
things living and their works."

Images wafted from the Shape Changer, visions of frantic, violent
blazes devouring the world.  Fires of every color shot toward the
heavens, all beneath it a uniform black.  The odors accompanying the
visions brought memories of bloody bodies set to pyre, the death dance
of the flames grand testament to the glory of another soul sent to
Valhalla.

But now, the aroma of roasting flesh and clothing nauseated Colbey, and
the creeping black emptiness nearly drove him to madness.  There,
Loki's cause turned from concern for the world's destiny to a need for
a personal, glorious finish.

There, Colbey believed, Loki fell victim to his own chaos.

And Colbey's own long-held need to find Valhalla against all odds fell
into question as well.

Colbey shook off the ugliness that had come to him as Loki's
thoughts.

He spoke in a whisper, his voice still seeming too loud in the wake of
Loki's grandeur.  "I understand the need for the death of extremes.

But why mankind?"

The crazed look in Loki's eyes faded, and with them the unnatural
color.  Once again, the troublesome eyes assumed their usual green.

"Because Ragnarok is a beginning as well as an end.  New gods.  New
order.  New causes.  Men do not adapt to such.  It is easier to start
over than to separate mortal followers of extremes, especially when
their normal lives are only measured in decades."

Colbey gained new respect for the bard, Mar Lon, who held to the theory
that the shortest-lived handle change most

quickly and easily.  He considered the Bruenian farmer's innovations

and the many more those.  would set in motion.  He thought of the
Pudarian youths and their commendable commitment to skill.  Just in the
years since the Great War, the West had adapted so far and so well.

Still, it made no sense to argue details with a god.  He doubted he
could convince Loki, and it would only waste time.  Now that he knew
the Shape Changer had no designs against his life, concern for
Khitajrah, his staff, and Frost Reaver took precedence.

"You've given me much to consider.  It isn't often a man has the
opportunity to match his sword, then his wits, against gods.  But I
have places to go and things to do.  At the very least I have to get
the staff before others do."

"No hurry," Loki said.  "Soon enough, your world and those in it will
cease to exist."

Colbey pledged himself against that occurrence.  For all he and Loki
seemed to have in common concerning law, chaos, 'and the balance, he
would oppose the destruction of man's world to his last shuddering
breath.  Finally, he had found a cause that took priority even over the
death in glory that had driven him since birth.  The unsettling of his
faith unnerved him, a concept that would require long contemplation.

But this was not the time.  "Nevertheless, I'll be on my way, thank
you."  He turned.

"Wait," Loki called.  "There's one more thing I have to tell you."

Colbey continued walking, hearing Loki's light footsteps sweeping
behind him.  For now, he believed the Lord of Chaos had said enough.

"The woman you travel with has your horse and staff.

And the aristiri will join her soon enough.  I'll take you to them."

Colbey continued walking.  He had met enough of the chaos-touched to
believe Loki would find a nasty parting sentence, something that would
haunt him long, after the discussion had finished.  "I'll find my
way."

Loki quoted an ancient bardic song about the Ragnarok: "Brothers and
sisters In incest entwined.

Sons slaughter fathers And mothers in kind ..."

Loki's voice faded.  Apparently, he had stopped, and Colbey left him
farther behind.  "Had I allowed Thor to kill you, one of the tenets of
that song would have been fulfilled.

And the Ragnarok would have come for certain."

The words intrigued Colbey enough to slow his steps.

Loki seemed to be taunting him.

"If Thor had killed his son, or the son his father, it would have
brought the Ragnarok in an instant rush."

Now Colbey stopped, many memories merging at once: Siderin's search for
a full-blooded male Renshai that had not yielded Colbey's name, a
prophecy that had implied he was other than a mortal man, and the
seer's shock during the Tasks of Wizardry when he had sought
information about Colbey's parentage.

"Let me explain, Child of Thunder.  Afterward, I'll return you to your
staff and your lady friend."

Colbey turned.  His self, from birth to motivation seemed to have
crumbled in the course of a handful of events and a single
conversation.  Suddenly, the information Loki held seemed too
significant to avoid.

Loki grinned, strange eyes blazing.  And the tale began.

CHAPTER 24

Offworld

Cloudy night glazed the Fields of Wrath, the surrounding forest
scarcely penetrated by the light of stars and moon.  Beneath the
interweave of branches, Shadimar felt the vibrant presence of his two
colleagues as well as the hovering power of the staff he carried.  To
his left, Carcophan seemed nonexistent, the salt-and-pepper patterning
of his hair fading into the dappled shadows.  He remained still, an
unseen threat lost amid the normal structures of the forest, his only
movement the flutter of his cloak in the wind.  Still, to Shadimar's
consciousness, the champion of all things evil seemed as obvious and
powerful a threat as the ghostly pale figure to his r ight.

Unfamiliar with warfare, Trilless had learned little of concealment and
ambush.  Though she must have realized that her usual beacon white
would draw attention as well as fire, she had not changed.  It had
something to do with honor.

Shadimar kept judgment from his thoughts.  Linked with his colleagues
for the purposes of joint magic, he practiced caution.  Though they had
too many matters of import to consider, and wandering or touching
other's thoughts uninvited was as illegal by Odin'S Laws as it was
rude, Shadimar worried for ideas that might accidentally seep through
the contact.  It made more sense to concentrate on the matter at hand
with a fanaticism that buffed his personal considerations, especially
since these included the' realization that once they had finished with
Colbey he would have to deal with Carcophan and Trilless.  Not in the
same manner, of course, but there would come a reshuffling of
relationships and priorities.  Without the Western Wizard to support
neutrality, Shadimar would need to become twice as competent; and the
staff assured him this was already the case.

Olvaerr and Dh'arlo'm crouched quietly in the meadow, clutching leather
and linen dragging slings and awaiting Chezrith's return.  Secodon lay
between them.  In addition to

Carcophan's expectant, vigilant presence, Shadimar sensed

concern wafting from the Southern Wizard.  Despite

Carcophan's insistence-that his relationship with Chezrith would not
hamper him, as well as the coolness that characterized his teachings
and their dealings together, Shadimar now saw beneath the facade.

Clearly, Carcophan cared more for her than he dared to admit, even to
himself.  Still, Shadimar kept his own thoughts well-hidden.  Now was
not the time for voicing a disapproval he had already made clear.

Nearly every Wizard learned not to bond with mortals, taught by the
agony of watching a loved one wither in a time that passed like days.

Nothing but trouble and weakness could come of the situation, yet
Shadimar simply filed aw ay the concern.  So long as the relationship
between Southern Wizard and apprentice did not interfere with the plans
against Colbey and the kidnapping of the Renshai, it would eventually
work to his advantage.

Trilless communicated with the other Wizards through the mind link.

"The air stinks from the chaos of three double transports."  She
referred to the magic necessary to bring the Cardinal Wizards, each
drawing an apprentice, to the Fields' of Wrath.  "Is the spiritlock
safe?"

Shadimar nodded absently.  He, too, could smell the raw odor of chaos
on the air, stronger than from any single spell he had known except the
passage of his mentor.  At first it had burned his nose, the-taste
filling his mouth, churning his gut, and threatening to choke up
dinner.  Yet, with time, the scent had become familiar.  He managed to
carve parts from the whole of mingled smells, each unique and
interesting in its individuality.  "The staff assures me," he returned
simply, seeing no need to argue.  He felt less concerned over the known
spell, worrying more for the one that came after.  Together, he
believed they could carry out the transport offworld that would prevent
a daring rescue by Colbey.  If the Western Wizard could not find the
Renshai, he would have no choice but to barter for them.

Shadimar did not add that the odors of good and evil seemed as ugly and
foreign to him as the chaos.  Propriety denied the need, and it would
only start a war of words between his companions.  For the coming
spells, concentration was a necessity he dared not risk.  "Who would
know the dangers of chaos better than the Staff of Law?  If it believes
we can cast freely now, who are we to question?"

Carcophan answered, though Shadimar had geared his response to
Trilless.  "When we're balancing the Ragnarok, it's not wise to take
chances of any kind."

Shadimar did not grace the comment with a reply.  They all knew that
the father of all gods lay at the root of the staff, and it seemed
senseless to argue with its wisdom.

At that moment, Chezrith emerged from the darkened edge of the
woodlands, far closer than Shadimar expected.  If not for the woman she
half-dragged and half-carried, the

Eastern Wizard would not have seen her approach at all.  Silently, she
spread the figure on the meadow grass and unwound the sling.

Blood matted the long blond hair into clumps.  The face lacked
expression, its features as slack as the limbs, its eyes closed.

Shadimar recognized Tarah

Randilsdatter, one of the so-called "Western Renshai" born and raised
on the Fields of Wrath.

Alarmed by the blood, Shadimar turned on Chezrith.

"What have you done?  Colbey won't barter for dead

Renshai."

"She's not dead, just handled."  Though Chezrith answered

Shadimar, she looked to Carcophan for approval.  "That was my job,
wasn't it?  To handle any Renshai left awake as a guard?"

"You did well."  Carcophan retreated from Shadimar's mind to address
his student.  "You hit her hard, fast, and quiet.  You don't take
chances with Renshai.  Never engage sword to sword."

Shadimar scowled.

Carcophan responded to duty rather than his companion's annoyance.

"Shadimar is right about returning property.  If you're going to damage
it, don't make it something Colbey can notice before the exchange."  He
whispered to Olvaerr and Dh'arlo'me, "That rule stands for the two of
you also."

Both apprentices whirled, the elf with a frown of harried irritation
and Olvaerr with nervous anticipation.  Like

Trilless, Dh'arlo'me would never consider harming another without just
cause.  Religion made Olvaerr no more likely to maim than his elven
counterpart, and he remained too focused to let a comment that should
not have applied to him bother him.  Disabling another Northman, no
matter what his tribe, went against honor; though he would not hesitate
to if kill should need or justification arise.  Olvaerr stepped over
and knelt to examine Tarah's injury.

Though.  Chezrith executed a bow before speaking again,

her voice portrayed none of the respect her gesture did.  "I never
learned to knock out a warrior by patting him on the foot.  It's hard
enough to judge the strength of a surprise blow in daylight."

Carcophan nodded agreement.

Shadimar let the matter drop.  He had little enough direct knowledge of
combat to argue.  He came from a village of prophets and seers.  He
could see the occasional rise and fall of Tarah's leathers and left the
tending of war wounds to Valr Kirin's son.

"The others?"  Carcophan returned to the matter at hand.

"Asleep every one," Chezrith confirmed.  She Pointed out individual
cottages, though Shadimar's eyes could not discern one from another
through the blackness.  "This one's husband and the baby."  She changed
her focus.  "The other three each alone."  She gestured to a different
location for each.  "Mitrian, Rache, Tannin."

The three Wizards came together again for the spiritlock, Secodon
moving to his master's side, drawn by the gravity of magic.  Odin's
Laws had always restricted spells to a bare minimum, and the threat of
chaos had caused each Cardinal Wizard to further limit himself.  Now,
the anticipation of a massive blanket of magic thrilled through
Shadimar.  He felt Carcophan shift ponderously through his thoughts and
Trilless' lighter presence, no less strong for its gentler touch.

Of the two, she seemed the more powerful, centuries the elder and more
experienced for it.  Yet, in battle, they would certainly prove near
enough to equal to fulfill the gray god's intentions, The link swelled
together, magical knowledge fused and competence yielding easily to
Shadimar's touch.  The power made him giddy and excited.  He felt like
a hawk gliding above a wooded lot, eyes sharp 'enough to spot a mase
among foliage at a height from which his own presence seemed a
shapeless, black dot to human vision.  The world split, revealing a
thousand planes of existence beyond it, each promising newness and a
freedom Shadimar had not considered imagining, a caged animal content
for never having known the wild.

Carcophan yelled something desperate, anchoring the magic, and Trilless
worked frantically with him to focus the spell.  Reeling with the power
of combined forces and the

staff's vastness, Shadimar scarcely managed to draw himself

from limitless concept to the confines of reality.  Realizing he had
strayed, he called on the staff.  And it answered, nudging him toward
the shapeless constructs that represented the spirits of people caught
within the area of the spell.  With

Trilless' and Carcophan's help, he wound ponderous bands of enchantment
around the Renshai.  Wizards' magic did not allow mind reading, and he
found the souls only as unidentifiable presences that the need for
concentration would not allow him to count.

Gradually, every soul within the dimensions of the spell fell prey to
spiritlock, the magics holding each at its current level of
consciousness.  It posed no danger to Wizards or apprentices.

The former, Shadimar believed, would prove immune.

He had tossed similar spells at Colbey on the Meeting Isle without
effect, though whether due to the Western Wizard's status or mental
prowess, he did not know.  Chezrith, Olvaerr, and Dh'arlo'me were all
alert.  If the spell touched them, it would simply keep them awake
until the magics faded.  Aside from the usual unpredictability of
chaos, the only danger Shadimar knew from the spell came from repeated
castings on the same subject.  Holding a subject too long in one mental
state could make the spiritlock permanent.

In sleep, that could become eternal coma.  In a waking state, it could
lead to insanity.

Carcophan pulled free of the joining.  "Get them."  He made a brisk
gesture for Olvaerr, Chezrith, and Dh'arlo'me.

The elf glanced at Trilless.  At her' nod, all three headed toward the
Renshai cottages.

The instant the apprentices were out of sight, Carcophan turned on
Shadimar.  "What the hell were you doing?"

The hostility of the question bewildered Shadimar.  "Casting the
spiritlock.  You know that."

"Calling chaos, you mean."  Carcophan's normal speaking voice sounded
like a shout in the wake of their previous cautious silence.  "I cast
the spell."

"You and I."  Trilless attacked her opposite's need to take all the
credit.  She spoke softly, though voices could not break sleep enhanced
by spiritlock.  Only time would awaken the Renshai.  "We all did our
part."

A breeze rattled the surrounding trees, and leaves spiraled down over
the Cardinal Wizards.  Carcophan shivered, though surely not from
cold.

Suddenly, the situation became

clear to Shadimar.  The quantity of chaos required to ensorcell six
Renshai unnerved the Southern Wizard.  Having the upper hand for once,
Shadimar smiled.  "With the Staff of

Law in hand and mind, I have nothing to fear from chaos.  I can examine
it freely and without risk.  I'm sorry if it scares you."

Apparently, Shadimar had hit the problem dead on, because Carcophan had
no snappy comeback.  His catlike eyes met Shadimar's gray, stare for
stare.  "Don't get cocky.  Having a bucket of water doesn't give a
child the right to play with fire."

Shadimar cared little for the analogy.

Trillless interceded before a full argument developed.  "We worked
together.  No.  matter who did what, The calling of chaos, even for
necessary spells, bothers us all."  Trilless directed her next words to
Shadimar.  "Between the transports and spiritlock, there's already too
much chaos around.

And there'll be more, whether we go offworld here or transport to do it
elsewhere.  Staff or no, it makes no sense to increase the danger."

She revealed her own uneasiness then, "The Staff of Law can't feel
comfortable surrounded by so much of its enemy.  Perhaps the chaos
might even do it harm."

Shadimar answered for his power.  "The staff is not bothered."

Trillless remained relentless.  "Harm is not always something one can
sense or quantify."

Shadimar mentally dismissed the idea without bothering to argue.  Never
having wielded it, Trillless could not judge the might or capacity of
the staff.  Instead, he nodded his agreement, though he did not believe
he had summoned anything more than necessary for a spiritlock that had
to cover a significant amount of area.  'A long time had passed since
any Wizard had cast anythingbut basic magic.  Probably, Carcophan and
Trilless simply did not realize the correct quantity; and Shadimar
trusted the staff to judge the proper amount.

Carcophan's gaze shifted back to the cottages as he picked figures from
shadow.  Olvaerr returned first, using his sling to drag Tarah's
sleeping husband, Modrey, and the toddler.

He spread them near Tarah, who breathed with a more regular ease now,
then headed back for another load.  Shortly, Dh'arlo'me returned with
Mitrian.  Chezrith dogged his

steps, Rache draped over her shoulder.  She let him flop to the
ground, then knelt to examine him more carefully.

"Pretty," Chezrith said, brushing aside dark blond hair to reveal the
rugged, adolescent features.

A memory tugged at Shadimar's conscience.  He recalled the day
Santagithi's Town had fallen, when the surviving warriors had come to
his ruins for sanctuary.  Strangely, though decades often passed in an
eye blink, the scene from a year or two ago seemed like ancient
history.  He recalled Rache and Episte 'prodding him with questions
about their fathers.  Episte had spurned the sire/hero who had died in
battle without meeting his son, while Rache had found as much pride in
bearing the name of his blood brother's father as he had in his own
father's rise from savage gladiator to honored officer.  · Shadimar
glanced next at Mitrian.  She lay still, as innocent in sleep as she
had been in infancy.  Her father, Santagithi, had become Shadimar's
favorite mortal charge; and the Wizard recalled the general's joy at
the birth of his only child.  The need to watch over Santagithi and his
Renshai guard captain, Rache Kallmirsson, had caused Shadimar to keep
an eye on Mitrian as well.  With the help of those two men, she had
grown into a courageous and competent woman, though their methods had
clashed horribly and nearly destroyed a bond between them as strong as
that between any father and son.  Shadimar had once cherished a
relationship as powerful, though Colbey's self-assurance and confidence
had made it an equal friendship rather than that of elder and child.

For the first time in months, memories of that blood brotherhood
brought tears to Shadimar's eyes.  Colbey's competence, honor, and
mortal wisdom had impressed him from the start.  Yet apparently Colbey
had fallen prey to the most common' vice of mortals: pride.  The old
Renshai had come to believe himself always right and never at fault.

He apparently equated his Own opinion with fact, paying no heed to the
findings of gods and Wizards.  And Shadimar dared to hope.  Once we
wrench the Staff of Chaos from his grip, perhaps we'll have no need to
kill him.  Perhaps he can again become what he once was.  The idea
soothed, removing the guilt from the act of betraying Santagithi's
daughter and grandson.

Shadimar could see Olvaerr intermittently through the

dappled patterns of moonlight the leaves left across the Fields of
Wrath.  He dragged Tannin, the last remaining Renshai.

Chezrith continued to coo and paw over Rache.

Shadimar mentally touched Trilless in warning.  At Olvaerr's return,
they would need to join together again to move their captives.  It
seemed strange to see Renshai without swords; the apprentices had
carefully disarmed each one before hauling them to the clearing.  It
only made sense to leave weapons beyond reach of anything short of
magic than to have to deal with protecting the weapons from captives as
well as would-be rescuers.

Trilless' presence slipped comfortably into position, linked with
Shadimar.  He reached for Carcophan's consciousness, shocked to brush
an obvious jealous rage.  It seemed surprising enough to find any
emotion so superficial, but he had believed Cardinal Wizards above
pettiness.  Feeling like a voyeur, he withdrew.

Taking the obvious hint, Carcophan buried his concern enough to join
with his colleagues.  Still, Shadimar could not help feeling the
smoldering rage just below the surface.  The source came with it;
apparently, Chezrith had made some comment about Rache's body or her
interest in it.

Trilless initiated the magic this time, and Shadimar appreciated her
effort.  Carcophan could not accuse him of drawing too much chaos if he
handled the formation and directing instead.

A moment later, Carcophan's presence became a drawn thread in
Shadimar's mind as he tended matters on the outside.

"No, you can't have him!"

The' sudden distraction drew Shadimar from the spikes and lines of
chaos forming in his mind's vision.  Trilless swore, dragging at him
and Carcophan both.  Shadimar found his attention divided between a
spell more difficult than any he had ever attempted and Chezrith's sour
reply.  He missed most of the words, but the last thought penetrated
the growing swirl of magic.

"... if I can't have him, no one will."  Chezrith flipped up Rache's
tunic, and moonlight flashed off something metal in her fist.  Mind
clotted with chaos, Shadimar's thoughts moved in slowed motion.  Logic
told him what they already knew.  The channeling of chaos had to take
precedence over Chezrith's

action, no matter how horrible the maiming she meant to inflict on
Rache.

The pool of chaos widened, Trilless speaking the first necessary words
of the incantation.  She could not work the sorcery alone, but she
could not afford to lose the intention, to let raw, undirected chaos
free on man's world at a time of change.  Shadimar and Carcophan both
veered back to aid her.  The staff fed the Eastern Wizard the power he
needed at once.  He molded chaos with ease, the danger to Racbe
gradually losing importance until wholly forgotten.

A glimmer of movement carved through his earthly vision.

Chezrith screamed, the sound cut off midway.  She collapsed onto Rache,
two raggedly bloody holes scoring her cloak at the throat.

An instant later Carcophan's presence disappeared from Shadimar's
mind.

The backlash of chaos he had begun shaping sent Shadimar into an
uncontrolled spiral.  Trilless' scream sounded out of focus, ranging
from the low rumble of demon laughter to the shrill of dolphin
speech.

Colors snapped and capered through his sight, alternately bright as
leaping flames and as depthlessly dark as demon forms.  He grasped
desperately for anchorage, hand winching closed around the staff.  For
a moment, he found himself.  Then, another gathering of chaos in the
form of a second incantation sent him tumbling end over end,
suffocating him beneath its presence.  He clawed frantically for
consciousness; and, suddenly, the staff was with him, standing,
grounding, and supporting.  He knew, without need to consider, that
Carcophan had tossed that other spell, presumably at the bowman.

Shadimar could still feel Trilless' presence spinning, her life force
growing weaker.  Chaos seemed to surge and pulse around him, horrifying
for its tremendous beauty and newness.

He had to rescue her, but first he had to stop Carcophan.

They had little choice but to finish what they had started, to shape
the chaos they had gathered into its proper spell.  If Carcophan called
more for himself, it would surely set the Ragnarok in motion.

Shadimar flung himself at Carcophan's mind.  He met a boiling mixture
of hatred and grief.  The need for vengeance had driven him to
madness.

From the first touch, Shadimar knew Chezrith was dead.  Her slayer was
a teenaged girl, scarcely more than a child.  Carcophan had already
slammed her with a spell that had stolen her consciousness and, prob
ably, her sanity.  He prepared to animate a boulder to crush the last
life from her as well.

"No, you idiot!"  Shadimar leapt ruthlessly into Carcophan's mind,
tearing at the fragile web of chaos his crazed emotions were weaving.

"Throwing spells from anger?

Colbey's doing.  His chaos."  Though Odin's Laws forbade such
intrusion, Shadimar grasped Carcophan's rationality and drew it back
into the bond.  The framework of the Southern Wizard's rage-inspired
spell collapsed, and he joined the reckless swirl of partially directed
chaos.

The whirlwind swallowed them both, but Shadimar kept his grip on the
staff.  He still spun, but the stability of the staff kept him
oriented; and he dug for Trilless even as he lessened the velocity and
randomness of chaos.  Freshet, Car-cophan also directed the magic,
weakening the chaos-enemy even as fatigue threatened to drown him
beneath it.  At first, Shadimar found no evidence of Trilless, and it
occurred to him that unfashioned chaos might slay Wizards as easily as
demons could.  Then, he caught sight of the glint of light that was
her, one winking star nearly lost beneath chaos' explosions and
flares.

Centered on the staff, Shadimar worked methodically, structuring chaos
in a straight line toward Trilless, the pattern inherent in his choice
of direction making the chaos more supple and easy to fix.  Carcophan
shaped the spell also, but his inability to differentiate direction
made his efforts less precise and wore him down more quickly.  Then,
just as Shadimar reached Trilless, he felt the staff flicker.

The momentary loss of support shocked panic through him.  It made no
sense that a finite amount of called Chaos could overwhelm the Staff of
Law.  It seemed more to Shadimar as if his cause chose to abandon him
as a weak man would a cause.

Shadimar clung.  "I'm your champion," he reminded.

His hold wavered.  The staff seemed about to respond, then it did
not.

"Hold tight.  It's our destiny to work together.  The Lawbringer and
the Staff of Law."

"It must be, the staff returned, though its response seemed to bear no
relation to Shadimar's words.  Its manner changed, and its presence
strengthened.  'I would not leave you.  I could not."  As Shadimar
grasped Trilless more firmly, it hauled both Wizards back.

Then, as the last piece fell into place, the spell triggered.

The ground quaked and shuddered, then folded.  Trees shifted, trunks
tilting as if to crush them between rows of wooden teeth.  Then, all
went still.

The Renshai lay where they had on the ground, Chezrith's still corpse
sprawled over Rache.  Olvaerr and Dh'arlo'm stood rooted in place,
seeming uncertain whether to revere or curse the events of the last few
moments.  Trilless lay near the Renshai, her eyes closed but her limbs
dragging purposefully to her body.  Carcophan knelt, head Low,
gray-flecked hair hanging in a curtain that hid his expression.

Shadimar managed to keep his feet, but he leaned heavily on his
staff.

Though his head pounded and every part of his body ached, he managed a
grin.  They had escaped offworld, creating a plane that consisted of
the area encompassed by the spell, only as far as he could see.

All that remained was to summon Swiftwing and direct the bird through
the connection between worlds.  The messenger falcon, he believed,
could find Colbey.

With Loki's help, Colbey caught up to Khitajrah and the horses
quickly.

He found her trotting back the way she had come, leading his chestnut
gelding.  Her own mount balked, twisting repeatedly as if to bolt in
the opposite direction, clearly reluctant to face Thor's hammer
again.

The aristiri wheeled over her head, occasionally breaking through the
foliage to become visible against the sky.

Apparently catching sight of him, Khitajrah reined her horse, awaiting
his approach.  When he came near enough to distinguish features, she
smiled with relief and welcome.

"Colbey!"  She dismounted, drawing up his horse to handle necessities
before barraging him with questions.

Colbey appreciated Khitajrah's self-control.  Few could hold back
curiosity about such a grand event for even a moment.

Yet she seemed free of that strange proclivity most had for stating the
obvious or satisfying interest before safety.  Though surely she
wondered, she clearly planned to leave Colbey with time to think before
speaking.  It was a trait that, as far as he could tell, characterized
people who did more than lie around and listen tO tales about others.

Colbey collected the lead rope of his gelding, looping it securely
around the cantle ring.  His gear had shifted slightly askew in the
horse's wild rush.  This time, he had fastened

the staff well enough, and it still lay thrust through the bindings.

It tapped the edges of his consciousness, apparently wanting all the
answers he had not yet given Khitajrah.  Ignoring the intrusion, he
retied each knot snugly, then vaulted into the saddle.  He swung the
horse's head about, and Khitajrah's mount cheerfully followed suit.  He
reined toward Bearn.

"You're not hurt, are you?"  Khitajrah asked the important question
first.

Colbey's arm ached from his attempt to parry Thor's hammer, and his
fingers felt raw.  Otherwise, he had suffered no injury, and those he
had seemed insignificant.  "No, I'm fine."  He wanted to continue, but
he still needed time alone to contemplate the events of the last
hour.

Thor's son.  A child of the thunder.  The revelation explained much
about why magics meant to identify him, from Carcophan's summoning of
demons to the seer's crystal, had failed.  The Renshai's slow aging had
only partially explained Colbey's spry suppleness as he neared eighty,
although it was hard to judge since he had no elder Renshai with whom
to compare the process.  Members of the Warrior tribe rarely lived far
into their thirties.

Still, Colbey saw small importance about the knowledge.

Whether Colbey Calistinsson or Colbey Thorsson he would have changed
little of what he had done since birth.  Those things he would have
changed had nothing to do with his parentage.  He would as quickly have
dedicated his life to his gods and to his swords, to the death in glory
that was the reward of every Northman.  Even if he could trust the
Shape Changer, the news could not make a difference to him.  In every
way, he was still Colbey.

Sunlight speared between the branches.  As a bar fell across Khitajrah,
it lit red highlights in the Eastern-black hair.  The horse's canter
alternately fanned it into a silky curtain and tossed it carelessly
back to the nape of her neck.  Although she lacked the classic curves
that most men found beautiful, her nimble countering of the movements
of horse and saddle intrigued Colbey every bit as much.  To him, proper
motion added a loveliness no primping could match.

The sight stirred memory' of the woman of gold who had awakened him
from death in the Wizards' trials.  She had spoken the words that
convinced him Loki's pronouncement was truth: "You won't be damned
because one truth-seeker

could not handle what he found."  Unconsciously, he fingered the gold
band she had given him, wondering how it fit i n with her obvious
sanctioning of Khitajrah in dream.  In some cultures, a ring symbolized
marriage.  It seemed foolish for the goddess to direct his thoughts to
women and bondings while the world threatened to crash down around
mankind and gods alike.  He reminded himself that she had given him the
ring before he had freed the Staves of Law and Chaos.  Still as the
priests and faithful told all, time and again, the immortal gods worked
in ways mere mortals could not fathom.

Yet, as Colbey rode in silence through the forest, one motivation
seemed clear.  Shortly before his birth, Sif had visited the Renshai
tribe and soon thereafter became their patron.  Surely, she had found
some satisfaction in the subsequent adulation of her husband's
illegitimate child.  Nor did Colbey begrudge her that small victory.

His loyalty to her would never waver; and he believed his deeply rooted
faith had, perhaps, won her favor despite rather than because of Thor's
indiscretion.  He launched into a graceful kata from horseback, his
sword a deadly, silver blur and his practice dedicated, as always, to
his goddess.

At his side, Khitajrah veered away from the path of the dancing sword,
though surely she knew he held enough control not to harm her.  Her
recessed eyes met Colbey's, and she opened the conversation.  "That man
... creature ...

man in the meadow?"

Colbey did not miss a beat of his svergelse.  "A god, yes."

"A god?"

"Yes."

Khitajrah considered that for a moment.  "A Northern god, I presume.

Chaos said the Northern religion comes the closest to the real gods."

"Thor, god of Law and Thunder."  Colbey kept his techniques relatively
simple, sticking with the standard Renshai maneuvers rather than
creating more.  Springing off and returning to the saddle might make
for difficult conversation.

"I believe he came to kill me."

Khitajrah made no reply for some time, clearly struck silent.

Then, in an obvious attempt to share his cavalier attitude, she
returned a matter-of-fact statement, though her delay blunted the
effect.  "I'm glad he changed his mind."

She grinned nervously, with a hint of flirtation.  She seemed as rusty
as he when it came to courting games.

Though simple, her statement held many meanings and questions.  In six
words, she had managed to express concern, interest in Colbey, and
wit.

In addition, she clearly meant to elicit more information about the
conflict, without demanding explanations Colbey felt unwilling to
give.

The depth of her character impressed him, and he felt glad to have the
opportunity to travel alone with her and get to know her better.

"Harval had a hand in his decision, I think."

He froze for an instant in the middle of a maneuver to indicate the
blade, then continued.  He had meticulously scrubbed the blood from the
sword, but she might still notice the droplets on his clothing as well
as the missing companion longsword.

Khitajrah could not contain her surprise.  "You fought with a god?"

"I'd prove a weak and miserable follower if I didn't."

"You fought with a god?"

"It was that or get crushed by him.  A rousing battle seemed more
fun."

Colbey smiled, meaning nothing proud or boastful.  After battling
demons and Wizards, as well as discovering he had been sired by a god,
little seemed shocking anymore.

"The god Of law, you say."  Khitajrah placed more pieces in the
puzzle.

"Why would he attack you?"

"Do I look like some pompous priest to you?  I don't presume to
understand gods."  Colbey launched into a flurry of feigned offense and
lesser amounts of parry, covering a complete circle about himself and
his horse.  "My best guess would be that he's as worried as the Wizards
that I'll loose chaos."

"But you fought chaos, too.  Doesn't that gain you any favor?"

Colbey finished the third cycle before she finished speaking.

Imagining an army in mail, he changed his tactics to cut/jab
combinations and Renshai triple twists.  "I have to assume that, for
all their divinity and wisdom, the gods don't know everything
either."

"Once again, you quote chaos."

"It's a gift," Colbey returned, his sarcasm evident.

Khitajrah placed all into a neat package.  "So championing balance
makes you an enemy of law and of chaos?"

"Obviously."

Khitajrah flushed, apparently embarrassed by being Caught saying
something already clear.  "But I'd have thought neither would bother
with you at all."

"I would have thought the same."  Colbey continued his practice,
separating mental conversation from the reflexive need to hone
technique.  "When you stand on the boundary between warring countries,
you become the target of them both.  It took me time to figure that out
myself.  I think it comes of the fact that law's so used to having no
competition, it believes the world will collapse at the merest touch of
chaos.  Chaos, as you learned, is just as extreme.  It hooks with
promises of genius and progress, then beelines for utter ruin,
subversion, and mayhem."  He managed a shrug amid the flurry of
swordplay.  "Considered that way, balance's champion might prove most
dangerous, using each against the other."

Khitajrah considered for quite some time, and the ride continued in a
silence broken only by songbirds, the rare snap of an animal moving
through brush, and the rattle of wind through the branches.  At length,
she spoke as if no time had passed.  "Law, honor, honesty.  It all fits
this world.

Why change it?  And why balance?"

Colbey took the bait eagerly.  Day passed to evening as he espoused his
theories, Khitajrah listening with a rapt attention that could not have
been feigned.  Her questions helped direct his own goals and reasons,
and he appreciated the challenge and support her intelligent questions
gave him.

They chose to make camp in the depths of unnamed forest.

They slept close, warmed by one another as much as by the fire, and
only gentle dreams of Freya disturbed Colbey's sleep.

CHAPTER 25

Back to Bearn

Colbey awakened before the sun.  The campfire had burned down to
winking red coals; and the branches scattered moonglow to a steady
glaze beneath the canopy.  Stars glimmered through the spaces
between.

The summer air seemed crisp and clean, untainted by human noise or
odors.  Even the fire no longer trickled smoke or the sweet, charcoal
aroma of burning wood.

Not wanting to awaken Khitajrah, Colbey slipped beyond the trees for
his practice, remaining close enough to catch glimpses of the woman
between the trunks.  He attributed his protectiveness to the fact that
he had rescued her once from chaos.  It seemed a s hame to then lose
her to highwaymen or predators.

Colbey did not bother to search for a clearing.  Swordplay among
hampering brush, trunks, and limbs would work him better than
unhindered combat.  His enemies would not always give him the option of
battle in an open field or roadway, but he practiced in those
conditions as well.  Experience told him that the best technique varied
from terrain to terrain and enemy to individual enemy.  Becoming
accustomed to one practice field or opponent, no matter how
restrictive, might narrow rather than hone his repertoire.  ·

Colbey threw himself eagerly into the practice, losing none of the
excitement for it that he had known since infancy.  Just the thought of
practicing alone with his sword brought a thrill that neither time nor
familiarity could dull.

It did surprise him that the pleasure of finding a good companion,
possible romance, and a new focus for his life only compounded the joy
of a battle, simulated or real.  He had seen so many give up their
dreams because becoming skilled took too much away from the routine
pleasures of living.

Many times, he had rejected romance for the opposite reason, because it
might interfere with his effort to always be come more proficient.

Now, he knew both as excuses.

Having skill and family required only two people willing to stand
behind one another's aspirations as well as their own.

It remained to be seen whether he and Khitajrah fit that description,
but she had given him cause to try to love again.

The aristiri perched on a low tree limb, watching the practice with
bright blue eyes that seemed interested and eager.  Colbey moved with
his usual swiftness.  Nevertheless, his sharp gaze did not miss the
humanity, profundity, and vigor that seemed to draw him into the
cavernous depths of the hawk's eyes.  Though he knew it was impossible,
the bird seemed intrigued by every maneuver, as if judging it.

Though he sensed no hostility, the scrutiny made him uncomfortable in a
way that seemed ridiculous.  Although he had practiced in front of
strangers before, it would shatter the laws of Renshai to teach their
maneuvers to others, whether by accident or intention.  It made no
sense to concern himself with the attention of a hawk; yet, for reasons
he could not explain, he wanted to please it.

It seemed as if no time had passed before the aroma of cooking roots
perfumed the clearing.  The gloss of moonlight brightened, then
disappeared, replaced by broken patterns of sunlight through the
branches.  Invigorated by the warmth and brightness, Colbey combined
sword work with play.  He sliced branches, using the same stroke to
twirl them into patterns, then lay them gently as artwork on the forest
floor.  He swung among the branches by his free hand, sweeping from
tree to tree like a squirrel.  He knew a pang of guilt for draining
some of the seriousness from that to which his life had riveted since
birth.  But he also saw the need to spend the energy that accompanied
happiness.  New ideas for combat came from unpredictable places, and
life often hinged on befuddling enemies with bizarre techniques so long
as they did not simply waste strokes or shackle one's own attention.

Reluctantly, Colbey drew his practice to a close.  From experience, he
knew that he could work his arm and sword for days if other matters did
not interfere.  For now, he could not spare such time, even for the
necessary.  Frost Reaver awaited him, and only he could stop whatever
rot the magics had inflicted upon the stallion.  The staff had assured
him that its power would hold Shadimar's spell in stasis, but it seemed
cruel to leave it there in any shape or form.

Though she let him keep his own schedule, Khitajrah had

reason for hurrying as well.  Colbey sensed smothered urgency about
her, mingled with the curiosity and cautious attraction she felt toward
him.  For understandable reasons, she held doubts about him.  From what
he could sense, caution warred with' a belief that was not quite
certainty.  It seemed that they belonged together, yet she would not be
rushed.

After a dinner of fresh roots, bread, and salted meat, Colbey and
Khitajrah continued toward Bearn.  Though he believed he passed the
Fields of Wrath that had become the home of the other Renshai, Colbey
made no attempt to cast about and find it.  He knew the terrain only
well enough to 'get them both fully lost.  Past experience told him he
would most likely find Arduwyn in the kingls city.  He could think of
no one who would prove more vigilant in the woods.

Each day passed much the same as the one before.  Every morning, Colbey
practiced.  They broke camp before midday, riding along woodland roads,
occasionally meeting other travelers heading in either direction.  Most
of these avoided the oddly matched couple of foreigners, and many
glared at the sword Colbey carried.  When the rare caravan passed,
guards inserted themselves between the Renshai and the goods they
carried.  Most of the time, Colbey and Khitajrah found themselves alone
except for the company of horses and aristiri.  They talked of many
subjects, past and present, as heavy as the philosophy of law, chaos,
and balance and as light as the weather.

On the third day following Thor's attack, Colbey and Khitajrah arrived
at the king's city of Bearn.  Colbey's horse kept its head low,
red-brown forelock falling into its eyes, apparently tired from the
long ride.  Khitajrah's bay seemed a study in opposites.  Where its
companion drooped, it pranced, making tiny skipping bucks designed to
display excitement rather than to unseat its rider.  He had not asked
her where she had gotten the beast, yet it gave him answer without need
for words.  Clearly, this horse had stabled in Bearn long enough to
consider it home.

