A dust-covered, blood-spattered young mercenary passed through the elaborately carved wood gates and into a wide courtyard, a space paved with dark red bricks and lushly landscaped with desert plants. The graceful fronds of a pagafa tree shaded a large fountain, surrounded by stone benches intricately decorated with glazed blue and yellow tiles. In garden beds densely planted with purple-flowering broom bush, red and yellow desert paintbrush, and white-furred old man cactus, large, variegated desert agaves grew over six feet high and twice as wide, their curving spiked leaves striped in blue and yellow. Beside a blue-needled agafari, a weeping desert acacia swayed gently in the breeze, its yellow puffball blooms attracting dozens of hummingbirds, which flitted among the branches like tiny darts.

It was a lovely, peaceful, bucolic scene, the gentle trickle of the fountain adding to the restful atmosphere. It was a stark contrast to the scene the young mercenary lieutenant had just left.

Matullus paused by the fountain. Taking a deep breath, he unwound his blue and yellow turban and dipped one end of it into the water, soaking it thoroughly. It would not do to confront Lord Ankhor all covered in blood. The news he had to give him was bad enough. He wiped away the dust and blood on his face, chest, and arms. The blood was not his own. The man whose blood it was, the captain of the house guard, had died suddenly and terribly. He had been standing right next to Matullus when it had happened.

They had responded to an alarm in the merchant plaza. That, in itself, was no unusual occurrence. The crowded central plaza of Altaruk, with its many merchant stalls, was frequently the scene of arguments and altercations, but this one had quickly become a full-scale riot. The disturbance that had set it off turned out to be merely a diversion for the attack that followed, and it had all happened so quickly that Matullus wasn't even sure who had attacked whom.

The house guard had come marching in quickstep down the aisle between the rows of tented stalls, where they found a crowd gathered around a couple of combatants, who circled each other with obsidian knives. As Matullus pushed through the mob to separate the two men, it happened.

There was a blinding flash of blue light just beyond the crowd, and someone screamed. Matullus heard the unmistakable low whump of thaumaturgic energy bolts striking human bodies, and suddenly everyone was screaming and bolting from the scene. The guard formation fragmented as the crowd shoved past, and Matullus drew his sword, trying to find the source of the attack.

He glimpsed several white-robed figures moving quickly behind a row of merchant stalls, and a chill ran through him. The Veiled Alliance!

"Guard!" the captain shouted. "Assemble on me! This way! On the double!"

"Captain," said Matullus, "those men are—"

"Move, Lieutenant!" the captain shouted without pausing to hear him out. "Now! Go!"

They pushed their way through the milling, panic-stricken throng, past the prone and moaning figures of people who had been knocked down and trampled by the mob.

The next thing Matullus knew, he was lying facedown in the dirt. He had tripped over a body, or what was left of a body: the corpse was charred beyond recognition. Where the chest had been there was now a gaping, blackened hole, its edges cauterized by intense heat. Matullus recoiled in horror, and that was when it happened.

His captain was bending over him, holding out his hand, and saying, "Get up, man, come on, get—" when he disappeared in a searing flash of bright blue light. A soft, dull sound followed, like a hammer striking meat, and the captain came apart in an explosion of blood, entrails and viscera.

For a few moments, Matullus could not see. The blinding flash of thaumaturgic energy had washed everything out, and bright, pinpoint lights danced before his eyes. He yet felt the heat of it, and of the spattered blood.

The captain's eviscerated, blackened corpse lay just a few feet away, thrown back by the power of the energy bolt, and there was not much left of him. One arm and shoulder were missing, most of his chest was gone, and his hair and flesh had been instantly incinerated. Matullus gagged at the sight and heaved his guts out, there in the street.

By the time he rose unsteadily to his feet, it was all over. The entire merchant plaza had emptied, save for a few determined vendors who desperately tried to save goods from burning tents.

Bodies lay everywhere, some alive and moaning, some unmoving, trampled by the fleeing crowd, and some, like the captain's, incinerated by the devastating magical assault. Matullus stood there amid the flames and rising smoke while the guard squadron gathered around him.

"Sir, what happened?" one of the mercenaries asked, wide-eyed. They had drawn swords and knives and were glancing nervously about.

"Where's the captain?" someone asked.

Matullus pointed with his obsidian sword. "There... what's left of him."

He was gratified when two other mercenaries became sick at the sight. At least he was not the only one.

The fire brigade was already arriving, and there was nothing left to do but watch for looters. Matullus detailed the remainder of the squad to do so, then returned to the barracks, where he immediately sent reinforcements, under the command of a guard corporal. He, unfortunately, had a much less pleasant duty to perform. Lord Ankhor would have to be informed at once.

With a sigh, having cleaned himself up as best he could, Matullus wound the turban back around his head and tucked the long, wet end underneath his cloak.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders to the building before him—the mansion of the House of Ankhor, one of the largest, most powerful merchant houses of Athas. The adobe walls of the sprawling, four-story building dominated the surrounding area, rising above the one-and two-story buildings of the town around it. Even the exterior of the house spoke of opulence and luxury. The tan stuccoed walls were artfully textured by expert craftsmen, and the windows and archways were bordered with blue and yellow glazed ceramic tile. The gracefully stepped and rounded topcaps of the walls naturally led the eye toward the center of the mansion, where an arched parapet bore the house crest of Ankhor. It was a swallowtail flag divided horizontally in two bars of blue and yellow, and it flapped against a background of yellow tile.

Though the House of Ankhor maintained offices and residences in all the major cities of Athas, this was its headquarters in Altaruk, where the Ankhor family lived and from which they ran their merchant empire.

Matullus crossed the courtyard and went through a portal, down a walkway leading through an atrium and through the doors of the mansion. The steward greeted him as he came in.

"Guard Lieutenant Matullus to see Lord Ankhor on a matter of great urgency," he said.

"Very well, sir, follow me," the steward said. He led him across the high-ceilinged front hall of the mansion and up a flight of tile-covered stairs to the second floor. The floors of the hall were covered with expensive Drajian rugs woven in elaborate patterns of red and blue and gold. Wrought iron braziers from Urik provided the illumination, and wooden chairs and benches from Gulg, elaborately carved and set with obsidian and precious stones, lined the hall. Every detail testified to the vast trading empire of the House of Ankhor and the immense wealth of the Ankhor family.

The steward had Matullus wait outside the offices while he entered to announce him. A moment later, the carved agafari door opened, and the steward said, "Lord Ankhor will see you now." Matullus nervously moistened his lips and drew himself up. He took a deep breath and entered the airy room beyond. It centered on a rectangular brick fireplace big enough to roast three full-grown men. The walls were whitewashed in a dull cream shade, and the ceiling high above had thick, round wooden beams running across it—old growth agafari trees harvested in the Mekillot Mountains. There were several arched niches built into the walls, and these held statuary, expensive pottery, and other luxury goods imported by the house. Several tall iron braziers were placed around the room, and censers on either side of the fireplace filled the air with the piquant scent of mountain moonflowers.

