Finally beginning those promised edits! Long, because it was my National Novel Writer's Month entry. If I could figure out how to cut and resize it, I would.

By way of Introduction:

Karandun used to float free on the Ocean of Mists and Storms; far to the south of more settled lands, and only rarely accessible. Surrounded by fearsome currents and teeming with giants and monsters left over from primal chaos, the fog-shrouded island was left to fend for itself. So say the bards, at any rate.

How and why this slow-spinning realm was able to drift like a leaf, pointing sometimes one way, sometimes another, no one has ever explained. Enough to say that it was. That, so the gods willed it, back when they still interfered in the doings of mortals.

Then came Oberyn, Son of the Morning, Strider of Night, Shepherd of Stars, whose first footfall onto this plane, out of the rift and onto firm land, brushed upon Karandun. And what a footfall! The western plain, so they say, is naught but the scuff of his heel. (Rolling one's eyes is impious, and shall result in a doubled assignment. Attend!)

Forthwith and ever after, Karandun ceased her slow, graceful dance, becoming as deeply rooted as other, less magical, lands. Now, she lies cupped like a jewel in the palm of a turbulent ocean, fixed forever in place.

But the Strider had not come alone, nor only to fasten down wandering lands. With him, once he'd opened a way, came many great champions and mages. Battle was instantly joined, fought against creatures of horror and all of their fell, loathsome gods.

Dragons, giants, trolls and other, less wholesome creatures were slain, exiled of (rarely) won over to light. Some yet abide. Others have shriveled down to mere legend and myth, slinking back into darkness.

(It is easy to scoff when surrounded by order and plenty, while enjoying the peace of a realm torn by others from raw, pulsing chaos. May their like come again! Manna springs forth and you know not whence, nor how! Dragons remain as mere toys, dandled by lofty young maidens and lords! The Under-deep… Yes, it exists, you-who-know-better… The Under-realm has been sealed quite away, locked by the sigil of Oberyn. Go and try, if you dare. Join the throng who've been burnt beyond ashes, touching that vigilant rune! There shall be one less troublesome headache to bear! No? Very well, onward.)

Oberyn, having claimed this realm as his own, partially linked it to Faerie. The Needle yet stands as mute gateway and sentry, though few know its secrets, and fewer still have climbed to its uttermost peak.

At first, it seemed as though total victory had been attained, and the forces of darkness driven away, forever. New stars appeared like a scatter of gems in the sky, aligning themselves to declare Strider's glory. Our moon was drawn out of fathomless space; slim, cold and beautiful, lighting the hours of night.

But the vilest of horrors had not come forth with the first arrival of order. Biding its time, the distillation of chaos, pain and despair took gradual form. Plating itself in armor forged by each murder, betrayal and lie, feeding on treachery, it grew unbelievably strong, there in the veriest dark.

All that was needed, for the monster to burst from its torpor was distraction; inattention; a relaxation of tiresome vigilance.

Then… but all know what happened thereafter. How that rankest of serpents struck on the longest night of the year. How Oberyn and his champions, slow to believe and respond, rode forth at last to confront it. How continents sank or were shattered, cloud giant nations crashed to the ground. How an uneasy peace descended at last. One from which no one… not the Chaos-serpent, not Oberyn or any of his mighty warriors, ever returned.

And so, there it hung. Not peace, but stasis. One which required but a pebble's fall to disturb.

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1

He'd been drinking pretty intensely; staying just on the sweet side of broke and blind drunk, with the help of some powerful spells and an iron constitution. See, he'd actually done it; completed his third apprenticeship cycle to the most sarcastic, demanding, impossible master in Karellon, Sherazedan the subtle, master of all that is, was and is yet to be; declaimer of truth, scryer of paths, possessor of the hidden third eye, Imperial court mage and healer, brother to His Transcendent Majesty, blah, blah, blah… That the old lich had seemed just as surprised as Val himself, cocking a silver-pale eyebrow and muttering,

"I suppose that you've not entirely disgraced your name and your heritage," scarcely mattered.

He'd succeeded, against all odds, bets and expectations; using a few slightly rejiggered spells and his own quick wits to earn the title 'journeyman mage', a staff and a month away from the workbench.

He was supposed to be using that time for meditation; for planning his masterwork cantrip and storing up manna. Or, you know… going out on the town with the usual set of noble young ruffians, stirring up gold and excitement amid neon spell-glows and beckoning shills.

Someone (Prince Nalderick) had suggested they tackle the drinking part of the Seven Challenges. Sounded like fun, so off they went to the Open Casket; Marlie, Lyr, Naldo and Val; pausing for dice games, attractive companionship and deleterious moisture pretty near every step of the way.

No duels, because, even half-drunk, Valerian Tarandahl was not to be lightly crossed swords with. Even dressed down, he went armed, and everyone recognized Nightshade.

Anyhow, they'd at last burst into the Casket, brimming with sufficient coin and lowered boundaries to make slamming down the strongest draughts the planes could distill seem like a fine idea.

Auburn-haired Marlie… Aldimarilon Kalistiel when he was feeling his rank… tossed a coin at the shimmering door-ward, snapping,

"The Seven Challenges drinking tourney, at once!"

Magical energies sparked, shifted and faded over the doorway, allowing them entrance and scanning their purses. The tavern-keeper, Paryn Feen- no one important, wagged his grey head, but accepted their coin, showing the four high-born elves to a private booth in the back.

Fresh bread was brought, thumped down on the table with spiced oil and salted fruits by a stout halfling barmaid. She grinned at the tipsy young elves, shoving their food across the splintered oak surface to make room for a great deal of powerful drink.

"Yer Lordships y'll be needin' somethin' ta help youse absorb all that hooch," she told them, over the warm-up band's final song. A perfect cap to a marvelous night, and it should have been aces.

Val was surrounded by laughing companions, scented smoke and pounding loud music (the house band that night was the Necrophiles). He was flush with success and with freedom. An entire month away from Sherazedan! From court! Maybe away from the city, completely.

Ridiculous boasts were made. Nalderick, for one, claiming that he could drink all three of his teammates under the table and still take on the rest of the crowd. Naturally, Val had to top that, drawling,

"Kitten play. I can down all four draughts in the space of a song, then empty the sea-folk drinking horn."

Naldo's green eyes widened a bit. He sketched a slight, seated bow.

"By all means, proceed, " purred the Prince-Attendant, mentally counting his winnings. Further money changed hands.

By this time, the drinks had arrived; Flame brew, Tornadic ale, Krush Mudd and Moonlyte, to be knocked back in any order an utter fool might desire. Val wasn't concerned. He'd always been able to handle his liquor, and high-stakes betting was a vital resource for one with more noble lineage than funds; even a back-door imperial princeling.

Brushing a strand of blond hair from his face, he used casual magic to line up the bottles before him. As for the drinking horn, that was still just a shadowed suggestion. It would not take actual form until Val had slammed down the first four.

Somehow, word of the contest had spread. Other patrons gathered to watch and place hefty wagers. Val affected not to notice, reaching first for the clawed iron bottle of Flame brew. At a murmured word… his master would have approved the intricate spell, if not its use… the metal bottle popped open, dragging air from the bar and pulsing with heat.

The next song began: Raven Heart, a screeching power ballad with a very long lute solo.

'To Firelord,' thought Valerian, invoking his family god. 'Grant me a clear head tonight, Milord, and half of the winnings are yours.'

None of it showed on his face, though. Using his right hand rather than magic, this time, Val lifted that pulsing-hot flask to his mouth and, with calm, practiced elegance, downed its contents in one graceful draught. Not enough to just swallow the stuff. He had to look good while doing so.

Right.

Went down rather like magma, but at least he'd not had to drink it in flame giant quantities. More than challenging enough, even so. It tasted of dragon fire and char, with a very strong burnt metal aftertaste.

Down it went, causing all of Val's senses to heighten. He grew a sudden few inches and developed a slight, golden tan. Otherwise, nothing.

Out in the gathered crowd, someone muttered and paid up. Their problem, for misjudging his capacity for strong drink, not his for taking their money.

Next, the young high elf summoned the flask of Moonlyte. Silvery-pale and sprinkled with tiny bright gems that twinkled and flashed like blue eyes, this bottle was blessedly cool to the touch.

Another beautiful one-off spell unwound its filigree cap seal, releasing a shimmering glow, along with a scent like mint, iced fruit and cold river stone.

Kalisandra's goddess was Frost Maiden, to whom Val had once or twice made offerings, while spending time in her realm. Thinking now of that laughing, mischievous huntress, Val promised to spare any creatures the goddess chose to light up, then raised the flask to his slightly scorched mouth and tossed off its contents.

The liquor within tasted like wintery, pine-scented air. Like frost scraped off an icy window. Like snow-laden branches and mist. It also numbed him slightly, healing a very raw throat.

At this point, he was seeing into the spectators' flesh, clear on through to their fates. A touch of his aunt Meliara's curse, that, but only when drunk, thank mighty Oberyn. Val deliberately didn't look at his friends. Better not to know.

The Krush Mudd and Tornadic ale remained. Equally bad, the pair of them, but with very different effects. Val left the matter to fate and demand, reaching out with another spell guided by surges of crowd noise.

His magic seized upon the studded leather tube of Mudd, drawing the heavy container toward him and making it pulse with red sparks. All for show, but a scowling half-orc in back snarled,

"He's cheating! Them spells is switching the drinks fer milk or water!"

Val paused. Cocked an eyebrow and gestured, sending the tube of Mudd arcing gently over the crowd to hang in midair before the startled half-orc.

"By all means, my good creature," he drawled, "try some, yourself."

No light threat, as Mudd was something like alcoholic gravel suspended in smoke-flavored tar. Just getting it down took heroic determination, often leading to protracted coma, madness or death.

The half-orc reddened, snarled a few curses, then melted back into the jeering mob. Val let the moment hang a bit longer, giving himself time to steady a little before retrieving the slow-spinning tube.

"Anyone else?" he inquired, sounding bored. No one spoke up, so Val fielded that hovering, weaponized landslide and flipped off its cap.

What happened next was hotly debated throughout the Open Casket and, later, at court. For certain, he raised the tube to his mouth and started to drink. It… was truly awful. Very much the worst thing he'd ever tasted, in sludgy texture and excrescent tang. Brewed in the Boglands by trolls, the stuff was clearly not meant for elvish throats.

Also, though, that's when his father's sword appeared, glowing like a star; hanging in midair right before Val. Turning everything else in the place to smoke and illusion, the sword obscured its surroundings; piercing the table, shrieking a war-cry of vengeance and fury and blood.

No.

Not possible. Not here, not now, not to him, as that would mean…

The young elf lord surged to his feet, half tipping the heavy oak table. People and creatures around him shouted and scattered, for manna was draining like water from everything else around Val but that wretched, blaring-loud sword.

Sheer, raw, bloody-fanged panic triggered a sudden escape spell, one of the proofs he'd given of journeyman competence. Winking out like a candle, Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran vanished from the Open Casket with a thunderclap bang, bailing out on his friends, the packed house and a very steep bill.

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2

The escape spell punched him roughly out of the tavern, turning space inside out like an old bag, to remove him from danger. Maybe because he'd just been shocked sober, or because his world had been ripped apart at its root, Val showed up at the planned site… some three feet over the ground.

He materialized in the old waterfall cave where he, his older brother Lerendar and their father Keldaran camped out, when the family visited Karellon. The cave floor was sandy, with here and there scattered bed rolls and "rough it" supplies; to the left, a fire pit, further back, a bow-rack and arrows.

Elves, like cats, tend to land on their feet, but Val was still deeply shaken. He stumbled a bit upon hitting the ground. Had maybe ten seconds of peace, before the wretched sword reappeared, brighter and louder than ever.

A solid wave of rejection-nausea-rage overcame Val, who seized the hilt with both hands, swung the blade around once, and flung out straight through the sheeting waterfall, out of his family's campsite.

No good. The accursed thing arched back around, cracking him on the head with its pommel in the process.

Val reeled backward, abjuring the sword with spell, rune and gesture, but nothing worked. The call of blood and fire and vengeance would not be drowned out nor extinguished.

Now it flung a torrent of images at him, filling his mind with dad's jerking body and rolling head; with Lerendar trapped beneath a screaming, struggling bay horse. With goblins swarming like ants, dancing in blood.

And mother…? Not in the vision-tide. Whatever had happened had not included Lady Elisindara. Maybe. She might simply not matter at all to the sword of the Tarandahls, the sentient blade that he rejected with all he had in him.

'Silmerana, Warden of the North,' it kept repeating in tones of cold, slashing metal, 'Claim title and weapon, rise up to avenge the fallen!'

But, Val only backed as far as that shallow cavern would let him, stopping when timber and rock ground at his back and his palms.

"Go away," he grated, through tightly clenched teeth. "Leave me be."

But, it would not. Switching tactics suddenly, the weapon sneered,

'If there were anyone else… anyone remotely worthy… then to him or her I should have gone, Wastrel, but there remains only you.'

Right.

They'd never gotten along. The few times back home at Starloft that his father had allowed Val to take the sword's hilt, "Smythe" had loudly declared him a waste of breath, space and generative energies. At the last such humiliation, Dad had just laughed. Touseling his younger son's pale hair, he'd said,

"No matter. Oberyn willing, the need will never arise. Even if it did, Son, you'd grow to be man enough. We always do."

Except… he couldn't. Didn't want to. Wasn't Keldaran or Lerendar. Wasn't ready or able, at all. Back then, his older brother had winked at him, slapped at the family blade with an open palm and said,

"Stop that! Bad sword! Behave, or I'll only use you at table, for spreading butter!"

Only, neither of the family warriors were here. Just Val; part-time courtier and half-hearted mage. Smythe burst through his paralysis yet again, snapping,

'Cease your sniveling and take hold of my hilt, boy!' warning, 'Attempt to throw me away one more time, and you will have a concussion to go with that hangover!'

"Look," began Val, trying to reason with this ancestral soul trapped in a strip of sharp metal. "You hate me…"

'Yes,' agreed Smythe (Vesendorin, actually, but Val had a genuine gift for stupid nicknames).

"...and you can certainly find a more capable wielder…"

'In any ditch, cave or hovel.'

"So, go do it, then!" stormed the young elf, battling anguish, rage and the worst headache he'd ever experienced. "Reston Horsemaster is…"

'Naught but a low-bred Feen; Lord Galadin's by-blow. Unworthy by half-elven blood, and beneath consideration. Now, take my hilt. Swear vengeance and rescue!' shrieked that persistent, unpitying sword, with a noise like blade against whetstone.

"Rescue?"

Val thought back through all that Smythe had shown him. Dad was gone. The spot in his mind that pulsed with Keldaran's life force had darkened forever, but Lerendar's presence still flickered. His brother, pinned beneath poor, flailing Raya… was Lerendar still…?

'Your brother yet lives, sorely injured and fading,' Smythe informed him. 'All three of us will benefit if there is any spark of nobility hidden deep in your worthless husk, boy. With a bit of dispatch and energy, Lord Lerendar may yet be saved.'

Right.

He wanted to curl up and hide. To vomit up all of the ultra-plane liquor he'd forced down back at the Open Casket. Instead, Valerian reached out a hand, willing it not to shake as he first touched that leather-and-wire wrapped hilt, and then seized hold. It buzzed and rattled in his grip like a bottle of hornets, stinging the palm of his hand.

'Swear,' Smythe demanded. 'Swear that there will be blood upon blood in black goblin torrents, until your father's death is avenged and your brother regained.'

Wanted to hit another escape spell. Run away and let somebody else do the hard part. Only, he was all that was left. The only one whose bloodline Smythe would accept. So, raggedly, Val said,

"I swear. Dad… I'm sorry. I'm not the one who should be… Lerendar, I'll do whatever I can to…"

'You will succeed or perish, boy, along with myself and the Tarandahl family name, lands and honor.'

Val took another deep breath. For just an instant, he thought that he felt warm, firm pressure on his right shoulder, as though a familiar hand had clasped him and given a brisk shake. He started to reach for his father's scarred hand, but nothing was there. Until the world itself ended, he would never again see Keldaran. But, there was still time, still maybe a way to help Lerendar.

"I will find out what happened," he whispered. "Find and slay the ones responsible, whoever they are and wherever that takes me. I will rescue my brother, or die in the attempt. This, I swear before Oberyn and Firelord. Hear me, all powers and spirits of Karandun."

His voice did not resonate, but a sudden glow filled the cave, and the rushing water outside seemed to boom and surge in response. His vow had been heard and accepted.

All at once, that enchanted animation left Smythe, causing the broadsword to drop nearly out of his grasp. Val caught the thing before it hit ground, then tried a few awkward slashes and parries. Like handling a fence-post, it was, and about as easy to wear.

He experimented with ways to position the blade that still left room to draw Nightshade… now the auxiliary back-up sword… without too many snags. Maybe across his back, if he practiced. For now, though…

Val removed his weapons and cloak. Found a midair food cache and spelled it open, using Dad's favorite cantrip. A pocket dimension unzipped for him, spilling forth a plate of rolled flat cakes, cloudberry jam, dried venison and a bottle of faintly alcoholic family spirit.

From habit, he lit the fire pit with a murmured spell and then set three places, as though Dad and merry, always-too-big-for-the-room Lerendar would be back from their hunt at any moment. Couldn't make himself take two away.

Poured out an offering to Alaryn Firelord, instead. Next, he sat down and ate, putting himself mentally back in the past; back to a time when the cave rang with laughter, tall tales and Lerendar's stupid practical jokes.

Dawn crept its way past the noisy waterfall, lighting Valerian Tarandahl's trance-held body and slow, quiet meal. He'd set himself to emerge from the rest in a candle-mark, surfacing with a wince, to a pounding headache and prisms of water-split light.

Cleaned everything up and spelled it back into its faerie pocket, in the usual half-shifted plane. Then, it was down to business. An attempt to contact his mother netted nothing at all but a silvery ward-off. She was alive, then, but elsewhere; plunged into mourning so deep, it defied comprehension. His grandmother, the Lady Alyanara, had sought the fey wilds when Granddad was killed, departing Karandun forever… but maybe mother would stay.

With words of command and squared shoulders, Val summoned a fresh scrying bubble. This time, he tried reaching for Reston Feen Tarandahl, his father's half-brother; Starloft Castle's master of horse.

The bubble connection was brief and jittery. Reston was on horseback, riding hard through a tangled, dark forest. His stern, bristly face was slashed and abraded, his grey hair matted with blood. Glimpsing his nephew's image, the half-elf leaned forward in the saddle, green eyes bright with sudden relief.

"Lord Valerian! Thank mighty Oberyn!" he cried out. Then, all in a rush, "No! Do not say, or think, your location. Stay in the City, but not at court, or with anyone expected. We are betrayed, Milord, and your father has fallen. Your brother is taken, but I mean to…"

Reston never finished the sentence. A sudden hoarse shout from one side, and a hailstorm of hissing dark arrows burning to ash against magical wards, tore away Reston's attention. The scrying bubble burst into shards, breaking contact.

Betrayed?

Laid out on the sandy floor beside Nightshade, Smythe began glowing again. A fierce, wasp-like hum rose from that angry and sentient weapon, causing sand grains to scatter and bounce. Val shook his silver-blond head.

"I'm not going back to the City," he decided, reaching for weapons and cloak. "Reston needs me, and I shall not break my oath."

The sword's glitter faded to a fretful shower of sparks; its hum to a faint vibration.

"Could you tell where he was?" probed Val. "I saw a forest, rocks and part of a riverbank… maybe the Swixbent. We could join Reston's warband and help him to…"

'Keep to your path, boy. Lord Lerendar has been taken to the goblin stronghold, and the Feen does not matter.'

Not to Smythe, maybe, but Val thought differently. As for Lerendar… the goblin stronghold was a tangled scribble of shallow, foul-smelling tunnels in the far west of Ilirian, his family's realm.

His father and grandfather before him had seized and claimed uncharted wilderness for His Imperial Majesty; pressing the goblins almost back to the mountains. There had never not been war, in Val's experience. Raid, followed by counterattack and stiffened border patrols, since he'd been old enough to sit on Granddad's lap and listen to stories; tracing the scars on Galadin's face and hands.

Not that things were less dangerous in the City. That nest of vipers was a cauldron of poison, intrigue and slander; its high noble houses vying constantly for prestige and influence. Offering a handclasp while aiming a dagger. There the peril was doused in honey and masked with a smile. He knew. He'd lived there for nearly ten cycles.

Now that Ilirian's borders were fairly secure… now that his father's realm had begun to yield profits, any one of Karellon's high noble factions might have moved to strip it away from the Tarandahls. Might have arranged accidents, brewed storms or funded uprisings.

No. He would not return to the City. But, if not there, where could he safely go?

Briefly, Val considered Starshire, the village that clung to his family's estate. Except, if he was being hunted, home would be the first place an attacker might look. He had family there. Mother (hopefully) and scores of half-elven uncles and aunts. Lerendar's aging human consort, Beatriz, and their small daughter Zara lived on the castle outskirts. Oberyn knew what had happened to them.

Needing to do something, anything, Val spelled his quiver and bow out of a faerie pocket, slung the various weapons, then headed back out of that cave. It would be a long climb down dank, mossy steps to the forest floor, but once on the ground, he could find a mount and ride north, doing his best to move fast and stay hidden.

Not a real vow, this time. No powers were invoked, and Smythe stayed completely quiescent; just a heavy, overlong weight at his back. Still, as he bounded downward through rainbow mist, shaking branches and slippery, vibrating rock, Val said to his brother,

"I'm coming, Lerendar. Stay alive. Do whatever you have to. I'm on my way."

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3

Val was born at Starloft Castle in Ilirian. Had been raised there by his family and servants until old enough to be fostered at Court. Then, sent off to Karellon, he served as junior page and apprentice to Sherazedan, going home or to Lindyn for twice-yearly visits; Starloft and Storm Peak, by turns. As to which he preferred?

Difficult question. He'd changed far more than home had, in all those long cycles of service to Sherazedan. More than that, Ilirian was always at war. It was tough to be more than just an occasional visitor. A family footnote, as none of his city skills mattered there.

If he rode out to battle with Dad and Lerendar, they had to protect and watch out for him. If he stayed back with Mother, he felt useless and soft. Lerendar's jokes… jerking a thumb at the back of the warband and saying, "That's where the spell-casters ride, Shorty!"... didn't help.

Visits to Lindyn were complicated by the fact that he'd been betrothed to Kalisandra Geldaharys since early childhood. They'd had an on-again, off-again personal relationship for over a hundred years of men, with marriage looming ahead of them both like some sort of eternal, excruciating formal dance. He liked Kalisandra very much… but mostly pretended not to. Safer, that way.

The day they'd first met, he'd taken his toy bow and quiver and gone up to the gardens high atop Starloft. Everyone else was busy and distracted; by what, they wouldn't explain. Even Katina Nanny, his half-elven nurse (and aunt) had merely shaken her head at him, sighing,

"Run along, Master Val, and do try to behave. You've a big day tomorrow."

She'd been unwilling to play, produce snacks or tell stories, despite all his wheedling.

Well enough. Starloft Castle was huge… a converted stone-giant stronghold… and Valerian was a venturesome lad. His milk-brother, Tam, being mostly human, had long since shot up and outgrown him. No fun there. So, Val crept down to the armory, using cross-plane tunnels the adults knew nothing about, seized his small bow and went off to play.

The gardens were pocket folded and magically enhanced; centering on an eternal loop of mythical rivers. Five bridges crossed it, dividing the main watercourse into sections of varying speed, length and clarity.

The trees and plants changed each time, as well. Sometimes, even the sky. Better yet, the river was well stocked with fish, frogs and serpents, providing many fine targets for a boy with a bow and spotty supervision.

Only the noble family and guests were allowed in this paradise, meaning that Val… hopping from rock to rock, or leaning through the bridge railings to get a shot at something that slithered and flashed in the water below, was nearly always alone. Except for the day when everything changed.

He'd drawn and fired, piercing a giant bass. String-buzz, strike, and then an eruption of violent splashing, as his arrow sank home and the line drew taught. The trick was, like Dad said: aim low, and then aim lower than that. The fish is not where you think.

He was about to haul in his catch, when a girl appeared on the bridge. His bridge, his river. Right there, not a stone's throw away.

She was about his age. Maybe a little bit older, and scowling like the chief cook before a state banquet. Dark hair was caught back in a fuzzy braid. One blue eye, one brown one. Dressed, like himself, in seen-better-days, grubby play clothes. Exactly where he didn't expect to see anyone, except Tam or Lerendar.

Spelling the struggling bass to stillness, Val drew himself up to his full not-very-much, and lowered his bow. Of all the questions tumbling about in his head, the one that came out was,

"Who let you in here?"

"No one," she snapped in response. "I escaped, and I'm not getting married."

Oh. Well, that was all right, then. He escaped, all the time.

"Who said you had to get married?" asked Val, healing the aggrieved fish and then tossing it back in the water for later sport.

"Counselor Garrod, but I won't," insisted the girl, hands at her hips and lower lip threatening murder.

"Me, either," declared Val, bounding from wet rock to an arched wooden bridge. Here, the water was quiet and clear, with plenty of deep, shady places for serpents and fish. "They'd have to catch me, first, and they won't. I know too many places to hide."

Which was true, as long as they didn't use magic. The girl looked around.

"I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "It seems pretty open, to me."

"Huh. That's where you're stupid, or else you don't know. This garden and river are spliced together from sections all over the world. I can see how they did it, and maybe get through one of the splices and out to the place that section's really a part of," he explained, loftily. Then, because he was honest, Val added, "At least, I'm pretty sure I can. Just have to decide where I'd like to end up."

In the mountains? A dense, piney forest? A meadow of dancing flowers? The willow grove? Tough choices all around, and…

"Plus, I need to pack food for the trip, except I always forget and keep eating it all. Wait…"

He still had most of a sandwich tucked away in a faerie pocket. Bread and plum jam. Spelling it forth, he tore and offered a piece to the girl.

"You can have some, if you want."

She did want, accepting the bigger half of his slightly squished, raggedly torn hand-meal.

"Thanks, this is good. Got anything to drink?"

(He did. Fizzy juice in wax bottles that Tam had brought back from Lobum.)

They sat down on a sun-warmed wood railing together, watching birds, chewing food and then wax; planning eternal freedom.

"I'm going to be a ranger," she told him. "I'll hunt my own food, kill millions of orcs and never get married, ever. Not to some stupid, dumb northerner!"

Val shrugged elaborately, watching the serpents and fish, down below.

"If that's the best you can do, have fun. I'm going to… to open a plane and start my own realm, with only me and Tam and Lerendar, when he's not calling me 'Shorty'... and Katina Nanny, so we'll have someone there who'll be glad we've come back from hunting."

The girl snorted.

"I don't need anyone," she said. Then, "Can you show me how to shoot fish? I've never seen anyone do that before."

Could he…? Val leapt to his feet, only just not smiling.

"I don't know if girls can do it," he scoffed. Turned out they could, almost better than half-wild boys.

They spent an enjoyable afternoon getting progressively dirtier; wading into the river or teetering on jutting embankments, shooting anything that moved in the water below. Finally, as sunset painted the sky, someone bellowed,

"Valerian! Val, you pint-sized dwarf, where are you?!"

Lerendar.

The boy's grey eyes widened. Turning to face his companion, he whispered,

"It's my brother. You'd better go, before he sees you. Sometimes he's fun, but sometimes he's not, and you can't ever tell which, until it's too late."

Her two-colored eyes narrowed.

"Fine. I was getting bored, anyhow… but let's take an oath, right now, to meet again and to never get married, ever, to anyone. I'll let you slaughter orcs with me," she added, "just as soon as I've gotten away from my stupid retainers."

Generous. Val nodded, striking palms with his new best friend.

"Oath plighted… and I'll let you come to my plane and bow-fish the rocks and bridges. There'll be way bigger streams than this, with water dragons."

Why not? All he had to do was find the right sort of golden fish, and he could dream up whatever he wanted.

She smiled for the first time.

"It's a deal. I'm gone."

And, she was. Slipping off between trees just before Lerendar showed up to claim him. This time, his brother was in a fine mood. He pounced on Val; big, blond and rangy, all horse-scent and leather and time spent outdoors.

"Come here, Shorty!" he grinned, catching Val and tossing him high in the air. "Whoof! You smell like a goat! Home, now!"

Caught the laughing boy in mid flight and then swung Val up onto his shoulders for a pony-ride back to the family compound. Val said nothing at all about his visitor, but he didn't forget her, either.

And then, there she was, the very next day, standing rigidly at the sacred grove. Waves of cold came off her like wind, blighting the plants all around with creeping frost; causing the massed onlookers to reach for their cloaks.

