"Of course I—" Dacius cut himself off. This was no time to let pride rule his mind. He was injured, feverish, weak with fatigue, and sore from the night's exertion. He faced a barefoot march over difficult terrain, and the lives of ten men might depend on his ability to keep up. He thought of Alka, remembering his friend's body lying crumpled in the sand, eyes staring blindly into nothingness.

Rage began to burn within.

"Bury the bodies," Dacius told Thildemar. "And hurry. We must reach the outpost by dusk."

As the elves turned and left, Dacius took several more long swallows of water. His thirst satisfied, he lay down in the sand. The warmth of the fire worked its way into him, driving away his chill. And he slept.

* * *

When Thildemar shook him awake, Ellistar was already fully risen over the horizon. Dacius squinted his eyes against the brightness, but he was glad for the heat. With Thildemar's help, he struggled to his feet. The sand felt warm under his toes.

He looked down. "The heat might be a problem. I'll need protection for my feet."

Thildemar nodded. "None of the dead had boots that would fit a human. Perhaps we can cut some material from one of the blankets and bind it around your feet."

"That will have to do," Dacius said. "Are the burials finished?"

"Yes, Lord Gemine," the elf said. "We wait only for the words of honor. As ranking officer, that duty falls to you."

Dacius nodded. He motioned for Thildemar to lead, and followed the elf to a clearing which contained a dozen shallow mounds. Each grave was marked by a small circle of stones, symbolizing the unity of Creation.

Dacius positioned himself so that his shadow fell across the grave marked as Alka Shara's.

"Most of these men," he said, "I did not know. One, I have called friend ever since I learned what that word meant. But all of them died for the same reason."

Dacius drew his sword with his left hand. "This blade has hung in my hall for generations. I heard stories about the magic it held, the sacred trust it was created to uphold. But not until last night did I understand the meaning of those stories.

"The Dark One, the evil we thought ended forever, returns to threaten the Realm. During the Wizards' War, the Legion fought against the Ill-creatures with the greatest of Lore Masters at our side. Those wizards, and the magic they commanded, are gone. During the Wizards' War, every Legionnaire was armed with a vorpal weapon. Now there are only these few that we carry with us.

None of that matters. The High Bishop has called us, and we answer that call.

"Last night, we saw the face of evil. We saw the reason this weapon was crafted. We saw the purpose for which the Legion was created. And these men, our comrades, our friends, gave their lives. Some of these men did not wear the crossed swords, and are not listed in the Legion's rolls. But I name them now. They were Legionnaires. They died fighting our fight. They died defending our cause.

"The Creator will be watching these souls, will welcome them into the Unity of the Sphere. They have earned that right. They are Legionnaires, and they served in honor."

Dacius looked down at the simple marker by his feet. "Good-bye, my friend. I will miss you."

He shut his eyes against his tears. When he looked again, he saw that many of the elves were weeping openly. "We will wait fifteen minutes," he said, "so that each of you can say his private farewells. Then we march."

* * *

Dacius paused as he crested the bluff. Before him, the hills of the sea pass gave way to a broad, rocky plain. In the distance, perhaps a league from the final hills, the dusty brown of the plain transformed abruptly into a verdant green. The change was crisp, sharp, as if one could begin a step in the barren plain and end it in a lush garden.

Thildemar came up beside him. "An amazing sight, is it not, Lord Gemine?"

Dacius nodded. The pounding in his head kept perfect time to the throbbing ache in his wrist.

His feet suffered from a dozen cuts and bruises inflicted by the rocky ground, and he leaned heavily on the makeshift staff that Thildemar had provided from the wreckage of the Otan Stin. He was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted.

He looked to the west and smiled. Deneob was just beginning to set, and Ellistar was still well above the horizon. He could see the dark outline of a Legion outpost sitting just in front of the boundary line. He pointed at it with his staff. "Let's go. We don't want to be late for supper."

An hour of hiking brought them to the gates of the outpost. It was an imposing structure of steel and gray stone. The fortification was small, but sturdy. The ramparts were high and capped with impressive parapets. The gate was fronted by two steel portcullises and protected by thick stone towers. Arrow slits and artillery casements were placed to provide covering fire for all main avenues of attack. When properly manned, Dacius judged that the fort could withstand a large assault force for several days, but he was curious about its placement.

The sentries at the gate responded quickly to their presence. A quick check of their uniforms and condition insured that the party was ushered through the gates and settled into a large visitor's hall. Cooks hastened to prepare food and drink, and healers were called to tend to their wounds.

Dacius settled himself wearily onto a bench near the hearth and waited. Soon, two bearded humans wearing white robes of the Holy Order appeared. The priests glanced quickly around the room, then one of them went to Captain Rone while the other came to Dacius. He removed the makeshift sling that bound Dacius's arm and examined his wound. The man's touch was gentle, but Dacius still winced in pain as the wrist moved.

"Good," the man said. "It set well. That will make this easier." The priest covered the joint with his hands and started to chant.

Dacius felt a stillness move through his arm, a calmness. The pain disappeared as the feeling of harmony coursed through him. He felt rapturous, filled with love. The break in his arm made no sense; it was obviously incorrect. He considered it for a moment and felt the bones knit together and the wounded flesh heal. That was better.

The priest moved a hand to his forehead, and Dacius realized that he still burned with fever: how unnecessary. He opened himself to the priest's song, letting the harmony course through his spirit. The fever disappeared under its gentle soothing. The cuts and bruises disappeared from his battered feet.

Even the aches of a long day's exertion vanished. He felt wonderful, perfect, at home in Creation. All was well.

The priest stopped his chant. Dacius felt the material world slowly take hold of him again. That was fine. It was where he belonged. He turned to thank the priest and suddenly realized that he was hungry. No, he was famished. A deep empty pit yawned where his belly should be. He placed a hand over his stomach.

The priest smiled. "It's all right. Food is coming. Eat heartily tonight. You need to regain the strength you have spent." He turned away to examine one of the other Legionnaires.

"Thank you," Dacius said, heading over to join the group at the dining table.

The food came almost immediately: large trays of steamed vegetables, fresh bread, and a thick corn soup. By unspoken consensus, no one attempted conversation until everyone had had a chance to satisfy their appetite. They devoured the food as if it were the finest meal from the courts of Essienkal.

After he had eaten, Dacius took a moment to examine his new command. There was Thildemar, of course. Already Dacius had gained a firm respect for the old elf's experience and insight. Perhaps he felt a special kinship to him because of their shared connection to Alka Shara.

Next, there was Simon: a dark, lean elf who seldom spoke. His hair was jet-black and twisted into dozens of tight braids which swung freely around his head. He carried a long vorpal dagger in addition to his sword, and his white uniform was decorated with the purple and gold of the elven King's personal guard.

Then came the brothers, Leth and Gerruth. They were unmistakably kin. Their sharp chins, round faces, and laughing green eyes were nearly identical. They both wore the green and white of Alka's Inarr Regiment.

The other two Legionnaires were youngsters, Drup and Alve. Drup wore the colors of the Endaleof Rangers, and Alve came from the Istagothe Regiment. Each was barely two hundred years old, and, like Dacius, they had inherited their weapons from their fathers.

Finally, there was Captain Rone and his two surviving crewmen: Zubec and Pardec.

They were a motley assortment. Ten men, counting himself, who might hold the fate of the Realm in the strength of their sword arms and their courage. He listened to the elves' conversation, trying to gauge their frame of mind.

"How can this be?" Gerruth asked. "The Ill-creatures were vanquished during the war, their breeding pits destroyed. How have they returned?"

"The power of evil is great," Thildemar said. "The Dark One was not destroyed, and he has discovered a way to bring his creatures back to the Realm. The how does not matter, only the what."

"That is right!" Gerruth said. "And we know the what we are up against. We served in the Wizards' War—at least some of us did. Ten men to turn back the Dark One's tide, it's impossible.

What hope do we have?"

"We have the hope in our hearts," Thildemar replied. "The High Bishop knows our strength. He would not send for us if he did not believe we could succeed. Our duty is clear. We must go to Norivika and discover what must be done. We have no other option."

"He is right, Gerruth," Leth said, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We must continue."

The others nodded agreement, though Dacius saw signs of nervousness in Alve and the two seamen. It was a sentiment he understood all too well. If just one Ill-creature had destroyed their ship, what would a host of them do?

But Gerruth was not done. "During the war we had the power of the wizards at our side.

Doesn't this concern you, Thildemar?"

"Of course it does," the old elf said evenly. "But it is not something I am able to control. All I have to offer is my courage and my loyalty, to the Realm and to the Holy Land."

Gerruth shook his head. "So many dead," he said. "Our brothers, our fathers, all lost for nothing.

Must we fight the same war again, pay the same price?"

There was a long silence, broken finally by the voice of Simon. "Gerruth, if you tire of battle, then turn over your weapon to someone who will fight. The Realm needs defenders."

Gerruth started at the remark. He looked to his brother for support. "No," he said. "No, it's not that I am unable to fight—but my heart grows weary at the bloodshed. I had hoped that we would never have to suffer that cost again."

"As did we all," Thildemar said. "As did we all."

Silence hung in the air as each man considered what had been said. Now was the time to sway them.

Dacius stood. "None of us wants this," he said. "But we all understand what must be done. The Realm needs us. The High Bishop has summoned us. And we must not fail." He looked around, catching the eye of each. "Take heart. The Dark One does not move against us because he thinks we cannot succeed. He fears us. I don't know why, but he does. Already he has failed to keep us from reaching the Holy Land. Take heart, Legionnaires. This is what we were born for. We will not fail."

Dacius saw the men respond to his words. Even Gerruth nodded confidently.

Dacius turned to face Rone. "Captain," he said, "you and your men are free to choose your own course. We are at the border to the Holy Land. I consider your charter to be fulfilled, and will recommend that whatever payment you are owed be sent to whatever port you specify."

"Your pardon, Lord Gemine," Rone said, "but I never let anyone but myself decide when my job is done. I signed on to make sure your party arrived in Norivika, and that's what I aim to do."

"Excellent." Dacius walked over to where the party's supplies were stored and removed three of the spare vorpal blades. He went back to the table and set them down in front of the sailors. "Then arm yourselves. I will not have you go into battle again unprepared."

The seamen picked up the weapons carefully. "We can kill the monsters with these?" Pardec asked.

"No," Thildemar said. "It is impossible to kill them, because they are not alive. But powerful magic can break the connection to the flesh they animate. A mortal strike with a vorpal weapon drives their soul back to Firesta, or Hel as the humans name it. The weaker Ill-creatures may be destroyed by any substantial wound. Strong demons, like the one we faced last night, will fall only to the most deadly of strikes."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Dacius turned and saw a Legion officer walking through the open portal. "Greetings," the man said, "I am Commander Thean. I trust you have had time to recover from your ordeal?"

"Yes," said Dacius. "And we thank you for your gracious hospitality." He quickly introduced the other members of his party.

"Well met," Thean said. "My sentry tells me you have urgent business in the Holy City. Is there any assistance I can provide for your mission?"

Dacius glanced down at his bare feet. "Well," he said, "we could use reprovisioning and some fresh uniforms, and horses to speed our journey."

"Of course," Thean said. "Our primary function these days is to serve as a way station for travelers and caravans. We should be able to find clothes to fit all of you, though I doubt we can match your unit colors. Will you be leaving tonight or in the morning?"

Dacius considered. He felt strong and refreshed after the combined efforts of the healers and the cooks, but he was still tired. They were all drained from the stresses of the last day and night. "In the morning," he said.

"Wonderful," said Thean. "I'll have my quartermaster see to your provisioning. And, if you are interested, I would be honored to give you a tour of the garrison."

"That is kind of you," Dacius said. "I would like that very much, as soon as I find some boots."

Thean laughed. "I'll send in the quartermaster. Come by my office when you are ready."

Dacius made a quick list of supplies they would need and handed it to the quartermaster when he arrived. Almost immediately, a messenger returned bearing a pair of black leather boots. The fit was not perfect, but it would do. Dacius left to find the commander.

Thean was waiting for him, and the tour began immediately. It was dusk, and the darkness leached the color from the battlement, where silhouettes of sentries could be seen passing between the merlons. Torches and cauldrons illuminated the outer courtyard, throwing shadows into the empty niches of the wall. Dacius looked into the pools of darkness and tried not to think of the Ill-creatures.

"Your garrison is nearly a fortress," he said. "We should sleep safely tonight."

"Why thank you, Lord Gemine," Thean said, leading him around the perimeter of the outer courtyard. "I am proud to say that I had something to do with it; military construction is something of a hobby for me. The outer wall is entirely new. We completed it only three months ago. Much of the work was done by my own men, though engineers from the Holy Land gave us help on some of the more intricate details."

Thean pointed across the yard to the older and smaller stonework. "The inner wall was the garrison's original bulwark. As you can see, we are still working to extend its walls and connect it to the outer fortifications. We also plan to remodel its defensive emplacements and raise the battlements an additional three cubits. By the time we are finished, this will serve as a model garrison for future construction."

Thean beamed in obvious pride at his accomplishment, and Dacius had to admit that it was an impressive structure.

Thean led him through the gate to the inner courtyard. "You may have noticed that there is no outer wall on the north face. We built only two connecting catwalks to the walls of the previous fortification. This is because of the unique location of this garrison."

"Unique?" Dacius asked. "In a strategic sense?"

"The north wall coincides exactly with the Barrier which separates the Holy Land from the rest of the Realm. The protection of the Holy Land shields us from attack from the north. It also provides us with the perfect avenue of retreat if we are overrun. We simply walk through the north gate and the power of the Holy Land shelters us."

Dacius had heard of the sphere of protection that shielded the lands of Talan. "I am curious," he said. "Why is the garrison built outside of the Barrier?"

Thean laughed genially. "Let me guess, Lord Gemine. This the first time you have been to the Holy Land?"

"True," said Dacius. "This is my first visit."

"Then come with me." The commander led him to the north gate. Unlike the southern fortifications, this gate had no parapet to protect it, no portcullis to block its passage. In fact, there wasn't even a gate. It was simply an open portal in the stone wall. As a defense, it seemed ludicrous.

Anyone could circle around to enter it.

A sentry saluted them sharply as they approached. He recorded their names in a logbook, and then waved them through the opening.

Dacius examined the boundary between Talan and the garrison. There was no visible wall, but the air on the other side looked different, as if he were looking through a glass or into a clear pool. He stepped through the portal—and his world changed.

His senses came alive, clearer than he had ever known was possible. Every nerve tingled with acute awareness. The vitality of the earth, the splendor of the sky; he saw it all as plainly as he saw his own hands. His nostrils filled with the mingled scents of wild grasses and the salty sea. A gentle breeze flowed across his face like a mother's touch. The wind, the birds, insects, even his own heartbeat combined to serenade his ears in perfect harmony.

They walked a short distance into the field. An easy power flowed into Dacius' legs, as if he were drawing strength from contact with the land. He felt relaxed, soothed. Fear and uncertainty fell from his mind. He did not need to worry about protecting himself; there was no danger here. If he had not known better, Dacius would have said he was being seduced by wine or strong ale—except that his consciousness was focused, precise.

Dacius knew that his jaw hung open in amazement, but that was fine. A man should be amazed to feel such beauty. He looked at Thean and smiled at the beatific look on the commander's face.

"Now you understand," Thean said. "There would be no point in building a garrison inside the Barrier. Violence is impossible here."

He was right. The land itself radiated harmony and preservation. There was no threat of evil in the Holy Land. Dacius knew that he was safe here. He looked down at the vorpal blade which hung at his side. What a useless object. He couldn't imagine drawing it, using it in battle: not here, not in the midst of such perfection.

Commander Thean followed his gaze. "Ah, you begin to feel the second reason for keeping the garrison outside of Talan. Legionnaires who are exposed to the bliss of the Holy Land for too long risk losing their fighting spirit. Some find that even after they return to the world outside they can no longer serve the Legion. They are unable to take up arms, even in defense. Some never leave the Holy Land at all."

He gestured back toward the gate. "Each of us makes his own decision whether to return or to stay. For myself, it is my family which keeps me wearing the crossed swords. My brother is a carpenter, my father, a farmer in the Tarim Valley. They live in a world where this harmony is just a dream. That world is out of balance, full of evil, greed, disharmony. But it has its own beauty, too, and it is worth protecting."

Family. Dacius thought of his own family, long buried under the warm hills of Norden West.

Death was so cruel, so unnecessary. It unbalanced Creation. He had killed a score of goblins during the Hordeland Wars. Did one imbalance serve to correct the other? No, it was all disharmony. But beyond the Barrier, the world was disharmony. He thought of his homeland, pictured it overrun with Ill-creatures. Thean was right. That was something he would fight to prevent.

"This is what I fight for," Dacius said, "but I believe it could ruin a knight. I am amazed that your men can stay away."

"It requires true discipline," Thean said. "And it is another reason for my construction projects; keeps them too busy to think about what they're missing."

Dacius looked around, trying to take in the wonder of Creation. "Is this the way the world is supposed to be?"

"I believe so," said Thean. "The Old Book says that during Creation's beginnings the races were in balance with the world. Death was unknown and the harmony of the Sphere was perfect.

Somehow, a Flaw was introduced to Creation, and the world drifted out of balance. But the Holy Land stayed pure. It is a reservoir of the original unity, an example of what the world should be: a place of sanctuary for the weak, healing for the injured, comfort for the troubled in spirit. It is, indeed, what we fight for."