On the far side of the room, in front of three narrow, arched windows, stood a wide desk crafted from hundreds of blocks of agafari and pagafa wood inset with obsidian. The worth of that desk alone could have fed an average family for years. In front of the desk stood two wooden chairs of exquisite craftsmanship, with soft cushions artfully embroidered in blue and yellow.

One of those chairs was occupied by an elderly man with long gray hair, a lined, narrow face, high forehead, hooked nose, and deeply sunken eyes. He wore a thin chaplet bearing the hammered-silver house crest and white robes trimmed with blue and yellow in geometric designs; Lyanus, the minister of accounts for the House of Ankhor.

The man standing at the windows behind the desk was considerably younger. He was handsome, in his early thirties, tall and slender, with shoulder-length black hair and dark brown eyes. Unlike Lyanus, whose pallor gave evidence of a life spent mostly indoors over ledgers, Lord Ankhor was deeply tanned, and his fine features had the look of a sensualist.

Since his father, Lord Ankhor the Elder, the patriarch of the house, had become infirm in his advanced years, Lord Ankhor the Younger had taken control of the family empire, and his shrewd business acumen had led the house to great profit in recent years. He was magnanimous in rewarding success among his employees, and equally intolerant of failure.

Matullus felt a knot form in his stomach as he crossed the room to stand at attention before the massive desk. He gave the mercenary salute, thumping his left breast with his right fist, and bowed his head respectfully. "My lord," he said.

"Ah, Matullus," said Lord Ankhor, turning to face him. "I see smoke rising from the merchant plaza. I take it you bring news of what's transpired?"

Lord Ankhor's tone was casual and pleasant, but that meant nothing. Matullus had heard Lord Ankhor sentence men to fifty lashes in exactly the same tone of voice. "My lord, we were attacked."

Ankhor raised his eyebrows. "The House Guard of Ankhor, attacked? In the merchant plaza?"

"We had learned of a disturbance, my lord, and when we arrived, we found two men fighting in the plaza with knives. However, the fight was merely a diversion. As we moved in to break it up, we were attacked by magic."

Ankhor frowned. "By magic, you say?"

"Yes, my lord. I saw it myself. It was the Veiled Alliance."

"You saw them? Attack the house guard? I don't believe it. Where is Captain Varos?"

"Dead, my lord. Killed in the attack."

"Incredible," said Ankhor. "Tell me exactly what happened, without leaving out the slightest detail."

Matullus described exactly what had occurred, from the moment they received the alarm to the moment of the captain's death, leaving out the part about his throwing up. Ankhor listened carefully, as did Lyanus, saying nothing until he was through. Then Lord Ankhor spoke.

"You say you saw the flash of light from just beyond the crowd, and then you heard someone scream—before anything else happened?"

"Yes, my lord. That was the moment the attack began. The crowd panicked and dispersed our formation, but I caught a glimpse of men in the white robes of the Alliance just as Captain Varos gave the order to assemble and move forward—"

"Did you tell Captain Varos you saw men in robes of the Alliance?"

"I tried to, my lord, but there was no time. Captain Varos gave the order to advance, and then I fell over a body, as I told you, and in the next instant, Captain Varos was killed. It all happened so fast.... It was a well-planned ambush, my lord.

There can be no mistake."

"It was an ambush, all right, but you were almost certainly not the targets," Ankhor said.

"My lord?"

"The Veiled Alliance has nothing to gain in attacking my house guard. We are not political. Their enemies are defilers, not merchants. Clearly, they stalked defilers, not you. They must have spotted their quarry and launched their attack before you blundered into it."

"But, my lord, the captain was killed."

"An accident, no doubt," said Ankhor. "He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. You do not even know who killed him. From your description, it is clear that spells were exchanged. The Alliance has always been careful not to injure innocent bystanders. Defilers have no such scruples. Varos could have been killed by one of the Alliance or one of the defilers they were after. Either way, it was almost certainly a mistake. You were just caught in the middle. Varos was a brave man and a good fighter, but much too headstrong. Well, I had planned to replace him, anyway. This merely simplifies the task."

"My lord, I will do my utmost to do you credit," said Matullus, bowing respectfully.

"You?" said Ankhor. "What makes you think I am offering you the job?"

Matullus looked up and blinked with surprise. "But... my lord, as Captain Varos's second-in-command, I... I naturally assumed—"

"Only fools assume things, Matullus," Lord Ankhor replied. "A wise man knows, and if he does not know, he takes the trouble to find out. You would do well to remember that. You are young yet and do not have enough experience. No, this constant skirmishing between the defilers and the Alliance has become too troublesome. Something must be done, and the job calls for a top-ranked professional.

"I had already sent for Captain Varos's replacement, and he is to arrive shortly. But until Kieran assumes his duties, you will act as temporary commander of the house guard. Try not to get any more of them killed, if you can manage it."

"Kieran, my lord?" said Matullus with surprise. "Kieran of Draj?"

"You know of him, then?"

"I know his reputation, my lord," Matullus said. "What mercenary does not? But I heard he had retired."

"I was able to induce him out of retirement to lead my house guard," Ankhor said, "so you had best prepare the men. If everything I've heard of him is true, you can expect Kieran to crack the whip from the very moment he arrives. He sounds like just the man we need at a time like this. Now, go clean yourself up. You stink of blood."

"Yes, my lord," said Matullus, bowing and backing away several steps before turning to leave.

Once outside, he heaved a sigh of relief. It could have been much worse. It stung his pride to be so summarily dismissed from consideration as the new captain of the house guard, but at the same time, he had been passed over for nothing less than the very best.

Kieran of Draj was a living legend among mercenaries, a veteran campaigner who had covered himself in glory and achieved the dream of every mercenary, to retire a wealthy man. And he had done it before he had reached his fortieth birthday. Matullus wondered how much Ankhor had offered him to tempt him out of retirement. It must have been a princely sum. To be second-in-command to a man like Kieran of Draj would surely make his reputation. And a reputation was worth money in this business. Matullus smiled. Lord Ankhor had not blamed him for the death of Captain Varos, and it could well be the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him.

*****

"I had not known you'd hired a replacement for Captain Varos," Lyanus said after Matullus left. "How long ago did you reach that decision?"

"Oh, some time ago," said Ankhor, dismissing the question with a wave of his hand.

"You normally consult me on such matters."

"Your knowledge of trade is second to none, Lyanus," Ankhor replied, "but hiring mercenaries is a bit outside your field of expertise. Why, do you disagree with my decision?"

"No, my lord, I know nothing of this Kieran of Draj. I was merely curious.... But, as you say, the matter is outside my expertise. Still... I might have been effective in conducting the negotiations. I am sure I could have saved the house some money in concluding arrangements with this man."

Ankhor smiled. "Oh, I doubt that, Lyanus. And that was no slight to your bargaining abilities. Kieran stated his conditions clearly, and they were absolutely non-negotiable."

"May I inquire what they were, my lord?"

"One hundred thousand gold pieces for one year of service, with half payable up front and the rest in equal monthly installments."

Lyanus's jaw dropped. "One hundred thousand in gold!" he said with disbelief. "But... but that's outrageous!"

