I

standing before her father. She remembered Aunt My, a shape-shifter who had loved her like a daughter. And out amongst the forests, a milling throng yet waited. So many other stories, so many other lives. Was hers so much more important?

Elena curled her outstretched fingers into a fist, snuffing out her mag-ick. There were some costs she wasn't willing to pay. She stopped her struggles and gave in to the chill.

As she relaxed her panic, words quietly sifted into her awareness, spoken with a familiar voice: Child' of blood and stone'

It took her a moment to recall where she had heard those same words before. Her nose filled with the memory of woodsmoke. Her ears remembered the screech of a hunting predator. It was back during the orchard fire, the pyre that had marked the beginning of her long journey. She and Joach had sought shelter in the hollow husk of a great tree. She had given the giant a name: Old Man. The night they had sheltered there, she had heard this same voice. She remembered those words: Child.. . of blood and stone' a boon' see't my children ...

Here it was again. Words filled her head. Child' of blood and stone'

heed me'

Elena found it hard to concentrate. Her heart pounded in her ears. The dance of lights before her eyes grew more flurried as the lack of air swooned her. Nee'lahn had called these ancient, primitive trees the Old Ones. Was that ancient stump, the Old Man, one of these same trees? Words formed in her head: Heed me' Breathe . .. Elena had no choice but to obey. Her strained chest heaved. Water rushed in through her mouth and nose, choking, gagging, sweeping with a cold weight into her chest. Breathe'

And to her surprise, she realized she could. The sense of suffocation dissolved away. She breathed in and out. It was a strange sensation, inhaling and exhaling the cool waters. The tiny sparks of light vanished from her vision.

Breathe the living waters'

The tangle of roots fell away, releasing her, a soft glow arose from the smaller roots, a pure white light. She did not need spellcast eyes to recognize the elemental energy here. The glow spread down the rootlets to the main taproot. A blaze of light grew under her, and with it came a deep warmth, driving off the water's chill.

She floated in place. With her lungs heavy with water, her natural buoyancy seemed to be thwarted.

She spoke into the waters, another odd sensation with water moving through her mouth. The words were muffled to her own ears, but she sensed someone listening. Who are you?

We are the Guardians, the Old Ones, the Root of the world. You have been found worthy.

Elena's brow crinkled.

You chose that which is greater than one's own self.

Elena slowly understood. She had chosen not to burn the spiritual tree, protecting the fate of a people over her own life. This had been a test, one she had passed. Still, a bit of anger flared inside her.

Her emotions must have been sensed. You will be tested again, child of blood and stone ' this we know. Next time it will be far worse.

Elena felt the truth of these words, and a shiver of fear traced through her. Why am I here? she asked. What do you wish of me?

Our children' thefol't of flowing water and flesh'

The si'lura?

She sensed agreement. It is time for them to leave the forests. To protect their home, they must now abandon it.

Leave? Where will they go?

To where you take them.

Elena felt a surge of shock. Where I take them? She stared down at the glowing mass of roots. Why me?

Across the mountains, a dar't root worms toward the world's heart. To protect itself the world pulls its reach bac't to its core, curling down upon itself.

I don't understand.

The time of our guardianship is over.

The words grew fainter, the glow below her ebbing. Elena sensed that the Spirit Root must have lain dormant for centuries, storing its last energies for this final burst of communication. Now it was quickly fading.

She who came before you foretold your coming' foretold this dar't tide'

Who?

The ancient speaker seemed to have grown deaf to her words. She waits for you' She knew you would come'

The glow of the Root flared brighter. Elena hoped it was a sign of renewed vitality, but the surge quickly faded again. Below her, something stirred, rising from the depths toward her.

She knew you would come ' A twisting cord of root snaked upward. Something held in its glowing grip was thrust at her; she had no choice but to take it. She stared in horror at what lay in her hands' at the rose-carved handle.

l

Lead our children with this sign' The voice was a dwindling whisper. Ta^e them where they must stand'

Wh-where is that? Elena pleaded.

To the Twins' the Twins' the Twins'

With each fading echo, the glow subsided, ebbing away into the waters until only darkness lay around her.

The Spirit Root had died and with it, so did the magicks in the waters.

At that instant, Elena found it impossible to breathe. Her lungs, a moment ago filled with living water, now held only cold pond water. She choked and gagged; leaden limbs fought the pull of the depths. She craned her neck and spotted the bare glimmer of moonlight, impossibly far away. She struggled, but the face of the moon grew smaller as she was sucked downward.

A blackness that had nothing to do with the depths closed around her.

Er'ril' help me'

Crouched at the bank, Er'ril stared into the sacred pool, his heart pounding in his ears. The others gathered around him his own party and the council members.

Earlier, his desperate need to dive in after Elena had diminished as the waters had begun to glow. The shine from the deep had cast the surface of the pool to silver.

Pure elemental energy, Nee'lahn had whispered.

The elder'root had tears in his eyes. The Spirit of the Root! I hear the echo of its voice.

Thorn had taken her father's hand in her own. It's a miracle.

Er'ril had known that Elena was alive but for how long? With his heart clenched like a fist in his chest, he had watched the waxing and waning of the pool's glow, ready to leap at any moment. And then the pool had gone dark and quiet.

Er'ril turned to the elder'root. Do you still hear the voice of the Root? The stricken look on the man's face was answer enough. The leader of the si'lura fell to his knees.

Thorn dropped beside him. Father!

What is going on? Er'ril asked. What about Elena?

The elder'root dug his hands into the muddy bank. It's gone, he whispered.

Er'ril swung back to the pool. No! With panic tightening his chest, he dove straight into the depths. The water's chill struck him immediately, but fear fired his blood. He kicked and swept his arms, driving down into the dark.

Elena'

He felt a tugging, toward the depths below, and hope surged in his chest. Was it some magick of Elena's? Then the gentle pull became an inescapable drag. It was not her magick, he realized, but the pool's current. He was trapped in the vortex. He fought the tide, but after a frantic moment, he let his resistance go. Elena was down here somewhere. Let the current take him to the bottom that is, if there was a bottom to the endless pool.

As the darkness around him grew complete, he lost sense of his surroundings. Was he traveling up or down now? The only way he could measure was by the growing pressure on his ears. His chest, too, felt the water's weight, as if the pool were squeezing the air from his lungs.

Thorn had been right. It was death to enter these swirling waters. But death was a small price to pay for a chance to reach Elena, if only to hold her one last time.

Er'ril' help me'

At first, he was sure it was his strained mind that had voiced this plea. But his heart could not deny the hope. Elena!

From out of the darkness, a glimmer of silver caught his eye from far below, glowing with its own light. The current swirled him down toward the feeble light.

As he neared, he saw the shine came from a rod of silver clutched in the grip of a dark figure that spun in an eddy of the current, limp and lifeless.

Er'ril kicked his way over to Elena. In the glow, he saw her eyes open but sightless. He swam up to her, pulling her into his arms. At least he would have his last wish before he died. He clutched her hard to his strained chest.

Then he felt it the beat of her heart against him.

She lived!

He struggled for some way to free them both. He searched, but darkness lay all around them. They were but a mote of light in a raging current. Elena'

There was no answer this time.

He stared down into her face, then her hands. They shone ruby in the l

light from the silver object. He saw that it was not a rod, but a sword, shining with its own inner light. Elena's ringers clung instinctively to the magickal blade.

His lungs on fire, Er'ril freed a hand and grabbed the hilt of the sword. If he could not awake Elena, perhaps he could rouse the wit'ch!

He stared into Elena's slack face once more. Forgive me!

He drew the sword from between her palms as if unsheathing it from a scabbard. The fine blade sliced through her skin, and a bloom of blood flowed free.

Elena jerked as if struck by lightning.

In his head, a wailing exploded, a chorus of wild lusts and madness.

Er'ril resisted the urge to kick away. Instead he clung to the woman he loved, his arms and legs wrapping tight around her. Blood flowed between them, a mix of ice and fire, while the screams of wild magick howled all around them.

Er'ril squeezed his eyes tight. Elena, come bac't to me'

Meric stood with the others by the bank of the pool.

Nee'lahn spoke at his shoulder. The waters' She pointed an arm. They no longer churn.

Meric realized she was right. The swirl of the waters had ceased. The surface of the pool was flat and featureless.

The nexus has ended, Greshym said. The world has cut off this channel to its heart.

As if hearing him, a strange howl rose from the pool like a mist. The cry sailed off into the night and away. No one spoke for a long breath.

Then the elder'root lunged up from where he had been kneeling, lost in his grief. He faced the group now, his furious eyes taking them all in. You all did this! You and that demoness!

Thorn tried to put a restraining hand on her father, but he shook her away.

Meric met his challenge without flinching. This is not our doing.

Thorn stepped between them, her stance pure wolf. What has happened here?

Meric and the elder'root stared each other down.

Her father answered, froth on his lips. The Spirit Root is dead! Slain by their demoness!

She would not have done that, Meric spat back. Not even to save her own life! As much as it trembled his heart, he knew his words to be true.

Thorn must have sensed his passion and held up her arms, urging restraint. Father, we should give this some thought before

A gust of wind swirled into the sacred valley. Leaves tumbled from above, a fall of copper as thick as a heavy snowfall.

The elder'root glanced up. The leaves fell from the branches overhead, cascading down, leaving limbs bare. The pool became covered with a raft of fallen leaves. There is your answer, Daughter! The Spirit has left us, destroyed by these heathens!

A great cry rose from the valley's edges. All the ancient trees were shedding their leaves, as if laying their own death shrouds at their rooted feet.

All the Old Ones, Nee'lahn murmured, all dying.

Step aside, Daughter, the elder'root said with thick menace. Before our people die, I will see the blood of these desecrators darken our soil.

The elder'root hunched where he stood; then with a roar, he burst outward, his cloak shredding as the beast inside him was unleashed. Black fur sprouted; a muzzle of fanged teeth pushed forth with a roar. Hands became heavy paws of razored claws. The huge bear rose on muscled legs and bellowed its rage.

Thorn backed from the display. Father! No! She barely dodged a heavy swat meant to knock her aside.

Meric stepped past her Go, girl. This isn't your fight. He crouched, ready to meet the challenge.

With a howl, the bear leaped at Meric, claws extended to rip flesh from bone. But before the bulk could hit, a wall of brambles shot from the soil, coming between them. The bear hit the thorny barrier while Meric stumbled back.

Over here! Nee'lahn called.

Meric risked a glance backward. The others were gathered in a cluster, including the trappers. Nee'lahn stood before them, straight-backed, arms extended, fingers splayed.

With the nexus gone, Nee'lahn explained, we have our magick again! Can't you feel it?

Meric, distracted by the elder'root, had failed to notice that the weight had lifted from his shoulders. He reached to his magick, and his silver hair flared around his shoulders with a nimbus of energy. He was whole again!

Meric backed to join the others as the elder'root tore at the tangle of brambles and briars, bleeding from the thousand thorns. Nee'lahn spread her arms, and the bramble barrier swept out in both directions, circling the party within its thorny ramparts. She continued to feed her power, calling upon her magicks, thickening the bulwarks, growing it taller.

Beyond her defenses, the shape-shifters attacked, taking their lead from the elder'root. All around the valley, si'lura flowed toward the fighting, enraged by the sight of the ancient trees dead and bare. The crunch of foot, paw, and hoof through the fall of leaves sounded everywhere, like the crackle of a deadly forest fire.

Above their heads, shape-shifters took to wing, diving toward the island in the center of the bramble sea. But Meric cast out his own magick and fouled their aim with sudden gusts and impossible currents.

Closer at hand, others tried to burrow through or under the barrier, but Nee'lahn blocked them at every turn.

Slowly turning, back to back, as in some deadly dance, Nee'lahn and Meric fought to hold their ramparts.

In the middle of the fray, Joach huddled with Harlequin, staring toward the great dead tree, barren of leaves. Elena'

Beyond the barrier, the pool was covered with copper leaves. Nothing stirred. There was no sign of Er'ril or Elena.

Over the past moons, Joach had experienced all manners of despair the loss of his youth, the death of Kesla but at this moment he knew he'd barely touched the true depths of hopelessness. It was a well without bottom, and he was falling ever deeper. The screams and howls around him muted, colors dulled, bled of their substance.

A sharp cry twitched his eyes to the left. He spotted Bryanna being tugged toward a hole that had opened in the ground. Her bare foot was gripped in the vice of armored pincers.

Her brother, Gunther, leaped to her aid, silent in his purpose and determination. He grabbed the pincers with his fingers, then bulled his shoulders and pried them apart. Something mewled down in the hole.

Bryanna tugged her foot free and rolled away.

Stand back! Nee'lahn called from across the way.

Gunther let go of the pincers and hurtled away. At his heels, a tangle of briars swelled from the ground and clogged the hole, growing thicker with every heartbeat.

There are too many! Nee'lahn cried out. They're coming from all sides.

As if to demonstrate this point, something large dove past Joach's shoulder, snatched up one of the trappers, and winged past the brambles. Joach followed its flight. The plucked man struggled, his shoulder impaled by the claws of the giant roc. His weight was too much for the shape-shifter to hold aloft. The trapper was shaken lose. He fell hard to the ground outside the barriers.

Dimont! Gunther cried.

But it was already too late the trapper was set upon by a score of beasts: wolves, sniffers, cats.

We can't hold out much longer, Meric called.

Joach shook his head. What did it matter? What were they holding out for?

A familiar roar sounded behind him. Joach turned to see a bear rise up on its hind legs. Behind the elder'root, the slope of the valley was covered with si'lura of every shape and size, beasts of every ilk. Though Joach could not communicate in the mindspeak of the shape-shifters, he still read their leader's black thoughts: He meant to slay them all.

Here they come! Meric shouted.

With a howl of blood lust, the elder'root led his people in a final charge. But before they could crash against the thorny barrier, a crack of thunder split the valley. The clap of noise froze everyone in place, stopping the charge in midstride. In the center of the leaf-strewn pool, the trunk of the great Spirit Tree had split from crown to root, its two halves tilting apart but not toppling. A heavy mist rose from the shattered wood.

A chill spread outward, as if true winter had come to the summer valley. Hoarfrost, Nee'lahn whispered, arms lowering slightly.

Past the briars, the shape-shifters began to stir. Growls and hissing rose anew, but more subdued, unsure.

Only Thorn, still wearing her womanly form, stepped closer to the pond and tree. What does this mean? she asked. Her words were not shouted, but the sudden quiet made her easy to hear. She faced both sides of the warring field, as if unclear who to blame, who might have answers.

But the answer came from behind her. The leaves floating atop the pond swirled in a tight eddy; then a fist of ice blasted forth, carried high into the air atop a pillar of frozen water.

Thorn danced away as the pond sloshed over the banks, but the water never reached the mud. In midsplash, the waters froze into crystalline sculptures. The entire pond froze over, spreading outward from the pillar. Then the freeze blew outward, turning the mud solid and assuring its banks, while mists of hoarfrost blanketed the center of the valley. Where these ice fogs brushed the bramble ramparts, leaves curled black and stalks shattered from the cold.

All eyes focused on the fist of ice atop the pillar. Through the crystalline surface, a darker shape was evident.

Elena' Joach whispered.

As if hearing him, the fist suddenly blew outward in a hail of ripping shards. As the blast cleared, Joach saw Elena and Er'nl. Elena crouched, her left hand planted atop the pillar the hand of coldfire now pale and empty.

She held her other hand out toward those gathered below. Wit'ch fire danced around her ruby fingers. Er'ril rose groggily behind her. Joach stood. Elena!

Still dazed, her lungs aching, Elena tried to make sense of the scene before her. The moonlit valley was filled with shape-shifters. Close at hand, a ring of briars surrounded her friends. She heard Joach call out, but his voice sounded strangely distant.

Her ears still rang with the pressure of the depths. Her breathing was ragged and loud in her ears. Further, the magick spent in driving her to the surface of the pond had left her feeling hollow and empty.

Moments ago, near to drowning, she had been dragged from oblivion by a chorus of wild magicks surging in her blood. When she found Er'ril clinging to her, she had reacted out of blind instinct, more for Er'ril's safety than her own. Touching her coldfire, she fed her magick into the waters below her, propelling them both to the surface atop a column of ice. Once out of the pond, a bit of her fiery magick had freed them from the icy cocoon.

Now released, Elena reined in her wit'ch fire, extinguishing the dancing flames and driving back the call of wild magicks.

Are you all right? she asked Er'ril. Her words were weak and hoarse.

He crawled to his knees. I am' now that you're safe. She drew strength from the iron in his voice.

Below, Thorn stepped nearer. What happened? the huntress called up to them.

Elena shifted atop her pillar, standing with care on the slick summit. On his knees, Er'ril helped hold her steady as her legs trembled from the cold. Icicles still hung from her clothes and hair. A violent shiver threatened to topple her from her perch.

Elena, Thorn repeated, what happened?

A bear padded up to the huntress. Elena's eyes widened at the sight of the huge beast. Then with a shake, the bearish features faded to some-thing that was a blend of animal and man: Thorn's father, the elder'root of the si'lura.

A growl of challenge arose from his throat before words slowly formed. You've killed us all!

Elena had trouble making sense of these words. She searched for some way down from the pillar. Already the ice was melting in rivulets and runnels.

Be careful, Er'ril mumbled behind her, teeth chattering. The si'lura think you destroyed their Spirit Tree.

Elena stopped her search and stared at the pair gathered below. She fought her numb tongue. Destroy the Root? I would never

Lies! the elder'root shouted. An echo of growls accompanied him from the others.

Thorn stepped farther forward, as if distancing herself from both her father and his accusation. Then tell us what happened.

Elena glanced back to the ice-blasted tree, its trunk split in half. She stared out at the bare trees framing the valley. They were all dead. The time of our guardianship is over' ' she mumbled, echoing the words of the Root.

What was that? Thorn asked.

Elena breathed deeply. The Root spoke to me, she said, shivering, struggling to make her voice firm. It said that to protect these forests, you must abandon them.

Never! the elder'root exclaimed.

Thorn held a palm toward her father, pleading patience. Where are we to go?

To seek the Twins.

Thorn gasped. Fardale and Mogweed?

Elena nodded. A bit of warmth slowly returned to her limbs. I believe that was what the Old One meant. I sensed a picture of the two brothers.

These are lies! the elder'root hissed.

Father, Thorn argued, you yourself said the Root communed with Elena. Would it have done so if she had meant it harm? The Root knows a person's heart.

Her words seemed to shake her father. For a moment, the beastly features threatened to overwhelm the man. The Root was sick' Perhaps it didn't know a demon could wear such an innocent face.

You saw the glow, Father. The Root has not shone with such brilliance in ages. It chose her for this message.

To leave the forests and seek the cursed Twins? Thorn shook her head. The Root has always guided us. Shall we ignore its last message?

How do we know this stranger speaks the truth to us? Now it was Thorn's turn to seem unsure. She faced Elena, her eyes pleading for some sign, some proof.

Elena was unsure what to do. Er'ril leaned closer. Perhaps you should show them this. He half unsheathed a length of silver sword. Elena's eyes widened as she recognized the talisman from the Root. You were clutching it when I found you.

She nodded and took the weapon in her left hand, pulling it free. She recalled the plea of the Root: Lead my people with this sign'

Elena fought the shaking of her limbs. She cleared her aching throat and raised her voice for all to hear. I am charged to lead you from your forests! So the Root has burdened me! As proof, it has given me this!

She lifted the sword for all to see. Its razored edges were so sharp that it was hard to define the weapon's boundaries. Touched by moonlight, the blade ignited with its own inner shine, blazing bright into the night. Gasps arose throughout the valley.

It cannot be! the elder'root exclaimed. He dropped to his knees, while the other shape-shifters milled in confusion. Father, what's wrong?

