Chapter One

"IS THAT HOW IT STARTED, GRANDFATHER?" The old man stirred in his chair and looked down at the girl, who sat cross-legged on a heavy rug at his feet. She seemed disappointed.

"What about the player's magic and Jacque the Fearless, who struck down the evil ones with fire from his hands?" She was a twelve-year-old with short dark hair and a pixie face and the watchful, gleaming eyes of her mother. Her name was Danita.

"The story began when Cleve Quinton was killed in the sacred chamber," the old man answered.

"Borland Avery came to Clarion a few months later. But there's something you have to remember." He paused, wanting her to understand this above all.

"Dorland Avery was a player but he was human. So was Jacque Hakim. That's what made them special. Gods can do anything. Humans have to work harder to accomplish miracles."

Dorland Avery stood motionless in the center of the stage with his feet slightly apart and his arms stretched out toward the audience. He was a strik9

William Greenleaf

10___

ing figure in his player's garb: loose-fitting white jumpsuit with black accents on sleeves and pant legs, wide black belt, a white headband with a silver medallion. Colors flashed around him and reflected off the curtained backdrop, changing rapidly through red, green, blue and orange with the beat of the music. He was deep in the player's trance. In the glass-enclosed control booth above the stage, Paul Jurick took his eyes away from Dorland and looked out over the audience. Nearly twenty thousand tonight, another full house. It was too dark to see their faces, but he knew from the absolute stillness that they were caught up in Dorland's performance.

"Take a look," said Jeffrey Hanes from the chair beside him. Hanes had been scanning the darkened auditorium with night goggles. Now his attention was on something in the balcony, far out behind the booth. He handed the goggles to Paul. "Upper level, fifth row on the left. A man with a beard." Paul swiveled his chair around to take a look. The goggles gave a clear image but filtered out colors to leave everything in shades of gray. He counted the balcony rows and found the man.

"What about him?"

"He just came in," Hanes said. "Late for the show. He looks nervous. And that outfit—he isn't from around here, that's for sure."

"Neither are we," Paul pointed out. "Last time I checked, being from someplace else wasn't a crime." The man in the balcony sat stiffly in his chair, arms thrust out with his hands grasping his knees. He stared fixedly at the stage. Paul studied what he could see of the face behind the beard. "He looks nervous about something, but not dangerous."

"The most effective killers never look dangerous." Paul lowered the goggles and looked sideways at