Dacius felt the truth of the man's words, the truth of the harmony that surrounded him. As a boy, he had been taught the stories of Creation and the Creator, but they had seemed abstract, unimportant. Now, the reality behind those stories filled him. This was how the world was meant to be, how it could be again.

Suddenly, a scream tore through the night air. It was discordant, abrasive. More screams. They were coming from the gateway. The garrison! It was under attack.

Commander Thean was already running for the gate. The pacifism of this region did not mean a person could not be aware of danger, or that he could not hurry.

Dacius drew his vorpal sword and followed, though at the moment he could not think of using it for any violent purpose. As soon as he passed through the Barrier, blue light shone forth from his blade, and the violence in his nature surged back. An Ill-creature was near. "Thean, order your men into the Holy Land! They do not have the weapons to fight this."

But the commander did not hear. He was far across the inner courtyard, heading for the sounds of combat.

Dacius ran for the inner gate. The outer courtyard was filled with chaos. Legionnaires poured from barracks and dining halls, rushing to man the defenses. A half-dozen officers were shouting orders, trying to organize their men, but with little success. Shouts of combat and the clash of arms sounded from the area of the front gates. Dacius pressed himself through the crowd, forcing his way to the visitor's hall. His men were arranged in a half circle around the entrance, weapons bared and glowing brightly.

"Thildemar, you're with me," Dacius said. "Simon, take the rest of the men and start organizing a retreat for the garrison personnel. They must fall back to the Holy Land. Then establish a defensive position at the inner gate. The outer wall is too long for the few of us to man."

Dacius and Thildemar worked their way toward the front gates. As they approached, details of the battle were clear. Four dark forms stood on the parapet near the gatehouse. Somehow they had scaled the battlements and established a position on the wall. They were covered head to foot in gleaming black armor, and the visors on their helms revealed glowing yellow eyes.

"By the Creation," Thildemar exclaimed. "Tenebrites." He shouted at the Legionnaires on the wall. "Fall back! They are shadow knights; you can't fight them! Fall back to the Holy Land!"

But the guardsmen stood their ground. Commander Thean was rallying a defense around the upper entrance to the gatehouse. Another group of guardsmen threatened the Tenebrites' rear, but their attack was useless.

Two of the shadow knights turned to face the attack from the rear. The others advanced steadily on the gatehouse. The sword and arrows of the Legionnaires bounced ineffectually off their armor.

Methodically, they moved through the defenders, cutting down man after man with their dark gray blades.

Dacius and Thildemar sprinted for the nearest stairs. They pushed their way through the defenders, shouting for the guardsmen to fall back. They broke through the front ranks and came face-to-face with the shadow knights.

Thildemar sprang forward in a lightning attack. His sword slashed across one Tenebrite's chest, carving a tracer of blue flame in his armor. The shadow knight made no sound, but he staggered away from the attack. The elf pressed his advantage, driving the monster backward.

Dacius had no more time to admire Thildemar's technique. He moved forward to engage the second Tenebrite. This close, he could see that there were no joints in the Ill-creature's armor; it was a single piece, like the smooth shell of a beetle. Dacius struck toward the Tenebrite's head, but the creature parried. When their blades met, some of the blue light faded from Dacius' sword, and the shadow knight's weapon started to shine with dim red light. The Tenebrite was leaching magic from his vorpal blade!

The realization threw Dacius off balance, destroying the rhythm of his attack. The shadow knight counterattacked with a series of heavy strikes, and Dacius was forced to give ground. The creature's technique was basic, but it had incredible power. It was all Dacius could do to parry the cuts without being driven from the wall. And with each clash of steel, the light of his sword dimmed and the red blade grew brighter.

Suddenly, Thildemar appeared behind the shadow knight. The elf's vorpal blade carved a deep gouge in the Tenebrite's side, and then swung upward and struck through the monster's neck. The Ill-creature burst into flame, reducing itself to ashes in the span of a few heartbeats, and the glow of Dacius' sword regained its intensity.

"Do not fight them with power," the elf said. "Use speed. It is too dangerous to cross swords with them repeatedly."

Dacius nodded his understanding, and they both raced to cross the span of the gate.

The battle at the other tower had not gone well. A dozen corpses decorated the battlement, all wearing Legion colors. Thean stood alone at the steps to the gatehouse, fighting a desperate delaying action. He launched no attacks of his own, but merely tried to stand his ground, parrying the shadow knights' attacks and keeping them from advancing. But they were too powerful. One of the Tenebrites forced him away from the stairwell, and the other headed down into the gatehouse.

"Cover!"

The shout from behind caused Dacius and Thildemar to drop immediately to the ground.

Someone had brought a ballista to bear from the tower behind them. A loud thrum announced its firing, and the heavy volt flashed above their heads.

The missile struck the shadow knight full in the back. A tremendous crack thundered in the air as it shattered against the Tenebrite's armor. Shards of wood filled the air around it—but the creature was unaffected. It took advantage of the momentary confusion to drive through Thean's guard and separate the commander's head from his body with a single stroke.

A rumble from below betrayed the raising of a portcullis. Dacius jumped up and saw that Thildemar was already on his feet, running for the stairs. The Tenebrite who had killed Commander Thean was moving to intercept the elf. "Secure the gate!" Dacius shouted, taking up a guarding position at the top of the stairs. "This one is mine."

Dacius faced the shadow knight, feeling the rage rise within him. His face was hot with blood, and a scream came, unbidden, to his lips. He had to channel the anger, control it, use it to fuel his attack.

He feinted toward the Tenebrite's head. When the creature moved to block, Dacius dived to the ground, redirecting his slash toward the creature's leg. The vorpal sword bit deeply, dropping the shadow knight to the ground. Dacius continued his roll, coming to his feet behind the crippled monster. With a powerful lunge, he drove the tip of his blade into the Tenebrite's back. The Ill-creature exploded into flames and smoke.

Dacius ran down the stairs. There was no one in the gatehouse, but a quick glance showed that both portcullises had been jammed open. Sounds of combat rang from outside the open door to the main gate. Dacius charged through the portal.

Thildemar fought the final Tenebrite just inside the main gate. The shadow knight had a dozen scars of blue fire decorating his armor, but his sword was a brilliant flame, far brighter than the faint blue ember of the elf's sword. The Tenebrite pressed the attack, and Thildemar was forced to retreat, dodging whenever possible rather than meeting the monster's sword.

Dacius rushed at the shadow knight's flank, forcing it to abandon its attack. He planned to force the Tenebrite to face him, giving Thildemar a chance to finish from behind.

But the Ill-creature did not meet his charge. Instead, it ran backward, creating a cushion of space between itself and the Legionnaires. The creature's legs blurred, dissolving into shadow. The darkness swelled and transformed, resolving itself into a long chitinous trunk, flanked by six segmented legs. The Tenebrite loomed above them, a distorted hybrid of mounted knight and giant insect. It whirled and ran toward the front gate, giving its back to the Legionnaires.

Dacius jumped forward, but surprise had delayed his reaction by a heartbeat. The creature reached the gate before he could close the distance. The Tenebrite's glowing red sword rose high in the air and shot down like a bolt of lightning. The bar which secured the gates was a beam of oak, nearly a cubit deep and a half cubit wide, but it shattered like dry kindling under the impact.

An instant later, Dacius's vorpal sword sliced through the shadow knight's spine. The Ill-creature flared and dissolved into ash, but already the gates were being forced open. Dozens of grotesque black forms pushed through the opening. The creatures were twisted horribly, as if some madman had randomly assembled body parts from a dozen species of man and animal. The Ill-creatures rushed through the gate, overrunning the outer courtyard.

Dacius and Thildemar retreated into the gatehouse and barred the door.

"What are those?" Dacius asked.

"Vikhors," the elf said. "Too many for us to fight in the open."

Dacius nodded. "We need to reach the inner fortifications. The courtyard is impassable, so we'll have to use the catwalk."

They climbed the stairs. On the battlements, they were joined by a handful of guardsmen who had been on the wall when the gates opened. Dacius took the lead, guiding them toward the west tower. Thildemar assumed a position in the rear, guarding against any Ill-creatures who climbed onto the parapets behind them.

The courtyard below was filled with turmoil. A dozen or more Legionnaires had been trapped in the courtyard. The vikhors had surrounded them and were slowly tearing them apart with sharp claws and jagged fangs. Scattered among the vikhors, Dacius spotted two more shadow knights, towering above the chaos in their grotesque centaur forms.

The Legionnaires made the tower without being spotted. But as they headed north along the west wall, a dark figure crawled out of the shadows ahead of them. Drool glistened on the vikhor's fangs as it advanced on Dacius. It reached out for him with an oversized claw.

Dacius sprang forward, driving the point of his blade through the creature's heart. The vikhor screamed horribly as its body dried up and crumbled like burnt charcoal.

Dacius cursed his luck. The scream called attention to their position. Already, a dozen vikhors were howling in answer as they raced for the tower stairs. They moved much faster than a man could run.

"Run for the catwalk!" Dacius screamed, standing aside and pushing the first of the guardsmen ahead of him. He let all of the garrison personnel file past, and then joined Thildemar in the rear.

Dacius and the elf moved backward in unison. Before they had gone a dozen steps, the first vikhors were upon them. The Legionnaires fought a retreating action, giving ground steadily but not letting the vikhors force them out of position. The narrow parapet was their ally. It kept the vikhors from flanking them or overrunning them with numbers. Their swords built a web of deadly light that held the Ill-creatures at bay.

They retreated until the catwalk to the inner fortifications appeared at Dacius' left side. He started to move onto it, but there was no way to do so without breaking the solidarity of the joint defense.

"Run for it," Thildemar yelled. "I will hold them off."

"No, we go together or not at all." Dacius lunged forward in attack. The move caught the lead vikhors by surprise. He pierced one through the neck, and hamstrung another as he disengaged.

"Now!" he cried.

Thildemar leaped nimbly sideways, taking a secure stance on the catwalk. Dacius dropped back into position next to the elf, and they continued their retreat.

Dacius heard the ring of metal on metal from behind him. Good, the guardsmen were hammering out the pins which secured the end of the walkway. As they drew closer to the sound a voice called out to them.

"Lord Gemine, on three! One! Two!..."

As one, Dacius and Thildemar jumped backward, clearing the end of the catwalk and landing amid steadying hands on the inner wall. The catwalk collapsed, dropping the vikhors a dozen cubits or more to the floor of the courtyard.

One of the monsters managed to leap forward, catching the top of the wall with a single hand. It pulled itself upward with incredible strength, but Thildemar was there. A single stroke of his sword severed the vikhor's hand, sending the creature falling to the ground below. The separated claw burst into blue flames, but retained its hold on the wall until Thildemar kicked it loose.

One of the vikhors still standing on the far wall threw itself into the air, but the distance was too great. It plummeted to the ground, striking with an impact that would have crippled any living creature.

But the vikhor was unharmed. It rose to its feet and joined the mob attacking the inner gate. The other vikhors on the wall leaped to join it.

The Legionnaires ran down the spiraled stairs and through the archway that led to the inner courtyard. The field was nearly empty. Most of the guardsmen had already fled through the north gate, and Dacius' company, under Simon's charge, manned the battlements of the inner gate.

"Fall back!" Dacius shouted to his men. "The garrison is cleared. It serves no purpose to fight here."

The elves broke from the wall and ran for the north gate. As they reached the courtyard, vikhors swarmed over the top of the wall. Rather than be slowed by the stairs, the Ill-creatures jumped from the fortifications, crashing to the ground and then rising again to give chase.

Dacius and Thildemar took up guard positions to either side of the north gate, making sure it stayed clear for the retreat. The vikhors were still far behind when the last of the Legionnaires disappeared into the Holy Land.

"That's the last," Dacius said. "Time to leave."

As he turned to follow his men, Dacius saw a flash of black wing out of the corner of his eye. He lunged to the side, knocking Thildemar to the ground. Huge black talons ripped the air where the elf had stood just a moment before. Dacius rolled to his feet and stared into the eyes of the winged demon that had attacked the Otan Stin.

The creature crouched in front of the north gate, wings outstretched. Even hunched over, it towered over the Legionnaires.

I REMEMBER YOU, MORTAL The demon extended its right claw. A dim blue stripe marked the spot where Dacius's sword had landed. A thinner scar marked the creature's belly, and a jagged line ran garishly through its left shoulder. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO COULD NOT KEEP ME

FROM KILLING HIS FRIEND.

The voice pounded into Dacius's mind. And with it came fear. Terror gripped his heart, froze his limbs, the same terror he had felt aboard the Otan Stin. The Ill-creature did this, forced this upon him. And if the fear did not come from within, then he was not truly afraid.

Dacius lifted his vorpal sword, fighting to control the trembling in his arm. "I am the one who will bury his blade in your heart, demon."

His words broke the Ill-creature's spell. Thildemar moved forward, slashing at the monster's left side. The demon pulled away from the attack, placing his right side toward the elf. It was hurt. The wounds Alka had given it were not yet healed.

The demon blocked Thildemar's next strike and drove the elf to the ground with a slashing wing.

FOOLISH CHILD, IT IS TIME YOU LEARNED TO BOW BEFORE YOUR MASTERS.

Dacius circled to attack the creature's vulnerable side, but the monster was ready for him. The clawed right hand shot out, unleashing a ball of pulsing flame. Dacius lunged out of the sphere's path, but the fire struck the wall behind him, causing it to explode. A fragment of stone drove into Dacius'

skull, stunning him. He fell to the ground, his vorpal sword slipping from numbed fingers.

Laughter echoed in his mind, ringing through the pain. IT IS OVER, MORTALS. YOUR LIVES

ARE AS SHORT AS YOUR HOPE. BE ASSURED, I SHALL NOT MAKE IT PAINLESS.

The demon raised its hand. Lightning coursed from its fingers, arcing downward to surround Dacius and Thildemar. It flowed over their bodies, burning them with a thousand tiny sparks.

Dacius writhed on the ground. Every inch of his body burned under the attack. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, twisting his body into unnatural contortions. Blood seeped from his eye sockets, and his tongue swelled, closing his throat. By the Creator, he had never known there could be such agony!

Suddenly, the assault ended. There might have been a scream, but he couldn't be sure. Dacius struggled to his feet, trying to make his eyes focus.

The Ill-creature was staggering away from the gate. A glowing dagger protruded from its back, fitted precisely between the shoulder plates. It was Simon's knife; the elf must have thrown it from the other side of the Barrier.

Now they could finish it. Dacius grabbed for his sword. His fingers would not unclench, so he gripped it awkwardly between his wrists. He saw Thildemar struggling to his feet near the far side of the gate. But a horde of vikhors was charging; it would be disaster to dally here. "Run!" he shouted, lurching toward the portal.

The Legionnaires staggered through the portal together, just a few steps ahead of the charging monsters. Dacius felt the peace of the Holy Land take hold of him, soothing his pain. He turned back to look through the Barrier.

The demon had managed to remove the vorpal blade from its back. It cradled the blade in a massive claw, staring at it. Then it closed its hand. Red flames surrounded the fist, burning with blinding intensity for the space of three or four heartbeats. Then the monster opened its hand. The magical blade had been reduced to a pool of glowing slag. The Ill-creature let the liquid run through its fingers onto the ground, and then turned to face the Barrier.

The creature stared at them for a moment. Then it opened its jaws and hissed menacingly. When it spoke, it used a voice like steel grinding on stone, not the voice in the mind that Dacius had heard before. "Look at me, children, you who cower behind this wall of lies. Look at the face of your death.

I know you. I know the doubts in your mind, the terror in your hearts. You are doomed. Your mission is hopeless. In the end, you will fail. And when you do, I will be there, waiting. I am Throm.

We will meet again. Remember that, and pray to your Creator that I will be merciful, though it will do you no good."

The Ill-creature placed one claw on either side of the gate. Lightning shot through the stone. The wall exploded, collapsing into a pile of rubble that blocked their view of the courtyard.

Wearily, Dacius examined his fellow Legionnaires. He could feel the depth of their sorrow, the pain of their loss. The power of the Holy Land filled him, making their emotions plain to him. Dacius felt the security, the harmony, the beauty of Creation. But the comfort, the sense that all was right in the world, that was gone.

He turned to the north and started walking.

* 6 *

Holy Land

A'stoc rooted around in his laboratory, searching for some artifact or another that he thought they needed for the trip. It was infuriating; he seemed oblivious to the urgency of their mission. After the mage had retrieved the Staff, Chentelle thought they would leave immediately. But the man had spent hours collecting supplies, including a prodigious amount of wine for such a short journey. At least he had found a shirt for Sulmar to wear, though the sleeves had needed to be cut back.

"A'stoc—" Chentelle said.

"I told you before, elf girl," the mage snapped, "we'll leave when I have everything I—Hah!

There it is." He held a small crystal globe in his hand.

"Is that the last?" Chentelle asked. "Are you ready to leave, now?"

"Yes, that's the last." A'stoc carried the crystal up the stairs and stowed it in his pack. He pointed to the far side of the cavern. "Those stairs lead up to the top of the cliff. A stone doorway blocks the exit; I'm sure you will have no difficulty opening it. Wait for me outside the cavern."

"Wait for you?" Chentelle said. "I've been waiting for you for hours. I thought you said you were ready."

"I am ready," he snarled. "But I will not leave my home without securing it from intrusion. Now go. The defenses I set will attack anyone other than myself who sets foot in the cavern."

Chentelle felt the blood rush to her face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'll wait for you on the surface."