"Yes, it certainly is," said Ankhor. "And at the end of the first year, the contract is subject to renegotiation."

"And you mean to tell me you agreed to these incredible demands?"

"I imagine Kieran was no less amazed than you when I accepted his terms," said Ankhor with amusement. "He expected me to refuse, of course. That was why he named so ridiculous a sum. He had no wish to come out of retirement, especially not to command the guard of a merchant house. This is a man who had distinguished himself in war. However, once he stated his terms and I agreed to them, he had no choice but to accept. Otherwise I could have accused him of dealing in bad faith, and that would have besmirched his reputation. A man like Kieran lives and dies by his reputation."

"But, my lord... why?" Lyanus said, aghast. "You could easily have hired an entire battalion of mercenaries for such a sum!"

"It is a significant expense, I agree, but we can easily afford it," Ankhor said. "Besides, if I had hired a battalion of mercenaries, it would not have created the impression I intended."

"But... I do not understand, my lord," Lyanus said with a puzzled expression.

"The Merchant Code requires us to be nonpolitical," said Ankhor, "but we are, of course, very much concerned with politics. One cannot transact business profitably otherwise. I wanted everyone to know that the House of Ankhor will spare no expense in hiring the very best to lead our guard in this turbulent time—a man whose reputation is established and beyond question. We share with the House of Jhamri the responsibilities of policing Altaruk; both houses are headquartered here, and I wanted everyone to know just how seriously we take that responsibility."

"Lord Jhamri, in particular," said Lyanus, catching on.

"Precisely," Ankhor replied with a smile. "My father spent his entire life competing with the House of Jhamri, and it wore him out. They were always bigger, always wealthier, and they always regarded us as upstart newcomers. At social functions, they treated my father as a second-class citizen, as a peasant unfit to rub shoulders with them. Oh, they were unfailingly polite, but their condescending tolerance was a slap across the face. I have never forgiven them that, and I never shall."

"But you recently signed a partnership with the House of Jhamri," said Lyanus.

"Because trying to compete with them in the marketplace is pointless," Ankhor said. "We could never match their resources. Whereas if we join them in partnership, we can take advantage of them. Jhamri thinks he has beaten us. He believes I am more pragmatic than my father, that in allying with his house, I have made a wise decision that ensures our survival and extends his own holdings, since the agreement places him in the preeminent position.

"Well, he is half right, at any rate. I am more pragmatic than my father. I realize that competing with the Jhamris is not the way to beat them. The way to beat them is to join them... and undermine them politically."

"And Kieran is part of your plan?" Lyanus asked.

"Exactly," Ankhor said. "I had my agents negotiate with Kieran on behalf of the House of Jhamri, in my new capacity as junior trading partner. His salary will come out of my pocket, of course, but he will wear the red of Jhamri, not the buff and blue of Ankhor."

Lyanus frowned. "I fear you've lost me, my lord. You mean, you have, in essence, given this Kieran as a present to Lord Jhamri's house? Where is the profit in this? And how can he lead our house guard if he wears the Jhamri colors?"

Ankhor smiled. "You have an excellent mind for detail, good Lyanus, but a poor one for intrigue. Lord Jhamri will see my employment of Kieran on his behalf as a gesture to ingratiate myself with him. It is just the sort of thing a man in my position would be expected to do.

"After years of competition, he has finally brought the House of Ankhor to its knees, and in my new position as his subsidiary trading partner, it would seem perfectly logical for me to curry favor with him as evidence of my good faith. After all, my father was his enemy, and as his supposedly weaker, more pragmatic son, whose primary interest is in enjoying a self-indulgent lifestyle, I will play up to his expectations by trying to prove myself his friend. He will, of course, have no idea how much I am paying Kieran, and it would be impolitic of him to ask. And a condition of my contract with Kieran is that he not reveal the amount of his salary.

"However," Lord Ankhor continued, "at the proper time, I shall allow that information to leak out. Meanwhile, Kieran will command my house guard because Lord Jhamri will insist on it, especially now that I have tragically lost Captain Varos. The fool could not have gotten killed at a better time. Lord Jhamri already has a captain for his house guard, and it would not be practical to demote him in Kieran's favor, especially when he has done nothing to deserve it.

"No, he will magnanimously offer Kieran to me, to command my own guard, but I will insist that Kieran wear the Jhamri red and act as the nominal co-commander with Jhamri's own captain. A merely titular appointment, with no real authority behind it. The two units will continue to remain separate. At the same time, Jhamri will have the satisfaction of having all of Altaruk see the commander of the Ankhor House Guard wearing his colors, a clear sign to everyone of who is in control. He will think he has outmaneuvered me, and I will be seem to have placed myself at a considerable disadvantage for the sake of public safety."

"Very shrewd, my lord," Lyanus said. "If, indeed, it comes out as you predict."

"Rest assured, it will," said Ankhor. "These recent outbreaks of violence in Altaruk have steadily been growing worse, and everyone is greatly concerned. The Alliance has always maintained a strong presence here, because the defilers have never had much influence.

"However, defiler numbers have been growing, and the Alliance is stepping up efforts to eliminate them. Each faction tries to spy out the other, and Altaruk has become a hotbed of intrigue. If things keep up at this rate, we shall soon be caught squarely in a full-scale mage war. And that would be very bad for business."

"And you have a plan to prevent this conflict?" asked Lyanus.

"Oh, I always have a plan, Lyanus. Kieran is only the first part of that plan. The public part, for there is also another, very private part. The first part is the fire I light under the House of Jhamri, and the second is the ice."

"The ice, my lord?" Lyanus asked, puzzled.

"Yes, an ice that will freeze the very soul, Lyanus," Ankhor said with a smile so warm and pleasant that it sent a chill through the old minister of accounts.

Lyanus had learned to watch his young master's eyes when he smiled. This time, they were terrifying—dead and flat, devoid of emotion. In that moment, Lyanus wondered if Ankhor had a soul. "I... I do not understand, my lord."

"All in good time, Lyanus," Lord Ankhor replied as he turned back to the window to watch the merchant plaza burn. "All in good time."

Chapter One

It was almost dawn on the Great Ivory Plain, and the twin moons cast a ghostly light on the seemingly endless expanse of sparkling, hard-packed crystal. As the night wind shifted, blowing from the east, Sorak seemed to hear the tormented cries of the lost souls wandering the streets of Bodach, whose crumbling spires rose in the distance, barely visible in the bright, silvery moonlight.

Perhaps it was his imagination. Surely not even an elfling could hear across fifty miles of desert. And yet, tricks of the wind could sometimes carry sound far out in the trackless wastes of Athas, especially here where nothing grew, here on the shimmering crystal plain. As the desert breeze blew across the silt basins to the east, rustling through the palm fronds of the oasis, Sorak was almost certain he could hear the faint sounds of a tortured wailing, a chorus of ululating voices that chilled him to the bone. It was a sound he had hoped never to hear again.

Soon, the sun would rise and the living dead of Bodach would slink back to their hiding places in the ruins. The wind would cease to bear their fearsome wails across the desert, and the city of undead would fall silent as the sands swirled through its deserted streets and plazas. A deceptive stillness would once again descend upon the Great Ivory Plain as the dark sun baked its crystal surface with temperatures high enough to boil blood.