Colbey paid little attention to the cobbled roadways, the exquisite
masonry, and the massive citizens that lumbered through the streets,
though his mind registered every detail from long habit.  Without the
need to consciously think, his mind sifted mundane from potential
threat, and he found the latter lacking.  Nothing he saw suggested
hostility from the Bearnides, either visually or by sensing the
emotions around

him.  Curiosity did radiate from many of them, presumably due to the
sight of a Northman riding at the side of one who, by size and
coloring, could have passed for a Bearnian child.

Smoothly cobbled pathways brought Colbey and Khitajrah swiftly to the
castle gates, the sights bringing back urgent memories.  More than a
year had passed since Colbey had ridden to Bearn to talk Arduwyn into
accompanying them to rescue the Renshai from Valr Kirin and his
Northmen.  Then, known enemies of Sterrane, specifically the force of
his bastard cousin, Rathelon, had kept security tight.  Since
Rathelon's death at the hand of Mitrian's husband, Garn, there seemed
little need for rigid defenses or hostility.

Nevertheless, Colbey expected to find the armed guards who met them at
the gate, A half-dozen men perched on the curtain wall, each with a
sword and a crossbow.  This time, at least, they did not nock or aim.

Two others stood just inside the gate, on the castle grounds, their
halberds crossed to further block the entrance.  Despite the obvious
weaponry, Colbey sensed no specific menace.  The guards' stalwart
presences' seemed more formality than threat.

"Greetings."  Colbey pulled up his horse, recognizing none of the
Bearnides.  Khitajrah also halted the bay, though it pranced a half
circle before stopping.  She, too, scanned the faces.  Her expression
told him she found no one familiar either.

"Greetings," one of the guards on the ground returned.

His response seemed more dutiful reply than welcome.  "Did you come for
an audience with the king?"

Colbey dismounted, believing it impolite to hold a conversation at
different levels.  Passing the gelding's reins to Khitajrah, he
approached the guard, halting at a polite speaking distance.

"Actually, we came to see Arduwyn the Hunter.  Is he at the castle?"

Khitajrah startled visibly, though she gave no explanation.

"I'm not certain, sir."  The guard looked to his companion, who
shrugged.  "If you'd like to visit someone at the castle, I'll need to
know your name and which town, city, or village you represent."  He
pulled out a pad and stylus.

Colbey smiled.  "I represent Bearn."

The man frowned, lowering his stylus and meeting Colbey's gaze directly
for the first time.  "How is that so, sir?"

Colbey made a grandly flourished bow, of the type he

usually despised, and recited the title he had had only one previous
occasion to use.  "Colbey Calistinsson, Knight of the Erythanian and
Bearnian kings: King Orlis and his majesty King Sterrane."  He doubted
he had gotten the protocol exactly right, but it should suffice for
introduction.

The guard's lips wilted into a frown, though Colbey felt uncertain
which of his words displeased the man.  Since the knights had loyally
and honorably served Bearn, in shifts, for centuries, he found it
difficult to believe his title bothered the sentry.  More likely, he
had recognized the elder Renshai's name.  Colbey traced both guards'
gazes to the chestnut gelding he had ridden to the gates, now in
Khitajrah's control; and another possibility for their discomfort
occurred to him.  As a Knight of Erythane, he should have arrived on
one of the famed white chargers, its mane ceremonially braided.  The
simplest tunics the knights wore would have put Colbey's traveling garb
to shame, and he had yet to see an Erythanian Knight not wearing the
colors of both kingdoms.

The sentries exchanged a few words in Bearnese, a language Colbey did
not understand, though it bore some sim ilarity to the Western tongue
which he did.  The guards on the ramparts remained in place.  The
sentry at the gate who had not spoken leaned his halberd against the
wall near the gate, turned, and headed into the courtyard toward the
castle.

The speaker explained.  "Pardon the delay, please.  We just need to
verify that.  Standard routine."

A nervousness wafting from the guard suggested otherwise, though his
stance betrayed none of the discomfort Colbey's mind powers forced him
to sense.  Still, he worked to place the other at ease rather than to
challenge him.  As much as he despised formality, he found it difficult
to condemn caution when it came to the safety of a friend who was also
a king.  As urgent as his mission to rescue Frost Reaver was, he had no
right to expect caution and convention to crumble before his
eagerness.

It only made sense for the guards to question a man claiming to be both
a Knight of Erythane, without the customary trappings, and the Golden
Prince of Demons, especially now that lies and deceit had appeared in
the world.

Khitajrah's gelding trumpeted a shrill whinny, distantly answered from
the stables in the courtyard.  Colbey re claimed his reins, not
wanting to burden her with two horses when hers was misbehaving.

Khitajrah slid to the ground, clipping on the lead and removing the
bridle.  The bay quieted somewhat, dropping its head to graze on wisps
of growth between the road and the curtain wall.

Colbey dressed down his own mount in the same manner, also loosening
the saddle slightly.  By the time he finished, the sentry returned, his
superior in tow.

Colbey recognized the newcomer at once.  Sterrane's captain of the
guards, Baran, sported the usual huge, Bearnian frame, though in his
case there was far more muscle than fat.

A youthful face peered out from between the customary black beard and
the officer's dress issue cap with its blue plume.  Unlike the heavy
cloaks over mail worn by the sentries, Baran sported the lighter fabric
of the inner court.

They did wear matching tabards, Baran's proudly displayed, the guards'
partially lost beneath their cloaks.  This showed a tan bear rearing
against a blue background, Bearn's royal symbol.

The sentry retrieved his halberd and took his position wordlessly.

Both guards fell into attentive stances at either side of the gate,
leaving only the metal bars and distance separating Colbey and Baran.

The captain approached, his aura one of curiosity and caution.  Colbey
sensed no fear and developed an instant respect for the captain.  His
friends had already assured him of Baran's competence, but he had had
no chance to assess the captain's skill during their single brief
previous meeting.  Then, he had received little from the Bearnide but
suspicion.

Colbey spoke first.  "Greetings, Captain Baran."

"Greetings, Sir Colbey."  Baran studied Colbey through the bars,
clearly having more difficulty identifying the old Renshai than Colbey
had had recognizing him.

"I didn't realize Bearn's 'routine' included summoning the king's
highest officer to examine visitors."

"Usually it doesn't."  Baran spoke the truth, despite the in-suit it
might imply.  "Only when the visitor claims to be someone other than
his appearance would suggest."  He continued to look Colbey over, brow
furrowed in thought.  Obviously, he did not feel comfortable confirming
or denying Colbey's claim by looks alone.  Then his gaze shifted to
Khitajrah, and the creases deepened.  "Found him, did you?"

Khitajrah nodded, looking distinctly uncomfortable herself.

Khitajrah's uneasiness seemed logical to Colbey.  Surely, when she had
inquired about him, as Baran's question suggested she had, she had
intended to kill him.  He doubted she had mentioned her true purpose to
anyone in Bearn.

Baran did not await a verbal reply but returned to examining Colbey
almost immediately.

Tiring of the scrutiny, Colbey widened his eyes in question.

"Well?  Do I pass inspection?"

Baran scratched at his beard, the casual gesture hiding a host of
strong emotions.  Colbey sensed uncertainty, a need to temper security
with respect for an honored guest.  Obviously, he did not feel at all
sure of Colbey's identity.  Yet, if Colbey had spoken truth, the delay
could quickly become offensive.

"You've changed," the captain said at length, opening the way for
Colbey to volunteer the information that troubled him.

More interested in haste than dignity, Colbey rescued Baran from his
dilemma.  "My hair's lost its white, and I broke a sword en route."  He
ran a hand through the short, gold locks, then indicated the drooping
sheath at his left hip.

"There are ways to change the color of a man's hair, Captain.

Believe me, had I meant to impersonate myself, I would have made it
white ...."

Baran seemed a bit more comfortable, though his silence indicated he
had not been totally convinced.

Colbey honed in on incidents that would prove his identity.

The need made him smile, and it took self-control not to laugh.  In the
past, his name had inspired everything from terror to mass attack.

Remaining unnamed had usually proved the wisest course.  Surely, no one
would claim his identity along with the scorn, enmity, and fear that it
inspired.

Yet, as King Sterrane's friend, he would be given access to the monarch
and his kingdom He understood the demand for caution.  "My first and
last time here, my friends and I had a private banquet with the king,
Mar Lon, you, and Arduwyn.  We requested the hunter's help; and, when
he agreed, his wife stormed out, enraged.  Nevertheless, Arduwyn
assisted us in freeing hostages from Northmen.

One of ours, Garn, stayed to assist you in moving a prisoner for trial
from Erythane to Bearn.  The prisoner never made it here."

Colbey paused, assessing Baran's expression.  Though he knew the
details of the incident, he saw no need to question the captain's
methods in front of his charges.  The prisoner had been Rathelon,
Sterrane's cousin, who had terrorized the kingdom for longer than a
decade, intending to assassinate the king and take his place on the
throne.  Familiar with Sterrane's methods of punishment, merciful to
the edge of naivete Baran guessed Sterrane would imprison Rathelon, at
worst.  As the previous captain of the guard, Rathelon knew the
dungeons well enough to escape them and Baran feared the king's cousin
would restart his spree of murder.  In truth, Baran had requested
Garn's assistance knowing that the hot-tempered ex-gladiator would
challenge Rathelon to a battle before they made it back to Bearn.  As a
representative of the kingdom, Baran was forbidden from such a
challenge, but the law did not cover Garn.  Baran's plan had worked
without a hitch.  Garn had joyfully seized the opportunity to battle
and kill an old enemy, and Colbey doubted Garn ever really understood
the politics involved.

Colbey added carefully, "And Sterrane's reign will be long and
beautiful."  It was a joke only Baran and Sterrane shared.  As
children, they had misunderstood the much bandied phrase: "May your
reign be long and fruitful."  Baran and Garn had turned it into a
private quip guaranteed to set one another into fits of laughter.

Colbey worried about revealing such a deeply personal secret.  He had
obtained the information only accidentally, a stray thought unmasked
while trying to rescue Garn's mind from poison at the time of his
death.

"I have one more question," Baran said softly.  "In ad vance, I
apologize for the need to ask it."  He avoided Colbey's sharp,
blue-gray gaze.  "What are your intentions at the castle of Bearn?"

Baran's discomfort clued Colbey that the captain wanted something other
than the specifics of his mission.  He was essentially asking if Colbey
intended harm to the king or members of his court.  Though offended by
the query, he swallowed his pride to answer.  "We came to talk to
Arduwyn and, of course, in peace.  I mean no harm to my friend the
king, or to any of his people.  If it would make you feel better, you
can bring Arduwyn here to me."  The sequence brought back home the
impending Ragnarok.  A day would come, soon it seemed, when every man
at every cas tle gate was met with the same grueling suspicion.

Though it saddened Colbey, it still seemed far preferable to the
world's destruction, reinforcing his commitment to seeing the Ragnarok
stopped, if possible, or, at least, the rescue of mankind when the gods
fell upon one another in war.  Betrayal and deception were only the
worst of chaos' presents to the world of law; it brought new ideas and
freedom as well.

Colbey sensed increasing agitation from Khitajrah that seemed related
to each mention of the red-haired hunter by name.  Although he had told
her he needed to find a woodsman living in Bearn, he had not specified
whom until they waited before the castle gates.  He would have to
question her later about how she knew Arduwyn.  It seemed hard to
imagine the little hunter making anyone uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Colbey; but no.  If His Majesty knew you were here and we
didn't send you directly to him, he'd have my head."  Baran loosed a
single laugh that sounded strained almost to the point of hysteria.

"Well, not my head, of course.  That's not his way.  But I can't stand
to see him disappointed.

Besides, he's the only one Arduwyn ever tells about his comings and
goings."  Baran took a step back and gestured to the guards.  "Let them
in."

The sentries pulled open the gates, then took posts on either side, the
butts of their halberds planted on the ground and the shafts
vertical.

Colbey waited until they seemed settled in their new positions, not
wanting to abandon propriety for eagerness.

Calm deliberateness would place Baran more at ease.  Then, having left
the appropriate pause, Colbey led his gelding through the gate.

Khitajrah followed him.

While one sentry closed the panels, the other approached Colbey.  "Sir,
the horses can stay here.  Your gear will be safe.  You'll have to
leave your weapons."

"No," Baran contradicted immediately.  "You can keep your weapons with
you."  The look he gave the sentry promised a later explanation, but
Colbey believed he understood.

He could disarm an enemy and use the blade as swiftly and competently
as his own.  If any man in the courtroom carried a sword, as
undoubtedly the guards did, any need for hostility would find that
weapon in Colbey's hands.  It made far more sense to garner the
Renshai's trust than to chance such a thing.

"Colbey, Kayt, come with me."

Leaving the horses, the' aristiri, and the gear, Colbey and Khitajrah
followed Baran through the courtyard, across the moat bridge, and into
the interior of Bearn's castle.  He brought only the staff, clasped in
one hand.  It looked conspicuously out of place, a walking stick onto
which he placed none of his weight.

Little had changed since Colbey last traversed these corridors.

The blue and tan brocade swinging from the animal-shaped torch brackets
had gathered no dust.  Once, Mitrian had told him, precious gems had
swung in gaudy, wealth-flaunting strings.  But Sterrane had channeled
the castle's unnecessary decoration back into gold for its citizenry.

Still, no one could mistake the high king for a pauper.  Murals swept
over every inch of the walls.  The artists had skillfully worked
interrupting doors into the scenery, either by meticulously changing
the perspective until they became invisible or by working the teak
panels and archways into the picture.

Baran and his followers passed a few guardsmen in the corridors, and
the captain exchanged soft and brief conversation with each.  As they
neared the courtroom, Colbey watched Khitajrah study a war scene in
fascination.  It depicted Renshai storming a Western city, the
barricades weakening and the blond reavers engaged in sword battles,
one Renshai against many.  The scene brought back memories of Colbey's
youth during the Renshai's hundred year exile from the North.  Then,
they had wandered from the Eastlands through the West learning
skills--from monks, barbarians, and the world's finest sword
masters--that formed the basis for the Renshai maneuvers.  Sword
training and war.  His life had consisted of nothing else, nor had he
missed those other aspects of existence that so many took for
granted.

Sword training and war.  He had needed nothing more since birth.

Now, in his seventies, it seemed strange to consider commitment to
something new.  And yet, he had.

Baran motioned Colbey and Khitajrah around a silk-clad merchant with a
six man entourage.  Coffers and chests filled the hallways, and the
mixed aroma of spices perfumed the corridor.  Clearly, the merchant had
brought gifts or barter for his meeting with the king, or perhaps he
chose to pay his tax in goods.  He frowned as Colbey and Khitajrah
threaded around his entourage, but he said nothing about the unfairness
of their audience out of sequence.

Baran flicked a hand to indicate that Colbey and Khitajrah

should wait against the wall, across from the courtroom's double doors
and the pair of sentries before it.  Then he slipped over to talk with
the guards.

Shortly, the Bearnides pushed open the panels.  Two guards exited,
escorting an aging Bearnide between them.

The grin on the man's face indicated that things had gone well with his
request or trial, which did not surprise Colbey.

He knew Sterrane's gentle manner well, and his mercy had become
legendary.

"Come with me."  Baran headed into the courtroom immediately after the
guards and their charge had left.  Colbey indicated that Khitajrah
should go first, then followed her through the portals.  The doors
swung shut behind them.

The oddity of Bearn's guard captain serving as escort must have struck
guards and courtiers immediately because the room settled into a hush
as the three traversed the long gold carpet that ran between rows of
benches.  Only a few members of the nobility sat, scattered along the
seats.

Colbey suspected Sterrane's policies had become predictable routine to
them.  Yet, as simple as the king's judgments and dealings seemed,
Colbey knew Sterrane was capable of clever thought when the situation
demanded it.  His methods and morality were as guileless as they
appeared most of the time.  Few would believe or understand the
stability that Sterrane, as the West's high king, truly represented.

Only Colbey's scant Wizard's training and power to read emotion as well
as words told him that Sterrane served as the fulcrum of neutrality, a
balancing axis for the world of man.

Khitajrah's apprehension had become a constant, but it increased
sharply as they entered the courtroom.  She' caught his hand suddenly,
her grip warm and damp.  "I didn't know we'd come before the king.

There's something I should have told you ..."  She trailed off, her
whisper nearly audible to everyone in the otherwise silent room.

Colbey frowned, shaking his head to indicate the problem would have to
wait.  Already, he could sense the bowstring tautness of the guards
stationed behind and on every side of the throne.  Passing private
messages now would only arouse false suspicions and risk
misunderstanding.

Baran trotted ahead to announce the pair.  "Majesty, forgive the
interruption.  I thought you'd want to see Sir Colbey Calistinsson and
the Eastern woman, Kayt."

Another step, and Colbey came close enough to recognize features.

Sterrane appeared as always: robust and happy, his beard well-tended
and his features friendly.  Attentive at his right hand, Mar Lon went
rigid.  Apparently taking their cues as much from the king's personal
bodyguard as their captain, the guards shifted uneasily, hands slipping
hiltward.

Sterrane's smile seemed to encompass his entire face as Colbey moved
closer.  His dark eyes revealed unabashed joy as well as excitement.

"You find each other!  That wonderful.

Really wonderful."  He started to rise, but Mar Lon's hand on his
forearm kept him in place.

Colbey supposed it was an essential precaution, not necessarily aimed
against him, Sterrane's habit of expressing his joy with hugs and
concern with touch might pose a danger to the childlike monarch in many
situations.  Colbey doubted the guards cared much for their king's
tendency to place himself in perils nearly impossible to avert.

"Thank you, Sire," Colbey replied, no other response seeming
appropriate or necessary.  He wondered what Khitajrah might have said
that made their coming together seem significant to King Sterrane.

The king studied the pair closely, puppy eyes flitting from one to the
other repeatedly.  "Not see.  not see match."  He straggled for the
last word, and the one he chose made little sense to Colbey.  "Who
mother?  Look like mother?"

The words seemed nonsensical to Colbey.  Sterrane's broken speech made
understanding impossible.  "Excuse me, Sire?"

Khitajrah fielded the question.  Still grasping Colbey's hand, she
squeezed to indicate that he should play along with her.  "Majesty.  y,
it was my mistake, and I-apologize for involving you In it.  It turns
out COlbey's not my father after all."

Though shocked, Colbey suppressed the urge to glance at Khitajrah.

Instead, he gave her hand a warning gouge meant to indicate a lengthy
discussion to occur later.

"Oh."  Sterrane's mouth clamped closed, his lower lip suddenly
appearing huge.  He seemed vastly disappointed as well as surprised.

"Oh," he repeated.

Colbey changed the subject to the matter about which he had come to
Bearn.  He had no intention of having truly important issues become
lost beneath a chaos-inspired lie.

"Sire, it's good to see things well here.  I came to speak with
Arduwyn.  Is he here?"

Sterrane turned his leonine head back to Colbey.  "Was

here.  Left, for Woods days ago."

Now it was Colbey's turn to frown.  Arduwyn had grown up in the forests
near Bearn and his home city of Erythane.

If he wanted privacy, no man could find him there.  "Maybe you can help
me, then.  I sent my horse to Arduwyn.  That's what I came for."

All sorrow disappeared from Sterrane's demeanor, replaced by eager
thoughtfulness.  "White horse?  Knight horse?"

"Frost Reaver, yes."  A spark of hope flashed through Colbey.  "You saw
him?"

The king nodded vigorously.  "Brought here with Ardy.

Traded for his home."  He turned a brief glance to Khitajrah, who
looked away.  "We send message to Erythane.  See who lose horse."

"Reaver's here?"

Sterrane shook his head.  "When Ardy leave, horse throw fit.  Kick down
stall.  Follow."

"I'm sorry," Colbey said, only partially so.  It bothered him that,
under other circumstances, he would have found Frost Reaver here.

However, it did please him to find the strength of the horse's loyalty
to his command.  That seemed to bode well for reclaiming an animal that
had become as much companion as mount.  "Could you spare a guide?  With
one, it'll prove hard enough finding Arduwyn.  Without one, it'd be
impossible?

"Me find one," Sterrane promised.  "You two stay dinner?

Sleep night?"

Though tempted to push on as soon as possible, Colbey considered.  He
knew Sterrane missed adventuring and his old companions from before he
had become king.  He sensed a desperate loneliness about the monarch
that needed satisfying, a loss of the weighty responsibilities that
came with rulership, if only for a moment.  Though Colbey had never
shared the closeness of a real friend the way Garn, Mitrian, and
Arduwyn had, it would do the Bearnian well to have some visitors; and
he and Khitajrah could use fresh food and rest.  "Sire, your
hospitality is appreciated."

Sterrane fairly beamed.

The feast brought back distant memories of Colbey's last visit to
Bearn, including the need to tend to business that

had assailed him both times.  Now, Sterrane entertained far fewer
guests.  He chose a seat at one side of the table, directly across from
Khitajrah and Colbey, with Baran and Mar Lon at either hand.  The
chairs at either end were vacant.

Colbey let Sterrane make most of the conversation, answering questions
as briefly as politeness would allow.  Mar Lon said nothing, silently
assessing every word Colbey spoke as if to analyze the effects of chaos
on the Western Wizard.  Baran seemed far the more human of the two.

Though attentive to his king, he added his piece to the conversation at
intervals, responding appropriately to jokes and comments, no matter
their source.

Apparently sensing or understanding Colbey's interest, Sterrane dwelt
longest on the goings on among the Renshai.

Colbey discovered that they believed him dead, which did not surprise
him.  He had last seen them at a time when his age hung heavily on
him.

The death in glory he always sought had become a moment to moment
obsession.  He had left them for the forests, cradling the body of
Episte, the last of the last.  Loki's pronouncement finally seemed to
gain meaning with the image.  Always, Colbey had believed himself the
last of the full-blooded Renshai.  But it was Episte's father, Rache
Kallmirsson, who now claimed that sad honor.

The means of Episte's death seemed even more appropriate now, his
suffering ended by the final symbol of the Renshai: the last ndenal,
the priest-blessed mercy dagger of sif.

Colbey also discovered that Rache Garnsson had married Arduwyn's
daughter, Sylva.  The Renshai tribe would live on, its bloodline even
farther removed from its Northern origins.

Neither of the youngsters had a significant amount of Renshai blood,
though Colbey felt certain both had Renshai ancestors.  Of all the
Western cities, only Bearn and its sister city of Erythane had thought
to befriend the marauding Renshai during their time of exile.  The
Erythanian women had taken to the Renshai's few redheads, and Ardu'yn
surely descended from at least one such union.  Rache's grandfather had
been as blond as any Northman, probably due to an ancestor's coupling
with Renshai.  Though a member of any of the other seventeen Nor3ern
tribes could also account for such a feature, the Northmen's xenophobia
made this unlikely.

Colbey found his mind wandering to such matters long after Sterrane
switched the discussion to his own wives and

children.  A fresh variety of food left Colbey in a comfortable state
that bordered on torpid.  As pleased as he felt with the continuous
improvement in the West since the War, here things always seemed
right.

Through the millennia, the line of Eastern Wizards had worked to find
the perfect balancing forces for the West 's high kingdom.  They had
convinced

Odin to make the bards loyal bodyguards to the kings in addition to
their other duties.  One by one, they had set the stage for Sterrane's
rulership.  Yet now that the massive, childlike Bearnide had finally
hit his stride, now that the shattered Renshai had nearly become a
tribe again, now that common men and women had lear ned to use the
first trickles of chaos to enhance themselves, the world perched on the
brink of Ragnarok.

It all seemed grievously wrongful, a violation of a deep, eternal
fairness.  Colbey understood Loki's explanation in a way no other
could.  To a point, he had sanctioned the same beliefs.  He had loosed
chaos because of the need to avert the stagnation that had come with
law too long unopposed.  Loki had even convinced him that some of the
gods must die, that the rise of chaos made them unnecessary at best and
an anachronism at worst.  Still, Colbey felt certain that, with
Sterrane and his descendants as its central point, mankind could
flourish with a shifting balance of law and chaos.  Already, he had
seen the changes they had made to adjust to its coming: dedication and
inventiveness as well as suspicion, caution, and doubt.

Yet the matter seemed moot.  The lord of all fire giants, Surtr, was
destined to destroy Frey and the elves he represented, then to set
man's world aflame.  Colbey found some solace in the knowledge that
mankind was destined to repopulate, from a single man and woman hidden
in the trunk of the World Tree.  The elves and any other faerie folk
who might exist would be utterly destroyed.

A knock on the chamber door jarred Colbey from thoughts that had made
him oblivious to the conversations still in progress around him.  The
door edged open cautiously, and a guard's head poked through the
crack.

"Sire?"

Sterrane responded in the Bearnian tongue, his obvious fluency an eerie
contrast to the choppy incompetence of the language he had used
throughout the feast.

The guard continued to use the common trading language, apparently in
order to gauge the reactions of Sterrane's

guests to his words.  "Sire, a hawk flew into the castle, and we can't
seem to catch it.  Sire, it looks--" An echoing call from farther down
the outer hallway cut him off.  The guard pulled the panel shut.

Something thunked against the wood, followed by a dry rustle of
feathers and an angered squawk.

Colbey tried to clear up the mystery.  "I'm sorry, Sterrane.

It's probably mine.  There's an aristiri hawk that travels with me."

Mar Lon spoke his first words of the dinner.  "An aristiri?  Are you
certain?"

Colbey shrugged, taking no insult.  He hardly considered himself a
competent bird identifier.  "It's a rather large hawk, though it weighs
less than a sword and sings like a richi bird."

A timid knock again sounded from the opposite side of the door.

"Let bird in."  Sterrane's voice thundered, inappropriately loud for an
enclosed space; but the volume was necessary for the guards to hear him
through the door.

The door swung open.  A red falcon careened around the corner, making a
right angle turn in midair then diving into the room.  It was not
Formynder, yet Colbey recognized it.

Swiftwing.  The first stirrings of dread rose within him, and he
touched the staff leaning against his chair to ascertain its continued
presence.

The falcon circled the table, alighting on Colbey's arm.

Though smaller than the aristiri, it sank its talons through cloth,
toenails scratching but of embedding in the flesh beneath.

His gaze went naturally to the parchment bound to one scaly leg.

Mar Lon smiled, though his eyes revealed no mirth.  "I hate to
contradict the great Knight-mage, but that's not an aristiri."

"I know."  Colbey ignored the bard, believing his answer enough to
imply this was not the bird to which he had referred either.  He
stripped the message from its leg, unrolling it with a caution that
bordered on delay.  He remembered the years he had spent in
Santagithi's court and how the great general/strategist had met every
situation, good and bad, with the same stalwart courage and not a
second of hesitation.

Still, every fiber-of his being told him that the Cardinal Wizards had
done something massive and ugly this time.

They had left him alone too long for anything else to be the case.

The message read: "We have the Renshai.  Don't bother to look; you
can't find them.  Leave the staff by the Renshai cottages and no harm
will come to them or you.  Any other action will ensure their
deaths."

The signature was an illegible single rune, but Colbey did not need it
to know who had sent the note.  "No reply, thank you," he told the
falcon, uncertain whether it understood words or intentions.  He turned
his attention to the guards still in the doorway.  "Free the hawk,
please."

As if on cue, the bird flapped from Colbey's forearm, headed for the
opening.  The guards stepped aside to let it leave the room, then
closed the door behind them.

"What say?"  Sterrane asked, sounding concerned.

Colbey shook his head, his first thought to keep the problem to
himself, at least for now.  Oddly, despite a myriad of worries,
responsibilities, and uncertainties, the wisdom that came to him had
been spoken by an enemy turned friend in a Pudarian tavern: "If you
don't learn to share what you are, Colbey Calistinsson, you'll know
only loneliness and those who care most for you will suffer."  There's
more at stake here than the preservation of a Northern tribe.  I can't
handle three Wizards and their apprentices alone.  Colbey wrestled with
the thought.  If I bring an army, we may or may not stop the Wizards,
but the Renshai will surely die.  He considered Mitrian, the
dedication, proficiency, and strength of character that had made her
Rache Kallmirsson's logical choice to continue the line.  His own years
of training her had confirreed the rightness of that decision.  Tannin,
Tarah, and Modrey carried the Renshai blood and the natural dexterity
trained into the line.  Racbe had inherited everything good from his
mother and grandfather, and the strength his ex-gladiator father had
given him would add new dimensions to a tribe that had always relied
solely on quickness and skill.

Ideas continued to tumble through Colbey's mind in an instant.

Experience told him the Cardinal Wizards would prove oblivious to any
but magical weapons; he had no means of knowing that the shattering of
the Pica Stone had made the Wizards vulnerable.  He also understood
that the

apprentices, by virtue of surviving the Tasks of Wizardry, might also
have gained that protection.  That seemed less certain, however.  The
Tasks had been supposed to grant him the same security; yet they had
not.  Whether that came as an effect of the world appearance of the
Staff of Chaos or as a result of his success with the Eighth Task, he
did not know.

Much, he could learn only by doing battle with the Cardinal Wizards;
but that, in and of itself, might prove a death sentence for the
Renshai.

Colbey closed his hand around the staff.  The time had come for some
guidance from a finer, older strategist than himself.  For all his
decades of war, Renshal had dedicated themselves to individual skill in
combat.  He knew little of tactics.

"Ah.  For all the times you've dismissed my contributions, now you come
to me for advice?"

"Don't sound so surprised.  It was the deal we made from the start,
remember?  You advise, and I choose what to do with your opinion."

"Knowledge," the staff corrected.

"Knowledge, then."  Colbey had no intention of arguing semantics.

Besides, he had to concede that the staff's reliance on established
fact rather than intuition might prove as much its strength as its
major weakness.  "What do you suggest?"

"First, I don't know exactly the effect bringing me and my opposite
into the world might have caused.  I can't predict whether the Tasks
still provide invulnerability.  That decision lies in Odin's hands."

Though he knew Sterrane' and the others around the feasting table
patiently awaited an answer, Colbey continued listening raptly.

"You're my champion.  You can't turn me over to the others, nor even go
through the motions of such an action.

Somehow, you'll have to get the Renshai back."

"Basic stuff."  Colbey grew impatient.  "The question is, should I
enlist aid?"

"You can't fight all of the other Wizards alone."

The challenge immediately raised Colbey's battle instincts.

The staff interrupted.  "Spare me your warrior pride.  The Cardinal
Wizards have suppressed all but their most basic magics for years.  As
the world gains chaos, that is no longer

the case.  I still believe no single Wizard has one spell that could
kill you.  However, with two or three of their minds linked, I think
they could muster the power.  Certainly, no mortal could stand before
such an association.  To your advantage, the Cardinal Wizards have
little direct experience with major magics, and they know that they
risk the Ragnarok the more power they call forth in one place.  Given
the situation, though, that may not deter them much."

The staff hesitated a moment, as if to regain the proper train of its
thoughts.  "In answer to your question, yes.  Without some companions,
you're doomed to failure.  If you bring too many, the Wizards will
either flee with the Renshai or murder them.  But consider those
companions carefully.  No doubt, some or all of them will die.  If the
Wizards remain invulnerable, your companions can help only to a
degree."

" Who do you suggest?"

A strange sensation flitted through Colbey's mind and staff hand at
once.  "I'm afraid, my champion, that your instincts there will
undoubtedly prove better than my knowledge."

Colbey glanced around the table at his dinner mates.  Although it
seemed to him as if a long time had passed, the moments of mental
conversation and thought had not lasted long enough for anyone to
prompt him to speak again.  He came to an immediate decision.  Without
a word, he passed the parchment to Sterrane.

The king perused the message for some time.  Apparently, he had learned
the Cardinal Wizards' personal runes during his time with Shadimar, for
he recognized the signature at once.  "Carcophan?"

"Along with Trilless and Shadimar.  They're working together now."

Sterrane looked hurt.  "Can give staff?"

"No, Sterrane, I can't.  The cost would be incalculable.". Baran and
Khitajrah looked confused.  Only Mar Lon followed the course of the
conversation between king and Renshai.  "May I see it, too?"

"Sure.  Show it to anyone here, with the understanding that its
contents don't leave this room."  Colbey grinned briefly, able to raise
a modicum of satisfaction despite the gravity of the situation.  "Might
give you a different look at the Cardinal Wizards."

Mar Lon read, his expression unchanging until the blank

look seemed locked on his face and he no longer moved except to
breathe.

Baran had to gently pry the parchment from beneath the bard's
fingers.

Then the message made its rounds, ending back in Colbey's hands.

Khitajrah gave his knee a meaningful squeeze beneath the table that he
guessed she would explain later.

Despite his usual gentle innocence, Sterrane addressed the matter with
uncharacteristic seriousness.  "Shadimar like father to me," he
admitted, referring to the Eastern Wizard having raised him from age
eight to young adulthood.  "But not stand for kidnap from anyone."  His
soft eyes met Colbey's.  "Me help any way can.  Just tell how."

"Thank you," Colbey said.  "Your support means everything and may make
all the difference between success and many blameless deaths."  He did
not add the Ragnarok, not wanting to have to explain unnecessary
details that would have no bearing on the actions of Sterrane's men.

"I want to go," Mar Lon said.  As if awakening from a trance, he slowly
raised his attention to Colbey.  "I want to go with you."

Colbey frowned, his feelings on the matter mixed.  Although Mar Lon
seemed to have fallen prey to the same conclusions about Colbey as the
other Wizards, the Renshai knew a major difference existed here.

Despite his misconceptions, Mar Lon was obligated to support complete
neutrality.

He did so with a thoughtfulness that could and had sent him to
unfitting methods.  Still, though he lacked Sterrane's natural,
instinctive bent for balance, he did tend to find the proper path once
his mind sorted the facts.  And it was the bard's right to attend all
functions of the Cardinal Wizards impartially.  Colbey nudged the bard
toward the proper formality, lost in need and befuddlement.  "That's
not my decision, Mar Lon."  He inclined his head to indicate
Sterrane.

Mar Lon flushed, obviously mortified.  The loss of protocol snapped his
daze as nothing else could have.  He glanced quickly to the king.

"That is, Sire, if you're willing to spare me."

Sterrane replied so slowly that every eye switched to him before the
words emerged.  "Not need spare.  Me go."

The announcement seemed senseless.

ken common in order to understand it.  "You go?  Go?  You, Sire?"

Then, the realization struck Mar Lon, and his long-held pall
evaporated.  "Oh, no.  No, Sire.  It's far too dangerOUS.

"My decision," Sterrane said, his voice holding more authority than
Colbey could imagine from the childlike monarch.

"Me go."

Mar Lon's fist crashed onto the tabletop, sending his wine glass
tumbling.  "No!  I won't let you put yourself in peril.

Wine splashed a purple arc across white linen, and Colbey caught the
glass as it toppled over the edge of the table.

Sterrane glared at his bodyguard.  "Me king.  Me decide.

Me go."

Colbey replaced the glass with a casual movement.  "Actually, Sterrane,
it's my decision.  Mar Lon's right.  It's too dangerous."

Sterrane rose, towering over the others at the table, his gigantic
frame suddenly very obvious.  "Me KING, damn it.  If me say go, me
go!"

Colbey had never heard Sterrane swear before.  The shocking strangeness
of the expletive magnified its significance a thousandfold.  "Don't you
understand?  I don't want you there."

Sterrane leaned toward Colbey until the edges of his beard prickled the
Renshai's cheek.  "You insult my fight skill?"

"Certainly not."  Colbey withdrew.  It seemed insane to confront any
man this adamant, and he had never seen Sterrane unrelenting about
anything.  "I just don't know how to tell you how important your life
is to every man on our world.  It would take too long, and I'm not sure
even I completely understand it.  You can't be placed at risk without
better cause."

"Wizards crazy.  Mitrian, Rache, Sylva in trouble.  No cause better."

Sterrane stepped back, but he did not sit.  "We leave tomorrow.  You,
me, Mar Lon.  Who else.

"Me, Majesty, of course."  Baran broke in before Khitajrah could
speak.

Sterrane whipped his head to the speaker, his expression still outraged
though it was no longer necessary or appropriate.

"Not you.  You stay.  Regent to Xanranis."

"What?  Me?"  In his horror, Baran dropped the amenities Colbey had
already forsaken from friendship.  "Xanranis is only ten years old.  I
don't know anything about running a

kingdom."  Finally, he regained enough control to continue with the
customary respect.  "Please, Sire.  You stay.  I'll go as your
representative."

"You."  Sterrane jabbed a finger at Baran.  "You stay regent.

You ..."  He indicated Mar Lon.  "You come with me, if want.  Me."  He
stabbed the same finger at his own chest.

"Me go.  Next one gainsay me, thrown in dungeon."

"That's--" Colbey started.

King Sterrane interrupted immediately.  "That include you, Renshai."

Khatajrah glanced from face to face, clearly bewildered by much of the
exchange.  Baran and Mar Lon tensed, ready for action if it became
necessary.

Colbey raised his brows, widening his frosty eyes.  There was no need
for warning or challenge.  Sterrane knew an attempt to arrest the
Golden Prince of Demons would result in the wasted lives of most of his
guard force.  Nevertheless, he doubted Sterrane would threaten idly.

"I don't understand your insistence, but I respect it.  Come then, if
you must, but I hope you change your mind.  There's only two others I
want along.  Khitajrah, of course."  He patted her thigh beneath the
table.  "And Arduwyn.  To bring more would only increase the danger.

And it's possible once we get there that I'll find it better to deal
with the Wizards myself."

Baran's frown made it clear he doubted the possibility' though he did
not challenge it aloud.  Clearly, he had his own concerns to grapple.

A smile covered Sterrane's face nearly from ear to ear, and he, once
again, became the docile giant Colbey had come to know.  "Leave
tomorrow.  We find Arduwyn.  Everything get fixed.  You see."

Though he lacked the king's childlike faith in happy endings, Colbey
could not help but smile back.

CHAPTER 26

From Nowhere to Nowhere

Moonlight trickled between the slats of a decorative shade on the guest
room window, throwing white stripes of light across an imported
carpet.

Colbey perched on a pallet set the perfect height for use as a seat as
well as a sleeping place.

Silk sheets enwrapped the straw ticking, the thicker cloth beneath it
protecting him from stabbing pieces of hay.  An ornate teak dresser
stood in a far corner of the room, one of its four drawers holding all
of Colbey's gear, with room to spare.  A matching desk filled the
opposite corner, a pitcher and a basin of warm water on its top.

Colbey had just stripped off his clothes, washed, and settled the staff
and sword within reach, when a timid knock sounded on the door.

Colbey donned the light linen sleeping gown the Bearnides had left for
him on the pallet.  He had always felt it rude and cruelly intrusive to
enter otherS' minds unless they had proved themselves enemies or needed
his aid.  He relied on the strongest of emotions, those so intense they
radiated from people without any need for him to search.  This visitor
must have considered something long and hard; even through the.

door, Colbey could perceive a sense of purpose, the kind that comes
after a well-pondered decision.  He also discovered affection.

Nothing about the other seemed deceitful or dangerous.

"Come in."