Sulmar waited for her at the base of the stairs. The Tengarian had her pack slung over his shoulder. He looked quite striking in A'stoc's black shirt, though it had taken some urging to convince him to accept the mage's gift. Chentelle smiled at the Tengarian as she passed.

A'stoc's voice followed them up the spiral stairs. At first, Chentelle could make out grumbles of complaint. Then the tone shifted as A'stoc started chanting his incantations. Finally, the sound died away completely, lost in the depths behind them.

Unfortunately, their light was also fading rapidly. The adartak crystals became fainter the farther they moved from the mage's power. Chentelle was forced to pick her way carefully over the uneven steps.

"Mistress?"

Sulmar's voice had an odd quality, an uncertainty that she had not heard from him before. She looked back and saw that he was many steps behind, almost out of view. Of course, human eyesight was notoriously poor in dim light. He was climbing blind. "I'm here, Sulmar, just a few steps above you. Hold still. I'll see if I can bring us more light."

Chentelle reached out with her Gift, intending to call more illumination from the adartak, but the air was filled with power. She could feel strands of energy shifting in the air all about her. It had to be part of A'stoc's warding spell. The balance of forces was delicate. If she interfered with it by channeling power into the adartak, she might disrupt the wards. She didn't even want to think about how A'stoc would react to that.

She walked back down the steps and took hold of her liegeman's hand. "I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

Sulmar's arm was rock hard with tension. She could feel his unease, his sense of helplessness.

Being led blindly through the dark destroyed the warrior's equilibrium. His skin was slick with sweat, and his breathing sounded thunderous in the cramped stairway.

Chentelle wanted to say something, to reassure him. But what could she say that he didn't already know? She couldn't even speed their journey. Whenever she tried to increase the pace, Sulmar, stumbled or tripped on the stone stairs.

She pushed her sensitivity upward, feeling for the accumulation of power that she knew would mark the doorway. The energy of the wards made it confusing, and she had to keep some of her concentration to guide Sulmar, but there seemed to be—yes, there it was. "Almost there," she said.

"Just a moment longer."

She sang out softly, sending her Gift upward, overturning the delicate equilibrium which held the doorway. Light poured into the tunnel, gently at first, but with increasing intensity as they circled upward to the doorway. Chentelle felt relief fill her liegeman as the pathway became clear to his sight.

She released his hand and danced lightly up the remaining steps.

They emerged on the top of a high cliff. Chentelle shielded her eyes against the glare and looked around. Deneob was almost directly overhead, leading her brighter sister on their journey through the sky. The top of the bluff was covered by a rich garden. The main crop was grapes, but potatoes, carrots, onions, and various greens were also in evidence. Below them, the Quiet Sea whispered softly against the rocky shore.

The boulder behind them rolled back, sealing the entrance to the cave. A'stoc stood just beyond the doorway, the mandril wand in one hand and the Thunderwood Staff gripped tightly in the other.

The mage passed the wand over the boulder, chanting liquid syllables in some arcane tongue. The door seemed to melt into the hillside, becoming an unbroken slab of rock.

"You have a beautiful garden," Chentelle said.

"I thought you were in a hurry to leave," the mage said, walking brusquely toward the southeast.

"Let's get on with it."

Chentelle glanced at Sulmar and shrugged. They caught up with A'stoc easily, but the set of his shoulders discouraged any further attempts at conversation. In silence, they began their journey.

They walked through meadows richer and more varied than Chentelle had ever seen. She saw dozens of flowers for which she had no name, spread out under the twin suns like a carpet of rainbow. Insects were woven all through the tapestry, decorating it with the music of grasshoppers and the dance of butterflies. The trill of songbirds blended with the soft sigh of the wind, adding the perfect counterpoint to the natural harmony.

The loveliness of the land buoyed Chentelle. The perfumes of a dozen blossoms blended in the air, and every breath filled her with beauty. She walked lightly, effortlessly, as if her feet barely touched the ground. The cadence of her steps blended smoothly into the rhythm of the natural orchestra.

Hours passed, and still Chentelle felt no fatigue. The open plains gave way to rockier terrain, and the patches of flowers became smaller. But the air was still thick with their fragrance. Scattered oaks began to appear, proffering cool patches of shadow beneath their spreading leaves.

The trees reminded her of home. Though this was only her third day away, already she missed the familiar forests of Lone Valley, so full of life and warmth and comfort. Her mind filled with memories: resting against Willow's roots, listening to the dendrifaun tell the same story for the hundredth time; singing with her mother, blending voices in the special harmony that only they shared.

Tears came to her eyes at the thought of her mother. She would be so worried. Chentelle had thought to be returning by now. She sighed deeply, trying to release her guilt.

"You must be tired, elf girl," A'stoc said. "We will find shade and rest."

She started to protest, but stopped when she saw the exhaustion on A'stoc's face. Rivulets of sweat ran from his forehead, and his mouth hung open as if he lacked the strength to keep it shut. His feet barely cleared the ground as he shuffled forward, but she knew the mage would not admit his own fatigue. "Thank you," she said. "A rest would be welcome."

They called a halt under a large, double-trunked oak. Dual shadows fell to the east of the tree: one long and faint, the other shorter and darker. A'stoc dropped heavily to the ground and slid off his pack. He pulled out a flask of wine and started drinking from it. After several large swallows, he stopped drinking long enough to slide to the tree and lean against its trunk. Then he took another drink.

Chentelle and Sulmar sat down in the grass across from him. They broke into the stores he had provided and set up a quick meal of cheese and hard bread. Chentelle looked around, gesturing at the wildflowers and the clear azure sky. "This land is so open," she said, "so beautiful."

A'stoc regarded her with a bitter gaze. When he spoke, his voice was raspy with dust, fatigue, and wine. "You are amazingly cheerful, enchantress, for a bearer of such dark news."

"Wizard, it is too early to fall prey to despair," she said. "We are protected by Sulmar's sword and the power of your own magic. We will make it to Norivika."

The mage's lips twisted into a sneer, but the look in his eyes was pure sadness. "I told you before, elf girl, I am no wizard. My name is A'stoc. If you must refer to me by a title, then 'woodright'

is the appropriate term, though 'apprentice' is perhaps more accurate." He took a long, long drink of wine and tossed the empty flask into the grass.

"You should not drink so heavily."

A'stoc seemed confused for a moment, then he turned to face Sulmar. "Ah, the Tengarian speaks. Why do you give a damn how much I drink?"

"I do not want to carry you," Sulmar said flatly.

"Why you—" A'stoc started to jump up in anger, but stopped himself suddenly. He settled back against the tree. His face relaxed into a calm mask, but something burned in his eyes as he glanced from Sulmar to Chentelle and back again.

"What an unlikely pair you are," he said mockingly. "I wonder what it was that bound you to her service. Gold, perhaps? I have known many a Tengarian who believed honor and gold were two sides of the same coin. No, I think perhaps you seek something more precious, though less tangible.

Tell me, when did you meet our innocent young enchantress?"

"Yesterday," Sulmar answered.

"Yesterday?" A'stoc snapped his head around to face Chentelle. "Is this true? You have known this man for one day and you make him privy to all our secrets? Have you not seen the brand on his arm? Even I can feel the evil it embodies. He is accursed, a servant of evil. Perhaps it is he who sets the Ill-creatures on our path."

Chentelle shook her head. "Sulmar is marked by evil, but he is not evil himself. I know this, just as I know that you are not evil, for all your bitterness and despair. Sulmar is not allied with the Dark One. It was he who was being attacked by an Ill-creature when I encountered him. I trust him with my life, A'stoc."

The mage closed his eyes and rolled away from her, onto his side. He kept the Thunderwood Staff clenched tightly to his chest. "You trust him with more than that, enchantress," he said softly.

Chentelle could see A'stoc's hands tremble with the effects of alcohol and exhaustion. She picked up her leatherbark waterskin and walked over to where he lay. "You need rest, A'stoc, for your mind and your body. We have a fair journey ahead, but we can wait a few minutes before continuing. And, please, drink water. It will help you more than wine."

A'stoc curled more tightly around the Staff. "If you would have me rest, elf girl, then leave me in peace."

"Let me touch you, wiz—A'stoc. I can ease your fatigue." She extended one hand toward his back.

"No!"

Chentelle could feel the man's fear. It was evident in the way he clutched the Staff. The inability to command the Thunderwood Staff mocked him. It was a symbol of the failure and frustration that were central to his world. In his heart, he felt that he was nothing but failure, and he was afraid that he would fail again. She set the water down gently beside him, and walked away from the tree.

She sat down on a granite outcrop surrounded by daisies and rested in the warm sun. A light breeze eddied across the field, tossing her hair about her shoulders and catching up the trees and the grass in its dance. She hummed softly, letting herself drift with the song of the prairie. A lone butterfly floated toward her over a sea of flowers. It landed gracefully on her outstretched hand, winking its large, orange wings in silent salutation. Then it took flight again, whirling merrily around Chentelle's head.

She laughed. "Okay, little fellow, as you wish."

She looked over to the shade tree where they had stopped. A'stoc lounged against the tree, holding the waterskin in one hand. Sulmar had apparently finished his meal; he stood off to the side of the tree, where he could easily watch both A'stoc and her.

Chentelle smiled and sang out with her Gift. She used no words, only the magic of pure, harmonious sound. It was a summoning song, much like the one she had used to call the dolphins, but simpler. This song contained no sense of need, no holes that required filling. It was a song purely about joy, about life, about the beauty of being together. It was a song about play.

And it was answered. Thousands of butterflies came flocking to Chentelle's call. They filled the air around her with motion and color. She started dancing, twirling to the music of her song. And the butterflies danced with her. She felt the feather touches of a thousand wings brushing her face, her arms, her lips. Some of the insects landed in her hair, forming a jewel-colored crown. The rest formed currents of color that flowed through the breeze, keeping perfect time with her song and her movements.

She let the music grow, expanding the dance until it encompassed A'stoc and Sulmar too. The butterflies swirled happily within the shape of her song, circling around her companions and bringing them into the dance. Sulmar swayed slowly back and forth, letting his body drift to the music's rhythm.

A'stoc sat motionlessly, slack-jawed, shifting only to brush away one insect that was crawling toward his mouth.

Chentelle let her song come to an end. Gradually, the butterflies drifted away, returning to the pursuits from which she called them. Soon, only one was left: the orange butterfly that had first come to rest on her hand. It spun excitedly before her face, wings glittering in Ellistar's light.

Chentelle smiled and nodded. "You are quite welcome."

The insect came to rest lightly on her lips, then fluttered away.

A'stoc had gotten to his feet. He and Sulmar just stared at her from under the shade of the tree, looks of awe and wonder on their faces.

"I have never seen—never felt anything so beautiful, any magic so graceful," A'stoc said.

She felt so happy, so proud of the beauty she had helped create. But something in the way they looked at her made her feel self-conscious, and she turned her eyes shyly to the ground. "Are we ready to go on?"

A'stoc nodded absently, handing her the water bag and picking up his pack. He started walking, leading the party directly south, now.

They walked until the red light of Deneob sank below the horizon, leaving Ellistar alone in the sky to cast her long shadows. The flowered meadows gave way to grassy hills decorated sporadically with clusters of oak and cottonwood. As Ellistar, too, began to set in the west, they passed into a narrow valley formed by a small stream.

A'stoc came to a halt, leaning heavily on the Staff. "We will stop here for the night," he said, indicating a circular clearing within a copse of trees.

The mage did not look well. He wheezed with every breath and his legs trembled, even with the support of the Staff. Chentelle and Sulmar took his arm and helped him get settled against a tree. It was a measure of A'stoc's exhaustion that he did not protest their help. Once A'stoc was settled, Sulmar left to inspect the area around their camp.

"You need rest and warm food," she said. "I will heat up the rest of the stew you brought."

His hand shot out to catch her wrist as she turned to leave. "No," he said weakly. "No fire."

Of course, the servants of the Dark One moved freely at night. If they were being sought, a fire would betray their presence. Chentelle remembered her dream of the Ill-creature. She was embarrassed to have forgotten such an obvious precaution.

A'stoc stared at the lengthening shadows. "I had forgotten what it was like."

A glance at his face told Chentelle what he meant. Fear. He was remembering the terrors brought on by darkness. Images flashed through her mind, grotesque shapes materializing out of the night, tearing at her with hideous fangs and malformed claws. No not her, A'stoc, it was A'stoc's memory she was reliving. It must be something she retained from their moment of communion.

She peered into the twilight. The hills around their clearing were still plain to her eyes, as was the slender creek to the west. She could see nothing threatening, but she was unsure. She had heard tales of Ill-creatures that could fool even elven vision.

When Sulmar returned, he reported finding nothing to threaten them in the immediate area. They unpacked rations and the three of them shared a cold supper of stew, cheese, dried fruit, and the remaining bread. By silent agreement, Chentelle and Sulmar gave A'stoc the lion's portion of the food, and he pretended not to notice.

The mage looked better by the time they had finished their meal. He rummaged through his pack and brought out the orb that he had retrieved from his laboratory. He set the melon-sized crystal in a depression at the center of the clearing and pulled the mandril wand from the folds of his cloak. Then he walked around the perimeter of the camp, gesturing with the wand.

Chentelle felt the threads of power A'stoc was weaving into his spell. He anchored each strand to the orb, and spread the other end through the surrounding terrain. He built a balanced web covering the camp and everything within a hundred cubits, including Chentelle and Sulmar.

As A'stoc moved around the camp, a pinpoint of light started growing inside the orb. He completed his circle and returned to the clearing. Still chanting, he passed the wand around Chentelle's head, and she felt the strands fall away from her. Then he repeated the procedure with Sulmar.

The crystal sphere glowed, now, with the strength of a small candle, though the light was mostly shielded within the depression. A'stoc tapped the orb once with his wand, sending a quiver of tension through his spell. "Now we can sleep in peace. Anything larger than a raccoon that enters the detection spell will trigger the orb-light."

They spread their bedding under the trees and settled down for the night, serenaded by the rhythmic songs of crickets and nightbirds. Chentelle was spent from the long hike. She knew that as soon as she closed her eyes and relaxed she would fall asleep. But her mind refused to quiet down.

She glanced at her companions.

Sulmar was on his back, sleeping easily. His sword rested across his belly and both arms were outside the covering of his blanket: one on the hilt of the weapon, the other on its sheath.

A'stoc seemed to be asleep, but he was tossing fitfully. As Chentelle watched, his eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright. His breathing was heavy and sweat covered his face. After a moment, he realized that Chentelle was awake, too. He met her gaze and spoke to her in near whisper. "You said that you saw the threat of the Ill-creatures in your dreams. What else can your Gift show you?"

"I can sometimes see hints about the future," she answered. "Usually my dreams are of good things, not evil. Like the time my friend Erina fell in love with—"

"I get the idea," A'stoc interrupted, "but what about the past? Do you ever see into the past?"

It was nice to have him ask her questions for a change. "Well, when I touch an object that belonged to someone, I can sometimes get a sense of occurrences with strong emotional content. But most of the time what I discover is not very helpful."

A'stoc nodded thoughtfully, but did not speak. He seemed to be waging a silent debate with himself. Finally, he turned back to Chentelle. Slowly, he lifted the Thunderwood Staff and extended it to her. "Perhaps you can help me, enchantress. I must know whether you can unlock the Staff's power."

Chentelle was amazed. That A'stoc would allow her to touch it showed how much his trust, and his desperation, had grown. She could not refuse such a gesture.

She took the Staff in her hands, cradling it carefully. The wood felt warm to her touch, and she could almost swear she felt a pulse. She met A'stoc's eyes, seeing the mix of yearning and despair that warred on his face. "I will try."

She ran her hands along the Staff, introducing her fingers to the wood. Even without her Gift, the power of the Staff was obvious. It was solid in her hands yet somehow yielding, as if it were at one time both harder than rock and softer than her own skin. The carved runes blended perfectly with the natural curves of the timber, forming an impossibly smooth surface. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Chentelle reached into the wood with her Gift.

Instantly, a barrage of emotions swept over her: hope, anger, frustration, despair. The feeling had the taste of A'stoc about them. In the long years he had possessed the Staff, his presence had become strong within it. Images formed, visions of bitterness and hopelessness. A'stoc spent all his energy studying the Staff, at first with A'mond and then alone. She felt the anguish of decades of failure.

She had to go further back. She pushed through the long period of frustration, reaching for the feelings below. Jealousy, anger, mistrust, betrayal. She saw A'stoc at the Collegium of Tel Adartak-Skysoar. The Councilors there refused to help him, fearing his power if he gained control of the Staff. He felt the covetousness of their concern and left the crystal tower in secret. He soon learned that his mistrust was well placed. Assassins followed him from the Collegium, trying to kill him and steal the Staff. They failed, but the attempt left him deeply scarred.

The memories were still too recent. She went deeper, past the wall of numbness that she knew represented A'stoc's time in the wasteland. She sought the core of power deep inside the wood, the essence shaped by A'pon Boemarre.

Suddenly agony shot through her soul, pain more terrible than she had ever imagined. She screamed, and the Thunderwood Staff fell from her lifeless fingers.

* * *

Cold. That was the first thing she felt, cold that issued from somewhere deep inside of her. She couldn't stop shivering. Gradually, she became aware of other things. She was crying. Tears ran uncontrollably down her face, forming tiny pools in the earth. People were shouting in the distance.

No, not in the distance, right above her. It was Sulmar.

"...do not know what you have done, apprentice, but you will follow her into death."