During the day, Bodach seemed merely an abandoned city on a narrow spit of land jutting into the great silt sea—the isolated, crumbling ruins of a once great civilization that had flourished upon Athas in an age when the world was green and the sea filled with water, not with brown and swirling silt. But at night, horror stalked Bodach, and those who fell victim to the city's undead rose again to join their ranks, doomed by an age-old curse to spend eternity protecting the lost treasure of the ancients.

What Sorak had found in the city of undead was of greater value than any material treasure. He had found a gateway into Sanctuary, the refuge of the Sage, and it was there that he had learned the answers to the questions that had plagued him all his life. It was there that he had found himself, and in the process, came close to losing everything, even his life.

As he stood upon the low and rocky ridge that sheltered the oasis at the edge of the great salt plain, Sorak glanced back toward Ryana, sleeping in her bedroll by their campfire. Together, they had survived the city of undead, and their journey to find the Sage had taken them from their home in the forests of the Ringing Mountains all the way across the harsh and foreboding desert Tablelands. Along the way, they had fought marauders and mercenaries, half-giants and defilers, corrupt aristocrats and paid assassins, and a host of undead warriors. They had even defied the wrath of the Shadow King, Nibenay, himself. They had come a long way from the beginning of their quest and had both sacrificed a great deal to follow the Path of the Preserver. Their lives had changed immeasurably since they had set out on their journey, and as Sorak stood there, the cool night breeze ruffling his long, dark hair, he thought back to how it all had begun.

*****

From childhood, he had been a tribe of one—a half-breed with a dozen personalities, some male, some female, each with distinctive attributes. A wandering pyreen had found him half dead, alone out in the desert. When the shapechanger realized that his ordeal had fragmented his young mind, she had brought him to the villichi convent, nestied high in an isolated valley of the Ringing Mountains.

The villichi were a sisterhood of warrior priestesses who had vowed to follow the Way of the Druid and the Path of the Preserver. They were women born with fully developed psionic powers, mutants ostracized from their communities. They were taller than most women, broad shouldered and long limbed, and most were marked with albino features—snow-white hair, eyes ranging from palest green or gray to pink, and pale, almost translucent skin that burned easily in the hot Athasian sun. Each year, robed villichi priestesses went out on pilgrimages to search for others of their kind, but never in all the history of Athas had there been a male villichi. In all the years the convent had existed, no male had set foot in its walls.

Though he was male, Sorak was accepted by the high mistress of the convent, both out of her reverence for the pyreen and because she had detected his inborn psionic powers. He was not only an elfling, born of a forbidden union between halfling and elf, he was also a tribe of one, a condition so rare that it was known only among villichi. He was an outcast, as were most villichi, and if he was not villichi himself, then he was as close to being one as any male had ever been. The high mistress took him in and named him Sorak, an elvish word for a nomad who travels alone.

Sorak grew up among the villichi sisterhood. One of them, Ryana, a villichi girl his own age, became his closest friend. They grew up together, played together, trained together in the exotic warrior arts of the villichi, and studied the Way of the Druid. But as they grew older, youthful friendship and affection gave way to love and sexual attraction. And Sorak found himself tormented, torn between his own desires and those of his other personalities.

The female personalities residing in him could accept Ryana as sister or friend, but not as lover, so Sorak left the convent to seek out his destiny and discover the truth of his origins. But Ryana would not be parted from him. When she found out that he had left, she broke her villichi vows, fled the convent in the middle of the night, and followed him out into the desert.

Together, they sought the Sage, the reclusive and mysterious preserver wizard who had embarked upon the long and arduous course of metamorphosis into an avangion, the only creature capable of standing against the power of the dragon kings. Only the magic of the Sage was great enough to help Sorak discover his past, and only preserver magic, which did not destroy the dwindling natural resources of Athas, could cure him of his rare condition. To accept the help of a defiler would have violated everything he had been raised to believe, and would have doomed him to forsake forever the Path of the Preserver. However, in searching for the Sage, Sorak had attracted the attention of the dragon kings and their defiler minions, who regarded the preserver wizard as the sole threat to their power.

In Bodach, Sorak and Ryana faced not only an army of undead, but the murderous champion of the Shadow King, a ruthless killer named Valsavis. They prevailed, but only at great cost. Guided by Kara, a pyreen known as the Silent One, they had found the gateway into Sanctuary in Bodach. It was a magical doorway into another time and place, in an age when Athas was still green. That was the secret of the Sage, and it was why none of the dragon kings had ever been able to find him. They sought him in the present, but he had used his magic to find a refuge in the distant past.

In Sanctuary, Sorak found the answers he had so long sought. He had already deduced that the Sage was the same person once known as the Wanderer, who had chronicled his peregrinations across Athas in a book known as The Wanderer's Journal. What he had not known was that the preserver wizard was his grandfather.

The Sage cast a spell on Sorak, which enabled him to see into his past. He discovered who his parents were, and what his truename was, and what had become of his people. Through the magic of the Sage, Sorak saw how the Moon Runner tribe of elves had been destroyed by a necromancer called the Faceless One, a defiler wizard hired by Sorak's halfling grandfather.

However, finding out those answers both set Sorak free and severed him from the only security he had ever really known. The voices of his multiple personas would never speak to him again. The wise, maternal Guardian; the stoic Ranger; the calculating Eyron; the brash and irrepressible Kivara; the beastlike Screech; the gentle, childlike Lyric; and the others... all were gone now. They had joined with the Sage, living on inside him as he entered the next stage of his transformation. The act that empowered the Sage's evolution also healed Sorak's fragmented personality, and now Sorak was left feeling more alone than he had ever felt before.

"All living creatures are alone, Sorak," Ryana told him afterward in an attempt to ease his pain. "That is why they mate and bond in friendship."

"Yes, I know," he replied. "But it is one thing to know it, and still another to experience truly being alone for the first time. I have never known the feeling. For as long as I can remember, I have had the others with me. Now, I feel their absence, the emptiness in my soul. It feels as if a part of me is missing."

Nor was his multiplicity the only thing he lost.

When he had left the convent, High Mistress Varanna had given him a gift, a wondrous sword named Galdra—the enchanted blade of elven kings. It had been entrusted to her safekeeping by a pyreen elder, who had received it from the hand of Akron himself, last of the ancient line of elven kings. Sorak had not known the nature of the blade's enchantment when he had received it, but he learned that it would cut through anything, and that other blades would shatter upon contact with its elven steel. He knew, too, that if Galdra fell into the hands of a defiler, its magic blade would shatter—and that was precisely what happened when he fought Valsavis, champion of the Shadow King. When Valsavis seized the sword, a blinding explosion of white light shattered the enchanted blade. Now, all that remained was the hilt and about a foot of broken blade. Of the legend once engraved on it in ancient runes—"Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith"—only the elvish symbols for "Strong in spirit" now remained. A defiler's hand had touched it, and the enchantment was broken.