The elder'root reached blindly toward his daughter. It is something shared only between the great Root and its chosen. A secret promise sworn by the elder'root of each generation.

What promise?

His voice was a whisper, but Elena heard him. To follow the one foretold in ages past, she who would bear the Sword of the Rose again.

Thorn stared up at Elena and the shining blade. The Sword of the Rose?

Elena knew what she held aloft; she had recognized the sword from the moment it was laid in her hands. Back at A'loa Glen, Elena had read every text, rumor, and tale about her ancestor, Sisa'kofa, and she recognized the weapon borne by the ancient wit'ch. It had been described countless times and called by many names: Demon Blade, Spirit Stealer, Wit'ch Sword. By whatever name, the length of shining silver with its rose-carved hilt could not be mistaken.

She raised the sword forged of elemental silver, the same metal that channeled the Land's energy. Even now, she felt the power vibrating within the blade's length.

The Root is gone, she intoned. It has returned to the world's heart to offer its strength against a greater threat.

What are we to do without it? Thorn asked. It is our spiritual center. With it gone, we will die.

Elena stared out at the gathered army. But for now, you live! The fate of your people is not yet decided. I am to lead you beyond these forests, to the Twins. The brothers hold the key to your future.

Angered mutterings rumbled from those gathered below. But the elder'root stood, holding up an arm to draw attention his way. He faced his people. So it was foretold. So it will be!

Others made sounds of disagreement, but the elder'root stood fast. He faced the crowd until they grew silent. None challenged openly now, but an undercurrent of doubt persisted.

We will prevail, the elder'root said plainly. The Root has guided our people since we rose from the waters of our birth. We will trust its judgment now.

Softer murmurs flowed through the crowd. Elena sensed her duty here was done for now. She knew their leader would eventually sway most to their cause. With the tide turned, the strength ebbed from her limbs. The sword trembled as she lowered it.

Then Er'ril was there. He caught the blade by its pommel, she returned it to his safekeeping. Ever her protector'

He slipped it into his empty scabbard.

She swung her attention to the pillar. With her right hand, she cast out tendrils of wit'ch fire and melted a chute down the ice tower. It was steep, but Er'ril wrapped her in his arms, and they slid down the trough of melted ice. At the bottom, Er'ril lifted her, holding her tight. She pressed her cheek against his chest. Despite the soaking and ice, he was so warm.

The elder'root stepped toward them, all signs of the beast gone. The leader's eyes shone with regret. I'm sorry'

Er'ril brushed past him and headed for the gap in the briars. Once through, he began to order those around him. Elena barely heard, listening instead to the thump of his heart. ' horses and tents. And build a large fire'

Elena slipped her hand through Er'ril's shirt, resting her palm against his hot skin. She closed her eyes and sank into his warmth.

For now, this was fire enough.

As DAWNED NEARED, GrESHYM WATCHED Er'rIL LEAVE Elena's TENT AND

cross to the fire. From the clear relief on the man's face, the girl must be recovering well from her dunking and the freezing touch of her own magick. A si'luran healer had taken her draughts of steaming herbs, a mix of peppermint and ale-leaf, from the smell of it. Afterward Greshym had overheard the shape-shifter telling the trapper Bryanna that Elena should recover fully in the next day or two.

Still, throughout the long night, Er'ril kept returning to the camp's fire to gather fresh coals to warm her blankets. As the plainsman bent by the fire, Greshym eyed the rose-carved pommel of the sword he bore. It shone bright as a star, even in the feeble firelight.

Shadowsedge' That was what Sisa'kofa had called the sword herself, leading to the rumor that it was sharp enough to separate a man from his own shadow.

Greshym's eyes narrowed as he studied the sheathed blade. He could not believe his luck to have the ancient weapon within reach. Such a boon could not be ignored, even if it meant delaying his own plans.

As Er'ril gathered fresh coals into a pan, Greshym let his eyelids drift closed. He sought the familiar heartbeat of his servant. Rukh hid well outside the si'luran valley. Greshym sent a silent message to the stump gnome.

Earlier, Greshym had eavesdropped on a terse conversation between Er'ril and the elder'root. He knew where the group was going next: to the Northern Fang, where Mogweed and Fardale had last been headed.

He bound his orders to Rukh as well as he could, using the last dregs of his magick. The beast would have to set out immediately to reach those same lands in time. Keep my staff safe, he urged. He knew Rukh still carried the length of hollow bone. He sensed the gnome's fear of the tool, but the creature would obey. Satisfied, Greshym brought his attention back to where Er'ril returned to Elena's tent, hot coals in hand, oblivious to the dire weapon he carried at his side.

A voice intruded on Greshym's reveries. What are you plotting?

Joach asked harshly behind him.

Greshym glanced over his shoulder. So you couldn't sleep, either, he commented, ignoring the boy's question.

Joach settled to a boulder with a sigh. It's that sword; I saw you studying it. You think to use its magick against us.

Greshym shook his head, smiling broadly. I wouldn't touch that weapon for all the magick in the Land.

Joach's face tightened with suspicion. Why's that?

You know why. Greshym nodded to the boy's petrified wood staff. When Joach's fingers clenched protectively to the stave, Greshym smiled. The boy was already lost to it' he just didn't know it yet.

Why? Joach repeated.

He might as well be honest the truth might do him more good than a lie. Greshym glanced back to the tent. That sword was once wielded by Sisa'kofa, your sister's ancestor.

I know, Joach said sourly. Elena told me.

Of course she did. Once touched, how could she not know it?

What do you mean?

Greshym laughed at the boy's naivete. Joach, my young pupil, have you learned nothing? Would you not know your own staff?

What does one have to do with the other?

Greshym rolled his eyes. My boy, you're not the only one to ever create a blood weapon.

Joach's eyes widened with shock.

Greshym nodded. Sisa'kofa bled her own essence into that blade. Naturally one wit'ch recognized the touch of another.

The Sword of the Rose' ?

It's a blood weapon, Greshym finished. Created by Sisa'kofa. One of the most powerful and darkest weapons ever forged. Greshym sighed, leaning back. It will destroy your sister.

Er'ril passed into the tent. The chill of the night air was quickly warmed away by the heat of the tent's interior. As he crept carefully over to the pile of blankets and furs, he found Elena's eyes open and staring at him.

You should sleep, he whispered, slipping the pan of warm coals under the foot of her makeshift bed.

Can't sleep' her voice rasped.

He sighed and settled beside her. He felt her forehead. She was still cool to the touch. He glanced to the door.

She must have read his mind. I have enough coals. A hand wormed out of the nest of blankets and sought his. She stared into his eyes. He knew what she wanted.

Just this one night' she said hoarsely. Hold me.

Er'ril squeezed her fingers, seeking some way to deny what she asked.

There was so much yet to do. But as he stared into her wounded face, he let it go. This night, he would follow his heart.

In the weak glow of the single lamp, he undid his sword belt and dropped it to the floor. She watched his every move as he pulled out of his leathers and slipped free of his leggings. Standing only in his smallclothes, he knelt and pulled back the furs and blankets. Then he slipped out of the last of his garments and slid under the coverings.

He nestled deeper, seeking her out. He pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms, sharing his warmth.

She settled her head against his bare chest. He lowered his cheek to her hair and breathed in the scent of her. She stirred against him, soft and smooth-skinned. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold passed through him.

She murmured something unintelligible.

I love you, too, he answered.

Six days later, Elena stood at the prow of the Windsprite, an elv'in scoutship. With the aid of the si'lura, they had made the journey to the Pass of Tears without mishap. The rendezvous ship had been waiting, moored to the tops of the highland pines.

Elena stared down the slope of the pass all the way back to the forests of the Western Reaches. But it was near at hand, spread along the pass, that the si'luran army was breaking camp for the next leg of the journey.

Craning forward, Elena stared north. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay their destination: the Northern Fang. She would follow the direction of the Spirit Root and lead the si'lura to the twin brothers. With luck, perhaps the other party had succeeded among the og'res.

The scuff of a boot sounded behind her. She turned and found Er'ril standing there, his face dark with worry. Joach was able to reach Tyrus. His pirate brigade is in the Bay of T'lek that surrounds Blackhall.

And the main fleet?

Three days behind him.

That's as we planned, isn't it?

Yes, but Tyrus has fears for the d'warf armies. Er'ril's brow knit with concern. In the past three days, they've had no answers to the crows sent to Wennar. Tyrus is heading to the northern coasts to investigate the sudden silence.

When will we know more?

James Clemej

Two days at the least.

Elena nodded, calculating, We should be almost to the Northern Fang by then. She bit her lip, then asked the question worrying her most. What about Sy-wen?

Er'ril frowned. No word. Kast remains at A'loa Glen, but there has been no sign of her.

Elena slipped an arm around his waist, grateful to have him at her side. He matched her embrace, pulling her to him. The ship's sails snapped overhead as she leaned into him, wishing the moment could stretch forever. After the night in the tent, duty and decorum had kept them mostly apart. Still, after sharing her bed, some dam had broken between them. Er'ril's chance kisses were held longer; his hands sought her out with more passion. And when she looked into his eyes, the hunger there was no longer hidden, only restrained by the moment.

Soon a horn sounded from below, echoing up to the ship. Er'ril sighed. That would be Thorn. The si'lura are ready to depart.

Elena nodded. Then we should be under way. Are we all stowed and ready?

Yes, Er'ril said, giving her a final squeeze, even the horses.

Despite the dire news, Elena could not stop a smile from forming as she remembered the struggle to haul Rorshaf aboard ship. The war charger had not been too keen on this mode of travel, but Elena had no intention of leaving the stallion behind.

Er'ril leaned in, teasing. Rorshaf's never going to forgive you, no matter how many apples you coax him with. He quickly kissed her, then headed toward the stern deck, where Meric and the ship's captain were conferring. Belted to his hip was the ancient sword, the silver rose on the pommel glinting in the morning sunlight.

Shadowsedge.

Joach had told them of Greshym's words, revealing the weapon to be a blood sword. As a test, Elena had bloodied one hand and wielded the weapon. She had indeed felt the dark power stretch into her.

Er'ril had wanted the blade tossed down the nearest deep hole, but Elena had refused. The sword was revered by the si'lura, and it was a talisman left by Sisa'kofa, for her alone. To compromise, Er'ril insisted on keeping the blade at his own side: out of harm's way, but close enough for its use if necessary.

A second horn sounded from below. Ho! Meric called. We're under way!

-|

The ship lurched as mooring lines were freed and hauled aboard. The sails swelled with winds that were not entirely natural. And then they were off and flying.

A great flurry of wings erupted from the ground. Soon the winds were filled with eagles of every color and feather: snowy, brown, rust, black, gray, and silver. Wings snapped wide and glided the currents and warm uprisings. The growing flock flanked the larger elv'in ship and followed its lead over the mountains.

Elena watched the gathering of eagles in the sky.

So it begins, a voice said behind her.

She turned and found Harlequin smoking a pipe.

He pointed its glowing stem toward the sky. Let's just hope this isn't their last flight.

Rising through the shallows around A'loa Glen, Kast clung to the mer'ai rider before him. Their mount, a sinuous jade seadragon, flowed toward the docks, maneuvering through the ruins of the half-submerged city. Kast stared around him at the man-made reefs that had once been towers and homes. Schools of skipperflicks darted through windows and doorways. Over the centuries, the sea had reclaimed this territory as its own. The dragon swam over a toppled statue, now festooned with anemone and scuttling crabs.

A graveyard, Kast thought dourly, lost in a black mood. Since Sy-wen's disappearance, the ocean had held none of its charm or mystery. It had become just a cold, unforgiving landscape. He could not even transform into Ragnar'k and travel the seas on his own. Only Sy-wen's touch could ignite the magick and release the dragon inside him.

So he was glad when they finally broke the sea's surface into the late afternoon sunlight. He spat out the end of his air pod and drew a lungful of clean air, shivering in the thin breeze.

The dragon, a slender female, surged under him.

Ho, Helia, the rider ahead of him whispered, patting his mount's neck with clear affection. The young mer'ai was little more than a boy, just recently bonded to his dragon. In fact, most of the mer'ai left here were the young and the elderly. They were quartered in the single Leviathan remaining in the deeper waters, with Sy-wen's mother, Linora. She and Master Edyll had remained behind until her daughter's fate could be determined. All others had departed days ago with the warships of the Dre'rendi and the elv'in.

Kast squeezed the young rider's upper arm. Thanks for your help, Ty-lyn. And for Helia's skill.

His words straightened the boy's shoulders with pride. My dragon was birthed from the best of the bloodlines. You even knew her sire.

Kast frowned, not understanding what the young rider meant. I did?

The jade, the boy insisted.

His words made no sense to Kast, but the boy must have caught his confusion. Helia is a jade. The dragon's color comes from the father, another jade.

As if sensing she was being spoken about, Helia glanced back over a shoulder. Kast's brows pinched. A jade. As seadragon and man studied one another, Kast suddenly understood. The similarities in features between daughter and father were plainly evident now that he truly looked. After having spent so much time with the mer'ai, Kast had grown to recognize the subtle differences between the majestic creatures. A jade male' he mumbled.

The boy nodded. One of the best bloodlines.

Kast reached up and ran a finger along the nasal ridge of the sniffing dragon. For a moment, he felt close again to Sy-wen; she had loved this one's brave father with all her heart. Conch, the bonded mount of Sy-wen's mother.

Tears blurred his vision.

Ty-lyn glanced past Kast's shoulder. Here come the others. Kast turned. From the waters, another six dragons rose. Their riders dragged woven nets, heavy with ebon'stone eggs. At the sight, fury overwhelmed him, drying his tears with the heat. That's the last of em, the boy commented.

Kast growled in the back of his throat. After seven days, the crashed elv'in scoutship had been scoured of its deadly cargo. Over a hundred eggs were already stored deep in a windowless stone cellar, its single door guarded by a dozen armed guards. Once these last eggs joined the foul clutch, the room would be bricked up, never to be opened. It was the safest course. The cargo could not be left unwatched on the seabed floor, and all attempts to destroy the eggs with fire or hammer had failed.

So it had been necessary to secure the clutch and the tentacled beasts incubating inside. It was a grim duty after so many deaths: the ship's crew, the corrupted scholars, even the priceless library. Now a suffocating rage burned within Kast, a smoldering fury. He seldom slept. He rarely visited the kitchens, and then he shoveled food into his mouth untasted. He sought anything to keep himself busy. While the fleets prepared for the as-sault on Blackhall, Kast had found plenty to fill his days and nights. But now with the forces gone, Kast kept himself occupied bolstering up the defenses of A'loa Glen, including securing the clutch of ebon'stone eggs.

Earlier this morning, Kast had gone on this last journey to the ship to ensure the matter had been dealt with completely. Even the sands around the crashed ship had been sifted and searched to make sure not a single egg was missed.

As Kast turned to the island, a black despair settled into him. In the past, he had faced demons and monsters, seen friends slain, but what scared him most and threatened to paralyze him now was the empty bed that awaited him. For the thousandth time, he pictured the cold eyes of Sy-wen as she had laughed at his struggles in the library, how her fingers had reached toward him' not with love, but with something as cold as the slime at the bottom of the sea.

Someone waits for us, Ty-lyn said, drawing Kast's attention back to the present.

The dragons and their riders swept toward the docks. One of the figures standing there raised an arm in greeting: Hunt, the high keel's son. Behind him stood a cadre of Bloodriders.

As the dragons drew abreast of the docks, Hunt reached down and offered a hand. Kast took it and allowed himself to be hauled up to the planks. What's wrong? he asked, noting the man's pinched brow and hard stance.

You'd better get dressed, Hunt said, and nodded to the pile of clothes Kast had left at the end of the docks.

Kast dried off with his own shirt, then slipped on the damp garment; he'd let it dry on the walk back to the castle. He pushed into his boots and strapped on his sword belt, then turned his attention back to his fellow Bloodrider.

Hunt was studying the other seadragons. Is that the last haul?

Kast nodded. Eighteen.

Hunt's eyes never left the seas and the dragons. How soon can these be hauled to the dungeon?

Kast frowned at the lowering sun. By dusk at the latest.

Hunt waved to the other Bloodriders. I've brought men to help make that sooner.

What's the urgency?

Hunt didn't answer. His only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. He refused to speak aloud.

Curling a fist, Kast held back any further questions. Instead he nodded

j imperceptibly to Hunt, indicating he understood. He swung to Ty-lyn and his mount, Helia, bobbing in the waves. You and the others are to haul this last clutch to the dungeon cell as quickly as possible. We've additional men to help. Alert the others.

It will be done! Ty-lyn struck a fist to his shoulder in salute. Ho, Helia! Rider and dragon twisted away.

Kast turned back to Hunt, who was directing his men, speaking in hushed, terse tones. When he finished, the cadre leader nodded, stepping back. We'll watch with the eyes of a hawk, he said.

What are they to watch? Kast asked Hunt. What's the urgency with these last eggs?

Come. Hunt headed down the pier. There's something I must show you.

Kast kept pace with him. What is it? he asked irritably, tired of half answers.

Hunt waited until they were out of earshot of the others. Two of the eggs are missing.

Kast stumbled to a stop. What? Shock raised his voice.

Hunt motioned him to keep quiet and keep moving. They vanished during the midnight shift last night. I questioned the guards. None admit leaving their posts or sleeping, but this morning the egg count is less by two.

Kast shook his head. How could that be? A dozen swordsmen couldn't all have so been lax in their duty as to let a thief through.

Hunt glanced to Kast, his face unreadable. Last night, the shift was composed of all mer'ai.

Kast's brows pinched. It was common for shifts to be entirely elv'in, or Dre'rendi, or mer'ai. But Kast understood the unspoken suspicion behind Hunt's words. Sy-wen was mer'ai. Was there some connection to a theft that occurred during a mer'ai shift? It seemed improbable, but Kast now understood the cadre of Bloodriders brought to the dock. We'll watch with

the eyes of a hawf{.

Hunt leaned in closer, his voice lowering another note. This morning I confirmed the dungeon count myself. And while doing so, I found something else.

What?

Something you should see for yourself. They had reached the end of the docks, and the usual crowds of fisherfolk and shippers closed around them, silencing their talk of traitors and betrayals.

Kast climbed the streets in silence, lost in his thoughts. Part of him, deep in his heart, hoped Sy-wen had played a role in this midnight theft for the past half moon, there had been no sign of the woman he loved. Kast feared she had already struck out for Blackhall, never to be seen again. But if she had stolen the eggs' if she was still here'

A seed of hope rooted in his spirit.

They reached the castle and passed through the gates and guards. Hunt led the way through the forecourt and down to the dungeons, where two guards stood post with spears and belted swords. Both were Bloodriders; Hunt was taking no chances.

Beyond the guards at the entrance, steps led down to a dark passage that trailed far under the castle. Their footfalls echoed hollowly until they reached an ironbound door. Hunt knocked his knuckles on the oaken frame. A small panel opened, and a scarred face peered out the mute dungeon keep, Gost. The disfigured man grunted in recognition, the rattle of keys sounded, and the door opened with a scream of rusted hinges. The scarred man waved them in.

Thank you, Gost, Hunt said.

The dungeon keep nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed; a scrabbled growth of beard marked his chin. Kast knew his story. The heavy-limbed fellow had endured tortures beyond speaking in these very dungeons during the occupation by the Dark Lord's forces, including having his tongue cut out. Fear again shone bright in the man's eyes now: Gost had not been happy to have his warren of cells become a vault for the ebon'stone eggs.

Kast couldn't blame him. Even in this room, one could sense the clutch: a prickling of the tiny hairs over one's body, a thickness to the air that felt oily. From the worn condition of the man, Kast doubted sleep came easy here.

Bowing, Gost led them across the room that doubled as his living space. He used his keys to unlock the far door, the entrance to the main dungeons.