Death? But she wasn't dead. Was she?

"It wasn't me," another voice said. A'stoc. It was A'stoc's voice, but it sounded strange, vulnerable. "Let me go. I may be able to help her."

Suddenly Chentelle remembered. She had been examining the Staff, trying to unlock its secrets, and she had felt—By the Creator, so much pain!

"Sulmar." Her voice sounded weak, impossibly faint, but she had to make him hear. "Sulmar, it's all right. Don't hurt him."

The Tengarian was at her side in an instant, cradling her in his arms. "Mistress, you are alive! But how? I saw the way you lay. There was no life in your body."

His body was warm and Chentelle huddled against it, trembling. She tried to answer him, but she could not. Her tears came with renewed vigor, choking off her voice.

She was dimly aware of A'stoc rising to his feet and retrieving the Staff. "Enchantress?" he said.

She forced her body to unclench, releasing her death grip on Sulmar's warmth. But she couldn't make herself leave the comfort of his strength and surety. She wiped her eyes clear with his shirt and turned to face the mage. "I—I touched the spirit of A'pon Boemarre. I felt him unleash the Desecration. Oh, A'stoc, I felt his death. I am sorry. I can't find what you need. I can't reach past that wall of agony."

"No, enchantress, it is I who am sorry. Once again I let myself fall into the trap of hope, and this time it was you who paid the price." He turned to Sulmar. "I am going to sleep, now. If anything trips the orb-light, I trust that you will respond with your usual brutality and thoroughness."

Sulmar's body tensed at A'stoc's insult, but he did not respond. Instead he settled himself on the ground next to Chentelle, resheathing his sword. He seemed so strong, though she knew he was still recovering from his injuries. He wrapped his warmth gently around her, and they drifted into sleep.

* * *

Chentelle woke with a sense of wrongness. She lay still, listening, but she heard nothing. Then she understood. She heard nothing, not even the sound of insects. She called upon her Gift, stretching her awareness. A'stoc's spell still covered the camp, so she reached out to the hills farther away. Her mind felt the cool presence of the river and the quiet life of the grass and something else, something cold and terrible.

She sat up, waking Sulmar with her movement. She warned him to silence with a gentle finger on his lips, then slid quietly over to A'stoc's bedroll. She shook the mage gently by the shoulder and whispered into his ear. "A'stoc."

As soon as her hand touched him, she felt herself pulled into a dream.

* * *

A'stoc is surrounded. Gnarled hands grapple with him, trying to wrest the Thunderwood Staff from his grip. Desperately, he pulls the Staff free from his attackers, but the wood shrivels and dies.

Finally, it snaps like kindling in his hands. The world begins to wither all around him. Every creature calls his name with its last breath. "A'stoc. A'stoc. A'stoc!"

* * *

The mage started, breaking contact with Chentelle. He blinked and rubbed his eyes in confusion.

"What—?"

Chentelle placed her fingers over his lips. She put her own lips very close to his ear, so that they touched it when she spoke. "We must be quiet," she whispered. "Something comes."

She pointed across the river. A hunched figure could be seen silhouetted against the waning moon. It shambled down the hillside toward the water. At first, she thought it might be a misshapen old man, but the arms were too long, hanging nearly to the ground. The head was wrong, too, with brutish jaws and a squat, thick skull. The figure was naked but covered all over with coarse reddish hair.

"Hel's Pits," A'stoc muttered tersely. "A vikhor."

He rolled silently to his feet and started to gather up his things. "Hurry. Their senses are not sharp. We may be able to hide from it."

Chentelle and Sulmar quickly moved to help him. They removed everything from the clearing and hid behind the shelter of the trees.

"What did you call it?" Chentelle whispered softly.

"A vikhor. Animated flesh without a true soul. When vikhors kill, they take a fraction of that person's spirit for their own. If they kill enough to gain a soul, then they leave their bodies behind, becoming wraiths. So they have a nigh insatiable appetite for mayhem."

Chentelle started to ask what a wraith was, for she was not versed in the Lore of Ill-creatures, but stopped herself at the sound of splashing water.

The vikhor was crossing the river, padding easily through the shallow current. It emerged downstream of them, ambling along sometimes on two legs, or on three, or four. On occasion it even seemed to use its head as an appendage. No natural creature, certainly. It picked up speed scurrying into the east at an impressive pace.

"Thank the Creator," Chentelle whispered. She turned back to A'stoc and froze. The wizard stared past her shoulder, his face twisted into a mask of rage. She spun back around and had to stifle the urge to scream.

The vikhor had stopped running. It paused, cocking its head and looking about. Then it started walking directly toward their camp.

But why? How did it know where they were? Then Chentelle saw it, the orb-light. "A'stoc," she whispered frantically, "the crystal."

"I know," he said, barely managing to keep his voice to a whisper. "But I cannot deactivate the spell from here, and if I move into the clearing the vikhor will spot me anyway."

Chentelle wanted to cry out, to jump up and run, to do anything other than just sit there as the Ill-creature moved closer. Her body quivered with fear and blood hammered in her ears as the glowing yellow eyes approached the limit of A'stoc's wards.

Brilliant light flashed through the clearing. The vikhor yelped in pain, covering its eyes and shaking its head in surprise.

A'stoc leaped to his feet, aimed the mandril wand and shouted a spell. The wand flared, and a magic fireball flew from its tip. Flames engulfed the Ill-creature before it could react.

The vikhor vanished into a pile of ash, but in its death it gave a sudden, ferocious roar. The sound was horrible, deafening. It echoed through the narrow valley before fading into the distance.

Then it was answered. A chorus of howls came from the low hills on the other side of the river.

A'stoc raced into the clearing and grabbed the crystal sphere. He slipped it into his pack and hefted the weight onto his back. He looked at the sky for a moment, then turned to Chentelle. "We cannot risk a light. You will have to guide us to the high hills east of here."

Chentelle hesitated, unsure of what the mage wanted.

"Hurry," he growled. "If we keep moving we have a chance."

Chentelle scooped up her pack and started running east, staying close to the cover of trees whenever possible. She kept her pace slow and tried to use the most even paths, but still the humans had difficulty keeping up. A'stoc's labored wheezing was loud in her ears, and even Sulmar stumbled occasionally in the dim light. She eased her pace slightly so her companions would not hurt themselves.

"No," A'stoc gasped. "Do not slow. We will keep up."

As they moved away from the riverbed, the terrain became rougher and there were fewer trees to provide concealment. The hills were still half a league away, and they were all weakening. She pulled to a halt near the final cluster of trees. "A'stoc, we will lose our cover if we continue."

The mage did not stop running. He grabbed her pack as he passed, forcing her to stumble along with him. "Do as I say, elf girl! Make for the top of the nearest hill."

Chentelle pulled herself loose, fighting to keep her balance. "Fine," she said, but she felt terribly exposed as she led the way onto the open plain. As they neared the foot of the hill, she suddenly realized the mage's plan. A faint red glow in the sky promised that first-light was not far off. They scrambled up the hill.

It seemed more like a mountain. The slope was steep and the surface wet with dew, making purchase difficult. But they crawled with ragged determination, digging fingers into the hard dirt to pull themselves up the hillside. Finally, they reached the top. Staggering with exhaustion, they discarded their packs and faced back to check their trail.

At first, Chentelle thought maybe they had escaped detection. But then she saw a half-dozen riders emerge from the trees. For a moment she thought they might be a Legion patrol, but as they neared she saw that their armor was completely black, even to the horse's barding. No, not horses, the rhythm of their gallop was wrong—the beasts had too many legs. By the Creator, they weren't riding the beasts; they were a part of them!

"Shadow knights." A'stoc almost spit the words.

The creatures pulled to a halt at the base of the hill. Chentelle could see them clearly now. The upper body of an armored knight perched disgustingly on the body of a huge, black beetle. As she watched, one of the Ill-creatures lifted its two back legs off the ground and rubbed them together with blinding speed.

Chentelle clapped her hands over her ears. The shrill whine seemed to pierce her skull and scrape down the length of her spine. It was answered almost immediately by a series of howls from the surrounding countryside.

"They're coming," she cried. "What can we do?" But she knew the answer: nothing. They were exposed on the hilltop, with no avenues of escape.

A'stoc was not even looking at the Ill-creatures. He still scanned the horizon to the east. He turned to face her, shaking his head grimly. "I will have to fight them."

He removed the orb from his pack and set it on the ground. A quick spell called forth light from the crystal, illuminating the hilltop. A'stoc turned to face Sulmar. "Your sword is useless against these creatures. Stay behind me when they attack. You can't fight them, and I do not want you getting in my way."

A horde of vikhors converged at the bottom of the hill, arriving from all directions. Apparently they had been spread out to search, but now the search was done. The shadow knights stayed inhumanly still as the pack of vikhors swarming about them grew. Then, when perhaps a dozen of the twisted creatures were present, one of the knights lifted an arm. That slight motion sent the vikhors charging up the hill.

A'stoc moved to intercept them, mandril wand raised in one hand, Thunderwood Staff held uselessly in the other. He incanted a spell, and a fireball shot from the wand, engulfing the lead vikhor.

The Ill-creature howled in agony as the mystic flames reduced it to ash. Its fellows ignored the flames, continuing their charge. But the blaze did not die after it had consumed the vikhor.

Chentelle let her awareness expand, sensing the complex lines of force that still bound the mage to the fire. Now she understood. A'stoc hadn't just called forth fire from the wand, he had bound the fire to his will.

He gestured with the wand, never stopping his chant. The flames swirled into a whirlwind of fire.

The cyclone shot up the hill, burning its way through a chain of vikhors before coming to a halt in front of the pack. Then it stopped spinning and spread itself into a wall of fire.

Now the vikhors had to acknowledge the mage's flame. It blocked their path up the hill. They scattered, circling the wall on both sides.

Sweat ran down A'stoc's face. He gestured with the mandril, and the wall divided into twin plumes of flame. One flare struck a group of four vikhors, igniting two of them and sending the others diving for cover. But the other flare wavered in the air and missed its mark. It set fire to some bushes but did nothing to stop the charge of the four vikhors on that flank. They circled around the hill, out of the mage's sight, and came up behind him.

"A'stoc, look out!" shouted Chentelle.

But the mage was exhausted, unable to sustain his spell. Both plumes of flame went out. The mage was chanting rapidly, trying to invoke another spell, but his attention was on the two Ill-creatures in front of him. He didn't notice the four closing from behind.

Chentelle reached out with her Gift and started to sing. She had no idea if it would have the same effect on the vikhors that it had on the sea creature, but she had to try. She filled her voice with harmony and tranquillity, and projected it at the vikhors.

The twisted Ill-creatures howled and writhed in pain. But then something happened. Their howling was so loud that it drowned out Chentelle's song. The Ill-creatures recovered and lunged toward her, never stopping their deafening roar.

Chentelle stumbled backward. One of the vikhors was almost upon her, its claws reaching out for her throat. She tripped over something and fell, screaming in fear.

But the vikhor did not reach her. Sulmar met its charge with a leaping kick, driving it backward into its packmates. The Tengarian landed in a balanced stance, hands held open before him. He kept himself between the vikhor and Chentelle, dodging and deflecting their attacks with uncanny precision.

He swept the feet from under one vikhor, and sent another tumbling over the fallen creature in one smooth motion. It would have been comical if the stakes were not so high. Sulmar kept three of the monsters tangled up with each other, but the fourth one disengaged, turning back to attack A'stoc from behind.

Chentelle shouted another warning.

The mage turned, lifting the mandril wand, but he was too slow. The vikhor was already on him.

He dodged a vicious swipe at his face, stepping sideways and trying to bring his wand to bear. But the vikhor's elbow caught him on the backswing, slamming into the side of his head. A'stoc crumpled to the ground, wand and Staff falling from limp fingers.

The vikhor snatched up the Staff, holding it high above its head and bellowing in triumph.

A'stoc struggled to regain his feet. He lunged toward the vikhor, trying to pull the Staff from its hands. But the Ill-creature was too strong. It struck the mage in the face, knocking him contemptuously to the ground.

"No!" Chentelle cried. "Sulmar, help him!"

But the Tengarian was trapped in his own struggle, unable to break free of the three vikhors that attacked him. And more Ill-creatures were climbing the hill, soon to overwhelm them with numbers.

The vikhor attacking A'stoc suddenly moved toward Chentelle, raising the Thunderwood Staff high overhead, gripping it like a club. To it, the Staff was no more than a handy length of wood. It smiled horribly at Chentelle, pausing to relish her reaction before unleashing its killing blow. It savored the fragment of her spirit it would possess when she died.

Chentelle sang. She did not know what else to do. She gathered her power and sang, focusing the harmony of her music at the creature holding the Staff. If she could catch him by surprise, he might drop the weapon. But it was no use. The vikhor countered the song with his own howl. She had failed.

Then, the timbre of his howl suddenly changed. Shafts of red light burned through the vikhor's flesh. It screamed in agony and melted into nothingness. The Thunderwood Staff dropped harmlessly to the ground.

First-light. It was first-light, and Deneob's red rays were falling on the hilltop.

The vikhors fighting Sulmar were trapped by the light as well. The other Ill-creatures scrambled hurriedly down the slope, running to find shelter from the sun. The light pursued them, illuminating more of the hill. At the bottom, the shadow knights wheeled as one and galloped into the west.

They were safe. Chentelle wanted to collapse on the ground in relief, but she had to check on A'stoc.

The mage lay unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. A large bruise showed plainly on the side of his head. Chentelle reached out with her Gift, examining the wounds.

Fortunately, the damage to the side of his head was mostly superficial. The skull was not cracked, though there was some minor swelling in the tissue around the brain. The cuts on his face were also not serious, though his nose was broken. Chentelle grabbed a bandage from A'stoc's pack and pressed it to his nose, stopping the bleeding. That was all she could do for now.

"Are his wounds serious?" Sulmar asked.

Chentelle poured water over a clean cloth and used it to wipe A'stoc's face. "I don't think so, but he might have a concussion."

"He's a cantankerous lout, but no coward, and he fought well. I have not before encountered enemies as tough as these Ill-creatures."

"He's no lout. He has suffered in ways we have not." Chentelle finished cleaning the mage's face, then looked up at Sulmar. "You saved my life—both of our lives. Thank you."

"A warrior does not expect gratitude for performing his duty, my lady," the Tengarian said. "But you are welcome."

Chentelle stared at Sulmar, trying to guess the emotions that lay underneath his impassive facade.

But he remained a mystery. In many ways, the barriers of duty and service that the Tengarian surrounded himself with were as formidable as the walls of anger and frustration behind which A'stoc hid.

A soft moan from the ground ended her reverie. A'stoc was waking up.

The mage groaned and lifted a hand to his head. Then he glanced around in sudden panic, relaxing only when he saw the Staff lying on the ground beside him. He wrapped a hand reflexively around the wood and glanced up at Chentelle. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Only a few minutes," she said. "Just long enough to clean your wounds."

The mage sat up, his face twisting in pain. "We must be on our way."

Chentelle laid a hand on his chest. "You need to rest awhile longer. That was not a slight blow."

"No." A'stoc pushed her hand aside and struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the Staff for support. "They know where we are, elf girl. We must reach the Holy Land before nightfall. We can rest after we are safe inside the Barrier."

Sulmar grabbed the mage's pack, lifting it onto his own shoulders. A'stoc started to protest, but the Tengarian cut him off brusquely. "You are injured. We will make better time if you do not otherwise encumber yourself."

They worked their way carefully down the hill and retraced the path of their flight. When they reached the river, they followed its course to the south. A'stoc was unsteady on his feet, but he drove himself adamantly forward, refusing all of Chentelle's suggestions to pause and rest. Finally, when Deneob was already low in the west, he relented and called a short stop for food.

Quickly, Chentelle and Sulmar prepared a meal of fruit, nuts, and cheese. The small meal seemed like a feast after so many hours of walking. They ate hurriedly, but Chentelle took the opportunity to broach a subject that had been worrying her all day.

"A'stoc," she said, "what if the Ill-creatures go into Lone Valley? They might attack my home, my family."

The mage swallowed the last of his meal and washed it down with a mouthful of wine. "Your home is safe for now. The Ill-creatures' only concern is the Thunderwood Staff. They know where we are and where we head. They will not turn aside to attack an insignificant village. The Dark One still gathers his strength; he will not launch the war until he is certain of victory. Then none of us will be safe."

Chentelle was perplexed. "But the vikhor held the Staff, knowing nothing of its power."

"The vikhors are the least of Ill-creatures, the idiot hounds. A shadow knight would have taken the Staff and galloped instantly away, bearing it to the Dark One. We were lucky."

"Lucky!" Sulmar echoed ironically.

A'stoc heaved himself to his feet and they started walking again. They continued following the river until Deneob disappeared below the horizon, and still there was no sign of the Holy Land.

Chentelle felt fear rising within her. What if they didn't make it? A'stoc could barely keep himself upright, and Sulmar was visibly fatigued. They didn't stand a chance of fighting back the Ill-creatures again.

Then, she saw something in the distance. A small wooden bridge spanned the river ahead of them. "A'stoc, I see a bridge. Is that the entrance to the Holy Land?"

The mage paused, looking to where Ellistar hung above the horizon. "Thank the Creator. No, it is not the border, but it means we are close. We just might make it."

They pushed their pace, moving as fast as A'stoc was able to manage. A dirt road connected to the other side of the bridge, leading southwest. The even surface allowed them to increase their speed again. As the Golden Sun started to set, Chentelle sensed the Holy Land beckoning to her.