The door slid open, and Khitajrah stepped through the crack.  She
closed the panel behind her.  She also wore a Bearnian sleeping gown,
of a feminine cut and trimmed with ermine.

Her small frame was lost in the folds, the garments fashioned for women
twice her size.  Despite the bulkiness, Colbey could not miss the
slender arch of hips and thighs.

Crossing the room, she took a seat beside him on the bed.

"What can I do for you?"  Colbey asked, banishing the facetiously lewd
replies that came to his own mind.  He had

sacrificed sexual pleasure for so long, he dismissed it easily.

Sterrane had granted Khitajrah a similar guest room of her own, so she
surely had a purpose for coming to his now.

"What's going on?"

Colbey squinted, uncertain of the question.  Again, he sensed no
hostility or accusation, but the specifics of her query defied him.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what is it the king and his bodyguard are joining us to do?

Besides finding Arduwyn."

Mention of the red-haired hunter's name reminded Colbey to ask about
Khitajrah's earlier discomfort.  For now, though, it seemed polite to
address her concerns first.  "You read the note."

Now Khitajrah's state of mind revealed that he had hit the root of the
problem.  He sensed a thread of frustration, and the feelings of desire
had strengthened as the nearness of their position translated to a
tangible warmth.  "Most East-land women can't read at all.  My husband
taught me our native language, but I never had reason to learn the
Western tongues."

Of course.  Colbey felt like a fool for not recognizing the problem at
once.  Her poking him beneath the table while she glanced at the
parchment should have cued him well enough, but concern about the
Renshai had usurped lesser matters.

"The other Wizards captured the Renshai and are holding them
hostage."

"Ah," Khitajrah said, the smallness of reaction hiding a deeper
understanding.

"And we have to rescue them."

"Ah," Khitajrah repeated.

Now Colbey found her less easily read.  "You don't have to help if you
feel the risk is too great.  Or for any reason."

Khitajrah tilted her head and looked up at Colbey.  A band of moonlight
lit her brown eyes into a sparkle that could have made an aging beggar
look beautiful.  "I have reason to despise some of your people."

"Not really."

"Two of them killed my husband.  I loved him with all my heart, you
know."

Colbey pinned her gaze with his own.  "One of the two is 'already dead,
but that's not really the issue."  He placed a comforting arm around
her.  "Khitajrah, you're not a warrior, but you should have known your
husband well enough to

understand.  Warriors fight for causes.  They don't hold personal
grudges against enemies who serve the opposite side.

On the battlefield, it's only important to die at the hand of a more
competent warrior.  To do otherwise becomes a man's own shame."  He
moved from general to specific.  "Your husband would have respected
Mitrian, not wanted you to avenge him."

Khitajrah considered for some time.  "I know you're right, but I have
to work things through on my own."

Colbey granted her that need.  "I have two questions for you, as long
as you're here."

Khitajrah nodded to indicate she would grant him the same courtesy.

"First, I understand your dislike for Mitrian, but what's between you
and Arduwyn?"

Khitajrah winced.  "How did you know?"

"I read people."  Colbey did not go into detail, letting Khitajrah draw
the natural conclusion that he did so by watching attitude and
movement.  "You get nervous every time someone mentions his name."

"I didn't know it was that obvious."  Khitajrah shifted, balancing part
of her weight in the hollow between Colbey's body and the arm he had
used to comfort her.  The touch thrilled them both.  "I took something
from him when chaos was with me.  He got it back, but I wouldn't blame
him for holding a grudge.  Mar Lon knows all about it."

"It's Mar Lon's curse to thrust his ears and opinions into everyone's
business."

"What's the other question?"

Colbey smiled, this one far more personal.  "Do you remember when we
first met?  In the tavern in Pudar?"

Khitajrah winced.  "When I tried to get close enough to kill you?  Hard
to forget."

Colbey made a gesture with his free hand to dismiss those particular
details.  "You said something that stayed with me, something I've twice
since used to help make important decisions.

You said:" He tried to recapture the phrase exactly.

"'If you don't learn to share what you are, you'll know only
loneliness; and those who care most for you will suffer."

What did you mean by that?"

Khitajrah flushed.  "I'm not usually that eloquent.  Mostly I was mad
... and frustrated.  I saw the way you handled those Pudarian
guardsmen.  If you did half the things legends

credit you with in the war, you were those men's hero.  Yet

you found your own solitude more important than their flattery or their
need to glorify their champion.  That's a sure sign of someone who
spends way too much time alone.  I guessed that you dedicated yourself
to personal causes so deeply, you tended to ignore everyone around
you.

But a man with your abilities gains follow ers, whether he likes it or
not.  Your aloofness has to hurt those people."

Khitajrah's cheeks reddened further.  "And when's the last time you let
someone get close enough to do this?"  Without further warning, she
wrapped both arms around his shoulders and kissed him, lips and tongue
exploring timidly.

Despite his long abstinence, Colbey found himself as excited as a
youth.  But, before he could respond, she pulled away, glancing
hurriedly around the room.

Cued by her sudden alarm, Colbey jerked out of her grip.

"What's wrong?"

"The last time I did that, your hawk tried to rip my scalp off."

"The aristiri chose to stay outside.  You know that too, you little
squirrel."  Colbey drew her into an embrace of his own, forcing a kiss
that made her catch her breath.  A jerk on her gown sprawled her to the
pallet, and the fabric fell open to reveal just enough to stir an
unstoppable need.  He entered her, living her pleasure along with his
own.  Yet, through it all, he knew a strange wrongness, as if he was a
stripling attacking his first girlfriend in her parent's home long
before he had the wherewithal to pay for the consequences.  It did not
distract him enough that he could not finish.

Tannin Randilsson awakened to the prickle of grass beneath him, the
cold touch of wind, and the contrasting wash of warmth from a campfire
near his head.  Disoriented, he lay still, searching his memory for
explanation.  None came.

He last recalled settling into his bed for the night after two grueling
sword practices, one given by Mitrian and the other inflicted by
himself.  Since the day she had caught him in bed with the farm girl
from Erythanc, she'd treated him with an icy, withering hostility that
pained him to his core.  He had never slept with another woman since,
had not had more than a vague, undirected urge to do so.  And no matter
how long or hard he practiced, his sword maneuvers never again pleased
his relentless torke.

Concerned by the oddity of surroundings his mind still could not
place, Tannin cautiously opened his eyes to slits.

Firelight revealed several figures in a clearing he recognized as the
Fields of Wrath, his home since birth.  Mitrian lay beside him, and he
caught a glimpse of others sprawled out in a line beyond her.  The fire
flickered and roared near the head of the central figure, a man he
guessed to be Rache.

Past the campfire, the flames creating a partial wall between them,
several others slept.  These, Tannin did not know at a glance, and he
would have to twist his head to see more, revealing his awakening.

Instead, he turned his attention to the periphery of vision.

Toward the feet of the sleeping Renshai, a single man crouched at
guard.  Blond hair revealed his Northern heritage, and mail links
imprinted a covering, well-tailored cloak.  A sword girded his hip, the
first weapon Tannin had noticed, though his prone position and squinted
eyes did not allow him to see to the extent of his vision.  The man
seemed vaguely familiar, but Tannin dared not risk the movement or full
opening of his lids required to identify the other.  More so, something
seemed terribly out of place about the scene, though it took several
moments of directed staring to find the anomaly.  If he lay in the
familiar place he knew, he should have been able to catch a glimpse of
Mitrian's cottage.

Instead, the field seemed to end at a line of forest.

Tannin shivered; unnerved by the many oddities.  Usually, he slept
light as a cat.  It made no sense that someone had moved him from his
bed without awakening him.  Clearly, they had not awakened the other
Renshai either, or he would certainly have heard the sounds of battle,
The missing cottage only added to the mystery, and the natural feeling
of dread its absence raised.  It seemed plain that he and the others
had become prisoners.  The means for escape appeared obvious.

Slowly, Tannin reached over and touched Mitrian's arm, trying to make
the motion seem random, related to his sleep.

The Renshai had perfected many forms of communication designed for
wariness.  He prodded her with a message: lay still until signaled.

And he added, pass that to the others.

A tensing of Mitrian's arm cued him that she had awakened, either
before him or in response to his touch.  Tannin waited while she
informed Rache, and the message continued down the line of "sleeping"
Renshai.  He knew it could

get only as far as whoever had not yet awakened or the baby,

if it lay among them; yet he' hoped that would prove far enough.  No
matter his course of action, it would only gain a temporary reprieve.

Weaponless, the Renshai became comparatively crippled, more
knowledgeable than most warriors about martial skills yet never so able
as with a sword in hand.

Tannin groped around him, hoping darkness and the flickering shadows
cast by the flames would hide the movement.

His searching fingers found cool sprigs of grass, tree-shed leaves, and
occasional small stones; nothing that could serve as a weapon.  Then
his hand brushed a slender limb.  He explored it in silent blackness,
unwilling to turn his head to cue the guard to the direction of his
gaze.  It seemed long enough to serve his purposes, devoid of jutting
twigs that might rustle as he drew it toward him.  Once he began his
movement, it would have to lead quickly to committed action.

His plan, small as it was, required that the guard use instinct, rather
than vision, to identify the weapon in Tannin's hand.

Tannin clamped his fingers around the limb.  Once started, he could not
turn back.  His own life seemed a necessary sacrifice, but the others
might still live if he handled the matter well enough.  Still, though
he knew he would have the chance to die in combat, he could not help
hesitating before paying such a heavy toll.  The glorious end should
have been all that mattered, yet he could not help thinking of the
things he had left undone.  Although he had slept with a woman, he had
never known one's love.  He had never fathered a child.

And he had never earned his torke's respect.  That last, somehow,
seemed the worst tragedy of all.

Tannin shoved aside considerations of his losses to free his mind for
warfare.  He would need all of his concentration to see to it that some
of the Renshai did not die and that none died needlessly or in other
ways than combat.  Ignorance of his enemies made it only slightly more
difficult in his mind.  The guard, at least, wielded a sword.  What the
others carried mattered little.  Though trained only with swords
themselves and disdainful of all but natural defenses, the Renshai were
trained to cut past or through armor, shields, and parry of every
type.

One, two, three ... Tannin sprang to his feet and charged 'the
swordsman in silence.  He used his body to shield the

stick from the guard's view, then slashed with a bold commitment.

Dancing flickers of flame and the sureness of Tannin's strike must have
convinced the Northman he had somehow acquired a sword.  The other met
his "attack" with a swift draw-block.  The limb shattered against
steel.  The guard shouted a warning, and Tannin continued his motion.

Seizing the guard's wrist, he applied rolling pressure against the
tendons.  As the sword fell from the Northman's hand, Tannin snatched
it in midair.  Tvinfri.  The name of the

Renshai maneuver came naturally to mind as he performed it, with sloppy
success.  Even as he caught the hilt, he whipped the blade about in a
directed cut that bit into the guard's shoulder, slashed a shallow line
across his cloak, and jangled against mail.

On the backswing, Tannin slammed the hilt into the man's face.  The
Northman staggered, nearly falling.

Only then, Tannin recognized his opponent: Olvaerr, son of Valr
Kirin.

The youngster had grown into a man in the two years since Tannin had
seen him, but there was no mistaking the angry blue eyes and features
so like his father's.

Tannin realized other things, too.  Mitrian, Rache, and Mod-rey had
risen, the latter clutching the irritable toddler just awakening from
sleep.  Tarah had climbed to her knees, still groggy.  The four enemies
beyond the fire also sprang to their feet, and Tannin saw Shadimar and
his wolf among three strangers.

"Run!"  Tannin shouted to his companions.  The last he knew, Shadimar
had been a friend of the Renshai.  But nothing about their current
situation suggested he meant them any goodwill.  Without weapons, the
Renshai seemed destined to die at the hands of an enraged Wizard,
deaths without battle or honor, without chance for Valhalla.  "Run!" 
he screamed again.  "Just run!"

Tannin's own battle reclaimed his attention.  Recovered, Olvaerr ducked
beneath the guard Tannin had opened to glance at his companions.  The
Northman made a wild sweep for Tannin's shin with his foot, and a knife
blade flashed red in the firelight.

Tannin back-stepped, saving his balance and thrusting simultaneously.

The Renshai maneuvers focused on attack, the best defense a dead
opponent.  Again, the blade rattled on mail, the complicated Renshai
triple twist an instant too late.

Olvaerr's knife cut a fiery track across Tannin's sword forearm.

For an instant, Tannin lost his timing.  The wound made his muscles
spasm, and he lost his grip on the sword.  A blade touching ground was
dishonored.  Trained to snatch swords from air in spar, he switched
hands with a grace that bordered on instinct.  He countercut
left-handed, the abrupt change catching Olvaerr fully off-balance.  The
blade slid beneath mail, tearing a hole in the Northman's thigh that
bled in a sudden geyser.

Olvaerr collapsed, soundless, into a spreading puddle of blood.  Only
then did Tannin's attention broaden to include more than his own
battle.  A curse rattled harshly in his ears.

His first glance revealed no sign of the Renshai, but all four of the
enemy remained in position near the fire.  The wolf had disappeared.

Even as Tannin's quick glance registered those details, something
unseen struck him with a blow so hard it hurled him forward.  Unable to
defend, he twisted as he fell, head striking the ground with enough
force to make it ring.  He landed on Olvaerr's corpse, blood smearing
his face and hands.  He gasped for breath, trying to roll free of the
dead man and face the unseen enemy as well.  Then his muscles locked
into painful contraction, and he screamed without intention, back
arched to its limit, arms and legs rigid and un-responsive.

Tannin choked down another scream, not wanting the Renshai to come back
for him and place themselves at risk.

His mind told him that the unnatural attack had to come of magic, and
he had no idea how to fight against it.  As his muscles remained at the
height of contraction, the agony swiftly rose in a frenzied
crescendo.

Pain shattered composure, and all rational 'thought fled with it.  Soon
there was only the pain, and the screams ripped forth repeatedly in a
mindless agony that left no place for understanding, even of
identity.

Then, abruptly, Tannin's muscles went lax.  The suddenness of the
change lanced a pain through him that made the previous one seem
meager.  Then, slowly, sense started seeping b ack to him, though all
he could do was remain unmoving, unanticipated tears coursing down
cheeks sticky with Olvaerr's blood.  Ropes bit into his wrists and
ankles, the voices around him hazy and only partially comprehensible,
their speech liberally sprinkled with curses.  The oblivion that
overtook him felt like mercy, Shadimar growled a string of curses that
seemed endless.

He kicked Tannin's unconscious body until Carcophan wrested it away,
using the ropes to dangle the Renshai upside down from the limb of a
tree on the Fields of Wrath.

Even then, Shadimar did not feel vindicated; and the staff's anger
pulsed through his mind, feeding his already rabid outrage.  He
snatched up the sword he had pried from Tannin's failing grip, slick
from tip to hilt with Olvaerr's blood.

"Die, you god-cursed, savage bastard!"  Brandishing the sword, he swung
with all his strength for the Renshai's throat.

A hand's breadth from his target, Shadimar met abrupt resistance.

The sword slammed into a magical barrier, the foiled blow vibrating
through Shadimar's fist.  He shouted in fury, whirling around with a
suddenness that sent Dh'arlo'me skittering from the path of the blow.

Ancient, gray eyes locked on Trilless.  "You stopped me, you witch.

Why did you stop me?"

Trilless met him, stare for stare.  "Because you're letting anger drive
you too far.  Because the chaos Colbey loosed has addled even you.

Pain and torture are tools of evil.  If that's not reason enough,
remember that we have to have them alive and unharmed for Colbey to
bargain."

Shadimar glowered, but he did lower the sword.  "A bargain with chaos
is no bargain at all.  He'll lie like the force he champions, and we
should be no more bound by a promise broken."

Trilless and Carcophan exchanged meaningful glances that Shadimar could
not read.  "The weakest of the Wizards," Carcophan reminded.  "The
second to fail to chaos."

The words only further fueled the Eastern Wizard's rage.

Trilless glared at her opposite, her own anger eclipsed by obvious
concern.  "Resist, Shadimar.  Look to the Staff of Law, and let it give
you its strength.  No matter Colbey's bent, we must follow the tenets
of law."

The gentleness of her words dispersed some of the crazed anger that
made deep consideration impossible.  He sensed a morality to her
points, yet the staff he consulted reassured him that chaos could only
be defeated by a lesser dose of it self.  At times, besting an enemy
meant using its own tactics against it.  The unexpected had won many
battles.

Carcophan sneered.  "When I tried to avenge the death of my apprentice,
you accused me of sleeping with her."  His catlike eyes glittered.

"Now I see why you couldn't understand the natural relationship between
a beautiful woman and a man."  He directed his gaze to Olvaerrs
corpse.

The accation was ludicrous.  In his day, Shadimar had loved women as
much as most men did; responsibilities had swept thoughts of sexuality
and relationships from his mind decades past.  He and Olvaerr had
shared nothing but a student/teacher association, yet the loss still
addled and enraged him.  it had taken long consideration and effort to
find one capable of replacing him as Eastern' Wizard who also
vehemently hated Colbey.  Now, the two Northmen would never stand
opposed.  Shadimar whirled on Carcophan.  "We could have recaptured all
the Renshai if you'd worked with me.  Why did you let them run?"

Carcophan smiled.  "I saw no reason to do otherwise.

Where will they run to?  Our displacement spell only took a small piece
of man's world with us, and there's no way to return without some
knowledge of magic."

The realization that Carcophan spoke truth further annoyed Shadimar.

Had he focused his attention on rescuing Olvaerr sooner, rather than on
the fleeing Renshai, he might have saved his apprentice.  The lapse
turned rage into irritation, and he cursed his costly mistake.  Perhaps
Trilless had a point about the chaos Colbey had loosed miring
Shadimar's sense of judgment.  He would need his wits about him, and it
only made sense to ground his reason on the staff.

Carcophan picked up Olvaerr's sword, wiped it clean on Tannin's cloak,
then handed it to Dh'arlo'me.  "I presume you know how to use it."

Without awaiting a response, he gestured at Olvaerr's sword belt,
blood-splattered and still around the corpse.

The elf glanced at Shadimar, as if to ascertain that the Eastern Wizard
would not find taking the sheath and belt a personal insult to his
apprentice.  When Shadimar said nothing, he set to work freeing the
necessary gear.  While the elf worked, Carcophan patted the sword at
his own hip that had once belonged to Chezrith.  Though he knew how to
use it, his magic would serve him so much better it seemed need less
to carry it.  Still, it was safer in Carcophan's hands than placed
where any Renshai might steal it.

Carcophan addressed Shadimar again.  "I presume you have some contact
with the wolf."  · Shadimar nodded absently, touching the animal the
only way possible, through emotion.  He discovered that Secodon still
tailed his quarry, though his superior speed could have caught them had
Shadimar not given explicit instructions to remain safely behind the
Renshai.  Soon enough, the escapees would circumnavigate the world the
Cardinal Wizards had created and find themselves back where they had
started.

Yet for all their movement, it seemed as if this should already have
happened.  Shadimar went wary, and he felt his concern echoed in
Secodon's manner.

"Where is he?"  Carcophan prodded.

"Can't tell location," Shadimar shot back.  "But they don't seem to
have stopped fleeing since the escape."

The Cardinal Wizards turned, as one.  Running for this long, the
Renshai should have come full circle.  Yet, apparently, they had not.

Suddenly, a wave of shock and pain buffeted Shadimar, driving him to
his knees.  An instant later, an animal yelp of pain split the air.

Secodon!  Shadimar rose, forcing away agony that was not his own,
unable to locate cause or circumstance any more than he could directly
pinpoint the wolf itself.  A different pain plagued him then, the
realization that he might lose a long-time companion whom he loved.

The wolf had been a part of his life for nearly two decades, its
devotion and loyalty a constant that never needed questioning.

A mournful howl cleaved the air, full of ancient pain and followed by a
series of whimpers.

"He's hurt," Shadimar explained unnecessarily.  "We have to help
him."

Despite the significance of saving a companion, Shadimar did not lose
sight of the situation.  Even swordless, the Renshai were dangerous.

It made little sense to rush to the aid of a friend, only to fall into
an enemy ambush.

And the danger had become more awesome and obvious since the shattering
of the Pica Stone had destroyed their natural imperviousness to
anything other than magic.

The last though, at least, had a solution that came partially from the
staff and partially from the memories of the previous Eastern
Wizards.

"We need to find and help Secodon,"

Shadimar said carefully.  "We need to recapture the Renshai.

But first we need to protect ourselves."

Carcophan plotted strategy.  "Trilless, I suggest you and your
apprentice stay here and guard this one."  He indicated Tannin.  The
Renshai stirred in his bonds, the movement making his body sway.  "The
others will probably come back for him.  Shadimar and I will tend the
wolf."

A pitiful series of whines pierced the air, making it seem to drop in
temperature.  Each sound cut Shadimar, but he forced himself to tend
self before companion.  "I think I can come up with a spell that
protects us the way surviving the Tasks of Wizardry once did."

Carcophan and Trilless gave their companion their full attention.

Shadimar followed the guidance of the staff as he spoke.

"It's temporary, of course, but it ought to last through the day, at
least.  We can cast it again tomorrow."

"Let's do it," Carcophan said.  "Show us how, and we'll cast our own.

No need for you to take all the risk."

Carcophan left much unsaid beneath an offer that seemed otherwise
appropriate and generous.  It made sense that he would want to
understand the casting details so he could protect himself without
needing to depend on Shadimar.  It also seemed logical to share the
exposure to chaos.  Already, the lords of good and evil seemed certain
that Shadimar had suffered too much of it.

For an instant, Shadimar was seized by a selfish desire to keep the
staff's knowledge to himself.  Once the Staff of Chaos had been wrested
from Colbey and destroyed, the three forces of law would again operate
in opposition: good, evil, and neutrality.  Spells unshared would serve
him alone.

Still, he also realized that this particular ward would give him little
advantage.  If he found the need to battle the other Wizards, it seemed
unlikely to be with nonmagical weapons.

Argument would only delay the care Secodon desperately needed.

Already, he could no longer hear the wolf's cries, though he still felt
its agony as his own.  "Very well.  Join me."  He blanked his mind,
except for the direction of the staff.

A moment later, Shadimar felt the other cardinal Wizards fuse into his
thoughts.  Not wanting them to drift to his personal affairs, even
peripherally and accidentally, he started right in on the spell.

As was often the case, the magic had at least one unexpected side
effect.  Tannin moaned, the chaos of the summoned magic awakening him
in an instant.  Light snapped into focus, outlining first Shadimar,
then Carcophan and

Trilless as they imitated the signals and sounds of the spell.

Gradually, the white glow muted to gray silhouette, then disappeared
from sight.  Still, Shadimar could feel a faint tingle of presence, as
if tiny insects crawled beneath his skin.  He hated this effect, but it
seemed worth the protection.

"Ready?"

"Ready," Carcophan replied, scratching absently at his arm.  Trilless
nodded to indicate she would remain behind.

They had not traced Dh'arlo'me with a similar spell.  The release of
chaos on a tiny world seemed too dangerous when other confining and
defensive spells might become necessary.

Trilless would have to shield her apprentice as the others had not
managed to do for their own.

So far, things had not gone at all as Shadimar intended.  A nearly
endless life without need to fear anything he did not call down upon
himself had made him reckless.  From this moment on, caution would have
to usurp overconfidence.

Shadimar felt certain there would be no more mistakes.

"Let's go."

Though Shadimar could not determine precise location, the wolf's pain
drew him like a beacon.  They walked into the forests north of the
Fields of Wrath without fear, Shadimar using his staff as a walking
stick.  Neither the Renshai nor any force of nature could harm them
now.  Still, they tried to move in relative silence.

The walk took longer than Shadimar anticipated.  The woodlands should
only have lasted a few steps before rejoining the opposite side of the
clearing they had left, yet they continued far past the Wizards'
expectations.  Shortly, Shadimar became alarmed.  "You don't think our
spell failed and we're still on man's world, do you?"

Carcophan shook his head briskly, face scored by a frown.

"I felt the magic pop, and we spent all that time sealing off the
gate.

Besides, I could tell from the camp that we'd left the Renshai's
cottages behind."  His yellow-green eyes slitted, making them look even
more feline than usual.  "You still haven't got the feel for that
staff.  You're making your spells too powerful That's why we called a
kraell, too, instead of the lesser demon we tried to summon on the

Meeting Isle.  It's a good thing it's law you carry, so it can balance
out at least some of your overaction."

Shadimar hated accusations.  Yet his first instinct, to defend himself,
passed quickly.  It did make sense that the staff amplified his
incantations.  So far, he had expended the standard amount of magical
energy for spells.  It might serve him better to tone down his work.

"You may be right.  I'll keep it in mind."

As usual, Carcophan took the matter one step too far.  "I know the idea
bothers you, friend; but it might prove Safer to let' someone stronger
wield the staff."

All camaraderie vanished in an instant.  "I should have known that's
all you wanted from the start.  I can't seem to make you understand.

The difference between your abilities and mine, no matter how
significant you feel it to be, pales to nothing once you view the chasm
between the staff and either of us."  Shadimar's fingers tightened
around the polished wood.  "I've told you before, I'm its intended
champion.

The staff would not have you."

Carcophan raised his hands to indicate that he had no intention of
pressing the matter further, at least for now.

They continued along the woodland roadway, the most logical route for
Renshai more interested in placing distance between themselves and
their captors than in creating any kind of diversion.  The wolf's pain
strengthened as they drew closer.  Shortly, Shadimar caught a glimpse
of a shaggy figure lying still near the roadway.  A human leaned over
the creature, doing something Shadimar could not distinguish at a
distance.  The wolf's pain had disappeared with its loss of
consciousness, yet Shadimar's contact told him Secodon still lived.

For the moment that surprised him.  The presence of another suggested
at least one Renshai had remained behind to finish it off.  Even
without a steel weapon, any of the tribe knew enough about killing to
have already completed the job.

Confident of his magical protection, Shadimar headed toward Secodon at
a dignified trot.

The other looked up at his approach, now recognizably Mitrian.  A
broken arrow shaft jutted from Secodon's neck, caked with blood and
partially freed from its rest.  As the Eastern Wizard approached,
Mitrian raised a sharpened stick as thick as her wrist.  "Stay back, or
I'll use it."

Although he feared nothing from her himself, Shadimar

stopped to spare his four-legged companion.  Rage flared.

"You won't last long against my magic.  You're already going to pay for
harming Secodon.  If you compound that mistake by killing him, you'll
pay that much more dearly."

"Harm Secodon?  Me?"  Although incredulous, Mitrian did not sacrifice
her position, and her eyes sought and found Carcophan.  The Southern
Wizard remained in place, scanning the woodlands for other Renshai.

"I'd no more hurt him than you would.  I heard his cry and came to
help."

Mitrian's assertion seemed impossible.  "Then who injured him?"

"Whoever shot this."  Mitrian tossed the broken shaft of an arrow,
crudely fletched with unmatched feathers.

Shadimar watched the piece arch from Mitri'an's hand to the dirt
pathway, skidding beneath a pile of shed needles.  He frowned.  It made
no sense for Renshai to turn to arrows as a means of defense.  Although
Mitrian could shoot, Renshai honor forbade her from doing so except
when hunting food, and she had not left the presence of the Wizards
long enough to have crafted such a weapon.  But no one except the
Renshai could have injured Secodon.  The Cardinal Wizards had only
moved a small portion of man's world here, a portion that should have
contained only the Renshai, Wizards, and apprentices.  Realization
struck.  But we brought more of man's world than intended.

Carcophan answered the logical question by casting a spell of his
own.

"There are eleven living human presences on the world."  He released
his spell.  "Six Renshai, four of us.  That leaves one stranger."

Mitrian relaxed visibly at the pronouncement of six living Renshai.

Apparently, she had worried about Tannin.  Almost immediately, her
expression changed from one of relief to anger.  "Shadimar, what's
going on?  I thought we were friends.  Why would you take us with
magic?  Why does the trail end when it used to continue?  And why does
the forest look the same and different at once?"

Shadimar glanced at Carcophan for assistance, then followed his own
judgment instead.  Mitrian had a clear head and was intelligent enough
to understand the need for maintaining law whatever the cost.  "I'm
sorry for the surprise welcome.  We didn't think you'd come without a
fight."

That seeming self-evident, Mitrian waited for Shadimar to continue.

"I'm not sure how to make you understand, but I'll do my best.

Colbey's fallen under the influence of powerful chaos magic--" Mitrian
interrupted, face alight with obvious joy.  "He's alive?"

Carcophan cleared his throat.  "Whoever is trying to slip around behind
me had best freeze before I kill him with magic."

Shadimar left the tending of the other Renshai to' Carcophan.  No
weapons could harm them, and he trusted Trilless to guard Tannin
well.

"Unfortunately for us and the world, yes.  He's alive, and committed to
causing the Ragnarok."

Mitrian squinted, obviously doubtful.

Shadimar sighed, with no intention of explaining his motives in
detail.

"Remember, Cardinal Wizards can't lie.

Colbey wound Up with a singular powerful object, the pure
representation of chaos.  And it's eating away at his judgment and his
mind.  If we don't get it away from him soon, he'll destroy himself and
the world with him."

Mitrian lowered the stake, stroking the still wolf gently.

"You're certain?"

"Never more of anything in my rather lengthy existence."

"And you figured you could trade us for the magical ...

thing?"

"Staff, yes."  Shadimar planted his own staff to identify the offending
object.  "I'm sorry I had to use you and the others for bait, but it's
the only thing to which Colbey's rapidly warping mind still holds an
attachment.  Soon, even that loyalty will fail, and chaos will make him
selfish beyond salvation: ours or the gods."

Mitrian pursed her lips in obvious consideration.

Shadimar drove his point home.  "I know you have ties to Colbey
stronger than those to me.  But even though we forced you here, I
promise we have the best interests of you, the world, and even Colbey
in mind.  If we fail, the price will be the world itself and every man
in it, us, and nearly all of the gods as well.  Do you understand?"

"I understand," Mitrian said, at length.  "If we cooperate, do you
guarantee the safety of every Renshai?"

"To the best of my ability."

Mitrian glanced at Carcophan.

"With one qualification," the Evil One said.  "I promise

Colbey's security only after he gives up the staff and only

for as long as he keeps the peace as well."

"All right," Mitrian agreed.  She made a brisk gesture toward the
woods, and Rache slipped up behind her, swiftly followed by Tarah and
Modrey, clutching his child.  Mitrian stepped aside to let Shadimar
tend the wolf.

As the Renshai moved beyond reach of crude weapons, Shadimar examined
the damage.  The wolf would take some tending, but not here where the
stranger could fire upon him or any of the Renshai.  He cradled the
limp animal into his arms, cheered by its warmth and the breath
stirring from its muzzle.

They headed back toward the camp.

CHAPTER 27

Hunting the Hunter

Colbey, Khitajrah, Sterrane, and Mar Lon left the castle before
sunup.

Bearn's king chose the shortest course through his city and a time that
would minimize the number of citizens who saw him go.  Apparently, his
simplicity made him leery of fanfare, though he surely could not keep
his departure secret for long.  At the least, the nobility would notice
his absence at the court, and the courtroom sentries would find
themselves guarding the young heir and his warden rather than their
monarch.  Still, Colbey felt a comfortable mixture of relief and
pleasure at Sterrane's decision.  Citizens in ignorance would not try
to question or follow.  The fewer people who knew of his mission, the
more chance at success it had.

As it stood, Colbey had no idea how to locate the Cardinal Wizards'
hiding place for the Renshai and no clue who to ask for help.  The only
logical possibilities included tracking 'signs of passage from the
Fields of Wrath or luring the Wizards to him with the hope of securing
his staff.  Either course meant going to the Renshai's cottages once
Arduwyn had been found.

Sterrane had supplied the finest of his horses, exchanging the bay and
the chestnut for well-rested steeds of equal or better quality.  He
rode a massive buckskin that clearly served as the royal mount, its
golden coat so dark it blended as well into the brush as Colbey's
chestnut mare, Khitajrah's dark brown gelding, and Mar Lon's bay.

The aristiri joined them at the stables.  It ranged ahead, flying in
wide circles over the forest, returning at intervals to alight on
Colbey's shoulder or the horn of his saddle.

Somehow, its course seemed always to take it between Colbey and
Khitajrah, though it did not peck or poke at her as it had once
previously.  Colbey took little notice of the singing hawk's choice of
route, though Khitajrah became

more annoyed as the sun's tip appeared over the line of

trees, slanting light across the woodland pathway.

"if I didn't know better, I'd say that bird was jealous of me,"
Khitajrah grumbled.

Colbey wisely held his tongue.  Khitajrah's reaction revealed a
jealousy of her own, and it made far less sense for a woman to feel
rivalry with a bird.  Still, Formynder seemed like no normal
aristiri.

Its every look and action appeared uncharacteristic for a hawk, and
much about it felt more human than animal.

Mar Lon chose the route he believed most likely to reveal Arduwyn.  The
escape from the castle set the stage for hushed secrecy, though it
seemed counterproductive as well as unnecessary.  Colbey believed
Arduwyn would find them if he realized he was being sought by
friends.

Yet, though the shifting of deer and other animals might warn the
little hunter of humans nearby, it would not reveal their identity or
purpose.

They camped as the sun dropped below the tops of the trees, bathing the
forest in gray.  Colbey practiced sword forms while Mar Lon prepared a
meal from the generous pack of supplies and Khitajrah confined the
horses with ropes strung between the trunks.  She left them a space of
ground tangled with underbrush, the weeds and sheltering vines without
brambles, palatable to the animals.  Then, Mar Lon fetched water for
humans and horses alike from a nearby stream his bard-inherited
curiosity forcing him to catch as many glimpses as possible of a
Renshai in training.

Though aware of Mar Lon's occasional presence, Colbey paid him no
heed.

The bard could learn little or nothing from the capering of a Renshai
sword master honing himself in silence.  Without knowledge of Colbey's
choices or the training to follow them, the bard could not even imitate
the strokes.

At length, Colbey reluctantly pronounced himself finished for the
evening.  He returned to camp, settling in to eat with the others,
tossing an occasional meat scrap to the aristiri.

Khitajrah waited only until everyone had finished eating and spread
blankets for the night before broaching a matter that had, apparently,
plagued her for some time.  "Mar Lon, would you call us together in a
cause?"

Mar Lon glanced at Colbey before answering.  Clearly, he trusted the
old Renshai's judgment about such matters before

his own.  On the surface, Colbey did not see how anyone could believe
otherwise.  Clearly, they all came for the same purpose, but he sensed
something more significant underlying the question.  From Khitajrah, he
perceived an innocent desire for information only Mar Lon could give
her.  From Mar Lon, he got dwindling distrust and a faint concern that
Khitajrah might be feigning her loyalty and might pose a threat to any
or all of them.  The specifics did not accompany the radiating
emotions.

Still, Colbey believed he understood enough.  He felt certain Khitajrah
could not have faked the depth of joy and excitement she had shared
with him the previous night, though he had detected an accompanying
uncertainty.  Then, he had attributed it to the many things that made
them an unlikely couple.  vastly different cultural and religious
backgrounds, a thirty-five year gap in age, and the knowledge that
Colbey and Khitajrah's family served on opposite sides of a war.

Now Colbey felt less sure of the cause of Khitajrah's vague discomfort
that night, but he did know for certain that it had nothing to do with
treason.

Colbey responded to Mar Lon's unasked question to the best of his
ability.  "I've trusted her at my sleeping back.

And I'd do so again."

The information did not seem to fully appease Mar Lon.

Sterrane watched the exchange without judgment, though he did seem
disturbed by the rudeness of his bodyguard.

Khitajrah addressed the Problem directly.  "Chaos was ousted," she said
cryptically.  "And it won't return."

Colbey nodded agreement, though it surprised him that Mar Lon had known
about Khitajrah's loathsome visitor.

Nothing he had seen or heard indicated the bard read minds.

In fact, Shadimar had taught him otherwise, that only the Cardinal
Wizards could share mental communications of any kind.  Apparently, he
had caught her in a lie and his vast knowledge allowed him to make the
obvious 'assumption.

Sterrane tipped his head, clearly confused by the exchange, though he
did not interrupt it.  Apparently, whatever Khitajrah had told Mar Lon
had not gotten passed to the king.

Again, Mar Lon turned a casual glance to Colbey.  It seemed strange for
the bard to trust him just one day after he had studied the aging
Renshai as if he expected some sudden, horrible mutation into demon
form.

"First, she's quite correct.  We banished chaos, and I think

she's strong enough to keep it at bay from this time on."

Colbey sighed, launching into the same explanation he had tried to
impart so many times without success.  "Second, I don't know how to get
you, or anyone else, to understand.

Yes, I brought chaos to man's world.  Someone had to do it eventually,
and I was as much chosen as given the decision.

I did what I believed right.  I loosed the forces together, in
struggle, rather than barring either from our World.  I would rather
have bonded them in balance, but I wasn't given that choice.  Though I
once dared to doubt the wisdom of the gods, I believe th ey knew best
this time.  A constant, perfect balance might prove as overly
simplistic.  and predictable as law alone, limiting in its own
sense."

He glanced quickly at Sterrane.  Though listening raptly, the king
either did not recognize his own description or denied the
comparison.

"I still believe in ultimate balance, but I think slight shifts might
prove necessary for the world to continue."

Mar Lon freed his mandolin from his gear, though he did not play.  With
a Cardinal Wizard there, he could speak openly, without the musical
constraints placed on him when he taught mortals.  "It took thought and
consideration, but your 'balance' argument made sense to me long ago.

You may not know, but I refused Shadimar's offer to become his
apprentice for that reason.  Because of my position ..."  Mar Lon did
not define what he meant, but he did glance at Sterrane to confirm his
dedication to the king's cause of utter neutrality.  "... I can't
support the extremes that are every Cardinal Wizard's cause.  Every
Wizard, Colbey.  For all your talk, you have no choice but to champion
your force, like the others."

Colbey smiled slightly, careful to keep condescension or mockery from
his expression.  There were still things Mar Lon had not surmised and
Colbey did not feel ready to reveal.  "There is always a choice, Mar
Lon.  Remember that."

Mar Lon seemed skeptical.  "Are you telling me you don't believe Odin
always intended each of the Cardinal Wizards to champion one of the
four forces: good or evil, law or chaos?"

Colbey's grin remained, fixed in place.  "I belive that was Odin's
intention, yes."

Khitajrah and Sterrane watched intently, obviously seeing

an importance to the discussion that they could only partially
understand.

Though Colbey's title freed Mar Lon from the need to make his points in
song, he apparently realized he had some duty to educate the mortals as
well.  He sang at the volume of his speaking voice, without musical
accompaniment, the tune an obvious variation on an old Northern
ballad:

"Image this scene, all who would understand: A mother horse with a hoof
caught in a band, A capering foal, at her side it does wait.