Like Val, she'd been forcibly bathed, dressed and perfumed. She looked like a life-sized doll wrapped up in silk brocade, gems and heirlooms. Magical sigils buzzed around her like glittering gnats. Even just turning her head, she rattled. Only those two-colored furious eyes looked the same.

Mother placed a fancy gift box in his hands and then kissed his forehead (as best she could past the golden helmet and jeweled diadem). Giving him a little push, she whispered,

"Forward, dearest. Take her the gift, and then the priest will bless and hand-fast you."

Right. Well, no one had discussed this with him. Val looked around, but Dad seemed to be pondering strategy and Lerendar thought it all funny. Granddad was present; tall and silvery-haired, with Grandmother Alyanara, but neither was smiling. No help, there. The gathered townsfolk and nobles were teary-eyed and sniffling, which was a definite grim sign.

Val's mouth went utterly dry. He thought about throwing the present and running away… except that's not what heroes with their own planes did.

Instead, miserably, under the girl's wrathful glare, he trudged up through that twin row of sacred oaks. Kept walking until he reached the stone altar. The priest of Oberyn was there, just a looming, deep-voiced shadow to Val. All that the boy could see was her, and holy flame, was she angry.

'Oath-breaker!' she mouthed, her snarling voice knife-blade clear in his head. 'I hate you!'

What? That wasn't fair. She'd been here first, lying in wait for unwilling boys with wrapped presents. Spiritedly, Val came back with,

'I hate you more, and I'm not getting married!'

Under the priest's direction, as sunlight dripped down through shifting green leaves, Val thrust out his gift (whatever it was; hopefully poison, or maybe a rat). Glowering at him, the girl mouthed,

'I'm going to a whole different realm, a hundred planes away!'

She practically ripped the box from his hands, tossing it over her shoulder to some poor, doomed courtier.

'Only a hundred?' Val shot back. 'Better go further than that, so I can't smell you!'

At this, the girl tore off a priceless family heirloom and threw it at him, striking Val squarely on the chin. His lessons had worked, She had great aim.

They exploded into an immediate scuffle, having to be hauled apart by the priest and both amused families. But, this was serious. This was blood and broken oaths and hideous threats.

Anyhow, they were betrothed. Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran to Kalisandra Geldaharys ad Sanderyn… whether they liked it or not. He kept a second-level scar from the impact of that musty old brooch of hers, sometimes displaying the mark for effect. She could not do the same with her black eye, so hah!

Subsequent meeting tended to go something like this:

Her- "Ewww!"

Him- "You, again."

… after which they'd go bow-fishing or sneak out looking for goblins to vex.

So matters stood for a cycle or two. Val's frequent escapes brought him sometimes up to the rooftop gardens, sometimes down to the stables, the armory, dog kennels or kitchen. There, the half-elves and servants would at first feign irritation. They always gave in, though; letting him feed and curry the horses, play at training the dogs, hack at a practice dummy with child-sized weapons, or steal pinches of pastry dough.

Tara Cookie nearly always had an extra something-or-other that she'd just happened to bake, often letting him shape a dough-man with frosting and berries for eyes, for his supper up in the nursery, later. He got handed around a lot by his half-blood uncles and aunts; now on this groom's shoulders, next on that chef's broad hip.

There was a great deal to do, and he hardly sensed that the only people who ever noticed him missing were Katina Nanny, Alaina Tutor or Reston Horsemaster… and sometimes Lerendar. Not very often Tam, anymore. His milk brother had grown up all in a rush, and no longer had time to play.

In the end, somebody always "caught" him, and Val came back upstairs in Katina's embrace or swinging and skipping at the end of Alaina's arm. Reston would conjure a fiery spirit horse and let him ride back up to the nursery like a conquering hero.

Then mother and dad sent him away to the distant imperial city of Karellon. He did not want to go, but no one who mattered would listen. His parents merely summoned their youngest son for an audience, one bright summer day.

Katina dressed him in fine, stiff new clothes and led him further upstairs to dad's office, whispering,

"There now, Master Val. Mind you behave and prove you've some upbringing. Give them that picture you drew, and bow on the griffin carpet, hand to forehead as you bid them good day and glad tidings. Can you remember all that?"

He'd nodded, asking,

"But, why do they want to see me, Nana? I'm not getting married again, am I? One stupid girl is enough! I could give her away… maybe Dad wants her, or Reston."

Katina laughed, knelt down and hugged him close; her amber eyes loving and sad. Val hid himself in the screen of her coppery hair, feeling safe.

Only, he wasn't. A pair of red-uniformed guards stood watch at the doors to his father's office. As Val and Katina came forward, the pair tapped the butts of their halberds against the stone floor. Then they bowed, spelling open the massive bronze doors.

(Everything elvish, was big. Everything older than that was titanic; built to the scale of a stone giant. Lord Galadin had had to do some adapting, constructing a whole network of scaffolds and roofless buildings inside of that cavernous space.)

Val recognized both of those guards. Rykka and Marten, who always made time to play swords in the arms-court. He waved at them, going past. Katina gave him a final, encouraging squeeze, then sent him on through the doors.

The guards could not wave back (not allowed) but one crossed his eyes and the other one winked. (An early lesson in life: there was often great strength to be found in small places and folk of low rank.)

Squaring his shoulders, Val marched on in.

Keldaran was seated by the fireplace, with mother standing behind, one slim hand on his chair. Lord Keldaran was tall, even seated, with grey-red hair and pale eyes. Elisindara was slender and calm, with hair like a river of ice and wide violet eyes. Neither looked especially happy, so Val feared that he'd done something wrong. Maybe shot too many fishes?

A low fire was burning at the hearth, stirred up by scented magical breezes. The boy walked straight up to his parents, remembering to stop at the gold and red griffin carpet, planting one small foot on its fiercely beaked head. Then, taking a deep breath, he bowed. Remembered to touch hand to forehead in respect, saying,

"My lord father and lady mother, I bid you good day and glad tidings and… and… here's a picture I drew," producing a bit of nursery artwork. Dad, on a stick-horse, with about twenty goblins skewered on a very long, leveled spear. One of the goblins was upside-down, yelping: 'Oh, no! He got me!'

Keldaran's mouth twitched, while Elisindara shut her eyes briefly, sighing,

"He has spent far too much time with the servants."

"Well, there shall be no more of that," said his father. "Or, at least, not as much."

Then,

"Son, come here. Yes, thank you. I shall cherish it. Now, you are about to set off on an important mission. One that will greatly bolster our…"

There was more, but Val hadn't understood diplomacy then, any better than he grasped the concept of marriage. All he knew was that he was being packed off somewhere far away, to learn magic and city-stuff, by parents who seemed not to want him.

After Keldaran stopped talking, there was a short, painful silence. He kept looking from one to the other stern face, hoping that someone would laugh and take it all back. Then mother's hand brushed the top of his head.

"Lord Galadin's order," she whispered softly.

Said his father, reaching over to pull the boy against one knee,

"You do not leave until autumn, in Harvest Month. Until then, I propose that we go to the deer camp, and then look for one closer to Karellon. There is time, yet."

Val had nearly collapsed from relief. At that age, summer seemed endless, and any delay at all, release from his banishment. Kalisandra, when told of all this at her yearly state visit, snorted,

"Sounds like just the thing that would happen to a stupid, dumb baby northerner. Want to run away to Lindyn? There's plenty of deep caves and deadly swamps to hide in, and lots of orcs that need slaughtering. You could be my first warrior."

It was a tempting offer, and Val considered it… only Kalisandra said that he'd have to call her "my lady" and admit she was better at everything, so… no. Didn't happen.

Fall arrived, and the month of High Harvest. On the fifth day, at near the appointed time, Val sat huddled on the person-sized steps of the castle, skinny arms hugging his up-raised knees. He was dressed in his family's finest, heart jerking and thudding inside of him.

Katina Nanny and Reston Horsemaster left their duties to sit on the stairs alongside him. Katina fussed with his hair and clothing, giving him many last kisses and a positively guaranteed lucky charm that she'd bought from Magister Serrio, himself, at the last fair. Reston also gave Val a present.

"It's a clasp-knife," he explained, showing the boy how to fold shut and open its steel blade. "Easy to tuck into a boot-top or coin pouch, without getting slashed in the process. Wherever you go and whatever you do," added his dark-haired uncle, "You always need a good knife."

One by one, others appeared, all having sudden mysterious errands to the front steps of Starloft. Tara Cookie brought a wrapped lunch, with an entire battalion of dough-men, spelled to last without spoiling.

"If ye find y'rself hungry, there in the City. Oberyn knows what y'll find t' eat in that place," she mourned, wringing her reddened hands.

The chief groom brought Barrel, his spotted pony, while the huntsman arrived with seemingly all of the deerhounds. Altogether, there were almost more presents and packed meals than Val had faerie pockets to stash them in… and then Lerendar came.

As one, the servants stood up and inclined their heads, saying respectfully, "Milord," and retreating from Val.

Lerendar nodded back. Then, after a brief hesitation, he said,

"Thank you, all, for doing this."

The servants began to depart. Taking Val's hand, Lerendar led the boy off down the stairs. About halfway along, he paused. Looking furtively around, Val's brother pulled something out of midair. A beautiful, full-sized bow and quiver.

"Take it, hurry, and spell it away in a pocket," Lerendar hissed. "I stole it from the armory, and I plan to say that I saw you in there, this morning, once you're out of reach. It'll blow over by the time you visit next year… probably."

It was Vesendorin's bow, and almost as important as Smythe, the possessed family long sword. Val's eyes widened, but he did as Lerendar bade him, and tucked bow and quiver away. Lerendar grinned at him, mussing Val's hair with one hand, then spelling it smooth again.

"Don't tell, Shorty!" he laughed. And Val wouldn't. Not ever, for anything.

Mother and Dad appeared next, each of them taking their youngest son by a hand, walking him further toward where a magical portal shimmered and hissed at the foot of the stairs. They, too, had gifts and advice. Keldaran's was a bag of holding, Elisindara's, a spell book.

Their advice was pretty straightforward, mostly being where to fish, hunt and fight around Karallon, and how best to hold his own at court.

But they, too, were met; this time by Granddad… Lord Galadin… and Grandmother Alyanara. Mother and Dad bowed and then backed away.

Grandmother kissed his forehead, smelling and feeling like sunlight and flowers, even in autumn. Even for an elf, she was fair and delicate; almost lovely enough to cause pain.

"Be well, Valerian," she whispered. "And here is a sideways blessing: in the unexpected things, may you always be fortunate."

Something golden and warm seemed to fill him, at that, gently nudging his fate. "There will always, always be a safe path. A way clear, Little Love. Look for the sideways path. It will be there, whenever you need a way out."

Galadin waited until his lady had finished her blessing. Very tall, with shining white hair and grey eyes, he looked like a god to his awe-struck young grandson.

When Alanyara stepped aside, Galadin squatted down in full armor, bringing his face level with Val's.

"I am sending you out on a mission," he said, in a calm, deep voice. "Your task is to learn as much as you can from the people of Karellon. Listen to rumors. Learn diplomacy. Grow strong in magic. We need that. But," he added, looking directly into Val's eyes, "Whatever you learn there, whatever disguise you have to assume, do not let it reach the core of you. You belong to Ilirian, boy. Here you were born, and here you will always return."

He'd brought a bit of fresh earth, which smelt of fallen leaves and pine straw. Touching it to the boy's forehead and chest, above the heart, Galadin said,

"Blessing or curse, you will never truly be one of them. Your heart and life-spring will always be here."

And then Lord Galadin Tarandahl ob Elrynn, Silmerana, warden of the north, stood up again, armor creaking and rattling like hail on a metal roof. Taking Val's hand, he led the boy down those last few steps to the waiting portal.

There, on the other side, stood a slender elf in a hooded blue cloak. He held a tall staff, and his eyes glowed nearly white. Val caught the vague impression of books, magical artifacts and preening ravens behind the old sorcerer. To his tremendous shock, Galadin bowed deeply.

"Your Imperial Highness," he said, "I present to you for fosterage and training in the magical arts my grandson, Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran ob Galadin."

The mage-lord snorted impatiently. Looking very much down through the portal, he said,

"Yes, yes, very nice. I suppose that he'll have to do, as you have no other. Dispense with the rest of the formalities, Galadin. The scamp is accepted, and his contract signed. I've vital research to get back to. World-shaking importance, etc. Now, come, child. You can start on the raven cages."

He tipped the head of his staff forward, causing the portal to ripple like water, unlocking it from his side. Val watched the sigils flare in his mind's eye, seeing the magic; how it was done, how it might be made better, or altered. But that didn't hold his attention.

Instead of releasing his grandfather's hand, he squeezed it once, turning to look back at all those who'd come to see him off. His official family nodded. His half-blood uncles and aunts, the people of Starshire, blew kisses or lifted a hand in farewell.

Val waved back with his free hand, turned loose of Granddad, and then stepped through the portal. Backward, to keep home in sight and in heart for as long as he could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

4

A long, hard ride got him to Snowmont, a bustling town on the icy flanks of the Talons, well north of Karellon. He'd changed horses three times, nearly laming the last one; a piebald mare with more heart than good sense. Much like her hungover, saddle-worn rider.

At any rate, short of funds and needing rest, he'd had to stop somewhere, and Snowmont wasn't that far off his path.

He arrived just before sunset, beating the main gate closure by less than a candle mark. Was almost too tired to look for an inn. Had to see to Patches, his horse, first, anyhow. Honestly would have bedded down in the straw beside her at the rent-stable, only a young, birch-bark skinned groom sidled up to say,

"Try the Merry Lad on High Street, Milord. Buernar's place. Food's not bad, beds and companions are clean. Ale's passable."

Val snorted.

"High praise, indeed," he drawled, brushing Patches and tenderly rubbing her dry. "Are the clientele there much given to swordplay or games of chance?"

If nothing else, he had a pair of gemmed tarrasque shell dice to earn coin with, and Nightshade. The groom cocked his head, sending greenish hair-vines sliding over his rough-textured face.

"Aye…" the fellow allowed, "if y're game be fair. Buernar brooks nae tainted cards, nor altered dice, and 'ee don't permit brawling."

Val stiffened. Faint sparks began flaring to life in the air all around him. His fingertips warmed.

"I do not cheat," he said coldly. Then Patches shoved him with her big, ugly head, nearly sending the young elf-lord sprawling. Started lipping his pale blond hair, too, which… Well, it was tough to stay angry or look very dignified with a horse snuffing your clothing for treats.

He pulled a quartered apple and several sugar cubes out of a faerie pocket and fed them to Patches. Tossed a silver piece to the groom as well, saying,

"I thank you for the counsel, wood-sprite. Look after the horse, if you will. An extra silver piece for hot mash and a blanket."

He couldn't really afford the expense, but it were better to starve than to let his steed suffer, and sheer, stubborn pride wouldn't permit him to bargain.

The groom smiled, bowing and taking the coin.

"Yes, Milord, thank you. She'll be well cared for… and do you tell Buernar that Sapling sent you, y'r lordship 'll find equal comfort."

Val sighed, feeling all at once terribly weary.

"I do not require a rubdown," he said, "nor companionship, but food and a roof would be very much welcome."

Sapling's face split as he smiled in response, weeping black sap from a myriad tiny fine cracks.

"Aye, Milord. There be lanterns at the door, for a copper apiece, if y'd light y'r way t' the inn… but doubtless y'r lordship c'n manage his own light." And see in the dark, the young sprite didn't add.

Val nodded more grandly than he felt, gave Patches a last fond forelock and ear scratch, then took his leave of the stable. The night outside was brisk but not unbearable, thanks to the founders' powerful weather-wards. Old, but still firm, their sigils and formulae spiraled and pulsed in his mind's eye, forming a dome over Snowmont. Good work, above. Bit sloppy and fading, below ground. Not his business, in any case.

High Street… There was an announcement board by the wide stable door. It teemed with adverts and offers tacked up in various scripts. Adventurers wanted… two-headed puppies available… no-fail potions for courage, hair growth and love… your fortune told… Ah. The Merry Lad, rooms to let by the hour or night… with a map of the town.

He had to look twice at the Inn's printed advert, where someone had scrawled in orcish, 'bad ale, bearded women'. Val shook his head, a serious mistake with a throbbing hangover like he still possessed. It got even worse whenever he picked up or practiced with Smythe, who sometimes refused to come out of its sheath, at all. Loudly claimed that Valerian was better suited to wielding a meat cleaver than an actual weapon. Worse, the wretched thing could change its balance at will. He swore it.

Right. Memorizing his route, Val turned away from the battered signboard, got his bearings and then headed east. Cut across the town square and Market Street, keeping to lighted ways to discourage attack. Not that he couldn't have handled it… but publicly winning a fight might keep other patrons from betting against him at cards, dice or dueling. Trouble was…

You know how, when you're really exhausted, your eyes unfocus and you start seeing double? Well, Valerian's mind was tired enough to unmoor, meaning that part of him was walking through Snowmont, scattering casual radiance. Most of him, though, was elsewhere, at a family picnic in Starshire. His view switched randomly back and forth from slick cobbled streets and iron lampposts to the village green on a bright afternoon in late spring. Everyone he cared about was there, still well and alive, causing most of Val's attention to shift back into the past. Then,

"A coin, noble sir, for peace?"

A soft voice shattered his reverie. Someone had touched him, seizing the edge of his no-color cloak. Val landed hard in the present, spinning away from the grip, left hand dropping to Nightshade's jeweled hilt. Didn't draw. Not yet. Didn't have to.

It was merely a ragged wood-elf, wearing druidic clothes and a sign that read: 'Love the unlovable' and 'United for peace'. He had nut-brown hair and big, sad green eyes and seemed to exhale tiny bright motes with each breath. Val automatically hated him; sensing gooey philosophy and some sort of complex wild magic.

The wood-elf reached out once more for Valerian's travel-stained cloak. The other hand bore, not a weapon, but a polished wooden alms bowl.

"A small coin? Whatever you can spare for the cause of peace, noble lord?"

"Unhand me, Sirrah," said Val; cold and remote and wishing himself back in the past. "There is no peace. There never shall be."

The wood-elf ducked his head, smiling beatifically. Val instantly hated him worse. But then that raggedy beggar said,

"You were unmoored and wandering, noble lord. A dangerous thing at night, in a town like Snowmont. Best to keep one's mind firmly fixed in the here and now, Gran always says."

Val drew himself up even higher, feeling the fireglow starting to stir deep within him. But he was somewhat out of his way, so…

"Know you the way to the inn, woodling?" he enquired.

"Of course! My name is Gildyr," said the beggar, with a dewy-eyed smile and slight bow. "And I represent…"

"I care not at all," interrupted the high-elf. "Not for your worthless peace, your tedious cause or your common name. I seek the inn. Guide me thither, or begone."

Abstracting a copper from his sadly dwindling supply, Val scornfully thumb-flicked the coin at Gildyr, all the while listening hard for potential accomplices. But, no… it seemed that the tattered young druid was alone, really meant all that drek about peace.

The wood-elf hadn't stopped smiling. He bowed once more, sketching a sign of blessing in midair.

"As Gran always says, may the spirits of forest and glade keep you ever…"

"Safe. Yes, I get the concept. We may take it as read that the flowers and bugs shed their joy on my path, etc. The inn, if you please, Gilban."

"Gildyr," the fellow corrected his better… but Val let the matter drop. It really was perilous to withdraw too far from the present, and Lerendar needed him.

"This way, milord," said his squishy-kind druidic guide. "Paths which seem random have often the deepest of meanings, Gran always says."

"And how does one shut granny up?" muttered Val, sensing through Gildyr all the noise, squalor and tumble of a wood-elf hovel.

"Oh, Gran's full of all the best tales and advice, milord… and here we are at the Merry Lad. Here I'll depart, by your leave, and…" Gildyr next did possibly the stupidest, most insulting thing he could have done. He reconjured Valerian's copper and offered it back. "Here. I think that you need this more than…"

Nightshade hissed forth like a serpent, so fast as to be nearly invisible. The blade tip, lit by a reflexive burning hands spell, hovered less than a split hairsbreadth from Gildyr's tanned throat, just above the necklace of elk's teeth.

"Take it," snarled Val, "or I gut thee, and stamp it into thy corpse," as brittlely formal as a rootless court dandy could get.

Gildyr smiled sadly, radiating maddening grace and benevolence.

"Of course, noble sir. I bid thee good night and glad tidings to come."

That brought him up short and sharp, sounding of home. Of Katina, Reston, Tara and 'all them as had the raising of our young lord' for so many glad cycles.

Val resheathed Nightshade and took a deep breath. Looked… really looked at the wood-elf, who stood smiling gently in the warm glow of the inn's bottle-glass window. Still annoying, but… perhaps a bit less so. Bowing back very slightly, the high-elf said,

"I am Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, at your service and your family's, good druid."

The wood-elf started at this, but Val entirely failed to notice, adding quietly

"Keep the coin. If peace may truly be bought, your sort will be the ones to accomplish the feat. All I know is blood and fire and vengeance. Good night, and glad tidings."

With that, the weary young high-elf spelled open the inn's wooden door and went on inside. He did not see Gildyr complete a sigil of healing and heart's ease behind him. Nor did he notice the golden-eyed, velvet-black shadow that hovered like smoke on the rooftop, above.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

4

A faded and wind-rattled sign above the door had depicted a laughing, red-cheeked boy with a big, foaming tankard. Not entirely false advertising, as it turned out.

Inside, the Merry Lad was warmed and lit by tallow dip candles and guttering lamps. A low, smoke-blacked ceiling rattled and creaked, dribbling continual dust from the doings above. Three rows of crowded wood tables filled its interior. A determined bard yodeled and plucked at his lute in the tavern's west corner, sheltered from most of the spittle and rotten fruit.

The tavern thundered with discordant noise, but an elf could discern and trace each separate sound, following many conversations at once, if he chose to. Val was mostly too tired, beyond probing for obvious threats.

He scanned the main room before stepping further within. Saw a rough, unwashed throng of battered fortune seekers and laboring types. Mostly humans, with a fair sprinkling of other races and a small, antic, golden-furred monkey. That was out of place; more the sort of exotic pet that a highborn lady might show off, back in the City, or a wizard's familiar… though Val sensed no one especially powerful.

Thus far, the place seemed not unendurable, and exhaustion argued for stopping right here. He still held out hope for a warm night under a roof and out of his armor. For that reason, alone, the Merry Lad was worth looking into.

The hearth was capacious enough to stand in and spread both arms, without ducking one's head. Flagged and bordered in river rock, it was tended by a sullen, one-legged troll, who splashed sour ale by the cup onto something that roasted there. The scent was unfamiliar, and roused no desire for experimentation in Val.

So much for obvious comestibles.

NO special orders! Declared a sign over the service window, in ten different languages. His hopes for a decent meal wilted dramatically.

The floor beneath him was covered in rushes and ground-nut shells, flecked with other, less identifiable bits. Concerned for his dragon-hide boots, Val levitated slightly. Just enough to keep him off the ground and out of the mess.

Meanwhile, that golden-furred monkey was working the crowd. The sprightly small beast capered and danced to the accompaniment of roared, off-key singing, an energetic rhythm provided by heavy flagons pounding scarred wood. At the end of each verse, the beast was rewarded with gulps of strong drink and a shower of tossed coins.

Somehow, the creature seemed able to sense and gather them all. At least, Val didn't see any coppers hitting that food-spattered floor. Then,

"Take yer order, Sir?" someone shouted, at about elbow height.

He glanced down and aside, where a squat, broad, lightly-bearded dwarf stood waiting. She (though it wasn't polite to admit that he knew) wore a stained canvas apron over her coarse linen tunic and trousers. Her beard and red hair were woven with bits of metal and glass, and a stout wooden cudgel projected from her wide leather belt.

Seemed peaceful enough at first glance, but the fires of dwarvish greed burned like coals in those reddish-dark eyes. A race of coin-loving bargain hounds, every last one of them. Meanwhile,

"Ale, ale, foamy and pale!" boomed the crowd. "Good fer the soul, keeps ye hearty an' hale! Keep up the drinks an' yer venture won't fail! Ale, ale, ale!

"Pour us more ale, or our verse 'll grow stale! Ale, ale, ale!"

"Or whatever foul grog Buernar's hawked up tonight!" wavered a spotty young wag in the back.

The monkey sprang from its swinging perch on a roof beam to land with a thump and a scrabble on Valerian's shoulder. He wasn't alarmed. There had been many such beasts at Magister Serrio's fair, everytime it came north to Ilirian. As a small boy, he'd been delighted by their comic miming and dances. This one winked at him, then held out a tiny, expectant hand.

Taking everything in turn, Val replied,

"What is offered by way of a meal?"

… spelled a brief cone of silence to save his abraded hearing…

… and produced a coin for that small, wrinkled, grinning performer.

Growled the she-dwarf,

"We've shepherd's pie, cottage pie, harbor pie, Buernar's surprise, freshly baked bread, cheese with the bad bits scraped off, Ulmo's catch o' the month, and ale."

Val's flickering hopes dwindled still further. It wasn't much of a menu, even for one who'd just spent a seven-night in the saddle, eating what little he'd packed or could glean from the bushes in passing.

Considering that the ocean was much more than a stone-giant's throw from Snowmont, he didn't trust any fish they might offer… nor did he care to risk whatever Buernar meant to surprise him with.

The monkey sketched an elaborate bow, tucking Val's copper away in its little red vest. In return, it offered what seemed to be ship's biscuit, of the sort Val had often consumed aboard Silver Wind. Smiling despite himself, he accepted the stone-hard treat.

Its business concluded, the manikin launched itself from his shoulder to somebody's sweating bald head. Screeching and chattering, it next waved hairy long arms for another loud chorus of 'Ale'.

Valerian turned his attention back to the waiting dwarf-maid, losing his smile in the process.

"Bread, if you please," he ordered in Common and hand-sign. "With hot day-brew, if you have any."

The dwarf hitched up her trousers and scowled.

"We've ale," she insisted.

Somebody new strode forward, then; parting the crowd like a steel-prowed ship breaking ice. A taller, thunderous-looking male dwarf.

"Trouble, Bron?" he growled, in a voice like a rumbling after-shock.

The female waggled her hand back and forth, saying,

"'Is lordship, 'ere, wants day-brew."

"Oh, he does, does he?" grunted the male, whose dark hair and beard were a mass of wire-wrapped braids. Looking Val up and down disrespectfully, the dwarf snapped,

"I be Buernar. This is me place. I serve shepherd's pie, cottage pie, harbor pie, Ulmo's catch o' the month, fresh bread, shaved cheese, me special surprise, and ale. No daybrew till mornin', when there's also baked eggs. Now… what will yer lordship be havin'?"

'A flaming pox on all dwarves and their odious kitchens', sprang to mind, but Val never said so. Instead, a howled curse split that thick, yeasty air.

A fleet, shadowy figure dodged, darted and ducked through the laughing crowd. Vaulting tables and spilling drinks, it sprang from an overturned bench and collided with Val, no doubt saving him from insulting his host. Changed the subject, at any rate.

It… she… Val got an instant impression of inky-black fur and sinuous motion. Of golden, slit-pupiled eyes in an intelligent, cat-like face. Also, clawed hands, feeling clumsily after his coin pouch.

"Here! Stop, thief!" Bellowed a defrauded fellow sufferer, about seven feet tall and incredibly hairy, wherever she wasn't netted in scars. Dressed in a tasteful mixture of rusting armor and badly-cured hides, she carried a barrow's worth of blunt, pitted weapons. A bridge somewhere was clearly missing its cannibal troll.

Leveling a sausage-like finger at the person… (animal?) … accosting Valerian, the creature roared,

"I been thefted, by that!"

Naturally. And, judging from the number of one-handed patrons, the penalty for theft here was steep. Val needed space and time to think. Wasn't likely to get either without dipping into his manna, though.

The monkey had ceased dancing. Now it hopped lightly from pocket to boot top to purse, helping itself to unsecured items and money. The tavern's patrons were oblivious, surging to their feet with a great scraping clatter of benches.

Shouting encouragement to both sides, they formed a circle of flesh around Val, the would-be thief and her queen-sized, glowering victim. On a brighter note, the singing and thumping had mercifully stopped. Not his hangover, though. That kept right on pounding his skull to the rhythm of 'Ale, ale, ale'.

Well, he'd wanted a fight, but the troll-spawn and crowd didn't seem like the sorts to place lofty bets or take a loss lightly. Better to depart with what grace he could muster, the high-elf decided. After all, not his business.

"Get 'em, Trude!" shouted a love-struck oaf up in front.