*****

As he stood alone upon the rocky ridge in the first orange-tinted light of dawn, Sorak drew the broken blade from his belt and held it up before him, staring at it as it gleamed with a faint blue eldritch light, the remaining trace energies of the enchantment. Why keep it? It was useless as a sword, and Sorak bore Valsavis's iron sword now, anyway. But Ryana had insisted that the legend of Galdra still stood for something and could be of use to them. Sorak grimaced wryly as he thought of it.

It was said in the songs of elven bards that whoever bore the sword Galdra was fated to become the Crown of Elves, the ruler who would once again unite the scattered tribes under one king. In his travels, Sorak had encountered elves who had believed that he would be that king, but he wanted no part of any elven crown.

Though his mother had named him Alaron after the long-dead elven king, Sorak felt the name did not belong to him. For as long as he could remember, he had been Sorak, the Nomad, and now that he had finally learned his truename, it did not seem to fit him. He was no elven king, no elven kingmaker.

So why keep the broken blade? Ryana thought it important, as did Kara. "Keep it as a symbol of what you have achieved, and what we struggle for," the pyreen told him before they parted.

But was it really a symbol of achievement, Sorak wondered, or a symbol of a life left behind? He was no longer a tribe of one, an elfling with a dozen different personalities. Now, he was merely Sorak the elfling, the Nomad, around whom unwanted legends had already sprung up. Such notoriety brought only trouble, and he had enough trouble as it was.

For the first time in his life, he felt alone and vulnerable. Yet, for all that he had lost, he had gained the one thing he had never thought that he could have. Ryana.

He turned his back upon the great salt plain and gazed down the slope into the small oasis where Ryana slept, curled up in her bedroll near the smoking embers of their campfire. He thought back to the day she had declared her love for him. It seemed almost a lifetime ago....

*****

As usual, after weapons training in the morning, the villichi students went down to the stream to bathe. In a desert world, a running stream was the rarest of luxuries, yet Sorak and his villichi companions took it for granted. The Ringing Mountains around them were covered with thick, old-growth forests, and he spent long days hiking through the lush woods, or running with Tigra by his side, a tigone that had been his constant companion since his childhood.

Instead of joining the others at the lagoon, Sorak and his best friend Ryana wandered off to a special spot a bit farther downstream. As they sat together on a large rock outcropping in the middle of the stream, feeling the coolness of the water rush over them, Ryana told him how she felt. "Sorak... there is something I have been meaning to ask you—"

"I know what you are going to ask. I have known for some time." He had seen it coming and had dreaded the moment when she would finally give voice to her feelings. She had known he was a tribe of one, but because his other personalities all spoke with his male voice, she had not suspected that some of them were female, and he had been afraid to tell her. When she learned the truth at last, it took her completely by surprise.

Shocked and dismayed by his disclosure, Ryana fled to the temple tower, where she began a period of solitary meditation.

That was when Sorak appeared before High Mistress Varanna and told her he was going to leave the convent. He felt his continued presence would only bring heartache to Ryana, whom he cared for very deeply, but could never have. The vows taken by villichi priestesses did not permit them to have mates, and even if they had, his female personas would never have allowed it.

Though he had lived with the villichi sisterhood, he was never one of them, and as an adult male living among them, he knew he would only be a source of discord. He thought that by leaving, he would free Ryana from the burden of loving him.

Instead, she forsook her vows and followed.

*****

Now, freed of his multiple personas, Sorak was able to accept her as a lover at long last, and that made all the difference. The harsh light of morning softened in his eyes as he looked down upon Ryana, sleeping below. In Sanctuary, they had made love for the first time, and they vowed that they would always be together, no matter what the future brought.

He pulled the broken blade from his belt. It might still have made a useful knife, even though the tip resisted all his efforts to sharpen it into a tapering point. Useless, though it yet sparked faintly with a crackling discharge of blue energy, like a guttering candle.

So much for the legend of the Crown of Elves, he thought. A broken blade, a broken people, scattered throughout Athas in small desert-dwelling tribes or living in the cities, where they performed the most menial of labor or eked out lives as gamers and merchants in the squalid, overcrowded elven quarters. A legend, perhaps, would give them some small hope for their future. Those who still believed in it, at any rate. But if they met with the reality, then they would see only a nomadic wanderer with a broken sword, not a fabled blade borne by an elven king. Why shatter their illusions, as the touch of a defiler had shattered the steel of the blade?

Why shatter more lives? Sorak's ancestors had done enough of that already....

*****

The Sage, his maternal grandfather, was the only family Sorak knew. He did not know if his paternal grandfather, the halfling chieftain Ragna, still lived, but hoped he was dead. If Ragna lived and Sorak found it out, the halfling would live no longer.

Sorak would never understand what sort of father could condemn his own son to death by fire for mating with a female of another race. Ragna had meant for him to die as well, and but for a chance casting of a spell, Sorak had survived.

Ragna's commission to the Faceless One was to cast a spell to slay every last elfin the Moon Runner tribe. Sorak had been spared only because he was not a full-blooded elf. He was a half-breed, born of two races that were natural enemies. The spell cast by the Faceless One had failed to strike him down, as it had struck down all the others, and though he was a sworn enemy of all defilers, Sorak despised the Faceless One above all others. He knew nothing of the wizard but his name, yet somehow, somewhere, he would find him. And then his father and his mother and her tribe would be avenged. Death to the sorcerer, and to the grandfather who commissioned him.

It was a cold and ruthless resolution. An unsettling thought.

And there were so many thoughts streaming through his head these days. He could not get used to the curious feeling of being all alone in there.

He was having trouble sleeping. When he was a tribe of one, Sorak could rest by letting one of his other personalities come to the fore and take over. He would fade back and "go under," as if sinking down into warm darkness, sometimes aware of what was happening outside and sometimes not, while his body remained awake and in the control of one of his other personalities.

Now that he was just alone, he had to learn to fall asleep the way that everyone else did. Sooner or later, he grew tired, and then sleep would come. However, being part elf and part halfling meant his body possessed immense physical reserves. Since leaving Sanctuary, he had found he could go for days without sleep. He would lie down to rest, as he had done the previous night, but while Ryana quickly fell asleep, he remained awake, his mind relentlessly active as if it sought to fill the void left by his other personalities.

It was a new life, a new way of being, and he was not yet accustomed to it.

Often, at night after Ryana fell asleep, he would start talking to himself, a habit many people had, but Sorak would half expect to hear an answer. He would start to speak to one of his personalities aloud, as he had often done before, and when no answer came, he would remember again there would be no answer, and then the crushing loneliness would descend on him like an immense weight on his chest.

*****

Sorak felt the warmth of the dark sun as it slowly rose on the horizon. Soon, Ryana would awaken, and they would fill their waterskins from the oasis pool and set off once again, en route to North Ledopolus, one of two dwarven villages located on opposite banks of the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, roughly thirty miles southwest. From there, they planned to cross the estuary to South Ledopolus, through which the caravan trade route ran from Altaruk to Balic.

Neither he nor Ryana had ever been to that part of the world, and all they knew of it was what Sorak's grandfather had written in his journal, a copy of which Sorak carried with him. However, it had been written many years ago, and they had no way of knowing if the information it contained was still accurate.