Comes a dog craving blood, though no hunger to sate.

"The dog wants the foal for the joy of the kill.

The mare protects though struggle does her leg ill.

Let's call the horse good, for her great sacrifice; And call the dog
evil for his bloodthirsty vice.

"To represent law: a man, product of culture; And above it all hovers a
chaos-warped vulture.

The man would tame dog, take it home for a pet; Horse and colt plow his
fields, their lot in life met.

"The vulture would rather the other three fight: Man stabs dog, horse
stomps man then dies of dog bite.

Then feast on the flesh of all three as a treat, The rampant
destruction of chaos complete.

"One Wizard per force, Odin keeps our world stable.

Each spreads and serves his cause as he is able.

The Four in opposition should result in balance, Unless one should
choose to dilute his vast talents."

His obligation met, Mar Lon returned to his more personal conversation
as if he had never interrupted.  "You admit it's your god-granted
destiny to champion chaos.  And yet, you claim to sanction neutrality
instead."

Colbey easily returned to his place in the discussion, only slightly
put off by song in the middle of discourse.  "There is no law, at least
not one Odin enforces, that says a man always has to act by gods'
intentions."

"What are you saying?"  Mar Lon's expression and tone revealed the
incredulity that also floated to Colbey in waves.

"I'm saying Odin sees all, except into the future.  His vast

and lofty wisdom allows him to make reasonable predictions, of course,
but he can't know everything that is to come.  By stories, that's the
one thing he strives for most and knows he can't have."  Colbey's smile
vanished, and he twisted the gold ring on his finger absently.  He
understood he was treading the fine bounda ry of blasphemy, but past
experience and knowledge of his parentage made him bold.

"Surely, he set up the system of Cardinal Wizards to account for and
cover all of the most likely futures.  But he had no way to foresee
me."  He delivered the final stroke.  "In my opinion, manldnd's
guardians, at least those who propose law and chaos, would serve their
charges far better by working in concert to keep balance rather than
struggling in opposition."

Mar Lon's thoughts became so powerful, Colbey could not avoid them,
even if he tried.  He braced, preparing for the wrath of gods, even as
he considered Colbey's words.  For millennia, the Cardinal Wizards had
believed two guardians of neutrality existed only to work together to
oppose good and evil.  Now, it seemed clear that Odin had selected two
so that they could eventually champion law and chaos.  Then, he had
created the Eighth Task, its specifics such that one who completed it
proved himself suitable to handle his charge.  But there was no
corresponding task to demonstrate the worth of the other Wizard to
handle the opposite force.  The thought froze in place, unable to be
banished, and its intensity wafting from Mar Lon's mind pained
Colbey.

It was an idea Colbey had not considered in that manner, though he had
always trusted his judgment more than that of Shadimar.  The thought
reminded him that Shadimar had called himself, and the previous Eastern
Wizards, the least powerful of the Four.  Given that knowledge; it
occurred to Colbey that Odin might have intended an Eastern Wizard to
succeed at the Eighth Task, knowing the Western Wizard would prove more
competent.  Yet that seemed no more likely than for Odin to expect a
Western Wizard to succeed, with the knowledge that the strongest of
Wizards would use and distribute the forces best.  Perhaps, Odin saw
more than even Colbey had credited.

Mar Lon managed to free himself from his thought-lock.

"Colbey, Shadimar and the others seem heavily influenced by chaos.

Do you think it's possible your attempt to chain pion balance instead
of chaos might have sent the chaos you're supposed to bear to them
instead?"

Colbey sorted his thoughts, surprised to find he felt more comfortable
with generalities than the truth Mar Lon sought but should find for
himself.  "That's one explanation.  But I believe they could resist
chaos if they wished it.  We all make our own choices."  He changed the
subject, believing he finally had Mar Lon on the right tack but not
wanting to say so much that the bard could not come to the conclusions
himself.  To say tOO much would leave Mar Lon wondering whether the
Western Wizard had planted lies in his mind.  He addressed Khitajrah.

"Why did you want to know if you and Mar Lon served the same cause?"

Khitajrah hesitated, drawn suddenly back into a conver sation that she
had started, and then become a distanced spectator to rather than a
participant.  "Once our causes came together, he promised me a song I
very much want to

"Ellbaric's song."  Mar Lon confirmed.  Obviously, he had known what
she wanted from the start.  Finally, he tamed the request to
Sterrane.

"I can't do it justice without chords.  Do you think the noise might
draw unwelcome visitors?"

The king shook his head.  "Might bring welcome visitor.

Might bring Ardy."

Colbey nodded.  "Of course, he's right.  And we'd all love to hear you
play."

Khitajrah smiled nervously, clearly glad to have won the battle, though
still discomfited, either by the possible details of the song she had
requested or by the suggestion that Arduwyn might come.

Mar Lon sat, cradling the mandolin in his lap, then naturally settling
his hands to the strings.  Without further encouragement, he began to
play, the minor chords of the introduction bringing tears to
Khitajrah's eyes long before the words began: "Torn from childhood,
Thrust into war.

Taken from farm felds To slog through the gore.

"But Glory.  is myth Honor simply death

On cold foreign fields He would gasp his last breath.

"His family would say That their son died in vain They would first see
just death Overlooking the gain.

"He went 'cause they told him There was no other way; The enemy's day
...

must end.

He went without fanfare Only friends knew his name; He'd return without
fame ...

In a box.

"Yet if it meant one more man Would remember lost brothers Then chose
peace over war It would save all the others.

"Death should not be mourned Rather used as a lesson If he taught just
one soldier Then his end was a blessing.

"And if his demise brought Justice to any Celebrate his death For the
good of the many.

"He went 'cause they told him They needed his sword; In the name of our
lord ...

Sheriva.  · He went without fanfare Hoping only to show That a man
cannot grow...

With war's fever.

"Yet for all his war loathing He would once only die

Some might live their lives better

If they contemplate why.

"Long after he gone And his sword's turned to rust.

Those who cared will remember

A child rotted to dust.

"But live heroes' lots fade As youth turns to age Their survival
glorifies The wars that they wage.

"He went 'cause they told him

He went far from home

Leaving only a poem ...

as a plea.

He went without fanfare Nothing won only lost Too high, the cost...

Of victory."

As the final notes rang from the mandolin strings, unaccompanied by Mar
Lon's mellow voice, even Colbey found his eyes moist.  The actual words
seemed unpolished and unprofessional compared to those the bards had
written through the millennia, yet Mar Lon's voice did them justice and
the simple, happy tune gave the message a contrasting deep
significance.  Colbey recognized the obvious intention of the writer.

Many would have considered him incapable of understanding the
sentiment, yet he felt as sorry for the plight of nonwarriors forced to
war as any.

Colbey remembered riding across the beach at the end of the Great War,
the excitement of his own wild war passion and glorious battles dwarfed
by the misery of farmers who had seen and done more than their
consciences could bear, who had survived when their friends and
neighbors had died and knew as much guilt as relief.  The Western
peasants and craftsmen had mostly come of their own free will,
brandishing the tools of their trade more often than the weapons needed
by the warriors of their towns.  Even lacking the forced command, they
had known the terror of joining a war they could not hope to survive,
praying that, at least, they

would not die in vain.  Only the childish naivete of the poet

differed from the soldiers Colbey had known, for the boy who had
written Mar Lon's song truly believed mankind might place sentiment and
sorrowful memories before ongoing greed.

Colbey drifted off to sleep recalling his plans for the last of the
Renshai, that they would become soldiers for hire to fight the battles
men like Ellbaric should not.  Khitajrah's crying did not disturb his
rest.

Khitajrah dreamed of shattered families, blood, and graveyards,
windswept and solitary to the point of epitomizing loneliness.  She
awakened with a start, night cold prickling her skin into gooseflesh
and a dream-discomfort that bordered on fear sending shivers the length
of her body.  She forced herself to come fully awake, concerned about
drifting back into the same nightmare.  When her thoughts kept
returning to the pictures her mind had drawn in sleep, she rose.

Performing some routine action, coupled with a short, invigorating
walk, might drive her thoughts on another tangent.

As Khitajrah stood, Colbey stirred.  Then, apparently recognizing the
movement as harmless, he curled an arm protectively about the staff,
patted his sword without opening an eye, and went back to sleep.  The
aristiri perched on a branch over the Renshai's head, feathers ruffled
and head sunk to its chest.

Khitajrah headed into the woods, seeking a place to empty her bladder
where neither her companions nor passersby could observe.  She found a
place within a few steps, shielded from the camp by a screen of briers
and from the road by a line of trunks.  Raising her dress, she
squatted, the urine steaming slightly as it touched the cold ground.

Khitajrah had finished when a man's impassive voice threatened her from
the foliage.  "Speak me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Startled, Khitajrah rose, instinctively straightening her skirts.  An
arrowhead peeked through a gap in the undergrowth lined directly at her
on a drawn bow.  She caught a glimpse of red hair through the
greenery.

Khitajrah's skin Washed clammy.  "I---" she started, then stopped,
considering her reply more carefully.  Her life depended on it.

"Be quick about it," Arduwyn said.  "The string is digging into my
fingers, and I might have to let it go."

Gradually, Khitajrah's scattered thoughts came together.

One thing seemed certain: bold sarcasm would keep her alive longer than
desperate begging.  Time would bring Colbey to her rescue.  "I can give
you three good reasons.

First, you got your horse back.  I made certain of that."

The bow did not move.  The string remained fully drawn.

"Second, I'm truly, deeply sorry and willing to make the matter up to
you in any way I can."

Still, the bow and arrow did not move, although Khitajrah thought she
saw a strange expression taking shape on Arduwyn's half-hidden
features.

"Third," Khitajrah added the most salient point, "I came with good
friends of yours to find you.  Colbey and the king of Bearn need your
help, and they believe I can help as well.

We have a cause to handle, that of our friends.  Our own feud, if you
insist on carrying it on, can wait."

"Sterrane is here?"

"Yes."

The arrow withdrew hesitantly.  "A thief would also lie."

"Yes."  Khitajrah relaxed as the threat lessened.  "But I'm neither
anymore.  I wasn't in my right mind at the time.

Again, I'm sorry."

Arduwyn remained in place.

"The camp's just back that way.  Look for yourself."

"I know where the camp is."  Arduwyn dismissed Khitajrah's offer.  "I
recognized Colbey, Mar Lon, you, and a Bearnide buried to his hair
beneath the blankets.  I just can't believe it's the king himself."

Khitajrah played her card.  "He insisted on coming.  The mission is so
important."

Arduwyn studied Khitajrah in the shadow-dappled moonlight.

She thought she saw interest as well as distrust in his expression, and
the combination gave her chills.  Surely, she misunderstood his
intentions, and that made him fully unpredictable.

"Go on, back to the camp."  He shook the bow at her.  "If you're lying,
I'll shoot you.  Don't think I won't do it to spare my friends the
sight.  If I don't trust you, I certainly don't trust you in their
presence."

Khitajrah could not suppress a shiver, though so many she knew said
positive things about Arduwyn.  She suspected he

would prove the good and fair man the others believed him

to be--eventually.  She led him back to the campsite.

This time, Colbey came fully awake, hand wrapped around his sword hilt
from the instant Arduwyn set foot in the clearing.  Mar Lon, too, came
swiftly awake; and even Sterrane stirred, his shaggy scalp and one eye
appearing from beneath the covers.

Khitajrah considered jokingly claiming that she had found Arduwyn, but
abandoned the quip.  In his current mental state, the hunter might
consider it a falsehood rather than a jest.

As they recognized Arduwyn, all three of Khitajrah's companions rose
and smiled.  Sterrane caught his friend into a welcoming embrace, and
Colbey politely waited for the greeting to finish.  The instant the two
men parted, he caught Arduwyn's shoulder.  "My horse?"

Arduwyn nodded sagely.  "Frost Reaver.  I thought so.

Didn't have any of those swishy ribbons the regular knights always wind
through the manes.  He's at my camp.  Tied if he hasn't already broken
the lead.  He can't stand me leaving him anywhere.  Why is that?"

Colbey dismissed the question.  "Too complicated to explain.

It involves magic and such, and I'll take care of it right away.  Just
tell me where to find him."

Arduwyn's single eye rolled past Colbey, riveting on the aristiri where
it perched overhead.  "There she is!"

"What?"  Colbey whirled, the others also searching for the focus of
Arduwyn's gaze.

Without a direct answer, Arduwyn moved to the oak whose branches
supported the hawk.  "Beautiful."  He explained, without taking his
attention from the bird for a moment.

"I saw her flying and followed.  Then I heard Mar Lon's singing.

That's how I found you.  I haven't seen an aristiri in years.  They've
become so timid."  His eye narrowed, and he tore his gaze free with
obvious reluctance to look briefly at Colbey.  "Usually."  The single
word requested explanation.

Though concerned for Frost Reaver, Colbey obliged.  He would need
Arduwyn's cooperation to find his horse.  "First, I hate to question
your knowledge of wild animals, but the hawk's a he.  He's stayed with
me quite some time now.  I'm not sure why, but his company is
welcome.

He's a great

guardian.  He smiled, referring to the bird's silent acceptance of
Arduwyn's presence in the camp.  "Usually."

"She."  Arduwyn corrected the correction.  "I admit I haven't seen many
aristiri in my life, but I haven't forgotten how to tell gender."  He
demonstrated with a finger, tracing patterns in the air before the
hawk.  "The breast stripes go this way."  He made a vertical motion to
indicate the dark bars that lined the underside of the aristiri from
neck to feet.

"On the males, they're horizontal.  Also, the black trim on the males'
necks forms a larger patch."

Colbey suffered the details quietly, knowing from what seemed like a
more reliable feature that he, not Arduwyn, was right.  "It sings."

Arduwyn squinted.  "Are you sure?"

Khitajrah nodded vigorously to confirm Colbey's observation.

"More beautifully than Mar Lon."

Now Khitajrah shook her head doubtfully.  For all of the aristiri's
trills and melodies, it lacked the harmonies Mar Lon's mandolin sounded
in accompaniment; and words always added depth to a song.  She did not
contradict, however.  Opinion was a personal thing she could not
challenge or deny.

Even faced with this evidence, Arduwyn chose to believe in rare
exception rather than doubt his own knowledge.

"Than you have an unusual companion indeed.  A singing aristiri
female.

Never heard of such--" An animal scream of rage cut over Arduwyn's
words.  A massive, white stallion thundered into the clearing, its pale
eyes rolling and its nostrils flared red as blood.  Its gaze went first
to Arduwyn, and it took a hesitant step toward him.

Then its nostrils widened further and it snuffled scents from the
air.

Suddenly, it whirled to face Colbey, hooves chewing divots from the
mud.  Another wild 'challenge trumpeted from its throat.  Its ears
pinned flat, it charged the Renshai.

CHAPTER 28

Willing Prisoners When Mitrian looked northward, the Fields of Wrath
appeared as they always did.  In every other direction, however, it
seemed the same and strange at once.  Just a glimpse toward the south,
where an unfamiliar horizon filled the area where the cottages should
stand, made her dizzy to the edge of nausea.  The Cardinal Wizards'
magic bothered her, in practice and in theory.  She understood why they
had felt they had to capture first and explain later, though she did
not see the necessity.

Clearly, the Wizards had had no intention of releasing the Renshai,
even if Mitrian and the others chose not to go along with the plan.

That seemed odd for the Eastern Wizard who had so long acted as a
guardian to.

Mitrian and her father's people.

The Cardinal Wizards and Dh'arlo'me sat in conference near the forest's
edge, apparently no longer feeling a need to guard their prisoners
closely.  The Renshai kept to a huddle of their own, trading opinions
and suggestions.  It seemed wrong to sit idle while others kept the
world's greatest swordsmen weaponless and prisoner, even willingly.

Yet for now Mitrian saw no wiser course.  She believed Carcophan's
assertion that they had created another world, consisting of a small
section of the old one rolled into a ball.  When she considered it in
this manner, she believed she recognized portions of the forest,
misplaced but otherwise the same.

Vashi, the toddler, roamed about the clearing that defined a portion of
the Fields of Wrath, avoiding the stabbing branches that jutted from
the forest.  Tannin lay in restless sleep, an involuntary moan
occasionally escaping with an exhalation.  Mitrian winced in sympathy,
hating herself for caring.  At intervals, her gaze fell to the least
respectful of her students, marking the hair still partially held into
randomly loosened braids or that spilled in golden waves to the
grass.

The blue-white eyes rolled open at intervals, childlike

in their pain.  For the thousandth time, she damned the youthful
masculinity that made him act like an idiot, cursed the love that might
have been.

"Renshai willing prisoners."  Rache's voice startled Mitrian's
attention back to where he, Modrey, and Tarah sat, watching Vashi's
every movement.  "I don't care what they say.  I won't stand against
Colbey."

Mitrian shuffled to her son's side and took a seat beside him.  "It's
not a matter of standing against him.  Shadimar's going to help him."

Rache made a wordless sound that expressed his doubt clearly enough.

"Trusting Wizards before one of our own."

Mitrian sighed.  She did not appreciate the possible need to work
against Colbey any more than Rache did, but she knew things he could
not.  "Shadimar has protected us since long before you were born.

Without him, I, and therefore you, would never have become Renshai.

King Sterrane would have died with his brothers and sisters.  I
wouldn't have had the courage to run away with your father, and you
wouldn't exist.  Without the Eastern Wizard convincing me to go, and
later doing the same for my father, the West would have lost the Great
War.  Sterrane would never have tried to reclaim his throne.  Without
Shadimar's sanctuary during our own war, all of us would have died at
the hands of the Northmen's armies."  She turned to face Rache
directly.

"Surely you remember when Colbey came to Shadimar so near death I would
have finished the job to end his suffering.  Without the Wizard's help,
he would already be dead.  Shadimar cares for Colbey, and I believe
he'll do what's right for him.  And for us."

Rache went sullenly silent, not wholly convinced.

Oddly, Mitrian did not feel quite right about the situation either,
despite her attempt to remain just in a volatile situation.

The Shadimar she knew had done all the things she mentioned and many
more.  Yet he had also once wrongly accused Colbey of becoming a
demon.

The Eastern Wizard had always seemed eternal and serious, as hard as
the ancient mountains his gray eyes invariably brought to her mind, yet
never' had he seemed so cold or determined.  Always before, he had
faced life's problems with proper sobriety, but the rabid desperation
and intensity she noticed about his person now seemed out of place.

When the time came,

she would let her own judgment determine her course of action.

"Did you ask about Sylva?"  Rache's question seemed more like a plea.

Mitrian nodded.  She had chatted minimally with Shadimar on the walk
back to the fields, but she had asked about her daughter-in-law.  "He
said she wasn't with us when they cast the spell that made us sleep.

She must have gone for an early morning hunt."

Rache nodded thoughtfully.  Sylva often rose before the sun to catch
the last of the night animals or to find a suitable position to wait
for those who awakened at dawn.

Mitrian did not tell Rache about the strange glances Shadimar and
Carcophan had exchanged, as if her mention of the huntsman's daughter
had answered an important question.

Long consideration made her wonder if they believed Sylva responsible
for the arrow that had injured Secodon.  It made little sense to her.

If Sylva were here, she would have joined the Renshai, not just fired
at an animal she presumed an enemy.  And Mitrian knew something
Shadimar did not.

The archer had shot at her prior to hitting the wolf.  A wild tangle of
brush, a tree trunk, and a sudden stop had rescued her from the
attack.

Secodon had not proved as lucky.

Tannin rolled in his sleep.  Pain caused him to tighten.

reflexively, which only seemed to make it worse.  He gasped, pale eyes
falling open.

Rache sighed, wincing in sympathy.  He started to rise.

Mitrian caught his arm.  "I'll take care 'of him this time."

Rache's eyes widened slightly in surprise.  Although none but Tannin
and Mitrian knew the details, the other Renshai could not help but
notice the strained coldness between their torke and Tannin.  Without
explanation, Mitrian headed over to tend the ailing Renshai.

Shadimar had gathered a variety of herbs for his wolf, giving the
Renshai as many of the leftovers as they could use.  Colbey's training
had included healing, history, and philosophy as well as sword
technique.  To die in any manner but heated combat' doomed a Northman's
soul to Hel, the worst of tragedies.  When the Ragnarok came, the
hordes of Hel would war against the gods while the souls of heroes in
Valhalla fought bravely by the Divine Ones' sides.  Therefore, the
treatment of disease and wounds following nonlethal battles held strong
precedent in Renshai society.  Mitrian

tended Tannin's injuries as muscle strains, with warmed compresses of
herbs mixed with berries that opened skin pores to allow sinew to
absorb the cure.  She tugged his tunic up, noticing the bruises for the
first time.  Someone had pounded on Tannin with fist, boot, or
weapon.

Tannin kept his eyes open, submitting to Mitrian's ministrations
without a word or sound.  He trembled beneath her touch, though whether
from pain or something else, she could not tell.  Though she despised
herself for it, she enjoyed examining the naked flesh of his chest,
muscles honed and defined by her training.  Dried herbs matted the
hair, and the smooth bulges felt comfortable beneath her hands.  She
knew guilt for the pleasure the sight and feel of him gave her.  His
beauty hid a core as rotten as any enemy's.  No foe had scarred her as
deeply.

Tannin seemed to grow more agitated by her attempts to soothe and
heal.

Finally, she pulled his tunic back into place, massaging the poultice
onto a neck knotted as hard as a boulder.

"Why did you do it?"  Mitrian spoke softly enough so the others could
not overhear, though she still sounded loud after the previous lengthy
silence.

Tannin blinked, long lashes hiding and revealing the sea-foam blue
eyes.  "Torke, I hoped the rest of you would escape while I fought."

Mitrian redirected Tannin.  "That's not what I meant."

"Oh."  Tannin blinked again, with cautious deliberateness.

"What did you mean, torke?"

Mitrian saw no need to recall the situation in detail.  It would only
raise rage again.  "You know what I meant."

Tannin laced his fingers, stalling.  "You mean--" "Yes."

"Back at home."

"Yes."

"The late lesson."

"No.  I mean the reason for the late lesson."

Tannin squirmed, ignoring the pain movement must have caused him.  The
emotional discomfort seemed worse.  "Men have needs."

"Women have needs, too."

Tannin finally met Mitrian's gaze.

Mitrian drove the point home.  "Why would you choose some brainless,
nwashed whore over another Renshai?"

Tannin stared, eyes locking with Mitrian's, though the

flush that tinged his cheeks made it Clear he would rather look away.

"You, torke?  You would have ..."  Unable to find a suitably respectful
euphemism, he skipped the concept altogether.  "... with me.  You and
me?"

Now that she had bared her soul, Mitrian went defensive.

"Why not?"

"You and me."  Tannin smiled despite the pain.  "I can't think of
anything I've ever wanted more."

Now, it was Mitrian's turn to blink in stunned wonder.

"Then why did you do ..."  The same words failed her.

"... what you did?"

Tannin craned his neck as well as he could.  Unable to find the
location of the others, he sat up stiffly, making certain no one else
had come within range of his voice.  "Need, I guess.

I don't know.  Maybe I just wanted to get your attention."

"My attention."  Mitrian snorted.  "You got it, all right.

Was it worth it?"

"No," Tannin admitted.  "I destroyed everything, didn't I?

There's no chance anymore."

"Why didn't you just ask me?"

"I invited you over lots of times.  We just talked about sword
strokes."  Tannin sighed, seeking an explanation Mitrian could
understand.  "You're my torke.  If you didn't feel the way I did, it
might have ruined my chance to become the best swordsman I can.  I
didn't want to lose my lessons for boldness."

"So, instead, you nearly lost them for stupidity."

Tannin bit his lip, clearly torn between his need to defend his actions
and to appease his torke.

Mitrian shook her head, still attracted to her only unmarried student,
yet wondering if she dared start something with a man whose judgment
she did not trust.  She tried to place herself in his position; and,
strangely, the comparison fit.

She had had a crush on her father's sword master, her first teacher,
from the day she started liking members of the opposite sex.  Yet she
had always considered him leagues above her, even ignoring the ten
years of age between them.  The feelings she had known for Colbey could
have defined respect, and she would never have considered romance with
the Golden Prince of Demons.  First, he seemed incapable of the depth
of emotion necessary to sustain a relationship.  Her awe for him placed
him above the level of manhood, and the

idea of considering him performing the same functions as other men
seemed the nearest thing to blasphemy.

Suddenly, Mitrian felt sorry for Tannin.  He had battled his own fears
and surrendered to respect.  In order to protect her status, he had
chosen a foolish way to gain her attention.

Yet, in the end, the maneuver had come full circle.  In a warped,
difficult way, he had finally learned the knowledge that could have
come with a simple question.  Now, Mitrian believed, he had learned his
lesson.  If and when they returned home, things would change
significantly, and the prospect excited her.

Now that he had defined the situation, all of Tannin's hesitation
disappeared.  Seizing Mitrian's arms, he pulled her down on top of him,
kissing her with a depth and passion she had never known.  The rest of
the world seemed to disappear around them.

The woman had no understanding of self or location, only the unshakable
certainty that she owned the woodlands and the "others" did not
belong.

She perched on a boulder, slender frame lost amid vines and sheltering
brush, red hair falling in a wild and tangled wash around her face.

She could identify every bird in the treetops by a few notes of song,
yet her own name defied her.

She picked one limb from the pile she had gathered, sighting along it
to ascertain its straightness.  Making a slit in the front, she added
the last triangular stone head.  Soon she would need to resort to
whittled wood, her dagger barely sharp enough to aid nature when it
came to shaping stone.

She bound the tip in place with rabbit gut dried to leather, then
started working on the feathers, placing and tying with practiced
precision.  She added one more arrow to the ten in her quiver, among
them the more capably made ones with feathers dyed pink and green.

Those, she had found with her upon awakening, their source a mystery.

No bird in this forest bore wings of either color.

The woman set to work carving a chunk of wood with the utility dagger
she carried in her pocket.  Someone, she could not recall who, had hurt
her badly.  Someone had, apparently, struck her head hard enough to
steal consciousness, identity, and all semblance of memory, except for
long-ingrained knowledge that had become like instinct.  The force had
sent her tumbling across sticks and rocks that had torn bloody

furrows from her arms, legs, and torso, stamping bruises

across hips and shoulders.  That someone would die, as would all who
dared set foot in her forest.

She continued, shaving wood to partially bevel the edges to deadly
sharpness.  A breeze riffled the branches overhead, dropping a single
green leaf that spiraled to the ground at the woman's feet.

Caught by surprise by Frost Reaver's murderous frenzy, Mar Lon and
Khitajrah skittered from the stallion's path, inadvertently leaving
Colbey to face the monster alone.  Colbey held his ground, not even
bothering to draw a sword.  By choice, he would battle his friend with
one weapon only, and it had no edge.  Ignoring his companions, he
thrust his consciousness into the stallion's mind.

The probe crashed through the same hovering fog of chaos it had met
before, frozen in place and no larger than when he had last faced it.

Time had softened it, and natural horse instincts impinged on every
corner: hunger, thirst, desperate need to protect the hooves, a catalog
of odors, and the danger of things thrashing suddenly into peripheral
vision.  It still reeked of the need to kill, directed at Colbey's
scent alone.

Distantly, Colbey heard the slam of approaching hoofbeats and the crash
of gear scattered in the stallion's frenzied charge.  The magic could
be easily destroyed now, but he might not find the time before massive
hooves pounded him to oblivion.  Desperately, he swiped at magic locked
in place and shape.  It gave like cobwebs wherever he touched,
effortlessly dispelled, yet not fast enough.  Colbey gave up this
course of action, mind leaping for the site of Frost Reaver's spirit
and loyalty.

It lay crushed and haggard beneath the heavy brunt of Shadimar's
now-failing magic.  Colbey directed the flow of his energy there,
lending his own strength where Frost Reav-er's had become damaged.

Methodically, he added life and power to the bond that had once existed
between them.  He heard a warning scream that sounded leagues
distant.

Afraid for Mar Lon's Sword or Arduwyn's bow, Colbey pulled back from
his task just long enough to shout a message.  "Don't hurt him!  No
matter what, don't hurt Reaver!"

The lapse nearly proved fatal.  The stallion's chest slammed into
Colbey hard enough to send him rolling, and

a hoof scraped hair from his scalp, missing the skull by a whisper.

Rescue or defense.  Colbey made the decision instantly, as always.  He
had only the time it took the stallion to rear and to smash speeding
hooves, backed by three-quarters of a ton of muscle, against his
head.

Once he made the choice, Colbey committed fully to it.

He seized the growing strand of loyalty, channeling all the power he
could muster to it.  The tendril glowed red, like a sword first drawn
from the forge.  Then, Shadimar's magic collapsed to colored powder
around him, taking the horse's killing rage with it.

But momentum proved Frost Reavers undoing, rechanneling a mass of
moving force nearly impossible in mid-stroke.

The stallion whinnied in terror.

Colbey found strength where he thought he had given all, scissoring
awkwardly aside as the hooves crashed to ground, gouging turf.  Dust
filled his nose and mouth, the last vestiges of Shadimar's spell
grating between his teeth and driving him to a sneeze he could not
muster.

A soft, pink nose whuffled in Colbey's face, lipping at his shoulder
until greenish slobber glazed his tunic.  Around Frost Reaver's head,
he could see that Mar Lon and Sterrane crouched, the bard with sword
and the king with ax in hand.

Beyond them, Arduwyn stood with bow drawn, sweat spangling his spiky
hair.  He had wrestled hard with the decision of whether to let the
arrow fly.

Colbey allowed his lids to fall back in place, sick with the strain.

He sank peacefully into unconsciousness, his last thought to wonder
whether Frost Reaver's apology might drown him in snot before he
awakened.

Colbey awakened later in the day, strength returned and companions
hovering.  Apparently, Khitajrah noticed the similarity between
Colbey's current state and that after he had helped her repel chaos,
because no one asked Colbey how he came to lie unconscious without a
mark of injury on him.

"You all right?"  Arduwyn asked cautiously.

Colbey glanced about until his gaze fell on Frost Reaver, grazing with
the other horses.  A newcomer had joined the animals, a blotchy paint
as well-conformed as its neighbors, apparently Arduwyn's mount.  "I'm
fine now."  To demon strate, he sprang to his feet, bounding to Frost
Reaver's un saddled back.

The stallion stiffened, then trumpeted a joyous whinny as he recognized
his rider.  Colbey whipped his sword free, lashing into a wild practice
that tuned mind as well as body.

The remainder of his pressured fatigue disappeared, replaced by a
clarity that made life a joy, despite the threat to the other
Renshai.

Nothing seemed impossible.  Somehow, he would free his loved ones, and
the staff would remain in the proper possession of the Western Wizard
and his successors.

Arduwyn followed the crisp sweeps and lunges as swiftly as his single
eye could move.  "A simple crawl would have sufficed."

Colbey laughed, passing the hilt from hand to hand, never allowing it
to fly long enough that an enemy might capture it in the instant he had
no control.  "I've got my sword, my horse, and my trusted friends.

What more could I need?"

As if in answer, the aristiri dove from its perch and dodged through
the perilous flurry of attack, banking and maneuvering like a bird a
third its size.  Arduwyn watched in awe as the creature challenged the
world's quickest and most skillful sword master.  No normal animal
would have dared such a feat; survival instinct would have prevented
even consideration of such a thing.  Colbey suspected that Arduwyn's
interest stemmed as much from seeing his own audacity reflected in its
actions as from its unnatural risk.  In the last several decades, few
men but the little hunter had dared to confront the elder Renshai in
any manner.

Colbey continued his swordplay while Sterrane, Khitajrah, Arduwyn, and
Mar Lon packed up the camp.  No one protested the king assisting in the
labor.  They knew too well that protestations would prove useless.  In
his simple way, Sterrane would help.  To ask him to sit aside while
work needed doing would prove more insulting than granting him the
regal leisure his position accorded him.  Colbey, conversely, found no
cause worth abandoning his swordwork.

No matter the job, it could wait until his blades had been honored and
tended.

They traveled throughout the day, camped the night, and started again
the following morning.  Arduwyn ranged ahead, with or without his
horse, returning to steer the group around new deadfalls or past copses
entering their season for thorns or burrs.  Sterrane conversed happily
with his com panions about any topic he or they cared to raise,
humming tunelessly whenever conversation lapsed to silence.  Apparently
bothered by the discordant lack of melody, Khitajrah found excuses to
keep the monarch talking.  In turn, Mar Lon kept a close watch on the
proceedings, vigilantly guarding his king as much from her as from
potential outside threats.

Colbey's excitement waned as the party drew closer to the Fields of
Wrath, and he found himself suffused with the familiar inner calm that
accompanied the knowledge of forthcoming battle.  He knew uncertainty
as well.  More than a year had passed since he had last seen his
people, leaving them in the care of a student he had trained, he
believed, to competence.  That the Cardinal Wizards had captured the
Renshai alive seemed to prove them still invulnerable to the cut of
normal weapons.  No others could have taken Renshai without casualties,
no matter their abilities or numbers; and the Renshai would have fought
to their own last warrior.

The rattle and crunch of hooves on leaves from ahead seized Colbey's
attention.  His hand went naturally to his sword hilt, gaze probing the
brush for some glimpse of the approaching figure.  He recognized the
horse first, the black and white splotched figure of Arduwyn's mount
unmistakable.

It crashed recklessly through the brush, willowy weeds and small trees
bending, then snapping taut, from beneath its belly.  Colbey rode to
the lead to meet the hunter first, the uncharacteristically noisy and
careless approach warning him of something amiss.

Colbey waited only until Arduwyn reined up beside him.

"What's wrong?"

"The forest."  Arduwyn loosened his hold on the reins, and the paint
pranced, snorting, its excitement cued by its rider.

It displayed none of the panicked need to flee that would have stemmed
from something it personally considered a threat.  "It's ... well ...

it's changed."

Colbey's hand fell from his hilt.  He could not fight this enemy with a
weapon.  "What do you mean 'changed'?"

Mar Lon, Sterrane, and Khitajrah pulled up, as eager to hear the
explanation as Colbey.

"At first, I noticed that the landmarks seemed to have shifted.

Slightly, at first, so things just felt wrong."  Arduwyn fingered stray
patches of mane over to the right side of his horse's neck.  "Then I
found trees down, sturdy ones, too many for nature to have done it
alone.  I got down and stud ied the breaks: jagged and splintery.  No
man or animal cut through those trunks, yet none of the brush seemed
singed.

No sign of fire or lightning."  Arduwyn glanced from face to face.

Clearly, he had finished, yet no one seemed even half as bothered by
the things he had seen as he was.

Colbey waited patiently.  The description hardly seemed significant
enough to agitate the red-haired hunter so severely.

Still, he would not underestimate the importance of the matter.  If
Arduwyn noticed something awry or inexplicable in the woodlands, it
surely held consequence.  Anything that the hunter could not justify
with knowledge or logic might hold magic as its explanation.

Arduwyn frowned, apparently disappointed by the lack of response.

Colbey took control, trying to give Arduwyn's concern appropriate
consideration without alarming the others unnecessarily.

"Arduwyn, you lead.  Everyone stay quiet.  We'll need to use
caution."

He turned his full attention to the hunter.  "Did you see the Fields of
Wrath?"  Though he questioned casually, he held his breath while
awaiting the answer.

No matter the enemy, the Renshai would fight, and he wondered whose
blood or corpse he might find smeared across the meadows and
cottages.

"No.  I didn't get that far."  Arduwyn addressed the question directly,
ignorant of the underlying significance.  "I saw the changes and the
trees and ..."  He trailed off, embarrassed.

Obviously, he had expected his news to strike his companions as
painfully as himself.

Colbey did not press further.  It made sense for them all to come upon
the danger and the possible horrors together.

"Let's go."

Arduwyn headed back the way he had come, the others following two
abreast: Colbey and Khitajrah followed by Sterrane and Mar Lon, the
bard riding slightly behind his king to protect him from dangers at the
rear.  Apparently, he found Colbey an effective shield from enemies
that might strike from ahead.  The aristiri rode Colbey's saddle,
balanced on the cantle.

Colbey watched Arduwyn's back as they rode the path toward the Fields
of Wrath, but he did not need to look for visual clues.  The hunter's
uneasiness became tangible, growing toward alarm the farther they
traveled.  Long after Arduwyn become noticeably agitated, Colbey saw
nothing

that would concern him had he journeyed alone.  Finally, however, a
sense of foreboding touched even him, though he felt uncertain whether
it came from inside himself or as a consequence of too long exposure to
Arduwyn's nervousness.

The staff also seemed discomfited, finding traces of its opposite
fouling the air.

As the group moved forward, the vague wrongness finally gathered a
source Just as Arduwyn had described, trees littered the ground or
leaned horribly, caught in neighboring crotches of branching limbs.

Beneath them, the ground appeared crumbled, the soil bunched, dark and
damp, as if rooted up from layers deeper.  Shattered limbs littered the
earth, jutting from piles of displaced leaves and needles.  The trail
zigzagged strangely, its long-standing diversions around rubble lost
amid the more recent destruction.

Frost Reaver waited docilely.  Although the stallion did not paw,
Colbey sensed the animal's uneasiness.  His triangular ears jutted
forward, attentive to the road and dangers ahead.  He kept all four
hooves firmly in place on the dirt roadway, prepared for necessary
movement in any direction.

The other mounts remained calm as well, though whether because they had
as much training or just lacked the sense to notice the changes, Colbey
did not try to guess.  Whatever had toppled trees and piled earth bore
no relation to anything he had ever seen or known.  If Arduwyn also
could not identify them, Colbey doubted the source Could be anything
but magic.  It brought their dilemma into vivid and frightening
detail.

If Colbey could barely recognize the aftereffects of the Cardinal
Wizards' sorcery, he could scarcely hope to rescue and protect friends
from it.

Doubts descended on Colbey, and they seemed trebled for their
strangeness.  Never before had he questioned his ability to handle
enemies.  Always, he had shattered his foes on the battlefield, and
even vast numbers had not daunted him.  He would challenge armies
single-handedly, knowing he might slay them all or gladly die in the
attempt and find Valhalla.

Now, so many vast and unfamiliar concepts lay at stake.  He had to
fight an enemy he could scarcely hope to predict, even with the help of
the Power Staff.  Although his sword could score strikes against the
enemy, those of his friends might not.  And maintaining the balance
complicated the matter further.  If he killed one of the Cardinal
Wizards, he would have to deal with the consequences that loss might in
flict on the shifts of causes and the world.  And if he died, it might
leave no one to see that mankind survived the Ragnarok.

As if I really might have the knowledge and focus to save them
myself.

The doubts spread insidiously, and Colbey banished them with his usual
confident will.  Either he could keep the world safe or not.  The
possibility of failure would not prevent him from trying, now or in the
future.

Arduwyn cried out, his voice fulY of surprise and terror.

Concerned for the destruction he might find, Colbey spurred ahead.