Once through, Kast motioned to the door being locked behind them. Did Gost notice anything last night when the theft occurred?

Hunt shook his head. The keep had let no one through his room since the change of guard just before midnight.

Then how did the thief get down here?

I couldn't say, unless Gost was part of the conspiracy.

I don't believe he'd side with the Black Heart, not after the suffering he endured here.

Then maybe he was duped' or enthralled.

Kast shook his head as they crossed down the rows of cells. Ahead, at

t 8 Wit ch Star the end of the passage, torches blazed. Men milled, a dozen, all Blood-riders, Hunt's own men.

Hunt nodded to the captain of the guard. Everything secure, Wrent? The man nodded, standing straight, shoulders thrown back. We've let no one in or out, as you instructed. Kast recognized the man as Hunt's cousin. His warrior's braid reached to his waist, the sign of many successful battles. He also bore a scar across his seahawk tattoo, a pale slash as if the hawk's throat had been cut.

Hunt jangled a set of keys from a pocket and stepped to the door. Kast followed along with Wrent. The cell door, a stout construction of fire-hardened oak banded in iron with a small barred window, was doubly locked. It took one of Hunt's keys and one of Wrent's to free the way.

As they unlocked the door, Kast again wondered how anyone could have stolen the two eggs. Even with the aid of the mer'ai on duty last night, how had the thief gotten past Gost? How had the locks been managed? It seemed an impossible theft.

Kast could fathom only one explanation. Since Sy-wen's corruption, he had investigated the accounts of the malignant tentacled creatures, from Tok and his experiences aboard Captain Jarplin's ship, to Elena and her cure of Brother Flint. One thing seemed clear: Once corrupted with the beasts, there was some malignant connection among those infected, a demonic link between the creatures that allowed communication. If this was so, then with the Brotherhood of Scholars tainted, Sy-wen would have access to their knowledge of A'loa Glen and its castle, including its maze of secret passages and tunnels. Could she use this knowledge to slip past the safeguards and steal the eggs? And what other evil could she have achieved already? The thought chilled him.

The creak of hinges drew his attention as Wrent hauled the heavy door open. The prickling sensation swelled, like spiders skittering across bare skin. The others in the hall, all battle-hard men, took a step away.

Hunt grabbed a torch from the wall. Keep your guard up while the way is unbarred. Don't let anyone near. Wrent saluted. It will be done.

Hunt led the way through the door with his torch, and Wrent closed the door behind them. Kast studied the dim room. He had chosen this cell because it was large enough to hold the entire clutch of a hundred eggs and had been carved from the stone of the island itself, solid rock all around. Hunt's torch flickered shadows on the walls.

Eggs lay everywhere in neat stacks, like the nesting grounds of some foul flock. The biggest pile, a pyramid, stood in the room's center, reaching to the ceiling itself. The heap of ebon'stone absorbed the torchlight, casting no reflection. Even the room's scant warmth seemed to be sucked away by the clutch, leaving the air cold. Their breaths blew white with each exhalation. The missing eggs were taken from over here. Hunt circled to the far side, where one of the smaller piles was clearly lower than the others. And the vanished eggs aren't elsewhere in the room?

I counted twice, Hunt said. And on the second count, I found this. The tall Bloodrider dropped to a knee beside a neighboring pile. He lowered his torch and pointed to the stack's base. Something was lodged there. I didn't want to disturb it before you saw it yourself.

Kast bent down. It was a scrap of cloth. He reached and fingered the material. His breath caught in his throat. Shar'tskjn. His fingers yanked the material free, held it closer to the torch. It's Sy-wen's.

Are you sure? Kast could only nod.

Hunt straightened, standing. I'm sorry, Kast. I know how this must fire your blood. I, too, would be furious.

Kast had to turn away, not to hide his anger, but his joy. His fingers closed over the scrap of sharkskin. She was still here!

Hunt offered further words of consolation, but Kast remained deaf to them. He raised the bit of leathery cloth to his nose and breathed in the faint scent of sea salt and the hint of Sy-wen's skin. My love'

' all the mer'ai on duty. Hunt's words slowly intruded. I'll have them rounded up again.

Kast lowered the scrap and nodded. Hunt led the way back toward the door. As they neared it, they heard the scrape of a sliding bolt. Hunt glanced back to Kast with pinched brows then the clash of steel sounded from beyond the room. Cries arose.

Both men rushed forward. Hunt yanked on the handle, but the way was locked. Wrent!

Kast pushed to the small, barred window. By the dim torchlight, he watched the quick slaughter of five Bloodriders, set upon by their own brothers. Curved daggers sliced throats open, spilling rivers of spurting blood. Bodies were impaled on pikes and swords. In a matter of moments, the dead lay strewn, entrails oozing from deep wounds, blood seeping into wide black pools on the stone.

Wrent's face suddenly appeared at the window, blocking the view. The warrior now wore a wide leer, froth at the corner of his lips.

-|

Wrent! What have you done? Hunt tried to reach through the bars, but he could not even get his fists between the iron.

Kast pulled him back with one hand and slid his sword out with the other. He's corrupted. It's not the mer'ai that were the traitors, but our own men.

Wrent continued to leer.

Then why did Wrent alert me to the missing eggs?

Kast stared down at the scrap of sharkskin. So you'd find this and fetch me here. It's a trap.

As if to confirm this, a large crac't sounded behind them, as if a stone had been shattered by a hammer. Both men turned to the center pile of eggs.

' crac't' cracky' crac't...

They're hatching, Kast said.

The pile shook before them. The topmost egg in the pyramid toppled from its perch and bounced to the floor. As it struck and rolled near them, it split open, steaming green into the cold air. Fist-sized globs of gelatinous slime splattered out in all directions, striking the floor and walls with wet slaps.

One struck Hunt's leg, clinging to it. He smacked it away with the butt of his torch and danced back. Sweet Mother!

On the floor, the offending glob sprouted tentacles and began to hop, like a sick toad.

Stand back! Kast warned.

All around on floor, ceiling, and walls the other scattered fists of slime grew wormy appendages and questing tentacles.

Hunt thrust out his torch, ready to defend with his flame. But instead of deterring the creatures, the brand's heat seemed to attract them. Their moist feelers all swung in unison toward the heat, and they rolled and slimed their way forward.

We have to get out of here, Hunt said as more eggs cracked throughout the cell.

There's no escape, Kast said calmly, ready with his sword.

Hunt's voice edged toward panic. Why didn't the guards just slay us?

Why lure us here?

A new voice, full of mirth, intruded behind them. Because we need a dragon, Brother Hunt.

Kast swung around. At the barred window, the leering face of Wrent had been replaced by another. Kast's heart burst at the sight of those sea-blue eyes and the pale face framed in deep green hair. Despite the danger, Kast felt a surge of relief. Sy-wen'

As EVENING NEARED, PRINCE TyRUS LOWERED HIS SPYGLASS AND CALLED

down from the Blac't Folly's crow's nest. He had to grip the edge of the nest to keep from falling headlong to the deck of his ship. Signal fires to the north! he yelled to his first mate. Turn us into the next cove.

He straightened, knowing his order would be obeyed. His legs easily rode the teeter of the ship's central mast as he swayed atop his perch. His face burned from the days of salt and wind. The coast lay a quarter league away. Here in the far north, the shore was an unbroken cliff face topped by storm-burned pines twisted into agonized shapes by the ceaseless winds that swept across the Bay of T'lek.

As sails snapped and the ship edged nearer the coastal cliffs, Tyrus focused his spyglass on the bonfire atop the cliff face. He sought the makers of the signal blaze, praying to see the squat forms of d'warves, but nothing moved. He made out a small village beyond the fire. The hamlet lay in ruins: chimneys toppled, roofs collapsed, walls scorched from old blazes. But despite the abandoned look to the town, a fresh pyre smoked into the darkening skies. It was clearly a signal meant for seafarers, but who had set it and why? Tyrus searched with his spyglass and found no answer.

Tyrus dared not pass by without sending a shore party to investigate. For the past four days, he and his crew had been scouring the coastline for any sign of Wennar and his d'warf party. Every morning he sent out crows, and each evening they returned to the ship with the same messages still attached to their legs, unread, untouched.

Mother above, where are you? he muttered as he searched.

The main battle fleet was two days out from these same waters. If need be, the combined fleets would attack the island on their own, but the plan had been for the d'warf army to drive north through the Stone Forest. Then while the fleets attacked from the south, the d'warves would charge over the arch of volcanic stone that connected the island's northern coast to the mainland.

Now the plan was in jeopardy.

Growling his frustration, Tyrus slammed his spyglass closed and pulled open the hatch to the crow's nest. He clambered down the rope ladder.

His first mate, Blyth, met him at the foot of the mast. The shaven-headed pirate was tall and wiry, a whip of a man whose tongue was as sharp as his sword. He wore a cutlass over one shoulder, and a bolo on his other hip. Is it the d'warf army?

Can't say' but we have to check it out. It's the first sign of life we've seen in days.

Blyth nodded. We should watch our arses, though. Something don't strike me right about this place.

Tyrus trusted his first mate's instincts. How so? Blyth pointed to the bonfire. It disappeared around the point as the ship entered the sheltered cove. Someone goes to all the trouble to set a fire like that, then where are they?

A call sounded from the prow. Dockworks ahead! Tyrus and Blyth hurried forward and joined the seaman whose duty it was to watch for shoals and reefs. He pointed to the base of the cove's cliffs, and a set of four piers, or what remained of them. Pilings jutted from the waters like broken teeth. Bits of planking clung to some. The damage seemed at least a winter old.

No one's been fishing out of this hole in a while, Blyth mumbled. Drop anchor here, Tyrus ordered. We'll take a party ashore in one of the longboats. We'll take another three men. That'll leave an even dozen left to guard the ship.

Aye. Blyth turned to obey, already shouting commands. Tyrus studied the lay of the land as sails were reefed and the ship slowed. In the shadow of the cove's cliffs, the last of the sun's glow disappeared. Evening had already claimed the small bay. He stared at the stone walls. A heavy mist clung in patches, promising the night to come to be foggy and damp. They'd best make short work of this search; he didn't want the Blac't Folly to be trapped by the icy, blinding fogs of this northern clime.

Tyrus wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders as the cold sucked at his warmth. It was hard to believe that midsummer was only a few days away. Here in the far north, winter never truly let go. On their search through T'lek Bay, they had even seen ice floes drifting south, bobbing in the current, flowing down from the Northern Wastes as the ice pack broke apart from the spring thaw. It made traveling these summer seas especially treacherous' and the dense fog only added to the danger. The creak of rope on wheel sounded to the starboard side as the longboat was lowered. It landed with a muffled splash. Rope ladders were tossed over rails.

Blyth appeared at his side. All set, Captain.

Who's coming ashore with us?

Sticks, Hurl, and Fletch.

Tyrus nodded, watching the trio gather, clapping each other on the shoulders and checking weapons. Sticks was the largest of the pirates, bowlegged, with arms as thick around as any og're's. His frame was not suited to the delicacy of the sword he preferred the pair of ironwood clubs hooked to his belt, studded with steel.

At his side, Hurl stood with a sharpening stone, honing the edges of his hand axes. Blue-eyed with straw-colored hair, he hailed from these same northern lands. He had seen his family slaughtered by the dog soldiers of the Gul'gotha, leaving him an orphan on the cold, hard streets of Penryn. He bore no love for the denizens of Blackhall.

And, of course, ever at Hurl's side was Fletch. The two were inseparable, one dark, one light, tied by bonds deeper than any brothers. The black-haired Steppeman knelt on one knee, stringing his bow. He seldom spoke, but there was no better archer than the dark-eyed man.

Blyth had chosen well, picking a party whose skills were diverse and complementary. If trouble arose, Tyrus had little doubt they could handle it.

Satisfied, he crossed to the shore party with Blyth. Let's load up!

The group clambered down the ladders to the longboats. Hurl and Fletch took the oars, while Sticks hunched in the stern, manning the rudder. From the bow, Tyrus and Blyth watched the waters ahead for any dangerous shoals or reefs.

Blyth spoke as they crossed into the bay. You needn't have come, Captain. We could scout these lands on our own.

Tyrus remained silent. His first mate was right.

And even if it were a captain's duty, Blyth continued more softly, it sure as the Mother's sweet teat isn't a prince's.

Tyrus grimaced. Blyth had been at his side since he had first stumbled into Port Rawl, full of anger, sorrow, and spite. The bloody planks of the corsairs had suited him fine to vent his bile upon the seas. But now the world again called him to duty. The mantle of Castle Mryl was his to bear, left to him by his father. But deep in his heart, he wondered if he had the strength to be a king's son, his father's son.

You can't hide forever among us pirates, Blyth mumbled under his breath.

Tyrus sighed. Leave be.

His first mate and friend shrugged. For now, Captain' for now.

As true night closed in, they maneuvered through the shallows to the remains of the village docks. They tied up to a piling and climbed onto the crumbled end of a stone jetty. A steep stair, carved from the rock of the cliffs, led up toward the village.

Tyrus eyed the climb sourly. Mists had already grown dense as evening fog rolled in from the sea, thickening against the shore. The top of the cliffs could no longer be seen, but the glow from the signal fire lit a patch of fog.

Let's be done with this business as quickly as possible, Tyrus mumbled.

No one argued.

The climb proved even trickier than expected. Besides the damp from the mists, algae and moss covered each step, as slippery as ice.

No one's used these stairs in ages, Blyth said.

Tyrus agreed. Any good townsfolk would maintain the steps with salt and moss-killer. The state of the stairs was not a heartening sign.

Then who set the fire? Hurl asked.

That's what I intend to find out, Tyrus said. That bonfire didn't set itself.

At long last, they reached the top and found a cobbled thoroughfare stretching toward the village, dark and silent. By now, the fog lay like a smothering blanket. They entered the small town cautiously, weapons in hand. Nothing moved but the flickering glow of the fire beyond the village.

The party signaled each other with practiced hand gestures. Tyrus, Blyth, and Sticks took one side of the street. Hurl and Fletch edged along the other side. They moved with care, ears pricked, muscles tense, weapons ready.

Every structure they passed showed signs of damage: shattered windows, storefronts singed with soot, upper stories collapsed into lower. Clearly the town had been laid to waste, but amid all the devastation, something was plainly missing.

The town's a graveyard, Blyth muttered, but where are the dead? There were no bodies, not a single one, not even the bones of those who had died here.

Tyrus frowned. Maybe those that survived buried their dead before moving on.

Blyth raised an eyebrow in disbelief. I'd more believe carrion feeders. At least one winter has passed since whatever befell this hamlet. The woods around here are full of starving wolves.

You'd see nests of gnawed bones, then.

Maybe if we searched the buildings, you'd find such things. Blyth shrugged, as if dismissing the subject. The past was the past. What did it matter now?

Tyrus, though, couldn't let it go. What had happened here? Who had set the fire, and why?

They passed the town square, now a ruin. Beyond its edge lay the open cliffs and the bonfire, its flames licking into the foggy night over the shattered rooftops of the last buildings. Even the crackle of its logs echoed out to them. The group closed tighter as they slipped to the edge of town.

There lay a small cliffside park, edged by a flagstone wall. An overgrown garden of roses and holly bushes lined stone paths. There was even a tiny, raftered pavilion, untouched by the destruction. A statue guarded the entrance to the park. It stood unmolested, except for the stain of the bird droppings and the moss hanging from its stony limbs.

Hurl stopped before it, his head quirked to the side. He reached and gently pulled away a few lengths of moss. The features of the granite statue were worn by rain and wind, but a dark glower could still be seen. The figure stood with his arms crossed, clearly guarding, standing post. The Stone Magus, he mumbled with a trace of worry.

What's that? Tyrus asked.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, then stepped around the statue and studied the park. Other statues dotted the overgrown landscape, some large, some small.

All other eyes were drawn to the park's center, where a blaze as tall as two men threw back the dark and the fog. It was a heartening sight after the gloom of the ravaged village. Even from across the grounds, the warmth of the fire was felt. After a moment of silent study, the party drew toward its light and heat like so many moths.

Still, Tyrus knew better than to let his guard down. His gaze swept the park, the pavilion, the last edges of the town. Nothing moved. Nothing threatened.

Ahead, logs shifted in the fire, popping and cracking like some old man shifting his bones in a chair. The noise filled the hollow silence.

Tyrus signaled his men to fan out to either side. Blyth remained with him, while the others spread across the park and approached the fire from all sides.

As he searched, Tyrus wished he had his ancient family sword, the length of Mrylian steel with the snow panther pommel. But he had left it with Krai, who carried it to his grave, a symbol of a blood oath between Castle Mryl and the mountain man's lost people. Now the prince bore a sword from the armory of A'loa Glen, a fine and ancient blade, but one that seemed crude compared to the craftsmanship of the former. His fingers tightened on the hilt. A true swordsman made do with the weapons at hand, he told himself.

A call drew his attention to where Hurl and Fletch stood before another statue. Fletch waved his bow, indicating they should all gather.

Tyrus marched over.

It was a statue of black granite, an amazing representation of a deer, its head bent to nibble at a rosebush.

Fletch reached toward the stone, but Hurl batted his hand away. He turned to Tyrus, We have to leave. Tyrus frowned. Why?

Hurl waved an arm. Look around! The whites of his eyes shone with growing panic. He crossed swiftly to a statue of a pair of children hiding behind a bush. On a casual glance, it appeared they were playing hide-and-seek, but on closer inspection, the terror on their faces told another story. The two clutched each other in fright.

Tyrus crinkled his brow, glancing to neighboring statues: a man frozen in midrun, a trio of weeping maids, an elder on his knees. I don't understand, he said.

They're the villagers! Hurl cried. Frozen in stone.

That's ridiculous, Blyth grumbled.

Hurl continued. The statue at the entrance it's the Stone Magus. He's marked this park as his own.

Why? Who is this Magus? Tyrus asked.

We must leave now! Hurl began to head away.

Blyth blocked him. The captain asked you a question, Mate. The threat was clear in his voice.

Hurl still looked ready to bolt, but Fletch appeared at his shoulder and placed a hand on his arm. His touch calmed the man somewhat, but he still trembled.

Tyrus moved nearer. Tell us of this Magus. I've never heard of such a man.

You've lived your life on the other side of the Teeth or in Port Rawl, not in the shadows of Blackhall like my people. Hurl's eyes darted at each flickering shadow. We northerners here have a saying: A silent tongue speaks loudly.'

Now is no time for silent tongues, Tyrus intoned. Tell us what you know of the Stone Magus. Is he friend or foe?

Hurl frowned. Both, neither I don't know. I only know pieces of stories. I thought them fireside fancies. He waved an arm around him. But this, and the statue at the entrance it's right out of those tales.

Maybe you'd better tell us these stories.

A final tremor passed through Hurl. He touched his friend's hand, drawing strength and collecting himself; his voice was stronger when next he spoke. The stories of the Magus stretch far back, to the time when the Stone Forest was green and Blackhall never darkened our shores.

Was there ever such a time? Blyth muttered dourly.

There was, Hurl said. In the distant past, this northernmost forest was revered by all. It was rich in deer, rabbit, and fox, a spot of green when all the world turned to snow and ice in winter, and a cool bower from the summer's heat. But for all its wonders, there was something unsettling about the dark wood, rumors of strange laughter, of mischief played on those that overnighted, of floating lights to mislead the unsuspecting, even sightings of tiny folk no larger than one's hand the fae-nee, they were called.

Blyth shook his head. Wives' tales.

Hurl ignored him. With such stories, none dared make their home in that dark wood except one.

The Magus, Tyrus guessed.

Hurl nodded, still watching the park. Deep in the wood, a great healer kept a homestead, a place where even the animals of the forest would go for a touch of his hand. He held the trees of the forest in deep reverence, so he made his home inside a hillside, in a warren of chambers lined by stone, warmed by many hearths, bright from windows that opened right through the hillside. He kept his home there for as far back as any could remember.