Yet… just as he'd known at a glance that Gildyr was naught but a commoner, the thief's clothing and gear cried shop-worn nobility. She was a lady in need, whose hand he would break, if she didn't stop stripping the gems from his scabbard.

Right.

Val muttered, "Slow time", causing the mob, innkeeper and hulking accuser to move and speak as though planted in mud. Got an arm-lock around the squirming thief and then, just as the spell wound down, flipped back his cloak.

Lacquered scale mail and jeweled weapons gleamed in the firelight. At his back, Smythe woke up enough to commence a hornet-like buzz. More threat to himself than the tightly-packed crowd, but they didn't know that.

Val drew himself up, reaching maybe to Trude's unshaven chin. In his very best elegant drawl, the elf said,

"A misunderstanding, good creature, I'm sure."

Truthfully, the cat-person didn't seem capable of looting a corpse without waking it up. Her monkey was the actual crime lord, but Val wasn't saying so.

It chattered and screamed, then leapt to the cat-girl's shoulder. Its vest pockets bulging with pilfered goods, the monkey turned, bent over and waved its fuzzy backside at the furious troll-woman, raising its plumy gold tail for maximal offense and exposure. So much for the diplomatic solution.

Val had to stifle the first good laugh he'd had in a week. Would have crossed the poisoned waste for that tiny, larcenous ape, who was clearly the light-fingered half of Kitty and company.

Somehow maintaining his arrogant poise, Valerian took a step forward; free hand drifting down to the hilt of his dueling sword. Then Buernar cut in. Pointing first at the elf, then at Trude, he barked,

"Take it outside! There 'll be no brawling here, or I'll summon the night guard, and you c'n spend yer first fortnight in Snowmont as guests o' Lord Orrin!"

The woman's face split into a craggy gape, showcasing broken teeth and a gold tongue stud. Before she could hurl further accusations, Val asked,

"How much do you claim the girl stole?"

"Nuthin'!" raged Trude. "But she were caught in th' act! Got me weddin' ring half off!"

Mentally saluting the stalwart soul who'd dared offer romance to Trude, Val examined a proffered meaty fist. A tarnished band of orichalcum was indeed halfway free, stuck between two bulging knuckles.

Val shot a sidelong, 'Seriously?' glance at the cat-girl, who shrugged. Still perched on her shoulder, the monkey shifted into a ribald dance funny enough to warm a lich's stilled heart.

"For your trouble," said the high-elf, producing a half silver piece. Worth it and then some, to get shed of the Merry Lad.

Trude muttered and glared, but accepted his weregild, then stomped off to collect her admirer and get further soused. All to the good. Keeping one arm locked around that catastrophically inept cutpurse, Valerian turned to go.

Buernar was not precisely in his way, but positioned so as to not be unnoticed. Speaking to the velvet-furred thief, he jerked a broad thumb at the door and snapped,

"You, out. Permanently."

Then, to Val,

"Come back in the mornin', Milord, if yer seekin' a bit of adventure an' mutual profit."

Val's head was ringing like a tower of war-bells. Mutual profit did seem desirable, though, so he nodded slightly, then made for the door. Nearly there, the cat-girl leaned close to whisper, in accented Common,

"Perhaps one being hunted like a hare is more cautious now, when declaring his name and lineage. Much coin had been dropped into all the wrong hands, for a wandering son of Keldaran."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

5

He wasn't so far gone as to miss the implicit threat in the cat-burglar's words… but too tired, too wracked with buried emotion to deal with it all, right then. Anyhow, action was always simpler and quicker than thought. Usually righter, too.

Val half-dragged the plane's least effective robber out of that clamorous hole of a tavern. Out where the frosty night air and pale star-gleam made him instantly feel more alert. Turning to look down at the cat-girl, he released her, stepped back and then bowed from the waist, saying,

"I fear that you have the advantage of me, Milady, as I know not your name or your lineage… nor yours, good sir," he added, with a nod to her chattering, bouncing monkey.

Her face was inexpressively feline, without signs beyond ear-flicks, whisker motion and pupil changes to convey her emotions. Swept-forward whiskers, a soft rumbling noise and upright ears seemed close to a smile, though.

Closing a bit of the distance between them, she placed her right arm across her chest, performing a fluid return bow.

"The vocal part of my name, in your ear-range, is Salem, of Distant Sands Oasis, third heir."

Third heir? Then he outranked her, and could relax a bit more. A princess might have been trouble; able to pull him away from his business back home. So much for introductions.

Looking her over, he saw that Salem wore close-fitting dark garments of obvious quality, but very few ornaments. Nothing noisy, eye-catching or bright, beyond the monkey. Only a dark leather belt, studded with vials and strange tools circled her waist. Her tail was prehensile; banded in golden hair and highly distracting as it swept hypnotically back and forth. Val had to concentrate to attend to the rest of her answer.

"As to the little one, I am calling him Cap'n, and he is a very prince of his people," (The monkey perked up) "... or so he claims." (and then rounded on Salem, screeching a loud, purely simian insult.)

Val considered, paging back through the past, through all of his master's tomes, scrolls and manuals, until,

"Albegast's Annex of Beasts, Volume 36, page 15… Tabaxi. That's it. You're a Tabaxi: desert-dwelling sentient cat-person… but the illustration doesn't look much like you," he concluded, a bit doubtfully.

More like a well-armed and antic heraldic leopard. The pose and face were especially unrealistic. He'd have to inform the old lich, if ever he got back to the City. But Salem was speaking, again.

"I am Night Clan," she said, not really explaining the difference. Something like High, Sea and Wood elves, possibly?

Moments later, a third person joined them. Val sensed Gildyr's presence before seeing him; some shift in the breeze, scent of pine-straw and foolishness, or twittering woodland birdcall announced the druid's arrival. As a sparrow, he fluttered off of the inn's thrumming window ledge. As a dewy-eyed peacemonger, he rose up before Salem and Val, beaming gentle good fellowship.

"Greetings, Mil…"

"Shut up," snapped the high elf. "Val. Just… Val, as it seems that I cannot rid myself of your presence without resorting to steel." (Still an attractive option.)

Gildyr started to chirp something bouncy and positive in reply, but Val wasn't listening. Speaking mostly to Salem and Cap'n, he said,

"I intend to…"

Someone had warned him not to speak or think about his location, advice he chose to take.

"...seek alternate lodging. Alone." (For Gildyr offered him space at his dry spot, under a local bridge. Possibly Trude's bridge, and Val had had more than enough of her.) "You shall meet me again once I've…"

Got some rest, restored his manna, eaten that ship's biscuit.

"...composed myself."

Bowing once more in Salem's direction, he added politely,

"Milady, by your leave."

Even remembered to lift a hand in farewell to Gildyr, before raising the hood of his cloak and effectively vanishing from sight. The phrase "hunted like a hare" had troubled him deeply.

Valerian hated skulking. Would much rather have charged right into the town square and kicked Lord Orrin's bust straight off of its lofty pillar, brandishing Nightshade in one hand and Smythe in the other, inviting all comers. Amusing, if not very wise.

Except, Lerendar and Ilirian needed him back in one piece, not in chunks. Better to keep to the shadows.

The night guards were out. He could hear their heavy tread and occasional calls as they patrolled the streets of Snowmont.

Val remained cloaked, keeping to byways and moving only when no one was watching; making no sound at all. In this way, at around second bell, he made his way back to the rent-stable, where clean straw and warm horse breath awaited him.

Patches whickered softly as Val unbarred her stall. The cozy space was redolent of beery hot mash. Patches herself was draped in a green and gold blanket; one of Lord Orrin's with the crest picked off.

Might have been smarter to just saddle up and leave town, but the mare was exhausted, and he didn't want to add horse theft to his mounting heap of troubles. Besides, he was more in the past than the present, now.

That spring day had grown to take up most of the high-elf's attention. He had neither the strength nor desire to resist being home, safe, warm and happy with the people he loved.

Part of him greeted and curried Patches, rubbing her legs and checking her feet. Most of him ran through Magister Serrio's fair, chasing Kalisandra, buying fried food and winning magic stuffed toys.

The dry, slightly sweet taste of ship's biscuit, shared with an inquisitive horse, vied with hot funnel cake, burnt fingers and who could still whistle with the most cake in their mouth. Val, as it happened… but then Sandy beat him two falls out of three at the wrestling pit (not that he'd tried very hard).

The stable's old white dog came into the stall around third bell of the night watch. She sniffed him, wagging her tail, then circled a few times and plumped herself down in the straw beside Val. She did not care for apples, but accepted a strip of dried venison before falling into past dreams of her own. Soon, her legs jerked and she happy-whined, running through long ago fields.

Anyone peering through the bars, drawn by strange, soft light, would have seen a young elf sitting in the straw with his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, head on his knees. Glittering faintly at the edges, sometimes he faded almost entirely. Then a horse's warm muzzle would snuff at his pale blond hair, dribbling beer-soaked grain, or a dog's tail would thump the ground as she licked his hand.

The dog and horse kept him grounded in now with their nudging and moving about. Once, something paused in the street outside, but the watchdog's rumbling growl warned it off. Val was low in manna, his personal scent disguised by horse and hound, fodder and hay, so maybe he'd not been detected.

Or maybe those druidic chants, and the rogue in the shadows had something to do with it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sapling's papery throat clearing and general bumping woke Val from his trance, the next morning. Bright motes of dust drifted and twirled in the sunbeams. White Dog yawned and stretched herself as she rose from her bed in the straw. Patches pushed at his back with her clunky black-and-white hammer head. Not at all an attractive steed. Nothing like Dustroc… but a keeper.

The bitter-warm perfume of day-brew hung in the air like those dust motes, lifting Valerian's mental fog. He got up, muttered a cleansing spell on himself, and a healing spell upon Patches and White Dog.

"Feel better," he urged, easing the aches of exertion and age. Produced a few tidbits for breakfast as well, emptying his second-to-final food cache. That done, Val unbarred the stall and went forth.

Sapling hailed him from the office, inviting the high-elf within. He clearly seethed with curiosity, knot hole eyes gleaming, but managed a bit of restraint, nonetheless. Bowing and smiling, the groom offered his guest a steaming cup.

"Good morn to ye, Milord. Ye…?"

"Found the company and accommodations here, more to my liking," said Val, between blowing at froth and taking short gulps. He owed no one an explanation of his doings or decisions, but kindness deserved acknowledgement, so…

"Good morning," he responded, "and, thank you."

Sapling's smile broadened, causing more cracks to form and bloom on his silver-barked face. He rustled and creaked whenever he moved, sounding like wind-stirred branches as he bustled about fetching day-brew, sirop and flat cakes.

Glancing discreetly about (elves could be curious, too) Val saw that the office was hung with well-ordered tack and horse furnishings, as well as bridles and saddles for other, more exotic mounts.

He was particularly drawn to the griffin set-up in one corner. Beautiful and well maintained, its leather gleamed softly with oil, while all of its metal fixtures still shimmered with flaking gold leaf. The saddle was a work of art.

Val did not inquire as to price; too proud and rank-conscious to concern himself over mere coin.

"If milord would have it," hinted Sapling, crossing under a round, glass-paned skylight, "I could be lettin' it go fer a mere five silver and… and a fey blessing upon my poor tree."

There was a dwarf birch in a blue-glazed tub, at about center-office, carefully placed so that sunshine would reach it from skylight and window, both.

"Most o' the gems been pried out an' replaced with glass, anyhow, and no one in these parts needs griffin tack."

Neither, really, did Valerian, whose family beast might be the griffin, but whose home stables included not one. Reston had never trusted the creatures, who did have a taste for horseflesh. Still…

"Its previous owner fell upon hard times?" he asked, picking up and admiring the bridle, built to encircle a massive, flesh-rending beak.

Sapling nodded.

"Aye, milord. He were a Constellate paladin. Called himself Strongbow. He were human, and quite aged, as they go. He died here that night, and his beast passed o' grief, guardin' his corpse till the end. I ain't looted him, Lord, but set all his gear an' effects aside fer safe keepin'. Would ye be passin' anywhere close to the Needle? Aye? In that case, I could let ye have harness an' bridle fer ten coppers, a blessin' on my tree, and y'r word that Strongbow's stuff 'll get back to the Constellate."

Val had no griffin steed and wasn't likely to find one. Yet… the harness drew him powerfully. A riveted orichalcum plate, still brightly polished, was etched with the name "Sawyer".

For just an instant, he heard the scream of a hunting beast; saw its furled russet wings and spread talons as it dove at a terrified buck. Sawyer had been fierce, indeed, and tremendously loyal.

Val did not bargain. In fact, added two coppers to Sapling's request. As for the fey blessing, a sparrow that had been hopping and pecking on the open windowsill fluttered into the room, landing with careful, teetering balance on the lip of the dwarf-birch's tub.

Moments later, Gildyr was there, folding out of his bird shape with a smile and a flare of green light.

"Good morn and glad tidings! Peace to all in this establishment!"

Val should have been angry about being followed and spied upon. Instead, he indicated the druid with a nod, saying drily,

"Here is one who excels at blessings, needed or not."

Sapling fairly leapt with delight, crying,

"Your lordship numbers a druid amongst his retainers? Had I but known! Good elf," he turned his attention to Gildyr, "my tree is just over here. I just stay at my post since Ansel's away at trade, yet I find myself drooping."

The high-elf returned to his cup of fragrant, stewed bark, and to putting griffin harness away in an empty food cache. The paladin's effects… journal, coin purse, holy symbol, satchel and sewing kit… went in there, as well.

Meanwhile, Gildyr and Sapling were becoming fast friends, as something night-dark and stealthy flowed about in the room's shadowed nooks. Absolutely not stealing, under Valerian's withering gaze.

The monkey turned up to land unsteadily upon his left shoulder, both little hands clutching its head. Gazing at Val with squinted dark eyes, it mimed pathetically for day-brew. Val helped his fellow sufferer, carefully tipping the mug so that Cap'n could grip it and drink.

Off to the side, Gildyr slowly circled that tub-stunted birch, chanting and gesturing. Cool wind and glacial waters were called upon. Spirits of long-vanished ice invoked, filling the tree with their essence. Making it surge with sudden new growth. Gildyr seemed almost to blossom, as well; as though part of the wood-elf were dryad.

Roots burst out of the earthenware tub and clear through the floor, driving down to the soil below, splitting stone tiling to riddle the stable's dank cellar.

"Your tree needs contact and company," explained Gildyr, apologetically. "The spores bring nourishment and convey protection upon all that roots, good dryad. No tree should ever be isolated. Especially not a young birch." Then, lifting a slender brown eyebrow, "If I may?"

Sapling clasped both long-fingered hands and cried,

"I would be honored, good elf!"

And then Gildyr turned into motes and flowed somehow into the tree, down through those twining new roots and away.

Right. Tree magic, blah, blah. Moments later, Gildyr was back, seeming somehow refreshed.

Sapling was flourishing, too, looking greener and fuller. Less reedy. His silver-barked face spit over and over with smiling and growth. Meanwhile, Val finished his day-brew, poured more and shared it with Cap'n.

Breakfast was maple cakes and bacon provided by Sapling. For Gildyr, Cap'n and Valerian, at least. Salem went up to the hayloft to hunt for herself, radiating disgust at the omnivore's "dead-fodder".

All in all, a rather fine morning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

6

"Move, day-spawn!" snarled a rider, kicking him savagely onward.

He'd been silenced; prevented from speaking aloud by the blood-magic runes carved at the base of his throat. His hands had been savagely mauled, as well, left thumb and right forefinger wrenched off and hurled to the wargs, who'd snarled and fought for the bloody treats. No more gestural magic or sigils. Not now, and maybe not ever again.

His heavy collar was braided of leather and elf-bane, linked by loops of strong cord to the rusted chain that held all the captives in a single, shuffling file. He could not recall what had happened, how he'd been captured, and didn't have much more left in him. Escape seemed impossible.

The bone-dry air and wafting dust nearly strangled him, making every breath a serrated blade. He kept both swollen, torn hands shoved into his armpits, squeezing as hard as he could to stop sluggishly oozing blood. He could no longer heal himself, nor would the wounds scab shut.

Mile after mile, just stumbled along in a line that never seemed to stop moving, not even for desperate illness or death. Fallen captives were not even unlocked; merely dragged along by the others until one of their guards rode up and slashed off the corpse's head, letting the collar scrape loose of its truncated neck. Patrolling wargs made bloody, noisy short work of any remains.

The barely glimpsed landscape was stony, uneven and endless, with a drow-spun dust cloud obscuring its features, hiding even the pale, distant sun.

He lost track of how many times he crashed to his knees and fell, struggling weakly to rise, gasping and choking whenever the collar and chain were pulled taut. Lashes, clubbing and curses drove him upright again and again until… just when he couldn't have gone any farther… the line stopped at last.

Near death from thirst and exhaustion, he stood swaying a moment then dropped to the ground, managing to take the fall on his badly abraded right elbow and shoulder. Close to blinded by blood, dust and sweat, he did not notice, at first, when someone came down the line with a wooden bucket and ladle.

Then water poured onto his head and face, and someone dabbed at his eyes with a cloth that might have been medicinal, a thousand dead captives ago. Squinting upward, he saw a young half-drow girl with a broken nose and a twisted left arm.

Shaking her head for quiet, she dipped the ladle once more, this time bringing its bowl to his mouth. His hands were too sorely injured to help guide the tin pannikin, so much of the fluid dripped down his chin, washing dirt and dried blood from the silencing runes.

A sharp bark and buffett from one of their captors forced the girl onward, but he had a mouthful of water and, nearby, a small, scrubby tree. Some sort of wind-weathered pine.

Hardest thing he'd ever done was not to swallow that bloodied and tepid water. Despite his raging thirst, the young elf succeeded in elbow crawling his way to the tree, moving only when the slavers and wargs were not looking. An inches-slow, pain-crippled process.

Just as the line of captives was being kicked and cursed back onto their feet, he reached his goal. The binding cords had stretched nearly as far as they'd go, but he'd made it.

Looking swiftly around, he at last let the water out of his mouth and onto the tree roots, where dry, dusty soil flared briefly darker. Next… and it hurt beyond words to express… he used the longest remaining finger on his least-swollen hand to trace a pair of sigils onto that moistened dirt.

Shoulders shaking, not remembering how this had happened or where they were headed, he placed both of his puffy, torn hands against tree bark. For a long moment, nothing happened at all. Then a soft green light flared, and a pair of slim, long-fingered sylph hands came forth, enfolding his own in their grasp.

Warmth and sudden vitality flooded him, healing his hands and burning away those roughly gashed runes. He surged to his feet with a loud, savage cry, fire flaring from fingertips clear to his shoulders. Brought his foot down, hard, on the sigils, scuffing out what he'd written. Then, as wargs howled and drow slavers screeched…

The trial vision ended with heart-stopping suddenness. Valerian stumbled, nearly falling at the center of a great stone chamber. The other four apprentices had pressed themselves back as far as they could against the curved wall, eyes dinner-plate wide, mouthing ward spells. Above him, the ceiling smoldered and crackled, still glowing hot where his fire had scorched it.

Val straightened out of a feral crouch, brushing sparks from his tunic and hair, heart still hammering violently. Not true. Not real, any of it. Just…

Trial… the trial. Had he passed it?

Sherazedan's golden-pale face and silver eyes were nearly impossible to read. Val's master stood with arms folded across his chest, a large, white raven pacing back and forth on one shoulder.

"An… innovative solution," mused the wizard, his long blue robe and tall staff untouched by the flame. "Receiving outside assistance is not forbidden, one supposes…"

A brittle, melodic laugh cut off the rest of Sherazedan's words.

"What else could one expect from our true believer?" sneered Solara. She was Sherazedan's oldest apprentice, and closest to journeyman status. Very beautiful, with tall, pointed ears, golden hair, and the personality of a wounded drider, she found Valerian's up-country habits and temple attendance ludicrous.

"Did you pray to your god for help, Rustic?" she smirked, getting some laughs from the others.

Val hated her deeply. Was only sorry that his fiery outburst hadn't singed her bald-headed. Before he could reply, Sherazedan held up a many-ringed hand, saying,

"Your mockery is unseemly, Solara. Out of place in one who would wield the cosmos' mightiest forces. I invite you to consider this, as you assume all of Valerian's chores for the week.

The Sidhe-maiden's wide violet eyes spat hatred, but she bowed as gracefully as a dancer or riverside reed.

"Of course, Master. I shall think long and deeply on how such a one should be properly treated." Then, placing a forefinger to her chin and tipping her lovely head to one side, Solara mused, "I suppose I might bring him some incense to burn to his holy spark, or sew pads for all of that kneeling he does."

Sherazedan said nothing further. Merely lifted an arm to point at a sudden opening in the chamber wall.

Solara smirked, then turned on her heel and left, dainty nose high in the air. Probably not to clean raven stands, either. Why did girls always hate him? And why were they always so stupid?

Val peered up at his master's impassive face, rubbing hands that still ached from having been torn apart. The base of his throat pulsed and burned where the slavers had cut those silencing runes. Why would a trial… a mere vision… still hurt?

"Master," he ventured. "Was what happened just now a fated seeing? Will it come true?"

Somebody snorted, but…

"A perceptive question," said the hooded court wizard, sparing a glance at his least-attentive apprentice. "One without a clear answer. Yes, in a sense. Somewhere in all of the planes, one or more of your analogues will be caught by Drow slavers. It were well to prepare, therefore, in the event that quick wits and receptive dryads cannot resolve your dilemma."

There was more to it than that, as his master well knew. Val had managed to alter and scrawl a very complex pair of sigils. 'I compel' and 'Obey' had been turned into something new.

What he'd written in blood and wet dirt had been 'Help, please'... but he didn't think that anyone else had seen it except Sherazedan. Didn't matter, anyhow, because it wasn't going to happen. He wouldn't let it.

"Someone else, maybe, but they won't catch me," insisted the stubborn boy. "I'll be winning all my fights with steel, not magic."

His master was not insulted. Smiling thinly, Sherazedan inscribed a midair sigil and said,

"Stop time," bringing nearly everyone else to a stand-still.

"You are doing something I've never seen before in one so young, child. You are taking and changing existing magics with not much more than a sketchy thought. This is a subtle and dangerous gift. Control yourself. Apply yourself to your studies, or it all ends in failure and grief."

But Valerian wouldn't back down.

"I don't have to control magic. It's not that important. I am just learning here till my folk call me home!"

He never noticed a slim, silent shadow listening hard from the portal. Sherazedan shook his head.

"Be mindful of what you despise and what you depend on, small warrior," replied the court wizard. "Sometimes, that which one trusts the most can turn in one's hand and cut deeply. Now, away with you. Forty pages on how you might have resolved that scenario without resorting to outside help. Start time. Nalderick, stand forth to your trial!"

…And everything moved once again, while that shadow slid off to make plans.

Green-eyed, stalwart Prince Nalderick found himself facing a brace of maddened ogres. Val and the other apprentices could see a misty, blurred glimpse of what Nalderick was up against and of how he chose to react. It did not go well.

The other boy's attempt at a warding spell failed almost entirely, blocking sight, but not sound or scent. Had he been quicker at first to take cover, Nalderick might have picked them off one at a time. Instead, he'd stood his ground boldly… and ended up pounded to jelly and eaten raw, scraped off the ground. His final roar of defiance ended in a long, piercing shriek, ragged with blood and torn lungs.

Sherazedan ended the trial with a sigh, leaving Nalderick standing there stunned in mid-chamber.

"That will do for today," the wizard announced, looking grim. "More study is quite evidently required, as is attention to shielding."

The last two students filed out like ducklings, glad to be spared their turn for at least one more day. But Nalderick, badly shaken, hadn't yet moved. Valerian hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to join his fellow apprentice.

"What do you want, Rustic?!" snapped Nalderick. "Come to gloat at my failure?"

Val shook his head, no.

"You went down fighting and you never gave up," he said. "My father told me that sometimes, that's all you can do." His god and his family would have been proud of Nalderick, but Val did not risk getting laughed at by saying so. "And my trial could've gone better, as well."

"Yes, well… you're not the one who'll be copying shielding tomes for a month… but, I thank you."

The other boy managed to stop reflexively shuddering after a few more deep breaths and a muttered will-boosting spell. He'd just died and been eaten. No easy thing to pull free of.

"It was so real," he whispered hoarsely. "I thought that I'd be able to tell it was just a vision and keep my head, but… but… I really hope that it isn't my fate!"

Val pondered a moment. Then,

"Well, you help me with drow and I'll help you against ogres," he offered. "We can make a pact, so we don't have to face it alone."

The brown-haired prince snorted, rapidly recovering his usual cool self-assurance.

"You're one of a kind, Rustic, you know that?"

Then, with a sudden smile, he remarked,

"A bunch of us are getting together after lessons and chores for a game of court ball. Care to sub in for Dannor? He broke his legs when that flight spell went wrong. You do play, do you not?"

"All the time," lied Valerian, who had a lot of moves to perfect between now and free period.

Nalderick smiled again, already back to his normal, confident self.

"Fourth bell, then, at the west ball court. Bring your gear and don't be late. Darkness comes early, this time of year."

…Which was Valerian Tarandahl's "arrival"; his entrance to Karellon's high society, and the day that he made a lifelong friend of Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Prince Attendant.

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7

It made no sense to draw eyes and attention with red-lacquered scale mail, so Val withdrew to the stall for a bit. Ostensibly seeing to Patches and gathering his things, but really affecting some changes.

To be clear, he had no intention of skulking or hiding. Let them come, whoever was hunting a Tarandahl. Let them… bring their best, right here and now. But he didn't need to stand out like a stomped, mangled hand, either.

Disguising himself with illusion was a definite option, but a spell like that required concentration to maintain. He'd have to be in no doubt whatsoever as to clothing, facial features and general conformation, should the magic need to be reapplied in a hurry. Well…

Val rubbed the side of his chin for a moment, twisting his mouth in unconscious mimicry of Reston and Dad. Then he worked a very basic illusion. Didn't make himself look like anyone else, but like Valerian, two cycles earlier; when he'd ascended to senior apprentice. A bit shorter and slimmer, with longer hair and a readier smile; athletic from hours of dueling practice and court ball games. A seeming no trouble at all to maintain.

He hadn't needed to pull out his spell book to do it. Why bother, for something so easy? Also couldn't help tinkering a little, while inscribing those glimmering sigils and speaking the key word. 'Anka' made more sense, and would provide greater clarity than 'Erd', he felt certain.

Only, instead of a bright flash and surface disguise, he transformed himself. It was a younger Val who emerged from that sorcerous frame-shift. Patches and White Dog weren't much impressed, but the others…

Salem, Gildyr and Sapling looked and then looked again, harder; the Tabaxi going so far as to circle and sniff at him, ears flat and tail lashing. Apparently, his scent had changed a bit, too.

No more lordly, creased splendor in clothing, either. Now he wore casual boots, tan breeches and a loose white shirt with truly awful embroidery polluting its collar and cuffs. Kalisandra had been forced to produce it by Counselor Something-or-other, and had just about hurled the shirt at him for a name-day present, many visits ago.

He'd kept it because it irritated her, scoring big points in their non-stop battle. There was also a brown half-cloak (which covered the worst of those uneven stick-figures) and Smythe, who would not be left behind.

He'd had to spell up the size of that awful shirt, for he and Sandy had been quite a bit younger at their second gift exchange. It hadn't gone much better than the first one, but at least he didn't bear any actual scars. Just lasting memories.

"I embroidered hungry ghouls, and I hope they eat you!" She'd snarled, adding,

"You make me sick!"

Managing to crumple the gift as he wrenched it out of her hands, Val shoved his own at her, shooting back,

"Yeah? Well, you make me dead! And I poisoned all of your welcome cakes!"

Tara Cookie had sworn that tincture of tropical bean would fell any monster, and Sandy was surely that. Plus, he'd stomped on the cake package; so, not only deadly, but squashed.

Here and now, Sapling folded his hands, interlacing long, woody fingers and guarding his private opinion. Nobility were often eccentric in manner and dress. Everyone knew that.

Gildyr switched shapes a few times, peering at the high-elf lordling as sparrow, bear, ferret and wolf. Assuming his own shape at last, the druid said,

"That's… very fine work, Milord. Did you, um… stitch it yourself?"

"No," replied Val, stung by the very suggestion. "It's terrible. I could do better with ship's cordage for thread and a plank for a needle. It's a present. I hate it… but no one avoiding attention would wear anything this unnattractive. It's strategy."

Salem reached over to twitch at Valerian's cloak, covering more of Sandy's wretched, lop-sided stitching.

"They would certainly stumble in shock," she agreed. "Granting time for action or flight."

"I do not flee," said Val, gone suddenly cold and remote. "At least… I'm running to, not away."