'Frost Reaver slammed through lines and clumps of shrubbery his rider
did not try to identify.  The stained pink hooves chewed rents in a
ridge of earth that seemed as unnatural as the crumbled trees.  Then,
as they topped the rise, the Renshai cottages came clearly into view.

Arduwyn stood before them, mouth sagging open to expose a straight row
of yellowed teeth.

Colbey had seen the Fields of Wrath only once a year ago, yet even he
could tell they now appeared little like they had in the past.  He saw
no fields, only towering, asymmetrical forest smashed together at the
corners, ending abruptly at the cottage lawns.  Jagged, wooden wreckage
stood as mute testimony to what must have once served as a pen holding
horses or livestock.  A garden lay, torn in half, remnants of its
neatly tended rows swallowed beneath the earth.  The cottages seemed
untouched.

By the time Colbey finished surveying the oddity, the others had pulled
up.  Aside from Khitajrah, they wore the same lost, incredulous look as
Arduwyn.  Clearly, it took a recent knowledge of the area to fully
understand the destruction.

"Ruaidhri's eternal mercy?"  Mar Lon evoked the highest of the Western
gods.

Sterrane stared, brown eyes wide.  "Gone.  Ground gone."

It seemed impossible, yet the evidence looked clear even to Colbey.

Someone had hacked off a chunk of ground like a surgeon removing a
massive tumor, then spliced the edges together into an ugly seam.  Luck
alone had saved the cottages from tumbling into the craters and ridges
left by the process.

Colbey dismounted amid a flurry of questions that he ignored until they
faded into insignificant background noise.

Gesturing Frost Reaver to remain in place, he took the staff in hand
and headed for the first of the cottages.  The door

opened easily to his touch, revealing a jumble of overturned crates
that had once served as furniture.  A box in the corner held notched
swords and daggers of varying lengths, used but lovingly saved instead
of discarded.  He saw no blood.

Quickly, Colbey searched the remainder of the dwelling, kitchen and
bedroom.  The rumpled blankets and indented pillow revealed 'a hasty
departure that left an oiled and polished longsword uncovered on the
pallet.  The sheath hung from one of the bedposts.  Colbey confiscated
the weapon, placing it into his own empty sheath, a perfect fit.

Apparently, the tribe still modeled their weapons to Colbey's taste.

Surely someone had seized the owner of this home asleep.

No waking Renshai would have left a sword behind.  Despite the folds
and wrinkles in the bedding, Colbey saw no sign of a true struggle nor
any dark stains that might indicate a battle.

Whoever had taken this Renshai had done so without awakening him.

Magic, Colbey guessed."  Magic."  The staff confirmed."  What kind of
magic?"

The staff offered 'nothing useful.  'I couldn't begin to guess, The
possibilities are limitless ... almost..I do know the Cardinal Wizards
can't enter the minds of individual mortals to influence them.  It's
not Odin's Laws that hold them back, either.  It's just not an ability
they have."  The staff paused, erasing its own assurances.  "At least
they couldn't last I knew.  Unlike you, my opposite champion probably
bound himself to his cause.  The strength and abilities of the other
staff, I can't begin to guess."

Colbey drew away from the staff, seeing no purpose in further
conversation.  In this matter, it seemed to know and understand little
more than he.  Colbey left the cottage.

Once outside, Colbey discovered that his companions had taken the
liberty of searching the other homes as he had done.  Unlike him, they
had entered these buildings many times in the past.  Knowledge Of which
belonged to whom and the proper positioning of belongings made it
easier for them to search; so they had finished more quickly than
Colbey.  They, too, had gathered weapons, including Mitrian's familiar
wolf-hilted sword.

Colbey studied the weapons at his feet, cringing at the inadvertent
dishonor.  Renshai would never allow their swords, nor those of honored
opponents, to touch ground.  Still, he chose to say nothing, certain
his friends had meant no harm

or disrespect.  He scooped Mitrian's blade from the pile, then

glanced from face to face.  "Any sign of a fight?  Any people?

Animals?  Notes?"

Every one of Colbey's companions shook his or her head.

"It's as if something snatched them from sleep," Arduwyn added
unnecessarily.  "Sylva's bow and quiver are missing."

He glanced between the trees, as if he might catch some glimpse of her
through forest that stretched over most of the country.  "I can't
fathom why they'd let her take her weapons and not the others.  Unless
they left her behind."

Colbey frowned, many possibilities coming to his mind at once, though
he did not voice them.  Arduwyn's only child meant as much to the
little hunter as the Renshai tribe did to Colbey: To speculate would
only raise the ugliest possibilities in Arduwyn's mind, hampering his
effectiveness when it came to guile or battle.  Already, the elder
could read Arduwyn's confusion.  The redhead considered remaining
behind to stalk his daughter through leagues of brush and foliage.

Colbey considered talking Arduwyn away from his considerations, but he
chose silence instead.  Although he would miss Arduwyn's support as an
archer and his quick, clever strategies, he might prove of little use
against Wizards.  And if Sylva had, in fact, remained behind, it only
made sense for Arduwyn to try to find her.  Instead, Colbey nudged Mar
Lon with the hilt of Mitrian's sword.  "Here, take this."

Mar Lon's fingers closed over the crafted pommel, but the look he gave
Colbey revealed uncertainty.  "I have a sword."

"This one has some magic to it.  We may need that to fight Wizards."

Still, Mar Lon hesitated, apparently assessing the appropriateness of
Colbey's choice for wielder of what might prove their only useful
weapon other than Harval.

Catching the drift of Mar Lon's concern, Colbey replied without waiting
for verbalization of the question.  He kept his voice low, so that only
Mar Lon could hear.  "At all costs, we must protect Sterrane.  Anchored
by his simplicity and justice, man's world has a chance.  Without him,
I may as well let the Cardinal Wizards destroy the Staff of Power and
all mankind."  He tapped the polished wood pole thrust through his
belt, still wishing for a more comfortable and less inhibiting means of
carrying it.  In his hand, it hampered

his sword strokes; and he could not risk dropping it in battle.

Tucked in his belt, it impaired the freedom of movement necessary to
perform the precise Renshai maneuvers that made his people superior
sword masters.  "Of everyone, including Sterrane, you're in the' best
position to defend the king; and I know you claim that responsibility
gladly and with total dedication."

Now Mar Lon accepted the weapon proudly, fastening the second sword
belt around his waist atop the first.  He angled both hilts so that he
could draw either as it became necessary.

Colbey passed around the remainder of the swords, knowing the Renshai
would want to rearm as soon as it became possible.  The need to
approach each companion revealed Arduwyn's absence, though Colby had
not seen the hunter leave.  Searching for Sylva.  He shook his head.

Since the Cardinal Wizards had, apparently, taken land as well as
prisoners, it seemed possible that Sylva had gone with them,
intentionally or not.  Or she might have been sucked down into one of
the many cracks or crevices that scarred the earth as the end result of
the Wizards' magic, forever trapped and smashed beneath masses of earth
and stone.  Colbey dismissed the concern.  Though he knew sorrow for
Arduwyn and Rache, Sylva's fate meant little in the face of the
impending annihilation of all mankind.  Colbey knew he had discovered a
situation in which the cost of the battle might prove worse than losing
face and honor to surrender.  Soon he might have to choose between the
members of the Renshai tribe and the fate of all mankind, might have to
sacrifice all those he loved in order to allow all others to live.  But
are those others worth it?  He thought of the budding guardsmen in
Pudar, their dedication typifying the welcome change the world had
undergone since the Great War.  He considered the farmer who had tended
Frost Reaver, his innovations a symbol of the beneficial shift chaos
might affect along with its trickery.

Guilt squeezed Colbey's chest, yet he could not dispel the need to
ponder: the value of Renshai against all of humankind.

"Where go?"  Sterrane asked, the simple directness of the question
crumbling the complicated intricacies of Colbey's thoughts.  "Here not
find Renshai."

Colbey frowned, recalling the message they had received in Bearn's
castle.  The Cardinal Wizards had asserted they

had hidden the Renshai too well for him to find them.  "We stay
here.

It's the only common ground they gave me to work from."  Leave the
staff here, they told me.  And I have.

I chose to stay with it, and so did my friends.

Khitajrah accepted Colbey's decision easily, but added the detail to
Sterrane's basic question.  "Should we lie in wait for them?  Hidden,
perhaps?"

Colbey trusted his instincts, shaking his head to indicate such tactics
would prove unnecessary.  "They'll use caution, I'm certain.  By magic,
they'll know we're here.  Better a direct confrontation.  With them, I
think we'll get more by open talk than surprise attack.  They're too
smart to bring the Renshai with them."

Without questioning Colbey's decision, Sterrane sat crosslegged before
the door to Mitrian's cottage, waiting.  Mar Lon stood sentinel in
front of his king, fingers draped casually across the wolf's head that
formed Mitrian's hilt.

Colbey could sense need wafting from the bard.  To unsling and play the
mandolin he carried would break the tension, but it would fill his
hands and hamper his ability to guard his king.

Again, Colbey did not interfere.  His concern for Sterrane's life
outweighed that for Mar Lon's peace.  If it cost the bard his comfort
to keep Sterrane safe, it seemed a price well worth paying.

Khitajrah expended nervous energy by climbing to the roofs and windows
of the Renshai cottages to scout.

Colbey leaned against the mortared stone of Mitrian's home, senses
naturally attuned for enemies, though he made no conscious effort to
look.  The horses nipped at the crazed array of grass remaining in the
ruins of Renshai pastures.

The aristiri flew broad circles overhead, disappearing and reappearing
at irregular intervals, occasionally stooping through the green
thickness of upper growth.  Colbey's stillness let a dense hush through
which he heard the rustle of foliage as rabbits and wisules scurried in
their daily search for food and safety.  Other hawks came, gliding
silhouettes against the sky, while songbirds and squirrels sent seed
pods and berries tumbling from branches to click against the fallen
wash of leaves.

As day wore into night, Colbey found no sign of the Cardinal Wizards.

The natural music of the shattered forest became a lullaby, so unlike
the violence his mother had

described to soothe him to sleep as a baby.  Mar Lon, Colbey,

and Khitajrah slept in shifts, without need to discuss a formal
watch.

And the night slipped past without sight or sound of any Wizard but the
guardian of the West.

CHAPTER 29

Gateway

Colbey awakened to the sensation of a new presence.  He had heard no
sound that did not belong in forest night, and the chilling breeze felt
no different than it had moments before.

His eyes snapped open, and his ears naturally sifted the air for other
noises than the normal orchestrated shrill of insects, the courting
squeal of nocturnal meirtrins, and the whirring call of foxes.  His
hearing still found nothing amiss, but his mental gift told him
otherwise.  Someone had approached so quietly he had not disturbed Mar
Lon on watch.

Colbey probed the area with his mind as well as his eyes, though he
knew the effort would cost him vitality.  His consciousness touched
another fraught with concerns nearly as weighty as his own.  He
discovered a oneness with the forest, an understanding of nature that
could only come from a single source.  Recognizing the other as a
friend, Colbey instantly withdrew.  He would never invade the thoughts
of one he trusted.  "Arduwyn," he whispered.

As the hunter responded to his call, Colbey carved movement from
darkness.  He rose, meeting Arduwyn halfway.

"Did you find anything?"  He hoped Arduwyn had searched for signs of
the Wizards' and Renshai's trails as well as for his daughter.

"No."  Arduwyn seemed troubled by his finding, a disappointment that
went beyond his missing daughter.  His failure encompassed much more.

"Not a footprint.  Not a single sign of recent passage but our own."

He sighed.  "Sylva's good in the forest, but even I leave enough trail
for me to follow."

Colbey believed the answer obvious, but he put a name to it anyway.

"Magic."

"Do you think they erased their passage?"

"I think they may have left no place from which their passage needed
erasing."

Arduwyn fidgeted.  "Do you think they destroyed ..."  He

trailed off, motioning toward the missing space that had once defined
the Fields of Wrath and much of the surrounding forest.

Colbey guessed the hunter's concern at once.  Whether by intention or
accident, the Cardinal Wizards might have murdered Sylva in their
efforts to prevent pursuit.  He could feel the rising heat of Arduwyn's
anger, intermingled with a hovering grief no vengeance could
displace.

"I can only guess at what they might have done.  There's no use in
that.  Until we have evidence otherwise, best to assume the Wizards
took Sylva with the others.  If she's alive, we'll rescue her, too.  If
she's dead, there's nothing we can do for her."

Arduwyn nodded once, but he seemed unsatisfied.  A vast chasm existed
between the awareness that worrying served no purpose and suppressing
that concern.

Colbey tried to redirect his thoughts.  "So you found nothing
useful?"

Startled, Arduwyn jerked.  Apparently, his mind had far outstripped the
conversation.  "Only what we saw the night before.  A massive piece of
ground is missing, and the earth seems to have seamed itself back
together."

Colbey pursed his lips.  He had suspected such a thing, though his
ignorance of landmarks had made him uncertain of the details.  Of all
the people he knew, he trusted only Arduwyn to recognize specific
pieces of forest and their rightful places on the map.

"And one other thing."

Colbey came to immediate attention.  "What's that?"

"It's probably nothing."

.... Right now, we have no place to look.  Anything is something."

Khitajrah slipped up beside Colbey, drawn by the conversation and
Arduwyn's return.  Through the darkness, Colbey could see Mar Lon
sitting in Mitrian's doorway, watching.

Sterrane's snores revealed that he still slept, oblivious to his
friend's return.

"When I was a child ..."  Arduwyn lost a sob he had clearly held back
for some time.  The lapse widened instantly to a wild floodgate of
tears.  "... my father taught me that nature never forms sharp angles
or patterns.  It's true, too.  In all my years in the forests, I've
never found so much as a stone with a straight ..."  He choked off the
last word, his pain obvious, even without the explanation-of thoughts
that

Colbey alone could read.  Arduwyn's mind seemed unable to

shift from his own lessons with Sylva in the woodlands.

"There's a broken tree among the others.  Apparently, it cracked at
exactly the level of a fork in a tree some distance away, and its
higher trunk fell precisely so as to land in that fork.  And nothing
else got in the way."

Colbey tried to picture the scene Arduwyn described.

Arduwyn demonstrated by placing both arms 'rigidly in front of him,
then bending them at the elbows so his hands pointed skyward.  "Think
of these as the two trees."  He indicated his forearms by shaking them
once.  He spread his left thumb and forefinger to make a fork, then
bent the fingers of his right hand only at the last knuckles where they
joined the hand.  He rested the fingertips into the cleft he had
made.

"Like this."  The pattern formed a rectangle, with the two long sides
representing the tree trunks.

Colbey shrugged, understanding the image yet seeing little significance
to it.  "I'd think that happens all the time.

One tree falling on another."

"The falling part."  Arduwyn let his arms drop back to his sides.

"Trees fall all the time.  It's part of nature's normal cycle.

Just not in parallel lines and perfect, straight angles."

Colbey took a deep breath, releasing the air slowly through pursed
lips.  Logic told him this phenomenon bore no relation to the Cardinal
Wizards and their kidnapping of the Renshai, yet they had no other
leads to follow.  As small as the oddity sounded, Arduwyn had noticed
it so it required exploration.  Besides, the hunter had come back to
camp without his horse.  Surely, he had left the animal there to mark
the place, with the intention of returning soon.

"It's probably nothing," Arduwyn reiterated.

"Probably," Colbey admitted.  "But we can't take that chance.  Why
don't you examine this thing more thoroughly?

And take someone with you."

Arduwyn glanced at Khitajrah, and Colbey felt a brief spark of emotion
from the hunter that time did not allow him to define.  He did catch a
flash of anger, tempered by something he touched too fleetingly to
name.  Arduwyn's gaze swept to Mar Lon and Sterrane, then back to
Colbey.

"Who?"

Colbey hesitated, knowing he should go, yet loath to leave the king of
Bearn in the path of enemies.  The Cardinal Wizards were his problem.

He could not afford to have them ar rive in his absence, while he
stared at tree trunks in the forest.

"Me," Khitajrah said.

Again, Colbey sensed rising anger from Arduwyn.  This.

time, he also found discomfort as Arduwyn grappled to master other
emotions evoked by Khitajrah's presence.  The Renshai kept his response
geared toward what he heard, not underlying thoughts and
unintentionally radiated feelings.

"That makes the most sense.  Sterrane can't go, and I don't think
you'll pry Mar Lon away from his king now.  I should stay in case the
Wizards come."

The sensations wafting from Arduwyn changed drastically.

For an instant Colbey caught a full blast of desire.

Then, self-hatred rose to squash the seeds of interest.  Memories
surfaced, of a chaos-influenced Khitajrah offered hospitality and
returning only theft, lies, and betrayal.  The whole became swallowed
in a blanketing mass of bitterness directed against her.  Arduwyn gave
no sign of the upheaval progressing inside him.  Clearly, he saw the
wisdom in Colbey's choice.  "Come on, then."  Without further
encouragement, Arduwyn faded into the woodlands.

Khitajrah paused to give Colbey's hand a reassuring squeeze, then she
followed the hunter, her thoughts too mild to waft to Colbey's
senses.

Clearly, she shared none of Arduwyn's outrage.  By outward appearances,
she seemed to relish the opportunity to spend some time with him alone,
presumably to right the wrongs she had committed against him.

Colbey considered the situation a few moments longer, glad to forget
the dilemma of Renshai and mankind for a time.  He sat, back pressed to
the mortared stonework of a cottage, seeking signs of Arduwyn's and
Khitajrah's passage.

But he saw nothing.  Each moved silently and unseen, Though Khitajrah
had learned this skill in the overpopulated cities of the Eastlands,
she seemed to have adapted to woodlands during her short stay in the
West.  Given some time alone together, Arduwyn and Khitajrah might find
much in common, if the hunter could forgive the crimes chaos had driven
her to commit.  Once Arduwyn dropped the barrier that malice had built
between them, his attraction to Khitajrah would surely slip through.

Colbey smiled at the irony.  Once again, it seemed, the scrawny archer
might challenge the wolf.  Not since seven teen tribes of Northmen had
banded together to annihilate the Renshai had Colbey met anyone so
persistently willing to oppose him.  Arduwyn's courage had become
apparent from their first meeting, when the hunter had found Colbey's
heritage reason enough to rouse strangers against him.  Gradually, they
had made their peace, learning to respect one another, though they had
never become friends.  Repeatedly, Arduwyn had traded gibes with a
Renshai toward whom others feared even to glance.

He had stolen Colbey's kill in the Great War and had, through audacity
alone, stopped Colbey from mercy-slaying a friend wracked by
poison-generated hallucinations.

That last battle, Colbey knew, he should never have surrendered.

Arduwyn's concern had forced Garn to die in withering agony, in the
gladiator pit he had long ago escaped.

Yet, this time, Colbey wondered if he might not give in again.  Despite
Freya's apparent sanctioning of his relationship with Khitajrah and the
pleasure of their lovemaking several nights past, something seemed to
be missing.  In his youth, when he still imagined himself becoming half
of a couple, he had never considered a relationship with any woman who
could not give him a real challenge in mock combat.  Arduwyn and
Khitajrah seemed far better suited to one another: close in size and
build, far nearer in age, and both as attentive to scenery as to
people.

The aristiri settled on a ledge directly over Colbey's head, whistling
trills that played soft harmony beneath the rhythmical constant of
Sterrane's snores.

Colbey leaned back and closed his eyes, trusting wariness to take over
where his senses failed.  The whole train of thought seemed
unnecessary, an abstraction; yet it was not like his mind to consider
the trivial.  Whatever happened between Arduwyn and Khitajrah, the
fates would sanction.  Ultimately, the decision rested with
Khitajrah.

Leaving Mar Lon in charge, Colbey allowed himself to drift back into
sleep.

Arduwyn padded silently through freshly piled leaves and over soil
erupted into ridges by the Cardinal Wizards' magic.  Though he did not'
turn back, he remained aware of Khitajrah's every movement through the
brush.  To his surprise, she followed with a grace and caution that
made her passage scarcely louder than his own.  If she ever became

fully acclimated to forest, he grudgingly realized, she might become
the quieter of them.

The need to listen for the positioning of another brought back vivid
memories of Arduwyn's excursions with Sylva.

His mind threw him back to days when her overzealous attempts to move
quietly made her noisier than a racing herd of deer.  It had taken
months to teach the basics that seemed natural to Arduwyn: the routine
process of selecting each footstep to go around or over any object
rather than stepping on it, adjusting pace to ground and cover in a way
that balanced speed and equilibrium, avoiding or flitting through the
most open or densest spaces where showing self or making noise became
inevitable, and keeping the eye, ear, and mind attuned to every
detail.

Arduwyn's eye stung.  He rubbed at it, and his fingers came away
moist.

Once the tears became realized, they quickened, and Arduwyn's thoughts
anchored on his daughter's gentle voice and her calm understanding of
the woodlands and their call.  Sylva's mother had always condemned
Arduwyn's escape to nature when life became too difficult for his heart
to handle.  Her reasons were sound, he knew.

Running from problems no more solved them than drinking oneself into
oblivion, and it left loved ones to handle their grief alone.  Yet,
even as a child, Sylva had understood.  He envied her ability to face
adversity, to assist others through it, and to reserve judgment when
others could not manage it as well.  Like any child, she had had her
moments of deviltry.

But, whether in looks, temperament, or behavior, she seemed to have
inherited the best both parents had to offer.  From me, that wasn't
much.

An image of Sylva formed in Arduwyn's mind.  He pictured her hair, red
and silky, the color of his own but with the length and superior
texture of Bel's.  He saw her in a moment of joy, her dark eyes alight,
cheeks scarlet, and a smile making her entire face seem alive with
magic.  The vision proved too much.  Arduwyn's control snapped, and he
dropped to a crouch on the forest floor.  Directed thought abandoned
him, leaving only a limp sorrow, and his mind flashed images of his
daughter, his wife, and the three children who had become his by
marriage until disease had taken two of them.

Khitajrah touched a shoulder tentatively.  "Arduwyn?"  She

shuffled around him, seeking his face, incapable of reading his
huddled misery from behind.

Arduwyn buried his face in his hands, unable to control his emotions
yet feeling foolish for his lapse.  He would not let her see him
crying.  In some cultures, a man's tears made him weak and soft, unfit
to lead his family.  Though Erythanians did not condemn masculine
sorrow in that fashion, he still chose to hide his frailty from a woman
who had already betrayed him once.

Even without direct visualization of expression, Khitajrah pieced the
clues together.  She sat beside him, saying nothing.

Arduwyn struggled for control, glad Khitajrah had chosen silence.  Any
words would have snapped the delicate strands of his growing mastery
and embarrassed him as well.  The sympathy of a thief and liar would
only have rung hollow.

Still quiet, Khitajrah placed an arm around Arduwyn's shoulders.

The touch jolted Arduwyn.  He froze, rigid, the stream of tears halting
in an instant.  The proper response would not come to him, mentally or
physically.  He dredged for revulsion, but his heart belittled the
attempt, delving instead for the attraction he had buried.  It seemed
foolish, certain anguish to allow himself to fall for a woman who had
and would betray him.  Yet the passion existed, beyond his control.

Her beauty drew him in, her grace and manner hooked him, and he did not
know how long he could battle the stronger, natural instincts that made
him want to have her right here in the forest.

Where Arduwyn's rational mind failed, grief took over.

Another wave of images battered him, and the tears began again.

Khitajrah caressed Arduwyn's shoulder, expressing just enough warmth
and caring to ease the pain.  Surely, she had had long practice at
soothing the bereaved.  "Can I help?"

Arduwyn took a cautious breath, wanting his reply to emerge strong,
still trying to hide the tears though it had become fruitless.  "No,"
he managed.  "You wouldn't understand."

"I might."

"You wouldn't."  It was unfair, and Arduwyn knew it.  As a widow, she
would, at least, have needed to deal with the loss of her husband.  As
an Easterner, she might well have

lost family and friends.  He swallowed hard, guilty for his
insistence.

"My daughter, barely fifteen, is the wife of one of the Renshai.  I
have reason to believe the Wizards left her.

She may have gotten caught in this."  Without looking up, he gestured
to the woodland ruins, the trees uprooted and jutting at angles, the
ground puckered into unnatural mounds.

Verbalization of the problem opened the dam, and the rest came tumbling
out.  "I lost two of my wife's three children, whom I loved as my
own.

Then my wife.  And now our only daughter, the last remaining symbol of
our love.  Sylva means everything to me."

"I'm sorry," Khitajrah said, the words trite but her inflection
speaking volumes in sympathy.  Her voice revealed tears of her own.  "I
lost two sons and a husband to the war.  My last son was killed in a
courtroom, defending me from injustice.

I do know how you feel.  And I know there's nothing I can say or do to
make it easier."  Her touch disappeared, and Arduwyn heard the rustle
of her moving closer.  "I also know that you're giving up too soon.

You don't know for sure Sylva's dead.  We may find her yet, and she'll
need you at your best.  Sometimes, the world and its forces tempt
people with strange things., Arduwyn did not understand the last of
Khitajrah's statements, but it seemed to have great meaning for her so
he let it rest without questioning.  He raised his head, sacrificing
dignity to let her join in the sorrow she understood only too well.  It
was, perhaps, not the worst in the world, and certainly not the only,
though it seemed so to Arduwyn.  And, for the first time in his life,
Arduwyn did not run.  He allowed Khitajrah to share his pain.

The sound of hoofbeats awakened Colbey in an instant, and he scrambled
to his feet before the animal topped the rise.  Mar Lon rose an instant
slower, and even Sterrane's snoring broke cadence for a moment.

Arduwyn's paint floundered over the ridge; apparently he had, in fact,
left it at the landmark he and Khitajrah had gone to examine.

Colbey noticed at once that the hunter returned alone.  He tensed,
concern coursing through him with a suddenness that made him naturally
seek a target.

"She's gone?  Arduwyn shouted, loud enough that even .Sterrane sat up
sleepily, blinking his eyes against the moonlight.

500

Mickey Zucker Reichert "What do you mean 'gone?"

"Colbey grabbed up the staff in a stiff hand, realizing that he had
kept his fingers curled around its wood throughout the night.

"She walked under that fallen branch I told you about and
disappeared."

"Disappeared?  Khitajrah?"

Arduwyn nodded.  Catching its master's nervousness, the paint shuffled
sideways, its neck in constant motion.  Apparently mistaking Colbeys
concern over Khitajrah's welfare for mistrust, he added, "I did
everything but follow.  The indentations on the leaves end right at the
opening, and they don't start again on the other side.  She didn't
climb or run.

I watched her.  She just went in, like through a doorway, and never
came out on the other side."

Doorway.  Colbey's mind went instantly to his voyage on Captain's ship
and the hazy ocean gate they had passed through to get to the Wizards'
Isle.  He recalled the elf saying something about the need to pass
through gates to go to other worlds.  Another world!  Abruptly, much
became clear.  No wonder the Wizards thought I'd never find the
Renshai.  "You didn't follow her."

"No."  Arduwyn flushed.  "I almost did, but it seemed foolish to repeat
the same action in ignorance."  His expression told Colbey the hunter
sought some support for a decision that might seem like cowardice and
abandonment.

"You did the right thing," Colbey replied mechanically, knowing Arduwyn
too well to condemn, his mind already leagues ahead.  "She should be
fine, although she may have to face our enemies first."  He did not
explain further, keeping the details and their implications to
himself.

Likely, the Cardinal Wizards would not kill Khitajrah.  However, if
they recognized her as having significance to Colbey, they might hold
her along with the Renshai, one more beloved life he might have to
sacrifice for mankind to survive.  Now he locked the thought away even
from his own considerations.

Until he spoke to the Wizards, he could not dismiss the possibility of
compromise.

Mar Lon and Sterrane joined the conversation, having heard most of it
as they approached.  The king spoke first.

"Magic?  Kayt gone?  Maybe dead?"

Sterrane's ignorance of gates seemed strange to Colbey given that the
Bearnide had spent the majority of his childhood life under Shadimar's
care.  The oddity emphasized

how Odin's Laws had tightly curbed the Cardinal Wizards' use of
enchantments and how the drawing of chaos onto man's world had sundered
those restraints.  Magic had gone from 'scarce to common almost
overnight.  "Moved to another place, I think."  Colbey stated his
theory, though he had no way of knowing for certain whether Khitajrah
had blundered into a gate or a trap.  He glanced around the cottages.

"Leave the horses here.  I don't know where this archway leads, if
anywhere, but the terrain may not suit them."  He wondered if it might
leave them in ocean, like the Meeting Isle gate.  It seemed unlikely,
but a possibility he could not wholly dismiss.  "If it takes us to the
Wizards, we'll want to stay as quiet as we can."

Colbey's mind embraced every theory, from the possibility that the
gateway would lead to a random location to the instant death of anyone
who entered it.  His ignorance of magic frustrated him, forcing him to
make decisions for others' lives with far too little explanation.  The
staff's claim that the Wizards would need to band together for slaying
spells made the latter seem less likely.  It would fit the spirit of
the chaos-touched Shadimar, though, to leave such a trap.

If I entered, carrying the staff, it would accomplish exactly what he
wanted from the start.  "Let's go."

Arduwyn led the way, the others following in a somber quiet that made
their every movement seem loud enough to echo.  Colbey conversed with
his staff as they went, mind occupied but senses attuned for unfamiliar
noises.  "What do you think?"

"Finally, you ask."

Colbey ignored the sarcasm.  "And do you answer?"  The staff avoided
the facetious question to make a point instead.  "I believe that if the
Wizards had intended for you to find this natural doorway, they would
have made it more obvious.  Had you not brought a woodsman, had he not
wandered off to find his daughter, seeing every minute detail out of
place, you would never have found the way."

Colbey considered.  If the Cardinal Wizards had not intended for him to
discover the archway, it seemed unlikely they had created it to kill.

Pieces of the explanation still jarred, however, and he hoped the staff
might shed some insight.

"But if they didn't want me to find it, why didn't they hide it
better?

And why no guard?"  He continued following Arduwyn through the foliage,
winding between tree trunks.

"We still don't know for certain this archway comes of

magic."

"Will you be able to tell when we come to it?"  The staff trickled
amusement into Colbey's mind.  "I'll recognize the presence of chaos,
yes.  There 're traces all around here, but they ought to concentrate
around something as powerful as a gate.  I might even be able to
differentiate between offensive magic and incidental."

"Incidentall What do you mean by that?"

"Unintentional side effects.  Magic is as unpredictable as its
chaos."

You ought to know that.  Colbey tried to hold the thought to himself,
but some of the accompanying annoyance and bitterness must have crept
through because the staff seemed amused.

"Despite their knowledge and ability, the Wizards have little practical
experience with magic, especially in large quantities.  Most likely,
they intended to leave no gate passable by anything short of magic.

The quantity of chaos freed here had to cause some unexpected
problems.

As random as it seems, magic requires law to direct the chaos, and the
un-anticipated side effects of spells usually have a logic to them.

Even as an unthinking part of a whole force, chaos despises being
manipulated, so those side effects more frequently than not work
against the caster in some fashion."

Colbey put the information together in a practical manner.

"So this thing is most likely a gate.  The Wizards probably don't know
of its existence.  And it almost certainly leads to the world where
they currently are."

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"Convenient."

"Not really.  Given the ability of the Cardinal Wizards to form magical
protections and fortresses, it's always more dangerous to attack a
Wizard on his "home ground" than to draw him, angered beyond thought
and consequence, to you."

"There's no choice in that matter.  Khitajrah's already gone."

"There's always a choice."

'I won't abandon a companion, especially a lover sanctioned by the
goddess of lovers herself."

"Then you've made the choice already.  Don't mistake that for having no
choice at all."

"Here it is."  With a broad gesture, Arduwyn interrupted Colbey's
nonverbal conversation.

The landmark appeared precisely as he had described it, the trunks and
fallen branch forming a perfect rectangle with the ground serving as
one of the shorter sides.  Colbey motioned to his companions to stay
back while he examined the natural structure from every side, careful
not to pass beneath the frame.  He opened his mind to the staff's
assessment.  "No mistaking it.  It's magic.  May I show you?  " Please
do."

An image took shape in Colbey's mind, a sudden explosion of light and
color that sent him instinctively into a defensive crouch.  Strands
twined around the trunks and branches like thready, multihued snakes.

The colors shifted without pattern, glimmers sparking and boiling from
various locations in a random fashion Colbey could not hope to
follow.

Awestruck by the beauty, he stared until his vision blurred the whole
into a spinning wheel of pigment, each of a thousand colors strangely
pure and primary despite their need for mixture.  "Bind fully to me,"
the staff whispered, its mind-voice sensual amid the whirling vortex of
color that paraded through Colbey's dry eyes.  "Only I can give you the
power to stand against Shadimar."

"No!"  The need for freedom pulled Colbey fully from the enthralling
beauty of chaos' magic.  "Whatever the other Cardinal Wizards believe,
I won't wage war using enemy tactics.  Honor comes only of sticking to
my own vows and dignity after lesser foemen have abandoned their
own."

"I'm not asking you to abandon honor, only to embrace a larger one.

You're my champion, and I'm your destiny.  Without me, you and every
friend you have in the world could not stand against Shadimar."

Colbey's cheeks felt awash in flame, and the urge seized him to bash
the staff repeatedly against the tree trunks until it broke.  'I
believe in who and what I am.  No cause is worth abandoning my honor.

You may stand beside me as a friend, but you can't have me as your
slave.  Now it's your turn to choose: obey the wishes of your champion
or fight me now mind against mind."

The splashes of color faded back to the dull wood of the trunks, though
the scene would never quite look the same to Colbey.  "You know I can't
break a vow to my champion.  I said I would not oppose you, and I
won't.  But I will still let

you know when I believe your reasoning has become

clouded."

Colbey nodded grudgingly.  The compromise fell in his favor.

As little as he appreciated a subordinate questioning his actions, at
least this one could not speak aloud.  "And the magic?"  Colbey tried
to place the conversation back on track.  · Standard.  No malice I can
detect.  The almost total lack of structure, aside from the framework,
makes it likely chaos rather than the Wizards built the thing.  I don't
think it's a trap, but it may not prove a regular gate either."  · What
does that mean?  Practically."  · The way to move from world to world
is through gates.

Most places, like the Meeting Isle, have permanent openings.

That is, they can be entered and exited from the same place at any
time; The gods' world, Asgard, is like that.

There's a gate on the Bifrost Bridge that links it with man's world.

Other places, like Alfheim, where the elves live, don't have permanent
gates.  To get there or to leave requires a spell to open and close a
temporary portal.  That's why you almost never see elves here.  From
the amount of free chaos scattered about, I believe the Cardinal
Wizards created a new world using ground from man's world.  They
intended for it to require temporary gates, but this artifact formed as
a result of the magic."

Colbey felt a twitching in his mind that he took to be a mental
gesturing toward the "doorway."

"You mean "side effect," don't you?"  · I'm not so certain anymore.  I
can sense some tampering by the Wizards, an attempt to bend the excess
chaos.  Probably, the creation of a new world naturally causes the
simultaneous creation of a permanent gate to it.  Apparently, the
Wizards tried to shut down that gate, with only partial success.

Their decision not to guard the opening suggests that they believe they
disabled it completely."

Colbey did not like the sound of the staff's explanation.  · Partial
success?  You mean we might get halfway through the gate and end up
stuck in some magical void?  Or we might get sent to an unrelated
world?"  · All possibilities, plus more others than I can count.  I
can, at least, reassure you that the Wizards did not intend this to be
a trap.

I believe they intended it not to exist at all."

Colbey sucked air through his teeth, then released it in a long
sigh.

The staff had given him more information than its earlier protestations
suggested it could, yet the knowledge raised as many questions as it
answered.  The intent of the Wizards mattered little if the end result
was the same.  "So it still possible that walking through that doorway
will kill us all."  · Possible, but unlikely.  If the Wizards blocked
it, you should wind up where you started.  If it sends you to another
world, you should be able to just turn around and walk back through the
other side of the gate."

Those odds sounded better to Colbey.  "What do you suggest?"

'I still suggest you make the Wizards come to you."  Colbey discarded
the advice.  He would not desert Khitajrah to an unknown fate.  He
glanced back at his companions, trusting his own instincts more than
the knowledge of the staff.  "I'm going through.  If it's as I believe,
I should be able to come right back.  If I don't, anything might have
happened.  Sterane, you and Mar Lon go home.  We can't risk you."

Colbey studied the Bearnides.  Mar Lon nodded curtly, but Sterrane
avoided his gaze.  "Arduwyn ..."  Colbey paused, wanting to send the
hunter home as well but knowing Arduwyn had as much at stake as
himself.  "... do as you want.  You usually do anyway."

Without awaiting a reply, Colbey walked through the magical portal.

CHAPTER 30

The Green and the Pink

Remembering his last transport between worlds, Colbey closed his eyes,
preferring to face danger momentarily, rather than persistently,
blinded.  White light pulsed against his lids, brilliant enough to seep
into his retinas even without sight.  He opened his eyes, blinking away
spidery after-images, the subsequent darkness of his surroundings a
pleasure.  He stood in woodlands much like those he had left.

If not for the missing companions and archway, and the jagged lines and
blotches etched across his vision, he might have believed nothing had
changed.  The night insects kept up the same clicking, trilling chorus;
and a throaty fox call rolled through the stillness.  The clean aroma
of damp spring greenery seemed unchanged.  The wind carried a faint,
intermittent odor of musk.  The aristiri balanced on his shoulder, its
feathers fluffed, apparently unaffected by the blinding lights and
magic.

Colbey did not move, concerned about losing the location of the gate.

He twisted his neck, finding the area behind him as unrecognizably
wooded as that in front.  He saw no sign of the natural archway or the
gate.  He took a shuffling backward step.  His boot heel kicked up a
divot of mulched leaves.  Otherwise, nothing happened.  He shifted back
again, this time certain he had cleared the gateway.  Still he remained
in unfamiliar forest, without sight or sound of his companions.  Colbey
strode forward, regaining the position he had found himself in on his
arrival.  He turned, taking a long stride through the remembered
location of the gate.

Colbey collided with Arduwyn, who had apparently followed him through
the gate.  The force jarred them both to the ground.  The aristiri
squawked, taking to the air with wild, awkward wing flaps.  Colbey
rolled to his feet, and Arduwyn rose a moment later.

Colbey scowled, embarrassed by his clumsiness.  "I see you considered
your decision a long time."

Arduwyn shrugged.  "There was nothing to consider.  If Sylva's here and
well, I had to come.  If she's dead, then my fate didn't matter."

"Sterrane and Mar Lon?"

"I told them to stay."

"So did I. Do you think they'll listen?"

Arduwyn shrugged again.  "Mar Lon will, I think.  It mostly depends on
how determined Sterrane is.  And how fully he trusts your instincts.

You chose going through as the best means to free Renshai.  Sterrane
may see that as reason enough to follow."