According to the journal, the dwarves of South Ledopolus were trying to build a causeway to Ledo Island, a long-dead volcano that rose in the center of the estuary. At the same time, the dwarves of North Ledopolus were trying to do likewise, thereby hoping to meet in the middle and connect the two villages with a bridge that would open a shorter caravan route from Gulg and Nibenay to Balic and the other cities south of the Tyr region. The bridge would benefit both villages and increase the traffic coming through them.

But the giants who lived on Ledo posed an obstacle. They had no desire to see their island become a connecting point between two dwarven villages, with the increase in traffic, and so they kept tearing down the causeway that the dwarves were building. Constant battles raged between the giants and the dwarves, and Sorak had no idea if there would be a bridge across the estuary when they reached it or not.

The dwarves had ferries that plied the estuary, above and below Ledo Island, but the giants often attacked these, as well. The dwarves therefore navigated with great care, taking ferries across the deepest parts of the estuary to avoid the giants. But the silt shifted on the bottom, and it was difficult to gauge the estuary's depth, so any ferry crossing was a gamble.

Even so, Sorak knew they had to take that course. The only other alternative was to head north across the Great Ivory Plain and take the trade route along its northern boundary. They had crossed the plain once already, and Sorak was not anxious to repeat the long, arduous journey.

Once they had crossed the estuary and reached the caravan trade route that ran past South Ledopolus, Sorak had no idea which way they would go. He had expected to receive some sign from the Sage, but as yet, there had been no message from his grandfather. He knew only one thing—wherever they were bound, they would be going toward trouble, not away from it.

Throughout Athas, in the larger city-states, the dragon kings held sway. In the smaller towns and villages, their defiler minions were always active, seeking to extend and consolidate their power. The preservers were outnumbered by defilers everywhere, so much so that preserver adepts and their supporters had been forced underground.

They functioned as small, semi-independent groups collectively known as the Veiled Alliance. To be exposed as a member of the Alliance meant certain death, so members functioned in great secrecy, working against the power of the defilers in whatever ways they could.

The structure of the Alliance assured anonymity. It was divided into secret cells, with each cell being aware of only two other cells on the same level, and only one above it. In this way, if any one cell were exposed, it could quickly be cut off, and the members of the cells in contact with it absorbed into other groups. This system kept defilers from penetrating the structure of the entire organization.

Fortunately for them, the defilers were not united. The dragon kings were in fierce competition with each other. Even so, they commanded far more power than the preservers. And that power was slowly, relentlessly destroying Athas.

Yes, the dark sun rose upon a dying world. With each passing year, more and more of the planet's resources were used up by the defilers in their greedy quest for power. Some said it was the science of a bygone age that had changed the climate and reduced most of the world to blasted desert, but Sorak knew it was defiler magic.

He walked back down the rocky slope and approached the small pool of the oasis. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring down into the dark blue water.

Behind him, Ryana stirred softly. "Good morning," she said, as she sat up behind him and stretched. "Have you been awake long?"

"I have not slept."

"Again?"

He sighed, heavily. "My thoughts are too much with me."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Legends," he replied. "And about the difference between fable and reality. Sometimes reality leaves much to be desired." And with that, he tossed the broken blade into the pool.

Ryana leapt to her feet and ran to his side. "No! What have you done?"

He grabbed her by the arm before she could dive in after it.

"Let it go, Ryana," he said.

She stared at him, uncomprehending. "Why?"

"Because I am not a king," he said. "And legend or no legend, the blade is broken."

"But it still could have been a symbol!"

"Of what? Of the elven prophecy? Defilers could just as easily claim that with Galdra broken, the prophecy has proven false. I may not have much faith in it myself, but neither do I wish to see defilers twist it to their own ends. If there is to be another elven king someday, then let it be my grandfather. The avangion will have the strength and wisdom to rule well. I find it challenging enough to rule myself."

"But think what you have thrown away!" Ryana said with chagrin.

"I have," said Sorak, staring into the pool where Galdra had sunk out of sight. "I have discarded the reality, and in doing so, I have preserved the legend. I do not regret my choice. Come, let us fill our waterskins. We still have a long way to go."

Chapter Two

They were out there tonight, waiting. Waiting with their sweaty hands and leering faces, with their tongues moistening their lips and their eyes gleaming with anticipation. Cricket could hear them, shouting and laughing boisterously, pounding on the tables and calling for more drinks. The caravan from Balic had arrived in South Ledopolus that afternoon, and tonight the place was full, packed with traders, travelers and mercenaries. The humans were the worst. Ordinarily, only a few humans frequented the house, but when a caravan was in town, they came in droves, with money clinking in their purses and hands reaching, feeling, pinching....

"All right, my lovelies, we've got a full house tonight," said Turin, pulling aside the beaded curtain as he came into the dressing room. The squeaky-voiced dwarf paid no heed to the various states of undress of those within. "They'll want their money's worth, and I know you'll give it them, won't you?"

"Because when the customers get their money's worth, they're happy, and when the customers are happy, Turin's happy," Rikka chanted, imitating his high voice. Turin gave them the same speech every time a caravan came through town. Just once, thought Cricket, it would be nice to hear a different sermon.

"Don't worry, Turin," Rikka said, sashaying to him with a bump and grind, her large breasts bouncing as she moved. She stopped in front of Turin, who came up to about her waist. She reached down and tousled the dwarf's thick red hair. "We'll part them from their money, then you'll part us from ours, as usual."

Turin took the casual impertinence in stride. "Just remember, my dears, the more you make—"

"The more you keep," the other girls said in unison as they continued getting dressed in their dancing costumes and applying their makeup.

"That's absolutely right," said Turin, rubbing his pudgy little hands together in anticipation. "And it's a fine, rich caravan this time, from the House of Jhamri. They're fresh from delivering goods to Balk, and they've got plenty of money in their purses. It's our duty to ease their burden a bit on the return trip. So let's have a good show tonight, and be sure to circulate among the patrons when it's not your turn on stage. We want them drunk, diverted, and delighted."

"Wasted, wanton, and wiped out," said Rikka with a grin, kissing Turin on the top of his head.

"Exactly," said the dwarf. He patted her rear end affectionately, and his hand lingered a bit too long.

Turin was like an old woman shopping at a fruit stall, thought Cricket. He had to feel everything. He had his favorites among the girls, and the. ones who indulged him the most were allowed the most leeway. Nevertheless, Cricket had not followed their example, and whenever Turin reached for her, she adroitly moved away.

Turin had not pressured her, at least not on his own behalf, but on several occasions, he had drawn her aside and made a point of telling her she ought to be more friendly to the patrons. Being "friendly" meant sitting at tables, or better, on laps, allowing certain intimacies as patrons bought her drinks—which were no more than colored water—and asking if they would like a private show upstairs. For a fee, patrons of the Desert Damsel could rent a room, paying by the half hour, and receive a private dance. Any other transactions that occurred there, behind closed doors, were extra. That was how the other girls made most of their money.