Something stirred the black fur of her quick-withdrawn forearm. A sprightly gold monkey tattoo, making ridiculous faces. Val watched for a bit, feeling the weight of everything, all at once, almost too heavy to bear.

Sapling cleared his throat diplomatically, then, saying,

"Milord, good druid and Cat-madame… There are a number of very fine shops in town, where supplies and advice c'n be had… and Magister Serrio's caravan 'll be arrivin', today. No tellin' what ye'll find, there."

Val approved the dryad's suggestion with a brief, chilly nod. He did need supplies… but he'd be dead, drawn and quartered before he took off that miserable shirt. Principle of the thing, and all that.

"I have to get moving again," he informed them, "just as soon as Patches can travel unburdened. I shall need to rent a fresh horse… but I suppose there is time to go shopping, first. Perhaps learn what the innkeeper wishes."

That, and work on a link to the family transport sigil, in Starloft. Even a few days shaved off of his travel time could mean life or death for Lerendar.

Gildyr and Salem made as if to go with him, pricking Val in the pride and the pocket-book. 'Retainers', Sapling had called them, but 'retainer' implied contracted payment, while 'companion' hinted at near-equal rank. A pain in the saddle sores (of which he had naught) either way.

Gildyr resolved his dilemma with a bow and a smile.

"We surely all need to top up our supplies," said the druid, spreading his hands. "And why not go together? There will be many new folk in town for the fair. The Tabaxi will need an escort to fend off the curious, and that you can surely provide, Milor… Val."

Pretty thin excuse, but the high-elf accepted it, at least until he could slip out of town. Alone. Without dragging anyone into his personal nightmare.

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8

Snowmont by day was a glittering frost-scape. A town of stout two-and-three story buildings of wood and grey stone beneath a sugary dusting of new-fallen snow. The sun was well up, striking rainbows of light from each tiny drift. The cobbled streets were slick, wet on the stones themselves, icy in the gaps and wheel ruts between.

Their breath misted in the air as Gildyr, Salem and Val left the rent-stable, ducking the ice-fanged edge of its creaking wood sign. Mounts to Let, it read, beneath a crudely painted green unicorn.

It was impossible not to feel bold and venturesome on a morning this fine, with a sky so purely gem blue, you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it, as Katina Nanny would say.

"Frozen cloud berries and mint," said Val, forgetting himself in the moment.

"Beg pardon, Milord?" asked the druid, slowing that loping stride to look at Valerian.

"Oh… erm… the sky. Stupid. Never mind. Just…" He couldn't extricate himself without explaining, but didn't wish to seem foolish. "What, erm… the sky would taste like, if… you could tear off a piece, dip it and eat it."

Katina had nearly always said, 'Honey posset, with lemon cream', which everyone had on first snow days… and he really, very badly, wanted just to be home.

Gildyr and Salem both looked up for a moment. Then the Tabaxi said,

"Minnows, fresh from the stream, in slippery, silvery fistfulls, wriggling all the way down. No dip but the water they swam in."

Gildyr smiled dreamily, saying,

"Apples, crisp and tart, with just a shake of spice-bark and caramel sauce… but the flavor would surely change come noon, or at sunset. This deserves further thought."

Val was off-stride, having expected rolled eyes and snorts of derision. Swiftly changing the subject, he nodded at the first likely shop, just across the town square. The sign-board above its door showed a bursting-full wagon, drawn by a pair of green unicorns. 'The Trader's Wain', it read.

"That one," he decided, all at once lordly again. "No doubt the establishment will have all that is required, and we may then part company." Permanently.

Gildyr smiled once more, then turned himself into a rabbit to dart and dash across the town square, dodging traffic and weaving through market stalls. Half of the square had been cordoned off by a shimmering mage-ban and dome. Those flowing sigils caught Val's attention, as though a familiar hand had inscribed their binding and filled them with manna. Huh.

Anyhow, within the forbidden zone, Magister Serrio's colorful wagons and tents were already being set up. Valerian's mood lifted another few notches. Reflexively, as though escorting a high-born court lady, he bowed and offered an arm, to help Salem across the square.

"Milady, if I may?"

Her pupils had shrunk to mere slits in the dayshine, but now they widened a bit, and her ears swung forward. Next, purring,

"With gratitude," she placed a clawed hand in the crook of his arm and allowed herself to be 'guided'.

They garnered a great deal of attention crossing the square. Snowmont was a fairly cosmopolitan place, as mountain towns went, but an attractive young high-elf squiring a hooded, person-form cat was far from an everyday sight.

Folk were indeed curious, but held themselves mostly to pointing and impolite stares. Bird-Gildyr awaited his companions halfway; hopping and pecking at the bug-flecked base of Lord Orrin's bust.

"If you could have flown," objected Valerian, with a touch of exasperation, "why risk life, hide and limb dodging carts?"

The sparrow fluttered up, then changed forms once again, becoming a grinning young druid just long enough to say,

"More fun like this, two-footers! Try to keep up!"

…before dropping back into his lop-eared brown rabbit shape and streaking away from the marble pillar. Salem uttered a rumble, more felt than heard, and then she, too, was off, leaving her cloak in Val's hands. He folded it up and tucked it away in a faerie pocket. Then, briefly meeting Orrin's disapproving stone glare, he said,

"They're not bad, once you've gotten to know them."

The marble bust was larger than life and magical; spelled so that Orrin could look through its eyes at his town. His manor house lay far above, clinging to the east flank of Kronnar like a burr, just this side of the weather ward.

"No loitering, you!" called a town guardsman, hand at his truncheon. "See t' yer business, if ye have any. If not, be off. We'll have no beggars in Snowmont!"

In the split, surprised instant before Val realized that the fellow was speaking to him… dared address his better in such an uncouth and disrespectful manner… he started to bristle, reaching for Nightshade's absent hilt.

Then he recalled his disguise. Though it went against everything that three cycles in Karellon had taught him, Valerian contented himself with a single, contemptuous glance. The fellow was merely human, after all; an elven-form simian. Decked out in Orrin's green and white livery, he sported the usual stubbly face and may-fly lifespan. Then,

"You there! Sergeant at Arms!" bellowed the marble head. "You are hereby demoted to private recruit! Turn in your truncheon and badge at the station, then hie yourself to the barracks for further discipline!"

That… was highly unexpected and troubling. Floundering a bit in uncertain social waters, Val inclined his head in a brief nod at Lord Orrin's proxy.

"Good day, your lordship," he said,trying for 'carefree wanderer', rather than 'hunted young nobleman'.

"So it is, so it is," said the bust, without altering one bit of that chiseled scowl. "You are most welcome in Snowmont, my dear high-elf. We are kin, you know, through my noble father."

Orrin was a half-elf. Feen Arvendahl, Val thought he recalled. At least, this was Arvendahl territory, being part of Realm Alandrial, just south of Ilirian.

"I thank you," he replied, determined to give away nothing of who he was. What if the Arvendahls had discovered the situation, and decided to redraw their northern border? The last free Tarandahl heir dropped into their laps like a gift would lead to (at best) a forced marriage. At worst, a sudden surfeit of poison, garrote or blade. Best to play vague and innocent.

"I am just passing through town, Lord, on the way to… Milardin."

But the head was unmoved.

"Nonsense! I insist that you come to my manor and sup at my board this even, noble sir! We get so few worthy visitors, and all news of places afar is of interest. This evening at sun…"

A sparrow landed on Orrin's stone curls, then vented its waste, breaking the contact. May or may not have been Gildyr, but Val murmured,

"Many thanks," anyhow.

Hurried the rest of the way through the town square. Or, mostly. The town guardsman hadn't moved, still rooted to the spot of his humiliating demotion.

His sense of injustice wouldn't allow Val to ignore the man, who stood there with clenched fists and a shattered world. Coming forward, the high-elf said,

"I deeply regret what has happened, and would make restitution, if possible."

The man's hard blue eyes met Val's for an instant. Then he turned his head and spat to one side.

"Lord Orrin has his ways. Open an' generous one moment, rough as a started boar, th' next. I were rude. I admit it… an' I'll think o' somethin'... somewhere far away from here. Milardin, p'raps. I've a sister there. I c'n land on my feet.``

A tidy dismissal. Nor, Val sensed, would the man accept coin. Tam wouldn't have. But magic was another matter, entirely. In graceful, three-dimensional script, Valerian cast a traveler's blessing, wishing good fortune, fair winds and all speed to its target.

The sigils glowed and spun momentarily, then sank into the guardsman's chest, clear through his polished breastplate and tunic. There went manna he should have been hoarding, but Val felt responsible for the man's public disgrace.

Moments later, a human woman and child hurried over, drawn by rumor and outcry. The goodwife looked worried, but her small, hip-slung boy was oblivious, laughing and reaching for Da.

"Good morn and glad tidings," murmured Valerian, knowing when to back off and retreat. In his wake, part of the crowd drew close to the guard and his family, offering whatever they had to spare, by way of support.

Mood somewhat dampened, Val entered the shop, causing a tinkling spell-bell to chime. Gildyr and Salem were already there, fingering weapons and goods under the watchful eye of a bearded and surly she-dwarf. Snowmont was infested with the creatures, it seemed. This one was as red-haired as Alaryn Firelord, though very much shorter.

"Welcome t' the Traveler's Wain," she lied, quite evidently wishing him elsewhere.

Val graced her with a brief nod, then set about looking around. Food stuffs he needed, for times when he couldn't just hunt or fish for himself. Fodder for the horse. Healing elixir, as well, because one never knew when misfortune or injury might prevent the open casting of spells. He had never forgotten… could not forget… what that felt like.

The dwarf woman seemed to be everywhere he was, watching through lowered brows and simmering eyes as Val made his selections. He seemed to perplex her. Despite his plain garments and ugly shirt, the elf behaved as one unaccustomed to shopping for himself; never haggling over price. Never even inquiring, merely standing before items of interest, rather than picking them up.

The good-hearted druid ambled forward to receive and carry his choices, once the dwarf's young assistant… a dwarven lad… handed them over.

"Yer retainer… Milord?" asked the shopkeeper, somewhat doubtfully.

Val shut his eyes, briefly, trying hard to wring manna and peace from an uncaring cosmos.

"So it would appear," he sighed. Well, he could always figure out recompense later, the high-elf supposed.

Ignoring Smythe's impatient hornet-buzz, Val trailed Gildyr to the till, where the shop-keeper waited, rubbing her hands together with a sound like sandpaper on wood.

He was about to reach for his coin purse when he spotted the fishing arrows. Beautifully barbed and slim-fletched in cormorant feathers, they'd been woven through the mesh of a net that hung on the wall behind the counter. His heart must have shown on his face, for the dwarf-woman's beard actually split in a sudden, shy smile.

"Me own work," she said, visibly glowing. "If yer lordship'd have 'em, they be naught but ten silver pennies, apiece."

Ten…

"If physical coin be short," she added (for no one much bow-fished in Snowmont) "Yer lordship's scrip 'll do fine."

His scrip? That would mean using his name and seal to draw upon Stronghold Bank and Security, back in Karellon.

Val had long since spent the month's allowance and was supposed to be in disguise, but… he was no longer a second, spare son. If Smythe were to be believed, he was now Silmerana, Warden of the North and lord of Ilirian.

…and he'd rather have thrown away every last coin than have the family fortune at his disposal, this way. That stew of mixed emotions came close to choking him. Then,

"Valerian, is that you?" someone asked, from the shop's open front door. And, just like that, he knew who had spelled those ban sigils.

To the dwarven shopkeeper, he said,

"I shall take all ten of them. Ready the scrip, if you please."

Next, turning to face the doorway, Val sketched the slightest of bows, barely ducking his head and one shoulder.

"Lady Solara, greetings."

She swept within like a tide, gleaming in more than the usual range of colors; attended by creatures that flashed in and out of his sight as they boiled complexly through multiple planes, lit up by alien suns. Her staff of blonde maple wood shone like a star, and was topped by an overlarge, lustrous pearl. Clearly, Lord Orrin paid well.

"Why, it is you!" crooned Solara, drifting above the stone floor with her slender bare feet… their toes ringed and polished… posed in a graceful dancer's point. "Our very own true believer, here in the flesh. Oh, are you still just a journeyman, Rustic? And so low on manna! How embarrassing for you!"

Because she was a nobly-born lady as well as a full sorceress, evidently in Lord Orrin's employ, Val kept hold of his temper.

"I am traveling north," he said flatly. "I shall leave Snowmont within the day."

(With Patches limping on alternate legs, or on his back if he had to carry the mare, to leave this wretched place.)

"North?" repeated Solara, as though mildly puzzled. Then, "Ah, yes… there has been a spot of unpleasantness at your family burrow, hasn't there? Poor Rustic! How terribly sad. Anyhow, Lord Orrin and I quite enjoyed the little show you put on, out in the town square. Still feeding beggars and strays, I see."

Sparks flared up in the air all around him; drifting, rising and twisting. Ripples of heat made everything waver and dance, causing the dwarf to scrabble under the counter for a big wooden bucket.

"No magic!" she growled. Then, shoving the pail at a shrinking half-drow, "you, girl! Go to the well and get help! Hurry!"

The blue-skinned lass bolted away, bucket clutched to her chest. Val barely noticed. Solara drew closer, her beautiful face smiling gently; her aura pure daggers and ice.

"Aww… are we angry? Calling on Sparky the campfire god? Let me help: Now we fold our hands and pray, Firelord to light our way…"

Valerian would no doubt have landed in one of Lord Orrin's deepest cells, rather than his manor house, for assaulting his lordship's mage. Only, a ferret poured itself like a river of fur, from the countertop onto Solara's high-piled blonde hair.

Then the drow-spawn shop girl scrambled back into the Wain with somebody else's full bucket, leading three hurrying men.

"Fire!" she yipped, flinging her water, which turned in mid splash to strike, not Val, but Solara. The bucket brigade did likewise, thoroughly drenching the sorceress, ferret, and a goodly portion of Val.

The dwarf woman yanked that bucket out of her servant''s thin hands, then bashed the girl's head with it. Went for another blow, shouting at the fire brigade to get out. Valerian stepped between mistress and maidservant, recalling a broken-nosed, twisted-arm half-drow slave and her life saving drink.

…which was how he wound up on the floor in a puddle of water, stunned. Someone was crying at the back of the shop, while the dwarf woman wrung her broad hands and apologized.

Val touched his forehead, feeling the hangover shift its base of operations to a nicely developing lump. Didn't matter one tailor's scrap to the high-elf. Solara was gone; dripping wet and torn by a ferret, having snarled,

"This evening at second bell… Orrin's mansion for a… banquet in your honor."

… which must have been like spitting teeth, blood and bits. Touched his heart. Truly. Enough that he put himself back in the moment three times, to hear it all over again. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper was still bobbing and wringing her hands, fearing lost custom.

"Yer lordship, please accept me apologies and ten percent off yer purchase. That half-blood's a menace. Nuthin' but trouble from the first day till now! I should never've taken 'er in!"

Valerian lifted a hand to halt the torrent of words. A suspiciously damp druid appeared from behind a stack of dried peppers, making as if to help him off of the floor.

To the shopkeeper, Val said,

"Worth the price of admission, good dwarf." Worth double the price.

To the druid,

"Unnecessary. I am able to rise."

… which he did, unassisted and gracefully, not much slipping on water, at all. Salem next emerged from the back of the shop, doing something with ears, tail and scent that was no doubt perfectly clear to Gildyr, but meant nothing whatever to Val.

The crying had stopped, though, and then a door slammed in back, with light footsteps fading. That was as much as he got.

The scrip was written and spelled. There was a moment of stomach-churning anxiety as he waited for it to clear. Then a stack of gold and platinum coins appeared on its glowing surface, which now had "Aute ob Oberyn'' signed in below "Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran".

So much for hiding, but at least he was no longer impoverished… boasting plenty of coin he would rather never have had.

Val gestured at the newly arrived funds.

"Take the appropriate sum, with… ten gold apiece for the needs of my, erm… retainers."

Gildyr's green eyes widened like a child on his name day. Clasping both hands to his chest, he whispered,

"Nine and a half gold for the cause of peace between peoples!"

As for Salem, the Tabaxi sniffed,

"You might simply have left your belt pouch unsealed, smooth-hide."

Val shook his head and regretted it. Over Smythe's angry hum, he said,

"No. I'm not that stupid, and you're not that good."

At all. Even a little. Five times, already, he'd caught and foiled her attempts at his belt pouch. It was almost reflexive, now, reaching down to capture and pin a fleet, dark-furred wrist.

Salem put out her rough tongue at him, then wandered off to fleece someone else.

'The next time someone yells "stop, thief", I'm going as fast as I can in the other direction,' thought Val, not really meaning it. Then, 'Holy flame… a banquet at Orrin's place, with Solara crouching behind me, spelling up death.'

Right. Sounded amazing. What could go wrong?

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9

Val didn't have to look that far for trouble, as it turned out, because Smythe would not be ignored any longer. Vibrating at his back like a hive of assemblers, the sword screeched,

'Enough of this foolishness! Back on the road, Wastrel! Lord Lerendar stands in desperate need! Thy older, worthier sibling…'

Valerian checked the spot in his mind where his brother's life essence pulsed.

"Is still alive, and I'm hurrying, but I require supplies, and Patches needs rest."

Only, the Sword of the Tarandahls wasn't having any. Loudly drowning out Valerian's words, it shrilled,

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'Excuses! Slay the horse and purchase another! Doze in the saddle! There is time neither for banquet nor fair!"

Val lunged from the Traveler's Wain, avoiding the dwarf-woman's goggling stare. But Smythe wasn't finished.

'Back on the road!' it torn-metal screamed, adding, 'Or, do you secretly long for Lord Lerendar's death, so that you may pilfer more gold and besmotter the high seat of the Tarandahls with thine unworthy fundament?'

And, all at once, the dam that had held back a roiling mass of heartache, terror, rage and shame burst completely apart. Outside the shop, Val reached blindly up and around, yanked Smythe from its battered old scabbard, then flung the blade onto the cobbled street. It clattered and spun, then started to lift. Val leapt forward, pinning that wire-wrapped hilt to the ground with a booted foot.

"That's it!" he raged. "I'm finished! No more!"

The weapon began to heat up, glowing red and then white; turning puddled snow-melt to sizzling steam. A crowd gathered, but Val never noticed.

"Go ahead!" he snapped. "Kill me and melt yourself! My brother will die, but who cares?! At least you'll have got shed of me!"

Something parted and silenced the crowd, then, leaving just Valerian, Salem and Gildyr yet moving. And Smythe, of course; still screeching aloud as it blasted forth heat and disgust.

"Shorty, perhaps a modicum of restraint, when dealing with valuable magical heirlooms, dear child?"

Furious, panting, embarrassed, Val tore his gaze from the blade of the Tarandahls. Spotted a tall, elegant figure; Tiefling-horned and dressed with impeccable taste. The being's lightly curled, powdered hair was perfect, setting off a swarthy complexion and ironic smile. Magister Serrio, himself.

Gildyr rushed up, grinning with child-like excitement, for all Karandun loved (and a little bit feared) the Ringmaster.

Salem flowed backward, making shadow where none had existed before, one hand at her dagger hilt. Unlike Gildyr and Val, or the frozen crowd which surrounded them, she had no experience with this apparently undying showman.

Valerian straightened from trying to grind his weapon into the road. Reset his half-cloak, complexly glad and embarrassed by the use of his childhood nickname. Further, he'd made an utter spectacle of himself before half of Snowmont.

Still resentful, he stomped Smythe even harder into the street, scenting burnt boot-sole and blistered flesh. Worth it.

"Magister Serrio," he said, after clearing his throat. "Pray forgive me for causing a scene. I quite forgot myself."

Serrio cocked a slim, swooping eyebrow, saying,

"With cause, dear child. Your ancestral blade has become ever more crass and unforgiving, over time. Hmm…" The frock-coated being seemed to consider. Then, snapping long, beringed fingers, he said, "There. I believe that should do."

Several things happened at once, straining even the high-elf's ability to track multiple threads:

First, the faces of that frozen mob changed expression, going from avid curiosity to work-a-day business or fair-bound delight.

Second, Smythe went suddenly dull; no longer glowing or fighting to rise. Still seething, Val kicked it, hard. Maybe that hurt. Maybe he gave not a flying imp's tail; viciously enjoying the sight of a dulled, notched sword spinning away on the cobbles.

"You killed it?" he asked, not really sorry at all.

Thirdly, Val's boot mended, the hangover cleared, his scorched foot healed completely, and Kalisandra's wretched embroidery became a priceless work of tapestry art. No more bloody-fanged stick figure ghouls. Now collar and cuffs sported dignified griffins in Trandahl red and gold.

Funnily enough, it was the stupid shirt he most cared about.

"Change it back, please," he asked, looking and feeling bereft.

This time, the other brow rose.

"It was an exceedingly hideous garment," said Magister Serrio. "An offense to the eye, dear child."

"I know. I hate it. Just… somebody made it for me, and… well…"

Serrio smiled, understanding everything, as always.

"Ah! Our very dear Kalisandra, no doubt? I see. Very well, then. Let it be as you wish. To your eyes, at least."

The Ringmaster snapped again, and once more that spell-stretched linen was crowded with picked-out-and-restitched, misshapen monsters. Val relaxed. He really did hate that shirt, but… Anyhow. Transformations reversed, he stood there once more as himself.

Magister Serrio shifted position, coming closer without having stirred in the least.

"And now, to potential business. I believe that you find yourself in a bit of a, shall we say, picklement. I mourn what has befallen your sire, dear child. Keldaran was a good man. He shall be missed."

Val looked away. He could hold himself together as long as nobody reached out with kindness or sympathy. This unexpected compassion nearly unmanned him. The elf swallowed hard, clenched fists and jaw, but managed a nod, if not words.

"As to the sword, your 'Smythe' is not dead. It but sleeps, awaiting the sound of its true name, spoken thrice."

Uh-huh. As if that was likely to happen, short of the end times and Oberyn's call. Well, good to know what not to do, accidentally.

"I won't even use it to spread butter," he growled, fetching and resheathing the long, heavy, unbalanced thing.

Now both of those slender, dark eyebrows scaled Serrio's forehead.

"Spread…? Ah. Lerendar… whom, I believe, you have some interest in salvaging?"

Cautiously, Val nodded yes. Magister Serrio's eyes had flames in their pupils, though that civilized smile remained firmly in place.

"A final free sample, dear child, from one with an academic interest in difficult cases. Let us say that, so long as you remain within a day's ride of Snowmont, time outside of that boundary shall not advance. Consider yourself to be in a bubble, sealed away safe from the river of fate. Cross the line, and it's back to the rapids, I fear, dear child. But for now, visit the fair, perform deeds of might and cunning for Buernar, attend Orrin's banquet. Heal your steed. Then, perhaps, we may reach a mutually profitable bargain for Lerendar's safe retrieval."

Valerian hesitated. He very much wanted to save his brother. Would have given his own (apparently worthless) life to do so, if that were the price.

Serrio chuckled gently, casting a larger shadow than seemed possible, given his size.

"There is, indeed, always a price, Short-stuff. The question is, are you willing to pay it?

With a courtly flourish and bow, the Ringmaster conjured a gilt-edged card from seeming thin air. A puff of wind conveyed it, tumbling and fluttering, to Valerian, who caught the stiff paper before it swept past.

He glanced at it once, seeing the stylized head of a copper dragon printed on one side, and a close-written scrip on the other.

"You have only to decide and sign, to gain assistance of a rather greater order of magnitude than anything else on the board, as of yet. But… be advised, dear child… once the Matriarch is in play, my offer is withdrawn. There, now. All settled and sorted. I hope to see you at the fair, Valerian, along with your delightful compatriots."

Glancing aside at Gildyr, then Salem (who'd thought herself hidden) he chided them mildly, as well.

"Cubby, as much as you long for peace and justice in this imperfect plane, there shall be no further attempts to unite my animal performers against me. Trust that everyone… every last one… is in this place of their own free will, for a reason dearer than life or eternity. Now, should you care to join them, come to the red tent tonight, after the evening's final performance."

Next, to the startled Tabaxi,

"Kitten of Distant Stands Oasis, you are most welcome. Your curse is not. It halts at my borders, resumes beyond them… and thieving tattoos should remain where they belong, or risk becoming no more than an ink stain. Are we clear?"

Salem was just about able to nod, though her ears flattened backward and her tail had puffed bottle-brush thick.

"Very good," he said, in a voice grown too loud and too resonant for human or tiefling. "Then we are agreed."

Another crisp snap, and suddenly movement and sound returned to the scene, as Magister Serrio vanished.

An unheeding crowd poured and surged around Gildyr, Salem and Val, clutching their hopes and their money, ready for magic and wonders and deals.

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10

The Merry Lad was closest, just across the magically bisected town square. The ban was down, but a shimmer of space deformation still enclosed the fair. Not Solara's work. Much more powerful, and delicately spelled; those flashing and tumbling sigils each a miniature, archaic masterpiece.

Val studied them closely on the way past, feeling Serrio's card burning a hole in its faerie pocket, almost literally. Some things could not be contained. Would not consent to be packed away and forgotten.

His route was not direct, both because of the surging crowd, all streaming fair-ward, and because he preferred to avoid the gaze of Orrin's stone head. Val paused to allow a line of farm-carts to rumble past on deeply grooved wheel ruts. After a moment, Gildyr caught up, panting and smiling. The druid attempted to make eye-contact, but Valerian didn't care to see or speak with anyone, just then.

"It, um… may not be my place to say so…" the druid began.

"It is not," Val cut him off, wishing that rumbling, creaking caravan anywhere at all save in his path, blocking escape.

Gildyr stayed by the high-elf, determined to speak his piece, whatever it was. Not Salem. The restless Tabaxi leapt from a fluid crouch to a light landing atop high-piled sacks and then onward, hitting ground on the other side like an acrobat. Gave them a smug, flippant wave before vanishing into the crowd. The druid paid no attention, saying,

"I wanted to tell you that I, too, am sorry for what happened to your father. Keldaran was listening. There was progress, and I'm certain that…"

Valerian held up a banning hand, fingertips lined with the barest glitter of flame.

"Stop," he grated, between tightly clenched teeth. "Be silent, or begone. I care not which." Was not in the mood to talk about dad. Not with anyone outside of temple or grove.

Then a break appeared in the train of oxen-drawn carts. No more than a yard or two wide, but enough. Val darted through it with careless haste, nearly colliding with a well-armed young elf on the other side.

"'Ware your path and your betters, fellow," sneered the raven-haired sprig of nobility; an Arvendahl through and through. Part of a group, he did not quite touch the cobbled street with its foul, slushy puddles.

Val had not levitated, standing braced with his boots on the ground as the nobleman's friends turned to watch. There were four, altogether. Not an impossible fight, but one best avoided.

Before he could speak, the other elf… dressed in fine clothing lightly threaded with Arvendahl green, peered closer, dropping hand from sword hilt. A bit doubtfully, he said,

"But I know you, do I not? From…"

Valerian thought swiftly, paging back through faces, names and events, until…

"Fosterage at court," he supplied. "You were raised up in the manor of Elidan, High Lord Kalistiel."

The other lad smiled at him, relaxing visibly, all barriers suddenly gone.

"Weren't those the days!" he crowed, reaching forth to clasp hands. "I am Filimar ad Tormun, a cadet of Family Arvendahl, and you were one of the Prince-Attendant's set."

Filimar winced.

"We played your court-call team once, at the end of the main season. Had our collective rumps handed back to us on a fork, nicely seasoned and toasted. You outscored us, twenty-two to fifteen, but, gods! What a game… and what an arm on Nalderick!"

Val smiled back, remembering.

"It was a much nearer thing than was shown by final numbers," he protested modestly. "Your team played well." Then, with a slight bow, "I am Valerian, of Family Tarandahl, on my journeyman quest for…"

"Hah! Old Sherazedan, long may he mutter and peep!" concluded Filimar, laughing delightedly. "Hardest master in Karellon! My condolences, Valno. How you found time to practice at all strains comprehension! Say, remember the last City-wide festival scrum?"

Did he?! Val shook a head full of violent, half-drunken memories.

"Was it you that blacked my left eye?" he inquired.

"Only if you were responsible for five loosened teeth and a swollen nose!"

They shoulder-bumped, hand-clasped and shoved each other, while Filimar called out,

"Arien, Sandor, Kellen, come meet the second-fastest defender in all of fair Karellon… I present Valerian! Valno, here are as worthless a lot of parasites as you'd care to encounter."

More laughter and boasting erupted at that, as Val made acquaintance with Filimar's set. Gildyr and Salem drew nearer, meanwhile, watching with interest.