Sticks spoke. For such a large man, he had a very soft voice. And the wee folk didn't bother him in their forest?

Ah, there's the rub. For some say the fae-nee were the children of the Magus.

What? Blyth blurted.

Hurl ignored the first mate. In his loneliness, it was said he carved tiny men and women out of the wood of his homeland trees. And with his healing touch and deep love of forest, he brought the figures to life.

Tiny wood people, Blyth scoffed. Why are we wasting time with such addled stories? I thought we were looking for who set this fire.

Tyrus frowned and waved for Hurl to continue. What became of this Magus? n

Hurl rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Blackhall. That's what became of him. When the volcano erupted off the northern coasts, its ash and heat seared the forests, turning wood to stone. The Magus was never seen again.

And that's the end of your story? Blyth threw his arms in the air. Hurl shook his head. No. A century later, it begins again. People began to tell tales of someone living in the stone forest. A figure of stone, like the forest, but one that stalked its dead bower with vengeance in its cold heart.

The Stone Magus, Tyrus said.

Hurl nodded. A sect of worshipers formed, and said they could call upon the Stone Magus to protect a home or village.

And you think he was called here?

Hurl stared back at the ruined village shrouded in mist. His voice dropped to a whisper. Maybe he was. Maybe the Magus could turn flesh to stone with a glance. The man's gaze settled back to the pair of huddled children. But the stories vary. In many, the appearance of the Magus was as much a curse as a boon, destroying the good with the bad. Many of the tales end with these words: Remember and never forget, the Stone Magus' heart has also gone to stone.'

Tyrus frowned and turned to the fire blazing in the park's center. Well, Stone Magus or not, someone's been here recently, and I won't leave until I find out more. Tyrus waved back to the fires. Let's see if we can discover who set this blaze and be done with this place.

Aye, Captain. Blyth and the others circled through the park and again approached the fire from all directions. Five pairs of eyes studied the empty grounds and took up posts with their backs against the fire. Shadows cast out in all directions. Blyth frowned. What now?

I guess we've been too subtle in our approach. Maybe something more bold. Tyrus cleared his throat, then filled his lungs. Ho! he bellowed out into the misty night. We mean no harm! We seek news of lost companions! If whoever set this blaze is out there, we ask gently that you show yourselves!

His pleaded words echoed out over the cliffs, unanswered.

Sticks spoke from the other side of the flames. Maybe they fled when they saw us coming. After what happened to the village here, they may be shy of strangers.

Tyrus sighed. If Sticks was right, any hope to gain knowledge of the fate of Wennar and his army ended here. But whoever had set the mighty blaze had done so to attract a passing eye: This was no tiny campfire, but a beacon set against the night. So why hide now?

Tyrus widened his stance and studied the park. Had some surviving member of the Magus' sect set this bonfire as a simple act of worship, then moved on? Was their nighttime search so much wasted effort? Or was there something more going on? He glanced back to Hurl. This Magus, when did ?

A muffled explosion erupted behind them, followed by a flare from beyond the cliffs. All eyes turned to the sea, where a sheet of fire stretched high into the sky with a roar, then collapsed down on itself.

The ship! Tyrus shouted.

They raced to the cliff's edge. Tyrus skidded to a stop and looked down upon an awful sight. The Blacf{ Folly lay where it had anchored, but flames now consumed it, turning the ship into a bonfire brighter than the one behind them.

Wh-what happened? Blyth asked weakly.

The answer was soon revealed in the waters around the ship. Lit by the flames, dark shapes moved through the waters, swimming toward shore with webbed fingers and snaking tails.

Sticks pointed one of his clubs to the cliff face below. There!

Climbing toward them were a score of leathery shapes. The beasts scrambled up the slick rock, using clawed hands and feet. Spotted, the hairless creatures revealed their razored teeth. A hiss, like steam from a boiling kettle, rose from the waters and cliffs.

Sea goblins! Blyth swore harshly.

Tyrus now understood what had happened to the seaside township the fate of the villagers, the lack of bodies. He risked a glance behind him and was not surprised to see black forms scuttling out from the ruins: hundreds of goblins. He heard the rattle of their flinty tail spikes, the poisonous weapons of the creatures' females. The blaze here had nothing to do with the Stone Magus or lost d'warves. It was simply a crude lure to attract prey to these shores.

The village, the cliffs, the cove' it was a feeding nest for the drak'il, the sea-dwelling race of goblins and Tyrus had led his men blindly into it.

The pack of drak'il closed in.

We're trapped, Blyth said.

approach of bare feet, stepping deftly around the tentacled beasts. He knew those ankles and the tiny webs between the delicate toes.

Sy-wen spoke harshly. Gather the simaltra. We'll need as many as possible if we mean to take over both the castle and the Leviathan.

And the second shipment of eggs? It was Wrent, the captain of the guard.

They'll be here by nightfall. So we must have the island secure, communication cut off, and the Leviathan under way by dawn. The new eggs must be seeded among the war fleet before they reach Blackhall.

Kast's mind ran with the plan laid out here. The demons meant to sally forth from A'loa Glen, wearing the faces of trusted friends, and spread their corruption among the fleet. Whether their plan succeeded or not, such an attack would weaken the fleet and sow distrust, just when the fleets needed to be at their most united.

He struggled for some way to raise a warning. But how? Distress must have been evident on his face. Sy-wen knelt beside him. She held one of the simaltra in one hand. Do not fret, my love. She bent forward. Kast gasped out one last plea. Sy-wen'

Too late for begging, my love.

Despite her words, Kast noted the smallest twitch of her left eye. He prayed to the Mother above that he was heard. He knew it was possible for the possessed to break free for brief moments. The elv'in captain of the befouled scoutship had managed to warn Meric and crash her own ship. Even Sy-wen had done it, back in the library. Now he needed her to do it one more time for just a fleeting moment.

He met Sy-wen's gaze as she reached out with the beast. He read what he could in her eyes, seeking some answer, some clue to salvation here. There had to be a reason the enemy needed Ragnar'k. He was sure it wasn't just for the dragon's strength. For all this effort, there had to be more purpose here.

Then, as he stared into the eyes of his love, he caught a glimmer of an answer. Shining clear from the demon were two emotions:/f<zr and relief.

Understanding bloomed. The dragon frightened them! Something about Ragnar'k threatened their plan.

Kast fought the weight on his chest and drew a large breath. He reached with all the love and strength in his heart and spoke the words he hoped Sy-wen would understand: I have need of you!

Again the left eye twitched. The hand that bore the tentacled simaltra paused, shaking ever so slightly.

I need you, Sy-wen' he pleaded again.

Kast? The voice was weak, a whisper on a wind, but it was thunder in his ears.

Now, my love' I need you now!

Her other hand lifted, reaching haltingly toward him. Then this hand also stopped. Sy-wen knelt, frozen in a silent war, with two hands held out in one palm, a beast meant to corrupt, and in the other, an offer of salvation.

Kast struggled to move, but his body could not fight the poisons. All he could do was lift his neck, raising his cheek from the stone floor, offering his dragon tattoo. It took every last dreg of his strength. He had no more breath for words, only his eyes, pleading, full of his heart's desire.

But once again, love failed against the chokehold of demonic magick.

Something died in Sy-wen's eyes. The hand bearing the beast again reached foward. A leering smile twitched her lips. Kast leaned away, but his body was an anchor he could not escape. The simaltra touched him. The burning slime of the creature seared his face. He closed his eyes, knowing he had lost.

Sy-wen, I love you. Now and forever.

He waited for the slumber of the green gases to take him away from the horror and loss. But before he could escape, a flame, a thousandfold more intense than the touch of the simaltra, scorched his other cheek. He felt fingers trace his neck, spreading the fire, marking the borders of his dragon tattoo.

A whisper reached him through the pain, a balm that turned agony into ecstasy. I have need of you'

Tyrus and the others retreated to the bonfire. A thick fog had rolled in from the sea, blanketing the coastal cliffs and shrinking their world to the confines of the small park. Even the village had been swallowed by the mists.

But the real threat could not be so easily wiped away. A continual hiss of hunger and blood lust echoed from all sides. Occasional darker shadows skittered through the fog.

If this soup grows any thicker, Blyth mumbled, we won't see the weapons in our own hands.

Keep steady, Tyrus warned. He raised his sword, judging the sea breeze. The cover of the fog could prove as much a boon to us as to the goblins.

How so? Hurl whispered. Do you think we can slip away?

The drak'il are creatures of the sea. If we can sneak through town and make it to the woods beyond, the beasts might not give chase.

Sticks rubbed his clubs together, the way a man might warm his hands. If we can't snea't through town, then we'll bludgeon our way through.

Beyond the large man, Fletch knelt on one knee, his bow nocked with an arrow that tracked the drak'il as they closed around the park, worrying its edges. Why don't they come at us? the Steppeman asked softly.

No one answered for a long breath, until Hurl spoke. It's the park. They sense the wrongness here. Their noses are sharper than ours.

Mother above, Blyth snapped, not more of that prattle about that cursed Stone Magus.

Hurl's face darkened, but Tyrus noted how the man's eyes flicked to the statues of the two frightened children.

Well, something's keeping them back, Fletch offered.

Blyth could not argue this fact. For the moment, the beasts were indeed delaying their attack. But the hissing grew steadily around them.

Still, their reluctance to attack made Tyrus wonder: if the drak'il were so reluctant to enter the park, why set the false signal fire here? A bonfire set elsewhere would have lured a ship just as easily from the sea.

In the fire behind him, logs shifted with a creaking crackle. Tyrus wondered if his initial suspicion that the goblins had set the fire could be wrong. But if the drak'il hadn't set it, then who did, and why?

As he wondered, the sea breeze died away. The fog settled thicker the moment Tyrus had been waiting for. Ready, men, he whispered, tightening his grip on his sword. On my command, we'll head for the northern wall, run its base, then over the wall and through town. We must keep hidden in the fog for as long as possible. Once discovered, they'll be on us as thick as fleas on a mangy dog's arse.

Heads nodded all around.

Tyrus' gaze fell on their archer. Time to prove your skill, Master Fletch. He pointed to the south. Can you strike one of the drak'il over there?

Fletch swung around. Aye, Captain. It'll be dead before it strikes the ground.

No, Tyrus said. Shoot for a leg or arm. We want the foul thing screeching like a wounded bird.

Fletch nodded and took aim.

On my word, Tyrus said.

With one of their own wounded, the drak'il would flock to the south, believing their prey were trying to break free there. With the goblins distracted, Tyrus and his men would make their escape in the opposite direction.

Ready, he whispered. Dark shapes moved along the southern wall. Now!

With the skill of his Steppe clansmen, Fletch let loose an arrow. It whistled through the misty air, then struck with a soft thud of flesh. A wheedling cry of pain cut through the steady hiss.

Go! Tyrus whispered.

Leading the way, he raced surefooted down a flagstone path, weaving around bushes and statues. The others followed, as silent and fleet of foot as himself. Ahead, the waist-high wall grew clearer out of the mists.

Tyrus reached the wall and ran along its length, bent in a half crouch to limit his exposure. At the northeast corner of the park, he motioned the others over the short wall. He stood guard as Hurl, Fletch, and Blyth scrambled over. Sticks waved him to go next, crouching with his clubs.

Across the park, the squeals from the wounded goblin ended with a gurgled outburst. The drak'il were not kind to their wounded. Silence descended.

Time was running short.

Tyrus turned to the wall as a commotion erupted from the mists: scuffles, a single grunt, a quick squeak. Tyrus swore under his breath.

Blyth's face appeared at the wall. Goblin, he mouthed apologetically. His eyes were sharp with wary concern.

Off to both sides, hoots and sharp hisses arose. Claws scrabbled on stone, drawing closer. The drak'il were circling back.

Tyrus vaulted the low wall, quickly followed by Sticks. A goblin lay at their feet. Its skull had been cleaved in two. Hurl knelt beside it, wiping his ax clean in a mound of grass.

Crouching, Tyrus pointed to the nearest street of the village. Again he led the way and raced across the scarp of bare dirt and grass. He dove into the shelter of the narrow street and flew down the broken, weedy cobbles. The avenue split and crisscrossed others. Tyrus didn't stop to get his bearings at any forking or crossroads. He trusted his own instincts. Still, with the fog this thick, one deserted street looked like another.

Behind them, the drak'il horde erupted with shrieks and furious yips; their dead brethren must have been discovered. The furious hissing echoed along the streets and added to the confusion of direction. At times, it sounded as if they were running toward the cries, rather than away.

Didn't I pass that burned shell of building already? Tyrus stumbled to a stop, panting silently, and searched around him. Three streets led from here.

Blyth slid beside him. Captain? he whispered. Tyrus shook his head, shrugging his lack of certainty. Somewhere nearby a slate roof tile crashed on cobblestone, but again the echoes played tricks with the sound. Tyrus searched the neighboring rooftops. Nothing but fog.

Blyth pointed his sword toward one street, motioning them in that direction. But Hurl stepped forward and nodded another way.

The strum of a bowstring sounded, and a goblin crashed to the stones from an upper-story window, an arrow feathering its eye. Fletch straightened from his crouch, drawing another arrow from his quiver.

Sticks waved his club toward all the streets, silently indicating that any way was better than staying where they were.

Tyrus couldn't argue with the giant's logic and took off.

They ran, sticking close to the walls. Streets flew by. Either the village had grown in this beastly fog, or they had indeed made some wrong turns. They should have been out the village and into the woods by now.

At least the screeches of the goblins had grown quieter. But that itself was unnerving. Their pace slowed again, eyes darting toward every dark shadow.

Then with a final few steps, the buildings vanished on either side. It took several more steps until they were sure they had cleared the village.

A gasp of relief escaped Blyth. Tyrus leaped ahead, hope surging. In his exuberance to escape the fog-bound trap, he ran headlong into a dark form that suddenly appeared out the mists. He could not catch his legs in time and fell at the stranger's feet.

He sprang up to discover the lurker was not a living creature, but another statue. He stared up into a familiar face: the worn stone visage of a stern patriarch, standing with his arms crossed the statue that guarded the entrance to the cliffside park. His heart sank to the bottom of his belly. We've run full circle, he gasped, turning to the others. Hurl backed a step. No!

Tyrus thought the Northman was simply voicing his despair, but Fletch gasped, his voice full of horror. There's no bonfire.

Tyrus' eyes widened. Even the fog shouldn't hide the huge blaze, especially so close. He swung around to find the statue reaching for him. Stone-cold fingers latched onto his neck.

His men, hardened pirates and loyal to their captain, came to his aid with sword and ax. But the fingers continued to tighten, and he was lifted by his neck off the ground like a kitten. His vision darkened. The sword fell from his grip, but he fought and struggled, kicking and digging at the fingers that held him trapped to no avail.

His airway closed off. His head pounded with each beat of his heart and still the fingers squeezed. The world vanished into darkness. His legs and arms became as heavy as lead.

But even this assessment was proven wrong in the next heartbeat. Sweet Mother' Hurl's voice rang in his pounding ears. He's turning the captain to stone!

Sy-wen woke to herself, called forth by a dragon's bellow. She blinked as the world of light and sound returned to her. The dark cave of malice in which she had been trapped no longer held her. She was free!

Ragnar'k roared under her as she straddled his neck. He dug his silvered claws into the dungeon floor and fanned his wings, knocking aside piled eggs. Tentacled creatures lurched away from the crush of his claws. Sy-wen felt burning on the bottoms of her feet, sharing the dragon's senses as he squashed the foul things under his claws.

She sobbed aloud, both at the joy at being free and at the heartache that tore her being. She remembered the atrocities she had committed, the innocent blood on her hands. Possessed by the simaltra, she had watched all, experienced all, unable to control her body, while dark tendrils had wormed into her deepest secrets and memories. Her will had been ripped from her, replaced with something as black as the bottom of the deepest sea.

The dragon surged under her. She ducked from the low ceiling, almost crushed against it. Ragnar'k was wild, maddened by a rage unlike any she had felt before. He struck out with blind fury, bellowing, roaring. She felt drowned in his anger and grief, but underneath his seething emotions, she recognized the cause of his rage. Tied to his heart, she saw it was for herself the giant grieved.

Ragnar'k, she whispered. I'm here. Calm yourself. The dragon froze in midstrike, one claw raised. Bonded?

Yes, my love. It is I.

He lowered his claw. / dreamed you lost, swallowed by tentacles.

It was not a dream, she whispered, yet unsure what exactly had transpired. Why was she free again? She remembered sensing Kast's need, the pleading of his eyes, the love in his heart. She had stretched all her energies to touch that heart.

Then the explosion of magick' and she was free. Her will was her own again.

Kast, my love.

A flow of warmth entered her from two hearts, dragon and man.

New tears filled her eyes, but she wiped them away and stared around the room. The dungeon door was wide open, but the men under the simaltra's thrall had vanished. While possessed, she had not been privy to the innermost plots of the Dark Lord's monsters, but she knew they feared Ragnar'k. They had hoped to possess Kast and thus hold the dragon in check. But with Ragnar'k free, they now retreated, withdrawing their dark tentacle from A'loa Glen. It was a small battle won, but a larger war still loomed.

As Sy-wen searched the room, she realized one other was missing.

Hunt was gone.

She recalled the penetration of the high keel's son by the simaltra and despaired. It seemed she had been the only one freed by the dragon's magick.

Closer at hand, the tentacled beasts retreated from the dragon's assault, sliding along walls, floor, and ceiling. Ragnar'k stretched his neck and bellowed, warning them away.

But the effect was more profound.

Under the direct brunt of his roar, the creatures shriveled and dried as if under a searing wind. A large swath of the beasts dropped like dried clots from the stone wall and ceilings, dead.

Sy-wen stared in amazement. In the past, the trumpet of the dragon had been capable of stripping dark magicks from the skal'tum, the winged demons of the Black Heart. A similar magick must be at work here. The black spells of the beasts could not withstand the elemental energy of the dragon's roar.

As the desiccated beasts fell, she sent her silent encouragement to her mount.

Ragnar'k swept the room with his bellows, scorching and charring the horde. He tromped through the cracked eggshells, rooting out any last ones and roaring them into oblivion. She sensed his satisfaction as he sifted through the rest of the room, sniffing and pawing.

Is that all of them? she asked, trusting her dragon's keen nose.

Before he could answer, a commotion arose from the doorway. Guardsmen bristled at the threshold with spears. The dungeon keep, Gost, stood among them. He must have fetched the reinforcements when Ragnar'k had begun to bellow.

Sy-wen lifted an arm. Stand back, she warned. It might not be safe to enter here yet.

One of the guardsmen pushed forward. She recognized Py-ran, grandson of Master Edyll and lieutenant of the mer'ai forces still here, by-wen r

Fear not. She answered the suspicion in his eye. The magick of Ragnar'k has broken the hold of my demon possessor.

Py-ran's gaze remained narrowed. No one lowered his spear.

She understood their fears. How could she be trusted?

Py-ran spoke. We ran into a cadre of Bloodriders on the way down here. They attacked us, then fled through a hidden door.

A Dre'rendi called from the cluster of guards, his voice shocked with horror. One was Wrent, the captain of our guard. Another was the high keel's own son.

Sy-wen groaned. With Hunt's knowledge of the Dre'rendi forces available to the Dark Lord, the danger to the fleet heading toward Black-hall was heightened. The escaped group had to be stopped before it was too late.

I will loose the magick of the dragon, Sy-wen said. If you don't believe my word, perhaps you will Kast's.

Sy-wen shifted from her seat, sliding from her perch to the stones. She was careful to keep one hand in contact with the dragon until she was ready. Spears and swords followed her every move.

She ignored them and turned to Ragnar'k. I must let you go, my great giant.