Cricket was the exception. She had never gone upstairs with any of the customers, and she would sit at their tables only so long as they kept their hands to themselves. The moment any of them tried to touch her, she would politely excuse herself and leave.

"A word with you, Cricket, if I may?" said Turin to the half-elf, coming to her side as the other girls filed out of the small dressing room.

"If it is the same word, then it is the same reply," said Cricket, checking her makeup in the mirror. Even sitting, she was the same height as he.

Turin shook his head. "Cricket, Cricket, Cricket," he said, petulantly. "Why must you be so difficult?"

"I am not difficult at all," she replied, carefully applying a bit more rouge to her cheeks. "I always come to work on time, and I never short the house on its share of the tips, as some of the other girls do. I am never rude to any of the customers, nor do I sit on their laps to pick their pockets. I was hired to dance, and that is what I do. If anything more was expected of me as a condition of my employment, you should have made it plain in the beginning."

The pudgy dwarf sighed with resignation. "You take unfair advantage of me," he said in a whining tone. "You are the most striking-looking girl I've got, and the best dancer, too. You know I could not afford to lose you.... By the way, which of the girls short me on the tips?"

Cricket smiled. "That would be telling tales."

Turin grimaced. "Well, I expect most of them do," he said with a shrug. "Why should you be any different?"

"Because I do not break my agreements," she replied, turning to face him. "If I compromised on my agreement with you, it would be only a short step to compromising on my agreements with myself, and I do not wish to lose my focus."

"Your focus?" he repeated with a smile. "That is a dwarven concept. What would a half-elf girl know about focus?"

"I know what dwarves have taught me," she replied. "It is a very useful concept, and I am a quick study."

"And what is your focus?" Turin asked with a condescending little smile.

"You of all people should know better than to ask a thing like that," said Cricket, raising her eyebrows.

Turin nodded. "Indeed," he said. "One's focus is a private thing. I see that you have learned at least that much. Forgive me for my rudeness."

"No offense was meant, and none taken."

Turin smiled. "Spoken like a dwarf," he said, "Whoever taught you, taught you well."

"I live in a dwarven village," she replied. "I try to learn the customs, as a courtesy."

"You are an unusual young woman," Turin said. "You are not like the others."

"Yes," she agreed, "that is a large part of my appeal."

"And some of the other girls resent you for it."

"They all resent me for it," she said. "But I did not come here to make friends, only to make money."

"And only on your own terms," said Turin.

"The other girls are already busy out there, circulating, yet you always remain backstage until it is your turn to dance. You could make a great deal more if you were more forthcoming with customers, you know."

"On the contrary, I would make a great deal less," said Cricket.

Turin stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. "You may be right, at that," he said. "Well, that bard should be finishing up his song by now, so I'll need to go and start the show." He grinned. "There's nothing like a bard to get things rolling. By the time he's finished, they'll be dying for some real entertainment. It's a hungry crowd. Let's really drive them wild tonight."

"That I can do," said Cricket.

Turin went back out into the main room, then Cricket heard the clamor of the crowd as the bard finished his recitation and Turin took the stage to announce the first dancer.

A moment later, the beaded curtain parted, and Edric the bard came in, looking weary and exasperated. He was dressed as usual in a loose-fitting gray tunic belted at the waist, use-worn breeches of brown leather, and soft, high-topped moccasin boots. So far as Cricket knew, they were the only clothes he owned. With a heavy sigh, he put down his harp and eased his long, lean, elven frame into a chair, running a hand through shoulder-length silver hair.

"Tough crowd tonight?" asked Cricket sympathetically.

Edric grimaced. "Indifferent to the point of pain," he said, his voice heavy with frustration. "It was like trying to sing into a sandstorm. I don't know why I bothered taking this job. It's you girls they come to see, not me. They talked and shouted throughout the entire performance. Still, at least they didn't throw things. That's something to be thankful for, I suppose."

"I'm sorry, Edric," Cricket said. "You deserve a more appreciative audience."

"Well, I fear I won't find one here," said Edric wryly.

"Why not sing for me, then? There is still time before I have to go on stage." She tossed him a coin. "Sing for me, Edric."

He caught the coin adroitly. "There is no need for this, Cricket," he said. "I would be glad to sing for you for nothing."

"And I am glad to pay," she said. "I can afford it, and an artist should be rewarded for his efforts."

Edric smiled and picked up his harp. "Very well, then. Is there a special song you would like to hear?"

"Sing for me "The Song of Alaron,' " she said. "Not the whole ballad—there isn't enough time. Sing the sad part, about the fall and the prophecy."

"Ah," said Edric, nodding. "An excellent choice. I have not sung that one in quite a while."

"You still recall it?"

"How could I not? I am an elf," he said with a smile as his long fingers delicately plucked the harp. Cricket sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, and Edric began to sing, reciting the words with a measured cadence in a deep, mellifluent voice.

"And so it came to pass that the noble Alaron, last of the long and honored line of elven kings, was cursed by the evil Rajaat, who feared the power of the elves and sought to sow disunity among them. With his defiler magic, Rajaat cast a spell upon the noble Alaron, so that he could sire no sons, and so the royal line would die out with him. And the evil that he wrought upon our people is with us to this day. May his name live long in infamy."

"May his name live long in infamy," Cricket repeated softly, as was the custom when the song was performed around the elven campfires in the desert. Edric smiled and continued.

"Rajaat then sowed discord among the tribes, using bribery, deceit, and magic, and in time, he succeeded in driving the tribes apart into many warring factions. Only the noble Alaron resisted him, but he was unable to bring the tribes together once again.

"And so the kingdom fell."

"And so the kingdom fell," said Cricket, nodding with her eyes still closed. And Edric went on.

"Then the noble Alaron was forced to flee, pursued by Rajaat's evil minions. They caught up to him and the remnants of his tribe at a place called the Lake of Golden Dreams, and it was there the dream died for our people. A mighty battle followed, and all the tribe was slain. Mortally wounded, the noble Alaron alone escaped into the forests of the Ringing Mountains.

"There, he fell down in despair and waited for death to come claim him. He had done his utmost, and he had failed, but he had not bowed down to the foe. May his courage be remembered."

"May his courage be remembered," Cricket echoed with feeling. Edric nodded, plucking out the notes of the refrain, and then went on.

"And it came to pass that as he lay dying, a wandering pyreen came upon him and stopped to bring him peace and ease his final moments. With his last breath, the noble Alaron gave her his sword, the mighty Galdra, enchanted blade of elven kings. With his last breath, he asked one final boon of her.

" 'Take this, my sword, the symbol of my once-proud people,' he said to her. 'Keep it safe, so that it should never fall into the hands of the defilers, for the blade would shatter if they tried to use it. I was cursed never to have a son,' he said, 'and a proud tradition dies with me. The elves are now a beaten people. Take Galdra and keep it safe. My life is but the blink of an eye to a pyreen such as you. Perhaps, someday, you will succeed where I have failed, and find an elf worthy of this blade. If not, hide it from the defilers. I can at least deny them this.'

"And with those words, he died. And so the kingdom of the elves died with him."