Colbey let the matter rest.  Now that he knew the consequence of
entering was not death, Sterrane's decision lost some of its
significance.  Still, he would rather face Wizards without the king's
safety at stake.

The aristiri perched in a tree overhead.

"Ah."  The staff's partial communication intrigued Colbey."  Ah?"

"The Wizards did manage to erase the gate from this side, apparently
thinking they got the whole thing."  It anticipated Colbey's call for
practical details.  "We can travel from there to here but not back."

"So we're stuck here?"

" It would seem so."

" How do we get back?"

"Magic.  No other way."

" Can you work this magic?"

"I'm the device.  You're the Western Wizard."

Colbey ended the communication.  If returning home relied on his
knowledge of sorcery, they would remain trapped on this Wizard-made
world for eternity.

Arduwyn studied the forest, gaze rolling from the ground to the
uppermost branches.  He wandered a few paces in each direction.

"Amazing."  He looked directly at Colbey.  "I know where we are."

It seemed unlikely.  "Where?"

"The woods outside the Fields of Wrath.  This is the missing piece of
forest."

The last remnants of the Wizards' plan fell together for Colbey.

One section of trees, deadfalls, and brush looked the same as any other
to him.  Colbey could no more doubt

Arduwyn's claim to identify a specific part of the forest then

he could a man recognizing the town that raised him.  "Don't ask me
how, and I think the 'why' is obvious.  Apparently, the Wizards moved
the Fields of Wrath and the Renshai together, creating a whole new
world in the process."

"Amazing," Arduwyn repeated, not questioning Colbey's knowledge
either.

He pointed to the ground, swinging his arm to indicate a direction
Colbey could not hope to fathom without the sun's position to guide
him.  "Someone went this way.  The tracks begin right where you're
standing.  Kayt probably."

Colbey moved up beside the hunter, but no farther.  In the incomplete
darkness, he could see few of the signs of passage Arduwyn indicated,
and he did not want to make.

Arduwyn's job more difficult.  "Let's go, then.  You'll have to
lead."

He glanced backward as he spoke, hoping Sterrane and Mar Lon had
returned to Bearn, yet skeptical.  Sterrane had fussed too strongly
about coming along to surrender this close to their goal.  Still, it
seemed pointless to wait long.  Colbey would rather surprise the
Wizards than give them more of an upper hand.  Time Would only obscure
Khitajrah's trail, and she might need their help.

Arduwyn headed in the indicated direction.  Colbey waved the aristiri
to him.  "Formynder."

The hawk arced down from the tree to land on the Renshai's wrist,
apparently understanding the gesture as easily as it had his intention
to carry it when it had grown weary of travel.

Colbey felt foolish talking to a bird, but he saw the need to try.

He.

hoped the tales of the Western Wizards' supposed natural rapport with
leathered creatures would aid him now.

"Watch for Sterrane.  Help him find us if he follows."

Though the aristiri made no sound, it flew back to its perch on the
tree, remaining there as Colbey trailed Arduwyn through the brush.

The winding night air carried the intermingled odors of animals, sap,
and pollen; and it washed away the humidity locked beneath the forest
canopy.  Sticky, yellow seed pods clung to Arduwyn's jerkin and the
thin fabric of Colbey's shirt.  The high-pitched cadence of insects
seemed to rise and fall like tide, masking the minimal noises of
Colbey's and Arduwyn's progress.

A premonition of peril hammered Colbey suddenly and

without warning.  He grasped Arduwyn's belt, jerking the

hunter backward into a clumsy dodge.  An arrow whizzed past Arduwyn's
shoulder, its tip plowing through leaves.

Momentum sent it tumbling end over end.

Colbey jerked his attention to the direction from which the missile had
come.  He saw no movement, and his eyes failed him.  He crouched,
sacrificing defense for the moment it took to sweep the area with his
mind.  A quick and superficial search revealed two strangers, separated
by a significant distance.  Such tactics did not fit the Cardinal
Wizards.

Arduwyn went low, too, keeping thick trunks and tangled copses between
himself and the archer.  He slipped his own bow free, clamping an arrow
to its rest.  Soundlessly, moving with a slow steady motion, he slunk
to a better position.  A sudden, horrified intake of breath revealed
his location to Colbey, if not to their attacker.  Apparently, the
hunter had found something as unnerving as an unseen enemy shooting to
kill.

The forest went still, aside from the music of the insects and a light
breeze still twining between the branches.  The patience of the enemy
archer made Colbey cautious.  He hoped it stemmed from limited
ammunition rather than competence.

He freed Harval from its sheath.  Confident of his ability to cut and
dodge, he attempted to divert the archer or archers while Arduwyn found
the best place from which to return fire.  "Hold your attack.  We're
here in peace."

Another arrow sliced through the brush.  Colbey sprang aside, sword
slashing the shaft with a brisk motion that snapped the thin wood.  The
crude arrowhead spun in one direction, the feathered end in the
opposite.  A second arrow followed instantly, cut from the air by
Colbey's sword.  The third clipped skin from his forearm as he severed
it.  The loss of timing irritated him.  He considered charging the
archer, but he knew the other could shoot him dead before he came
within sword range.  To die in a blind rush of anger would foul his
honor and prove pointless as well.

Colbey dropped to his belly, knowing he needed to elicit the position
of the second presence his mind had touched.

Unseen, it proved far more dangerous than the archer.  He could not
afford to concentrate for too long; the price in fatigue and lost
defense would prove too great.  Quickly, he channeled power to his
thoughts, extending them to touch the second stranger.  His probe met
pain and a congcious at tempt to feign death.  Most likely, he had
located a victim rather than a companion of the archer.  The enemy, it
seemed, worked alone.

Colbey withdrew at once to tend to his own defense, believing he had
found the thing that had shocked Arduwyn moments before.  Again, he
tried to draw the enemy archer's attention, leaving Arduwyn free to
attack.  Colbey rose.  "I can break as many arrows as you can shoot.

If you insist on testing that, I'll kill you when you empty your
quiver.  If you stop now, we can talk.  Neither of us has to die."

Silence followed, but at least no arrows came.  Abruptly, something
bumped Colbey's elbow.  He spun, recognizing Arduwyn in time to pull
the strike, then whirled back to keep the other archer from catching
him off-guard.  He spoke in a hushed growl.  "Never startle an old
Renshai.  You may find your head beside your feet."

"I found Kayt."  Arduwyn waved toward the direction in which he had
disappeared.  "She's hurt.  Needs your help."

"I know," Colbey whispered in reply, though he had not yet made the
obvious connection between the injured party his mind had located and
Khitajrah.  "Parlay first.  We can't help her if we're dead."

The voice of a young woman floated eerily through the darkened forest
in song: "I am the queen Queen I am Queen of the forest am I.

The night wind blows The wolf howls drift On wings of a bird I will fly
...

Arduwyn stiffened, limbs rigid nearly to the point of seizure.

"Firran."

Colbey caught his arm.

"That's Sylva."  Arduwyn stood suddenly.  "Sylva!"

Colbey tightened his grip, jerking the hunter safely back behind the
copse.  A rattle behind them revealed that the archer had shot another
arrow.

"That's Sylva."  Arduwyn struggled, cuffing Colbey with a wild sweep of
his arm.""Let me go, damn it!"

"Are you sure that's her?"

"I know that voice.  I wrote that song."

 Queen of all

All that I see Queen of the sky and the trees With the deer I shall
walk With the sly foxes stalk.

As a hawk I shall glide on the breeze.

"Be still.  There's something wrong."

"It's you, holding me down when my daughter needs me."

Arduwyn shouted, "Sylva!  Don't shoot.  It's your father."

An arrow carved through the foliage between the two men, plowing
beneath a layer of leaf mold.  A second followed an instant later, the
tip gouging Arduwyn's thigh.

Arduwyn gasped in pain, hands falling naturally to the pink and green
feathered shaft jutting from his leg.  A curl of blood welled around
the wound, a small sample of what he would find when he removed the
arrow and its wood no longer pinched the damaged flesh in place.

Arduwyn shifted, spoiling Sylva's targeting, gritting his teeth against
an agony he could blame on no one but himself.  "She's running low · on
arrows."

"How can you tell?"  Colbey rose to a crouch.  His honor would not let
him lie still behind a coward's shield of brush.

He would fare better, mentally and physically, avoiding and parrying
the attacks.

"She's using the better ones now.  Colbey, what's going on?  Why would
my daughter try to kill me?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out."  Colbey began shifting
energy from body to mind.  "Give me some covering fire, or talk to her,
or something.  I'm going in."

"In?  In where?"

"Her mind."  Colbey did not wait for the natural string of questions to
follow.  He concentrated his thoughts and nudged them toward Sylva,
oblivious to Arduwyn's voice or movements.

The destruction became obvious at once.  Sylva's thoughts formed no
logical sequence Colbey could decipher.  Unlike Episte and Frost
Reaver, where the chaos had charged Colbey like a she-bear 'protecting
cubs nothing remained here to bother him.  The magics had come and
gone, hammering thought and reason into a tangled, incoherent jumble.

He withdrew, catching part of Sylva's response to whatever Arduwyn
might have said to goad her.

"... not belong must die.  I am the forest, and the forest is me.  I
am the queen."

Arduwyn remained low, protecting Colbey's still form with his body The
Renshai stood, prepared to dodge arrows again, though his mind felt
fuzzy and his movements slow and thick.

"What did you find?"  Arduwyn pressed at once, his hands clenched and
his tone desperate.

Colbey shook his head.  "It's not good."

Arduwyn's features faded to a chalky white.

"Always before, I've had a battle to fight: This time, the enemy did
its damage and left."  Colbey took his attention from Sylva momentarily
to glance at Arduwyn.  He looked back in time to slash another arrow
from the air with a single, deft stroke.  The routine need for defense
did not break his chain of thought.  "I'd guess the magic hit her hard
and fast.  No specific tampering to fix."  Colbey grasped for a concept
a person who had never entered another's mind could understand.  "It's
like a tempest ripped through, then moved on.  Just wreckage."

"Wreckage?"  Arduwyn kept his eye open so long, Colbey could see it
drying.  "Wreckage can be fixed."

"Rebuilt.  I don't know how to do that."  A movement overhead seized
Colbey's attention.  He studied the object from peripheral vision.  The
aristiri circled.  Damn, we don't need Sterrane brought into this.

Colbey hoped, but doubted, the hawk had gotten his instructions
wrong.

"What can we do?"

"First, we have to stop her from shooting at us."

"I'm not killing my daughter."

"I didn't ask you to kill her."

Arduwyn dove for the loophole.  "You're not killing her either."

Colbey addressed the staff.  "Can you do anything?"

"I'm the device--" Colbey cut it off.  'I know.  I'm the Wizard."  He
broke contact before the next thought.  Useless.  Without taking his
eyes from Sylva, he addressed Arduwyn again.  "What do you want me to
do?"

Still on the ground, Arduwyn seized the fabric of Colbey's britches.

"Get back in her mind.  Do whatever you do.  She's my daughter, damn
it.  You have to try."

Colbey knelt, freeing himself from Arduwyn's grip to

keep it from inhibiting his lightning dodges.  Fatigue and the staff
hampered him more than enough.  Visions of Episte came to mind, and he
knew his best try might not prove enough.  Exerting effort on a lost
cause seemed madness now, leaving him to face the Wizards with mind
clouded, body exhausted, and so much at stake.  "Talk to her."

"What?"

"Talk to her.  Distract her.  While I'm working, I leave myself
defenseless."  The idea rankled nearly as much as the one before.  To
die at the hands of a superior enemy would please him.  To let a young
archer turn him into a pincushion while he lay helpless in the dirt
would, deservedly, damn his soul to Hel.  He let the concept go.  For
now, he had work to do.

Colbey gathered the energy Of body, mind, and soul, probing delicately
for the details of Sylva's magic-wracked brain.

He found her easily as he glided into a cavern of instincts and basic
emotions.  A red glow filled most of the space, a warm and
discomforting prickle against his searching consciousness.

It seemed to consist of equal parts of desperate rage and fear, spurred
by a strangely unmotivated certainly that if she did not kill first,
she would become the victim.

The idea strengthened abruptly.  Colbey caught an image of threat.

Then he felt Sylva lurch, fitting arrow to string and drawing.

For an instant, Colbey hesitated, caught between returning to self to
shout a warning, thereby wasting the energy he had spent so far, and
letting Arduwyn handle the danger alone.

He chose the latter course.  The hunter understood the situation;
Colbey had little choice but to trust Arduwyn's ability.

Instead, the Renshai set to work, stepping away from Sylva's current
abstraction to take in a full picture of the damage.

He discovered more squashing than tearing.  The magic had f rayed some
thoughts, but most remained intact, only their patterns lost, not
necessarily their content.  Pain had caused her consciousness to
retreat to the distant past: to childhood then beyond into animal
suspicion and basic instinct.

Now that he had taken in the whole picture, Colbey dared to steal a
moment peeking at the world through Sylva's eyes.

Arduwyn stood before her, fully unprotected.  He had tossed aside
sword, bow, and quiver to speak with her in innocent defenselessness.

Sylva had nocked an arrow and drawn, the point flickering toward
Arduwyn's throat as she aimed.

Without time for strategy, Colbey scrambled to 'communicate with the
staff in concepts rather than wasting precious moments for words.  He
managed to make clear the importance of holding her rage and her
elemental need to destroy at bay in the same way the staff had frozen
Shadimar's spell in Frost Reaver's mind.

For once, the staff obeyed without question.  It drew a circle around
the prominent killing concept, driving it to the center of the bank of
instinct in which Sylva's inner being had become trapped.  The bow
remained aimed and drawn in threat, but she showed no sign of releasing
at the moment.

He could catch little of Arduwyn's words, but he could tell the skinny
hunter was talking.  He only hoped Sylva would listen.

Even as the staff drew borders, it made its limitations known.  "Work
fast and carefully.  It's not chaos or magic I'm holding, but human
thought.  My power is scant here."

Colbey dove for the area the staff had cleared, swimming through a
natural tangle of normal, but primal, function: thirst, hunger,
survival, and cravings.  The Wizard's magic had slipped past this area,
severing the pathways to the next higher portion of Sylva's mind, the
area that, apparently, held her memories of childhood.  A flicker of
Sylva's consciousness danced around the confines, occasionally thudding
against the staffs conjured boundary as it quested for the rage that
had driven her actions until that moment.

Colbey tried to bridge the gap between instinct and memory, but his
probe proved useless when it came to creation.

He could look, but he could not build.  His own ability to skip
unhindered from place to place frustrated him.  Somehow, he had to get
Sylva from instinct to function, from emotion to thought; but the spell
seemed to have slashed the ties between them.  He dropped back,
touching the staffs rage-confining ting.  It thrummed against his
probe, weakening.

The instant it fell, Colbey knew, Arduwyn would die.

The thought goaded him, lending him a second wind that he needed.  His
own energy dwindled; the need to plot, to stretch his mind to Sylva,
and to work within her was draining stamina faster than the most
grueling sword practice.

Once again, he tried to fashion a temporary route across the gap, and
once again he failed.  His own consciousness became faded, a winking
gray spot in the shadow of the spark that revealed Sylva's vibrant
presence.  He noticed that she

had ceased to hammer at the staff's barrier, though it continued
steadily to wane.  Instead, she seemed to spend more time at the frayed
edges of her prison, as if to help Colbey with his bridge.

Catching his breath, Colbey watched as Sylva repeatedly soared up
passageways that started wide, then narrowed into nothingness.  He
could see the jagged edges the magic had left after tearing the
connections, and the glimpse showed him one thing more.  One pathway
remained intact, back-lit in the splash of white Sylva's presence
revealed to him.  It seemed thread-thin and friable, but it fully
bridged the gap.

Somehow, he had to guide her to it.

Yet the method evaded him.  In order to guide, he would need to
understand the bridging thought; but to touch a thought that appeared
no thicker than a hair seemed folly.  If he broke it, he damned her to
eternity as an unthinking animal, driven only by the understanding of
kill or be killed.

Better she found the way on her own, yet that seemed nearly as
impossible.  She had not discovered it so far.  If she did not soon,
the staff's barrier would fail; and her slaying frenzy would come back
in a wild wave that would cost Arduwyn, Khitajrah, and himself their
lives.

Colbey fell back, oblivion pounding at him.  Exhaustion had stolen his
dexterity for finer technique, and he felt certain he could do nothing
to escort Sylva down the last remnant of ascent from madness.  For a
moment, he let all thought slip from his own mind, the nothingness a
comfortable and restful reprieve.  Then, he noticed Sylva's presence
dancing about near the bridge, missing it by a hair's breath.

Colbey lurched to Sylva's senses, trying to find the incident that had
sparked the change in direction of her thoughts.  She continued to
stare at Arduwyn, the arrow still nocked but the bow lowered; and the
words that seeped through her hearing gave Colbey enough information,
he hoped, to cue Arduwyn.

Colbey pulled out of Sylva's mind, ignoring the buzzing in his head and
the desperate need for sleep that pinned his limbs in place.  "Deer,"
he whispered.  "Remember something about deer.  Hurry!"

With Colbey's departure, the staff had no choice but to leave as
well.

Sylva's bow jerked upward, targeting Arduwyn's throat.

ing arrows to deer.  "... green and pink.  Pink not white.  Because I
realized that white, from a distance, looked like the warning flash of
a deer tail."

Colbey winced, trying to gather strength to rescue Arduwyn, but he
scarcely managed to straggle awkwardly to his hands and knees.

Sylva jerked as she released the string.  The arrow flew in a harmless
arc, missing Arduwyn by a full hann's length.

"Papa?"  Her voice sounded infantile.  She dropped the bow, expression
twisted into a hideous mask of confusion.  "Papa?"

"Sylva."  Arduwyn rushed forward, clasping her in a desperate
embrace.

"Firfan's eternal charity.  Sylva."

Colbey's head sank to his chest, but he forced himself to crawl
onward.

There was-still Khitajrah to tend.

By the time Colbey awakened, sunlight streamed through the branches,
turning the skeletal foreboding of the ancient trees a welcoming brown
and emerald.  He had managed to remain alert long enough to tend
Khitajrah's and Arduwyn's wounds, both significant yet neither fatal so
long as infection did not take hold.  Colbey hoped his ministrations
with herb and salve would see to that.  While he worked, he had heard
the arrival of Sterrane and Mar Lon, paying them no heed.  To split his
concentration then, while fatigue had crushed his vision to a tunnel,
would have spiraled him into unconsciousness.  Better to choose sleep
on purpose than to allow the darkness to overtake him.

Colbey sat up, and Mar Lon spun at the motion.  He crouched between
Sterrane and Khitajrah, attentive to the edge of paranoia.

Nevertheless, he managed a smile for the Renshai.

Colbey glanced at each of his companions in turn.  Sylva slept, her red
hair sweeping around her like a cape, snarled with nettles and burrs.

Arduwyn kept one arm looped protectively about her shoulders, his
injured thigh twisted at an awkward angle that would leave it as stiff
as the wound itself did.  Khitajrah's V-necked dress revealed the
bandage wrapping her chest.  No blood had seeped through as she slept,
attesting to Colbey's timing of the pressure needed to clot.  At first,
the arrow had appeared to be lodged in her chest cavity, a guaranteed
death.  Fortuitously, however, a rib had diverted the arrow beneath
lung and heart; and Khitajrah had escaped with nothing worse than a
pain that Colbey's

herbs had dulled.  Sterrane lay in his usual placid pose, his

snores more gentle than usual.  "I told you to stay behind."

The corners of Mar Lon's mouth slid downward.  "And I did.  For as long
as I could keep the king waiting.  When my duty to guard clashes with
my duty to obey ..."  He shrugged, not bothering to finish the
thought.

Colbey grinned cruelly.  "Personal honor has its place.

Servitude is grim."

"Oh?  And how would you know, Sir Colbey Calistinsson, Knight of the
Bearnian and Erythanian kings ..."  Mar Lon returned a gibe equally
malicious.  "... in name only.  With all of the benefits but no real
obligations or ties to either king."

Colbey glanced at Sterrane, as always amazed by the way one so
childlike and naive awake could seem Still more innocent asleep.

"That's not completely fair.  I understand the importance of Sterrane
at least as clearly as you do."

"Then why did you let him come at all?"

Colbey shook his head.  "I didn't let him come.  You were there.  He
wouldn't let me, you, or anyone stand in his Way!"

"You could have stopped him."

"How?"

"You're Renshai.  And from what I've seen and heard, a damned fine
swordsman."

"Yes, I suppose killing Sterrane would have stopped him.

But wouldn't that have defeated the original purpose?"

Mar Lon crouched, exasperated.  "You could have convinced him to
stay.

In a very convincing manner."

"Ah."  Colbey finally caught a clear grasp of Mar Lon's point.  "I
could have convinced him, but I would have become renegade, with every
army of the Westlands at my heels."  He rose.  "The Renshai have enough
enemies without turning friends against us, too.  I worked long and
hard to turn prejudice into friendship, to start to build a new life
and meaning for the Renshai.  Don't expect me to sacrifice my people to
save one king's bodyguard some of the trouble of performing his
duties."

Mar Lon pursed his lips, silent for some time.  "I'm sorry.

You're right.  I'm just worried.  If Shadimar's really gone renegade,
there's no telling what we're up against.  And you know how trusting
the king is.  Shadimar raised him.  He's like Sterrane's father."

Colbey took some encouragement from Mar Lon's comment.  "So now you
believe Shadimar's the villain instead of me?"

Mar Lon met Colbey's gaze directly, with clear hazel eyes.  "I still
think it's your handling of chaos that's at fault.

But Shadimar does seem to have become most affected by it."

"Neutral to the core."  Colbey smiled.  "As it should be."

He glanced through the huddled branches.  The conversation finished, at
least to his mind, he shifted to more pressing matters.  "Get some food
together.  I'll wake the others.  The longer we sit, the more likely
the Wizards will find us at a disadvantage."

Mar Lon set to work.

CHAPTER 31

Parlay on the Fields of Wrath Impatient, Shadimar paced, smashing a
brown slash through the otherwise grassy meadow.  Back supported by the
oak from which they had suspended Tannin, Carcophan watched his
colleague fidget, gaze tracking the Eastern Wizard's to and fro
course.

Shadimar kept the staff clenched in his right hand, and its constant
poke and retreat had left a periphery of rat-sized holes surrounding.

the pathway his repetitive tread had worn.  Dh'arlo'me stood with his
weight balanced, clasping his hands into various positions, fingers
flicking red-blond hair from his face or readjusting his collar at
intervals, though neither needed tending.  Clearly, his mistress'
absence unnerved him.

The Renshai stood or sat as the mood pleased them, exchanging whispered
conversation that Shadimar had no interest in hearing.  Should the
Renshai try to attack or to run, they would find themselves stopped
short by the magical barrier the Cardinal Wizards had bonded to
build.

Even if the prisoners charged the wall of sorcery in a moment of
weaknessl before the Wizards thought to reinforce it, even should they
somehow find a hole in the chaos of the spell, they would kick and bite
until they fell dead of exhaustion.

The Wizards' personal protection spells would thwart their attacks,
even if they somehow managed to capture a sword from Carcophan or
Dh'arlo'me.

A crack appeared in the fabric of the world, its edges shimmering
through the rainbow's spectrum.  Shadimar stopped, watching the display
in fascination, though its power seemed small compared with the
combined forces that had raged through many of their recent spells.

Returned from the world of men, Trilless stepped through.  The rift
sealed shut behind her, chaos-colors fading into normal background,
fuzzy, gray vibration lingering long after the obvious magic had
disappeared:

Dh'arlo'me walked to her side, the speed of his movement mocking the
dignity of his previous stance.  Carcophan studied her with mild
curiosity.  Shadimar stretched with feigned nonchalance, placing both
hands on top of his staff and meeting her gaze directly.

"People came to the Renshai cottages," she said.

"Colbey?"  Shadimar asked hopefully.

"Maybe.  I don't know.  I found five horses and more than one type of
footprint.  If he came, he did not do so alone.

And he did not leave the staff."

Shadimar tightened his grip on his own staff, uncertain what to make of
Trilless' findings.  Until now, their occasional forays to the cottages
had revealed no sign of visitors.

It made sense for Colbey to come, yet not to leave without some message
for the Wizards: cooperative or otherwise.

"What type of horses!"

Trilless made a stiff-fingered gesture to indicate limited knowledge in
this area.  "Good ones.  Of the type rich men might own or breeders
might use to show potential buyers the best of their stock."

Shadimar made a thoughtful' noise, annoyed that the horses appeared
during Trilless' time to check for Colbey's compliance.

Trilless continued, "I found a white horse among them, pretty enough to
belong to the Knights of Erythane, though it carried none of the
braids, symbols, and trappings."

"Frost Reaver?"  Shadimar scowled.  "Impossible.  Then Colbey can't be
among them."

"Or it's another white horse."  Carcophan supplied his first words of
the conversation, his composure mocking Shadimar's distress.

Keeping his hands high on the staff, Shadimar drew to his full
height.

"I have to go.  I might be able to talk to the horses."

"Too dangerous."  Trilless' lower lip went thin and blanched.  "We've
cast too much magic in that area already.

What good to find Colbey there if we can't use spells against him?

What use to take the Staff of Chaos from him when we've drawn so much
into the world that the Ragna-rok occurs anyway?  Soon enough, we'll
have to replenish our own protections and their bindings."  She
gestured toward the Renshai.  "The more chaos we call, the stronger
Colbey becomes."

Carcophan sighed, obviously annoyed by the need to take his opposite's
side.  "Horses don't understand abstractions and strategy.  What could
they tell you besides useless information about their riders?"  He
simulated an animal voice; but, more accustomed to addressing reptiles
and their kith it sound higher-pitched, sibilant, and more sloshy than
any beast Shadimar knew.  "The heavy two-legs.  The loud one who
doesn't share his apples."

Shadimar grew insistent, scarcely daring to believe his companions
could not see the usefulness of discussing the matter with the
horses.

"They could tell us if Colbey's come."

Carcophan returned to his normal tone.  "What difference if he has or
hasn't?  Did you expect Colbey simply to bring the staff and leave?

He'll look for the Renshai first.  When he can't find them, he'll have
no choice but to bargain.  We may have to confront him once, but it
won't last long.  He's playing chess, a single pawn against three
queens and a pile of captured pieces.  If he harms one of us, he loses
his tribe; but we can kill him with impunity."  Carcophan smiled, his
emotions well-hidden.  "Now, Shadimar, get some rest before your pacing
turns these fields into a canyon."

Shadimar sat, though his mind still worried the problem.

And the staff that he knew contained the knowledge of the universe
supported his ideas.

Colbey slipped silently through the second growth trees and underbrush,
guided toward the Fields of Wrath by Arduwyn's occasional touch.  The
archer's injured leg slowed their progress to a crawl, and Khitajrah
kept several paces behind, her stumbling gait a result of the
pain-masking herbs.  Under other circumstances, Colbey would have left
both of his wounded companions behind for the much-needed sleep their
healing bodies craved.  Yet here, it seemed folly to break into couples
or leave anyone alone.  Together, they stood a chance against the
Cardinal Wizards.  Separated, they would fall prey, one by one, to
magic.

Colbey halted for what felt like the thousandth time to give Arduwyn a
chance to catch up.  At the camp, it had seemed natural to split their
party in half; it made spying and searching more complete.  In trios,
they could stand more united against the Wizards, at least until the
others arrived.

panions, keeping the next strongest warrior and the hardiest of the
archers with the king at the expense of weakening his' own forces.  He
hoped that dividing forces would not work against them.

The aristiri circled far overhead, and Colbey saw only occasional
glimpses of it between the branches.

As if on cue, Arduwyn pulled up beside Colbey, gaze tracing a flash of
scarlet in the sky.  "I think she's trying to tell us we're nearing the
clearing.  And the Wizards are there."

Colbey followed the hunter's stare, but the aristiri had flown from
sight.  He saw only patches of blue sky, striped with boughs and
wind-swaying leaves.  "How can you tell that?"

"Her spirals have tightened.  She's narrowing in on prey."

Colbey accepted the description without comment, uncertain whether to
consider the Wizards the predator or the quarry.  He suspected some of
the hawk's antics were meant to reveal their approach and positioning
to Mar Lon Sterrane, and Sylva; and he hoped the girl could read the
flight patterns as well as her father.

"Do you want me to scout ahead?"  Arduwyn whispered.

"No."  Colbey listened for the sounds of Khitajrah's approach, but she
had gone still as well, keeping her distance so that her lumbering
would not give them away.  "We're all quiet.  We stay together.  Will
you be all right?"

Arduwyn nodded vigorously, though his pain reached Colbey in aching
waves set off by every movement.  Khitajrah's muffled agony drifted to
him as well, masked by the herbs to a deep, dull throb.  If it came to
war, Colbey knew he could rely only on his own skill; and that thought
made him frown.  Back in Bearn when the message had come, he had first
considered facing the Cardinal Wizards alone.  Now, with friends' lives
at stake and dragging the injured to a meeting that might prove fatal,
Colbey doubted the decision he had made in the king's feasting room.

It might have been better for all if he had left the others behind.

Even as the thought arose, Colbey recognized the fallacy.

Without Arduwyn, he would never have discovered the gate.  Had
Khitajrah not chosen to walk through it, Colbey might have dismissed
Arduwyn's finding; or he might have entered himself and fallen victim
to Sylva's bow.  Colbey suspected the appearance of Arduwyn and himself
had interrupted the completion of Sylva's attack.  If they had come

later, Arduwyn's daughter probably would have finished Khitajrah.

Sterrane's simple insight kept him approaching problems at the
practical level, and the king might find the words to convince'
Shadimar where Colbey failed.  If it came to war, Colbey felt certain
he would appreciate Mar Lon's sword.

"Let's go."  Colbey crept forward, Arduwyn keeping pace at his side.

The favoring of one leg made the hunter's movements unnatural, and he
instinctively slowed them to smooth his gait.  Even injured, he moved
in silence.

Shortly, the trees gave way to a grassy meadow sprinkled with
wildflowers and trampled in patches where Renshai habitually practiced
swordplay.  Colbey's eyes registered these details, even as his gaze
riveted on the figures in the clearing.

Shadimar and Carcophan stood face to face in opposition.

Their voices came to Colbey as rumbles, punctuated by brisk gestures of
arms, heads, and hands.  Occasionally, a shouted word pierced the air,
its meaning lost to the obscurity of their discussion.  Seemingly
oblivious, Trilless sat with her back propped against a tree, chatting
more softly with a figure Colbey did not recognize.  Loose, red-blond
hair draped the stranger's back, the locks speckled with red highlights
from the sun.  He wore a flaccid-fitting robe and cloak that could not
quite hide the odd musculature and willowiness that Colbey now
associated with elves.  Beyond the Cardinal Wizards, the Renshai milled
without obvious concern or threat.  Apparently, they knew no strong
thoughts, pain, or pressure because not a single emotion wafted from
any of them.

Before Colbey could consider his next course of action Carcophan
whirled to stare into the opposite side of the forest.

"Who's here?  Show yourselves!"

Shadimar spun, suddenly alert.  Trilless rose cautiously and Colbey
caught a glimpse of her companion's face.  The high, sharp cheekbones
and canted eyes clinched his race.

The Renshai tribe, too, abruptly became interested, their eyes scanning
the clearing.

Colbey touched Arduwyn's arm to indicate he should remain in place.

For now, Carcophan seemed more interested in their companions at the
other end of the clearing.  The Wizards held no grudge against
Sterrane, and Colbey doubted the king, Sylva, and Mar Lon faced much
danger.

However, the Wizards' concentration on those three would

leave Colbey free to do whatever the situation demanded.

He studied the other Renshai, divining their emotional state from
movement only.  The child seemed irritable, bored with remaining in one
place too long.  Tannin moved with a stiffness that indicated injury.

Tarah, too, lacked her usual grace, though her walk did not betray pain
as Tannin's did.

Modrey, Mitrian, and Rache seemed normal, aside from a tendency to pick
at a nonexistent sheath or sword belt.

Carcophan's voice rang out.  "I said show yourselves!  You have until I
count to four, then I'll burn down the forest and you with it."

Another moment passed in silence, except for a sudden surge of mental
activity.  Colbey could tell that the Wizards were sending messages
furiously, but he did not waste energy trying to read them.  In a
moment, he might need each modicum of physical strength, every lethal
trick at his disposal.

"Not hurt."  As Colbey watched, Sterrane stepped from the forest, Sylva
behind and Mar Lon a step in front of him.

The Wizards' surprise seemed to blend into one massive shock.  Colbey
felt the surge, though the Cardinal Wizards feigned composure with
ease.  Shadimar edged toward the king and his entourage, obviously
intending to question their presence.  Before he could speak, Carcophan
whirled, gaze tracing the forest edge.  "There're three more out
there.

Show yourselves or I carry out my threat."

Arduwyn gripped Colbey's sleeve.

"And I won't spare your companions," Carcophan added with deliberate
cruelty.

Colbey shook off Arduwyn's hold and strode into the clearing.  "Let
them go.  All of them.  It's me you want."

As one, the Cardinal Wizards and the elf spun toward Colbey.  The
mental communication became a roar, ideas rebounding among the three
Wizards.  They, spoke in a raucous chorus, devoid of harmony, their
audible words as incalculable as their shared considerations.  White
streamers filled the clearing, tangled like webs about the Wizards and
the captured Renshai.

Colbey's fists gripped his sword hilts, and he tensed to attack.

Yet, despite the activity in the air around him, he sensed no malice or
directed threat.  Even as the strands gained color, flashing through a
wild, patternless spectrum

that encompassed every hue, he sensed concern in their magic rather
than menace.

The staff confirmed the thought with one of its own.  "Defensive
magics.  Shields and barricades, I'd guess."

Shields and barricades.  Colbey could not hide his scorn.

He remained in place, maintaining the somber fearlessness that once
characterized all of the Cardinal Wizards.  An odor like sulfur and the
crisp electric aftereffect of lightning burned Colbey's nostrils.

Khitajrah had slipped up beside him.  His friends seemed uncertain but
interested, completely unaware of the grandeur of the magic that Colbey
experienced.

Clearly, only he and the other Wizards could see the color and
crackling glory in the workings of magic, the agony of its stench, and
the tingle that built in its wake, vibrations that prickled Colbey's
skin like tiny bee stings.

Colbey remained in place, unperturbed, hoping to rattle the Wizards
with his composure alone.  "One more spell, and Harval dances through
your throats."  He patted the hilt to remind them he carried one of the
few weapons that could cause their downfall.

Shadimar's nostrils flared.  Otherwise, the Wizards showed no sign of
the boil of emotions Colbey sensed within them.

Their binding to create spells had made them nearly inseparable to his
mind gift.

Shadimar looked at Sterrane.  "Sterrane, my fair child.

Good to see you again.  I hope Bearn is well.  How did you come
here?"

Colbey drew breath, knowing his covering response would come to late.

In his guileless way, Sterrane would surely tell all to his mentor.

Sterrane pouted.  Even across the clearing, Colbey could see the king's
lower lip jut and swell.  "Bearn not well.  You take friends
capture."

Shadimar's lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed like a father about to
lecture a disobedient child.  "Sterrane, you know me well enough to
trust me.  Have you ever seen me do anything outside the best interests
of the Westlands?  Do these look like prisoners to you?"  He inclined
his head toward the Renshai, all of whom now stood in a row watching
the proceedings.  The pattern of their chosen stances told Colbey that
some unseen barrier blocked their path; and, though their lips moved in
conversational patterns, he could not hear even a dull murmur of their
exchanges.

"You always work for West," Sterrane admitted.  His

mouth remained in its downward bow, lower' lip bulging.

"Before.  Why take Renshai?"

Shadimar rolled a careful look at the Renshai tribe before answering.

He measured his words a sure sign that they could hear him.  "It was
the only way, Sterrane.  Colbey's dangerous, a pawn of chaos.  Whatever
he told you, beware.

He plans to destroy the world.  I did only what I felt I had to do to
stop him.  You understand."

Colbey kept his mouth shut.  Protestation now would only make
Shadimar's point seem valid.  The other Wizards remained silent also,
content to let Shadimar represent them, at least until their purposes
clashed.

Sterrane's pout dissolved, his lip tightening back to normal size.  His
dark eyes went wide; but he assumed no expression Colbey could read,
torn between his mentor and a companion he trusted implicitly.  "Colbey
not chaos.  Not."

Sterrane struggled to put the concept into words he could scarcely
manipulate for normal conversation.  "If was chaos, not loyal to
Renshai.  Not come save them."

"Ah."  Shadimar smiled, apparently glad for the point Sterrane had
chosen.  "Whether he has come to rescue or damn them remains to be
seen."  He swung about to face Colbey.  "You need only give us the
staff you carry.  The Renshai, your friends, and even you will leave
here free and unharmed."

A sudden flurry of conversation among the Renshai reinforced the
realization that they could hear the exchanges around them, though the
barrier prevented Colbey from reading their thoughts or listening to
their discussions.  Their attention shifted to him.  Tarah and Modrey
studied him with nervous interest.  Rache and Tannin stared with a
fierce crit-icalness befitting Renshai.  Mitrian looked stricken, her
eyes crinkled and her mouth twisted.

Colbey said the only thing he believed he could.  "You know I can't
give you the staff."

"Because you would place ownership of a polished stick before ones you
claim to love."

Colbey kept his gaze on Shadimar, bombarded by the emotions of the
myriad around him.  He sensed uncertainty among his friends, a wavering
rather than a break in their loyalty.  Trilless seemed smug.  A
bitterness colored Carcophan's amusement, a sour rancor whose source
seemed

other than Colbey.  Colbey addressed the Renshai directly.

"Because this so-called 'polished stick' contains a force that makes
the Cardinal Wizards seem little more than fettered slaves."  He turned
his attention back to the Wizard.  "I don't bow to terrorism.  My
honor, and that of those involved, does not allow it.  If I gave you
the staff, it would make a mockery of the exchange.  We would all die
within the day."

Colbey sensed anger and scorn beneath Shadimar's sullen mask.

Nevertheless, the Wizard pitched his voice to soothe.

"Colbey, beneath what the staff has made you into, I know there's a
fair and honest man.  Do you think, for a moment, that the world is
safer in your hands than in those of the · world's guardians chosen by
Odin?"  He unfolded his arms broadly to indicate Carcophan, Trilless,
and himself.  "Give us the staff.  We'll destroy chaos, and the world
will fall back into harmony."

Colbey sighed, his mind forming arguments his tongue would never speak,
not even to remind the Wizards that he, too, had been selected by
Odin.

He had rehashed the same ground with Shadimar too many times to believe
he could convince the Wizard now.  "I can't give you the staff, and I
won't.  Surely, you'll take something else in trade for the Renshai."