She felt it before she saw it: a presence at the edge of her awareness, a promise of peace and tranquillity. Then it came into view. A line of change ran across the land in front of them. The prairie through which they walked was rich and fertile, but it seemed a desert compared to what she saw on the other side. The earth there seemed to glow with life. The grass was thicker, the air crisper.

"A'stoc?"

"Yes," he said. "Welcome to the Holy Land."

They crossed through the Barrier, and stopped abruptly.

Chentelle was amazed. The serenity of this place was absolute, perfect. It washed over her and through her. Her spirit sang with it. It was as if she had called upon her Gift, but it required no effort.

It was natural for her to feel in harmony with the world. She extended her awareness toward her companions.

A'stoc stood in awe, evidently surprised at the power of the feelings that infused him, and amused at his own surprise. The tension that was so much a part of him disappeared. His face lost its perpetual scowl, relaxing into an easy smile. Even his hands loosened their grip on the Staff.

Chentelle smiled. She had always felt bad that other people could never feel the harmony of nature the way she did. It was so wonderful that her friends could share in this awareness, so much more natural than the isolation of the outside world.

"My liege, look," Sulmar said, a rare smile on his face. He felt it, too. He extended his bared right arm. Nothing but smoothly muscled flesh showed on the fading light. The mark of the dragon was gone!

"It is the power of the Holy Land," A'stoc said. "No evil may exist here."

Chentelle nodded in agreement. It was only right. "The curse is broken. You can go back to Tengar, now, if you wish. I will excuse you from your vow of service."

"No," he said. "Your journey has not ended. My service is not complete."

"How did you come to wear that curse, anyway?" A'stoc asked. There was no challenge or disparagement in his tone, and could be none, here; he was merely curious.

"It was a matter of honor," Sulmar said. "One whose details I do not wish to share with you."

There was no insult in his tone, only caution. Chentelle understood. There was no need for secrets in the Holy Land, but they would not remain here forever.

"Perhaps you are wise not to," A'stoc agreed. He moved off to the side of the road and slumped to the grass. "Let us rest here. I am too tired and too hungry to keep walking."

Chentelle wanted to disagree. Her own body felt strong, invigorated by the power of the Holy Land. But she was well aware of the mage's fatigue. The day's travel had taxed him to his limit, and his energy had been further depleted by the cost of healing. The Holy Land replenished the spirit but not the physical body. A positive attitude was not enough to counter exhaustion.

She and Sulmar set up their camp and prepared a hearty supper from the last of their supplies.

They ate quickly but without haste. There was no sense of urgency; they were safe here. When they finished, they dropped into peaceful slumber, wrapped in the protection of the Holy Land.

Chentelle woke once in the night, or thought she did. The Ill-creature from her dream stood just beyond the Barrier, glaring at them through jaundiced eyes. Chentelle felt no fear. There was no danger, here. She met the creature's eyes and smiled.

The demon leaped into the air, perhaps insulted, extending huge bat-like wings. It disappeared quickly into the night sky.

In the morning, Chentelle could not be certain whether she had truly awakened or only dreamed the encounter. Either way, the experience seemed distant and unimportant. She gathered up her gear and made ready for the day's journey.

Both Sulmar and A'stoc seemed much restored. The wonderful ambience might not instantly abate fatigue, but it did enable sleep to do that job.

They walked through natural prairie for perhaps an hour before finding cultivated land. Rich fields of grain lined the road, broken occasionally by a dense orchard or open pasture. The people greeted them openly and warmly.

Around noon they met a merchant hauling goods from the scattered farms into the city for sale.

He offered to let them ride on his wagon in exchange for news from outside the Barrier, and they hastily agreed. The pace of the wagon was not great, but it was both faster and less wearing than walking. The merchant also shared his food with them, understanding their need. He reacted to their news of the Dark One's resurgence with quiet faith.

"The High Bishop will know what to do," he said. "It is wise of you to seek his guidance."

They traveled with the merchant for two days, halting on the evening of the second at a small farming community. The laughter of children at play filled the air, mingling with the easy conversation of neighbors who knew and loved each other. The village reminded Chentelle of her own home in Lone Valley. The construction was nothing alike; the people here lived in squat rectangular houses built upon open land. But there was the same sense of comfort and belonging.

"We will spend the night here," the merchant said. "Sleeping in soft beds and sharing a warm meal with one of the farmers."

Chentelle smiled at the thought. She breathed deeply, taking in the aromas of fresh grain and wood smoke in the salty breeze. "Wait. I smell the sea. It must be Norivika Bay. Are we that close?"

"The bay lies just beyond this village," the merchant said. "If you can convince one of the boatmen to ferry you across, then you would reach the city tonight."

Chentelle turned to look at A'stoc. Their sense of urgency was gone, but intellectually they remained aware that time was critical. He nodded, and they quickly gathered their belongings and thanked the merchant for his kindness. They walked briskly through the village and followed the road through a series of gentle hills on the other side. As they cleared one of the hillocks, Norivika Bay came into view. Though the far shore could not be seen, a spire of light was visible, floating above the water.

"Is that the Cathedral of Light?" Chentelle asked.

A'stoc nodded, "It is made entirely of adartak. The crystal refracts and magnifies the light within."

"It shines like a jewel," she said, admiringly.

The road wound downward to the water, passing through thickets of tangled cedars and oaks.

Then it turned west, following the shoreline a short distance to a long wooden pier. Several small craft were moored here, rocking gently in the waves. A row of small cottages faced the pier, and three figures sat talking on the porch of the nearest one.

As they neared, one of the figures called out to them: an extremely tall human with chiseled features and a stiff mustache. "Evening, travelers. If you're looking for the inn, it's back the way you came, about half a league. Of course, if you're looking for the innkeeper, he's right here beside me, enjoying the sunset."

The squat figure next to him nodded amiably.

"Thank you, kind sir," Chentelle said, "but we are hoping to find a way across the bay. Is it possible that one of you gentlemen is the captain of one of those vessels?"

The man laughed. "Captain, eh—why yes, I am Captain Johan, master of the finest sailing skiff to ever brave the treacherous waters of Norivika Bay." He laughed again, and this time his friends joined in.

"Wonderful," Chentelle said. "Then, will you give us passage?"

"Of course," he answered. "Burney and I are going to the city tomorrow, midmorning. You are welcome to join us, though you will have to share space with several barrels of fine ale."

"Tomorrow? But we must reach the city tonight."

"Tonight! No, I do not think that is possible. Burney and I have spent the long day ferrying goods back and forth, and this is our first chance to relax. Still, perhaps you should explain your need.

Burney, fetch a light and some chairs for our guests."

The third man stood up and went into the cottage, returning in a moment with two small chairs and a lamp. "We only got these two extra chairs, Johan."

Chentelle moved forward, into the circle of illumination. "That's all right. Really, sir, we can't stay. We have to get to the High Bishop tonight."

"Why, you're an elf," Johan said. "I wondered why a little girl was speaking for two grown men.

Well, gentle elf, tell me what this need of yours is that it should take precedence over a well-deserved rest for my brother and me."

Chentelle examined the man. She could sense the fatigue in his muscles, the soreness in his back and shoulders. He was not being lazy. He truly did feel the need for rest. But she had to convince him.

She knew that he could feel her own urgency, the power of her need. He just wanted to know what caused the feeling, so he could evaluate the need for himself.

She opened herself up to his scrutiny, pulling down any barriers to her thoughts and emotions.

She let him feel the terror, the horror, the desperation that she had experienced over the last five days.

"The Dark One is alive," she said. "Ill-creatures are abroad in the Realm."

Johan cried out. "Such evil! How is it possible? The Dark One alive, Ill-creatures moving freely in the kingdoms. You were right, gentle elf, your mission must not be delayed."

The huge man stood up, revealing a frame at least four and a half cubits tall. "Daniel, return to your inn. You must spread this news among the villages. Burney, take these chairs back inside and make sure all of the fires are damped. I'll go ahead and start rigging the sails."

Johan picked up the lantern and started for the pier, his long strides leaving Chentelle and the others behind.

As she rushed to catch up, Chentelle heard a resigned whisper come from A'stoc.

"Yet another step on the road to despair."

* 7 *

Enlightenments

Johan guided the sailboat smoothly over the obsidian waters. Waves lapped gently against the bow, driven by the same steady breeze that filled their sails. The moon had not yet risen, but the boatman seemed completely confident in his knowledge of the bay. The Cathedral of Light was a beacon, both a mark of their destination and a sign that urged them forward. As they drew nearer, other lights could be seen. The small flickerings that dotted the far shore were obviously the city lights of Norivika. But there was also a haunting glow radiating from a small island to their south.

Chentelle turned to their pilot. "Captain, what is that glow?"

He laughed gently. "Please, call me Johan. The light you see is from the Atablicryon, the most sacred temple in the Holy Land. The most dedicated members of the Holy Order are often drawn to the island as a center of prayer and meditation, but the rest of us avoid it. It would be disrespectful to go there without strong reason."

"The Atablicryon," Chentelle said. "A'stoc, have you ever been there?"

The mage looked sad, suddenly, as if he were remembering something painful. "No, but my master did. It was from the gardens of the Atablicryon that he plucked the Tree of Life and shaped it with his magic into a weapon of destruction."

The bitterness in his voice saddened Chentelle. It was so unnecessary in this place of perfect harmony. "But the Staff isn't just a weapon, is it? Surely its power can be used for other things."

"I have no way of knowing," he said. "For me, it is useful only as a walking stick."

Again, Chentelle felt the pain in his voice. She searched for some words to ease that pain, but she found none. The silence stretched between them.

A'stoc dropped his eyes. "I apologize. I should not take my anger out on you, even muted as it is in this region. You are right; the Staff can be used for other things. My master used it to prove that the Fundamental Law of Wizardry was incorrect."

"The Fundamental Law?"

"You are familiar with the elven Lore of wood-shaping?"

"Of course," she answered. "Rillandef and rillanmor, they are used to shape dead wood or live trees into useful items."

A'stoc nodded encouragingly. "And what happens when the shaper of an item dies?"

"Then another has to renew the enchantment, or else the wood will return to its original form."

"Exactly," A'stoc said. "That is the Fundamental Law, the belief that all magic dies with its maker. Whether the common Lore of elves and dwarves or the finest spells of the old masters, all powers were subject to this law. Or so everyone thought. During the Wizards' War, my master and A'kalendane discovered the spells of Earthpower. With Earthpower, a wizard can tap into the energy of Creation itself. He can cast spells that survive his own destruction. A'kalendane used this power to create powerful weapons for the Legion; my master used it to shape the Thunderwood Staff."

The mage's eyes became unfocused, as if he were staring at something far away. "I remember the first days after A'pon learned to control the Staff. He dreamed that its power could be used to affect the Creation itself, to heal the Flaw that destroyed the Time of Perfection."

Suddenly, the bitterness was back in his voice. "Instead, he used it to create yet another scar for this world to endure. Thus runs the road called hope."

Chentelle sat helplessly as A'stoc's pain washed over her. The mage was tortured by demons that not even the Holy Land could wash away completely. She wanted to reach out to him, to ease his burden, but she did not know how. Finally, she turned away and watched the lights of the Holy City flicker above the bow.

Johan steered the skiff expertly into an empty docking space. He dropped the sails, and Burney jumped onto the pier to tie them off. "Well, here we are. Good luck in your journey, gentle elf. Put your trust in the High Bishop. He is close to the Creator; he will know what to do."

"Thank you," Chentelle said. "And thank you for the passage; we appreciate your sacrifice."

"I did only what was necessary," Johan said, dismissing her compliment with a shrug. "Burney, get back on board, brother. There's a soft bed calling for me, and I don't aim to keep it waiting."

A'stoc started down the dock before the boat had even pulled away. "We will not find a carriage this late. We must walk."

Chentelle followed him down the deserted pier and into the city streets. It was so different than she had imagined. In Lone Valley, they told stories of human cities, stories of dirty streets and cramped alleys filled with people. But Norivika was beautiful. Wide avenues ran between rows of well-kept townhouses. Gardens were common, and nearly every intersection was decorated with a park or a fountain. Crystal orb-lights illuminated every corner, and the soft music of wind chimes floated in the night air.

They turned onto a wide boulevard that headed straight for the radiant spire of the Cathedral of Light. The road climbed a long, gentle hill. Gradually, the townhouses thinned and then disappeared altogether, replaced by a vast park which surrounded the foot of the Cathedral.

As they reached the park, more details became clear. The main body of the Cathedral consisted of four large halls with curved facades. The halls formed a great circle surrounding a tall central spire, which rose above the park like a bejeweled mountain. Huge orb-lights were located at the junctures of the halls and underneath the base of the spire, spreading their illumination through the entire crystal structure.

They passed through a large portal and into the antechamber of the temple. Chentelle noted that there were no gates guarding the way, no doors which could be barred against entrance. That was proper. The Cathedral was the meeting place for the races of man and their Creator. It had to remain open to all.

A young human in white robes came forward to greet them. "May I help you, travelers?"

Chentelle started to speak, but A'stoc answered first. "I am A'stoc, Bearer of the Thunderwood Staff. My companions are the Enchantress Chentelle—the Messenger—and her liegeman, Sulmar.

We are here to answer the High Bishop's call."

The young man bowed respectfully. "This is a great honor, Bearer. You and your fellowship are most welcome to our hospitality. We have been eagerly awaiting you, especially since the others arrived. I am Brother Ethnan, personal acolyte to the High Bishop. Chambers have been set aside for your use. If you are amenable, I will take you to them."

"Please do."

"The High Bishop will be informed of your presence," the acolyte said. "I feel certain that he will want to meet with you in the morning."

Brother Ethnan led them into the body of the Cathedral and up to the second floor of one of the main halls. The translucent walls, floors, and ceiling were disorienting. Chentelle's feet were secure in the solidity of the crystal, but her eyes kept telling her she was hanging in the air without support.

Some of the chambers they passed were screened with tapestries and rugs, giving their occupants privacy. It was to a collection of these rooms that they were taken.

"These are your chambers," Brother Ethnan said. "Breakfast will be served upon the rising of the Golden Sun. Is there anything else you require?"

A'stoc shook his head.

"Then I bid you all a good night. Sleep well; the Creator is near."

The acolyte left, and they each entered one of the shielded sleeping rooms.

Chentelle was exhausted, but she was not so tired that she failed to notice the beauty of her surroundings. The floor was covered completely by a thick rug, and rich tapestries concealed the walls of the chamber, decorated with flowing scenes showing the Sphere of Creation as it was during the Time of Perfection. A large wardrobe sat open and empty next to a bed that would easily sleep six of her. Beside the wardrobe was a chest of drawers with a pitcher of fresh water and a basin. On the wall across from the bed, an open window let in the cool sea breeze.

Chentelle slipped her boots off and ran her toes luxuriously through the carpet. Quickly, she stowed her gear and poured water into the basin. She washed herself thoroughly, and then, after a moment's thought, washed her robe as well. If they were going to meet the High Bishop tomorrow, she should look her best. After she finished; she hung the dress in the wardrobe to dry. Then she brushed her hair, working out the kinks and tangles of several days on the road. Finally, she collapsed gratefully onto the bed.

She slid between the cool linen sheets, letting the soft mattress soothe her into sleep. Her muscles ached from the long hours of walking, but she felt a deep sense of satisfaction. She had followed her dream, and brought A'stoc to the Holy City. Still, she was haunted by a feeling that her part in this fight was not over. She tried to figure out the source of her premonition, but the call of sleep was too strong to be denied. Her eyes closed, and she did not dream.

* * *

Chentelle awoke to the smell of blueberry muffins. She glanced around her in confusion. Was it morning already? Her sheets and blankets were still neatly tucked, and she felt as if she had only just closed her eyes. But even if the aroma of breakfast didn't convince her, the golden light coming through the window was conclusive. She slid out of bed and splashed water on her face, trying to wash away her lethargy. She did not remember the last time she had slept so deeply and dreamlessly.

She dressed herself quickly and headed for the assembly chamber where Brother Ethnan had indicated that breakfast would be served.

The large table that dominated the room was crowded with food and people. Sulmar sat on his own at one end of the table, but Chentelle had no idea who the others were. Most of them were elves and wore Legion uniforms. But one of the Legionnaires was human, and several of the elves wore civilian clothing. All of them were heartily attacking the delicious-smelling breakfast.

As Chentelle moved to take a seat near Sulmar, a silver-haired elf in unmarked leathers stood and faced her. "Greetings, lady, I am Thildemar, from the forest of Inarr. My companions are Legionnaires under the command of Lord Dacius Gemine." He nodded his head toward the human, a heavily muscled warrior whose fierce red hair and beard were offset by gentle blue eyes and a kind smile. "Also with us—"

"Captain Jack Rone," interrupted a stocky and deeply tanned elf, "and I make my own introductions, thank you." He bowed deeply over Chentelle's hand. "At your service, my lady. I have been telling my mates that this Cathedral of Light was the most beautiful sight in the wide Realm. I see now that my judgment was hasty."

Chentelle blushed, both flattered and embarrassed by his words. "I am Chentelle, from Lone Valley. I see you have met my liegeman, Sulmar. We travel with Wizard A'stoc, who comes at the request of the High Bishop."

Captain Rone guided her to a seat at the table near his own. "We, too, travel on the High Bishop's business. Though it has been two days since we arrived, and His Eminence has yet to tell us what that business might be."