"Anyhow, Valno," said his new comrade, automatically using the personal familiar name form, "A few of us are here for the fair, but also," his volume dropped dramatically, "to deal with this upstart Feen of an Orrin, who dares refer to himself as 'Lord Arvendahl'. The gall! Thought we'd… you know… scare him a little. Shake him back down to his proper level. You in?"

Val knew very little of Orrin, beyond his execrable taste in court mages and statuary. Still, this new-found friendship with Filimar put the young high-elf in a terribly difficult position. Reston was a Feen. Katina and Tara were Feens, as were most of his uncles and aunts, thanks to Galadin's free-roving ways.

Before he could frame a response, Filimar's gaze shifted to Salem. He looked the Tabaxi over, then looked back at Val. Lifting an eyebrow and smiling conspiratorially, Filimar said,

"Hmm. Exotic. Must be quite a ride."

Valerian froze. Salem was a lady, and under his escort. The intolerable insult had got to be avenged or revoked.

With a deep bow to the amused Tabaxi, Val pulled her cloak back out of its faerie pocket, then settled it around her slim shoulders, saying,

"Milady, please allow me to present Filimar Arvendahl ad Tormun. Filno, here is Lady Salem of Distant Sands Oasis, a traveler in our lands under my protection."

Filimar's blue eyes widened as he grasped the enormity of his blunder. The young elf bowed deeply and gracefully, murmuring,

"Milady, a thousand abject apologies were not enough. I offer you lifelong service, at need or at whim. At your slightest word, I cross oceans and deserts!"

Truly generous, well-spoken and fitting. Val cast a swift, sidelong glance at Salem, checking to see if she were satisfied with Filimar's offer. He needn't have worried.

Salem yawned and stretched like a cat in the sun, musing,

"So much formality. So much stiffness, when the music of scent and the magic of moonlight are all that one needs for friendship or mate-bond. Be at ease, elfling. I am not offended by trifles."

Visibly relieved, Filimar straightened back up. To Salem, he said,

"I thank you, Milady. The cadet house of Arvendahl offers all hospitality, now and for all time to come."

Next, turning to Val,

"At second bell this afternoon, by the dueling tent. With you on board, we'll teach Orrin a lesson he'll never forget… if he lives to regret our tutelage."

Spotting the druid, Filimar abstracted a silver penny from one of his faerie pockets. Tossed it at Gildyr, saying,

"You, there! For peace, and to make certain your master recalls our get-together."

Valerian could have introduced the wood-elf, as well, but did not. There Gildyr stood, with the dirt and mold of the forest under his fingernails, in an open fur vest and hide breeches, decked in tattoos, elks teeth and antlers… with his tangled brown hair in a twig-pinned knot, begging bowl clipped to his belt. Just… how to explain?

Gildyr looked crestfallen as Filimar strolled away fairward. Then he hauled up his smile again, carefully tucking the penny away in a 'funds for peace' pocket.

Val folded his arms across his chest. Cleared his throat and then, at a nudge from Salem, he went over to Gildyr.

"You were saying? Prior to my inexcusably hurried departure?"

"Oh," said the druid. "Just that your father was, indeed, a good man and… My people burn a sacred twig and make a wish in the name of their departed ones. The rising sparks carry their wish to the gods. I would do that, with your permission, for Lord Keldaran. What would he have asked for?"

Valerian thought of his dad. Of hunting and fishing and learning to hold a bow. Of laughter and firelight, gone.

"An end to the constant fighting, I think," he decided, at last. "More time to spend camping and ranging his lands."

Gildyr smiled gently, going all misty-eyed.

"I would have prayed for that, anyway. Doubly so, now that it is in Lord Keldaran's name. May his son and heir seek the same."

Val reached around to rub the back of his own neck with one hand, nearly skinning his knuckles on Smythe's dead hilt in the process.

"I am committed to vengeance," he said. "There is nothing I can do but seek answering blood. I have vowed, and so it must be. Orrin, though…" Valerian shifted uneasily, switching his weight from one foot to the other, torn by deep conflict. "Somebody needs to warn Orrin, without imperiling Filimar."

…and his proposed banquet would be too late to save the unwary half-elf. Salem flowed over, whiskers twitching and ears pointed forward.

"Write a note," she suggested. "Spell it untraceable and then give it to me. I excel at going where I am not wanted, and seeing that which others wish hidden. I will place it on Lord Orrin's desk. On the tip of his hairless nose, if that is your desire."

Well, perhaps she was better at sneaking than she had been at theft.

"We'll do it," said Val, as they started once more for the Merry Lad. Whatever happened, he could not let a man be attacked for the crime of trying to better himself. Simply for being a Feen.

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11

The Merry Lad was a very different place in the morning, with its hearth-fire doused and its windows flung wide to let in the chill, bracing air. Busy with cleanliness now, as a handful of scullery maids scraped flagons and pots in a long wooden trough by the door.

Buernar's most persistent customers sat blinking on the stone curb or lay in the gutter beside it, still singing of "Ale, ale, ale". As Val looked on, a pair of scowling gnomes used long wooden rakes to push waves of spattered floor-covering and noisome detritus out the front door, where crows fell to squabbling over the choicest morsels.

Valerian stepped nimbly aside, saving his dragon-hide boots. Gildyr spotted something of interest in that ale-and-spittle-stained heap. Turned himself into a raven, then dove right down, emerging from the feathery scuffle with something gold. Then, hotly pursued by screeching and cawing crows, he shot off into the air, banking and wheeling, drawing most of the robber birds with him. One yet remained, though, pacing the windowsill, staring at Val.

Salem stretched in the wintry sunshine, then whipped off her black cloak and tossed it to the high-elf. Struck that watchful bird with its weighted hem, in the process. Then, giving Val a golden-eyed wink, she leapt clear to the building's thatched roof.

The raven had vanished, maybe not a good sign… but so had Salem, who seemed able to spirit herself into any shadow or crevice, at all. Whatever happened within, Val had a feeling the Tabaxi would be somewhere nearby, watching.

Val waited while the gnomes dragged another drink-sodden patron into the sunlight, then he stepped cautiously in through the door. Looked around at a very changed tavern. The stone floor was being scrubbed clean by a brace of gnome females, under the watchful gaze of Bron, last night's stubborn dwarf barmaid. She looked no sweeter by dayshine than she had by fireglow, Val noticed; still a square, glowering tree stump of a woman.

Val acknowledged her glare with a nod, then looked around for the Inn's proprietor. The high-elf cherished hope that he might yet end his streak of dramatic exits.

'Would be nice,' he reflected, 'to leave a bar or a shop with some dignity, for once.' Then,

"Good morn, t' ye, Yer Lordship," growled Buernar, from behind the bar. He was perched on a high wooden stool, poring over a giant ledger. There was a pitcher of steaming day-brew at his elbow, along with a number of clean, bottle-glass mugs. "Come and sit, if y've a mind."

…which was about as polite as a dwarf ever got.

Sunlight and breezes chased dust motes and very lost snowflakes around through the air. Upstairs, on the second floor galley, bedding had been hung over railings and ropes to air. Creatures of various species and sexes sat on the stairs, slurping at drinks and repairing the night's ravages. Most looked half asleep.

Carefully avoiding the fresh-scrubbed sections of floor, Valerian went over to claim a stool across the bar from Buernar.

"Care fer a cup, Yer Lordship?" inquired the dwarf, lifting his pitcher of day-brew.

"Yes, if you please," Val responded, placing a handful of coppers on the bar's polished wood surface. The beverage was hot and reviving, with something added by way of sweetness and flavoring.

"Kelab sirop and powdered hazelnut," explained the dwarf. "Bron figgers it'll bring in the mornin' artistic an' business set, if there be somethin' sweet in the day-brew. She does milk and foam, as well."

"It'll bring 'em in once th' word gets about," grunted Bronwen, not turning her gaze from those huddled gnome scrubbers.

More might have been said on the matter, but then Buernar focused past Val to look at the tavern's doorway. The elf glanced, as well. Saw a slim figure trembling in the threshold, pulling her hood as low as possible over a bruised, blue-skinned face.

"She's with yer lordship, now?" the dwarf rumbled. "Lasted longer with Hilt than I figgered she would… but we don't serve drow here, nor half-drow, neither. She c'n wait outside."

Val started to protest that the girl was nothing to do with him. He'd taken a bucket to the head for her, already, surely repairing whatever debt he owed to her trial-vision self.

But… he'd reflexively started to tuck both his hands in the opposite armpits. Converted the motion, instead, to conjuring coins. Flipped a silver penny at the shivering girl, who now stood there with clenched fists and tight-shut eyes, silently mouthing 'Please, please, please,' to whatever it was she worshiped.

"A market stall near the rent stable sells fruit. Purchase apples for my horse and… whatever you require for yourself," he ordered.

Buernar snorted as the child opened her eyes, snatched at the hovering coin and then darted away.

"Ten ter one says ye never sees 'er again, Yer Lordship… an' probably better off, at that. The girl's luckless. Nuthin' but trouble, from 'er unwanted birth ter right now."

Which brought out the absolute worst in Valerian (never very far from the surface, truthfully). Rather than explain himself or take up for a maidservant, the high-elf finished his day-brew, gazing stonily at his own reflection in the tavern's cracked mirror. Refused to ask what Buernar wished of him. Refused to say anything at all, until…

"Burnin' slag!" snapped the dwarf, at last. "As it seems yer lordship's too fine ter engage in a spot o' business…"

Val shot to his feet and away from the bar, stating coldly,

"I am not an adventurer. I do not bargain, haggle or transact business, my good dwarf. I am not in trade, nor is my sword for hire."

"I'm not yer good dwarf," rumbled Buernar.

"Very well, then. My average one."

The tavern's proprietor shut his seething dark eyes. Unclenching both fists with an obvious effort, Buernar raked at his beard.

"All right. As it seems I must petition yer lordship's aid…"

"That, I may provide, regardless of 'profit'," said Val, once more taking his seat.

After all, time was no longer an issue. More importantly, Magister Serrio had bidden him look into the matter, whatever it was.

'It' turned out to be the local copper mine; Snowmont's chief source of income. Winding through the flanks of Mount Skyrre, the mine's copper vein seemed endless, admixed with gold, mithral and what the locals called "giant's bones".

"They be rare, but we find 'em," said Buernar, pulling a tray of salted baked eggs from the bread oven. "Sometimes bits o' valuable giant gear an' broken machine parts, too. Me kin 've worked the vein fer time out of mind, since our people were first driven from home by the cursed drow."

Val nodded. The doings of the nightlings reverberated, still. Continued Buernar, looking grim,

"Me cousin Flint be th' foreman, an' he told me, the day before everythin' happened, that his spell scans 'd turned up somethin' big an' unmovin', far down below. So… they decided t' divert the dig, just a bit. Just ter check things out, like."

Glancing furtively around at the tavern, Buernar lowered his voice, saying,

"Ye see, the copper n' gold goes ter Lord Orrin, with a cut fer his liege lord at Arvendahl Castle. Tis the way things are, hereabouts, but anythin' else… any giant artifacts… c'n be smuggled away fer sale out o' town. Someday, when we've gathered enough coin, we plan ter mount an assault an' reclaim our 'omeland. Armies an' arms don't come cheap, Milord." And then, raising his mug of day-brew, toasting fervently, "Next time, under a cave roof."

"May it be so," replied Valerian, who had vows of his own to fulfill. Clinked his own mug against Buernar's, then drank deep.

By this time, Gildyr had returned, looking pleased with himself. A ripple of shadow beneath the main stairway hinted that Salem, too, was present.

Val signaled the druid forward with a wordless flick of two fingers. Buernar gave the approaching wood-elf a nod, pouring another cup of day-brew. Kept talking, growing more animated as the tale unfolded.

"The crux o' the matter is, me cousin bent a new shaft down ter the artifact, poolin' 'is strength with 'is crew. They 'aven't come back, though, an' no one's been able ter get in an' find 'em. There be 'eavy darkness an' acid fog what turns 'em back, everytime."

Seemed straightforward enough, but the high-elf hadn't been lying. He was a journeyman mage and duelist, not an adventurer. Gildyr looked sympathetic, but then, he always did.

"We can go in and find them for you, Good Buernar," said the druid. "Bring back the artifact, too. There's three of us, so it should be a simple in and out, back in time for supper."

The dwarf cleared his throat, looking suddenly crafty.

"Well, as ter that… Lord Orrin's taken an interest, as well. He wants ter include…"

"Me," said Solara, weaving herself out of dust motes and sunshine, right beside Val. "The venture may require an actual mage, not a mere amateur, waving his journeyman splinter."

That "journeyman splinter" was a tall ashwood staff, which Valerian didn't carry about because… well, magic was only a phase. A thing he did because his family had sent him to learn it. He was truly a fighter; a wielder of sword and bow, like his father and Lerendar. Thus, he needed no cursed, embarrassing staff.

As Buernar looked on with interest, Val stood up.

"Lady Solara, yet again. It is definitely a day, and you seem to be in it." He'd already bowed to her once, that morning, all that politeness (and avoidance of nausea) required. Added, "I see that you've managed to clean yourself up." (Externally, at least.)

Solara cocked a swooping, pale-golden eyebrow.

"Is that a bit of spirit, Rustic? How unlooked for!"

Buernar peered from one to the other, clearly enjoying Valerian's discomfort. Then, Gildyr came forward a step, bowl in hand and shy smile in place.

Solara flicked long-nailed fingers at him, hissing,

"You! One shape alone, until I see fit to release you!"

Something like a silencing spell or mage-ban left her delicate hand like a soap bubble, causing the base of Val's throat to burn where, in vision, runes had been sliced.

He reacted swiftly, not with a spell of his own, but by twisting one of her sigils, changing 'ban' into 'boost' on the fly.

Gildyr flashed suddenly from elf to wasp to flapping gold carp, then back to himself, looking surprised and delighted.

Solara's gem-purple eyes narrowed. She stared hard at first Gildyr, then Valerian. After a moment, the sorceress shrugged.

"I must have written in haste," she decided, "but it shall not happen again. We leave tomorrow afternoon at third bell. Meanwhile, Lord Orrin expects you at his manor, tonight, Rustic. See that you do not disappoint him."

And with that, like an orc breaking wind, she flared and was gone.

"Friend o' yers?" hazarded Buernar, looking amused. "Ye do seem ter have a rare talent fer winnin' folks over… Yer Lordship."

"Charm runs in the family," muttered Val, turning for the door. "I shall require a map of the mine, with the new shaft and artifact indicated thereon. If my retainers require aught by way of supply, they will make the need known to you. I shall return at first bell of the morning." Maybe if he left early enough, he could avoid that hag-witch, Solara. Maybe.

Over one shoulder to Gildyr, as he strode from the inn, Valerian added,

"Whatever you are able to save of twenty gold coins goes to peace, good druid. Happy, sharp bargaining."

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12

Someone awaited him outside, crouched by the waste pile. A net bag of apples had been placed on a clean bit of curb, with the change from a silver penny stacked neatly on top.

The half-drow girl, for it was she, rose to a slightly hunched standing position and shuffled backward a pace, keeping her hood low over her ducked face.

"Tis here, Lord. All of it," she whispered. "I counted twice, and… and I found a copper in the road by the fair, as well."

Then, wincing at having spoken unbidden, she backed even further. Her clothing was faded and ragged, but clean. As to age, Val would have placed her as somewhat older than Zara, his brother's daughter… but beatings and semi-starvation might have stunted the child.

Seeing her brought back his trial vision, with echoes of terrible anguish, exhaustion and thirst. To distract himself… because he was in control, not his fears of impending disaster… Val summoned three apples out of the bag.

Caught them in midair as they came arcing over, then shifted into an easy cascade, juggling the fruit first in one direction, then the other; sometimes using just mage-hands to do it.

Halfway through, he applied a bit of fire magic to roast the apples in flight. The girl's violet eyes grew wide, as she covered a smile with both scarred, shaking hands. Two teeth were missing in front.

Once scent and feel told him that the fruit was done, Val tossed one to the girl and another over his shoulder, sending it flying to Gildyr.

"'Ware, they are hot," he said, keeping the last for himself. Nodding permission, he started to eat. Bit drippy, but good.

The half-drow had caught hers out of the air, edging away, eyes locked on his face. Then, disbelievingly, she took a small bite and another.

Salem appeared, sneezing at the scent of roast fruit and conjured spice-bark. Val got out his clasp knife and cut a slice of warm apple for the Tabaxi, conjuring plate and spoon so she needn't eat out of hand.

From politeness, Salem consumed the morsel… but she quite evidently didn't enjoy it. Had probably had a much better luncheon up in the thatch.

"I thank you for soggy fruit," she said, nevertheless.

Dignity prevented Valerian from grinning at her. But then she said,

"Next meal, I shall present you with a brace of freshly-caught rodents. First bite is yours, and the choicest entrails."

Which rather cooled his amusement. To change the subject, Val turned his attention back to the girl-child. She'd bolted her apple; core, stem and seeds.

"You've a name?" he inquired, fighting shadow pain in his hands and his throat.

She huddled low, again, ducking her head.

"You, girl," she whispered. "Lazy, worthless, ugly…" and a torrent of other, worse insults.

Beside him, Salem uttered a musical half-yowl, producing something that sounded like 'Mee-eer-ee-ell'.

"Mirielle?" Val hazarded, trying to match her for pitch and vowel length, and failing rather spectacularly.

Salem's whiskers lifted. She said,

"You have left out the undertones, and the scent of milk and tongue-washed fur that means "kitten". But it is well enough… for a smooth-hide."

"I do my humble best, Milady," replied Valerian, bowing. Then, to Mirielle. "You were meant to purchase clothing, as well. Your present garb is unworthy of Family Tarandahl, to which you are now in service. Wait… hang on a bit…"

Fishing in one of his oldest, most cherished faerie pockets, Val drew forth a gilt badge, emblazoned with a pair of battling griffins. It had been Tam's before his milk-brother left Starloft, forever. Katina's eyes had been reddened from weeping for months, Val remembered. He gripped the badge for a last, brief moment, then handed it gently over.

"Place this onto your cloak, with the words "I serve". Then, deliver the apples to Sapling, at the rent-stable. Tell him that they are for Patches… and speak up. You represent me, and must not seem furtive, Mirielle. Wait there until I return. Understood?"

The girl seemed too overwhelmed to respond. Happily, Salem was there, with all of the small noises and nudges that a cat would use to encourage a wobbling kitten. She helped Mirielle to place the badge at the neck of her ragged old cloak, saying,

"You must use the rest of the elf-lord's money to buy proper attire. Clothing of scarlet and gold, I believe." Inspired guess-work, because some colors, the Tabaxi plainly could not discern.

"Yes, Miss," whispered Mirielle, half shrinking from an expected fist. Her fingernails were torn, bitten right down to the quick. Her hands were cracked and dry from icy water and scrub soap, their knuckles bruised from fending off beatings, as best she'd been able.

Val used a quick healing-word spell, murmuring something in Elvish before sending the girl on her way.

"That was well done, Mrowr," Salem told him. "You are more than you choose to present."

Not enough, though. Not where it mattered. Placing a smile on his face, Valerian offered his arm.

"Milady, by your leave? We've a fair to attend, and four murderous friends to lure off the scent… but I think that I may have a plan." The beginnings of one, at any rate.

She tucked a hand, claws sheathed, through the crook of his arm, saying grandly,

"Lead onward, Mage-knight. I will see more of this place and its people."

Behind them, they heard,

"What?! Ye sow-hearted, skinflint son of a dryad an' jackal! Would ye ruin me?!"

…as they strolled off into that swirling crowd.

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12.5

Beyond the rippling mage wall, a very curved pocket universe spread; one filled with colorful tents, lively music and trumpeting magical creatures. Far larger than half a local town square, the fair spread up and arced over, like the inside of a shimmering spell-globe.

Magister Serrio's Caravan of Curios was well known and highly anticipated. It traveled the land perpetually, with only the smallest, most benighted of settlements not rating a fortnight's visit from Serrio.

Val had grown up attending the fair with Tam and Katina or Lerendar… then, later, with Kalisandra… and so he knew his way around. Could find all of the most tempting fried foods and game booths, knew the shortest route to the big red show tent. Had many times climbed the spiraling steps to the weightless fighting ring at mid-sphere. For the Tabaxi, however, all of these things were new and tremendously interesting.

No matter where one passed through from outside, one found oneself always at the ticket and fortune booth. There was simply no sneaking in. (He knew; as scheming small children, Val and Sandy had tried every possible path, and been foiled, each time.)

Today, the booth was draped in Arvendahl green and black, manned by sprightly imps dressed up as unicorns. At Starloft, they'd always been got up as griffins. In Karellon, as dragons.

Val paid admission for himself and Salem, both, receiving two fortunes in the process.

'Beware large assailants and beautiful females' seemed directed at Valerian, while 'Someone you love is closer than you think' was probably meant for the puzzled Tabaxi. At least, the tiny scroll glowed when she touched it.

"I'm not sure, either," shrugged her escort, "but I've kept every one since the first, and they always turned out to come true. Not quite the way you'd expect, though."

After that (and a snap-portrait) they were in. The Serrio theme song lilted and bounced, too catchy to not hum along with. Air sprites danced overhead, trailing long, filmy streamers like sign boards with pictures that moved. This time, most displayed glowing eyes and the words 'Lionel: furious scourge of the desert!'

Strolling performers sang and played or did flashy stage magic. Food smells wafted, tuned to the tastes of each visitor. All very loved and familiar, but Val had some vital supplies to purchase. He was not here to play.

At the same time, he was Salem's escort; honor bound to fend off the curious and be sure that she had a good time. All without seeming impatient.

They had just left the ring toss booth (where she won a golden-fish in a mage globe) when two of Val's problems sorted each other. Filimar turned up in his best green and black parade armor, his starry blue eyes locked on Salem. Bowing deeply for one in full battle regalia, the love-struck young elf cried,

"Milady! May this unworthy heart, which beats for naught else but thy smile… which stills at thy frown… request the honor of escort?"

The raven-haired cadet rose from his bow and extended a bent arm, looking hopeful. Possibly intoxicated, possibly having sampled a love spell (or both). At any rate, he seemed totally smitten and utterly serious.

Val turned his head to regard the Tabaxi, whose ears and whiskers were all pointing forward.

"If you've no objection, Lady Salem, we could meet at the show tent in… say, two candle-mark's time? It will save you being dragged through mage-supply row."

"This is agreeable," she replied, accepting Filimar's proffered right arm. Her hand, Valerian noticed, seemed to sink through that green lacquered armor, until the illusion adjusted. "In two marks, then, Mage-knight. Good hunting."

Good shopping, actually, though that had much less cachet. Val bowed, lifting her free hand to his forehead. Before heading off, he extracted an oath from Filimar.

"Your vow, Filno, that Lady Salem is defended and entertained, and not left alone for an instant." (Otherwise, she'd be tempted to steal.) "Swear it."

"Upon my honor as an Arvendahl, Valno, this transcendent beauty shall be treated as the rose among weeds that she is. My service, once offered, is eternal. Let all powers and forces… let Magister Serrio, himself… hear and acknowledge my vow!"

There was a popping noise, a brief fanfare, and a sudden shower of bright pink confetti (which Salem reflexively batted at). Oath evidently heard and accepted.

Val kept a heroically straight face for the sake of Filimar's pride, but Salem's whiskers were twitching.

"You two have fun," said Valerian, adding, "Outside the red tent, in two marks."

And then, he was off, leaving a mage-trace on Salem's black cloak, just in case.

The avenue of the mages lay well off the main strip, necessitating a walk upward and over. Although he never felt sideways or upside down, Val was aware of the orientation shifting (and had frequently run about trying to make himself dizzy with it, as a small child). All part of the fun.

Thinking of the past made him hurry his step. 'By the time Serrio reaches Starloft,' he thought, 'may Lerendar be there to open the fair.'

One situation at a time, though. The nearer at hand, first. His plan to save Orrin was simply this: work up a really powerful intoxication spell and then find a way to dose Filimar and his set with it, afterward leading them into a wild, public brawl. As a questioned guard had remarked,

"Drunk n' disorderly 'll get ye a se'en night's stay at Lord Orrin's stone-view hostel."

…which was perfect, especially if the offenders were then hauled off by a senior Arvendahl. Ought to keep them too busy for plotting or murder… only he had to get his ingredients, first.

Found the right place… Nocturna's Tinctures and Notions… then went in and looked around, earning an imp shopping assistance because of his noble status. As a mere journeyman, there were certain items that he could not purchase, locked up behind the main counter. The Tiefling shop boy was happy to sell him anything else, though, once he'd displayed his master's seal.

"My regards to Sherazedan," said the fawn-colored boy, calculating the price for night oil, spin-head and leave-senses powder. "What an honor to serve so mighty a wizard!"

Surely, provided you liked raven cages and thankless, unending quests. But Val didn't say so.

"I have certainly grown as a mage," he told the awed Tiefling. Then, on a whim, the elf added, "There are open trials each fall, when apprentices rise to journeyman. You might try for acceptance. This should get you past the gates," he went on, handing the boy some coin and a mage token. "The remainder is up to you… but the old lich… erm, His Imperial Highness, is partial to lightning. Show him your best."

"My lord, thank you… thank you… my name is Jack, lord, and I'll not forget this, not ever!"

To forestall that high tide of gratitude, Val concluded his purchases. Was just heading back out of Nocturna's, when something happened. All at once, he was driven nearly out of his own body by a very powerful spell. It felt like he was standing in echoing darkness, barely attached to a physical form that somebody else was now puppeting.

"Why, Valerian!" he distantly heard. "Here you are, again!"

The distorted voice was female and familiar. Solara. Her sudden tight grip at Val's elbow was perfectly clear and quite painful. "Come, dear. Let us take in the fair together."

Her web of enchantments sought to smother his conscious will, but Val wouldn't let it. Not entirely. He maintained the slightest of grips on his own hijacked body, fighting her hold every step of the way. Nevertheless, they wound up in an alley, between rows of tents. Leaning forward, all trace of false sweetness gone, Solara hissed,

"Why are you here? Speak! What is your intent in Lord Orrin's demesne?"

"Solely to annoy you," Val whispered back, resisting a crushing compulsion to reveal his true purpose. "You looked amazing with a ferret attacking your head, soaking wet."

Gilt eyebrows climbed that lily-white forehead.

"Can it be that you are attracted, Rustic?" she purred. But,

"I'd rather chop it off and throw it over my shoulder than roll into your well-trodden bed," Val shot back.

… Which was how he ended up, blinking back to control and awareness, inside the main tent. He found himself at center ring with the hilt of a heavy, unbalanced sword gripped tight in both hands, facing a very large, black-maned Tabaxi warrior. A mage wall sealed them in, presumably to keep blood and flying bits off the cheering spectators. Drums thumped. Choiring voices shrilled "Lionel" over and over.

'Witch. Hag,' thought Valerian, considering his options.

The Tabaxi was chained by one booted foot to an iron stake at the center of that sawdust-strewn floor. He had about twenty feet of range, Val figured, which allowed a challenger a scant yard of safety by the mage wall. The creature bulged with muscle under a steel-grey, black pointed hide. His eyes were blue and… not so much ferocious, as weary.

"Put up a good show," hissed the monster, barely shifting that fanged mouth. "Keep moving. Make it look like a fight."

Then the timer sounded. Smythe was worse than useless, unanimated, but Val didn't want a public dressing down by his ancestor's spirit, either.

Lionel pounced forward, swinging an axe nearly as long as the elf was tall. It whistled overhead as Val instinctively ducked. Would have rolled aside, too, but Smythe's overlong sheath prevented it.

Instead scrambled for distance, lunged upright, again, stripping the sheath away and tossing that worthless four feet of blade aside. Hauled Nightshade back out of its faerie pocket, skittering sideways to avoid a thunder-clap down swing that would have cleft him from crown to crotch, had it connected.

The axe-blade sank a foot deep in the ground, scattering a blizzard of sawdust. Next managed to fish out his dagger, as well. So, doubly armed.

Flowed into a dueling stance, as if Nightshade stood any chance at all against an axe-blade the size of a serving tray. The Tabaxi's reach was enormous, but his recovery time was twice that of Valerian, who had speed and 'small, darting target' on his side.

The whole world shrank to that ring, and to staying alive. He wasn't dad, or Lerendar. Melee wasn't his style. Could have ended the fight in an eyeblink with magic, but that would have been cheating.

Roaring crowd, whistling axe-blade and his own thudding heart filled Val's hearing. The oncoming Tabaxi, his sight.

Nightshade spun a glittering web of steel. Pretty to look at, if not much use against giant cats and their man-sized weapons. So, strategy, then.