Before Shadimar could reply, Carcophan cut in.  "There is one other
thing we will take."  Though he addressed Colbey his glare fell fully
on the trio at the opposite side of the clearing.  "We'll take the life
of this murdering little witch ..."  He jabbed a steady finger at
Sylva.  "... along with the staff."  · Stop it!"  Shadimar's mental
reprimand struck so hard Trilless recoiled, and even Colbey felt it
ring clearly through his mind.  "Keep your grudges private.  Better
yet, Wizards hold no grudges at all."

Arduwyn crouched into a hollow between a standing tree and a deadfall,
arrow to string in an instant.

Though he made the movement appear casual, Colbey deliberately stepped
between Arduwyn and his target.  He · doubted the shot could do
anything more than further enrage the Southern Wizard.  "Surely, we can
Find a compromise."

Colbey spoke to Shadimar, ignoring Carcophan's outburst.

To the best of her ability to remember, Sylva had already explained how
she came to wander the woodlands in madness,

her memory ending just after she had slain the woman

threatening Rache.

"No compromise," Shadimar returned.  "The world can't afford it.  The
staff or the Renshai.  Your choice."

Colbey traced the knurling on Harval's hilt.  "I need time to think."

"Take time."  Shadimar wriggled his fingers toward the Renshai,
murmuring something Colbey could not decipher.

Spots and random squiggles defined the wall caging the tribe, appearing
as red-hot images then fading back into obscurity.

Colbey could not know for certain; but he guessed Shadimar, about
to-say something the Renshai would not approve of, had stolen their
hearing as well as their freedom.

"But not too much time; we've waited long enough.  For every half day
you delay, one Renshai dies."

Outrage sputtered like a fuse through Colbey, but he squelched it
before it became an all-consuming explosion.

Without a word, he turned to leave, trusting his own instincts to guard
his back.  Should any Wizard start a spell for the purpose of attack,
he would meet a Sword of Power in the hands of a berserk Renshai.

"One last thing," Shadimar called.

Colbey froze, but he did not turn.  He hoped the stiffness of his
demeanor cued the Cardinal Wizards how close he had come to violence.

"We have a right to know how you got here."

Colbey hesitated longer than propriety demanded, but the Wizards seemed
not to notice.  Centuries of existence had made them maddeningly
patient.  Colbey recalled how his own ignorance of the Wizards'
repertoire made him cautious.  Had the lives of so many not fallen into
his hands, Colbey and Harval would long ago have resorted to physical
combat.  The unpredictability of the Wizards and their spells had
become the key to their danger.  Now, he hoped, misconception about his
powers would beleaguer them at least as much.  "Magic," he replied.  "I
used magic."

"What kind of magic?"  Shadimar demanded.

Colbey chose not to answer.

Back at camp, Colbey let rage overtake him until the world seemed to
blur behind a burning, red curtain.  Coherent thought receded, lost in
the boil of Colbey's fury.

"What now?"  Arduwyn asked, pillowing Khitajrah's head

on his uninjured thigh.  She breathed in erratic patterns to avoid the
pain, and the need for her body to heal apparently made her sleepy.

Sterrane slumped on a log, his meaty hands cupping his face and black
hair jutting from every hole and crevice of his grip.  Mar Lon strummed
his mandolin softly, apparently Willing to sacrifice Sterrane's safety
to draw him from melancholy.  Sylva stroked the crests of her last few
arrows in mindless repetition, head low.

Guilty for Khitajrah's pain, though he had not caused it, Colbey knelt
beside her.  He stroked the Eastern-dark hair, pulling sweat-dampened
strands free of her forehead.  She caught his hand, smiling sweetly
through her pain.

Arduwyn's jealousy pulsed against Colbey, and he could feel the hunter
wrestling the emotion down with guilt.

"Do you see the sword Mar Lon has there?"  Colbey nodded toward Mar
Lon's hip.

"I see them both," Khitajrah replied.

"The one with the hilt shaped like a wolf's head.  It belongs to the
Renshai woman.  The dark-haired one, not the blond."

Khitajrah grunted, saying nothing.

"Do you see the yellow gems of the eyes!"

Khitajrah squinted.  "Not from here."

"They're there.  One's broken."

Khitajrah considered the significance for a moment.

"That's the magic?"

"Yes."  Colbey squeezed Khitajrah's hand, then freed his own from her
grip.  "The item you've been seeking."

Khitajrah smiled, lids sagging closed, features becoming peaceful.

"I don't know what the next day holds, so I thought it best to tell you
now in case I can't later.  The sword belongs to the Renshai.  It has
to stay with them, you understand."

"You'll tell them to let me use it?  Just once?"

"I'll ask them."  Colbey glanced from Arduwyn to Khitajrah.  Each
grimace from the Woman sent a wave of concern and sympathy grinding
through the hunter.  "If I die, ask them yourself.  Arduwyn will stand
behind you, I believe."

Arduwyn nodded vigorously, though he had no way to understand the
significance of the request.

Khitajrah groped for Colbey's hand, caught it, and clasped it with
affection.  Then her fingers fell away.  Every wrinkle fled her
features, and her breathing became regular and rhythmic.

Arduwyn stared at Colbey, desperation and sadness as clearly in his
gaze as radiating from his person.  You and her ...?  He left the
question unfinished, prodding ColbeY for an answer the Renshai felt too
confused to understand himself· "I don't know," Colbey admitted.

Untangling relationships seemed of little importance in the wake of
other matters.

"But I never shied from healthy competition, and you never hesitated to
stand against me before."  He smiled.  "Let the battle begin."

Shocked, Arduwyn found no reply.

Colbey stole the reprieve to rise.  Before he could cross the clearing,
Mar Lon turned the conversation back to its original question.

"What do we do now?"

"I think."  Colbey strode from the campsite and deeper into the
forest.

The aristiri wheeled from a distant treetop and zigzagged after the
Renshai.  Within the space of a short jog, he found a suitable place
and launched into a practice more energy consumin g and brutal than
even most of his own, while the hawk studied him and his maneuvers from
a nearby limb.

The world disappeared, along with its problems and paradoxes, as Colbey
gave himself fully to his sword and his goddess.  Though he always gave
his all to every practice, this one put his previous work to shame.  He
became a silver flicker of flame, whirling and reversing with a speed
that seemed 'impossible· A sword in e ach hand, he cleaved a thousand
imagined enemies and faced a million more.  Despite the beauty of his
speed and grace, the lethality of his movements could never be mistaken
for dance.

Colbey lost all concept of time.  At intervals, he knew, his companions
came to talk to him.  He heard none of their proclamations or
entreaties.  His soul escaped through an opening he made, seeking sif
to beseech or demand a solution.  His flurry of offense never lost its
dimensions of prayer.  He performed for his goddess and to sharpen his
skill, for no other reason, though rage added power to each skillfully
executed stroke.  Yet Sif did not answer.  And

Colbey continued his sword work, oblivious to constraints of time or
place.

Arduwyn paced, intentionally inflicting the pain that came with
movement to take his mind from the worry he could displace no other
way.  His throat seemed to pinch closed, throttling him with
responsibility that even the agony of his wound could not erase.  The
Renshai needed tending.  And the one man who could help them had
retreated so far into violence that no mortal could draw him back to
reality.

Mar Lon sang to the cadence of Arduwyn's pacing, slowing the beat
gradually; as if to draw the hunter to a stop.  DeSpite the grandeur of
the music, its intention failed.

Arduwyn's conscience bucked against the peace, finding him undeserving
of the solace it promised.  He waited only until the last notes pealed
from the instrument before turning his discomfort on the bard.  "We
have to do something."

Arduwyn glanced through the branches.  The morning had aged enough to
make the midday deadline loom.

Apparently surrendering to Arduwyn's mood, Mar Lon replaced his
mandolin, kneading away nervous energy against his sword hilt
instead.

"What can we do?  None of us can budge Colbey.  We have to wait for
him."

"Why?"  Arduwyn returned.  His gaze jerked from Khitajrah's sleeping
form, to Sylva who watched him intently, to Sterrane who had not raised
head from palms all morning.

"Because it's his situation.  We're along to help him."

"It's our situation, too."  Arduwyn held out a hand to his daughter,
and she came to his side.  "Her husband and some of my closest friends'
lives hinge on settling this matter swiftly.  We can't wait for Colbey
to indulge himself slaughtering shadows.  We have real enemies to
face."

Sterrane finally looked up.  "Shadimar not enemy."

Arduwyn did not relent.  "He is if he kills Renshai to get what he
wants from Colbey."

Sterrane narrowed his eyes, but he said nothing.

Arduwyn released some of his own pent-up anger to soften his words.

"Fine.  Maybe Shadimar's right, and Colbey's the enemy.  Or maybe they
both believe what they're saying and each has a legitimate point.

Let's go and find out."

"What are you suggesting?"  Mar Lon's tone revealed his incredulity.

"We promised Colbey our Support."

Arduwyn had no intention of betraying anyone.  "Colbey's

used to handling problems with violence.  He's no diplomat.

Now he's faced with a problem and, instead of considering it, he's out
finding himself an enemy he can best with a sword instead of his wit.

Maybe we can negotiate where he failed."

Sterrane's face bunched in serious consideration.  "Talk Shadimar?

That maybe work."

"Of course it maybe work."  Arduwyn adopted the king's speech pattern
routinely, the thought of doing something, anything, relieving some of
his restless need.  He gathered his belongings, stacking the longer
term items and hefting · personal gear.

Mar Lon shifted his mandolin to his back, out of the way of free
movement.  "What about her?"  He waved his fingers at Khitajrah.

"She'll be safe here.  Clearly, the Wizards aren't planning to hunt us
down."  Arduwyn strapped his quiver in place.  He had every intention
of negotiating peacefully, but it made no sense to face a potential
threat completely defenseless.

"Let's go."

CHAPTER 32

In Ruin and Confusion Hurled

Though the clearing and his companions had faded in a blur of savage
sword technique, Colbey gained an explicit clarity of mind that he knew
only in battle and with the grandest of practices.  The world slowed to
a crawl, granting him more than enough time to map out each
split-second maneuver, to consider and act faster than others could
think to watch the motion.  For hours that passed like an instant, he
thrust, slashed, and spun, battling mock enemies by the thousand,
offering earnest prayers to his goddess so she might steer him to the
proper course that would allow her chosen, the Renshai, to live.

But Sif gave Colbey no signs, no guidance that he could fathom.  Once
before, when he had needed to decide the fate and direction of the
Renshai tribe, she had come to him in a triple image, battling him
three swords to two and three bodies to one.  Without words, she had
directed his thoughts, Colbey believed, to a future he had tried to
turn into reality: the Renshai as hired soldiers following their
morality and honor.  Another time, she had told him to have faith in
himself after the Wizards and powers condemned him.  Yet this time,
when the life of every person and every Renshai lay at stake, it seemed
as if Thor's wife had abandoned him.

Colbey spun, quicker than a cornered stag, sword whipping through two
vision of enemies to meet four more at his back.  Harval and the
rescued Renshai sword jabbed, curled back in opposite loops, then
licked out again.  Assuming failure, Colbey blocked the ripostes, then
drove in again for another attack.

The aristiri glided down from its perch to land on the grass in front
of Colbey.

The Renshai did not slow for an instant.  He hacked and stabbed at the
same enemies, imagining them dodging

strokes no man had ever escaped, seeing return slashes as

quick as the ones he delivered.

Long, human legs sprouted from the hawk body, as muscled as any
warrior's, their slender proportions perfectly female.

As Colbey stared, locked into a deadly crouch, feathers gave way to
linen and mail locked to full hips, a delicate waist, and breasts that
held his gaze far beyond politeness.

Then, all signs of the aristiri disappeared, and Freya stood in its
place.  A shield girded her left arm, and a sword graced her other
fist.

Colbey remained in position, uncertain of his next words or actions.

Freya studied him in the full light that wove through the branches
announcing the coming midday.  "I'll have that spar you promised
now."

Colbey smiled.  Before he could reply, Freya charged him.

Her sword sped for his chest.

Colbey sprang aside, returning the attack with a lightning quick one of
his own.  Harval rang against the shield.  The other blade slid
harmlessly from cloth-covered mail, creasing a wrinkle through the
fabric that made its threads glitter and wink in the sunlight.  Freya
returned a thrust that Colbey's right-hand sword battered aside.

Harval leapt for her gut.

Blue fire seemed to caper through Freya's eyes, enhancing a beauty that
already seemed impossible.  He recognized battle joy, a perfect echo of
his own magnificent excitement.

The swords stabbed and sliced with lethal grace in imponderable
patterns and at a speed Colbey's pounding heart could never match.

Happiness swept him from head to heel, and his heart cried out for a
dally partner with the skill of this one.  Decades had passed since he
had capered with a woman who could match him stroke for stroke, and
that at a time when his own ability had been far less.  His night with
Khitajrah seemed to fade to insignificance.  The sensuality of giving
his all to a woman, of fending as many sword cuts as he gave, brought a
euphoria that usurped even that of sex itself.

No longer simply slowed, the universe seemed to jerk to a halt, half an
hour of combat fleeing in an eye blink.  Then, Colbey swirled his blade
driving in with a sudden charge that brought him under and through
Freya's guard.  Harval stabbed through mail, guided to sweep harmlessly
across

Freya's side.  Colbey's shoulder hammered into her chest.

She fell, breathless and sprawling, this time unable to roll quickly
enough to avoid the cross of steel he pressed to her throat.

Freya's breasts rose and fell in a heavy pattern, and sweat added a
sheen to her ivory skin.  The necklace glimmered and twitched with
every breath, and the metallic threads sewn through her garments hurt
his eyes.  Her golden hair spread in a wave around a face blindingly
beautiful.  Winded, she spoke in spurts of gathered air.  "As skilled
... as your name ... Kyndig."

"Colbey," he corrected, finding himself equally breathless.

He could not remember the last time any single spar had tired him.

"Kyndig," Freya repeated.  "The children of Thor are named... for
warcraft."  Her voice became more fluent with time.  "Magni, might.

Modi, wrath.  Thrudr, his daughter, power."  Her steady, sapphire gaze
met his.  "Kyndig, skill."

Colbey removed the threat, sheathing his swords.  He had won the
battle, yet no sense of triumph accompanied the victory.

The glory.  and excitement had come and gone with the battle itself,
its end leaving him only with a different, deep and only partially
familiar longing.  His loins burned, and the fire seemed to spread
throughout his being.  He wanted to correct Freya again, to insist that
she use the name given to him by the mortal parents he'd loved rather
than the god who had chosen to abandon him.  But the point seemed
unimportant.

His gaze traced her figure in a cycle he could not seem to stop,
memorizing the perfection of arcs, curves, and bulges.  "You're the
aristiri?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Though the question implied interest in the transformation, Freya's
explanation addressed the real question.  "I needed to watch you.  Had
I come in my true form, I would have caused no end of problems and
changes to man's world."

Colbey did not probe for details.  The gods' avoidance of mankind
seemed to confirm Freya's comment well enough.

"Why did you need to watch me?"

Freya raised an arm, a silent request for help with rising.

Absently, Colbey leaned over and gave her his hand, a hundred more
questions pressing into his mind at once.

Freya wrapped callused fingers around Colbey's palm, her

grip seeming soft and delicate despite the hoary buttons worn by the
hilt of her sword.  Without warning, her hand tightened painfully, and
she jerked with an unexpected suddenness that overbalanced Colbey.

Colbey scrabbled for equilibrium, failed, and fell.  Only an
instinctive twist kept him from landing fully upon the goddess.

"Why ...?"  he started, his next words suffocated beneath Freya's
lips.

The kiss rallied Colbey's senses like nothing ever had.  In an instant,
the world and its every problem disappeared, replaced by an inferno of
need that threatened to consume reason.

He jabbed his tongue into her mouth, sucking in the Sweetness of her
saliva and breath.  One hand slipped through the collar of dress and
mail, desperately seeking breast and nipple.  The other ragged at the
skirts, hunting entrance beneath garments constructed for war, never
for passion.

He slithered on top of her, mind emptied of all thought except a vital
desire.

Freya returned the kiss with an eagerness that encouraged Colbey.  Her
passionate caresses nearly sent him over the edge too soon.  Still, she
disengaged her lips from his mouth before he had found the necessary
gaps in her clothing.  She whispered in his ear, warm breath stirring
something animal before the words registered.  "Careful, Kyndig, Don't
smash anything, or I'll never carry your baby."

The words seemed nonsensical, but concentration on her voice brought
reality back into focus.  Horrified realization replaced desire in an
instant, and Colbey's lust died to a painful throb.  "Gods!"  He sprang
to his feet, straightening his clothing, averting his eyes so that
Freya could do the same.  His hand slipped to his hilts, prepared to
fight a divine retribution that never came.  Surely, the goddess could
forgive no man or god what he had done.  Even the AllFather himself did
not dare lay a finger on Freya.  If the goddess did not inflict her
revenge, the many gods who wanted and could not have her surely
would.

Nothing answered Colbey's transgression.  No gods slammed him with
killing spells.  No massive weapons soared from the sky.

Cautiously, Colbey glanced back at Freya.

The goddess lay, propped on one elbow, a smile of amusement touching
her lips.

Colbey's mind replayed as much of the last few moments as he could,
ripping through the shroud that desire had drawn over his wits.  Freya
had pulled him down on her.  She had initiated the kiss.  He had taken
things much further, but she had not resisted nor made any attempt to
stop him.  For reasons he did not dare to fathom, Freya wanted him.

And he wanted her more than anything he could remember.  The fire in
his loins sparked to life again, and he overcame need with will.  "You
said something about a baby?"

Freya rubbed a hand across her lower abdomen.  "Some day."

Confusion replaced the wild craving that still compelled him to finish
what he had started with the most beautiful of all beings.  "With
me?"

Colbey frowned, wishing it could be true.  Desire drove him to lie, to
hide his inability to sire children for the chance to spend his days
trying.  He had lost one wife and many potential others for their
knowledge of his limitation.  But the thought flashed through his mind
only briefly, without need for consideration.  He would not tolerate
deceit, especially to a goddess he respected.  "I'd like nothing
more.

But it's just not possible."

Freya continued to smile, saying nothing.

Colbey explained.  "My seed is sterile."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not a virgin.  I'm also not a father.  Women I've slept with have
had children with other men."

Freya swept to a sitting position.  "Maybe you just didn't find the
right woman before."

Freya's words seemed meaningless; Colbey shook his head.  His marriage
had lasted years, and his wife had borne her second husband three
children.  Images rose, of her warrior limbs guiding sword strokes in
spar, her short locks a golden frame about features his love for her
made beautiful.

That love had become driven to his core, smothered by the tasks of
daily living.  It now rose to the surface for the first time in
decades.  When he compared it with the excitement he had known during
his spar with Freya, they blended together in a silken match.  Since
the goddess had appeared in his dreams, he had come to love her.  His
admiration had grown, without his knowledge.  Though he had not known
about the hawk-guise she was wearing, the bond had thrived; and he had
mistaken it for many things: attraction to a bird,

compassion for Khitajrah, a directionless need for companionship.

Yet, clearly, love alone was not the answer.  "I loved my wife."

"I'm sure you did.  But she was mortal."  Freya swept her legs in a
graceful arc.  "Gods' seed doesn't Sprout easily; if it did, we would
pack the heavens with babies.  Odin has sired offspring from giants and
goddesses, but never mortals.

Thor has impregnated giantesses and at least one mortal; yet his own
wife, who bore a son before their marriage, remains barren for him.  In
fact, no goddess has carried Thor's child.

Several of the gods have no children, though married for centuries.

It'll take time, but it can happen.  And I believe it will."

Colbey considered the implications of being a god's son, thrilled as
much by the prospect of fatherhood as the chance t o earn Freya's
love.

Yet it seemed unlikely that impending Ragnarok would grant them the
years or decades needed to conceive.  Even if it did, there seemed no
purpose to creating an infant only to see the child die.

"Come here."  Freya gestured Colbey to her.

Every fiber of Colbey's being goaded him to do as she bid, not from any
irresistible divine or magical urging, but from his own yearning for
her.  He resisted.  Physical distance had given him perspective.

"No."

"Why not?"

"If I come too close, I'll ravish you."

"Ravish me?"  Freya laughed.  "What makes you think you could take me
against my will?"

Colbey ran a hand along Harval's hilt.  "This.  Do you need another
demonstration?"

"Yes.  Hundreds of thousands of spars.  I'll win more than one."

The challenge intrigued Colbey, a daily battle with a goddess nearly
his equal with a sword.

"You don't need to worry about ravishing.  I'm as eager as you."

Hunger blazed, and the fire returned.  Again, Colbey resisted.

For the first time, the position of the sun overhead registered, and
guilt hammered back desire.  "First I have to handle the Wizards."

Freya rose, brushing skirts and armor back into place.

"You'll help me, I presume.  The Ragnarok affects the

gods as much as men."

"That's why I can't assist.  Not even to advise."  Freya looked
sincerely sad.  Her eyes lost their glow, and the smile vanished.  "The
balance is tenuous enough.  If a god interfered now, I believe it would
immediately set the final battle in motion."

The implications struck hard.  "I'm half-divine."

"But raised a mortal.  You're already in this too deep to extract.

Good luck, Kyndig."  Red feathers flashed in a sudden arch, then Freya
disappeared.  The aristiri winged a spiral toward the clouds.

The sword practice had brought Colbey no answers, divine or otherwise,
yet exhilaration lent him a second wind that gave him a new clarity of
thought.  Freya's promises refreshed his reasons for living, equally
reinforcing the need to help the rest of mankind survive as well.  As
he hurried through the brush and toward camp, his course seemed no less
difficult but infinitely clearer.  He had 'little choice but to give
the Cardinal Wizards one last chance to barter.  Should they refuse, he
and his followers would regroup for attack, arming the other Renshal as
swiftly as time allowed.  At least some of the Renshai would survive.

And if the Wizards died, he would have to hope the system Odin had
created would find its own solution.

A curled mass of brush parted stiffly before Colbey, limbs jabbing
through his lightweight tunic.  Shadimar had claimed he would kill a
Renshai every half day Colbey dallied.  He had not specified times.

Midday seemed an obvious choice for the first sacrifice, but Colbey
felt certain the Cardinal Wizards had not yet carried through on their
threat.  Surely, they would warn him before they took a life, using the
imminent murder to strong-arm Colbey into a hasty decision.  It went
against Trilless' championed tenets to slaughter innocents, and he
believed even Shadimar held the Renshai in enough regard not to kill
them out of hand for personal gain.

Still, it made little sense to dawdle.  The sword practice had proved
necessary to stimulate mind and body.  Anything more was only delay.

Colbey pressed through the last copse, emerging into the encampment.

Khitajrah sat, sagging body supported by a deadfall.  Packs and
blankets lay in rumpled piles strewn

over the leaf-cushioned stretch of ground.  His other companions and
their weapons seemed to have disappeared.

Colbey froze, train of thought interrupted by sudden, all-encompassing
wariness.  He measured the pertinent in an instant: no blood, no
evidence of a struggle, and Khitajrah appeared no worse than when he
had last seen her.  She stared back, a welcoming half-smile on her face
tempered by concern.  He sensed mild discomfort, but none of the
desperate terror that would have accompanied an attack and the violent
loss of friends.

Khitajrah anticipated his question.  "They went to talk to the Wizards
one more time."

Alarm stabbed through Colbey, and he stiffened.  "Without me?"

The answer seemed obvious, but Khitajrah understood the need for
'explanation as well as confirmation.  "They tried to get your
attention, but you seemed beyond reach.  They were worried about
Wizards' deadlines and Renshai lives."

Colbey took the last step into the clearing, gaze tracing the route his
companions must have taken, need driving him to follow as swiftly as
possible.  "When?"

"Moments ago.  Not long."  Khitajrah staggered to her feet.

Colbey strode to Khitajrah's side, steadying her.  "Come on.  Let's
go.

Quickly."

Khitajrah allowed Colbey to support much of her weight.

"If time's that important, you'd better leave me."

"No."  Colbey headed from the clearing, prodding Khitajrah forward with
an arm around her back.  "It's not safe to leave anyone alone.

Especially trapped on another world and with magic about."  They headed
into the brush, seeking the pathway the Renshai tribe had carved
through forest from the Fields of Wrath.

Once on the roadway, Colbey and' Khitajrah moved reasonably swiftly,
hindered only by the woman's inability to take deep breaths and the
long, awkward staff the Renshai was forced to carry.  Khitajrah
questioned, though whether from a need to soothe or to force an issue,
Colbey could not guess.  "Is it possible they might bargain better
without you?

Emotional distance makes for clearer heads and opener minds.  And the
Wizards might handle the problem differently when not dealing with one
they see as an enemy."

Colbey denied the possibility.  "Distance was why I needed the
practice.  And why I became so entrenched in it

they couldn't rouse me.  My mind couldn't be clearer."  He

rushed Khitajrah past rows of brambles.  "Remember, the others have
friends and relatives at stake, too; and running off without the
warrior who has a sword that can strike the enemy doesn't seem like
clear judgment to me.  I'm also the only one who knows en ough of
what's going on to make a fair exchange."

Khitajrah gave him no reply.  They continued on in silence, the road to
the Fields of Wrath seeming endless, far longer than Colbey remembered
from their first parlay.  With time, Khitajrah's gasping breaths
elicited more impatience than sympathy.  Finally, the woodlands seemed
to thin, the trees becoming sparser, younger, and smaller in height and
breadth.  Human voices wound between the trunks.

Colbey slowed, keeping Khitajrah slightly behind him, shielding her
with his body.  He edged forward until the exchange became ungarbled.

He recognized the speaker as Arduwyn.  From his voice, he stood ahead
and slightly to the right of them; and his tone betrayed
exasperation.

... must be something else you can take in trade."

Shadimar replied.  "There can be no compromise.  Man's world is law,
and chaos will destroy it.  Why press me?

Colbey holds the doom of gods and mankind in his hands."

Arduwyn's frustration rose to tangible levels, and his tone betrayed
it.  "I press you because you're the one threatening the lives of
people you once considered friends."

"Just bring us the staff," Shadimar said, his calm emphasized in the
wake of Arduwyn's desperation.  "No one has to die."

"No one," Trilless added softly.  "No one or everyone.  The choice
seems simple to me.  If you get the staff from Colbey, the Renshai and
the world will live on."

Arduwyn shouted, control lost: "Get the staff from Colbey?  Three
Wizards together can't do that.  What makes you think any of us
could?"

Colbey frowned, but he passed no judgments.  Arduwyn's question did not
necessarily imply that he agreed with or would attempt such a thing.

"You can try," Shadimar said.

"The world depends on it," Trilless added, her voice soothing and
goading in its gentleness.  The claim had become trite, at least to
Colbey.

Mar Lon joined in then, speaking his mind freely in the

presence of Wizards.  "So you say.  Colbey's carried the Staff

of Chaos for months now.  That seems like more than enough time to send
Our world crashing down."

Shadimar fairly crowed.  "Lies, theft, deceit.  You can see his
influence already.  Our work to restore order has kept the world on
keel so far, but it's teetering.  Time's running short.

We need the staff.  We can't afford to compromise, and neither can
you."

Arduwyn made a noise that sounded like a choked back scream.  "We're
getting nowhere.  One thing's certain.  Your feud is with Colbey, not
with us.  And not with the Renshai.

You're butchering the horse because the mule won't plow.  What could
serve chaos more than slaughtering innocent people for another
offense?"

A blast of sudden rage slammed Colbey.  Carcophan answered, his voice a
shout.  "Look who's talking about killing innocents.  The father of a
vicious murderer."

A raw mixture of emotion followed the pronouncement.

From Shadimar, Trilless, Arduwyn, Dh'arlo'me, and Mar Lon, Colbey
sensed impatient irritation, a need to bull past what must have become
a tedious issue.  From Sterrane, he received only a steady wash of
sorrow and hope.

Sylva's fury nearly matched Carcophan's own.  She shouted.  "I'm sick
to death of your accusation!  Your apprentice was about to kill or
mutilate my husband for no reason but jealousy!  I'm not sorry I killed
her.  She and all like her deserve to die.  She wanted Rache, and she
couldn't have him.  Maybe she got tired of sleeping with a shriveled
up, old goat!"

The mood changed at once.  Before Colbey bothered to assess it, the
staff pulsed against his mind in warning.  Impressed by its frenzy, he
let it in, immediately deluged by its anticipation of a massive
gathering of power.  Conserving time by using concept instead of words,
the staff let him know someone prepared a huge and aggressive spell.

Colbey did not waste breath for warning.  Releasing Khitajrah, he
charged.  He had barely raced into view when a jagged flash of light
speared from the clearing.  His staff-sight added the chaos slashes and
colors the others could not see: patternless movement writhed within
the directed confines of the magic.

Colbey's mind collected details in an instant.  Clearly, the spell had
come from Carcophan, and Colbey's mind gift told

him the Southern Wizard had borrowed some power from a link with
Shadimar as well.  The deadly sorcery sped for Sylva where she stood,
feet braced, in the forest.  Arduwyn sprinted to protect her.  More
familiar with magic, Sterrane sprang first, before Mar Lon could think
to anticipate the action.

Sterrane and Arduwyn crashed together in midair.

Smaller, the hunter bounced and rolled from the impact, and the spell
slashed through Bearn's king.  A flashing corona engulfed Sterrane,
flipping through the spectrum more quickly than Colbey could think to
name the colors.

Sterrane bellowed in surprise and agony.  His limbs went rigid, then
loosened.  He spasmed a second time and a third, lapsing into a wild
convulsion while Mar Lon grabbed and clutched, furiously trying to
stabilize his king.  Then, as suddenly, Sterrane went still.  The last
vestiges of magic sizzled into oblivion, visually gone, though Colbey
could still feel a dangerous tingle that made the air seem vibrant and
watchful.

The staff's nonverbal warning came faster than any physical action
could.  "Too much chaos here.  Another large spell, and the End will
have begun.  Once in motion, the Rag-narok cannot be stopped by
anyone."

Colbey skidded to a halt at the clearing's edge, treading the fine line
between preventing a spell and forcing one in defense against his
attack.  The three Cardinal Wizards stood, crouched and ready for
battle.  Their mental exchanges trickled to him in snatches, warped and
only partially intelligible.  Th e shock of missing his target had
claimed most of Carcophan's anger.  Shadimar and Trilless chastised
their impulsive colleague with rage at least as strong.  Whether or not
they understood the danger of more magic, Colbey had no intention of
testing their linked forces again.  Beneath the combined consciousness,
he sensed a restless power as awesome as that of his staff.

"No!"  Mar Lon screamed.  "No!  No!  No!"

Colbey left Sterrane's tending to his companions, not daring to look
away.  Between his sword and the other Cardinal Wizards, the destiny of
mankind and gods rested.  Even the Bearnide's injuries could not take
precedence at the moment.

Yet, though he deafened himself to Mar Lon's self-degrading tirade,
Arduwyn's soft words came clearly to him.  "He's dead.  Gods!  Sterrane
is dead."

Mar Lon screamed with an anguish so basic that Secodon

looked up from his sickbed and managed a feeble howl.  The Renshai
stood, all accounted for, hands pressed to the invisible wall, faces
etched with horror.  Colbey could not separate the dread wafting around
him from his own.  Without the king and his simple mercy, he could not
help wondering if rescuing mankind held significance any longer.

Stripped of balance, the positive changes would become unstable and
lose all meaning.  He jerked the staff from his belt.

At that instant, with the staff precariously balanced, Arduwyn stepped
up from behind Colbey and snatched it from his hand.  The whole had an
unreal quality.  Never had anyone taken anything Colbey did not want
them to have, and he could not believe the events of the last few
moments had made him so unwary.  He watched in fascinated alarm as
Arduwyn raised the staff.

"Here, may the gods damn you all!  Nothing is worth this!"  Arduwyn
jabbed the staff toward Sterrane's corpse and Mar Lon, hunched
defensively before his charge.  "Nothing."

His bold words degenerated into sobs, and tears leaked from his eyes in
a steady stream.

"Wait."  Colbey had not yet played his last card.  He contacted the
staff "Can you stop him?"

"Not forcefully.  I'll do the best I can, but the Wizards may try magic
against me.  We can't afford that.  Hurry."

The Cardinal Wizards said nothing, although a smile slipped onto
Carcophan's lips.  Shadimar stood, impassive, his own staff sturdy as a
tree trunk in his grip.  Trilless stared at Arduwyn, tensely
expectant.

"It's a mistake."  Colbey remained in place, gaze locked on the
Wizards, cued to any movement that might indicate preparation for a
spell.  He could hear the echoes of the staff's appeals to Arduwyn,
catching the gist of its need to remain in its champion's hands without
hearing its every word.  He could also feel the rising of chaos in the
form of gentle magic, a dying breath compared with the previous
holocaust triggered by Carcophan, a tug and whisper to draw Arduwyn to
Shadimar.

Concerned for the balance, Colbey addressed the Cardinal Wizards.  "No
more magic, please, or it's over."  He could feel Carcophan and
Trilless stirring in reluctant agreement and Shadimar's irrational
denial of what they all knew was truth.  Even receiving only radiating
emotions, Colbey recognized little of the Shadimar he had once known.

The con sciousness of the Eastern Wizard's staff enfolded him, as
swollen as a feasted tick.  "I promise, I won't interfere so long as
you don't use magic."  Colbey hated the need to cripple himself, but he
saw no other way.  The deepest portion of his mind, the part that ran
on instinct and emotion, showed him reality from a different
perspective.  With Sterrane dead and the Renshai's fate hanging in the
balance, the exchange of hostages for staff seemed to lose its vast
significance.

Let them champion chaos and law.

"They'll destroy me," the staff reminded.

"Not once they realize what you are."

Arduwyn shuffled a step toward the Wizards, jealously guarding the
staff from Colbey, clearly watching for the slightest tensing that
might indicate an attempt by the Renshai to reclaim his property.

Colbey remained in place, silent and true to his word.  The cacophony
of emotions bombarding him seemed suffocating.

For the first time, he wasted energy holding some of these others'
thoughts at bay.  Mar Lon's grief and self-loathing all but upended
reason.

"You leave me no choice."  The staff gave Colbey no more warning before
opening itself to Arduwyn, revealing its inner core with a rawness that
struck Colbey, an inadvertent spectator, as hard as a physical blow.

Arduwyn reeled, a scream wrenched from his throat.  Realization made
him gasp, and the staff retreated.  The whole had lasted less than an
instant; yet, a moment later, Arduwyn returned the staff to Colbey's
hand without explanation.

"Liar!"  Shadimar shouted.  "You tricked him."  Even without the
staff's direct assistance, Colbey sensed the drawing of chaos for
magics that, whatever else their purpose, would fling the world into an
endless spiral of madness called the Ragnarok.

"Hold your magic."  Colbey thumped the base of the staff on the ground,
keeping his left hand free for Harval.  "Just hold it, and I'll give
you whatever you want."

For an instant, Shadimar hesitated.  Something monstrous and ugly rose
inside him, a power so vast it threatened to overwhelm the universe.

Trilless and Carcophan rallied to Shadimar's defense, their fused being
whittling the creature only slightly.  The imminent sorcery
disappeared, leaving the · Wizards' unanswered mental questions about
it in its wake.

Shadimar managed to speak, his voice uncharacteristically

shaky.  "We want only one thing.  Give me the Staff of

Chaos."

"I can't give you that."

A wave of frustrated rage slammed Colbey.  Shadimar's face reddened.

"You just said you would."

"I can't give you that," Colbey repeated, "because it's already in your
keeping.  Shadimar, if it's the Staff of Chaos you seek, look to your
own hands."

"I have only the Staff of Law."  Shadimar shook his staff, drilling its
base into the dirt.

Colbey could feel the Cardinal Wizards' consciousness braiding tighter,
weaving a net against a force to which Shadimar had submitted
willingly, holding it at bay until the Western Wizard could explain.

Colbey kept his gaze unwavering, dropping his protections against the
external sorrow that hammered him.  He dared not waste more physical
energy holding others' thoughts aside.  His own emotions seemed ragged
and insignificant, reined by clear and present danger.  "Remember on
the Meeting Isle when I gave you that staff?  I told you I offered the
one thing that could oppose me, the single object that could prevent my
loosing chaos on the world."

Shadimar interrupted, "The Staff of Law."  All color had drained from
his face, and Colbey could read nothing from the Wizard who had once
been his blood brother.  Trilless' and Carcophan's presences burned so
much brighter, as if Shadimar had become crushed by the force he
championed and only a brittle skeleton of his former self remained.

"I gave you the Staff of Chaos," Colbey corrected.  "Even with the
Staff of Law, you didn't have the power to stop me.

Giving chaos to you was the only way to keep me from freeing it."

"You arrogant bastard!"  Carcophan seemed impressed despite his
horror.

Realization sparked through shadimar, strongly enough that Colbey could
now sense the Eastern Wizard's presence through the others.

Understanding came in a vast procession: explanations for spells far
more massive than intended, the summoning of a kraell instead of a
minor demon, the decision of chaos to attack Colbey instead of
Shadimar, personality changes he had not noticed until Trilless and
Carcophan helped to hold the bonded staff-force at bay.  Chaos.

Gods, chaos!  I inflicted it on the world.  His anger flared stronger,
now directed inward.

Colbey felt the Staff of Chaos straining at its bonds, trying to force
the Wizards to expend more magic to hold it, thereby strengthening its
cause.  Soon, whether through the use of too much magic, or the use of
none at all, chaos would smash through the barriers and tumble man's
World into the Ragnarok.  All other worlds would follow in a great
chain reaction.

'I can help," Colbey's staff said.

Colbey needed to hear nothing more.  Gently, he added his 'mind to the
Wizards' link, one of the Cardinal Four again.

The power of the staves rushed free, contained only by the
consciousness of their champions.  Energy pumped through Colbey in a
wash that seemed ceaseless.  He let the staves clash inside him,
locking his thoughts on self and morality, clinging to personal honor
and beliefs that seemed puny in the shadow of pure law.  The other
Wizards seemed to wither, swimmers lost in the vast ocean of power from
both sides.  The battle raged, chaos and law twining into a vast and
violent blur, tendrils of raw, basic power cuffing Colbey's mind at
intervals.  He clung to self, tearing Carcophan from the interlocking
web, hurling him from their fused minds and the battle.  The Southern
Wizard could do nothing here but die.

Having freed Carcophan, Colbey turned his attention to Trilless.  He
had chosen evil first, since Trilless had a ready apprentice should he
fail.  The Swirl of the combat around him made thought difficult, but
the balance must always come first.  Keeping to the edge of the battle,
he discovered the champion of goodness, grabbed her, and shoved her
mind from the contact.  Only then, he tried to find order in the mass
of motion around him.

Colbey found no evidence of Shadimar.  He had discovered the Champions
of Good and Evil driven to the periphery of the mind link, their cause
unrelated to the frenzy of current battle.  Apparently, Shadimar had
become trapped in the center or battered to death beneath the
onslaught.