Bonded' you must not leave.

She heard the deep grief in his voice. I must. I must prove that I'm free of the tentacles.

But, bonded' you are not.

She frowned and sent her thoughts silently. / am my own woman.

No. The dragon's thoughts were firm. / smell one /{not of tentacles still in

this stone cave.

Where? she said aloud.

Ragnar'k swung his nose and sniffed at her hair. Here' inside you. It still lives. It hides where I can't reach it, but it still squirms, waiting.

Sy-wen sensed the truth of the dragon's words. She wasn't free. Though the magick of Ragnar'k had broken the simaltra's hold on her, freeing her from her prison temporarily, it had failed to destroy the beast. It still lived inside her skull, waiting to claim her again.

Her fingers clutched a ridge of scale. She felt her legs weaken. Without the dragon, the evil inside her would take over again. Horror filled her at the realization that to free Kast, she must lose herself.

Sy-wen? Py-ran called from the doorway, clearly wondering at the delay.

She faced her fellow mer'ai. I' I was mistaken, she whispered, her chest hollow with despair. I'm not free. Py-ran frowned at her words. Bring four of your men. Circle me with spears. I must not escape.

I don't understand.

Sy-wen shook her head. When I free the dragon and call back Kast, I

will be possessed again.

His face grew pale. Then don't let go of the dragon.

Sy-wen waved her free arm around the cell. And imprison all three of us here? Ragnar'k is too large to fit out the dungeon door.

There must be another way.

Sy-wen leaned her forehead against the dragon. We must trust Kast to find it.

Stay with me, Ragnar'k urged. / will dig our way out of this stone cave. My heart is strong, my claws stronger.

Sy-wen smiled despite the tears. No one doubts your heart, my giant, but true freedom does not he that way.

Ragnar'k remained silent for a long time, but she sensed his understanding and his fear. It resonated with her own terror. She dreaded allowing herself to be trapped, alone again in that dark prison.

Not alone, Ragnar'k whispered in her heart. You're never alone.

She again felt the flow of warmth from two hearts. She drew the heat and love around her like a blanket, wrapping it tight. Before her fears could overwhelm her, she stepped back, dropping her hand from the dragon's side.

The world exploded into a whirlwind of black scale. Inner barriers shattered then she was falling down a well, and cold tentacles unfurled to catch her.

She clutched the blanket of warm love to her heart with all her might. Save me' she whispered out to the emptiness.

Around Tyrus, the world hardened, as if the very air thickened first to molasses, then to mortar, then to stone. He did not feel his limbs and body solidify into granite. He simply could no longer move. Through eyes that would not blink, he watched the stone statue slam his body down, driving his legs into the soft loam as a man might plant a fence post.

Even time seemed trapped. He watched his men harry the Stone Magus, who without a doubt this creature was. Their voices grew high-pitched; their efforts became frantic blurs. Time sped into the future, leaving Tyrus behind. Helpless, Tyrus watched his men, one after the other, succumb to the same spell. Statues grew around him: Blyth frozen with his sword raised, Sticks crouched with his clubs crossed in futile defense, Fletch frozen with his bow in midpull.

One last battle ensued. A blur that was Hurl fought the demon from his childhood tales. The Stone Magus bore the man's ax chops with no reaction, his face fixed in the same stern glower.

Tyrus watched as a stone hand snapped out with a speed that belied the flow of time and grabbed Hurl by the wrist. The last of his men was about to succumb to the Magus' spell.

He refused to let it happen; he fought the leaden air. If he could only move a finger, he sensed the spell would break. He fed his desire and will into one hand.

Move, damn you' move!

Before him, Hurl's flesh and clothes grew the gray of unpolished granite, spreading inward from his struggling limbs. From the vantage in his eddy of time, the transformation seemed but a matter of heartbeats.

Tyrus continued to fight. He had no choice.

Hurl was slammed into the soil, a granite statue of horror and fury. The Stone Magus stared at his collection. His lips moved, and he uttered words of distaste and disgust. He must have been speaking very slowly, because the words were plain and clear. Pirates' scum of the sea' you prey upon the carrion left behind by the Dark Lord. I curse your black hearts and leave you here to watch the world pass you forever by.

Tyrus fought all the harder. We are not your enemy! he sent silently. We

fight the same cause!

But he was not heard. The stone figure turned away, moving at what appeared to Tyrus to be normal speed, but from the whip of clouds overhead, his gait must be slow, a creep of stone across the foggy field.

Wait! Tyrus yelled in his mind. He willed his stone limbs to move. A hand, a finger' anything. As he strained, his vision blackened with the effort. Sweet Mother, release me!

Laughter answered him, so very faint and far away. But it was not the voice of the Mother above. It was a deeper, grumbled sound that rose from the stony ground under him. Words followed, even fainter: Remember your roots, fool. The ridicule was blunted by a sense of peace and friendship. Who' ?

Laughter again; this time it sounded more mournful. We are stone, you and I. One Roc't, one Granite. Have you forgotten your oath-brother?

Tyrus felt his heart thud in his chest with recognition. Krai! His mind churned with confusion and shock. How' ?

I reach you through old allegiances bound in blood and sworn upon Mrylian steel. What is made of stone never truly dies, only slumbers. I heard you calling through the stone, crying for release from your own blood. Thick laughter grumbled. Such foolishness'

Tyrus felt his anger boil up. I'm trapped in a statue.

So? A sigh sounded, like a shifting of slabs of stone deep underground. You've lived too long among pirates and brigands. Have you forgotten your

birthright} You are Lord Tylamon Royson, heir and king of Castle Mryl, lord of the Northwall. Granite flows in your veins.

Tyrus inwardly frowned. At the Northwall perhaps, but not here. Whatever ground you wal't, you are still a prince, Krai said with a finality that brooked no argument. Granite is granite. Tyrus searched his heart. Could this be true?

Krai's voice began to fade, slipping back into the rocky roots of the world. Stone can never hold you prisoner. We are roc't, you and I. What more magic't do you need?

No further words followed. Krai?

There was no answer. But for the briefest flicker, Tyrus sensed something else, a touch of prophecy, the Scrying that was also his family's birthright. Though the mountain man's time had ended in this age, he would be called for one last, great task, in a time yet to come. So Tyrus did not call out to him. He released the giant man to his stony slumber. Guard my family sword well, man of the mountains. Wield it with honor.

Tyrus focused back on the present, surprised to see the Stone Magus only steps away, plodding slowly along.

Tyrus concentrated. He abandoned any hope of moving a hand or finger. Instead he drew his energy inside him, to his own heart. He remembered Castle Mryl, his home and love. At the Northwall, he had but to press his palms against the granite and will the living energy in the stone to transform him into stone, allowing him to flow into and through the great wall as if through water.

Granite is granite. The mountain man's words echoed in his heart. Tyrus centered himself, remembering who he was, what blood ran in his veins. Then he touched the magick in his heart, sending out his desire and will.

Slowly he felt the air around him soften. Stone melted to mortar. His raised arm sank under its own weight.

Tyrus held his heart calm, allowing the world to continue to thaw. His limbs bent from their frozen postures. His lips parted; his chest expanded. He took a cautious step, pulling his feet from the soil. It was like slogging through molasses, but he was moving! And time slipped back to its normal groove, a well-worn rut. The scudding clouds slowed to a gentle roll across the skies.

Tyrus raised his limbs. They were still the dark gray of unpolished stone. The spell remained intact, but he was no longer a fixed statue. He craned his neck and spotted the Stone Magus. With time back to its regular flow, the Magus appeared to be merely a statue in the misty woods. But his limbs were indeed moving with a steady and determined grind as he climbed the rise.

Tyrus sheathed his stone sword and pursued his quarry. He would not leave his shipmates frozen. He would force the monster back, to free his friends. Tyrus climbed the rise, but his pace was only a fraction more hurried than the Magus. Granite was indeed granite, and though it flowed, it was still heavy. With each step, his feet sank into the leafy muck of the woodland floor. It was like marching through thick snow, but Tyrus plodded onward.

He was within a few lengths of the Magus when his quarry sensed the pursuit. The stern face swung in his direction.

Tyrus gained a small amount of satisfaction from the surprised look that spread like lava over the man's stone face.

How? the Magus asked.

Tyrus hauled his way up the slope. You are not the only one with stone in his blood.

Demon! Black-heart fiend' The slurs flowed from the cold lips as the Magus faced him. Fingers folded into stone fists.

I am no demon. Tyrus drew even with him near the top of the rise. It is not I who turns innocent men into statues and leaves them to die.

Features hardened into a frown. Innocent? I saw your ship. Pirates. Sea-sharks. A growl rumbled up his rocky throat, and a hint of madness shone from his eyes. You are no better than the beasts that infest the town.

You judge us falsely. We meant no harm. We came ashore only to look for lost friends.

He sneered. This is not your land. You and your lost friends don't belong here. I will protect it as I see fit. With the determination of a boulder rolling down a hill, he turned away.

Tyrus raised a hand to stop him, but it was knocked away with the sound of crashing rocks as the Magus continued to the top of the rise.

You must lift your spell from my friends, Tyrus called, dragging himself after the Magus. I will pursue you to Blackball itself, if need be!

The mention of the Dark Lord's lair had the desired effect. The Magus swung around with a speed that belied his heavy stone limbs. Never mention that foul place, that blight upon these northern woods.

You claim to protect these lands. Why then do you thwart the very men who bring war upon that dread island?

Confusion mixed with suspicion in the other's face.

Tyrus pressed. It is you who do the Black Heart's will here, not I!

Anger built in the other. Lies! he spat.

Tyrus held out his hands. Stone does not lie. If you are birthed from the Land as its avatar, then you will know truth written in granite.

The Magus stared at his open palms, then slowly placed his own hands atop Tyrus.

Tyrus looked the other in the eye, granite meeting granite. He prayed the creature's stony madness would clear enough for him to recognize the truth. He spoke boldly. In ten days' time, four armies will converge on Blackhall, bearing the magick of the Land itself. We will lay down our lives to break into that lair and wrest the wyrm from his black hole.

With each word, the eyes of the Magus grew wider. The ravening glint faded for the moment. You speak with a true tongue.

Tyrus bit back a sigh of relief.

The Stone Magus lifted away his hands and covered his face. Will this pain never end?

Tyrus stepped closer to him. It is not too late to change what you've wrought. Release the spell that holds my men.

The Magus stumbled a few steps down the far side of the ridge. I cannot. His words were a choked wail.

Tyrus pursued him. Why?

The stone figure glanced over a shoulder. There is no way to lift the spell. Once cast, it cannot be undone. It is why I return regularly to the village.

Tyrus frowned; then understanding dawned on him. The stone villagers' the bonfire'

A tragic mistake' Rocky shoulders slumped in grief. Two winters ago, the village here was attacked by dog soldiers and monsters. I was summoned near the end of the fighting. From the park, I cast out my magick. I was so blinded with rage at the murder and pillaging that I failed to notice my own energy spilling over into the grounds around me. The townsfolk were frozen in place in their own refuge.

The Magus shook his head. I destroyed the statues of the attackers, buried the dead, and built a fire both to mark the town as my own and to offer light and warmth to those I imprisoned falsely. It is all I can do. The drak'il moved in last winter. As long as the goblins left the park alone, I allowed them to haunt the ruins. They are simpleminded beasts, and their hunger guards the park as much as I do. I did not want the resting place of those poor villagers disturbed.

Tyrus heard the pain in the other's voice. Guilt weighed heavier than granite on this one's heart. There is no way to lift the curse?

The other stood in a posture of grief. His silence was answer enough. Tyrus clenched his stone fingers. What was he to do now? No ship, no men'

Overhead, the skies had begun to lighten to the east. Much of the night had disappeared while he had stood frozen, trapped in the time eddy. Now a morning breeze began to shred the blanket of mists. Patches of starlight shone clear.

Tyrus stared out at the valley below him, lost in thought. Across the valley floor, starshine limned an empty stretch of felled forest. From his vantage, it appeared the woods below and across the next rise had been axed and harvested, leaving behind only a landscape of stumps that spread as far as the eye could see.

An entire forest of stumps.

Who would need so much wood?

The winds gusted over the ridge, driving away the fog. With the brighter light, Tyrus recognized the error of his assumption. He stared in horror below.

A voice spoke behind him. At least I accomplished some good here, the Stone Magus mumbled. If nothing else, this dread legion of the Dark Lord will harm no others.

Tyrus found himself frozen again, unable to move, a statue like the thousands down below.

At long last, he had found the d'warf army.

Kast knelt beside the dead boy in the north tower. Glassy eyes stared up at the hallway's raftered ceiling, and a grimace of pain marked the cold lips. A slow seep of blood still flowed from the jagged slice through the boy's throat. The kill had been recent.

Reaching out a hand, Kast closed the boy's eyes. He had not thought his heart could be any heavier this night. I'm sorry, Ty-lyn, he said, remembering the lad's exuberance, his youthful pride and joy in his dragon, He-lia. So much life' now gone forever.

Kast surveyed the other mer'ai, slain and strewn about the hall and across the entrance to the tower stairs. An ambush' The mer'ai group had been returning with the last eggs from the crashed scoutship. They would have had no reason to fear Hunt or the captain of the Bloodrider guard.

And there was no doubt who had attacked and murdered the group here. The handiwork was clearly Dre'rendi and not a single ebon'stone egg remained.

Kast cursed under his breath. The murders here were his fault. He had delayed too long in the dungeons below, watching as Sy-wen had been bound hand and foot. She had fought, frothing, spouting foul oaths, laughing with mad glee. Heartsore, Kast had been too stunned to act quickly. He had not thought to send an immediate warning and guards to the mer'ai returning from the sea with the last eggs.

He stared down at the result of his shortsightedness. These days, blood was the wage of a single misstep. Kast stood and clenched his fists. No longer. It was time to bring the war to its rightful place.

Hurried steps sounded behind him. He turned to find Py-ran rushing toward him, flanked by three other mer'ai. We followed their trail, Py-ran said. They made for the docks.

All of them?

We're fairly certain. We talked to some folk in the streets. The mer'ai warrior's voice lowered. But there are more bodies at the dock. One of the Dre'rendi wave-chasers was commandeered.

Kast spat out a curse, pounding a fist on his sword hilt. I want elv'in scoutships in the air and hunting for them immediately.

I've already spoken to the commander of the elv'in. He's arranging a squad of pursuers.

Kast nodded at the lieutenant's efficiency. But he knew in his heart that there was little chance of finding Hunt and the others. The high keel's son knew the maze of Archipelago's islands better than anyone. They would lose themselves in the mist, and before the moon set, they would be in a new ship, taking one by force if necessary and scuttling the small wave-chaser. By tomorrow they would be gone.

But Kast did not succumb to frustration. It was time to stretch the game to a broader scope. From Sy-wen, he knew the plot of the possessed: to gather more eggs and sow them among the war fleet.

In such knowledge, there was power. Rather than whiling away energies in useless pursuit, it was time to lay a trap for the possessed, to meet them where they were going.

Kast turned to Py-ran. Send word again to the elv'in commander. I need a ship ready by dawn.

To hunt the others?

No, I'm turning the island and its defenses over to you. Word of this betrayal and the potential danger must reach the fleet. With Xin failing to reach Tyrus this night, our lines of communication are down. I can't risk such important information to the vagaries of a crow's flight. I mean to take a ship myself to the fleet and set up defenses against the possessed. The shock of his words darkened the other's face. But A'loa Glen' ?

I have full confidence in your abilities to hold the walls here, Lieutenant.

But ?

Kast clapped the fellow on the shoulder, but he barely saw Py-ran standing before him any longer. His eyes were already staring through the walls and over the ramparts. In his heart, he knew the last assault had been waged in the dungeons here. The true battle had rolled over and past them, heading north, heading for Blackhall.

They attacked here because they fear Ragnar'k, he mumbled, recall-ing the hate in Sy-wen's mad eyes. But I will teach them the true meaning of fear.

Py-ran backed a step with a half bow. I will alert the commander immediately.

Kast slowly unclenched a fist. He glanced to the ruin in the hall, his eyes settling on the pale face of a boy. Blood pooled around Ty-lyn. He remembered the youngster's laugh, his bright smile, his simple, proud love of his jade dragon. Somewhere, echoing out over the black seas, a lone dragon wailed a mournful piping. It sang to the sorrow and pain in his own chest.

He turned away as his vision blurred; he wiped his eyes. There was only one answer for the bloodshed here: to make sure it never happened again.

He strode down the hall.

Dawn could not come soon enough.

Tyrus stood among the ranks of stone d'warves. The stars in the east-ern skies faded with the beginning of the new day's light. In that strange twixt between night and morning, everything took on a silvery cast, as if this army of d'warves only waited for the morning light to wake them from this unnatural slumber.

Tyrus moved slowly down the ranks. He felt the granite eyes of the soldiers on him. He remembered what it was like to have the world harden around you, holding you trapped. He stared out at the row upon row, rank upon rank: foot soldier, ax-lord, lieutenant, and captain.

Somewhere in this vast army, Wennar, their commander, stood in this valley or upon the ridge. Tyrus sought to find him, to offer what consolations he could, to promise that this war upon the d'warves' old slave-master would not end in this field of stone and granite.

I did not know, a quiet voice said behind him.

Tyrus closed his eyes. He had yet to find his way to forgiveness here.

When last I heard of the d'warves, the Stone Magus said, they were the underlings of the Dark Lord, his hands and legs upon our lands. I thought only to protect.

Tyrus turned to look upon the worn visage. You were once a healer, if the stories I've heard are correct. The prince waved his arm over the graveyard of living stone. Do you see what your blind rage has wrought? It has taken life and twisted it most foully. How are your actions any more righteous than the Black Heart himself?

I didn't know.

Tyrus would not let this excuse stand. Ignorance is the deadliest poison. The power you were granted was a responsibility placed in your hands. It was not for you to vent your own hurt upon this world. With power comes responsibility.

The figure bent under the weight of his words. I didn't ask for this power. The Magus straightened, holding out his stone hands. I can't feel anything. Not the wind on my face, not the rain. Not the brush of a hand on a cheek, not the softness of a child's skin. Anything I touch turns to stone.

Tyrus recognized a bottomless well of pain in the other's eyes and a madness that was barely kept in check. Free me' the man pleaded.

As Tyrus stared at the Magus, understanding came to him. It was not rage at the Dark Lord that fueled his rage, but simple loneliness. The Magus had lived all his life in these northern woods, a hermit dwelling in a hillside. But as isolated as he was, he had never been fully alone; the world could still touch him in all its myriad and intimate ways. But with the transformation, that had all changed. The Magus was as much trapped in stone as any other here. Locked away from the world, he had lost contact with it. He had forgotten what it meant to live and breathe. Tyrus remembered Hurl's warning: Remember and never forget, the Stone Magus' heart has also gone to stone. Those words were more prophetic than any imagined.

Tyrus might not be able to forgive, but he could pity. He stared at the statue with its arms raised in pleading. We'll find a way to free them, he said, and motioned with his own granite arm. The d'warves, my men, and the villagers.

It can't be done, the Magus said, his limbs lowering in defeat. Tyrus stared out at the army as the eastern skies grew brighter. To the north, hills appeared from the darkness. Bare, skeletal trees covered their slopes. It was the edge of the Stone Forest, the onetime home of the sad figure standing beside him.

Tell me of the coming of Blackhall, Tyrus said.

The Magus covered his face. It was too awful a time. I don't want to touch those memories again.

You must, Tyrus said more harshly. He confronted the man, pulling one hand away from his face. If there's any hope to reverse your magick, I must know how your powers came to be.

The Magus shook his head. It was too dark a time to look upon.

Tyrus shoved down his other arm. Then look on this! he shouted, and motioned to the stone army. Thousands imprisoned by your hand, trapped in stone like you. Can you hear them crying for release? Can you feel their eyes begging?