Val took full advantage of the chain's snapping bite; repeatedly luring Lionel to the edge of his reach, then taunting him into a furious leap.

"Slow… and ugly…" sneered Val, after dodging a powerful lunge. "No doubt stupid, as well. Staked out here for trying to sell… what you stole… to a guardsman!"

Which nearly cost him his head.

"You have no idea why I am here, or what I seek, gnat! Blow fly!" roared that ogre-sized mountain of cat muscle, shaking the tent poles and stands. The Tabaxi leapt too far, once again, but this time uprooted the stake.

Val spun aside, heart hammering. It was the dagger that scored, as he feinted at the Tabaxi's eyes with his sword. The foot long blade drew a line of oozing red across Lionel's massive forearm, where he'd raised it to save his face.

And, just like that, it was over. A gong boomed, and the shimmering barrier fell. Lionel stepped back, panting as heavily as Val, who was suddenly swarmed by cheering Arvendahls.

Filimar nearly beat him unconscious with back-slaps and whooping head tousles, making it very difficult to re-pocket Nightshade. The noisy foolishness ceased for a bit when Magister Serrio appeared to take the hand of Valerian and Lionel, both… but it was Val's that he raised.

"Ladies and gentle-beings, all!" cried the Ringmaster. "We have a winner, by right of first blood!"

As the crowd roared approval and the Tabaxi licked at its wounded arm, Val murmured,

"Feel better," sealing and cleansing the cut. Was a spectacle, himself, with messy, sawdust-flecked hair, his shirt jerked around sideways and pulled halfway out of his belt.

Once Serrio released their hands, Valerian went over to Lionel. Then, as custom dictated, he placed hand to heart and bowed.

"An excellent fight, Sir. I thank you for the sport… and hope that you will not take my ill-mannered taunting to heart."

After all, he might end up working for Serrio, soon, himself.

"I take falls two out of five times a day," admitted the Tabaxi, in a low, weary rumble. "I've heard worse and faced better."

Pride stung, Val stepped forward, ready to fight him again. Only, Magister Serrio made a great show of handing over his… prize money? Very, very much prize money. The tent was packed to the canvas ceiling, and some heavy bets had been placed.

"It seems that good and ill fortune vie to attend you," mused Serrio, placing a heavy purse in Valerian's hands. "Yet there is still better and far, far worse yet to come. Take courage, dear child. You will need it."

And then, somehow, Val found himself outside of that thundering tent, well to the right of its entrance. Filimar was there, with Kellen, Sandor and Arien, so he split the money five ways, only afterward thinking to ask,

"Where is Salem?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

14

Filimar's angular jaw dropped. Heart-stricken, white as a fresh-laundered sheet, the young elf stuttered,

"My lord, I… I… she was right there beside me, in the stands, and then…"

Filimar bowed his dark head and started to drop to one knee before Valerian, but the northerner caught and prevented him.

"No time for that," snapped Val, playing up 'worried' to the hilt. "We must split up and search. We'll need someone at the exit…"

"My post," tall Kellen exclaimed, pushing forward. "Nothing and no one shall spirit the lady past me. My oath on't!"

Through the mage trace he'd put on her earlier, Val knew where Salem had got to… unless she'd dropped her cloak. On the bright side, Filno and his set were no longer thinking of Orrin.

"Keep looking until she is found," he urged them. "Whoever locates her, send up a mage-glow. Red and gold for me…"

"Green for us," finished Filimar, looking like a man who'd taken his death-wound.

"We'll find her," Val assured him, adding, "Do not lose heart, Filno. I shall search the fish park. Divide the rest of the fair between you."

On the one hand, this was too good a chance to divert the young Arvendahls for Val to ignore. On the other hand, he didn't want Filimar to fall on his sword in shame and remorse for having failed at his duty.

The younger elf bit his lip, but braced up and nodded.

"An Arvendahl," he whispered hoarsely, quoting the family motto. "An Arvendahl to the fray!"

Arrien, Kellen and Sandor surrounded their friend at once, picking up the chant.

"An Arvendahl to the fray!" they roared, before all four went racing off through the crowd after Salem.

Val watched them go, feeling like ten sorts of scheming snake for letting them panic. Turned away to misty-step to the park, thinking that at least they wouldn't be spending a fortnight in Lord Orrin's dungeon.

Thirty feet at a time, in tingling bursts, Valerian crossed the fair. Used up all of his stored manna in the process, and had to drop into the market's open source reservoirs… even though he'd be deluged with free samples and endless magical adverts because of it.

Finally arrived at the park, light-headed and panting, surrounded by babbling mage-glows. Val paused them all with an impatient gesture, looking around for Salem. His tracer provided a general location, but for the rest, he'd have to do some actual searching.

The fish park was as beautiful as always; full of well-stocked ponds, tiny cascades and meandering rivulets. Three charming stone bridges crossed the water to meet at a small central island. A folly was there… a quaint, ivy-draped temple to all the gods… with a telescope, altar and fish-feeders.

He'd spent a great deal of time skipping stones here, with Sandy. Knew the place well. On a lucky whim, Val crossed the nearest bridge and went to the folly, where Serrio's rollicking theme song was only a faint, gentle tinkle.

Here there was all sorts of manna, provided by worship, devotion and oaths. Like water to a burning, parched throat, and Val absorbed fully half of it.

He spotted the fish globe before he saw Salem, and then only because she allowed it. The Tabaxi sat huddled up on a wide stone bench, with the goldenfish that she'd won in its mage globe, beside her.

She did not look around when he stepped into that little, mossy stone temple, but one of her velvet-dark ears swiveled in his direction. The folly was spelled to always be private. A mob of boisterous fairgoers might be present, in fact; each a splintered half-plane away from the others.

His presence in the Tabaxi's folly-space meant he was welcome there. Meant, he supposed, they were friends.

Valerian tossed a gold coin onto the altar, then came over to lean on the white marble railing near Salem. Looking out at reflected lights on rippling water, he said,

"I have always found this to be a marvelous place for thinking, and for getting away from the crowd."

The Tabaxi uttered a small, vexed sound, between fretful purr and soft yowl. Then, after smoothing the fur of her shoulder,

"I wished to free my prize into the water, but the globe would not open."

Val half-looked her way.

"You don't want your fish? The attendant imp said that this kind turns into a dragon, if well enough fed."

Salem's tail lashed and her head ducked lower into her moving soft shoulders.

"It should be free!" she spat.

Ah.

"Easily accomplished," said Val, reaching across for the globe. "By your leave, Milady?"

"Take it," she replied, informally transferring ownership.

He held up the magical sphere for a moment, watching a filmy-tailed white-and-gold beauty swimming in circles, very much trapped.

"Watch me," he told Salem, as he held the globe out past the railing, safely over the water. "So that next time, you may do this yourself."

The Tabaxi hitched herself around on her stone bench, facing him squarely, pupils widening with interest.

Val traced a simple sigil in midair, leaving a faint and glittering trail with his finger. 'Anka' it was: "I empower". Next tapping the mage globe, he said,

"Be free of compulsion, harm or captivity, little one, now and for all time to come."

The globe disappeared with a pop, letting water and goldenfish drop into the pond below. It hesitated a moment, still swimming its tight, restrained circle. Then the fish shot off in a star-burst of fins; darting out under the sheltering pond weeds.

Val bought a handful of food from the feeder, then scattered an arc for Finny and future associates. Lofted a red-and-gold mage fire high into the air, as well, to keep the Arvendahls from overmuch worry. Safe enough, as they would not be able to enter this space unless their presence was welcome.

"So… someone you love was closer that you thought?" Valerian hazarded, slightly misquoting her fortune.

Salem growled a long, weird cacophony of shifting pitches.

"It is no matter!" she spat. "I was a kitten, and foolish!"

Perhaps so, but Lionel seemed to take whatever had happened quite seriously. Well, if there was one thing Val excelled at, it was changing the subject.

"Did you… see the fight?" he inquired, not entirely preening a little.

Salem growled morosely.

"The beginning," she said, adding, "Clan master Tristan won, of course?"

The high-elf's jaw dropped, momentarily. Tristan? That monster's real name was… Tristan? Then, as she was still waiting,

"Erm… naturally," lied Val gallantly; correcting his course in midstream. "He is… erm… a very great warrior."

Salem sighed, nodded, then looked back over the water.

"I am sure that you fought well, Mage-knight, but Clan Master Tristan is a thing out of legend."

Uh-huh. A thing paid to take a dive, every three fights… which didn't make him feel any better, actually.

Serrio had given him a big, flashing, "I bested Lionel" badge along with the prize money, but Val hadn't donned the thing. Just, you know, put it away in a faerie pocket.

"I look forward," he said evenly, "to a rematch, sometime soon."

Salem's ears rose and her whiskers spread out.

"You are very kind," she told him, "but it were better to leave this place and him, than attempt to break mating primacy. He spared your life. That is mark of respect, enough."

Right. Time to shut up, before he planted his boot any deeper in the piled, steaming fewmets. Fortunately… thank Firelord, Oberyn and all those who loved his house… a ferret turned up, clucking and chuckling like an old hen.

Scampered up first Salem's arm, then Val's. Stayed there, too, perched on the high-elf's right shoulder. Desperately glad of the out, Valerian let him stay.

"I've a banquet to attend," he announced, "and a note to pen, unless… Milady, you might simply order Filimar to leave Orrin be. The Arvendahl is oath-bound to obey your slightest whim. You can slice through this tangle with but a word."

Salem's head cocked consideringly.

"Why would I do such a thing?" she protested. "It is more fun, the long way. What is food without hunting, or victory without stalk and pounce?"

"Simpler, for one thing," Val grumbled, conjuring parchment and pen. "Also, less likely to result in contemplative gaol time… but have it your own way, Milady. Crown game, it is."

The ferret barked on his shoulder, bright eyes twinkling in its black-masked face.

"Your opinion does not matter," grumped Val; folding and handing over a freshly inked note. Then, to Salem once more, "Take this to Lord Orrin's office, or wherever you think he might soonest read it. And… for courtesy's sake… show yourself to the Arvendahls. Filimar will take his own life, rather than live on, forsworn."

Salem gave him a brief, graceful nod before flowing back to her feet. Tapping the ferret's pink nose, she tucked Valerian's note away safe and said,

"I am gone."

And, she was.

The ferret barked again, circling Val's neck a few times.

"You," said the elf, scooping the transformed creature up and off, "Arrange what is required for an early start in the morning. I may have to outdrink Lord Orrin tonight, and possibly not be in best form for packing. Think light and well armed."

The ferret chuckled and squealed as Val stooped a bit to set it onto the bench.

"Go," he commanded.

And, it did.

Next, the high-elf turned back to the folly's quartz altar. Conjuring and cupping a small flame, he used it to kindle the offerings placed there. Then, speaking into and through the blaze, he said,

"Milord, grant me all the right words, this night, and a swift, ready blade if it comes to that. If… I won that fight in the tent, I thank you. If t' were only a mockery, my apologies. I did not know at the time that I was being made sport of."

The fire flared in response, consuming all that had been placed on the altar; even burning those many small coins. Answer enough.

Bowing deeply, Valerian placed clenched fist to brow.

"I thank you," he whispered, feeling very much better.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

15

An elf-lord in all of his glorious finery was a very rare sight, indeed. At least, this far north of Karellon. Hearing "banquet", Val had at first donned his full formal regalia: red brocade frock coat with shifting gold tracery, tight-fitting fawn breeches, polished high boots and shadow-black sash. There was a silk shirt, as well, its lace spun of fine waterfall mist. Topped with a golden-clasped half cloak and his mithral circlet of rank (lower Imperial prince, on his mother's side) the costume was truly resplendent; glowing like a phoenix, or Firelord…

…and maybe too much for Lord Orrin's dining hall. Truthfully, away from the city, Val felt pretty ridiculous wearing it.

Ended up changing back into a fine linen shirt and breeches… the second nicest he had… with the half cloak and boots. No circlet. In fact, no jewelry at all, but a long cloak pin, lightly poisoned at the tip because… court politics. Only a fool went completely unarmed.

His silver-gilt hair he left loose, as both assurance and compliment. After all, no one plotting or expecting an attack would leave their hair long and unbound, to block vision or tangle in branches.

A lone ceremonial belt knife completed the look; not long enough to be much of a weapon, but still definite noble armament. And, needless to say, no staff.

"Better?" he asked Patches and White Dog, before leaving their rented stall. Snorts and tail-wags were all the response he got, but Val preferred an honest, grain-dripping nuzzle or excited yip to behind-the-hands whispering, any day.

Mirielle, he mostly ignored, as the sight of her still brought on physical pain and emotional turmoil. Valerian had arranged for her supper, that night, and a warm place to curl up in another stall… but that was as much as he could do. If she needed a friend, there was Gildyr or Salem… the dog and the horses. Anyone else but him.

"Mind Patches and White Dog," he said to the air. "And do not wait up. I may be quite late."

"Yes, Lord," came a shy whisper. Then, "Be careful, please.. He… they say…"

They might have said anything, but Val needed out and away.

"Thank you. I shall," he said coldly, calling on magic to make his retreat.

Reckless misty-stepping brought him to Orrin's graceless stone manor at the appointed time. He materialized in an icy, gated courtyard just as the westering sun touched Kronnar's peak; its descent sending long purple shadows creeping at Snowmont, below.

Torches and lamps sprinkled to life down there like flickering stars, nearly drowned out by the glow of Magister Serrio's fair. As to the manse…

There were servants arranged in an open semi-circle on the wide steps to greet him. Upon Val's arrival, two half wood-elf footmen swung open the big double doors, while a small page blew a wavering fanfare. As those servants looked to have been standing in the cold for some time, Valerian cut short most of the formal guest-right ceremony.

"I thank you," he said, accepting his welcome loaf from the chief steward, and offering a magical gift in its stead. "I seek welcome and warmth, offering peace and blessing upon this house, in return."

Basic assurance that they'd not be sorry they'd opened their doors to a wandering stranger… but also a genuine magical act, which sent a cone of good fortune and safety over the house.

(As cold as they were, they would probably have let in Epothis, itself, as long as the loathsome snake did all its fell deeds by the fire.)

Inside, well, some houses are bright with flame-glow and food; ringing with laughter, children and dogs. Some are grim and forbidding, brooding on glories lost, vengeance delayed and slights endured. Lord Orrin's manor was neither of these. Just… dim, with few lights burning and scant wood on the hearth fire; its high, narrow windows shuttered and curtained like blindfolded eyes.

Orrin himself was large and broad-shouldered; more human than elf, to Val's eye. His lordship's hair was pale brown, his eyes a flat, darting grey; peering this way and that, missing nothing. His voice boomed as the marble head's had done.

"Welcome! A thousand times welcome, good traveler!" he called out, descending the hall's main staircase with arms outflung. He wore Snowmont's version of formal attire: a fur-trimmed green robe over white breeches and shirt, with soft velvet shoes rather than boots.

Orrin had clearly taken great pains to scrape off his chin and side stubble, leaving his face very pink. His hair was worn so as to expose the tips of his pointed ears.

Here was a man who'd completely rejected one half of his parentage, Val thought. But, his lordship was speaking.

"I am Orrin Arvendahl, Lord Protector of Snowmont," announced the half-elf. "And this…" here he gestured behind him to a very young, very pale sylph, so great with child, she could scarcely move. "This is my lady Alfea, and my future heir. Orrin, son of Orrin, should open the womb anytime now, I'd wager."

Valerian hid his consternation with a bow, as the fey-girl ducked her head, hugging that massive belly.

"Your Lordship… My Lady… great is your hospitality to one benighted and wandering. I am Valerian, a journeyman mage on my masterwork quest for His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan the Subtle and… and a great many other titles, with which I shall not bore you."

He left off most of the old lich's honors because that poor fey-child looked about to fall down the stairs. Val had to restrain himself from leaping over to offer his arm. Did not, because Orrin was closer, and her wedded lord, to boot.

"Alfea, darling, you must welcome our royal guest," urged Orrin, taking the girl's velvet-clad arm possessively.

All obedience, she took a rabbit's quick, shallow breath, then managed a flicker of genuine smile.

"Welcome, Your Highness. We all… this is, all of we…"

"There you go again, Alfea, dearest," murmured Orrin, chuckling at her confusion. "Say it with me: All that we have…"

She tried again, as everyone turned to look at her.

"A- All that we have is at your propos… disposal. Please, come to the sitting room until dinner is s- served."

Her wide faerie eyes shifted color complexly, never the same hue for long. Eyes that should have been lit up with fey-wild laughter and song, but held only misery. Her head sprouted more feathers than hair, in varying shades of blue. Her face was heart-shaped and pixie-ish, with a very light dusting of golden freckles across the bridge of her slender nose.

Had she been selkie-clan, Val would have turned the place upside down, helping Alfea locate her stolen seal pelt. Only, she wasn't a captured sea-faerie. Something else bound her to Orrin.

Val smiled back. While technically too far down the ladder to merit the title "Highness", a little extra respect might help him sort out what was happening here.

"But, of course. If Milady will lead the way?"

In his mind, he said, as he had to that goldenfish, back at the park: Be free of compulsion, harm or captivity, Little One, forever. Inscribed a sigil against the side of his own leg, just to be sure. 'Forax', it was: Dragon-strength.

Alfea's eyes widened. She straightened a bit, looking startled. Then,

"This way," she said, stepping away from Lord Orrin.

His lordship resumed speaking as they crossed the main hall, describing every item along the way and proclaiming how much coin each would fetch, if sold.

"Yes, indeed," he boasted, once they'd reached the sitting room. "My heir stands to inherit a great deal of wealth and power, both through the copper mine's increase and through my own, not inconsiderable, trove. I am, as most would admit, a very good friend, yet a terrible foe."

There were others present in the dim, chilly sitting room. Estate functionaries, mostly. A few upper caste servants… and Solara.

She wore sumptuous evening wear in very tight, very revealing peach silk. Her hair was a towering castle of multi-dimensional plaits, literally winding through various planes to surround her head in a gem-crowned halo of floating buns. Looked like a spider's eyes, thought Valerian.

Accepting a drink from the bowing chief steward, Val said,

"I thank you, good sir," then magically enhanced the room's struggling fire. Warmth and light filled the place… or tried to. There was something sick, dark and angry here. It fought him back, hard; a sort of web, connecting most of those present to Orrin.

Val looked at Solara, who turned resolutely away from his gaze. She wasn't the source of that hungering dark, but she knew it was there. Knew, and did nothing. Clearly, Sherazedan's teachings no longer guided her.

Overhead, through the mage-trace he'd placed on her cloak, Val could sense Salem moving about, taking much longer to place a mere note than seemed strictly necessary. Probably ransacking his lordship's great wealth. Probably going to get caught at it, too.

There was a burst of excitement when a swift little ferret got into the room. Like furry lightning, it darted all over the chamber, then shot up Valerian's side to perch on his shoulder.

Orrin stopped mid-boast, his mouth a sudden, hard line. His lordship did not care for animals, it seemed, but his lady's reaction was quite other, and utterly charming.

"Oh!" she cried, reaching out with both hands. "Oh, please… May I?"

"Naturally," Val responded, extending an arm for Gildyr to run along. "If it pleases Milady, it is done. She has only to ask."

The ferret ran with bunched up limbs and arched back, making little excited chuckles, then leapt into Alfea's outstretched hands.

"Oh, you precious thing!" she cooed, nuzzling its face. "Oh, look at that pink little nose! Those wee little eyes! Oh, Bean, if only you could see him, how you'd laugh! Oh, how cunning!"

The ferret licked Alfea's face like a puppy, pouring magic and blessings into her child. Meanwhile, Lord Orrin looked thunderous. 'Did not care for animals' changed to 'hated the beasts', in Valerian's assessment.

His lordship started to reach for Alfea. Fortunately, there was distraction at hand. Indicating an elaborately inlaid crown-game board, Val asked,

"You play, Milord?"

Instantly, Orrin's face changed. Puffing right up, he said,

"I do, indeed, Prince Valerian."

Somewhere else in the room, Solara dripped icicles. With cause, actually. But, before Val could correct this top-lofty promotion, Orrin took hold of his arm.

"We must have a match after dinner!" chortled the half-elf, giving Val's pinioned limb a brisk shake. "I must warn you, however, that I'm quite good, and my set is unmatched in all Karandun!"

"I am all anticipation, Milord," replied Val, who'd won a few games himself.

Then the dining room doors creaked open, and a nervous steward quavered,

"My lord and lady, noble guests, dinner is served. Please enter and refresh yourselves."

"The animal," warned Orrin, glaring at Alfea's playmate, "cannot…"

"Oh," she mourned. "But a moment, Milord. I… I… shall be right in to eat, once I've found Little Flash a warm basket to wait in!"

As Val's attention wavered, that bubble of brightness and warmth shrank noticeably. A basket would no doubt be helpful. Orrin's jaw muscles stood forth like boulders, but he nodded, saying,

"Quickly, then," and turned to offer Solara his arm. "My personal mage," he announced, as though anyone there was in doubt. "Also a student of His Imperial HIghness. Only the best, for Orrin."

'Missed that mark by many long bow shots, then' thought Valerian, only just not intensely enough to be picked up by She-hag the horrible. Maybe.

At table, he found himself seated between lady and lord, thankfully far from Solara. Dinner was stingy, but Val amused himself by performing the sort of semi-flirtatious magery that any gallant young nobleman would deploy, when ladies were present. He spelled the taste of their food to change with each bite, always to something marvelous. Even Solara's.

Her ladyship was enchanted, rubbing her great, swollen belly and whispering,

"Wasn't that wonderful, Bean? Didn't it taste just like… like… I cannot remember, but it's so very good!"

Solara just seethed, while across the long table, Orrin's bone-thin accountant ate with wide eyes and both hands.

"Yes, it is rather good," said the half-elf, loudly, covering his doubts with more volume. The food tasted no different to him.

Strange things happened all night, on both sides. One of Valerian's chair legs broke, nearly spilling him onto the floor. Then, once a replacement was brought, Solara's wine glass cracked and tipped over, dousing her lap and her plate. A window blew suddenly open, right behind Val, pelting only the high-elf with wind-driven snow. Then one of Solara's floating hair buns caught fire, and Orrin pronounced an end to the feasting.

"We retire to the sitting room. Now!" Orrin boomed, tearing his guests away from their treacle pudding (which tasted like starberry trifle to Alfea, Solara and Madame Evonne). "More drinks, and a fill of the pipe, for any who wish to partake!"

Chairs scraped and slid across the stone floor, drawn back by servants so that Orrin's guests might rise without effort. Val smiled at the brave little fellow who struggled and puffed to drag back his heavy wood seat. He'd been a page once, himself, and he knew. Magicked the chair subtly lighter for the boy, then turned to offer his arm to Lady Alfea, who was too swollen and bulky to rise without help.

"The seats are quite low, and the floor rather slippery," he excused her trouble. "Nearly turned an ankle, myself."

Alfea smiled at Valerian, then half-climbed him upward, swaying a bit, once back on her feet.

"You are very kind," she whispered, as Orrin led his straggling guests from the chamber. "Please, may I have a wish for my little one, Highness? For Bean, please? That he… that…" she faltered, then, seeming about to cry.

Wishing that there was more he could do, Val passed a swift hand over that velvet-draped belly, murmuring,

"Health, safety and goodness. May you be all of your mother, and only the best of your sire."

Solara hovered not far away, her expression unreadable… but the snow-spotting and spilt wine disappeared from Val's garments.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Upstairs, in a shadowed hallway, Salem listened with interest to the buzz and hum of all-talk conversation. These folk were practically mute, she thought, without scent, ears, tail and whiskers to help convey meaning. But their words did not concern her, that night. The mage-knight was keeping Orrin distracted, and that was all that mattered.

Rubbing her right forearm, Salem pulled Cap'n back out of the magical ink on her flesh. The golden monkey blinked and stretched, pretending that he'd been asleep.

"Tis late," he complained, mostly inside of her head. "I were just gettin' comfortable."

"No rest till the job is completed," Salem corrected severely. "I will place Mrowr's note. You look for coin and small valuables. It may be that we can purchase the Clan-master's release, then run like scalded tails before he knows it was us who freed him."

The monkey made a wet raspberry noise with his tongue, then hopped out of slapping range, onto a low marble table.

"Oooh, Tristan," he squealed. "Ye be so hairy and bulge-y, I canna resist yer charms!" Turning his back, the monkey wrapped both long arms about himself and made damp, sloppy kissing sounds.

Salem growled, but otherwise ignored the beast, who was often more burden than gain. They made their way via dark alcoves and puddled drapery to Lord Orrin's study. Some quick work with her picks unlocked the door, allowing Salem to push it noiselessly open.

Inside, a low fire burned on the hearth. Books and tapestries lined the stone walls, blunting some of the mansion's deep chill. The Tabaxi glided over to Orrin's library. Found and pocketed three slim, rare volumes of epic verse.

At his desk, on the palm of a carved wooden hand, she found a beautiful signet ring. Doubtless a crest he had no right to wear, so she took that, as well. Next a small, jeweled casket was relieved of its gems, which yielded to pick and file. The lock might have taken some time, so Salem just unscrewed its hinges, lifting the lid to find platinum coins and a small stack of papers. Probably important, and so into her bag they went.

As Cap'n checked the library for book safes (found three of them, stuffed full of money) Salem turned her attention to the mantle piece. There, in a place of honor, she found an amethyst statuette. Carved with great skill, it was only a few inches high. A cresting wave topped with a wild-eyed, rearing horse, it had to be worth a small fortune. Gone, followed by a pair of gold-hilted daggers, an orichalcum cloak brooch and everything else that wasn't red hot or nailed down. Even picked the gold thread from the tapestries, along with every third silver curtain ring, leaving just enough of them in place so the heavy dark cloth didn't slump to the floor. In the process, Salem found a small, secret door with a magical lock.

"Cap'n," she whispered, summoning her partner. "Is it trapped?"

The monkey sighed, scratched its rump and then scampered over; little red vest stuffed nearly globular with stolen goods.

"Tis not that hard ter see fer yerself," he grumped. "Not once ye've developed the eye."

"Mmm… why, when I have you? Now… trapped, or not?"

Muttering something that Salem chose not to hear, the monkey scrunched its small face and squinted at the doorway.

"Aye," he said, after a moment. "There be curses, silence spells, and a swallowin' void."

The Tabaxi perked up, ears swinging forward, flooding the air with eager hunt-readiness. Her tail lashed behind her like a velvet-dark serpent, having almost a mind of its own.

"Excellent," purred Salem. "With defenses so fearsome, there must be something truly wondrous inside. Treasure such as we've not seen since our days on the Flying Cloud."

…and all she needed to do was come up with a plan to get at it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gildyr, too, had been busy; waiting until the dining room doors swung shut to begin sniffing around. The scent and feeling of wrongness… of darkness… puzzled him. As a ferret, he explored the sitting room, checking urns and statues for signs that his person-form might miss.

But the room grew dim, and the flames died down, as a cold and malevolent presence began to congeal there. The ferret stood up on its hind legs, sentry-like, little pink nose quivering. As an animal, Gildyr could perform little magic. Small blessings and charms, only. Barking defiantly, he tried to change back to his true form, but icy wind and crushing blackness prevented him.

'I see you,' hissed something that moved like worms through his mind, smearing and twisting and pulling out terrible memories. The goblins, the giant stag, a party of elven hunters, his family back home in Lobum… all of the long-suppressed past. Everything changed and corrupted and drenched in his own spurting blood. 'Your only peace is the grave,' whispered the presence, choking the breath from his small, furry body. 'Your only escape is death. The end comes. The Mother walks free.'

Then the doors opened, once more. Two very bright figures and several dimmer ones entered the room. A soft voice cried out, and then someone picked Gildyr up off the floor.

"Please, no…" he heard, faintly. "Not you, too, Little Flash!"

A woman's voice, crying, while cascades of spells fought to bring back his warmth and his life.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Salem studied the door's locking mechanism, fighting to recall what she knew about disarming traps. It was basic knowledge for pirates and thieves and the like sort of "professional acquisition specialists". There was always a trigger, she remembered, which might be sprung early… possibly rousing the house… or tricked into not going off, at all.

Plan two seemed better, so the Tabaxi twisted a vial of delusion powder off of her thief's belt. Equal parts coma, nightmare and corrosion, the stuff could freeze the senses even of magical sentries and traps. For a while, at least.

Results, as the ship's doctor had told her, might vary. Here and now, Salem twisted the top from the vial, whispering,

"Stand ready, Cap'n. Once I have sprinkled the powder, you deal with the lock."

The monkey pretended to grumble, but was really just as excited and greedy as his heart-friend, Salem.