The law-force pulled enough concentration from its enemy to inform its
champion.  "Center and alive.  Dead, he could no longer maintain
contact with mind link.  Chaos would become trapped in its staff once
more."  It gave no

more hint or direction, concentration returning to its opposite.

Though the staff had remained true to its word, resisting the urge to
goad Colbey to action, the Renshai understood its desire.  It wanted
him to slay Shadimar, to commit chaos back into its container while law
remained free to rule the worlds once more.  The suggestion carried a
desperation and a common sense that the Wizards had tried to convey
from the start.  The worlds had prospered under law's rule.  Chaos
promised destruction.  Only Colbey's convulsive grip on self allowed
him to keep perspective.  And knowledge.  With chaos also comes growth
and inspiration.

Yet the means for balance now defied Colbey.  The battle swirled and
raged about him, smearing the boundaries between thought and emotion,
external and internal; He clutched to his morality tighter, tapping
both chaos and law for direction and wisdom.  Balance.  He dared not
allow them to fight until one became the victor.

Law slammed Colbey's mind with a message.  "Damn it, I'm protecting
you!  Don't open gaps for chaos.  It'll kill you."

The words brought Colbey the final answers he sought.

Obediently, he plugged the holes he had created to his innermost
thoughts, trapping out law as well as chaos.  The staves' strategy
seemed clear: kill its opposite's champion and trap the other force
back inside the staff-container, thereby opening the world to the
winner's influence alone.

Most of the battle had become defensive, a swirling, formless fight
geared to protect each force's own champion from the enemy.

Colbey focused on his mind gift, seeking the seams where offensive
intent met defensive, separating law from chaos by touch.  He wove
toward the middle, keeping self in the fortified portions of his cause,
dodging chaos attacks with the same skill and agility he used against
sword strokes.  He would always face rather than hide from an enemy,
but he discarded the swerve from Renshai honor inherent in using
anything as a shield.  His battles came before and after; this current
war was not his.

As Colbey fought toward the center, law displayed its displeasure and
concern with raw emotion.  Colbey did not need the warning.  His mind
carved chaos from law without ex-pending energy; the vastness of their
power made them easy

to read.  The deeper Colbey penetrated, the thicker chaos became until
he found himself avoiding constant attacks, battle joy rising even
without the possibility of returning physical offensives.  He sent a
mental call ahead to Shadimar.  "Brother, come to me."

Shadimar gave no answer.

Again, Colbey mind-called, hoping he radiated sincerity and worry,
still keeping inner calm.  "Brother, come.  Else one of us will die,
and his force will stand unopposed."

The return sounded like a dying whisper.  "You're no brother of
mine."

Colbey ignored the statement, sensing none of the hostility it
implied.

"Come.  I can't force them back into the staves alone."  Colbey guessed
he would have to do so one power at a time, and he could not control
the free force while he worked with the other.  "Once they're
contained, we can think clearly.  We'll find a compromise.  We'll find
a way to ask Odin himself, if we must."

Insight sparked momentarily from Shadimar, too swift for Colbey to read
in detail.  He received only a glimpse of a possible means to contact
Odin that bore some relationship to a pair of blue gems in other hands
than Shadimar's own.

The Eastern Wizard remained silent a long time in contemplation.

The battle grew to whirlwind intensity.  Colbey dodged, time making him
breathless.  Soon, he would have to retreat and rest or succumb to
chaos.

At length, Shadimar spoke, "I'll come to you.  But only if you give me
Harval."

"My sword?"  The idea of handing away a weapon struck something
primal.

"You know I can't do that."

" Harval is my creation."

" And I wield it."

"At my insistence.  Give me Harval, or I will not come."  Fatigue
weighted Colbey's limbs, alarming him.  Once he finished with Shadimar,
he had no way of knowing whether the battle would end or if the three
Cardinal Wizards would continue to oppose him.  Without Harval, he
stood naked against Wizards and creatures of chaos, Yet without
Shadimar's assistance, either law or chaos would be utterly
destroyed.

One way or the other, the Ragnarok would follow.  "Agreed, then.

Come to me now."

Shadimar's form emerged from the gray swirl of combat, ringed by
defensive chaos.  His consciousness came first, questing blindly.  His
mind gift more directed, Colbey sent his thoughts to Shadimar as a
guide, and a part of their fused minds linked into a single entity
shielded from law and chaos alike.  The contact allowed Shadimar to
draw close enough to reach out a hand for the sword.

True to his word, Colbey removed the weapon from his sheath and handed
it, hilt first, to Shadimar.  Though he showed no outward signs, he
despised the need that made him sacrifice his weapon, even to its
creater.  His concern about Shadimar's intentions with that weapon sent
his right hand creeping toward his opposite hilt.  It might not cut the
Cardinal Wizards, but it could still hinder them.

Shadimar accepted the hilt.

Colbey tensed for a rush of attack that never came.  The emotions
wafting from the Wizard mixed confusion, self-loathing, and strength of
purpose.  Shadimar back-stepped to the limits of their protecting
bond.

He created a slit in their joint defense, drawing a wisp of chaos to
him.  The sword floated in front of Shadimar, and he finally met
Colbey's fierce blue gaze.  Without a wielder, Harval plunged toward
Shadimar, effortlessly finding a track between his ribs.

Caught off-guard by the suicide, Colbey sprang for the hilt too late.

His hand grasped the familiar pommel, and he fought the magics that
drove the point toward Shadimar's heart.  As the Eastern Wizard's
strength failed, Colbey managed to tear the steel free, but the damage
had already been done.

Shadimar sank to the ground, blood trickling from chest and lips.  "It
was the only way," he said, then death stole all movement.

A wolf howl cut above the trailing silence, a deep-throated song that
seemed to define agony.

Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the storm of powers disappeared.

Colbey found himself surrounded by the familiar, eternal hugeness of
law alone.  "We won!"  it told him, sharing all the joy of the ages.

Tears sprang to Colbey's eyes, and the innocence of his sorrow rebuffed
law's pleasure.  Though exhausted from his need to evade chaos'
attacks, he did not let his defenses down for an instant.  "You
promised never to force yourself on me."

Surprised tainted law throughout.  "You still don't see the

need to destroy chaos?  Your friend ... your brother killed himself
for me."

From habit, Colbey cleaned and sheathed the sword.  He knelt at
Shadimar's side, clasping a clammy hand in sympathy.

He saw no reason to defend his loyalty to balance once more.  He
gathered no words to explain how Shadimar's dedication to his cause, in
ignorance, had driven him crazy; or that Colbey giving himself to law
would only bring about the same results.  He managed to speak, though
his words seemed to have nothing to do with the matter at hand.  "He
wasn't my brother.  Now go back to the staff."

Law made an echoing sound of strangled rage.  "But we WOn."  You won.

The rest of us lost.  Go back to your staff."

" But ..."

Colbey threw law's words back at it.  "I'm the Wizard, you're the
tool."

Reluctantly, law retreated, and Colbey finally escaped from the mind
link he had had no hand in creating.  Clouds obscured the sky, though
no rain fell.  The Renshai tribe remained in place, apparently still
trapped by their barrier.

Secodon sat near the edge of the woods, his muzzle pointing skyward.

Another howl traced a mournful path through the cosmos, stirring deep
knowledge.  Regardless of the magics of the Cardinal Wizards or the
interference of gods, it had become too late to stop the Ragnarok
anymore.  The Wolf Age, Colbey knew, had begun with the song of a
Cardinal Wizard's pet."

Trilless and Carcophan stood over Shadimar and Colbey, their
uncertainty tangible.  Each held a round blue sapphire, Trilless
rolling hers from hand to hand and Carcophan's crammed into a muscled
fist.  Dh'arlo'me remained aloof and behind the others, his hands
clenched and long fingers balanced.

The Staff of Chaos lay near Shadimar's hand.  Though still and
masterless, it seemed alive, a dull.  wooden sheath hiding a force that
could cut souls like paper.  Its call pulsed through air that had
become stifling with humidity, the staff's promise of knowledge and
power drawing those few who could wield it like a siren's song.  Colbey
placed a hand on his hilt in warning, Any Cardinal Wizard who reached
for chaos would face Harval.

Colbey's companions surrounded Sterrane's body, the archers crying
uncontrollably, the bard pacing and mutter ing, and Khitajrah trying
to soothe Arduwyn and Sylva.  The Freya/aristiri spiraled down from the
sky to land on a branch overlooking the clearing.

Though Colbey knew he could defend himself, and that little mattered
but the coming destruction, he wanted the truth known.  "He killed
himself" "We saw," Trilless said softly.  Wafting thoughts told Colbey
that the movements and actions they had undergone in the mind link had
actually occurred in plain sight while the thoughts, battles, and
mental conversations had remained private.  "We loosed chaos on the
world?"  Trilless indicated herself, Carcophan, and Shadimar's body."

Colbey rose, feeling obligated to reply.  "Yes."

"You championed law?"

"Balance," Colbey corrected, wiping away tears.  "But you knew that
from the start."

Carcophan and Trilless exchanged knowing glances.  For an instant,
their minds touched, and Colbey clearly read the words they shared: Man
now or elf If hate turns to self And the need to atone should arise:
Break this stone Call justice home And follow the path of the wise.

Without context, Colbey could not understand the significance of their
words; but he placed them together with Shadimar's momentary
consideration of the blue stones and the sapphire each Wizard clutched
in his or her hand.

"Now," Carcophan said softly, and Trilless nodded.  Their agreement,
though quiet and friendly, seemed as horrible to Colbey as the coming
War.  As one, they clenched their fingers closed upon the gems; and
these shattered, crumbling into azure dust.  The wind swirled the
glittering fragments, sprinkling them through the air until they became
lost against the background of darkening sky.  The first droplets
struck Colbey, though whether they came from above or from the powdered
magic, he could not tell.

For a moment, time stopped.  Then, a rumble ground through Colbey's
hearing, and the earth quaked in rhythm with the Chaos Staff's
beckoning him.  The sky cracked

open, with an explosion of thunder.  Rain spilled through the clouds,
and lightning etched blinding forks against the dismal expanse of
horizon.

The shaking stopped, but the storm continued.  Grayness bunched, as if
forming clouds on the ground, and from the center of that drab
configuration stepped the Guardian of the Eighth Task.  He stood in a
silence that seemed to usurp the crack of thunder and the steady wash
of rain, broad-brimmed hat drawn low over his single eye.  In each
hand, he held a familiar sword.  The right looped about Ristoril, the
Sword of Tranquillity that Colbey had faced in the hands of Olvaerr's
father.  The other held the Black Sword of Power, the one that had
completed the triangle of ruin, bringing the promise of Ragnarok and
Episte's madness at once.  He tossed-the blades, the first landing
neatly at Trilless' feet, point stabbing into the ground.  Carcophan
caught evil's creation by the hilt.

Secodon howled a third time, his voice mellow yet grating as a
scream.

The sound brought images of hopelessness and agony, driving Colbey to
contemplate the crumbling of mankind into oblivion.  The world would go
on in the same primordial nothingness that it had known before Odin
split the forces of law and chaos.  But all beings of law, all men,
elves, most gods, and their creations would disappear, swallowed by the
Destruction.

"You could have prevented it," the staff tried to convince Colbey,
truly believing its claim.

Colbey knew better.  "No.  Odin himself could not avert this fate," Yet
even understanding that the End was imminent, and realizing that Odin
seemed to have come to destroy his many creations, perhaps before chaos
could do it for him, Colbey could not surrender to despair.  He had
only one charge: mankind.  The focus might give him a means where even
gods had failed.

Odin's voice, though soft, carried over the thunder.  He addressed
Carcophan and Trilless.  "Do as you must."

Carcophan raised the sword, but his chin sank to his chest.

He spoke words Colbey could never hope to understand, the same spell
that had ended Shadimar's life.  Trilless, too, began an invocation.

"Stop," Colbey said.

cophan obeyed, though whether from curiosity or shocked

surprise at the Renshai's temerity, he did not know.

The rain drummed on branches and deadfalls.  Colbey'kept his gaze fixed
on the One-Eyed One, ignoring the stares of every creature around
him.

"Carcophan and Trilless are innocent.

They needn't die for my decision or for Shadimar's ignorance:" He
stepped around the Cardinal Wizards, approaching the AllFather, and
every stare followed him.  "It was my destiny to wield chaos.  How can
you blame these two for my decision to switch to law instead?"

Odin's head swiveled to Colbey until the single eye seemed to pierce
him with all the sharpness of the spear in his hand.  "Destiny?"  He
laughed.  "What do you know of destiny, Kyndig?  I created the system
of the Cardinal Wizards.

I determined that the Western and Eastern Wizards would, one day,
champion law and chaos.  And I chose to make Western stronger than
Eastern precisely because he would wield the more important of the
powers."  A smile cured from the edges of the god's cheeks, forming so
gradually it seemed as if it had been there all along.  "It was your
destiny to wield the Staff of Law, exactly as you did."

Annoyance prickled through Colbey from a nameless source.  Something
about the gray god's smug talk of destiny and fate irritated the
Renshai.  He would and had served the gods gladly when the choice had
been his own; but no deity, Wizard, or man could turn him into an
unwitting pawn.

The rain quickened, lightning striping the clouds in irregular
pulses.

Odin continued, gaze still locked on Colbey.

"The system of the Cardinal Wizards has grown obsolete.

You know that.  And it has to end before I can set the new order in
motion."  He made a disdainful gesture of dismissal at Carcophan and
Trilless, not bothering to glance toward them.  "Carry on."

Colbey pinned the god's fiery stare with his own, two eyes to one
giving him the advantage.  He could meet Odin's gaze squarely, without
need to flicker from eye to eye.

"Why bother with a new system?  Mankind is doomed, as well as most of
the gods; and your own destiny won't spare you.  How can a dead god
oversee the balance?"

The grin seemed permanently lodged on the gray god's face.  "First,
Kyndig, the new balance will hinge on a son of Thor.  And they, as you
know, will survive the Ragnarok."

Colbey knew Odin expected him to keep that balance, and

the realization that he had already dedicated himself to that cause
enraged him.  Once again, his actions would fall neatly into Odin's
design.

"Second, unlike the other gods, I have managed to avert my fate."

The aristiri shrieked, fluttering to the ground.  The feathers fell
away in folds, gracefully revealing Freya's natural form.  Golden
bracelets, necklace, and threads from throat to heel squirmed and
glittered with every angry breath.  "You traitor!  You pretended not to
care.  You sat in silence while the others tried to stop the
Destruction, stating only that gods would die.  You made us believe our
fates could not be avoided."

All mortal eyes jerked to the goddess in wonder.  The Wizards lowered
their weapons, for the moment reprieved.

Thunder crashed in Colbey's ears, accompanied by a jagged slash of
lightning that spidered between both horizons.

Odin shrugged, the smile still in place.  "My nonchalance was not an
act.  I knew from the start that some of us had to die, and since
Kyndig's birth that I would cheat the Fates.

What others chose to make of my silence was their own misperception."

"Bastard!"  Freya hissed, the vehemence of her curse making even Colbey
cringe.

Odin's massive shoulders rose and fell again.  "What matter to you,
Lady?  You'll survive and your lover with you, your future bratling one
of the few to repopulate the heavens.

With Kyndig on my side, I'll defeat the Fenris Wolf; and I'll live
on.

If the others wish to survive the Ragnarok, they can find their own
Kyndig."  The matter finished in his mind, Odin once more returned his
attention to Carcophan and Trilless, quoting the first prophecy created
for the Cardinal Wizards:

"A Sword of Gray, A Sword of White, A Sword of Black and chill as
night.

Each one forged, Its craftsman a Mage; The three Blades together shall
close the age.

"When their oath of peace The Wizards forsake,

Their own destruction they undertake.

Only these Swords Their craftsmen can slay.

Each Sword shall be blooded the same rueful day.

"When that fateful day comes The Wolf's Age has begun.

Hati swallows the moon, and Skoll tears up the sun."

Odin finished, "You brought your weird upon yourselves.

The time for payment has come."

Colbey did not turn to see the reaction of Odin's command, nor did he
attempt to defend the Wizards again.  Since the start of the system,
each Cardinal Wizard had chosen his or her time of passing.  Their lot
did not concern him.  They would have to champion their own fates
now.

Yet for whatever reason, each chose not to try.  Magic prickled at
Colbey's back, tainted with threat aimed only at themselves.  The
Wizards' presences winked out of Colbey's mind-sense, and two more
corpses joined Shadimar's on the ground.

The transparent barrier that segregated the Renshai tribe
disappeared.

Cautiously, Mitrian, Rache, Tannin, Modrey, and Tarah approached their
friends, the latter carrying the sleeping toddler in her arms.

Colbey watched them walk, their movements crisp, agile, and wary.  He
reveled in their martial knowledge, finding their potential
staggering.

The idea of losing them rankled, and a new anger swept him that went
far beyond becoming Odin's chosen toy.  Whatever hand the AllFather had
played in Colbey's development from birth to Wizardhood had ended.

Whatever else happened, Colbey would find a way to preserve mankind.

Loki had convinced him gods' deaths were an inevitable necessity.  That
mankind would die, even with the understanding that it would start
again from a first man and woman, seemed a travesty he pledged himself
and his sword to prevent.

Having spoken his piece and seen to the necessary, Odin turned his
attention to what remained.  His gaze fell first on Dh'arlo'me .  The
elf stood apart from the conflict, attention on the sodden bodies of
the Cardinal Wizards he had chosen to join.  To Colbey's surprise,
Dh'arlo'me met the god's eye and his fate bravely.

Yet here, Odin tempered' his judgment with mercy.  He raised his arms,
and the two Swords of Power flew back into his hands

"Wizard only in name, Your Mistress to blame Her bones rightfully soon
entombed.

Go back to the one Who calls you her son Alfheim is already doomed."

As Odin spoke the final word, a slit appeared behind him a glimmer of
light that only brought emphasis to the gloom.

Colbey caught a momentary glimpse of bulbous trees and aqua sky before
it Seemed to swallow Dh'arlo'me, returning him to his rightful place on
the world of elves.  As the rent closed, restoring the continuity of
ground and sky; Odin clapped the swords together.  They seemed to melt,
turning liquid before Colbey's startled gaze.  Then they came together
again into a single, larger blade entity.  That, too, lasted moments.

The conglomeration disappeared leaving the gray god's hands empty.

Something stirred at Colbey's hip as a presence winked to life in the
sheath that had once held the soulless, steel servant that had
represented neutrality.  Harval seemed to take on a life of its own
that fused all the forces of the universe.

Yet the image Colbey gained without tapping his mind gift told him it
would remain only a tool, a container for powers that had no skill but
that given by their wielder, serving the new entity that Odin had
selected to guard the balance.

Trapped into a role he had already taken willingly, Colbey felt his
annoyance flare to rage.  Still, he remained silent, ideas swirling
through his mind while Odin worked.

Odin chanted again:

"Send mankind home Where they may roam Until their fate destroys
them."

Another hole appeared in the fabric of place and time, tearing at those
remaining on the Fields of Wrath.  The force grew stronger, sucking
grass, downpour, and sky through the rift, as if to consume them.

Colbey held back, letting the

others precede him, fighting the whirlwind of god-created magic for as
long as possible.  At length, when no others remained and even the edge
of forest had been tugged into the void, Colbey calmly entered the
gate, eyes shut tight against the flash of light he knew would come.

Odin's smug assessment trailed him through:

"Always the last Even your die is cast Your skill at my side in the
War."

EPILOGUE

Harval felt strange in Colbey's hands.  The hilt seemed to vibrate as
the worlds' powers settled into a wary compromise, and a high-pitched
ringing hammered Colbey's ears until pain knifed through his head.  He
scanned his mind gift, finding a level at which the resonance of the
sword matched that of his thoughts; and the noise faded to silence.

The world seemed to gain new focus.  As he glanced about the Fields of
Wrath, he found color in air and rain.  Trees, sky, and people gained a
spectrum he had never known existed; and tints he had always believed
solitary and solid separated into an assortment whose scope he would
never have thought to imagine.

The forces of the world had become his to command, the world's balance
a burden he had willingly accepted.

The staves lay abandoned on the Fields of Wrath, their menace a
ceaseless prickle against Colbey's skin.  Rain continued to pound from
the sky, though the thunder faded to a distant rumble and the lightning
etched its patterns only intermittently against the gray backdrop of
sky.  The horses left by the magical gate had returned to the fields to
graze.  After a friendly reuniting with his master, even Frost Reaver
had left to join their quiet meal.

Sterrane's body sprawled across gingerly placed stones, Mar Lon
guarding him now in death as he had in life.

Arduwyn, Sylva, and Rache gathered and shaped wood for a box.  They
would need to carry the king back to his city for a proper and fitting
send-off.  Having been introduced, Khitajrah and Mitrian chatted, too
far away for Colbey to overhear their discussion.  Although Freya
seemed to have disappeared, Colbey could feel her presence nearby.

Even with the Ragnarok inevitable and her brother's and colleagues'
lives soon to be forfeit, she had not abandoned Colbey.

Tannin approached Colbey boldly, his gait still stiffened

from Wizard-inflicted injuries.  "Torke, I can think of nothing

I would appreciate more than a spar and lesson from you.

Would you grant me that honor?"

Colbey lowered Harval, now fully in tune with its grip and balance.  He
relished the chance to assess Mitrian's teachings, and he would never
deny the Renshai what might become their last spar.  Soon, the Great
Destruction would begin, if it had not already; and Surtr's fire would
scour heaven and earth in a conflagration that would leave no man
alive.

Tannin proved only the first of many spars, as every Renshai clamored
for one more chance to pit his or her sword against the master
swordsman, to get one more teaching session from an unmatchable
torke.

Colbey liked what he saw.  Every one of the Renshai had improved, their
boldness giving him matches that would have sent him into a crescendo
of excitement if not for the responsibilities thrust upon him, the
understanding that they would all soon die, and the tantalizing promise
of myriad mock battles with Freya.  Still, the ceaseless action cleared
his mind, twisting reality into new perspectives.  By the time
Arduwyn's box was completed, Colbey had discovered the answer he
sought.  And in every way but one, it pleased him.

Respectfully, Colbey joined the gathering around the piled stones.  Mar
Lon, Arduwyn, Tannin, and Rache had herted the king's body into the
box, using the stones as a dais for the coffin.  For several seconds,
no one spoke.  Nine adults studied the corpse, the face as childlike as
the simple wisdom he had embraced and the judgments he had rendered.

The royal crest gleamed in branching flashes of lightning, and rain
drummed varied pitches on wood, stone, and mettle.

Every eye added its moisture to the rain-soaked figures huddled around
the Westlands' king.  Even 'Colbey could not hold back the tears.

Mar Lon unslung his mandolin, sliding it into playing position.

Chords pealed forth, as sorrowful as the gathering yet strong as the
ceaseless cascade of rain.  Notes slurred into one another, the bard's
usual crisp style lost to grief.  Clearly, he created the words as he
went, the rhyme scheme, intentionaily or purposefully, emulating Odin's
chants.  The trip back to Bearn would give Mar Lon a chance to perfect
his talent before playing at the king's final rest.  But the Renshai

and their friends shared the bard's grief in its raw innocence,

undullcd by consideration or time: "All bow your head The king is dead
No peace left for the world.

His bodyguard The only bard In shame his failure hurled.

"He died for naught No solace bought The Destruction still a-brewin'
His life could make Great peace awake.

But now there only ruin.

"Good-bye Sterrane All loss, no gain We wish our king the best The king
is dead The king is dead No hope left for the West."

Obediently, all heads dipped low in a silent moment of respect.

Colbey felt Khitajrah's approach, and it bothered him.

Though she had far less at stake here, in friendship or patriotism, he
had expected her not to shatter the tribute.

"I need your help," Khitajrah whispered in his ear.

Without raising his head for a glance, Colbey waved her silent.

"I need your help," Khitajrah repeated softly.  She touched his hand
with cold steel.

Colbey glanced downward.  The flat of Mitrian's sword lay against his
fingers, the wolf hilt in Khitajrah's grip.

Colbey inclined his head away from the gathered mourners to indicate
they should talk elsewhere.  The two moved to the edge of the woods
where their conversation would not disturb the otherS.  "She let you
borrow it?"  Although Colbey had suggested as much to Mitrian during
her lesson, he had not expected the Renshai's torke to hand her weapon
away.

"I want to use it now."

"What?"  Hope rose within Colbey, but he kept it guarded.

The inadvertent life-restoring property of the sword's magic had seemed
insignificant in the face of the wholesale slaughter of mankind, but he
had known'it would make Khitajrah happy until Surtr's flames took her
and her newly restored son.  Now he saw an opportunity to plug the last
gap in his plan.  He shook rain-soaked strands of yellow hair from his
eyes.

"I want to use it on the king.  Chaos didn't say how it works,
though.

I thought maybe the last of the Wizards might know."

Though he knew nothing of magic, Colbey stuck with the
practicalities.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"  He tried to hide his excitement,
needing to ascertain that Khitajrah had not given up her prize under
duress.

"And if his demise brought Justice to any, Celebrate his death For the
good of the many."

Colbey recognized the stanza as one her youngest son had written, from
the song Mar Lon had performed while they searched for Arduwyn.  "I
don't understand."

"I'm not sure I do either," Khitajrah admitted.  She took Colbey's
hand, meeting his gaze with an urgency readable in her eyes even
without his gift.  He sensed that she wanted him to understand without
words and knew she expected him to enter her mind for answers.

Invited, Colbey made the excursion.  He explored the frenzied conflict
of need, desire, and responsibility that jumbled inseparably in the
superficial reaches of her mind.  His explanations of the need for
balance mingled with myriad other thoughts.  She understood the
significance of King Sterrane, simplicity incarnate, yet the epitome of
equilibrium between the powers.  She knew that Cardinal Wizards had
made world changing sacrifices for his life, that many people had died
to pave the way for his reign.  In a world soon fully beset by a
ruinous force it little comprehended, Sterrane would have become the
wielder of both staves, the pivotal point on which all balance might
have rested.  Without him, there seemed little need for Colbey to try
to salvage the world.

Soon enough, it would crumble beneath the eternal struggles of its
separate causes.

Khitajrah's insight amazed Colbey.  He had not realized just how much
he had let her know, nor how much more she would surmise.  The woman's
love for her now-dead children

seemed to occupy at least an equal portion of her thoughts.

Yet the poetry of her youngest had made the final decision for her.

Ellbaric had reveled in his death even before it had come, finding
benefit in the lesson it taught those who came after him.  Somehow,
Khitajrah would find the victory beneath defeat.

Colbey sensed the last thought as justification.  The pain the decision
caused Khitajrah battered him in a way the concept could not.  She had
considered long and hard.  Even Ellbaric's insistence that he had not
died in vain could not stay the certainty that he had.  It could not
soften Khitajrah's loss.  Yet, even through a mother's grief, Colbey
sensed that she knew she had made the right decision.

"Thank you," Colbey said.  "And if the world could understand your
sacrifice, they'd thank you as well."  He made himself a mental promise
to see to it that Khitajrah and all of her sons became immortalized in
the bards' songs.  He accepted the sword.

Understanding did not accompany it, however.  It felt like normal steel
in his hands, though finely balanced and impossibly sharp.  Only one
nearby could help fathom its magic.

"Freya?"  he called tentatively.

The goddess emerged from the forest, yellow hair rain-plastered to head
and shoulders, her golden form a replacement for the missing sun.

Colbey explained the situation briefly.  "Chaos believes the gems in
this sword Can restore life to a man.  We'd like to use it now, but we
can't guess how it works.  Would you help us?"

Freya sighed.  The movement, though slight, sent her clothing into a
shimmering dance.  "The Ragnarok is already started.  No action of mine
on man's world matters anymore.

I'll do what I Can."  She stared at the huddled and miserable group
surrounding Sterrane's body.  "But why?  Why bring him back only to
have him bake in Surtr's fires with the rest of these?  It seems more
cruelty than kindness."

Colbey smiled.  He took Freya's hand, though he sensed their closeness
pained Khitajrah, adding fuel to an agony that already raged like a
bonfire.  Yet Colbey knew it could be no other way.  His love and
loyalty truly lay with the goddess; it always had.  His decision to
rescue mankind and the Renshai had already doomed him to follow the
other half of his birth heritage.  Odin had seen to it that he would
take his

place among the gods, willingly or otherwise; and Colbey had no
intention of doing so without first accomplishing the single goal he
had come to place even above his lifelong dream of dying in valiant
combat.  He and Khitajrah belonged on different worlds.  His involved a
wife who could challenge him daily, honing his sword skill in a way
even his usual practices could not.  His involved the responsibilities
inherent in a balance so vast and fragile even Odin had not fully
trusted himself to moderate its minuscule irregularities and temporary
asymmetries.  Though she did not know it yet, Khitajrah had a place,
too, in Bearn, with an archer who already cared for her, a bard who
could eternalize the courage of herself and her sons, and the
simplistic king whose life they hoped to restore.

A long and thoughtful pause filled the gap between Freya's question and
Colbey's answer.  "The system of the Cardinal Wizards failed with time,
as Odin knew it would.

He wants to put the balance in one being's hands now, and I understand
that.  But it can't work that way for the same reason Odin couldn't
modulate the balance himself.  Just as you said, every small action of
gods on man's world has massive consequences."  He glanced at
Khitajrah, knowing she had the facts to comprehend only part of his
explanation.

"As lifetimes pass, I'll have to become more like my father and less
mortal.  I can balance law and chaos on the grand scale, but it'll take
a mortal to make the fine adjustments on man's world.  I can't think of
anyone more suited to that than Sterrane.  His justice and simple mercy
come of raw instinct, nothing more; yet that's the one thing that can't
be swayed by the staves he'll keep or by any being.  We'll only have to
see to it at least one heir carries on his or her father's basic
neutrality."

Here, Colbey realized, the Renshai also had a new role toward which he
and their goddess would guide them.  The tribe would become guardians
to the high kingdom and its heirs, a force to assure that the crown
passed always to one as guileless as Sterrane.

Freya returned her gaze to Colbey, her hand callused but gentle in his
grip.  "Kyndig, that's all well and good for the moment.  But the
Ragnarok will bring an end to all mankind, including Sterrane.  Why
bother?"

"Because ..."  Colbey kept his voice low.  All of the stories he had
ever read or heard stated that Odin could see all

from his high seat, but he could hear no better than a man.

Colbey's mind gift told him no one nearby spied on the conversation.

Still, he saw no reason to let the knowledge fall on any ears but
Khitajrah's and Freya's.  "... apparently, I'm the force that can alter
the course of the Ragnarok.  Odin believes I must fight at his side,
aiding his battle against the Fenris Wolf.  Surely, that would rescue
the largest number of gods' lives and the strongest as well.  But
that's never been my goal.  I believed Loki when he said several of the
gods must die to rescue balance."

Khitajrah stared, lips parted and silent.  Clearly, she understood just
enough to realize that the level of conversation far exceeded her
knowledge.

Freya's hold on Colbey's hand tightened.  "Odin's wisdom is
unmatchable.  He's always right."

"Yes," Colbey admitted.  "And that infuriated me."

Freya shrugged.  "You get used to it."

"I won't have to.  He's going to die."  Colbey considered the many
actions Odin had called destiny.  "So far, nothing he claimed I had to
do was anything I wouldn't have done anyway.  It's easy to say what's
already happened is fate.  Just because he puts facts together well
doesn't mean he can predict the future."  In truth, Colbey had often
heard this to be Odin's only weakness, a need to understand the future
and a failing that seemed inevitable.  "And I don't believe in
destiny.

If there was such a thing, why did Odin need a system of Wizards just
to see to it that standard prophecies were fulfilled?"

Khitajrah remained quiet.  Freya tried to anticipate Colbey's point.

"So you won't help at the Ragnarok?  Are you saying Odin's mistake is
believing you would?"

Colbey released Freya's hand, amused to the edge of laughter.  "I'll be
there.  There's not a Northman in existence who hasn't lived and died
for that opportunity.  But I won't help Odin."  He passed Mitrian's
sword back to Khitajrah, freeing his hands to seize both of Freya's and
meet her gaze squarely.  "According to the legends, your brother Frey
will give Surtr a close fight before succumbing to the fire giant's
skill.  With my help, I believe Frey can kill Surtr.  No fires will
wash the worlds of man or elf.  Mankind, and your brother, will survive
while the rest of the events of Ragnarok will come to pass."  In tune
with the balance, Colbey knew Frey's survival would have little effect
on it.

Freya considered the words for some time Colbey could feel her joy
buoyed, instantly suppressed by some thought, then allowed to rise
again.  "That could work," she finally admitted.

"That will work."  Colbey harbored no doubts.  Since his meeting with
Loki, he had realized that mankind's destruction or continuance meant
little in the wake of a war between gods.  The Cardinal Wizards had
taught him that fate was not a constant.  For once, Odin would lose;
when he placed personal gain over wisdom, his predictions must fail
him.  This time, Colbey had the upper hand.  And, though it felt
strange, he saw the necessity.  Odin had to die.  And mankind would
live on in exchange.

The conversation seemed to have come to an end, so Khitajrah directed
it back to the matter currently closer at hand.  "The sword?  Can we
save him?"  She inclined her head toward Sterrane.  The Renshai and
their companions had wandered from the coffin, breaking into smaller
groups to mourn and console one another.  Mitrian and Tannin clung
together.  Arduwyn talked softly with Mar Lon, who still clutched his
mandolin, gaze locked on his king.  Modrey and Tarah tended their
daughter.  Sylva and Rache crouched near the edge of the woods, the
redhead stroking Secodon's fur while the wolf licked her face.  More
dog than wolf now, Shadimar's pet could never return to the wild; and
it gladdened Colbey to see that even the animal had found its place
with a person who would care for it as least as well as its former
master.  On Asgard or man's world, Frost Reaver would always have a
place at Colbey's side as well.

Freya responded to Khitajrah's question by addressing Colbey.  "You're
the one with the power to mind link.  Look at the magic.  See what you
find.  If you bring her ..."  She indicated Khitajrah with a nod.

"..

you may find traces of chaos' thoughts on the matter.  Bring me, and I
can interpret," The concept sounded intriguing, the specifics still
vague.

"Bring you where?"  Colbey asked.

"Into the magic of the gems."

The idea sounded insane.  Colbey had never attempted to enter an
inanimate object before; experience gave him no reason to believe he
would find anything there.  Yet an item instilled with magic might
prove different.  Cautiously, he entered Khitajrah's consciousness,
careful to avoid the many

private and intimate contemplations.  He added Freya to the mix,
unable to fully block the vast output of love and knowledge that seemed
to merge with his own.  He felt a twinge of understanding emerge from
Khitajrah, a brief realization that she had never cared for Colbey with
the intensity of the goddess.

Then, the idea disappeared as larger concerns usurped it, Colbey thrust
their combined consciousnesses toward the gem eyes of the hilt.

A web of magic met his gaze, seeming endless and patternless in its
scope.  Stray bits of chaos, still in Khitajrah's keeping, directed him
to a hole in the matrix.  The winking colors and twisted netting bore
no particular meaning for him, but he divined understanding from
Freya.

Once, the magics had contained the soul of a man, a Renshai slain by
illness and thus damned to the cold depths of Hel.  A Wizard had held
the soul in stasis, unable to restore life, yet keeping it forever
entombed in stone.  With Freya's help, he traced the darkened areas
where Mitrian's shattering of a gem had released the Renshai to his
miserable, but appropriate, doom.

He located the frayed edges, where chaos' backlash had sparked an
unpredicted side effect, the ability of the gems to return life to
another.

It seemed the perfect definition of chaos.  It could not restore life
to the one who sought it, but it would revitalize another at random.

The ancient, Hel-locked Renshai had sought reprieve and lost, had paid
for the resurrection of a stranger decades or centuries later.  Still,
though Colbey could define the location of the spell, he had no
knowledge of how to trigger it.  The holding of three mind links wore
on him, and fatigue closed rapidly toward darkness.  Defeated, he
started to retreat.

"Hold!"  Freya shouted in his head.  Light arched from her fingertips
in a strand, highlighting the iridescent chaos in a random outline.

"Show me the proper place."

Colbey directed, helping Freya find the precise silhouette of the
various areas of magic.  Her perception told him that parts had become
defunct.  Others held the blade polished and sharp.  All of these, he
avoided, driving full concentration to the matter at hand, the space
that had once confined a human soul.

As the last glimmering line fell into place, Colbey withdrew in
triumph.  "That's it."  Freya triggered the spell.  The area within her
pattern

glowed, faintly at first.  Then it flashed in a wild explosion,

the brightness more a feeling than a sight.  The strength of sudden
power blasted Colbey, shattering his mental attachment to the sword;
and the human/goddess mind link ruptured as well.  Flung back into his
own body, Colbey found himself on his knees.  He glanced first to Freya
and

Khitajrah, both of whom had managed to remain standing, their gazes
fixed on the coffin.

The "corpse" sat up, rubbing black hair and rainwater from his eyes.

His voice emerged weak and shaky compared to its usual booming bass.

"Me hungry.  When eat?"  He blinked and squinted, the light obviously
painful.  Then, apparently recalling his last moment of consciousness,
his pale face lapsed into worried creases.  "Sylva well?"

Renshai, archers, and bard swung toward the sound.  An instant later,
they converged on Sterrane, pulling him and one another into frenzied
hugs.  Their joy defied need for explanation.  Surely, they simply
believed Arduwyn had pronounced the death too early.

Khitajrah caught Colbey into a final embrace that expressed regret and
grief, joy and hope.  Familiar with his gift, she saw no need for
words.  Good-byes seemed unnecessary.

Likely, in one way or another, they would meet again.

Colbey returned the hug with sincere affection.  Finally, Khitajrah
pulled free.  Turning, she headed toward the frenzied hubbub of
shouting, cheering, and tears without a backward glance.

The staves remained on the ground, Sterrane's problem and property
now.

The rain continued to fall steadily, though the lightning and thunder
had died away.  Colbey took Freya's arm.  "And now for a battle and, if
you'll have me, a wedding."

"A battle?  Leave it to Kyndig to make the Ragnarok sound like a border
skirmish."  Freya laughed, the sound as lyrical as Mar Lon's lightest
ballad.  Colbey had given her a certainty of hope where before had lain
only destruction.

"And as to marriage ..."  She caught at the gold ring on his finger
that she had given him months ago.  "I already own you."

"Own me?"  Colbey tossed Freya's hand away.  "More powerful gods than
you have tried to run my life."

"Yes," Freya admitted, blue eyes alight with pleasure.

"But I've succeeded."

"Have you?"  Colbey scooped the goddess into his arms, the warmth of
her closeness exciting beyond any battle joy.

He carried her into the woods, hoping that, in the moments or hours
before the Ragnarok started, he would have time to prove her right.