"Captain Rone!" the human lord shouted, but his voice held more amusement than anger. "You know the High Bishop has only been waiting for the arrival of these brave souls. He wishes to brief all of us at once."

"Of course, Lord Gemine," the captain said. "You must forgive me, lady. I lost a fine ship and crew to a vile creature from Firesta's deepest pit. Why, the Ill-creature would have killed us all if not for my own bravery. And the strong arm of Lord Gemine, of course."

"You were attacked, too?" Chentelle asked. "What happened?"

Lord Gemine laughed. "Perhaps I should tell the story, lady elf. The good captain chafes when he is forced to chain his imagination to the truth, and this story has enough pain."

The human's tone turned serious as he related the Legionnaires' battles on board the Otan Stin and at the border garrison. In the heightened atmosphere of the Holy Land, his tale carried them along as if they lived the events with him. Grief filled the room as he spoke of the deaths of Commander Thean and his good friend, Alka Shara.

Tears ran freely down Chentelle's face. It was so terrible. She stood and went to Lord Gemine.

The human sat silently, still lost in the sadness of his tale. Chentelle wrapped her arms around the man, hugging him tightly. It was a small comfort, but it was all she could do. "Do not blame yourself, Lord Gemine. You did all that anyone could."

The human squeezed her tightly for a moment and then released her. "Thank you, lady. I feel your special healing power. But do not let my sorrow color your own heart. I mourn my friend's death, but be assured, I know where to lay the blame for his demise. And please, my name is Dacius."

"And I am Chentelle."

"Lady," Thildemar said. "You said that you and your companions were also attacked."

"Yes." Chentelle told them about the journey from A'stoc's cave and the battle on the hilltop. As she spoke, she could feel the iron resolve of these men. They understood the horror she was describing, and they were determined to defeat it. When she described how the vikhor had wrested the Staff from A'stoc's hands, she heard a gasp of surprise.

"The Thunderwood Staff," said Thildemar. "I believed that it had been destroyed in the Desecration."

Chentelle heard a strange note of longing in his voice. "No. It survived, as did A'stoc himself."

She remembered the scenes of destruction she had experienced in the mage's mind. "But nothing else."

"No," Thildemar agreed, "nothing else."

"That was a terrible time," Dacius said. "And so will this one become, unless we stop it. It seems clear that the High Bishop has called us together to stop the Ill-creatures."

There were murmurs of agreement from the other Legionnaires.

As Chentelle returned to her seat, she again noticed Sulmar seated at the table's far end. There was no feeling of isolation or rejection about him, only a sense of detached readiness. She nodded toward him and smiled. "How are you this morning?"

He glanced down at his bare right arm and returned her smile. "I am well, mistress."

"He speaks!" Captain Rone exclaimed. "You are a miracle worker, young beauty of Lone Valley. I plied the man for an hour with the finest food and conversation this side of Essienkal and received only a greeting edgewise for my trouble."

Chentelle glanced at her liegeman, who remained silent. "Why do you not speak to them?"

"Mistress, you are my liege," he said. "I divulge no information unless you express otherwise."

Chentelle understood. The Tengarian's Oath of Discipline apparently had little room for ambiguities. He was an instrument of her will. He did nothing without her consent. She was a little intimidated. Such service was a frightful responsibility.

"Sulmar," she said. "These men are here for the same reason that we are. Please speak freely with them." She turned to the others. "Do not be offended. It is his way."

Captain Rone spoke quickly. "Oh, we weren't offended, fair lady. We understand the need for discipline and secrecy. Why, I remember once when I was sailing off the—"

The captain's story was interrupted by the sound of Brother Ethnan clearing his throat. "Forgive the intrusion. But if you have all finished eating, the High Bishop would like to speak with you all in the meeting hall. If everyone—" He stopped and looked about. "Where is the Bearer?"

Chentelle looked at the still-closed door to the mage's sleeping room. "I will get him," she said, rising from the table.

The heavy crystal door swung open easily at her touch. Curtains were drawn across the chamber's window, and the screening tapestries blocked out the light which suffused the Cathedral.

A'stoc lay fully clothed on the bed, clutching the Staff to his chest. He stared in dread at the darkened ceiling, as if the building were about to collapse and crush them all.

"A'stoc," she called softly.

He snapped his head around, glaring at her as if she had struck him. But he did not speak.

"The High Bishop wants to see us," she said.

"Of course," he said. "We might as well get this over with." He jumped quickly to his feet and followed Chentelle back to the assembly chamber.

Brother Ethnan spoke to A'stoc as they entered. "If you wish to break fast before the meeting, Bearer, we will wait."

"No. I have no wish to delay."

The acolyte bowed and indicated that they should follow. A'stoc and the others did, but Chentelle, and therefore Sulmar, held back.

A'stoc paused. "What's the matter?"

"I am not part of this meeting," Chentelle said. "I came only to see you here. I do not wish to intrude where I do not belong."

He snorted. "You aren't done yet, lady elf. I can still balk."

"But—"

Brother Ethnan smiled. "You are on the list, Lady Chentelle. Please do accompany us, with your liegeman."

She was supposed to join the meeting? This was a courtesy she could not decline. She nodded acquiescently.

He led them through the outer hall to the stairs of the central spire. They ascended several levels and then followed a corridor which curved along the outer wall of the tower. The busy streets of the Holy City were clearly visible far below them.

Chentelle felt a twinge of dizziness and eased away from the transparent outer wall. She looked down at the floor, hoping to steady herself. There was nothing there. A hundred cubits below her feet, the ground beckoned to her. "Oh, no!" she cried, stumbling in vertigo. Only Sulmar's supporting arm kept her from falling.

"Thank you," she said. "This walking on air takes some getting used to."

Brother Ethnan laughed gently. "I know what you mean. It took me several weeks to stop bumping into walls, and even longer to walk without my hands spread in front of me. I look upon it as an act of faith."

They continued down the corridor until it ended in a huge set of crystal doors. Brother Ethnan threw these open and led them into a vast hall, filled with hundreds of paintings and sculptures. All of the artworks were dedicated to the Creation and the Time of Perfection. A huge table commanded the center of the room, surrounded by chairs for at least fifty people.

"Please make yourselves comfortable," the acolyte said. "The High Bishop will be here in a moment."

Chentelle ran her hand over the smooth surface of the table, feeling the love and care that went into its crafting. It was obviously the product of rillandef. The wood from a dozen oaks had been seamlessly blended by a true master of the art. No carvings decorated the table, but the natural grains of the wood had been highlighted and enhanced. The graceful swirls hinted at a dozen designs and elegantly evoked the flowing harmony of the Creation.

The company seated themselves around the table. Almost immediately, the doors opened again, and two figures came striding through. The first was an elderly human wearing a white robe identical to Brother Ethnan's. The other was shorter, the size of a dwarf or a small elf. He, or she, was completely masked by a voluminous, cowled white robe. Even the hands were hidden inside long, bell-shaped sleeves.

Both figures marched quickly to the head of the table, and the human spoke. "Greeting to you all. I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan."

Everyone stood and bowed their heads in respect.

"Please join hands," the High Bishop said. "I would like to call the Creator's blessing to our gathering."

The company linked hands, except for the cowled figure, who extended the folds of its robe in lieu of them. Chentelle wondered at this, but obligingly took a fold in her hand, as did the person on the other side. In this manner they formed the circle, which represented the Sphere. But there was a problem. The table was too wide for the members on the end to reach across. Brother Ethnan overcame the difficulty smoothly, climbing onto the polished surface and sitting respectfully with crossed legs. From there, he could easily grasp hands with the people on either side.

When the circle was whole, the High Bishop spoke. "In the name of the Creator, I called for you to come. In your love of the Creation, you answered that call. In the circle of worship, we come together. In the circle of worship, we create the Perfection of the Sphere. In the circle of worship, we find harmony with Creation. In the harmony of Creation, we find all. The Creator blesses us with this gift."

"Bless the Creator," they responded.

The High Bishop motioned for them to sit. "To start with, I think some brief introductions would be helpful." He nodded toward A'stoc. "Wizard, will you begin?"

A'stoc stood. "I am A'stoc, apprentice to A'pon Boemarre, Bearer of the Thunderwood Staff."

Then he sat.

Now, it was Chentelle's turn, but she wasn't really sure how to announce herself. Finally, she decided on the title that A'stoc had given her at the gate. "I am Chentelle, the Messenger. And this is my liegeman, Sulmar."

Thildemar went next, naming himself and his homeland. Then each of the Legionnaires declared himself by name and regiment. Finally, Captain Rone introduced himself and his two crewmen, Zubec and Pardec.

The High Bishop listened to them all. Then he turned to Chentelle. "I am curious. You announced yourself as the Messenger. What became of the Wizard A'mond?"

"Your Eminence, he died during the winter," Chentelle said. "The dove you sent came to me, and I carried your message to A'stoc."

The High Bishop made the sign of harmony and closed his eyes in prayer. "A'mond, yours was a brave and gentle soul. Your passing leaves us all poorer for your absence. I will pray that you find peace with the Creator. But in my heart, in my faith, I know that you have already done so. Be whole in the Creation, my friend. When the time comes, we will be together again."

The words were charged with a power of faith and reverence that called to something deep within Chentelle's spirit. Tears rolled down her face as she was overcome by a grief she hadn't realized was still within her. The pain of A'mond's death came upon her anew. Then it faded into nothingness as the grief was lifted from her. Joy and understanding filled her, for as she let go of A'mond in death, her heart sang with memories of A'mond in life.

Suddenly, Chentelle realized that the High Bishop had spoken to her again. He looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. "Um, I'm sorry, Your Eminence. What did you say?"

He smiled reassuringly. "Please, call me Father Marcus. 'Eminence' is too proud a title, especially for this brave company. I asked how it was the dove came to you. Are you a student of the High Lore?"

Chentelle tried not to blush. There was nothing intimidating about Father Marcus' manner. But he had such a serenity about him, such a sense of presence, that she was nervous anyway. "No, Your E—no, Father Marcus. I think the dove came to me because of my Gift. I am an enchantress."

Amazement showed on his face. "You surprise me, my dear. I did not know an enchantress existed in the Realm. Why did you not introduce yourself with the title?"

Chentelle shrugged, embarrassed at her mistake. "I am not used to announcing myself as one.

And in any event, I do not belong in this company. I merely sought to deliver the message, because A'mond could not, and—"

A'stoc broke in. "She is young, for an elf, High Bishop, and unfamiliar with the protocol for meetings such as this. But if not for her Gift, your message would never have reached me. And if not for her passion and persistence, I would never have been persuaded to come."

"Then all of Norivika owes her a great debt," Father Marcus said gravely.

Chentelle released a tense breath, grateful that the mage was speaking for her. And he was saying such kind things. Maybe Father Marcus' blessing had affected A'stoc, too. Maybe it had allowed him to release some of his own grief. She looked at the mage, letting herself see him with the vision of the Holy Land.

There was a calmness about him, now. A sense of acceptance and forgiveness that softened his thorny nature. But she realized that the hard core of anger remained. The deep pit of bitterness and self-doubt which plagued A'stoc still resisted the peace of the Holy Order.

She turned back to the High Bishop. "Father Marcus, did the dove ever return to you?"

"No," he answered. "It has not returned. Do you know what has become of her?"

Chentelle remembered her vivid dream of the Ill-creature dropping the lifeless bird at her feet.

Sadly, she nodded her head. "She is dead."

The High Bishop's face seemed to mirror her own pain. Tears welled in his clear blue eyes as he whispered a quiet prayer. Then he looked up and spoke to the company. "I know of the evil that roams beyond the Barrier, but I would hear also of your own experiences. Lord Gemine, will you share your tale first?"

"As you will, High Bishop." The human lord stood and drew in a deep breath, and a remarkable change moved through him. Deep, almost uncontrollable energy filled his body. His face and hands seemed to animate of their own accord. His eyes reached out to his audience, and he began to speak, pulling them into his tale with subtle gestures of hand and expression. His rough voice turned every word into a rasp, which he used to carve out the fine details of his saga.

Chentelle realized that Dacius' earlier telling, for all its power, had been restrained. He had a flair for telling that even Willow would envy. Though scarcely an hour had passed since Chentelle last heard the story, it hit her with undiminished force. She felt herself carried along with the joy of the human's reunion with Alka Shara, and her tears fell again at the telling of his valiant sacrifice. Finally, the tale brought them back to the Holy Land. Lord Gemine stopped speaking, his gruff tones deepening slowly into silence. But it was not an empty silence. The charge of battle, the pain of lost comrades, the determination and courage of the Legionnaires, these things and more echoed through the quiet hall.

Dacius spoke again. His voice was steady, forceful, but empty now of the rough power that had driven his narrative. "High Bishop, I understand that you have called on the Legion to counter this threat, and we stand ready to answer that call. But you see how many men are here. We do not even fill this table. Without more weapons, I do not see how we can stem the Dark One's tide."

"Patience, Lord Gemine," Father Marcus answered softly. "I will answer your concerns, but first I would hear the wizard's tale. If you would be so kind, Wizard A'stoc."

A'stoc shrugged and then spoke without rising. "The enchantress brought me your summons. I decided to answer it. Ill-creatures attacked us on the way here. We escaped."

Father Marcus waited, but A'stoc said no more. The priest gave a soft sigh and turned to face the company. "I have called you here for a purpose, but perhaps not for the one which you expect.

The Dark One and his minions are a grave threat to the Realm, but they are not the only threat. There is another evil loose on Infinitera, a power more terrible than the Dark One himself, one that threatens to destroy the Creation. That is the reason I have brought you all here."

"But I am here only incidentally," Chentelle protested. "Because the dove found me instead of the one it sought. Now I must return home."

Father Marcus paused, seeming surprised. He glanced at A'stoc.

"She is a truly innocent creature," A'stoc said dryly.

Father Marcus smiled. "So I see." He turned to Chentelle. "My dear, you greatly underestimate your importance. The dove sought not merely a person, but a figure of power sufficient to do the necessary job. You were that figure, and you confirmed it by forcing the attendance of this curmudgeon." His gaze flicked to A'stoc, who grimaced. "Your potency is great, enchantress, though subtle, and we do need your participation in this most vital mission. I beg you not to desert us in this critical hour."

Chentelle was astounded. "But I'm only an elf girl who—"

"Have you not seen signs? Dreams? Signals that this is your destiny?"

There he had her. "I have dreamed," she agreed. "If it is truly your wish—"

"It truly is my wish, enchantress," he agreed. "For the sake of the salvation of our Realm."

She was overwhelmed. "Then of course I agree."

Father Marcus nodded, as if she had just confirmed the obvious. Then he addressed the full group. "Before I continue, I must make one thing clear. In this matter, I do not act as an official of the Realm. No oath or onus of duty compels any of you to join my quest. Any man, or woman, who wishes may leave now without bearing dishonor. I ask only that you remain in the Holy Land and speak to no one of what you have learned until the quest has been completed."

As the High Bishop paused to examine the faces of his company, Chentelle felt the weight behind his words. An evil more terrible than the Dark One, it was almost beyond belief. She felt suddenly small and insignificant. What could she do? She had been helpless even against the foul power of the vikhors. How could she fight a power greater than the mightiest of Ill-creatures? But how could she not? The Creation needed her, and she could not refuse. When Father Marcus' gaze fell on her, she just smiled and tried to nod resolutely. After all, she had just agreed.

Then the High Bishop's eyes turned to A'stoc. "I will wait to decide until I hear the object of this quest," the mage said.

He was not yet committed? And they expected her to see that he did commit. Chentelle sighed inwardly.

"Very well," Father Marcus said, turning back to face the company. "We will sail south, deep into the reaches of the Great Sea. There is an island there, the remnant of a lost continent. In the eleven thousand years of elven history, no mention is made of this land, but it exists. On the island is a second Atablicryon, a companion to our own Holy Temple. And in this temple we will find an artifact to aid us in our mission, the Sphere of Ohnn."

"The Sphere of Ohnn," A'stoc exclaimed, a look of amazement on his face.

"Do you know of the Sphere?" Father Marcus asked him.

A'stoc shook his head in confusion. "Yes—I mean no. I mean, the Sphere of Ohnn is a theoretical construct. My master and some of his colleagues speculated that an artifact might exist which served as a gateway to Earthpower through the inanimate, just as the Tree of Life functioned as a bridge through the living. But it was only a conjecture."

"It is more than conjecture," Marcus said. "The Sphere of Ohnn holds a fragment of pure Earthpower, the primal force which binds the Creation. Retrieving the Sphere is the first step of our quest." He paused, waiting patiently for A'stoc to speak.

Chentelle could feel the mage's excitement. His curiosity was aroused by the prospect of finding an object his master had only imagined. But something within the man held back. Years of bitterness and disappointment refused to release him from their grip.

"I am intrigued," he said. "Please continue."

The High Bishop nodded. "First, I would like to introduce my companion, Gorin, another follower of the Holy Order."

The cowled figure walked to Father Marcus' side and pulled back his cowl, revealing a pale round head, devoid of hair and far too large for his small body. Large black pupils floated in bloodred eyeballs, covered occasionally by a transparent lid that did nothing to interrupt his eerie stare. The ears were catlike and perched far back on the skull, and the pointed nose was partly covered by two flaps of skin which opened and closed in rhythm to his breathing. The thin black lips parted, revealing multiple rows of teeth. "Greetings."

"RRRAAAHHHH!"