"I be ready," he said, cracking small knuckles. "Best lighten me load a bit first, though," he admitted reluctantly, shedding his red little, booty-stuffed vest.

The Tabaxi waited until her partner was in position, hanging by his tail from a slit she'd made in the priceless tapestry. The, taking a big pinch of black opal powder, Salem blew it straight at the door, warning Cap'n,

"Don't breathe! Wait until all is absorbed!"

The powder lofted and shimmered but didn't just drift to the ground. Instead, it started to quest; growing tendrils that sought out Lord Orrin's traps. First touching their mechanisms and then sinking in. Moments passed, and then all the black powder was gone, just as Doc had described. Cap'n got to work immediately, springing the lock in mere rapid heartbeats.

"You see? Simple," purred Salem, feeling her shoulders roll and her tail lash in anticipation. Next, reaching out with a clawed hand, she seized the latch and opened that small, secret door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'The end comes,' that voice had whispered, as Gildyr found himself once more walking through a sunlit forest glade. Just a child, his hand on the flank of a mighty white stag. Then, terror and ruin; ravening jaws and the lash of a scorpion's tail. The stag rent in half. His own right arm, burnt and still flapping, clamped in the monster's fanged mouth.

Then he smelt smoldering fur, felt strong, chafing hands and ill-tempered threats.

"You are making the lady cry. Awaken at once, or I'll have you skinned and made into a sadly inadequate hood!"

Something warm and reviving dripped down his throat, driving away those beckoning shadows. HIs ferret-self squeaked faintly, then trembled and blinked back to consciousness.

"Oh, thank… thank… beautiful… great… someone," cried Alfea, clasping Gildyr to her bosom. "Little Flash, I'm here! I'm right here! It's all right, Little One, everything's going to be fine. You won't die, not you, too!"

She seemed to be crying for more than just a limp ferret, and so Gildyr summoned the strength to lick the tip of Alfea's nose.

And then, everything went wrong, all at once.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On the other side of the door, Salem saw two defleshed and gemmed human skulls, resting upon an altar of polished black stone. A large glass bottle stood on a sullen red sigil that someone had scribed upon the floor. Inside of the bottle, something roiled and spun, like serpent and smoke, together. Not a Djinn. Salem had seen those before, in her parents' stronghold. This was altogether different… and her curse was in clear, full effect.

All at once, black-cat disaster struck Orrin.

"Cap'n, come!" she whispered, backing hastily out of the threshold. Not before a suddenly loosened stone dropped from the ceiling and onto that secret dark altar, shattering one of the skulls. Worse, on the second bounce, it cracked the glass bottle, which began leaking something like smoke.

The monkey screeched and leapt for Salem's right shoulder. Her whole side tingled and went numb as Cap'n converted himself to a golden tattoo. But the Tabaxi had pivoted and was already running, stopping only to pick up Cap'n 's red vest.

There was a quick shattered window and cold night air, and then the chamber behind her just crumped out of existence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Downstairs, Orrin and guests heard the grinding of stone and an ominous, low booming note, like someone had plucked the world's heartstring. Val looked at Orrin, the hauled Nightshade back out of its faerie pocket, along with a chainmail shirt. Practice gear, nothing fancy.

Orrin was pale, but calm. He, too, had armed himself.

"Guards, to me!" he called. Then, facing the high-elf, "Prince Valerian, if you would, I may need assistance."

"Lead on, Milord," replied Val.

Solara pulled her staff back into existence. Stepping forward, she said,

"Rustic, you are naught but a journeyman. Stay behind my shield, and wait for a target."

Valerian inclined his head.

"Let it be as you say, Lady Solara."

Together, followed by a dozen terrified guards, Orrin, Solara and Val raced upstairs. Trying not to be obvious about it, the high-elf looked as he went for Salem. No luck. Whatever she'd been about up here, the Tabaxi was long gone, now. Val tried to hope that she wasn't responsible for that ominous noise.

Soon, they came to a splintered, bashed-open door. Behind it…

The room, whatever it had been or contained, seemed to have just imploded. What filled that space now was a swallowing void, stretching long tendrils and pulsing with hunger. Moment by moment it swelled, growing larger with each object consumed.

Val summoned fire, and all of the light he possessed. Solara's staff-pearl glowed like a star. She began chanting spells, swaying snake-like in time with ancient rhythms and words.

Orrin seized Val's arm again, saying,

"Highness, if I may ask this of you, please get my lady and people out of the manor and see them to safety in Snowmont. Afterward, come to help us, but Alfea… my son…"

"Shall be safe," Val promised, gripping hands with his lordship. "I shall make all haste to return. Courage and strength in the meanwhile, Milord."

"Thank you, my friend," said the half-elf, turning once more to that rumbling void.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

16

Valerian bounded downstairs like a mountain goat, rousing the house with a Tarandahl war cry. Short of sounding a horn, he could not have been any louder.

"Out!" he shouted to each tousled head… most of them female… that craned round a door-frame. "The courtyard, move!"

They moved, heeding 'I compel' if not his somewhat royal authority. Back in the sitting room, all was in turmoil. Val found the chief steward and told the man,

"By order of his lordship, everyone is to leave. Gather all in the mansion and lead them to Snowmont."

"Yes, Milord," said the servant, nodding respectfully. Turning from Val, he began snapping orders.

Someone seized Valerian's sleeve. Lady Alfea, it was. Still cradling Gildyr-ferret, she whispered,

"Your Highness, the poor animals! The prisoners!"

Val bowed over her hand, pressing it to his forehead.

"They shall be freed, Milady. My oath on it."

And so, as Raun Steward managed the general evacuation, Val shot from place to place; freeing those trapped in cells, stalls or kennel. Even the dovecote was opened; Val's pretty fair imitation of Sandy's gyrfalcon driving the food birds forth in a fluttering cloud.

With the horses he had to be gentler. A spooked, plunging beast might easily break a leg, or fall to its death on the winding trail down to Snowmont. He identified the leader… Orrin's big bay hunter… and sent it off with a slap to the rump. Mares, colts and geldings followed their stallion to safety.

The dark, slimy dungeons were more trouble, because many of Orrin's prisoners were feeble or chained, and nobody knew where the keys had got off to. The first he could handle with healing and strength spells, resorting to potions when manna ran low.

But the iron fetters… Val hadn't the strength or the tools to open welded manacles. Prisoners cried out for help, as stone shifted and growled, and chaos thundered, above. Then Salem appeared, flowing like smoke from the shadows.

"See to the rest, Mage-knight," she spoke/yowled. And this time, he smelled something. He actually did. "I will break open the locks."

"Done, Milady. Be careful."

Next, it was off to the kennels, where terrified hounds barked and whined, lunging at metal enclosures. Valerian opened their doors, but the beasts would not run; just milled around the winded high-elf, awaiting direction.

Well, he hadn't spent candle-marks' time in the Starloft kennels for nothing. As Brad Houndmaster had taught him, Val whistled a signal and pointed, causing the pack to form up and trot forth. Except for one puffing, bandy-legged small fellow, more lady's lapdog than deer hound. In fact… "Not you, too!"... he recalled Alfea crying.

Val scooped that curly-tailed, squash-faced monstrosity up, earning a grateful face-bath. And those, but for Orrin, Solara and a few guards, were all of the manor's inhabitants.

Valerian would have joined those who battled, above, but he'd promised to lead Orrin's people to safety. From outside, he could see the purple-dark swallowing void consuming woodwork and stone, breaking attempted bonds of sigil and light. Clearly, half-elf and mage could not beat it back, alone.

Hurrying, Val caught up with the chief steward. Lady Alfea wobbled atop an inexpertly boosted litter, clutching a few precious objects, and Gildyr. She was sure to be dropped, if left that way, for the trail was winding and steep.

A thousand rank curses, sideways and backwards, reversing the gods' secret names! Then, double that!

He'd vowed that she and the baby would not come to harm. Forcing a smile of light unconcern, Val took charge of Alfea. First handing over that wriggling, whimpering dog, he said,

"By your leave, Milady?"

…and then lifted her off of the litter. The sylph scarcely noticed what he was about, for her face was pressed close to that of her adoring small dog.

"Pudgy! Oh, Pudgy, you're alive! Your highness, where did you find him?"

She half-laughed, half-wept the question, her huge eyes lit up with love and relief. "Orrin said he'd run off and been eaten by wolves!"

Trouble.

'Mighty flame, let me think up a really good lie.'

"Erm… he was stuck fast between hay bales, in the stables," said Val. "Must have got in there after the cats."

(Which were vicious, clawing nightmares; half displacer-beast, every last one of them.)

Alfea sniffled a laugh, holding both dog and ferret, now.

"Silly Pudge," she chided. "To frighten me, so!"

Carrying her ladyship, Valerian got the whole cavalcade moving. Meandering horses, hounds on point to the front, flanks and rear, with another one ranging ahead, they made their way down Kronnar's loose, crumbling slope.

Anyone watching the high-elf stride along with Alfea held in his arms might have been tempted to commend his great strength, but they needn't have. He'd placed 'levitate' on her ladyship, which became obvious when one of the pages slipped and plunged from the trail, down a mortal-high drop.

Those previous curses? Repeated backward, in low orcish.

Val left Alfea hanging in midair to hurl himself over the edge after that shrieking and plummeting boy. Just had to get close enough, hearing wind roar and rattling cloth… close enough to snap 'feather fall' on himself and the child, both.

Got him, a scant ten feet from the boulder-strewn ground. Seized all of that downward energy, too, which would otherwise have caused an explosion of gravel and sand. One might use that free force to help power spells; a thing that he'd learnt from a human wizard called Murchison.

A wobbling sparrow half-fell from the sky; meaning to help any way that it could. Val caught it out of the air, and then placed the small bird atop the salvaged boy's head.

"You," he said. "Do not move, twitch or wander. Neither of you. Remain in place, here, until the others catch up."

If he could just get Alfea to the base of the trail, surely that would satisfy his promise. Surely then, he could rush to help fight.

Someone… four someones… raced up slope, diverting their charge when they spotted Val, Sparrow-Gildyr and and the young page.

Filimar, Sandor, Kellen and Arien surrounded their friend, moments later.

"Milord!" cried Filno. "What has happened, up at the manor?"

More trouble, but this time, Val had a plausible half-truth closer to hand.

"An outburst of chaos," he told them all.

Filimar nodded grimly.

"Midwinter approaches," he said. "And all we can do is stamp out these eruptions as they occur." Then, "Milady Salem is…?"

"Guiding another party to Snowmont." In theory, at least. Herding pickpockets, drunkards and assorted dissidents, was more like the truth… but why worry Filimar?

"Orrin and his mage face a swallowing void with only a dozen guards," Val told them, absently handing a conjured sweet to the sniffling page. "Your assistance would no doubt be most welcome, so long as…"

Filimar nodded again, saying,

"There are no feuds in a burning forest, Milord. Truce is hereby declared." Then, "An Arvendahl!"

"An Arvendahl to the fray!" his companions roared back, as the lot of them turned and charged up the mountain.

Val caught a few more deep breaths, absorbed some earth-spirit manna, then misty-stepped back to the trail. Alfea still sat/ reclined in midair, about arm's height, surrounded by wondering servants and guards, dog clutched close to her bosom. Spying Val, she lifted her hand in greeting.

"It is nearly like flying, Your Highness," she exclaimed. Only, Valerian shook his head, no. Taking her up again, he said,

"Milady, only in the vaguest, most theoretical sense am I a prince. I am so far down the line of succession that one would require a telescope and nautical charting to find me. It would require a truly world-shaking cataclysm… a second Fist of the Gods… to place my posterior on the Dragon Throne. Forbid it, all powers."

…and even then, Mother and Lerendar ranked before him. Alfea just smiled, though.

"As you will have it, Milord… but Bean and I know what we know."

Val risked turning mere gallant flirtation into an affair of the heart by squeezing her lightly, but he didn't mean anything by it. Not really.

As an air-sprite, she weighed very little, but her pregnancy, the little Bean that pinned her to earth, added heft. How, Valerian wondered, had Orrin succeeded in luring and trapping one such as she, who should ride the winds and sculpt clouds? And why did Alfea not recall what she truly was?

A matter for later attention, he guessed, glancing up to where others fought a battle he very much wanted to join. But, he'd promised Lord Orrin, so… onward.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

17

In Val's mind they'd burned an entire candle… twelve of them… down to mere stubs (but at most took a mark and a half). Reached the end of the trail, then had to negotiate an unstable scree-slope, before he felt able to leave Orrin's folk.

"Rouse the town," he told the chief steward. "And see Milady to safety."

Raun nodded, saying,

"Yes, Milord. By your leave and hers, war does not pass Magister Serrio's borders. I can bring her and the children onto the fairgrounds. As for the rest of us…"

Val brought forth a handful of coins.

"You might essay the Merry Lad," he suggested. "It… has a roof."

Raun's unshaven face twitched, but he bowed.

"Aye, Lord," he said, before heading off. "The Lad, it is. Good luck and glad tidings, to you."

Val tapped the town's ley line for manna, was about to set forth again, when a small hand and a smaller voice stopped him cold. Mirielle, it was, dressed in new clothes and carrying a child-sized practice mace; her eyes huge and wild in that blue-skinned face.

"They're coming?" she asked him, one scarred fist clenched up on the hem of his cloak.

…and some other where… someplace less than a whisper away… they were. Drow slavers, there to ransack a town for captives and loot, leaving Snowmont ablaze in their wake. So close that it choked him, and her.

Valerian shook his head fiercely, fighting the grip of that vision. Just as phantom silencing runes and torn hands tormented him, blacked eyes and a smashed nose, an arm wrenched halfway out of its socket, wracked Mirielle.

"Not here," he told her. "Not in our plane, thanks to Serrio's presence."

Didn't help much, knowing that. Val felt himself, other-where, trying hard to save Snowmont and failing. Once again, the high-elf shook his head, fighting by all the gods' endless names to clear it.

"Return to the stables," he snapped, more harshly than intended. "Warn Sapling of the chaos-burst, and make Patches ready to travel. I shall be back, presently."

Her eyes asked what her voice did not: Promise?

"My oath on it. Now, off with you. Scurry!"

The town was roused. War bells rang, summoning aid. Warriors shouted orders and readied their weapons as helpless ones fled to Serrio's fair or to the depths of their cellars. His task completed, Val spelled himself back up the mountainside.

Half of the mansion was gone by the time he'd misty-stepped over to Orrin, Solara and Filimar. One of the guards was down, half of his body sliced cleanly away by a lashing black tendril. His torso lay dribbling blood and entrails onto the courtyard, while the rest of the guardsmen backed to the gate; eyes wide and halberds wavering.

Not that there was anything they could have done.

The swallowing void had grown. Wind screamed toward it from all directions, carrying sticks, torn leaves, sand and unlucky birds. Lightning struck repeatedly, as manna itself was drawn into that terrible emptiness. Dark tendrils crackled and whipped.

Solara glowed in more colors than fit on a rainbow, staff held high as she fought to transport that rampaging menace to another plane. Orrin had a basic grimoire floating in front of him, trying one spell after another, barely audible over the void's shrieking pull.

Val started toward them, only Filimar bounded over with Arien, Sandor and Kellen.

"Milord," the young Arvendahl shouted. "Arrow and blade do not harm it! What else can we try?"

Solara's transport-web snapped. Orrin's globe of abjurement dissolved, their sigils sucked into the swallowing void, magic unraveling as the high-elves looked on.

'Think,' he commanded himself. 'Arms and teleportation will not harm it. What else is there?'

Aloud, Valerian shouted back,

"Task two of your companions to see these men back to Snowmont. They may be able to do some good there."

Here, they were helpless, and just in the way. Just one more concern. Raven-haired Filimar nodded, pointing out Sandor and Arien, then jerking a thumb at the gate.

Both young elves looked stricken, clasping arms with Filno, before they obeyed. Val burnt the corpse with a firebolt, not letting it be drawn into the void; inscribing 'release', as he did so. More to gain think-time than anything else.

Channeled manna to Orrin and Solara… knocked Kellen out of the way of a questing dark tendril, saving the Arvendahl's leg. Nothing much useful. Nothing that mattered.

Further forward, Solara was tiring despite Val's infusion of power… and still the thing grew. He did not hear Filimar's spell, but saw the young nobleman's arrows glitter with magical force as he drew and fired, again and again. Nothing. No good, at all. Only succeeded in feeding that surging and ravening sphere.

Sphere… shape… boundary… connection… a thought struggled to form in his mind. One of Murchison's "outside the boundaries" notions. He had moments, at best, as that screaming gale was now almost too powerful to stand up against.

"Filimar!" Val shouted, hauling the other elf nearer. "Fall back as far as you can, but channel power; everything you and Kellen still have!"

The young high-elf swallowed, then nodded.

"Take care, Valno!" he yelled back. "No shame in retreat, my friend! Not against that!"

Hadn't come to it, yet, and hopefully wouldn't. There was always Sherazedan, who would certainly hear and respond to the war bells… but it wasn't that bad, he assured himself.

Bracing against the wind, dodging tendrils of nothingness, Val fought his way over to Orrin.

"Milord," he called, seizing the half-elf's shoulder. "Focus your power on wrapping up and collapsing it. Don't need all the way, just smaller! Five yards across, or so!" About the breadth of his mother's workroom.

Managed to reach Solara and tell her the same thing. She looked rough; near hollowed out by power use and terribly high-level spells. Hair dulled and whipping, eyes like two wounds in a bloodless, wild face. She understood him enough to nod, though, and try the same strategy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Down in Snowmont, a stunned, wounded sparrow fluttered onto the town wall, almost falling from the air onto chilly stone. As chaos thundered and raged on the mountainside, high above, the bird turned back into a shivering wood-elf. A druid whose right arm hung limp and whose legs wouldn't hold him.

Still, the elf forced himself up, managing somehow to raise both his arms. Calling on forest and field and bright garden… on river and stone and wild rain… he cried "Grow!" in a voice that shook walls and cracked windows.

At his command, a tangle of thicket and vine burst from the ground, forming a tall hedge of wood; fanged and clawed with long thorns, patrolled by the spirits of life. Then, utterly spent, Gildyr collapsed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, Solara and Orrin shifted their magics from attempted destruction to squeezing and binding; fighting the swallowing void with more than they had to spare, forcing the thing to contract.

Next, when the sphere's radius shrank to a size he could manage, Val tried out his notion; using non-standard sigils to bind the void's outer surface, linking each exterior point to an opposite internal one; diverting its pull back within.

Made sense in his head, at any rate… and took many fumbling tries before something clicked; the right rune, that last burst of power. All at once, the void's force began slurping up its own innards. Still shrieking and pulsating, it… sort of ate itself.

Popped with a thunderous crack right out of reality, leaving litter and elves to drop to the ground in sudden dead silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Off in the shadows, Salem sorted her loot, confident that Mrowr would do fine on his own… realizing slowly that each stolen item was mage-traced.

"Pftah!" she cursed. "Now what?"

How was she to keep what she'd taken, when every gem, coin and trinket would scream its existence to Orrin, forever?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Valerian lay on his back in the courtyard, arms outflung, gazing upward at Oberyn's sign in the sky. Low. Almost setting, and chased by the serpent. Day was not far off.

'For Oberyn, for the dawn!' was the Tarandahl war cry; meant to be shouted aloud with an upraised sword and rampant griffin mount… not whispered hoarsely, sprawled out on cold stone. But, Val said it anyhow, marking victory for his house and his family… and Solara, Orrin and Filimar, too.

Someone came scrabbling over to drop to a slump at his side. Filimar, looking like twelve sorts of warmed-over penitence quests gone horribly wrong; face torn and bloodied by flying debris, clothing askew and sticking to flesh with fast-chilling sweat. Just like Val, less the Tarandahl's bunched-up chain mail.

"You are perilous company, Valno," the younger elf chuckled. "On, or off the playing field."

Val rolled himself into a sitting position, drawing his legs up through litter and stone. Shifting back to his city persona, he joked,

"We should go drinking together sometime."

Rising, Valerian offered Filimar a hand up, adding,

"Then you'd truly have something to complain of. The list of taverns from which I am barred is second only to Nalderick's."

Got a look and whiff at himself, then. Well, no high-elf likes to appear disheveled or, worse yet, grubby. So, Val and Filimar exchanged polite nods, then wandered apart for swift cleansing spells and a clothing change.

All around them, Solara and the rest of the Arvendahl set were doing the same. Only Lord Orrin remained in his post-battle state, not having those spells, or fresh garments stored up on hand.

…And all that Val had ready was his rejected court formal wear, which… Right. He glowed like Alaryn Firelord's wyvern, but at least was no longer filthy.

Solara snorted, shaking a beautifully re-styled head.

"Yet again, you have cheated, Rustic," she hissed. "None of that magic was born of the ages or fey wilds."

"Trying something new isn't cheating," he shot back. "It's…" How had Murchison put it? "It is being original." A thing not much valued in high-elven circles.

The sorceress would have said something caustic, but then part of the air gaped wide in a shimmering magical gate. Not a one-off, Val noted; the sigils and runes had been there, but long unused. Light flashed, and then a tall Elven lord stepped through the opening, armed and armored for battle; drawn by the war bells of Snowmont.

With pitch-black hair and glacial blue eyes, in green cloak and gold circlet, this could only be High Lord Arvendahl, himself, Warden of Eastermark. Filimar stepped quickly in front of Valerian, as did Kellen, jostling the Tarandahl back and away.

"My lord," said Filimar, bowing deeply. "As you can see, there was a bit of…"

"What has happened here?" Lord Arvendahl snapped, cutting Filimar off in mid-explanation. Those icy blue eyes next shifted to Orrin, standing there dirty, torn and unshaven, reeling with exhaustion.

Orrin strove to straighten his garments and wipe at his face, which Val helped along with a muttered cleansing spell.

"You," said the man's lordly father. "Explain. Whence came this…"

"Chaos burst," finished another harsh voice, emerging from the greater rune 'gate' which drew itself in midair as they watched.

Sandor and Arien came pelting back into the courtyard, panting like a pair of spent horses, wild to rejoin their young lord.

A portal formed, and Sherazedan was suddenly present, having woven himself from the lines of that magical rune. Val studied the spellwork closely, rapid travel being rather on his mind.

As for Lord Arvendahl, the nobleman's face went expressionless, and he bent the knee.

"Your Imperial Highness," he intoned.

"Stuff and nonsense, Falco. On your feet! His Imperial Highness is my brother. I am a mere court mage."

He'd come prepared for a fight, with a grimoire open before him, and a fully charged staff… not the curlicued formal prop that Val held for the old lich at banquets… in hand.

"Something unspeakably dark was released here," the wizard continued, turning to look at the ruined mansion. "The question is, who set it free, and why was it here in the first place?"

Sherazedan's pale silver eyes shifted to Solara, as ranking mage. In command voice, he said,

"Open your mind to me, child."

A few moments passed, during which Val exchanged glances with Orrin and Filimar. Whatever had happened, there was nothing to be gained by inviting official involvement. Apparently, Solara thought so, as well.

"Hmmph," Sherazedan grunted. "This has not the mark of a truly random occurrence. There are undertones here which bespeak a deeper and fouler purpose."

For just an instant those ice-pale eyes stopped on Valerian. The young high-elf folded his arms across his chest defensively. Lord Arvendahl seemed to notice him for the first time, as well.

Sherazedan sighed and shook his head.

"If you could restrain yourself from drunkenness, brawling and stirring up mischief wherever you go…"

"What, and lose all my friends?' thought Val, feeling stubborn and surly.

"...we might make a mage of you, yet. Aloud, then, Valerian. Relate what happened."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gildyr lay in an embryo-curl at the base of the wall he'd created, on the wrong side. The thunder and lightning and screaming winds had ceased above, but the druid never noticed; too plunged in private horror to see or hear anything else.

Once again, as a young child at his proving, he strolled through a sunlit forest glade with one hand pressed to the flank of a noble white stag. Tall and kingly, its beautiful head was crowned in a glory of spreading gold antlers. A very lord of the forest, strong, proud and beautiful.

They'd bonded and talked, wandering out of the spell-warded safe wood, where cubs might search for vision or heart-friend in peace. Completely caught up in each other, Gildyr and Karus feared nothing. Then had come the faint blare of hunting horns, too distant to trouble over. Flying hooves, as well, like the rattle of hail on a faraway window.

His fault. All, his fault. If he hadn't distracted Karus, the lord of the forest, his heart-bonded friend, would not have been killed. In his heart, Gildyr had never stopped weeping. Had never ceased blaming himself or reliving the past.

Too late to flee, the young boy and stag had realized their danger. The sudden, whistling pounce, as something massive and deadly, its hide bristling with arrows, burst from the trees behind them. The strike, as that venomous scorpion tail tore through the stag, ripping its body in half. That oddly beautiful man-face plunged at Karus's still heaving flank to drive rattling fangs deep into bloody, warm flesh.

Then the monster flexed upward, hurling Karus's foreparts far away into the woods. Great dragon wings spread like leathery storm clouds, blocking the sky as the beast next turned its attention to Gildyr.

The boy backed on his hands and his bottom, kicking out with both feet, scream-panting. Howling in terror. The manticore opened its jaws, showing the prehensile, triple-row fangs of a viper. Lifting its head, it bugled a challenge to those distant hunters. Luring them onward. Then, it paced nearer, playing with choicer, more delicate prey.

"Soft little fawn," it fluted, eyes lit with greenish-pale madness and hunger. "Little prey, do not flee."

A needle-tipped spike flew from its lashing tail, pinning Gildyr in place through one shoulder. The best padded nearer, smiling.

"There is no escape," it continued, dripping acid saliva in long, acrid rivulets. The stuff sizzled and steamed where it hit; blackening, burning, dissolving. "Why let a problem grow up?" The manticore mused. "Crush and devour it young, along with its playmates, one helpless fawn at a time."

Acid mucus dripped onto the boy's upflung right arm. With the other, still screaming, he'd flailed for rocks, sticks or pinecones. Anything at all he could throw. The beast didn't notice, laughing instead as the clothing and flesh melted off Gildyr's raised arm. Lunging forward, it pinned him to the ground with one massive forepaw, ripping the acid-burnt arm from its socket and eating it in front of the horrified boy.

"Mmm… forest-fresh elf, fattened on acorns and bread. Bet yonder lordlings will taste just as good."

Shock, blood loss and stark, awful terror near-blinded Gildyr, whose breath came now in ragged, bubbling gasps. It meant to devour him utterly, one flailing limb at a time.

Then a horn blasted. Riders thundered into the clearing, circling the monster and Gildyr. Firebolts sizzled and cracked. Bow strings sang over and over; arrows striking for eyes or mouth, the manticore's only soft spots.

Trumpeting defiance, it rose to its mighty hind legs, paws flailing, wings outspread and churning. A hunter was smashed from her saddle, ribs and skull crushed by the blow, dead before she hit the ground.

Gildyr vomited, twisting in a welter of mud, blood and urine. Then someone's hand clamped over his mouth and the bottom dropped out, plunging the wounded boy into darkness, safety and silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pftah!" Salem cursed, for her takings were worthless, if they could not be sold on. Worse, those tracers would lead anyone looking for missing treasure right back to her, unless…

Looking around from the cover of darkness, the thief spied Filimar. Perhaps there lay her solution. Waiting until a pair of new elf-lords drew everyone else's attention, Salem drifted over to Filimar.

"Elfling," she purred, touching his shoulder.

Filimar jumped, but contained his mixed joy and surprise fairly well, otherwise.

"Milady," he whispered, placing a hand over hers. "How may this most loyal heart, this love-wasted husk, serve thee?"

Fighting to keep her ears from flattening, Salem growled,

"I have found and collected some things that were… mmm… lying about. They surely belong to you, or yon high-elf lords. Please, take them."

"Of course, Milady. An Arvendahl does not stint in service to the goddess that lights his dreams. I… erm…"

Well, a handful of gems, a few trinkets, he might have believed. But… all this? Filimar's face, as he struggled not to accept that this absolute vision, this angel, was simply no ruddy good, was truly pathetic. Some of those items could only have come from the Arvendahl coffers, and how in the holy well-spring had they ended up here?

"I… yes, thank you, Milady. Let me just… put these away."

Very far. Deepest faerie pocket. Well out of sight or detection, until he could think what to do. A fulminant pox on this thieving Orrin! This wretched blister of a feen!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Valerian uncrossed his arms. Put both hands on his hips and looked downward, searching for truth and invention in equal, stiff doses. Then,

"I came to a banquet here, at Lord Orrin's invitation," said Val.

High Lord Arvendahl scowled and started to speak, but Sherazedan held up a hand.