No' no' The Magus fell to his knees. He rocked in place. I didn't know.

Now you do! And you owe them more than a bonfire at night and weepy words of sorrow. If the cost is to face your past, then you must pay it.

The Magus continued to rock. His heavy knees furrowed the soil. Tyrus prayed he had not pushed the creature too far, driven him back into ravening madness.

Then slowly words tumbled from his stone lips. I was gathering herbs from a woodland glen, anise and hawksbreath. He lifted his hands to his nose. I can still smell them on my fingers.

Tyrus moved a step closer, though he feared touching the man, lest he draw him from these ancient memories.

Then a great roar, like a thousand thunderstorms crashing together split the quiet. The ground shook, heaving up in great swells then falling again, as if the land itself had become a stormy sea. I was thrown down and clung to the soil with my fists, praying to the Mother above and the Land below. I thought my prayers answered when the quaking slowed and stopped. I rose and fled back to my hillside home. When I got there, I found all the windows shattered, my great oak door cracked in half. I went inside to see what was left of my home and belongings' Then'

The rocking of the Magus became more frantic; a wail rose from his throat, boiling out as if from the turmoil inside the stone man.

It is over, Tyrus murmured. You're safe here.

The figure seemed deaf, but after a moment, words keened through the cries. A wind' a hot, searing, foul wind came screaming from the sea. It blasted every leaf from every tree. Saplings were uprooted. Older trees cracked and tumbled end over end. I fled and cowered in the root cellar, and still I could not escape the burn of the winds. It was impossible to breathe. The Magus clutched at his throat as he rocked, gasping, choking.

Calm yourself, Tyrus urged. The wind is gone, lost in the past.

The Magus shook his head. It's never gone. I can still hear its howl in my ears. It is the scream of the damned. His voice rose and took on a fevered edge.

Tyrus reached for the distressed man, but the Magus stopped rocking. His eyes were wide open, but Tyrus knew he was not seeing the world around him.

Day became night as the wind screamed away. I fled my home, but the world was gone. A smoke that glowed with sick energies covered the skies and lands. Ash fell like rain. And far to the east, the skies glowed an angry red the face of all that was evil in the world. I could not meet that gaze, so I dove back into my home. But there was no escape.

Slowly the rocking started again. The air sickened. The land shook. Wicked cries echoed down to me. I covered my head, but still they found me. A new note entered his voice with these last words; it sounded like joy.

Who found you?

My little ones' the fae-nee.

Tyrus remembered Hurl's story of the tiny carvings brought to life by the healer. Was it true? Or was this madness?

The Magus continued. I had thought them surely destroyed, but they found me curled in my cellar. I went to greet them, but they were frightened. They fled' all but the first of the fae-nee that I created Raal, a northern word for kjng. The last was said with thick bitterness. He forced me to look upon myself.

Look upon yourself?

He made me turn and see the form buried in ash at my feet.

Tyrus frowned in confusion.

Raal wiped away the ash and revealed the stone figure upon the floor of the root cellar. He made me stare at it. As the Magus spoke, fingers rose and gently probed chin, cheekbones, and line of nose. I hardly recognized my own face.

Tyrus' eyes widened.

But there was no denying what lay on the cellar's floor: my corpse. I was dead and hadn't even known it. My spirit must have become lost in that volcanic fog, unable to escape to the Mother above. But Raal, curse him, made me face my own death.

What happened after that?

Raal called the other fae-nee to him. They circled both the body and my spirit and gave back what I had granted them. A wail rose again. I didn't ask for it.

What did they give you?

Life, the Stone Mage cried. The life I had breathed into them, they returned to me a hundredfold.

Tyrus weighed this claim. He had heard of elementals that could animate nonliving objects, some for days. But if the madman here was to be believed, he had imbued these creations of his, these fae-nee, with independent life.

I was forced back into my body. And as such magick could enliven wood, so it did to stone. I rose from that cellar floor, alive again, but trapped in a shell of hard ash.

And your ability to change others into stone?

The Magus shook his head. I don't know. It was wrong to cast a spell while there was so much corruption in the air. The fae-nee must have been affected by the black magick in that foul ash or the loathsome energies wafting through the blanket of glowing fog. But when I rose, I quickly discovered all I touched turned to stone. Over time, I learned it was a curse I could cast out from my body. The Magus again covered his face. But the cost' it was too high.

What cost?

The Magus lowered his hands and glared at Tyrus. Haven't you been listening? Madness laced his words. The fae-nee gave me back what I gave them their life! I woke to find nothing but whittled pieces of wood in the cellar. My children were gone! The Magus clenched one fist. Except for Raal. He still lived. He left me in the woods and said that when Blackhall sank again, I would be free to rest.

And what became of this Raal?

The Magus gestured to the barren northern hills. He's in the Stone Forest, curse his eyes. Rebuilding his brethren.

The fae-nee ?

The spell did not only affect me, the Magus said. The warping of that magick changed Raal, too. He can now chisel petrified wood from the Stone Forest and grant it life, adding to his brethren, becoming a true king as I named him. But his children are not sweet and innocent. I've seen them. Though their flesh is as pale as the wood from which they came, there is something dark about them. I can't even stand to look Tyrus cut him off. You said their flesh is pale?

The Magus turned from the hills to look at him. You still aren't listening! It was the warp of magick. I can change the living into stone. Raal can change stone into the living.

Tyrus sensed the balance of forces here, a warp and weave of fearsome energies. He studied the hills stubbled with skeletal trees. The first rays of the sun glinted off the crystalline branches of the petrified forest. Deeper in the woods, mists moved through the trees, swirling like disembodied spirits.

Did an answer lay out there? Could Raal reverse what the Magus had wrought? And if he could, would he do so?

He turned to the Magus. I want to meet this Raal.

The stone figure glanced to him as if he were the mad one. The fae-nee don't tolerate strangers. As I said, they've grown dark of heart. I haven't seen Raal in over two centuries.

Then it's high time for a family reunion, Tyrus said. Let's go pay your kin a visit.

No, the Stone Magus said. They'll kill you.

Tyrus patted the granite that made up his chest. I'd like to see them try. He faced the Stone Forest. Take me to this king of the fae-nee.

It was good to feel the rolling planks of a deck underfoot, even if the ship flew leagues above the true sea. Kast closed his eyes and felt the wind whipping through his hair, tugging at his cloak, shoving against his chest. Among the Dre'rendi, it was said the wind had teeth. This morning

Kast could feel its bite.

He kept one hand on the bow deck's rail as the Ravenstving swept northward. They had favorable weather: a fierce southeaster blew out from the Blasted Shoals. Kast felt the energy in the air, a mix of lightning and sea salt. The elv'in captain, Lisla, was adding her own magick to fill the sails and steady the course. The plan was to reach the fleet in three days' time, and it would take every bit of the captain's talent to achieve this end.

They had left at dawn: a crew of elv'in warriors, a squad of Blood-riders, and Master Edyll of the mer'ai. They also bore one prisoner, trussed and locked in a small stateroom: Sy-wen. Kast could not leave her behind. In the war to come, Ragnar'k could be important, and she was the only one who could unlock the dragon inside him.

But there was another reason he hauled Sy-wen along on this journey: hope. Somewhere locked inside the evil was the one he loved. He gripped the rail, digging in his fingernails. He would find a way to free her or die trying. A hatch slammed open behind him, caught by the fierce winds and thrown wide as the small zo'ol tribesman climbed to the deck. Having lived among pirates, Xin was experienced with walking the deck of a storm-swept ship. He hurried toward Kast, not bothering with the safety ropes, bent against the wind. Shaven-headed, the tribesman's single braid of hair was a flag behind him.

I've reached Lord Tyrus! he said breathlessly as he took a place beside Kast. The pale scar of an eye on his forehead seemed to glow with joy.

He lives!

What news does he bear? How fares the fleet?

Xin held up a hand. I made only a flicker of contact. His sending is muffled, as if he speaks with his mouth covered. All I could understand was something about the d'warves. But he lives!

Is he with the fleet?

The tribesman frowned. No, I think he is alone.

Alone?

Xin shrugged. I will rest and try again later.

Kast nodded, relieved. I'll need you to pass word to Joach.

Xin fingered the shark tooth pendant around his neck. He used the talisman to communicate with Elena's group. I spoke with Joach before we departed. He knows we're en route north.

And their group?

They expect to reach the og're lands in another day or two. Travel is slowed by the waning elemental energies. Even my contact with the others weakens.

Kast sighed. It was hard coordinating so many fronts with just messenger crows and a single shaman with the ability to farspeak. Now even his skills faltered. How he wished Xin could communicate with more than just Joach and Tyrus.

Xin spoke, sensing his frustration. Such is the way of the wizen, he explained, holding up his arms. Two hands, right and left those are the two ways a man may greet another. That is the limit of my magick.

Kast patted the tribesman on the shoulder. I know, Xin. And if wishes were coppers, we'd all be rich men.

I will do my best to reach Tyrus. But there is something else'

Kast heard the hesitation in the other. What is it?

He glanced away. The one who holds your heart' She is in danger.

I know. The tentacled creature

No, it is more. My abilities to farspeak are tied to my deeper gift to read another's heart, not just his thoughts. The mind is less trustworthy than the heart.

And what have you sensed?

The creature nests in your love's skull, coiled and holding her will trapped. But it is her heart that worries me. She loses hope. She knows that she can only be free if you are gone. In this, she despairs.

I will find a way to break this curse, he said fiercely.

Xin placed a palm on Kast's chest. Your heart is an open book. I know your determination and so does Sy-wen. Her fear above all else is that you will do something rash, something that will harm yourself, so she might be free.

Kast glanced out over the rail. He remembered his promise a moment ago: to find a way to free her or die trying. He did not deny Xin's words.

She feels the same, Xin said again, clearly reading what his heart held close. She would rather die than see you come to harm. Corrupted as she is, she cannot see a way to hope. There is where the true danger to her lies.

Frustrated and powerless, Kast felt tears well.

Though her cell is deep in the ship's hold, she remains a beacon to a wizen like myself. The creature's madness is like kerosene thrown on fire; it shines like a blaze in the night. But at its heart rests a bastion of goodness and love. It has glowed as fierce as the fiery madness around it. But now' His voice trailed off.

Kast spoke the words he knew to be true. He too had felt it. It fades.

She allows herself to be consumed, like tinder in a blaze. Kast took a shuddering breath and asked the question that terrified him. Is there a way to stop it?

Xin did not answer. Kast turned to him. The tribesman met his gaze. There was an answer in those eyes. I must go to her, Kast said. You are both one heart. In that there is strength. Since the incident in the dungeon, he had avoided any contact with Sy-wen, fearing it would unman him when he most needed to be strong.

There is a storm unlike any other on the horizon, Xin continued. If you mean to face it, you'll need all your heart.

Kast glanced again to the sweep of sea and clouds. He took a deep breath, drawing strength from the salty winds, steeling himself for his meeting with Sy-wen.

Xin touched him on the arm. I go to my cabin. If I learn anything new,

I'll alert you immediately.

Thank you, he mumbled as the tribesman departed. Once alone, Kast sought the dragon inside him. With each transformation, the line between the two thinned. He could sense Ragnar'k brooding. She'll need both of us, he whispered to the dragon. It will take both our hearts to bolster hers.

A roar echoed through his being. Their wills were one.

Kast strode the planks to the middeck ladder. He clambered down and headed toward the stern hatch. Overhead, elv'in sailors hung from the rigging, calling to one another. The mainsail snapped angrily as an adjustment was made. The winds howled in protest. The ship bucked as if riding a wave crest, then sped faster. The captain plied her skies with the skill of the best seafarer, always seeking the best line, calculating, adapting.

Unlatching the stern hatch, Kast left the deck and the ship to her captain. He climbed down the stairs to the passageway below. It smelled musty after the free winds above, and foreign. The timbers used to build the elv'in ship came from lands other than Alasea. The resins were too sharp to the nose, discomfiting. And everywhere the air seemed to resonate with a whine just beyond the reach of ears, vibrations that tingled the smallest hairs. As much as the ship might appear like any other seafaring vessel, it was not.

Kast crossed down another deck. Down here lay the crews' quarters and storage rooms. But one cabin had been converted into a makeshift prisoner cell.

At the end of the passage, two Bloodrider guards flanked the door Garnek and Narn. They drew straighter at the sight of Kast. He crossed toward them, feeling the hum of the elemental-wrought iron keel under his feet.

Garnek stepped forward as he approached. Do you need assistance, sirr

I came to see Sy-wen.

Yes, sir. He turned to Narn and nodded. The way was quickly unlocked, and the newly installed bar removed.

Kast passed between them, and Narn stepped to follow, a hand on his sword. No, Kast said. I would visit her alone.

Sir, your own rules say none may visit the prisoner by themselves. A guard must be present.

Kast paused in the doorway and glanced over his shoulder.

Narn's eyes widened a fraction at the expression he found on the other's face. Of course, sir, he mumbled, backing a step. We'll stand guard outside.

Kast entered, then waited for the door to be locked and bolted behind him. A single oil lantern hung from a hook in a rafter. Set to the lowest flame, its meager light created more shadows than it vanquished.

Girding himself with a deep breath, he crossed to the room's lone bed. Straw ticking covered the hard wood, and atop the bunk lay the girl he loved, each limb tied to one of the posts.

Kast did not bother to turn the flame higher in the lantern. What the dim light revealed already threatened to break his will.

Sy-wen had been stripped naked, the easier to keep her clean. A blanket had been tossed over her, but her thrashings had dislodged it. It lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed.

He bent and picked it up. Her eyes tracked his every movement, like some shark eyeing its prey, waiting to strike. Her hair lay like a tangle of seaweed on the pillow.

He shook out the wool blanket and swept it over her form. This kindness earned sharp laughter. Join me, lover, she rasped. Her lips were bloody, and froth flecked her chin. There's always room for another. Loosen these ropes and I'll show you pleasures like you've never experienced before from this wench.

Kast tried to close his ears to these words. Sy-wen, he said, speaking not to the thing on the bed, but to the mer'ai woman buried deep inside. He reached to touch her cheek, but the creature flung herself at him, snapping at his fingers like a starving cur.

He pulled back his hand and sat on the edge of the bed. Sy-wen, I know you can hear me. You must not lose hope not for your freedom, not for us. But his own words sounded hollow. How could he recharge her confidence when his own ebbed to such a low tide? Laughter bubbled from the bed, mirthless and cold. Kast closed his eyes, his shoulders trembling with grief. It was wrong to come here. It was too hard. But deep inside him, a dragon roared. The simple, raw love of a beast for its bonded welled through him. He basked in its glow and discovered something that had never occurred to him.

Love did not have to be hard. It was a simple thing, uncomplicated, pure, and glorious. No matter the trappings, hardships, and entanglements, at its core, love was simply warmth, two hearts fueling one another, stoking a flame together.

Kast shoved aside all thoughts of tentacled creatures, great wars, and black magick. He listened to Ragnar'k roar, and deep inside him, he echoed this call of love, a chorus of two hearts. He found blind strength and stood.

Crossing to the lantern, he twisted the flame brighter. He would not hide in shadows any longer. He turned back to the bunk.

Sy-wen still sneered at him with disdain, but now he recognized the shine of her eyes, the fullness of her lower lip, the soft tones of her skin. But it wasn't just her physicality; he saw her spirit, the heart that had stolen his. There was nothing so dark that it could dim that light. He sank back to the bed. Somewhere far away he heard the laughter and the slurs and curses.

But it fell on deaf ears. It was only mud on a diamond; he could easily wipe it away.

Sy-wen, he whispered, I love you.

He loosened the rope that bound her right wrist and drew her hand to his cheek. He ignored her attempts to break free; his fingers were iron on her wrist. He pulled her palm to his cheek, careful to avoid his dragon tattoo on the other. Nails dug at his skin, but they were worn and dull. He felt nothing.

Sy-wen, he murmured.

Slowly the fingers relaxed on his face. Her cold palm grew warm as it rested against his skin. He felt his love returned to him from afar, stoked from another's heart.

We are not lost to one another, not even now. His voice was a breath, nothing more. Nothing of any importance has been taken from us. He pressed her palm more firmly to him. This is all that matters. Us, together that is a purity nothing can corrupt.

The heat bloomed on his skin. Faint words reached him from the bed' love you'

Kast squeezed the fingers and drew them to his lips. He kissed her palm long and with a passion that melted away everything but his love. Time stretched forever. The moment became written on their spirits, to last them through the hardships to come.

Sy-wen'

Finally, a commotion at the door drew him away. Shouts erupted, followed by a small girl's scream.

Kast sat up straight. A clawed hand swiped at his eyes, but his grip did not fail him. He forced Sy-wen's arm down and re-bound the wrist to the bedpost.

He risked a touch to her cheek, but beyond the door, the childish cries of a small girl continued, accompanied by the furious anger of a young boy. Scowling, Kast crossed to the door and pounded on the oaken frame. Unbar the way.

A latch clanged, and wood scraped as the door was yanked open.

Beyond the threshold, the two Dre'rendi guards faced a pair of elv'in sailors. The thin-limbed newcomers each held a child by the upper arm.

He stared in shock at the pair of youngsters.

The girl spotted him, too. Uncle Kast!

Sheeshon? Kast stepped toward her. What are you doing here? He had left the child in the care of Mader Geel, her nanny, back at the island.

We snuck aboard, Sheeshon said. I hid in an apple barrel. He hid in a box. She pointed to the other child, and Kast recognized Rodricko, Nee'lahn's boy. His eyes were stretched wide, and his lower lip trembled as he fought back tears.

One of the elv'in sailors spoke. Captain Lisla sensed them in the hold. She sent us to root through for stowaways.

Kast waved for the two sailors to release the children. He knelt by Sheeshon and pulled the boy to his side, tucking him under an arm. Why did you sneak onto the ship?

Sheeshon stared over his shoulder. Her eyes crinkled, and an arm pointed. Aunt Sy-wen' is she sick?

Kast glanced behind him. The cabin door was still open. Frowning, he motioned for Narn to close and lock the door, then turned back to the young girl. She's fine, little one. She needs to rest.

Sheeshon nodded sagely. She's got worms in her head. Kast was taken aback by her words. He knew Sheeshon bore her grandfather's gift of the rajor maga, an ability to see beyond horizons, but at times like this, it chilled him to see such insight mixed with childish simplicity. He pinched her chin and drew her attention to him. Sheeshon, why are you here?

Her voice shrunk to a whispered secret. Hunt needs me. Kast sighed. Back at the castle, he had tried to explain to her that Hunt was simply away. He should have known that such lies would not be believed by someone with her abilities, especially when she was bonded to Hunt by ancient magicks.

We're trying to find him, Kast said. But you shouldn't have left Mader Geel. She'll be scared for you.

I had to come. Hunt needs me.

And what about Rodricko? Kast asked.

He had to come, too. He didn't want to, but I swore that I'd scrimshaw him a pony if he didn't cry.

And I didn't cry! Rodricko burst out. Well, you were gonna.

Kast shook his head. Both children looked exhausted, red-eyed, and limp of limb. He gathered them under his arms and turned to the guards and sailors. I'll take them to my cabin. Send a crow back to A'loa Glen with the news of the children. If I know Mader Geel, she'll have the entire castle torn apart stone by stone looking for the girl.

One of the elv'in stepped forward. Captain Lisla said she is prepared to head back to the island at your word.

Kast nodded. He hated the delay in backtracking, but he had no choice Have her tack around as soon as the winds are favorable.

No! Sheeshon said. We don't want to go back.

Hush, child. Rodricko can't leave his tree for very long. He is nyphai. He must go back.

No, he doesn't! I showed him how. She glared at the boy. Show Uncle Kast.

Rodricko shook his head. I don't want to.