Chentelle snapped her head around at the incoherent growl of rage. She saw Dacius jumping to his feet and reaching for his sword. Anger poured from the man in hot waves. His hand closed around the hilt of his weapon, and a bout of terrible trembling seized his body. A look of confusion crossed his face as he realized that he could not draw the blade.

"It—it's a goblin," he said, struggling to regain control of his voice.

Chentelle saw that several of the other Legionnaires had also gotten to their feet. They, too, were staring at the goblin as if ready for violence.

"Peace," said Father Marcus softly. "There will be no fighting here. Nor is there any need."

He was right, of course. The aura of the Holy Land made violence impossible. And it was equally impossible for the goblin to pose any threat to them here. Quickly, the Legionnaires returned to their seats, looking almost embarrassed for their reaction. Only Dacius remained standing.

The goblin reached out his hands in the sign of harmony, revealing long dexterous fingers tipped with gleaming ivory claws filed neatly into blunted nails. He met Dacius' eyes and spoke to him in a soft, impossibly deep voice. "I understand that you have reason to hate and mistrust many of my race.

But I am not they. I have dedicated my life to the teachings of the Holy Order. The Lord High Bishop has graced me with this opportunity to serve the Creation, and I am going to be accompanying him on this quest. I hope that you will be able to overcome your prejudices for the time which we will be together."

A chastened look came to Dacius' face as he dropped his hand to his side. He bowed to the goblin. "You are correct. If you work to assist the High Bishop, then you are not my enemy. I apologize for my outburst."

As Dacius returned to his seat, the goblin spoke again. "The island the Lord High Bishop seeks is known to my people. It lies far to the south of the lands of the Realm, well beyond any of your trade routes. In order to reach it quickly, we will have to follow the southern current. Do any of you understand what that means?"

"Aye," Captain Rone said. "It means hugging the coast of the Hordelands all the way. It means traveling for weeks within reach of goblins raiders."

"That is right," said Gorin. "We have to travel close to the lands of my people. That means danger, both from piracy and from Ill-creatures, for the Heresiarchs have always been open to the servants of evil. Therefore, it is to our benefit to travel discreetly."

The goblin bowed to Father Marcus, yielding the floor.

"Captain Rone," said the High Bishop, "have you ever sailed a goblinship?"

The elf raised one eyebrow. "Can't say I have, Father."

Marcus nodded toward his fellow priest. "Brother Gorin was once a sailor. The vessel he sailed on is still here in the Holy City. If you think you are able to pilot it, then we shall use that ship to avoid challenge as we pass through goblin waters."

"If I can handle it?" said Rone. "Beggin' your pardon, Your Worship, but there's not a sailing ship been built or dreamt that I can't handle with a willing crew, especially with a former hand there to help me learn the ropes. If you need a captain for your goblinship, then I'm your man."

"Excellent. Now, I propose to travel during the First Season of Light in order to avoid detection by the Ill-creatures. That should give Captain Rone time to familiarize himself with his new vessel and the rest of you time to make whatever preparations you deem necessary. Are there any other questions?"

Chentelle's mind was spinning. A secret mission aboard a goblinship, traveling to an uncharted island to retrieve an artifact that no one else even knew existed, battling the Dark One's creatures to fulfill a quest to stop an evil even more terrible than the Dark One himself—it was almost too much to comprehend. She had to follow where her dream led, but she never dreamt that it would lead her to this. She wondered what Willow would think, or her mother. Would her mother understand? Would she ever forgive Chentelle for leaving? Memories of Lone Valley filled Chentelle's thoughts, but even in her mind it seemed very small and very far away.

Dacius' voice brought her attention back to the present. "Your pardon, Father Marcus, but if we all sail off into the Great Sea, who will defend the Realm from the Ill-creatures?"

A flicker of sadness seemed to cross the High Bishop's face, but it was soon replaced by the quiet surety that seemed to surround him like an aura. "For that, we must depend on the Wizards'

Collegium at Tel Adartak-Skysoar. Our own mission calls us elsewhere, to face a more dangerous threat."

"But must we leave the Realm without protectors?" Dacius asked, dismayed. "I know that you say this other threat is more dangerous, but how certain are you of that knowledge? And how do you know we will find this island? Are we to abandon the defense of the Realm based solely on the word of one goblin?"

Father Marcus sat silently for a while, as if weighing a decision. "Forgive me. I have told you what I may. Gorin is not the source of my knowledge. It is another, one who I trust implicitly and absolutely. And now I must ask you to place a similar trust in me. I have no wish to keep secrets, but the knowledge I have been given carries a terrible price, a price I alone must pay. You must believe me: if our quest fails, then Infinitera will be destroyed by an evil more terrible than anything the races of man have ever known."

As the High Bishop spoke, Chentelle's mind was filled with images from her dream, visions of darkness spreading through the world. Unbidden, the words came to her lips. "The Fallen Star."

Father Marcus turned to her in amazement. "How do you know of this?"

"My dream. I've seen it in my dream."

The High Bishop nodded. "Yes, it is the Fallen Star of which I speak."

A'stoc's voice broke in. "What is this Fallen Star? Chentelle, why did you keep this from me?"

There was a resonance of pain in his voice, almost betrayal.

Chentelle didn't know what to do, how to answer him. "I didn't—that is, you never—"

"Wizard A'stoc," Father Marcus inserted smoothly into her awkward pause. "It was not her duty to inform you of this. It is mine. The Fallen Star is the evil that I have asked you here to defeat. It has come from beyond the Abyss and threatens the very existence of the Creation. It is powerful beyond measure; neither the power of the Holy Order nor the Lore of the Collegium can affect it. Only with the primal force of Earthpower can we hope to destroy it."

"So that is why," A'stoc said, "you seek the Sphere of Ohnn."

"Yes. And that is why I need you. I have the knowledge to destroy the Fallen Star, and the Sphere of Ohnn has the power. But only you can unlock that power."

A strange look came over A'stoc, as if he were listening to a distant sound. "Me? Why me?"

"You bear the Staff," Father Marcus said. "Only the Thunderwood Staff can free the Earthpower from the Sphere."

A'stoc stood and picked up the Staff from where it lay beside him. Slowly, in one hand, he raised it high over the table. When he spoke, it was in a voice filled with vitriol. "Then the world is dead."

A clamor of questions filled the chamber as the company tried to understand the meaning behind A'stoc's words.

With a sudden motion, the mage slammed the end of the Thunderwood Staff down on the table.

The loud clap reverberated through the quiet hall. When the echoes died, he spoke again, the words grating slowly between his clenched teeth.

"The knowledge of this power," he said, shaking the Staff in the air, "died with my master. I have spent a lifetime trying to unlock its secrets, a lifetime of failure and futility. I cannot summon orb-light through this stick, much less break open the Sphere of Ohnn and unleash the Earthpower! You must accept reality, Father Marcus. I cannot help you."

There was stunned silence. Chentelle saw the confusion as the others tried to digest A'stoc's words.

Only Father Marcus remained unperturbed. The iron foundation of the priest's faith seemed unassailable. "Nevertheless," he said, "we must try for the Sphere of Ohnn. It is our only hope. The Creator has not abandoned us. Perhaps on our quest we will uncover the means to unlock the Staff as well. Possibly the Wizard's Council at Tel Adartak-Skysoar will know how to help."

Chentelle cringed. The High Bishop had unwittingly said exactly the wrong thing. She remembered the visions she had gained when she touched the Thunderwood Staff, the deep pain A'stoc had felt at the Collegium's covetousness and betrayal. She prepared herself for the mage's furious retort, but it never came.

A'stoc only dropped his face into his hand and shook his head sadly. "You have no idea. You place your faith in fools and failures, then follow blindly down the inevitable path. The Council knows nothing. Your hope is misplaced."

Father Marcus rested a hand on the mage's shoulder. "I do not place my hope in such fragile hands, Wizard A'stoc. My faith lies in the Creator himself, and in the tools he has given us to protect his work. If the wizards of the Collegium have no answers, then perhaps you will find some clue in A'pon Boemarre's workshop."

A'stoc's head snapped upward as if he had been slapped. "What are you saying? My master's workshop in Odenal revealed nothing of his work."

The High Bishop nodded. "But surely you know he had a workshop here in the Cathedral, as well. It was here that he carved the Thunderwood Staff."

A'stoc's eyes were suddenly alert, almost manic in their intensity. "And this workshop remains intact?"

"It is untouched since his departure. The seals on the chamber have not diminished through the decades. It has resisted all of our attempts to enter. If you can open the door, then perhaps you will find something useful."

A'stoc slammed his hand against the table. "I am' a fool! Sixty years of failure and frustration, and I never guessed that this workshop might still exist. Perhaps A'valman was right about me." He started to stand. "Father Marcus, where exactly is the laboratory?"

The High Bishop stopped him with an upraised hand. "A moment, Wizard A'stoc. I will take you there once this meeting is adjourned."

He turned to face the assembled company. "You all have an understanding, now, of the task that lies before us. I say again, if anyone here does not wish to take part in this quest, they may decline freely." He paused, but no one spoke. Chentelle knew why: the others could not deny the effort to save Infinitera, any more than she could.

"Then this meeting is concluded. I suggest that we all use the weeks until the Ceremony of Light to prepare ourselves. If you require anything from the Cathedral staff, please make your needs known to Brother Ethnan."

Father Marcus left the table, motioning for A'stoc to follow. Chentelle moved quickly to the mage's side. "Wait for me."

"Lady Chentelle," Father Marcus said, "I would like to have this time alone with Wizard A'stoc, so that we may acquaint ourselves. I am sure you can understand."

She couldn't go? After all this business about how important she was to the mission? Chentelle looked helplessly to A'stoc, but the mage avoided her eyes. Fine. If that was how he felt she would find something else to do. She spun around, almost running into Sulmar, who had fallen noiselessly into step behind her.

"One moment." A'stoc's voice made her stop and turn again. "Perhaps it would be best for the enchantress to accompany us. I seem to recall she has an interest in magical laboratories, and I would never have learned of this one if not for her. I am sure you understand, Father Marcus. We will have many opportunities to come to know each other."

"Of course," the High Bishop said, smoothly reversing himself. He seemed quietly pleased, as if he had proved a point. "Please join us, Chentelle. We may all benefit from your insight."

"Thank you," Chentelle said. But she wanted to make a gesture of concession as well, so that the High Bishop would not be offended. "Sulmar, will you stay with the others so that we can keep abreast of their preparations?"

The Tengarian started to protest, but she silenced him with a gesture. "Please, Sulmar. I am in no danger here. The Holy Land protects us all."

Sulmar nodded, unable to argue against such an obvious truth. "As you wish, liege."

* * *

Father Marcus led them deep into the heart of the Cathedral. They descended flight after flight of crystal stairs until the transparent walls gave way to solid bedrock. They entered a hallway which led through a maze of wine vaults and underground storage rooms. The construction was granite, now, instead of adartak crystal, but the stone was highly polished and intricately fashioned.

The passage took them to a portal guarded by two massive wooden doors. A small shelf was carved into the stone beside the door, and in this shelf were several wooden rods, each carved in the shape of an open hand. Inside each hand was a large, polished crystal.

Father Marcus lifted out one of the rods. "The light of the Creation shines within you. Share your light with us." He passed his hand over the crystal and a steady glow of orb-light grew within it.

Chentelle was amazed. She had felt none of the outpouring of power that A'stoc used to fuel his spells. Neither had she felt the kind of union and communion with the stone that was her own Gift.

The stone seemed to be glowing in the light of its own power. "How did you do that?"

Father Marcus called light from another rod, smiling at her curiosity. "We follow the wisdom of Jediah, who learned that through faith and devotion it is possible for us to recapture a small part of the original Creation. In the Time Before, all adartak glowed with the light of Perfection. I have merely reminded these crystals of their true form."

The High Bishop pushed open one of the doors and led them down into the catacombs. The stonework here was much rougher than in the cellars above, and a thick coat of dust swirled around their feet. They weaved their way through a dozen twists and turns, following intersections that seemed to materialize from out of the shadows. Always the High Bishop seemed to choose the narrowest and most uneven of hallways, and always their path sloped deeper into the earth.

"I believe that Wizard A'pon was jealous of his privacy," Father Marcus remarked, "so he chose a location that would deter visitors."

"Indeed," A'stoc said. "He gave orders that no one was to come near during his experiments, not even his apprentice."

The pain in those quiet words was almost too much to bear. Chentelle wanted to reach out, to reassure A'stoc that he was not the failure he believed. But the bitterness that surrounded him held her at bay. It was a wall without gates, impregnable, unbreachable.

"Of course, I forgot that you were there," said Father Marcus. "I was only a child at the time.

But you never came back to the Holy City, did you? So Father Serdonis never had a chance to tell you about the workshop."

"No," A'stoc agreed. "I never returned."

"We're close," Chentelle said. She could feel it. The air down here was cold and damp, but it hummed with an almost audible energy. She could feel a great concentration of magic ahead.

"Why, yes," Father Marcus said. "We are close. It is just around this last bend."

They turned the corner and entered a long, straight passageway. At the far end, just before the hallway ended in blank stone, a large wrought-iron door hung on the left wall. The stone of that wall was alive with power. It pulsed in Chentelle's mind, beating with a slow, steady rhythm like the heart of the world. It surrounded not only the door, but the very walls of the chamber within.

"There it is," Father Marcus said. "But that door has resisted all attempts to access the chamber within. Neither tools nor spells nor the prayers of my brethren have been sufficient to the task."

A'stoc ran fingers slowly over the iron lock. "I have some Lore in magical locks. Perhaps that will be enough." But there was little hope in his voice.

Chentelle felt the mage reach out with his power. Sweat beaded on A'stoc's brow as he reached his mind through the metal, exerting his will on the bars and tumblers. Slowly, straining against decades of disuse, the lock clicked open. But the magic ward was unaffected. A'stoc pulled at the ring, but the door did not move.

"What is wrong?" Father Marcus asked. "I heard the lock open."

"There must be another lock somewhere," A'stoc said. "But I did not sense it with my magic.

Perhaps it is in the wall."

Another lock? "Wait," Chentelle said. "It isn't another lock. It's a spell. There's a magic ward that covers the whole chamber."

"What? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she said. "I can feel it. It's very powerful. And it flows with its own rhythm, almost like a living thing."

A'stoc's eyes widened in understanding. "Of course, he used the Staff. I didn't think to check for a magical ward; all of A'pon's spells should have died with him. But with the Staff he could fuel his ward with Earthpower."

"And you have the Staff," Chentelle said. Then realized her mistake. He had not mastered the Staff.

The excitement in A'stoc's eyes died suddenly, replaced by a look of absolute defeat. "Then we are lost. No wizard alive has Lore which can counter such magic."

"I could send for some engineers," Father Marcus said. "We could remove a section of the wall."

"No. The stone would not give way. It will hold to the shape of the ward until the spell is broken.

And the spell will not fade until the power of Creation is broken. We are lost."

A'stoc turned and started marching furiously back and forth in front of the doorway. The thick air vibrated with his anger and despair. With every second step he brought the Thunderwood Staff down hard against the stone floor, sending deep echoes of sound through the narrow passage.

Chentelle looked to Father Marcus, but the High Bishop just shook his head helplessly. They settled in and watched the mage pace.

Eight steps. Turn. Eight steps. Turn. And all the while beating his tattoo against the stone floor.

Boom. Pause. Boom. Pause. The corridor shook with the rhythm. Even the throbbing of the mystic ward adjusted itself to the mage's cadence.

"A—A'stoc," Chentelle said tentatively.

"WHAT?"

"The ward," she said. "It's responding to the Staff."

"What?" This time the mage stopped pacing.

"The pulsing," Chentelle said. "When you beat the floor with the Staff, the ward pulsed in response."

A'stoc looked at the Staff in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. Slowly, he reached a hand out and placed it against the stone wall. "I think it would be best if you both sought shelter around the corner."

He was going to try it!

Father Marcus glanced quickly at the Staff and the door. "I understand."

Chentelle could feel A'stoc's tension and determination. She pressed a hand softly against his arm. "You can do this," she said, and then joined Father Marcus in the walk down the corridor. She was halfway to the corner before she heard the mage's reply, barely audible even to elven ears.

"Or die trying."

Chentelle huddled against the stone wall while A'stoc prepared to attack the ward. Effortlessly, she invoked her Gift, letting herself flow naturally into expanded awareness of the Holy Land. She felt the quiet presence of Father Marcus beside her, wrapped in a peace and serenity that was almost inhumanly beautiful. The steady power of the ward burned like a sun, and the rock of the catacombs glowed in its reflection. And beside the ward, a tiny moth hovering near the holocaust, stood A'stoc.

The mage was summoning his power, using the steady mantra of his incantation to coat himself in thin shields of magic. As each layer was completed, A'stoc's presence seemed to solidify, to become clearer, more distinct. He wove his own identity into the spell, forging himself into an anchor of reality.

Without stopping his chant, A'stoc raised the Thunderwood Staff and placed it against the ward.

Immediately, the Staff flared into life, pulsing in unison to the ward's rhythm. Magic flared through the hallway, igniting the very air in a maelstrom of power. And in the center of it all, standing like a rock against the hurricane, was A'stoc.

The mage increased the urgency of his chant, stressing the rhythm, hammering out the beat with his voice and his will. He drove his power into the Staff. And, slowly, the Staff responded. The throbbing of the wood changed, adjusting itself to the tempo of A'stoc's spell.

But the rhythm of the ward did not change. Where Staff and spell came together, there was conflict, disharmony. A shudder passed, as though the world held its breath. And chaos erupted in an explosion of violence.