"And so the kingdom of the elves died with him," Cricket repeated, her voice tinged with sadness. Edric's fingers plucked out a dirge of soft chords as he continued.

"And our people became decadent, and the tribes scattered far and wide, most to live as nomads in the desert, raiding and stealing from both humans and each other, forsaking their honor. Others went to live in the cities of humans, where they engaged in commerce with them and mixed their blood with theirs and forgot the glory of their once-proud race.

"And yet, a tiny spark of hope remained, nurtured in the hearts of our people. That faintly glowing spark was the legend of the Crown of Elves, passed on through the generations. To most, it was merely a myth, a story told by elven bards around campfires to while away lonely desert nights and bring a few moments of solace in the squalid elven quarters of the cities, where our people lived in poverty and degradation. But to all, it was a glimmer of hope. And thus we recall the legend."

"And thus we recall the legend," Cricket said softly. They were both caught up in spirit of the song, and the noise from the main room seemed to recede into the distance as Edric played and sang.

"There shall come a day, the legend says, when a chieftain's seventh son shall fall and rise again, and from his rise, a new life shall begin. From this new life will spring a new hope for our people, and it shall be the Crown of Elves, by which a great, good ruler will be crowned, one who will bring back the elven forest homeland. The Crown shall reunite the people, and a new dawn shall bring the greening of the world. "So it is said, so it shall be."

"So it is said, so it shall be," Cricket echoed, her eyes shining. Edric plucked out the final chords, took a deep breath, and exhaled heavily, then put down his harp. For a moment, they simply sat in silence.

"Thank you," Cricket said finally, her voice barely a whisper.

"No, thank you," said Edric. "It has been too long since I have sung that song. And it is good to have another share it."

"Even a half-elf?" Cricket said, somewhat rueful.

Edric reached out and placed his hand on her knee. She allowed the contact, for she knew it meant merely friendship. "The same elven blood flows through both our veins, my dear."

"Only yours is pure, while mine is mixed."

"Perhaps, but yours is no less red than mine," said Edric with a smile, giving her knee a reassuring pat before removing his hand. "And in a place like this, what do bloodlines matter?"

"In a place like this, perhaps they don't," Cricket replied with a shrug of resignation. "But there are places where they do matter very much."

"Was it your father who was human, or your mother?" Edric asked.

"My father."

"Ah, so your mother was tribal, then."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"It took no great powers of deduction," Edric said. "In cities, elves are less clannish, and those of mixed blood are not uncommon, whereas in desert-dwelling tribes, such things are not easily accepted."

"No," she said, softly, "they are not."

"And do your parents still live?"

"My mother died five years ago, old before her time from laboring as a scullery maid in a tavern owned by humans. I never knew my father."

Edric nodded. "Regrettably, such things are not uncommon these days, either."

"Were you ever tribal?"

"Once, many years ago, but that was in another lifetime," he replied.

"Why did you leave?"

He shrugged. "I fell in love."

"Ah." She smiled. "With an elf girl from the city? A half-elf woman, perhaps?"

"Worse than that, I fear," he said, smiling. "With a human man."

"Oh," said Cricket, with surprise. And then she chuckled.

Edric raised his eyebrows. "That amuses you?"

"No, forgive me," she said. "You misunderstand. That was not the reason I laughed."

"Then, pray, enlighten me."

"It's only that Rikka will be crushed," said Cricket. "She has had her eye on you, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Rikka is the tall one, with the dark hair and the large...?" Edric pantomimed the features.

"That's Rikka," Cricket said with a grin. "She thought you were avoiding her because she is Turin's favorite."

"Ah. Well... that was not the only reason."

Cricket giggled. "So what happened with your human man?"

"He was not similarly disposed, I fear," said Edric. "Last I heard, he married a tavernkeeper's daughter. It was a tragic case of unrequited love. I was very young and foolish in those days, and given to grand and hopeless passions. Such are the things that make a bard. What of you? Has there never been a grand passion in your life? I can't believe there have not been ample opportunities."

"Not the sort of opportunities I sought," she said. "I am still waiting."

Edric looked surprised. "Do you mean to say you've never...?"

Cricket shook her head. "No. Never."

"Well, I would not have guessed," he said. "From the sultry way you dance, I would have thought you were well versed in the arts of love."

"That is what most men would assume," Cricket replied wryly. "But it takes no great skill for a girl to be seductive, especially if she is pretty. One merely learns from watching the way men react."

"Hmmm. Do the others know?" asked Edric.

"That I am a virgin?" Cricket shook her head. "I think they would be even more surprised than you. They think I'm merely stuck up. At first, they thought perhaps I might prefer women, but they soon discovered I was not so disposed, to borrow your rather diplomatic phrase."

"Why do you stay here? You could make a great deal more by dancing in a city, or even in a larger town. Why here, in a small dwarven village on a distant caravan route?"

"It was where fortune took me," she replied. "But it is not where I intend to stay."

"Oh? You have plans, then?"

"I have been saving my money ever since I started here," said Cricket. "Or as much as I could, save, after I had paid for food and clothes and lodging. Prices are inflated here, and when you're known as one of Turin's dancers, the price always goes up. Still, I almost have enough put aside to purchase first-class passage in a caravan. After tonight, with any luck, I should have more than I need."

"And then?"

"And then I will be quit of this pestilential hole," she said, with an intensity that surprised the bard. "I have already made inquiries. In two days time, the caravan departs for Altaruk, and I'll go with it." As if suddenly realizing she might have said too much, she glanced at Edric sharply and added, "I trust I can depend on your discretion. Turin would try to keep me here if he knew my plans."

"You may depend upon my silence," Edric said.

"I am willing to pay for it," said Cricket cautiously.

Edric looked offended. "My dear girl," he said, in an affronted tone, "do you truly think that I would sell you out?"

"There are those who would, if they were in your place," she replied.

"Then they have no honor," Edric said. "As it happens, I have already booked passage with the caravan, myself. Not first class, I fear, since I shall be singing for my supper, but I was going to say that I was looking forward to your company upon the journey. Now, I think perhaps you might scorn it."

Cricket sighed and looked down with a rueful grimace. "Never," she replied. "Forgive me, Edric. I did not mean to insult you. It is just that I do not trust easily. I am not used to having friends."

"There is an old elven proverb," Edric said with a smile. "It is better to have a score of friends than a score of coppers. Then you can ask each friend for a loan of two coppers, and you be well ahead."

Cricket chuckled. "I like you, Edric. You make me laugh. And I do not laugh very often these days."

"Well, we shall have to see to it that you are more frequently amused," he replied. "Frown lines would look bad on such a pretty face as yours."

The beaded curtain was flung aside and Turin stuck his head in. "Get ready, Cricket. You are up next," he said, then disappeared.

Edric frowned. "You don't suppose he heard?"

Cricket shook her head. "I do not think so. But it makes no difference. When the caravan leaves South Ledopolus two days from now, I am leaving with it, and nothing anyone can say or do will stop me."

"That's the spirit," Edric said, as Cricket got up and adjusted her clinging black gown. "Now go out there and dance up a storm."

"Yes," she said. "That I can do."

Chapter Three