Kast hiked the boy higher. What is Sheeshon talking about?

Show him! Sheeshon demanded.

Kast leaned his forehead against the boy's. It'll be our secret. You and me. Bloodrider brothers.

Rodricko's eyes widened. He stammered, then reached in his jacket and pulled out a twig upon which hung a heavy flower. It was rumpled, but clearly one of the koa'kona blooms. Sheeshon says that I got to prick my finger and put blood on the broken end of the stem. It'll keep the flower fresh, and I'll feel good.

Have you tried this already?

Rodricko nodded. I used a rose thorn.

He yipped like a puppy when you step on its tail, Sheeshon added.

I did not!

Kast frowned at the girl. Sheeshon, where did you get this idea?

She squirmed, biting her lips. She would not meet his eyes.

Sheeshon' He kept his tone stern.

She leaned closer, pressing her cheek to his. Papa told me in a dream. He showed me.

Kast knew she meant her grandfather, Pinorr, the shaman of the Dre'rendi. He had died during the War of the Isles. Could the child be right? Would Rodricko be safe as long as he watered the twig in his own blood?

Papa says Rodricko is different. He comes from bloodsuckers.

Kast startled. Sheeshon knew nothing about Rodricko's heritage, that his roots traced back to the Grim wraiths. He turned to the boy. At half a day out from the island and the tree the boy should be ailing, fading, and weak. But besides appearing tired, Rodricko was pink of cheek and full of nervous energy. He did not seem to be suffering in any way.

What should I tell the captain? the elv'in asked.

Kast considered the situation. Dare he put faith in Sheeshon's dream? A boy's life hung on this hook. But so much also depended on a swift rendezvous with the fleet.

Sir?

Kast straightened and stepped away with the children in his arms.

Stay the northerly course for now.

Sheeshon clapped, then hugged him around the neck. We're going to find Hunt!

Yes, we are. Kast headed to his stateroom at the other end of the passageway.

As they reached the door, Sheeshon whispered in his ear. When I'm growed up, I'm gonna marry him.

He lowered her to the floor. Hunt is too old for you.

Sheeshon giggled. Not Hunt, silly. She pointed a small finger toward

Rodricko, then pressed the same finger to her lips, indicating secrecy. Kast tousled her hair. He hoped that girlish fancy came to pass. As such, a part of him still balked at his decision to continue with the voyage.

He was leading the children into a realm of danger beyond the darkest contemplation.

He opened the door and guided Sheeshon ahead of him, then followed with the younger boy in his arms. Rodricko was already dozing off.

Sheeshon clambered onto the bed, and he settled the boy beside her. Rodricko crawled to the pillow and fell into its embrace.

You both rest, Kast ordered. I don't want either one of you even stepping off this bed. He turned to go, but the girl reached out and touched his arm. Uncle Kast, Papa told me to tell you something.

Gooseflesh prickled the skin on his arm. Your papa' from another dream ?

No, the same dream as the one about Rodricko. Sheeshon yawned, a jawbreaker that would not stop.

Kast had to restrain himself against reaching out and shaking the girl. What did he say? His voice was strained.

Sheeshon curled into a tired ball. Papa says you have to kill the dragon.

Kill Ragnar'k? His words were not so much a question as simple shock.

But Sheeshon answered it anyway, stifling another yawn, Cause the dragon will eat the world.

The summer sun offered no warmth in the cold, wintry woods. Tyrus marched over soil as hard and flinty as the trees themselves, while gray ash puffed up with each step. He grumbled under his breath, while the Magus trod ahead of him, slogging up a wake of clogging soot, moving no faster than a man might crawl.

How much farther? Tyrus asked.

The Magus pointed vaguely ahead. Still another league.

And you're sure Raal will be there?

With Raal, I can never be certain. He has become as wild as his creations.

Tyrus studied the woods to right and left. Though the trees were leafless, the forest remained gloomy from the fog-shaded sun. Still, green life poked through here and there: twisted and stunted bushes bearing more thorns than leaves, scraggly grasses, a few gnarled saplings. And with the greenery came all sorts of small life: beetles, snails, snakes, voles, and scrawny rabbits. He even spotted one deer.

But conspicuously absent were any sign of the fae-nee, the tiny inhabitants of the dead forest. Throughout the trek yesterday and this morning, he had sought some evidence of the creatures: tiny footprints in the ash, distant voices, movement. But it was as if he and the Magus were the only ones who moved through the woods.

Only during the night had he caught flickers of motion from deep in the wood, but they could easily have been ordinary woodland creatures. Still, Tyrus sensed that little was ordinary that moved through this forest at night.

The only other creature he had spotted in the woods was something large that had lumbered past along a hill's ridge in the distance. It was like nothing Tyrus had ever seen. It was gray-skinned or perhaps just ash-covered like himself and moved on all fours. Its head was like a bull, but with a drape of tentacles hanging above its wide mouth. It marched along, gathering anything green from the forest floor with its tentacles and feeding its gullet.

Tyrus had given it a wide berth. Even granite could break if trampled under the bulk of such a gigantic creature.

But besides this lone beast, the woods appeared empty of life. It lay dead silent no birdsong, not even a whisper of insects. Each step they took sounded loud and abrasive.

Tyrus was glad to have company on this journey, even the taciturn Magus. The Stone Forest was not a landscape to walk alone. It was a place of madness, where empty hills and vales drained one's spirit, and loneliness was compounded.

Finally, the Magus broke the stony silence. We near my old home. His face swung like a plant seeking sunlight. I would see it before we pass into the deeper wood.

Is that wise? Tyrus asked. He feared that his companion might become mired in old memories and grief at the sight of his former homestead. Perhaps we should go directly to Raal.

No, the Magus droned, swinging in a westerly direction. I would see my home again.

Tyrus had no choice but to follow. The Magus led the way up a long slope and through a section of trees that grew more densely together. As Tyrus followed, he noted strange pocks on the tree trunks they passed. They appeared at first natural, but as more and more became apparent, he realized they were nooks and cubbies cut or chiseled from the trees.

He paused to examine one of these holes. It was about two handspans tall and one wide, crudely hacked.

The Magus noticed his attention. Raw material from which the fae-nee were born. He spoke as he marched up the hill. I would take a chunk of wood from a tree and sit with it until it spoke to me. Tyrus closed the distance between them. Spoke to you?

Each piece would eventually reveal its form to me, whether it be a man or woman, a child, an animal. He shrugged. Then I'd chip away the wood to free what was hidden inside.

Then you'd give it life, Tyrus said. The Magus' voice dropped to a sad whisper. My mother' She was always ailing, but she always had a smile for her only child. She taught me our family gift.

An elemental lineage, Tyrus thought, passed from one generation to another. And now it's passed to fae-nee creations.

But Raal' Bitterness lay thick on the Magus' tongue. He's stolen my mother's gift and fouled it.

Tyrus sighed. He only hoped the little creature still bore this gift then he might be able to free the d'warf army and his companions back at the village. It was a thin hope that drove the prince forward into this bleak wood.

The Magus reached the summit of the hill and gazed down. Tyrus joined him.

Below lay a small vale, set in stone a glimpse from the time of Black-hall's creation. A small section of forest had been cleared away. Stone fences marked boundaries of what must once have been a garden. There was even a tiny stone outbuilding, roofless now, its thatch long fallen away. It must have been a pen or small barn. The far slope of the vale was cleared of trees, an empty expanse of ash and rock. Open holes dotted the slope, some still glinting with shards of glass, like the icy teeth of some subterranean monster: windows into the Magus' home. A larger hole, surrounded by slabs of broken rock, must be the entrance.

At the foot of the hill, a thin stream moved with a sluggish gurgle, its waters a sickly green. The place reeked of ash and brimstone.

Home' the Magus moaned, a sound full of heartbreak. Still, he started down the slope, determined to dredge up old pains.

Tyrus followed. He had no choice he had opened this wound back among the field of d'warf statues and would have to see it through. They forded the small stream, not bothering with the broken remains of a narrow bridge. Both men were made of stone; even this sickly water could not taint them.

Once across, the Magus led the way to the entrance. I've not been back here since I first fled in horror from the root cellar.

Five centuries?

The Magus nodded and bent to enter his old home. I would go alone from here.

Tyrus thought to object. Whatever the fellow found in there would likely send him into a pit of depression from which he might never climb free. But there was no use in arguing. Once set rolling, a boulder could not be easily stopped.

The Magus climbed over the tumble of rocks and disappeared inside. Tyrus noted that the slabs of rock here were petrified wood, too what was left of the door, once stout oak, was now broken stone.

Tyrus stepped back from the threshold with distaste. A thin wind howled through the spindly branches of the surrounding trees they appeared like bony fingers scratching at the smoky, soot-filled skies. This was the domain of the Dark Lord, a small peek into the world he would create. Despair settled like ice around the prince's granite heart. He turned from the skies. Off to the left, a bit of color drew his eye. It stood out against the ash-gray of the landscape: a small dandyflower, a weed growing from between two slabs of the entryway door. It was a sickly specimen: a bit of green, a feeble curl of yellow petals no larger than a thumbnail. But it pushed from the rock and brightened the world for its short life.

Tyrus smiled. He had never seen anything more beautiful. The sight fired a fierce determination in his heart.

Even here life fought against the Dark Lord's corruption. With renewed hope, Tyrus faced the dread forest and skies.

Then a scream burst behind him, echoing up from the bowels of the underground home, ripe with pain, horror, and outrage.

Tyrus swung around, sweeping out his sword, a sliver of polished granite. Magus!

The wail fled into the woods, fading away.

Magus! he bellowed again. Answer me! He held his breath, but there was no answer. The silence pressed down on his ears, squeezing his throat. Even the winds had quieted, as if shocked by the scream.

He faced the dark threshold to the subterranean abode. After another long moment, he took a single step toward the entrance. He had no idea what lay below, but he also knew he had no choice but to go see. The Magus was the only one who knew where Raal hid in the Stone Forest. If there was to be any hope for the others, Tyrus would have to brave the darkness below.

Gripping his sword hilt tighter, the prince picked his way over the rocky rubble and ducked through the entrance. The hall beyond was murky, and the passages extending out were even darker. He had no torch. But the Magus had found his way down without light. Hopefully the broken windows would offer some illumination.

With his sword held before him, he moved toward the passage he had seen the Magus take. The darkness closed around him immediately. He crept one step at a time, sweeping out with his sword, seeking obstacles. Slowly he shuffled down the hall. His eyes quickly grew strained. His ears sought any sound that might lead him to his quarry.

The hall ended at a cross passage. Tyrus paused. To the left, the way seemed fractionally brighter. A window must light that direction. But which way did the Magus go toward the light or away? Tyrus scrunched his brows. He had an inkling of where his companion would head. The Magus had come back here to face his past, back to his roots, back to where he was born into this stone-cold world the cellar to this haunted home.

Tyrus sensed the best course was to the right; the floor seemed to slope slightly downward that way. Taking a deep breath, he headed into the darkness. He was rewarded soon thereafter by discovering a set of stairs on the left. As he stood on the top stair, he heard a slight tinkle from a bit of rock bouncing down the steps. Someone had passed recently this way, loosening what had been untouched for ages.

Had the Magus braved the dark stair? Maybe the scream was from a fall. Could the Magus have hit his stone head and blacked out?

No, the scream had been full of anger and horror. Tyrus took a step down the well. Then another. The way was narrow and steep, stair edges crumbling underfoot a tricky climb even with light. In darkness, it was pure treachery. His eyes sought any light.

More pebbles tumbled, dislodged by his own feet. The narrow stairway spiraled, tight and confining. As he rounded another turn, he began to make out his sword arm, a darker shadow cutting through the gloom. Light! There was light seeping from down below!

His pace increased. With each step, details emerged: the stone walls, the worn steps, the turn of the stairwell. The light took on a richer cast, a reddish glow. Fire.

Who could have set a flame down here? He reached the end of the stairs and stopped. A short passage stretched to an open doorway. Lights flickered up ahead, clearly a fire or torch.

With the tumble of stones from the stairs and his own echoing footsteps, there was no need to pretend secrecy. Magus! he called out. Are you all right?

There was a long hollow silence then a whisper of laughter.

Magus?

The laughter swelled, full of depths that spoke of madness and malice. It echoed up the stairway.

But as Tyrus stood on the step, he knew he was mistaken. The sniggering behind him was not echoes. A pebble bounced down from above. The stairway behind him was no longer empty.

A voice, brittle enough to shatter glass, called out from the cellar room. Come, Prince of Pirates, join us where it all began.

There was no doubt who spoke ahead. It wasn't the Magus, but his creation Raal.

Tyrus moved forward. He had come to meet this creature; he wouldn't balk now. And from the sounds behind him, he doubted he would be allowed to leave.

Crossing to the doorway, he stepped into the cellar. The room was shallow but wide; a single torch was jammed into a hole in one wall. Its light revealed old, crumbled shelves, and sacks of burlap huddled in the corner. Ash and dust covered all.

In the center of the cellar stood the Stone Magus, his back to Tyrus. He seemed frozen in place, a true statue again.

Laughter crackled from beyond the figure. Welcome, Prince of

Granite!

Tyrus edged around the walls, circling the frozen Magus to get a clear view of Raal, his adversary here.

As he crept around, he found the space in front of the Magus empty. Tyrus frowned. Had Raal circled in step with him, keeping the statue always between them, staying hidden?

Tyrus suspected a trap and stopped, sword ready. Who speaks? he said. Show yourself.

You know who I am! the other said gleefully. The Stone Magus turned his head and stared at Tyrus. Laughter flowed from his flinty lips. I'm Raal, lord and king of the fae-nee!

Kast leaned over the rail of the Ravenswing and studied the strange sea passing under the keel of the ship. As a Bloodrider, he had sailed many treacherous waters: the maze of the Archipelago, the squall-ridden Blasted Shoals, the haunted channels of Kree-kree, the fog-bound shores of the Breshen Jungle. But he had never seen anything like these northern waters that surrounded Blackhall.

It was an ocean of ice and fire.

Throughout the Bay of T'lek, mountains of ice rode the waves like blue-humped seabeasts. Other areas of the sea roiled with steam, boiling like a kettle atop a flame. Steam and fog misted into a storm on the sea's surface. The currents of the bay were as tangled as any knotted rope. Its seabed was a trap of volcanic reefs and jagged atolls that seemed to appear and disappear at whim.

Nothing was constant about this sea. Not the winds, not the weather.

Master Edyll stood beside him, a companion in this vigil. The silver-haired elder of the mer'ai shook his head with resignation. These waters will be a difficult field from which to wage a war.

Kast didn't bother with false cheer. He kept his face grim.

We should reach the fleet by dawn, the elder said.

If the captain can manage these temperamental winds.

She's a strong lass. She'll manage.

Kast nodded at this. Over the past two days, he had learned to respect the lithe captain of the Ravenswing. Lisla ran a tight ship, kept all in order, and seemed tireless despite the malaise that affected her powers. The elv'in craft had swept over the oceans like a leaf in a storm. She had three skilled windblowers, elementals to conjure winds, on hand day and night. They shuffled one man out to rest a quarter of the day. Otherwise, the pair on duty were ceaseless in the aid of their captain.

Kast glanced back to where Lisla stood by the rudder of her ship. Her coppery hair billowed with winds as she manned her post. Her skin was as pale as the scudding clouds overheard. And though the blue of her eyes was as sharp as when they first took flight two days back, he was not sure she had slept.

He admired her. The trip would normally have taken five to six days; she had cut the time in half. With such folk at their side, Kast could almost foresee victory in the war ahead.

I spoke to Xin earlier, Edyll continued. He still can't clearly reach Lord Tyrus. The prince lives, but the details are scant.

Kast heard the concern in the mer'ai elder's voice. He also noticed the way his companion rubbed at the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger. What worries you about this? It is probably just due to the waning elemental energies.

No, Xin spoke to Joach this morning. He says Joach sounded crisp and hale, though that distance is even greater than to Lord Tyrus.

Kast's brow crinkled. So you think the prince is in trouble?

And what of the d'warf army? Where have they gone? Lord Tyrus goes in search of them along the coast, and now he's mysteriously out of communication. I don't like it. The Dark Lord has already attacked A'loa Glen with that sick clutch of evil, and he now threatens to seed the fleet with the eggs. Who's to say what evil he aims toward our land armies?

Edyll pointed an arm over the rail toward the roiling sea of ice and fire and continued. It is not the condition of the battlefield that concerns me, but the state of our own forces. The full moon is due in another five days, and we are far from ready for a full-scale assault.

War never picks a convenient time, Kast said. You must simply grab your sword and either defend or attack.

The older man shook his head and mumbled, Spoken like a true Bloodrider.

Kast sighed. We will win this war.

Why do you think that?

He turned to the misty seas and the northern horizons. Because we must. There is no future without victory.

A long silence stretched; then Edyll spoke softly. And no hope for Sy-wen?

Kast gripped the rail, his head bowed. I love my niece, the elder said. But the battle ahead is larger than any one individual. Hard sacrifices will need to be made. Remember that you are the Dragonkin reborn.

Kast scowled, but his hand rose to touch the tattoo of a black dragon on his cheek and neck. He recalled the picture of the forefather of both their peoples: Dre'rendi and mer'ai. The figure in the ancient painting had been riding a white dragon and bore the same dark tattoo. The past had come full circle back to the present, like the curled dragon on his cheek, its tail touching its nose.

The Dragonkin made difficult choices during his time, and I suspect you'll face decisions even harder.

Kast remained silent. A question already weighed heavy on his heart, something he had discussed with no others. Sheeshon's words echoed in his heart: Papa says you have to Mill the dragon.

You'll have to put the good of the world above your own heart, Master Edyll finished. Can you do this?

Kast clenched a fist atop the rail. It seems I must.

Edyll nodded. You are truly the Dragonkin reborn. He patted him on the shoulder, then headed for the shelter of the lower decks.

Kast remained on deck, alone, his thoughts lost to the winds. He remembered the painting of his forefather on his great white seadragon. What would the Dragonkin have done if faced with the same dilemma? Could he have slain his own mount? Was he that hard? Could anyone be that hard?

Over the winters of their union, the walls between dragon and man had worn thinner. Kast knew the dragon's heart as certainly as his own.

There was a wildness to Ragnar'k, but also a well of loyalty and love for Sy-wen that was as bottomless as his own. In this love, the man and dragon were bonded in ways more intimate than any rider and his mount. He had no idea how to slay Ragnar'k, and if he knew, would he have the heart?

Words echoed with warning in his head: The dragon will eat the world. Sheeshon's gift of the rajor maga was unquestioned, but she was only a child. Could she have misinterpreted the meaning of her prophetic dreams? Dare he place such important decisions into her hands?

And then there was Sy-wen to consider. Only the magick of Ragnar'k could break the spell of the tentacled beast in her head. If he killed the dragon, would he be slaying all hope for her freedom?

Kast stood under the snapping sails as the Ravenswing swung slightly to port, ever chasing the swifter winds. He raced toward a fate that even prophecy could not penetrate. But as he stood there, he trusted his heart. He could not dismiss the certainty he had seen in Sheeshon's eyes. He had sensed the truth the moment it had been spoken. He remained facing north, letting the cold winds wipe the tears from his cheek.

Ragnar'k must die.

A tremble passed over his form, terror and despair. At first, he thought it was just the emotions of his decision, but the sense of menace grew around him like the clutching arms of a demon. Then a scream arose from below, echoing through the planks.

Sy-wen!

Other voices rose in panic from the rigging and deck. The ship's flight faltered as the captain seemed to lose her bearings.

Kast spun and found Sheeshon behind him. She held up a bit of half-carved ivory. His hands took it out of reflex. It was a crude boat with sails and a prominent keel, but there was something sinister about it. Coarse faces had been carved into its sides, twisted into malignant or terrified visages.