Chentelle was thrown into the air. She fell, sliding against the floor and slamming into the far wall.

Pain lanced through her head, and the world became hazy and indistinct. Darkness closed in around her vision.

"Chentelle? Enchantress, can you speak?"

Father Marcus' voice helped Chentelle to anchor herself. Slowly, everything came back into focus. Her face and arms burned from scraping across the rough stone, and the back of her head ached from impact with the wall, but she was not badly hurt. "I'm all right."

Father Marcus helped her struggle to her feet. The priest was unshaken, his robes as neat and unwrinkled as when he had entered the council chamber.

Chentelle tried to shake her head clear, but that only increased the throbbing. "What happ—"

"Aaahhhhh!" The scream of pure agony echoed through the narrow passage.

"A'stoc!" Chentelle pulled free of the priest's hands and ran around the corner. The walls of the hallway were blackened like the walls of a hearth, and dust clouds hovered over a small pile of rubble at the far end. A gaping hole in the left wall marked where the door had stood, but there was no sign of the mage. The mass of rubble and cloud of dust were not large enough to hide a body. As Chentelle came closer she saw another hole, scarring the wall opposite the doorway. A passage had been driven several cubits into the solid stone, and at the far end of the tunnel was A'stoc.

The mage sat sprawled on the floor, clutching his face in both hands. Tears ran down his arms, and his shoulders trembled violently. The Thunderwood Staff lay discarded by his side.

Chentelle rushed forward, almost losing her balance on the uneven ground. "A'stoc? Are you well?"

"Chentelle?" His head snapped up and his eyes locked on hers. "Chentelle!" With a sudden lurch, the mage jumped to his feet and grabbed her by the shoulders. He squeezed her tightly and ran his eyes up and down her body. "You're alive! I was afraid—I thought—"

"We are all alive, Wizard A'stoc," Father Marcus called from the hallway. "And you have succeeded where all others failed. The door is open."

A'stoc quickly dropped his hands. He swayed slightly, as if losing equilibrium, but soon righted himself. He bent and retrieved the Thunderwood Staff. "Well, then, let us discover what we have found."

A'stoc picked his way across the rubble and led them through the shattered doorway. The orb-lights revealed a square chamber, perhaps fifteen cubits on a side. The aroma of herbs and minerals filled the room, fresh as the day they were gathered. Four tables had once dominated the center of the room, stocked with vials and crucibles and a dozen other implements common to the wizard's workshop. All lay in ruin now, crushed under the impact of the twisted iron door, which had been torn from its hinges and thrown across the room. Partially obscured by the rubble, a narrow stone door in the far wall was still intact.

Only a desk and a small chest tucked into one corner had escaped destruction. A'stoc opened the chest and lifted out a pair of candlesticks, a silver place setting, and a red velvet tablecloth. A softness came over his features as he examined the items, then returned them gently to their places.

An inkwell and a small red notebook rested neatly on the polished surface of the desk. A'stoc pulled the quill from the well, fresh ink dripping from the tip. He paused for a moment, watching the ink pool, then opened the notebook. A look of pure astonishment crossed his face as he scanned the handwritten pages.

"By the Creator!" The mage whirled suddenly around, orienting on the stone door. Frantically, he scrambled over the shattered tables, oblivious to the splinters of wood and glass. He slammed into the door, pressing furiously against it for a moment. Then, making a sudden realization, he pulled on the handle. The door swung readily open, revealing a small chamber dominated by several large bookshelves. Each shelf was filled with neatly bound red volumes.

From the doorway, Chentelle and Father Marcus watched as A'stoc leaned the Staff carefully against one of the shelves. Then he pulled down one of the books and examined it in the orb-light.

"A'gnivesa's Experiments with Fire."

He cradled the book reverently for a moment. Then he replaced it with a trembling hand and reached for another. "The Codex of Cleansing Rites: Vol. I, minerals and salts."

The mage scuttled from shelf to shelf, calling out the titles of one book after another in childlike glee. Finally, he collapsed, sliding slowly to the floor with his back pressed against one shelf and a thick red volume clutched to his chest. "Bless you, Master," he said in a hushed voice. "Bless you."

Father Marcus cleared his throat. "May I take it that you find this discovery to be a cause for hope, Wizard A'stoc?" he asked softly.

A'stoc snapped a sharp look toward the priest, but then he threw back his head and smiled thinly. "You may take it as you wish, High Bishop. Thanks to the wisdom of A'pon Boemarre, the Lore of the great wizards has been preserved. Here, in the Holy Land where no evil could reach it, recorded by hand and ink, the legacy of my master is preserved. Whether that will be enough to save us, I cannot say."

Father Marcus stared. "All the Lore?" he asked, as if some impossible dream had come true, but was in danger of dissipating before it could be grasped.

"We must—" A'stoc paused, as if surprised at his own words. "We must share this discovery with the Collegium. But the originals must stay here, where they are safe. Can your scribes make copies of these volumes?"

"Of course," Father Marcus said. "I shall order the work to begin at once."

While the humans talked, Chentelle's attention was drawn to something at the end of the far shelf. Something about it just didn't look right. As she walked toward it, the impression disappeared.

She tried to remember what it was that had seemed strange, but she couldn't. The shelf was identical to all the others. Wait, not quite identical. This shelf was shorter. It seemed to be missing a section.

She walked to the other end, where the missing section should be. But it didn't make sense. The ends of the shelves were all lined up. They must be the same length. Then it became clear. The room wasn't square. The walls and the shelves all slanted slightly, creating the illusion of square angles. But this end of the room was narrower.

Chentelle walked around behind the shelf, hoping to get a better perspective. She discovered two things. First, there was not enough space behind the shelf for even a slim elf girl to squeeze. And second, the walls in this corner did not actually meet. A small gap, obscured by shadow, opened into a hidden niche. Inside the niche was a pedestal on which rested a single red notebook.

"A'stoc," she called. "I think you should come look at this."

The mage hurried over. "What is it, Chentelle? What have you—"

He broke off as he saw the hidden niche and its contents. Slowly, he approached the pedestal, holding up his orb-light to examine the book. "The Creation and Control of an Animate Manifestation of Earthpower as Extracted from the Living Gateway in Arboreal Form." He looked up, his eyes lighting. "By the Creator, enchantress, you found it!"

"Found what?"

"The powers of command for the Thunderwood Staff. This is where they're recorded. This lone volume is more valuable than all the others together. We're saved!" A'stoc flipped open the cover of the book—and a fine mist of soot billowed into the air.

The glow of the orb-light clearly illuminated the look of absolute horror on his face as he stared at the ashes which were all that remained of the book's pages.

* 8 *

Quest

Chentelle lifted the tray of food from Sulmar's arms. "I think it would be better if I went the rest of the way alone."

"I am sworn to your service, mistress," the Tengarian said, "but it is difficult to protect you if you will not let me stay by your side."

"Please, Sulmar," she said. "You know he does not react well to your presence. Besides, I am in no danger here."

Sulmar looked down into her eyes, his expression absolutely blank. "Very well, mistress, I shall be exercising in the gardens. But be wary. The Holy Land is proof against evil, but it does not necessarily protect us from harm. Bear in mind that explosion when the mage opened the workshop."

"Of course," Chentelle agreed quickly. "I'll come and get you when I am done."

She pushed open the heavy door with her foot and descended the steps into the catacombs.

Tracks in the dusty floor attested to the heavy traffic that this path had seen recently. Ever since the discovery of the Lore Books, the scribes of the Holy Order had been bustling about furiously. The job of organizing, indexing, and duplicating A'pon's library had them working day and night. Chentelle was a little nervous about intruding on their effort, but concern for A'stoc compelled her. The scribes worked in shifts, resting in turns, but A'stoc allowed no one access to the Lore books without his presence. He had been working without respite for three days.

A trail of orb-lights mounted hastily on the walls of the corridors marked Chentelle's path. She followed their trail, ignoring the myriad forks and side passages which seemed to have been constructed solely for the purpose of confusing travelers. As she neared her destination, she passed several newly opened rooms in which scribes were laboring. Finally she reached the workshop. The wreckage had been cleared from the room, but the twisted metal hinges still rested in the cracked stone of the doorway.

A long table had been placed just inside the door. A'stoc sat behind it, Thunderwood Staff propped carefully against the wall beside him. He had his face buried in one of the tomes that covered the table in a dozen haphazard stacks.

He did not look up as Chentelle pushed one of the stacks aside to make room for the tray of food. She lifted the cover off the tray, and the hearty aroma of hot stew filled the air. She even fanned the steam in the mage's direction, but still there was no response. "A'stoc! You have been working for three days. If you won't rest, then you must at least eat."

The mage snapped his head up from his book. "What have you got there?" he barked.

Chentelle jumped in surprise at his harsh tone. "Just dinner, A'stoc: stew and bread and some cheese and a tumbler of fresh water."

"What?" he said. "Oh, not you, Chentelle. Him."

Chentelle turned and saw a young scribe frozen in the doorway, clutching a large volume in his hands.

"The th-third volume of the metallurgy catalogue, wizard," he stammered.

"The third volume," A'stoc roared. "Then bring back the second volume."

"I-I h-haven't finished the second one, wizard. This one is for Lallas."

"Very well," said A'stoc, "but I'm holding you responsible for it." He scribbled a quick note onto a parchment and waved the scribe away, muttering about posting a guard. Then he looked up at Chentelle.

"And what do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to eat."

"Hel's Pits," he growled, slamming down his stylus in disgust. "Can I not have five minutes peace from these interruptions? I will eat when I am hungry."

"You will eat because you need to," Chentelle said, shoving the tray in his direction. "Now."

A'stoc glared at her, then lowered his eyes to the tray. "Well, perhaps some water. I am thirsty."

He picked up the glass and drained half of it in several large swallows.

Then he looked up at her, the ire now gone from his eyes. "All right, leave the food. I'll eat it as soon as I have finished with this chapter."

Chentelle yanked the book from his hands. She marked his place and carefully set the book at the far end of the table. Then she pushed the tray directly in front of him.

A'stoc pointed at the food. "Am I to assume that you will not leave until I have eaten this?"

Chentelle found another chair and removed the pile of books from its seat. Then she pulled it around the table and sat down across from him. "You are very perceptive, for an apprentice."

The mage inhaled deeply and slowly, as if he were about to explode. But he released the breath with only a snort and a self-mocking smile. "Father Marcus is right about who tames the curmudgeon," he muttered. He pulled the tray toward him and started to eat.

Chentelle was embarrassed but insistent. "It's just that you are so important to this effort. We can't let you starve yourself."

He glanced sharply at her. "No other reason, lady?"

Startled by the appellation, from him, she had no ready answer.

"If calling me 'wizard,' " he said between mouthfuls, "keeps these scribes in line, then I will not contradict them. Thanks to the Lore in these books, it may be that I will finally become worthy of that title."

Chentelle studied the mage, trying to see beyond the barriers he erected. The lean face and discontented eyes only hinted at the torments he inflicted upon himself. But she sensed something else, an excitement, an expectation. In anyone else, she would call it hope. The promise of the Lore Books called to him, drove him forward. Determination burned like molten steel in his soul. But even here, he was plagued by doubt, by fatalism, by the deep fear that his quest was doomed to failure.

Chentelle glanced at the books scattered across the table. The Lore they held was so different from her own Gift. Her talent worked in harmony with nature, finding the delicate balance of Creation and working with those rhythms. But the wizard's way was more cold, more calculating. The High Lore taught its practitioners to exert their will on Creation, reshaping it to their own desires. It was a strange philosophy, but she struggled to understand it.

"What were you studying?" she asked.

A'stoc gestured to the book she had taken from him. "That volume deals with some of the finer points of Wood Lore. It is number five in a set of twelve. Master A'pon taught me some of the Lore in this collection, but there are so many useful spells and experiments that he never shared. Given a decade or more, I could barely scratch the surface. If only he had told me of this library." He dropped his eyes and shook his head sadly. "Was I really so untrustworthy?"

Chentelle felt the pain of his question. "No," she said softly. "It's as you told me. The old Masters were afraid of their secrets being betrayed by necromancers. It wasn't just you. A'pon Boemarre was afraid to trust anyone with this Lore."

A'stoc nodded slowly. "Perhaps you are right, enchantress. Why else would he lock the books in the deepest basement of the holiest building in all the Realm?"

"Where they would be secure from all discovery," Chentelle said. "But you were able to overcome the spell on the door."

"Not me, the Staff. The Staff's magic was used to power the warding spell. When the two came in contact again, the Staff was activated and the power of the old spell was freed. All I had to do, all I could do, was redirect the power to another use."

Chentelle glanced pointedly at the empty doorway. "Well, to me it looked as if you dipped your hand into somebody else's magepool."

A'stoc stared at Chentelle with a look of astonishment on his face. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

It was a good laugh, one Chentelle was surprised to realize she had never heard before. There was fatigue in the sound, but the mirth was genuine, open. It pulled at her, coaxing her to join in the merriment. So she did It felt good to share an honest emotion with the taciturn wizard. It felt right. The song of their laughter rang perfectly in the harmony of this place.

The mirth faded away gently, naturally, leaving an easy smile on A'stoc's face. "Well put, enchantress. An apt analogy, indeed."

The mage swallowed a few more bites of stew. Then he looked up and adopted a more serious tone. "Chentelle, I want to thank you. I would never have come here if it had not been for your persistence. I admire your courage and your determination." He lowered his head quickly, almost before he had finished speaking, as if he were ashamed to admit his gratitude.

"Thank you for those kind words. You are most welcome to any help I may have given you."

"You are as gracious as you are—" A'stoc turned away, not finishing. He mopped up the last of his stew with a bit of bread and popped it in his mouth. Then he washed it down with the last of the water. Finally, he turned back to Chentelle. "There, I am finished. May I return to my book, now, mistress elf?"

Chentelle sighed as she felt the man's barriers snap back into place. It was so senseless. This land was alive with the music of Creation, and for a moment they had shared in that song. But now he was pushing her away again. He had opened up before, when conversation had turned to the Staff.

Maybe it would work twice.

She handed him the book. "Have you found out anything more about the Staff?"

A wave of pain washed over A'stoc's face. He reached into his robe and pulled out a bundled cloth. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth, revealing the charred remains of the book they had discovered. "I cannot understand it. It was all here, the command words, the hierarchy of powers, the rituals of binding, all recorded in my master's own hand. But then he destroyed it. It had to have been him. No one else could have bypassed the warding spell. But why? Did he become so jealous of the Staff's power that he could not stand the thought of anyone else using it?"

He paused, shaking his head sadly. Then he looked up at Chentelle, a thin smile coming slowly to his face. "But perhaps I have learned something after all, despite A'pon's paranoia."

"That's wonderful," cried Chentelle. "But what? How?"

"As you said," the wizard replied, "I put my hand into someone else's magepool. But I am not a novice. When the Thunderwood Staff was activated, I was not just riding the wave of power, I was also learning from it."

The force of his excitement crashed over Chentelle, making her almost dizzy. "Does that mean you can activate the Staff? Oh, A'stoc, that's fantastic. Do you think you will be able to help the High Bishop?"

"The High Bishop?" A'stoc's face darkened, all signs of openness and excitement hidden behind a curtain of suspicion. "Did he send you down here to ferret information out of me?"

"No! I mean—Father Marcus did ask me to talk to you, but—"

"So he sent you to see if the old apprentice knows what he is doing," A'stoc growled. "So you come bearing food in kindness, but all the while you're spying for Marcus."

Chentelle jumped to her feet. "I am not so manipulative! I came here of my own will, urged only by concern for you. Though I'm hard-pressed to imagine why at just this moment. Do all wizards lead lives of mistrust and suspicion? Have you learned nothing from the beauty of this land? I came to you with friendship, A'stoc. How you receive it is up to you." Her words were bold, but there were tears in her eyes.

A'stoc turned away from her, shielding his eyes with one hand. "Your words are convincing, but how can I trust them? You are an enchantress, able to weave the fabric of a man's heart with the power of your voice."

He hesitated for a moment, rocking back and forth in inner turmoil. Then he shot out of his chair, grabbing the Staff with both hands. He towered over Chentelle, anger flaring in his eyes, but there was no threat of violence. In this place, anger could be turned only to resolve. "You are curious. And the High Bishop is curious. Well, perhaps it is time to show you what I can do. I would not have you worrying unduly."

With that, the wizard marched out of the chamber, moving quickly with long, purposeful steps.

"A'stoc, wait," Chentelle cried. "Where are you going?" But no answer came.

She hurried out the doorway and caught a glimpse of the wizard disappearing around the corner.

She raced to catch up, having almost to run in order to keep pace with A'stoc's strides.

A'stoc ignored all questions about his destination or his purpose. In silence, he led her up from the depths of the catacombs. When they reached the ground level, he marched directly to the central stairway and started climbing again. The ground fell away as they mounted flight after flight of invisible stairs. The mage covered two or three steps with each stride, and Chentelle fought to keep up. By the time they reached the level of the main assembly hall, both were struggling for breath.

As they climbed to the next level, Chentelle saw that a large gathering was being held in the hall.

Father Marcus addressed an assembly of priests and other clergy. Chentelle waved frantically, catching the High Bishop's eye. She pointed at A'stoc, shrugged her shoulders, and motioned upward with both hands.

Father Marcus stared up at her through the transparent ceiling, surprise and concern plain on his face. Then he nodded. He spoke briefly to his fellowship and then headed quickly for the door.