A bone boat, Sheeshon said.

Sy-wen's scream died away, and the trembling terror passed. As the boat steadied, Kast collected himself. Scrimshaw, he agreed with the child. Bone ivory. He passed the boat back to the child.

But Sheeshon seemed disinterested in her carving. Not that! she said. She pointed down to the seas. Over there.

Kast glanced to where she pointed. Against the dark blue seas, the ship below was the white of something dredged from the bottom of the blackest sea. But it raced with a speed that had nothing to do with winds and currents. It was as if the oceans themselves rejected the sick craft and sought to expel it from the waters, sending it flying northward.

Frowning, Kast grabbed a spyglass from his hip and sought a better view. It took him half a moment to find it. Once he did, every hair on his arms and neck rose with a pebbling gooseflesh. He knew he was staring at the source of his terror from a moment ago. It was not winds that filled those sails, but fear and horror. The craft must have passed near enough for them to feel its wake.

He stared at the monstrous construction. Its prow was a skeleton, its bony arms outstretched to the skies in supplication or pain. Its sides were not planks of wood, but fused bones and skulls. Even its stitched sails seemed too leathery for cloth. Sf{in came to mind at the sight, accentuated by the dripping gore that seemed to flow along the rigging, like blood through a corpse's veins.

A bone boat, Kast mumbled.

Sheeshon pointed. Hunt's down there! Let's go see what he's doing!

Tyrus faced the Stone Magus in the dusty cellar. Raal?

The figure swung to face him fully. Stone eyes narrowed, and lips pulled into a wicked sneer of amusement. Welcome to the heart of my kingdom. He half bowed, mocking. One lord of stone to another.

I don't understand.

The statue straightened, running a palm over his form as if smoothing rumpled clothing. We share this prison of stone. Magus and king. Man and fae-nee.

Shock slowed. You're one person!

Two spirits, one body.

Tyrus' thoughts turned to Fardale and Mogweed. The twins were similarly afflicted. The magick'

It not only warped. It also wove. During the spell where the Magus' spirit was sewn back into his stone corpse, I was woven into the mix like yeast into a bread's flour.

Then why did you wait until now to reveal yourself?

It was not my choice. A familiar bitterness soured his words. The Magus only lets me out when he sinks so deep into his well of blackness that I can slide past him to the surface.

And can I speak to the Magus now? Can he hear me?

Not unless I allow it! I control the body. Laughter flowed after this.

And I won't allow it. He covered his ears with his stone palms. Let the sleeper sleep!

Tyrus watched this display with a furrowed brow. The relationship, though similar to Mogweed and Fardale's plight, was clearly different and something struck him as wrong. This new speaker still sounded at the edges like the Magus. Was it just the limits in range of a stone throat, or was it something more sinister? And Raal had called him by name a moment ago, knowing him as prince and pirate. This spirit would not know that, unless it shared the Magus' ears and mind.

Subtle mannerisms struck him: the way the eyes shifted to the left just before he spoke, the way one hand's fingers would curl and uncurl while speaking. These characteristics of the Stone Magus persisted in Raal. Were the two truly different? Were they two spirits sharing one body, or had one spirit split into two minds?

Come. It's been forever and a day since I met any of my children. Let us see how they've fared in my absence. Raal clumped his stone form back to the door. He paused only to grab up the torch from the wall.

Tyrus had no choice but to follow. Raal led the way to the spiraling stairway. He thrust his torch forward and called up the steps. Children of the fae-nee, come to your king! Come greet our poor castle's guest!

From beyond the reach of the firelight, laughter answered this summons. A pebble rolled down the steps, then another.

They come, Raal whispered, his smile stretching. My children' Tyrus heard an echo of the Magus' pain behind the excitement, but his own attention focused on the stairway. The first of the fae-nee crept shyly into the firelight. Tyrus gawked.

The first creature was no taller than two handspans, hairless and gray of skin. It walked on two legs like a man, but the joints bent backward, more like a bird. Its head was taken up by its two eyes, black and moist. The mouth underneath was a lipless slit.

Others clambered after this one: some spindly with heads too large for their bodies, others squat with toady faces, some walked upright, others on all fours. There was even one pair joined by a single arm. But no matter the shapes, they all bore the same large black eyes, full of dark mischief.

Raal knelt to greet his offspring. They came to him like rats swarming over a corpse, climbing his stone arms, perching on his shoulder or head. Laughter flowed from Raal, echoed by his children, piping sharply from hundreds of tiny throats.

Tyrus backed away, fearing their touch.

Raal straightened and stood in the sea of pale gray flesh. Their father is home.

Tyrus frowned as more fae-nee clambered into the bowels of this dark dwelling. You made all of them?

With my own hands, my own magick.

It must have been centuries of work. One of the fae-nee crept near to Tyrus. It moved as if it were boneless. It had only one eye and stretched its neck to sniff at him, curious but wary of this granite stranger. It slipped to his leg. Then moving faster than the eye could follow, it raced up his limb to his waist.

Tyrus winced as claws dug into his granite flesh. From its perch, it continued to sniff at his form, clearly confused. Tyrus grabbed it, pulling it free. It hissed and snapped at his fingers, biting deep into the granite of his thumb. Pain welled. It seemed his granite flesh was not impervious to the fae-nee. Birthed from the poisonous petrified wood, stone could harm stone.

He tossed the creature back among its brethren, where it was lost in the shuffle of flesh and limbs. Tyrus pressed his wounded thumb to his chest. A single drop of blood fell to the floor. Another fae-nee sniffed at the splatter, then lapped it up. Blood feeders.

Tyrus backed another step. Of the hundreds here, no two were alike. The roil of flesh was like the ravings of a madman given form and substance.

Tyrus quailed at the enormity of the task before him. How could he convince the Magus or Raal to help him? Hope of a cure for the d'warf army faded but he knew he could not give up without trying. Perhaps if he better understood the magick at work here' Raal, he called out. The stone figure focused back to him. I would see how you make one of your fae-nee.

Raal waved a hand dismissively, knocking loose one of his creations. It fell squalling among the others. He ignored it. I have enough children to care for.

So how would one more be a burden? Or can't you bring another into existence?

Raal's eyes narrowed. You doubt me' A vein of menace laced his words.

Tyrus held his breath, sensing the moment could go either way. The hundreds of pairs of eyes swung upon him like a murder of crows eyeing a worm. At a word from their king, he could be torn limb from limb, a feast of blood for this foul brotherhood. But something shone in Raal's expression, hidden under the menace: loneliness and fear.

Understanding dawned. How long had it been since anyone had conversed with the Magus or Raal? The pack at his feet were clearly mindless, creations of madness given life. They were feeble company.

Come above, Raal finally said. I'll show you what I can do. He stalked through the fae-nee at his feet. They ran from his legs and up the stairs ahead of him.

Tyrus followed, leery of the stragglers, those fae-nee that moved more slowly, shambling or crawling. His thumb still ached from the bite. As he climbed, he kept his sword between him and these last fae-nee. A small creature that looked like a six-legged spider scrabbled ahead of him. He sidestepped its clumsy progress and followed Raal with his torch.

They reached the top of the stairs and wound their way to a chamber with a large cold hearth. A broken window let in wan sunlight. Raal slipped his torch into a wall slot and waved Tyrus inside.

The fae-nee swarmed ahead at their master's signal and climbed over chairs, tables, and benches. Pottery on a shelf fell with a loud crash, startling Tyrus. Other fae-nee ran through the hearth, leaving tiny footprints of ash.

Raal scowled but entered with Tyrus. They're excited to have visitors.

So I see.

A wood rat was ferreted out by the horde. It ran across the stone floor, but it was set upon by the fae-nee. They tore it apart before it could cross half the room. Its squeal was brief as it disappeared under their many claws and teeth.

Raal crossed to a bench on the far wall. Metal tools were spread on the tabletop and hung on pegs on the walls. Tyrus, following, recognized woodworking chisels, awls, and knifes. Chunks of petrified wood in various stages of sculpting rested on the bench.

Raal reached to one of these. I was working on this before the Magus last took command of the body. He collected a chunk of stone chiseled into the likeness of a dog. A vague snarl marked its lips.

Grabbing a sharp-pointed awl, Raal set to work on the piece. He dug and scraped, changed tools, flipped his handiwork one way, then another. Tyrus let him work, fearful of disturbing his concentration.

Seen through the open window, the sun was setting into gloomy twilight, as one statue worked on another.

Tyrus used the time to plan a strategy. If Raal could indeed change stone to flesh, then he must convince him to break the spell on the d'warves. But what coin could he offer this madman?

He had no clear answer when Raal finished. That will do, he said. It is hard to hear the voice in the wood after it's stone.

Tyrus remembered similar words from the Magus, how the wood spoke to him, telling him what it wanted to be. Tyrus stared at the wolflike carving. If the wood itself told him to sculpt this, then the tree must have been mad. The dog had horns on its head; its hind legs looked like a bird's, ending in claws.

You can breathe life into this? he asked, suddenly unsure he wanted Raal to do so.

Yes. Raal studied his handiwork. It only takes a bit of concentration.

Tyrus stepped around for a better view. He saw that most of the other fae-nee also were fixed on the new statue.

And a little blood, Raal mumbled. He grabbed up one of the fae-nee nearby and stabbed it with the awl he had been using.

It screamed like a wounded bird, but Raal lifted it and spattered its blood over his new statue. Where each drop touched, stone melted into gray flesh. The transformation spread like thawing ice over the sculpture's entire surface. In a short moment, the wolfish creature appeared flesh.

Raal tossed aside the wounded fae-nee. It scrambled away, licking at its wounded side. On the bench, the wolf stood unmoving, as still as any statue, only carved of gray flesh.

Leaning forward, Raal blew across the form, starting at the back end and working forward. Where his breath touched, the flesh seemed to ripple, coming alive. Legs bent, its tiny chest heaved, its neck craned. Then, as Raal straightened from his labors, wide black eyes opened to stare anew at the world.

Welcome, little one. Welcome to this dark world. Laughter followed, echoed by the other fae-nee.

Tyrus gaped as the creature tested its legs, throwing its head around, trying to skewer anything nearby with its tiny horns. It bounded off the table to join the others. Several gathered around the newcomer, sniffing and pawing at it.

Raal swung around. That is how my children are born. Blood and breath.

Tyrus remained speechless. Blood to melt stone to flesh' breath for life. Was that the answer? Could the blood of the fae-nee break the spell that held the others trapped in stone? And since the others already had life, would they even need Raal's breath?

He stared at the mass of cavorting creatures. How much blood would it take?

There was only one way to find out.

He crossed to the bench. The wounded fae-nee had left a trail of blood atop the table. It was black but also seemed to glow a sickly green, like the stream that ran past the house. Tyrus leaned forward, placing his granite palm atop a tiny pool of the brackish blood.

With its touch, a shock trembled up his arm. His legs weakened, and a gasp flew out of his lips. He stumbled back, raising his hand before his face. His granite palm was now pale flesh. As he stared, the transformation raced up his arm with a warm tingling. The heat warmed the stone. Clothing and skin bloomed with color and life.

Raal stared at him in shock.

Tyrus gasped again as the spell dissolved from him, spreading over his torso and down his legs. He watched his other arm come to life, starting at the shoulder and sweeping down to his hand and up the length of his sword. In moments, bright steel reflected in the firelight.

He straightened and moved his limbs. He felt lighter, more spry.

The Magus' spell' you broke it! A cry escaped Raal's throat. It was pure madness, a mix of horror and delight, an impossible sound. Turning to the bench, he smeared some of the blood on his own stone flesh. He held his finger out toward Tyrus: the finger remained gray stone. Why doesn't it work for me? he screamed, sounding distinctly like the Magus. Why is this a key to your prison and not mine?

Tyrus backed from this tirade.

The fae-nee, sensing the distress of their master, churned and grew more agitated. Wails piped from their throats, too, an echo of their creator. Several were staring his way. Their black eyes glowed with suspicion' and something more dire. Blood lust. Tyrus was no longer stone. They must smell his flesh. He remembered the fate of the wood rat. If they set upon him, how far would he get before being brought down ?

The wolf creature stalked out of the pack, nose in the air, gray lips pulling back to reveal gray teeth.

Why can't I break free? Raal wailed.

Tyrus knew he was doomed unless he could gain the support of the fae-nee king. The magick that created you must have been more complex.

As you said yourself, the energies of your creation were warped by the foul birth throes of Blackhall. The blood of the fae-nee must not be strong enough to break the spell.

Raal screamed in despair. The fae-nee surged toward Tyrus, sensing the source of their master's distress.

Tyrus held the sword before him. The wolf creature leaped, but he kicked it away. There might be a way! he cried. A way to set you free! The wailing cut off with his words, and screams faded from the fae-nee. A heavy silence settled into the room. The horde held back.

The stone figure was a statue, bent under the weight of centuries of loneliness and madness. How?

Tyrus spoke slowly. If there is a way, I need both Raal and the Magus listening. It took both of you to create your stone prison. It'll take both to free you.

The figure remained frozen for a breath, then nodded. We're listening. Tyrus gulped. He had no clear answer; he had sought only to delay the inevitable by dangling the possibility of hope. Now he had to think quickly. For the moment, sanity was needed: He could not risk Raal's wild ravings, nor the Magus' immovable depression. They were two extremes. He needed a middle ground between the cold stone of the Magus and the raging fire that was Raal.

As he thought this, connections clicked in his own head. He blinked in shock. Of course! A plan began to form.

He faced the figure before him with renewed determination. The Magus can turn flesh to stone. Raal can breathe life into stone. Opposite magicks!

Again a slow nod.

What if you both cast your spell at the same time?

His words crinkled the other's brow. Would one not simply negate the other? This sounded like the Magus, leaden with hopelessness.

Not if you cast it upon yourselves!

Impossible! This fiery retort was clearly Raal again. What good would that do?

Tyrus pressed on. They were not two spirits in one body, but one mind divided, one magick divided. If he could bring those parts together even for a moment' What would it hurt to try? he answered back.

Silence pressed. Then lips moved. What do we do? the Magus asked dourly.

This is a fool's errand, came next from the same mouth, sharp and im-patient. The fae-nee shifted nervously, chittering and scrapping amongst themselves, as divided as their master.

After a moment, Tyrus explained. At the same moment, I want the Magus to cast a spell of stone upon yourself, while Raal wills the stone of your current form back to flesh. He paused, then stressed the most important part. It must be done at the same time' on my signal!

The statue stared back, doubt and menace clear in the expression. We will do it.

Tyrus lifted his arm. Despite his own uncertain conviction, he tried to instill confidence with his words. On my count from five, I will drop my hand and point. Both must act together.

There was no response, just a narrowed stare.

Five' four' He prayed that by working together, with two halves of one mind trying to cast opposite spells, that a break in the stalemate would be achieved. ' three' two ' But what would be the result? He feared there was as much chance of making things worse as better. But he had no choice. ' one '

He pointed his hand at the statue.

For a moment, nothing changed. The stone figure stood dead still.

Then a tremble began at the fingers and toes, a palsy that spread up the arms and legs and struck the torso with a shock like a bolt of lightning. The body spasmed, rocking. The head was thrown back. The mouth stretched open in a silent scream.

The fae-nee fled from the display, retreating to the walls. They couldn't leave, but they didn't want to stay.

Tyrus suspected a similar war going on in the stone figure before him, locked in a posture of pure agony and torment.

A gasp escaped the throat. Run' Tyrus, run'

For the first time, he knew he was hearing the true voice of the man who had once lived here: the healer. Whirling about, he dashed to the door and fled blindly through the dark halls.

A scream burst behind him; then the ground shook. An acrid wafting of sulfur flew up from behind him. And still, he ran'

Tyrus spotted the exit ahead, a square of gloom set in a world of shadow. He raced to it and dove out into the open air. He didn't stop. Some instinct, a quivering of tiny hairs on his body, made him fly down the last of the slope. He reached the sickly stream and leaped with all the strength in his legs.

As he flew, he glanced behind him and saw a horrifying sight. A gray wave of petrifaction spread out from the slope, changing grass to stone, bush to granite. It spread out in all directions.

Then Tyrus hit the opposite bank of the stream. He took the brunt on his shoulder and rolled. Crying out in panic, he flung himself up and away, sure the magick would overwhelm him in a heartbeat.

But it didn't.

He turned and saw that the explosion of petrifying magick had halted at the stream, dying away.

Panting, he stared without blinking. The convulsion of energies had subsided. Beyond the stagnant green stream, the landscape was a sculpture of stone. He had not expected such a backwash of magick.

He cupped his mouth and called across the stream. Magus! Raal! There was no answer. Chewing his lip, he debated his choices here. Nothing now blocked him from leaving. The spell was gone from his body; he was flesh and blood again. But what of the others? What of the d'warf army?

He grabbed up a handful of muddy reeds from the bank and tossed them over the stream. They landed on the stone soil, but remained green. Whatever magick had been spent here, it had ended.

Using some stepping stones in the brook, Tyrus crossed the waters and carefully tested the flinty soil himself. Nothing happened. Satisfied, he crept back to the shattered doorway. He called again, but still there was no answer. He listened for any telltale scrape or patter of feet. Were the fae-nee still about?

Not a single sound echoed out to him. He balked at what he had to do, but he gathered his resolve. The sun was almost gone, and he'd rather discover what lay within while there was at least some daylight. He reen-tered the home.

Straining his senses, he retraced his steps to the hearth room. Stopping outside, he saw that the torch had blown out. The only light came from the broken window.

He slid forward, creeping on his toes. Tyrus found himself trembling, worn from the panic and terror of the last half day. He stepped into the room.

What he found there stunned him. The fae-nee were still there, but now they were all stone again, frozen in place like some macabre tableau.

But the stone figure was gone. In its place, curled on the floor, was a man, as much flesh and blood as himself. He was blond like any Northerner, with a shadow of beard. A young man.

Tyrus hurried forward. To his surprise, he found the fellow still breathing. He knelt and touched his shoulder. Magus?

The man's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to see. His lips moved and slowly sounds emerged. I' I killed them.

Tyrus glanced to the stone figures. Maybe it's best.

No, not these stillborn monsters. Before' The eyes closed with unspoken pain. I was dying, suffocating in ash and smoke. I panicked' called my children to me' There was a long silence, then a whisper. They came because they were scared, frightened like any child seeking the consolation of a father. Blind to their love and trust, I ripped the very life from them in my fear' in my fight for life. The last was poor Raal. He saw me devour the others to keep myself alive, and still he didn't leave. He came into my arms without protest. He leaned his cheek against mine. And I stole the life from him.

Tyrus now understood what had ripped the man's mind in two: guilt.

And for what? the figure finished. To be entombed in ash and walk the world. To turn all I touched to cold stone like my heart. It was too much. His shoulders shook, but no tears flowed.

Do not blame yourself. It was a monstrous time. The birth of Black-hall in your own domain would fray any man's heart.

A hand reached up and grasped his fingers. No words of thanks were uttered, but they were understood. The two of them remained like this for several breaths.

Then the light-haired man spoke again, faintly. It is time to follow the path I was meant to journey long ago. And as I die, so do my spells. His lips stopped moving. But first' Tyrus felt a jolt through his hand as the man's life left him. ' a gift.

He stared down at the pale face, still and quiet, but no longer a statue. In death, the Magus had found his way back to life.

Tyrus stood. With a sad shake of his head, he departed this tomb and sought the last sunshine left in the day.

Standing in the doorway, he watched the stony landscape melt back to grass, dirt, and scrabbly bushes. The Magus' spell was indeed unraveling. As he stared at the hopeful sight, he prayed the same was true elsewhere. With the Magus gone, would his friends and the frozen d'warf army be freed?

There was only one way to find out.

Tyrus stepped through the rubble of an oaken door. As he did so, he