"Let it be, Falco. We may discuss the finer points of your offspring's rank, later." And then, to Valerian, "Continue."

Glancing once more at the stony-faced half-elf, Val plunged further into his tale.

"We made our repast, with entertainment," (mostly provided by wizardly curse and riposte, but still… no one was bored) "and then retreated to the sitting room for gaming and drinks."

"As one does," remarked the hooded old lich, dryly. "Pray go on."

"Then an enormous noise of grinding stone disturbed the night's festivities. The source turned out to be upstairs, in a room that was already far gone when we reached it."

"My study," said Orrin, coming forward. Very brave, all things considered. "I had received a shipment of old books recently… something of a collector… and one of them may have contained a… an… um…"

"Curse of some sort," finished Solara, who was in this far deeper than Val. "The twisted scrawling of some ancient, diseased mind, no doubt. That was what triggered the void. Fortunately, I was able to dispel this latest manifestation of chaos, employing the skills that you taught me, Lord Sherazedan. The, er… journeyman helped. A bit."

"Chaos grows more common as midwinter approaches," added Valerian, quoting Filimar.

And that, more or less, was that. All he intended to say on the matter, anyhow. Val folded his arms across his chest, again, willing himself not to wonder about Salem's involvement, where powerful others might pick up the thought.

Sherazedan had bent his stern gaze from speaker to speaker in turn; leaning upon his battered old field staff, grimoire pages fluttering agitatedly. Clearly, not quite persuaded. Valerian, having spoken last, ended up pinned by that silvery glare for a long, awkward time.

Finally, Sherazedan drew a circle of lightning, enclosing himself and his journeyman apprentice. Everything halted in mid-breath and mid-flutter outside, down to the wind and the snowflakes. Orrin, Filimar, Solara and the rest stood like game pieces awaiting a player's hand.

"Master?" asked Val, going for: not really nervous, at all.

"There is more, is there not?" Sherazedan inquired. "What has been left unsaid, boy?"

So very much. Val thought of all that Smythe had shown him. Of Dad's body eaten and looted by goblins. Of his brother, pinned beneath a mortally wounded horse. Of Ilirian, overrun by murderous vermin.

Very much, he wanted to ask for his master's aid. Only, a small voice inside of him whispered,

'Would you throw away all that your grandfather fought so hard and so long to acquire? That your father just perished, defending?'

Valerian was unaccustomed to guiding voices, tiny or not… but this one made a good point. Requesting Imperial help meant inviting the Crown to take over Ilirian's affairs; up to seizure of assets and placing of an "interim steward" upon the high seat.

He knew. He'd seen it happen to Lindyn, Kalisandra's badly-torn realm. Sandy was a ranger, now; a semi-outlaw in what had been her home.

No. No outside help. Not yet, anyhow. Instead, meaning to distract Sherazedan, Val brought up another problem.

"Master, at my vision trial, I experienced capture by drow slavers." He spoke slowly, feeling for words. Even now, cycles later, the topic was difficult.

"I recall," said the mage. "You summoned the aid of a dryad, which some considered an unworthy shortcut to victory."

Right. 'Some' had a lot to say about most things he did, but Val rarely listened.

"I mention it because the injuries to my, erm… hands and throat seem to… seem to be manifesting here, as well. And, not just to myself. The child from my trial vision…"

Sherazedan cocked his head slightly sideways, calling up memory.

"Ah, yes," he mused. "Young half-drow girl, rather the worse for hard use, herself."

"That's the one, only… she is here, as well, and seems to have been fated to meet me. I get a sense that the events of the vision are happening now, in a nearby plane."

Val hesitated a moment, seeing and feeling "help, please" scrawled by torn, shaking hands in the mud.

"Is… might there be any way to step in and aid Snowmont-there. 'Some' could then shut up and seal, about outside help and cheating."

Because it would not be a vision, this time. It would be danger in actual fact. A very hazardous journeyman masterwork.

Sherazedan peered at him closely. Squinting. Considering.

"Were I to send you there, Valerian, with your companions, you would receive no further boons or assistance. I assume that I have an analogue in that place, but if so, he is an uncommunicative, flinty and withered old lich who helps no one else, ever."

Words that Val had spoken himself, once or twice.

'Well, you are,' he wanted to say, but settled instead for,

"Difficult to imagine such a thing, Master."

Sherazedan actually snorted.

"Well, boy, you shall either perish, and rid me of the worst apprentice ever to drink and fumble his way through the journeyman trials… or you shall come back having learnt something useful. Humility and respect, if nothing else. Also…"

The mage began making passes and sigils in the air with one hand and his staff.

"You might consider that travel there may take you the same distance here, in a place where you are not especially hunted for."

Surprised, Val started to ask what his master meant. Couldn't, though, because Sherazedan had become a long, hall-of-mirrors wizard chain, some of them shades or burnt corpses.

Light screamed. Darkness quivered, and the air around Valerian congealed into dense, slushy muck. Too thick and painful to breathe, too thin to swim his way out of. And then he was through; plunged directly into what looked and sounded like hell.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

18

Orrin's manse was in flames, and only by Firelord's grace and protection did Val escape being incinerated… but there was worse, outside in the courtyard. Horses, hounds, birds; all had been slaughtered or tormented for sport. The guards and servants, Lord Orrin and Lady Alfea, had been savagely abused, before being butchered.

Utterly stunned, disbelieving, Valerian spent a solid two candle-marks burning corpses and dispatching suffering animals. A scant few he was able to save, but not her ladyship's small dog. Poor, valiant Pudge had obviously gone down fighting to reach his pregnant young mistress. Val burned them and Orrin together, spelling release as he did so.

Only, the cloud of phantoms would not depart. Even in the rising dawn-glow, Val could still see them. Orrin with an arm around Lady Alfea, she with a hand pressed to the gleam at her midsection, little Pudge licking her shimmering cheek.

Behind them, a knot of servants and guardsmen, most of whom Valerian recognized from the banquet. Whose bodies he'd lately cut down from the rafters or pulled from impalement on needles of black, steaming ice. He said, feeling wretched and helpless,

"You will have vengeance. My oath on it. So swears a Tarandahl, servant of Firelord. Rest, until blood sends you onward."

A tremor of witnessing powers made the vow binding, but Val would have kept it, regardless. Orrin-ghost lifted a hand, stretching it forth as though offering to clasp. Physically impossible, but Val met the gesture with one of his own; fingertips just brushing Orrin's. Alfea blew him a kiss, sending a very faint blessing. Then the sun rose, its water-pale light dispelling the dead until nightfall.

A sudden panting and hurrying clatter caused the spooked high-elf to pivot and draw, Nightshade humming with all of his pent-up sorrow and rage. Nearly skewered Mirielle like a darting trout, as the girl came racing toward him.

Val leapt backward in shock, dropping Nightshade to clash on cold stone.

"No!" he cried out. "Why are you here? You are not meant to be here!"

She still had her child-sized, ridiculous practice mace and a sack of hurriedly gathered provisions; her expression a mixture of terror and relief. Mirielle threw herself at him, only at the last moment pulling up short.

"Lord… the town! Snowmont! They… they were there," the girl sobbed.

Right.

Valerian wasted time that he didn't have, doing all that he knew to send the girl back. Only to find every move, sigil and charm utterly blocked. Even drew out his worthless joke of a staff, for all the good that did.

Finally, he threw the useless thing down to the ground beside Nightshade. Raising his face to the sky, Val shouted… came close to howling, actually…

"She was not meant to be here!"

Not in the midst of all this. 'Your companions', the old lich had said. Val had supposed that he meant Gildyr and Salem. Solara, perhaps. Not a small, helpless girl-child. But wherever Sherazedan was, the mage wasn't listening. His sigils and runes crossed the sky over and over; faint as zodiacal light, mirror-reversed and utterly binding.

Valerian got himself back together, after a moment. Mostly. Ashamed of his failure to send the girl home, he could not meet her gaze.

"I can be useful, Lord," Mirielle whispered. "I can… I can care for a horse, gather wood, and… and cook, if your lordship would trust me around his food. I can sew buttons and seams, wash clothes…"

"Enough," the elf snapped. "I shall not send you away."

Not where any survivors would spot her blue skin and see only a drow. The girl nodded, too grateful for words. Hitched up her sack of provisions, but kept the mace clutched tight, looking for all the world like a skinny, pint-sized and battered young cleric.

Val summoned Nightshade to hand and resheathed it. As for his staff, that worthless six feet of lumber the high-elf sent back to the shadows, again. Rather surprisingly, Smythe reappeared, along with its harness and sheathe. Inanimate or not, it seemed that the sword would not leave him.

"Come along, then," he said to the hovering lass. "If we mean to catch up with the slavers, we will need to find mounts and make best speed."

None of Lord Orrin's fine horses had survived the dark elves' sick play, and Valerian had wasted enough time already. But…

"Lord, eat first," Mirielle said to him, pulling a salvaged loaf from her bag.

He'd no appetite at all. Wanted no food. Only, the girl was insistent.

"You eat when you can, to stay alive a bit longer because, sometimes, unlooked for, things can get better, Lord."

"Val," he said, after a moment, accepting and breaking the lump of dark bread. "I would appreciate it if you would use my name, Mirielle. You are hereby raised to the rank of page and apprentice."

(Not that, as a mere journeyman mage, he had the right to take or train either, but the old lich was welcome to come state his objections in person, if he had any.)

They ate the bread walking the trail down to Snowmont, Mirielle reaching out to pull half-withered berries off of their twigs and into her sack. Likewise, with anything else the girl thought they might use.

"See!" she would softly exclaim. "Here is stim-leaf, good for when you are tired past standing, but there is still so much work left to do."

Or,

"A flint! Make fire with that, or a good-enough blade, with a few knocks to the edge, here."

It seemed that years of abuse and neglect had made a quick-witted survivor of Mirielle.

Snowmont… was bad. Like the mansion, but worse. The drow had no use for very young children, the old, the sick, or females with child. The dead were piled up in heaps, warg-torn and broken. Left there for insects and birds. Long needles of black ice pierced the town walls and split buildings, just like above at the manor. The stench of ashes and blood clotted the freezing air. The town's broken ward sigils crackled and spattered like a low, dying fire; long unmaintained.

Time was short and he needed to go. The pain in his hands and throat drove him relentlessly, but he could not just leave them there. His other self hadn't been able to defend them, and Val-from-afar was too late, but at least he could grant them release and clean fire.

He was cutting down the corpse of a half-flayed, decapitated male Tabaxi when someone moved, behind a low, broken wall.

Val burned the warrior's body using a firebolt, keeping one hand aflame as the other drew Nightshade.

"Behind me," he ordered Mirielle, who'd dropped the sack and swung her mace into business position. The girl was swift to nip around as he'd bade her. Not to cower there, but to stand braced and scowling, guarding his back.

"Show yourself, or I strike," Val commanded, trying to sound like he'd manna to spare. Maybe they would not notice that his burning hand barely flickered, or that his sword arm shook with grief and exhaustion.

Not fear. Never that. A Tarandahl was ever courageous. Firelord would accept nothing less.

Thank cleansing flame, the skulker turned out to be the dwarven shopkeeper. Hilt, Buernar had called her. But Buernar was dead, cut to bits at the inn, along with his people.

Valerian lowered his sword, releasing a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Be at ease, good dwarf," he said to her, for 'well met' or 'good morning' were certainly not the case. She was near-frantic with sorrow, her dark eyes awash with tears she was too proud to shed.

"They took me second-dad and wee brother," Hilt whispered. "Dragged them off as I lay pinned 'neath a fallen beam. I tried… tried ter get free an' save mum… second-dad an' Dirk.. but I c- c- couldn't."

She'd burns on her face and torso, as well as a deep, ugly bruise. Behind her were a scattering of children, a few weeping old folk and one city guard with his severed leg tied off, leaning upon an improvised crutch. The wretched survivors of Snowmont.

Val drew out his last few bottles of healing potion. Could not give the guard back his leg, nor a shaken old woman her left eye, but the elf did all that he could. Him, they let tend to them. Mirielle they spat at and cursed.

"One o' them," a dwarf-boy glowered, clenching fists that could work stone like clay. "O' course they ain't 'urt her."

"She had nothing to do with what happened here," cut in Valerian, flowing back into a fighting stance. "Leave the girl be."

He could feel a small hand twisting itself into the cloth of his half-cloak. Someone picked up and threw a stone, but Mirielle's mace batted the missile aside with a sharp clang. Val drew a ward circle, using Nightshade's tip to direct his last spurts of magic.

"Leave off," he snapped. "We go to rescue your folk." (And his other-plane self, although Val did not say so.) "Sound the war bells to summon aid."

Hilt hawked and spat, her effluvium striking and sizzling against the ward circle's force.

"We got no answer th' first time we rung 'em," growled the dwarf. "What makes yer lordship think the 'igh ones 'd stir themselves fer Snowmont, now?"

Because of the ancient compact, laid down by Oberyn, himself. Because… After a moment, Val looked away.

"Perhaps they will not," he admitted. "But I mean to do all that I can."

"Why?" she demanded aggressively. "Yer lordship ain't exactly stuck me as th' carin' sort, when 'ee deigned ter step into me shop."

All at once, Valerian felt very small. Less elf-lord than jackass.

"They ain't from here," said a near-toothless old woman, evidently a local hedge witch. "Neither of 'em be from this plane. Ye c'n see 'ee's got more power than 'igh-nose did, an' the girl's better dressed. Ye been spendin' good coin dollin' up yer slavey, Hilt?"

The shop-dwarf snorted.

"Not likely," grunted Hilt. "That girl's been nuthin' but trouble since she killed 'er own mum, comin' forth. Lucky I fed an' kept 'er, at all."

Behind him, Val could feel Mirielle shaking. Best change the subject and leave, he decided.

"Ring the bells," he repeated. "If any are left whole. I will set off after the captives."

Hilt made a move to seize Val's arm as the ward circle dropped.

"Me m… second-dad," she whispered hoarsely, switching her gesture to tug at her own, half burnt-away beard. "An' Dirk… yer lordship can't hardly miss 'em. Red 'air like me own, an' da's beard be plaited with silver rings. Dirk's beardless, yet, but 'ee were wearin' 'is school clothes. Blue breeches an' boots, an' a wee red shirt. Please… Just, please, bring 'em back. Bring all o' 'em back 'ome."

Valerian nodded.

"Or perish in the attempt," he promised, quoting Smythe. "You've the word of Valerian Tarandahl ad Keldaran, servant of Firelord." Feeling the girl shift position behind him, Val added, "And Mirielle, my page."

Which made two would-be rescuers. As for Gildyr and Salem, Val couldn't tell whether or not they'd been brought along, too. Perhaps they'd been spared. Left safe at home, with nothing more vexing than breakfast to concern them.

If so, the high-elf was very grateful, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

19

There were no more horses in Snowmont. Whatever the drow hadn't stolen, they'd slaughtered and butchered for meat, leaving no hope of rapid pursuit. Nor was that lone, harsh-toned bell quickly answered, despite all its tolling. The surviving townsfolk were on their own, it seemed.

Unable to help himself, knowing better, Val went to the ice-shattered stable. Patches was not there, but Sapling was, with White Dog. Their remains, at any rate. From the ransacked office, Valerian took a few bruised apples and the only feed sack not tainted with hissing black ice.

A sprinkle of earth freed the dryad's spirit, and maybe the guard dog's, as well. Afterward, Val took a cutting from the least ice-blasted root of the potted tree. After all, there were druids… there was Gildyr… and one never knew.

Valerian and his young page set off at last on foot, not at all gloriously, with scant provisions or planning. All day, survivors had trickled in from mountain and glen, most in deep shock. They needed safety, healing, food and shelter; found little but ashes, ruin and death. Val hated to leave Snowmont defenseless, but the lost ones had no other hope of rescue.

"Someone will come," he insisted, shortly before heading out. "The Prince-Attendant, or the Arvendahls, surely. Just hold out and stay safe till they reach you, or until we've come back with your people."

Hilt nodded wearily, trying hard to believe.

"Ain't no more princes, but… good luck, yer lordship," she told him.

"And to you," he responded, making one last adjustment to the town's weather ward. The manna here felt different. Less bang and more dregs, sort of. Made it much harder to top back up, especially near the black ice. "I shall return within a seven-night."

…unless something went terribly wrong. But there was no use thinking that way, so he pushed the weak notion aside, projecting confidence like a hero.

Little tracking was necessary. Not expecting pursuit, the slavers had boldly taken the main road north, leaving a trail marked by torn corpses, warg droppings and puddles of acid meltwater.

Val had no plan at all for what to do when he at last caught them up, but he'd always been able to improvise. He'd always been lucky and quick on his feet. Besides, his other self would be there… and maybe that would be answer enough.

Needing to hurry, Valerian set a hard pace. They were over a day behind the drow, and couldn't afford many rest breaks. Only when Mirielle stumbled and fell did he stop for food and a small, warded fire. About third watch of the night, in a small clearing away from the road, they halted at last.

Mirielle was so trail sore and weary that she could scarcely stay conscious, even with stim-leaf. Val berated himself, sorely. He ought to have noticed the girl's condition. Should have guessed that she'd never ask for a break, exhausted or not. His father had once said, before Valerian's first battle,

"We are courageous for those who take shelter behind us, son. Not simply against those we face. Look out for your people. They are the reason we fight."

Right.

So, he'd dropped that ball rather badly, but… While the folk who mattered were alive, there was still time to repair a mistake. You still had a chance to make everything better.

The night was a cold one, but the fire cast comforting warmth and light. Val hauled up a few logs for seats, then made some day-brew; diluting and sweetening it, as one does for children. Then, from a particular faerie pocket, he fished out a dough-man, with golden berries for eyes and a piped-icing smile. One of the army that Tara Cookie had baked for him.

"Here," he said, wafting the food to Mirielle. "I know of very little that cannot be cured by hot day-brew and sweets."

The girl took her biscuit and cup with a look of mingled confusion and wonder. As the drink was still scalding, she began with the dough-man, breaking its head cleanly off, first, "so he won't feel me bite him," she explained.

At the other side of the blaze, half of his mind on the night and his wards, Valerian nodded.

"I have always done so, myself," he admitted, smiling a little.

Mirielle stared into his face for a moment, anxiously searching for mockery. For a set-up that was surely to come, leaving her in deeper trouble while others looked on and laughed. Finding none, she dared a small bite of the dough-man's crisp leg; tasting sugar, spice bark and tropical bean.

"It's so good," she whispered, immediately wrapping the rest of the biscuit in a bit of clean cloth for tucking away. "Just a little bit at a time. I can eat it just when I need something good. It can last a long time, that way."

"There are more," laughed Valerian, sensing dozens yet in the faerie pocket. "There is no reason to…" 'Hoard food', he'd been about to say, but…

"Milord Val… do we have to go get them? The Snowmont people, I mean? They… they're not… th- they hate me."

All at once, the girl clamped both hands over her ears and began rocking back and forth on her haunches, nearly propelling herself off of the log-seat. As though unable to stop herself, she gasped,

"Stupid, ugly, worthless, lazy… killed her own mum coming forth, she did. Throw her out, let her die. A kindness, really…" and other, still nastier things.

Once (many years and a few re-cycles earlier) Val had been present when the Prince-Attendant confronted Sherazedan. Standing with lowered head, clenched fists and hard eyes, Nalderick had snarled,

"One day, old relic, I shall be the one giving orders."

He'd expected an explosion. Instead, silvery eyebrow cocked, hand at his glimmering staff, the mage had remarked,

"No doubt inspiring Lord Oberyn to sound his horn, at last."

A very tense moment. Had Valerian been wiser, he would have gone to stand with Solara and the other, more politic apprentices. Instead, he and Marlie had stayed beside Naldo, come what absolutely did. Once made a friend of, Val did not waver.

Here and now, he reacted by bunching and hurling a snowball. By hand, not with magic. Struck just the top of Mirielle's head, mussing her curly, short hair.

"Stop," he commanded, using the mage-voice and flame scribing 'I compel'.

Shocked right out of her fit, the blue-skinned girl looked up at him, blinking away awful names.

"Those are not your words," he told her, rising to come around the fire. "They are not yours and they do not describe you. Find better ones."

Her mouth worked. She gulped. Raking her small, chapped lower lip through her teeth, Mirielle begged,

"How? How can I stop hearing them say those things, Milord?"

"Simple enough. You… well…" (Think, Valerian!) "What you need is a story. Your own tale of beginnings. The true one."

Mirielle sat up a bit. Wrapping thin arms around both up-thrust knees, she said,

"I like stories. I'm not meant to be idle and listen… not when there's work to be done and mistress throwing things… but I can listen and still do all my chores. I'm not really lazy, Milord Val. Promise, I'm not."

Right.

Well, having committed himself, Valerian pointed up through the fire lit branches. Up to where Oberyn's star form shone, cold and remote and unheeding.

"See the Strider?" he asked, seating himself on a log.

Mirielle nodded expectantly, hitching closer on rump and her scooting feet, scattering a few soggy needles and leaves.

"When Strider reclines on the western horizon, we shall have to move onward. For now, though, I'll give you a new, better story to push out the other one."

She was all eyes and horse-pricked ears as the high-elf cleared his throat and began.

"Not long ago, as the world measures such things, among the drow… erm… the dark-elves, that is… there lived a young prince."

"What was his name?" the girl interrupted, taking a sip of her cooling day-brew.

"Oh… erm… Drek. Drake, rather. Prince Drake of the… Nighthawk clan, in the far distant Everdark Caverns."

"Was he very handsome? Princes in stories are all supposed to be handsome," the girl prompted.

"Oh, of course. An absolute paragon of manly beauty. Stop city traffic on a market day." As Katina Nanny had used to say, while hitching his crumpled sash around and chasing badly-strayed lace. "He had… let's see… the jet-black skin of their highest nobility, and red… no. Eyes like two golden coins, and hair like a river of ice. Very tall," added Val, whose childhood nickname had blighted his life, he felt sure.

"At any rate, perhaps because he was raised by a half-elf…"

"Like me!" piped up Mirielle, growing excited.

"Almost exactly like you, in all of the ways that matter. All of the good things. Because he was raised by someone like you, our prince took no pleasure in pain or torment or slaughter."

"He wasn't a bad prince," whispered Mirielle. "Was he? Not like…"

"Not like the others, at all," Val assured her. "He took excellent care of the family servants, even freeing those with someplace to go. The rest of his people wondered at such softness, and some even challenged him to single fight."

"But he always won!" Mirielle shouted, grown suddenly fierce.

"Always," agreed Valerian. "Quite the renowned duelist, our prince, and most folk feared to cross blades with him. Some did…"

"Only the stupid ones!" said Mirielle, lower lip out like it wanted a fight of its own.

"Indeed. To those with more gold than good sense, Drake was a terror. He…"

"Didn't kill them."

"No? Whyever not? If they were stupid, then surely they deserved whatever…"

But Mirielle shook her head stubbornly.

"He taught them a lesson and made them get smarter, because that's what princes in stories always do."

"Ah. Indeed. Most instructive," observed Val. "So they were taught a lesson with the flat of a well-laid-on blade, and went howling off to nurse their wounds and plot revenge."

Mirielle looked concerned, scooching a little closer and leaning forward, some.

"But their foul machinations came to naught, because he chose to depart. Wisely, it must be said. The prince's beloved nanny had passed on to the hall of her ancestors, leaving him friendless, down there in the cold and the dark."

Mirielle ducked her head and sniffled. She knew friendless and cold and sleeping in drafty outbuildings.

"What did he do next?" she begged. "Did anyone hear, and send him some help?"

"He didn't need help, because he made his own luck," said Valerian, adding, "finish your meal and then stretch out your bedroll. You must rest before we move on."

The girl obeyed, but slowly. Reluctantly.

"I can't go to sleep," she protested. "No one can go to sleep, if they don't know what happens next!"

"Very well, but lie down, and don't use your provision sack as a pillow. You'll wake up with lines on your face, smelling of cheese."

The young girl covered a tiny, hiccuping laugh with both hands.

"No, because I'd eat it all, first, and there'd be nothing left to smell like!" she scoffed.

Oberyn was still slowly wheeling, above them. Sparks rose with every pop and crackle of burning wood. The wards weren't as strong as he would have liked, but Val put that down to sheer weariness. Said,

"Our prince developed a great yearning to see for himself the surface world that his nanny had so often described for him, especially the sun that she'd spoken of with such fondness. So, one day, with no more reason to stay among those who hated him, he packed his provisions and climbed up away from the Everdark Caverns, searching for light. Took him two fists of days, but he did it. Reached an unguarded cave mouth. Saw, for the first time, light that did not come from mushrooms or mage-glows."

"Oh," Mirielle gasped. "Did it burn him?"

"Most terribly. His flesh was seared and his eyes blinded, and he dropped down senseless for candle-marks, though it was only clean moonlight. But he recovered and kept trying to bear all that brightness and open space. Having once seen it, Drake could not turn his face from the beauty of dawn."

"I'm glad," said Mirielle, who was supposed to be lying down. "I'm glad he kept trying."

"Well, this would be a very short tale, if he hadn't," remarked Valerian. "At any rate, our no-longer-quite-dark-elf prince was eventually able to go forth and move about in full dayshine, though sometimes it smote him with headaches. Wielding his ebony blade, Black Ice, Drake went hither and yon, learning all that he could of the surface world, but made very few friends, because…"

"Because everyone thought he was bad, and nothing but trouble," Mirielle finished, looking down at her half-eaten dough-man. "Because he looked like everything they were afraid of."

Val tossed her the least bruised apple, after heating it up a bit.

"But he had always been fortunate, with even the bad things tuning out in his favor. So, one day, our prince fought a very close battle to save a small human village from hungry ogres. He drove the monsters off, but was sorely injured in the struggle, nearly unto death. The villagers, even though he'd save them, feared Prince Drake, and would have left him to die…"

"No! How could they?" Mirielle protested, sitting bolt upright, jangling with story and sugar and day-brew. "He saved them!"

"Yes, but all they saw…"

"...was a cursed drow. He didn't die, did he? Please tell that he didn't die all alone on the ground."

Val shook his head, took a sighting of Oberyn to time himself with, and then continued the story.

"There was a lovely village girl, the wise woman's apprentice. She knew herbs and healings and a few basic spells, and she was good all the way through to her center. She would not let them just leave the prince there to die. If they were frightened, she was not. Made them bring him to the wise woman's hut, where the two of them tended him. Under such care, our prince was soon healed of his wounds. But, more than that, he fell in love with the lass, whose name was Janielle."

"Janielle," the girl repeated, eyes shining purple in the firelight. "That's a pretty name. What about her? Was she beautiful? Did she love Prince Drake?"

"Naturally," said Val. "They always do, in stories. Real life… Well, sometimes the beautiful woman thinks you're a good-looking idiot. Anyhow… they fell in love and were blessed by the wise woman, then had to leave the village in a hurry."

"Everyone was mad at them? Because they got married?"

"Exactly," Val nodded. "So run off they did, fast and far, having many adventures and seeing many great sights: the sea elves' deep city, a fallen cloud giant palace, an ancient gold dragon… even a stone giant. But the most marvelous happening was when Janielle discovered that she was with child."

"She was happy? She wanted her baby?" asked Mirielle, in a voice so quiet that only an elf would have heard it.

"They both were. In fact," said Valerian, "I dare say that no child in Karandun was ever so longed-for and welcomed. There was no more adventure for a time, but Drake had enough put by to purchase a little estate, up in the veriest north, where the sirop-cane grows and the sun rises to the full center of the sky, and there is no winter."

"No cold hands," Mirielle marveled, smiling shyly.

"Indeed. In fact, it is so warm, that some of the less civilized folk run about quite bare, wearing nothing but smiles, tattoos and a necklace of teeth. Or, so I've been told."

Mirielle threw herself backward, at that. It was the first time he'd heard the girl laugh. Resuming sternness, Val told her,

"Lord Strider is nearly halfway around. You must rest, or you'll not be able to travel."

"No, please! Not yet! You didn't tell about the baby! The baby has to be born!"

Valerian thought that he heard something, but over the fire's noise, Mirielle's chatter and the sighing of wind through bare branches, he couldn't be certain what. To quiet the girl, he said,

"The child was a beautiful, healthy and strong baby girl. Exactly what Drake and Janielle wanted. She had soft wisps of brown hair, and skin like the underside of a cloud that promises rain."

"And… and her mum didn't die?"

"Healthy as a horse. Bounded from childbed like a mountain goat."

Her laugh, once released, seemed to spring from the smallest things; the silliest images. Then, growing calmer once more, the girl asked,

"But… if they loved their baby, and… and nobody died… why did they leave her?"

Val had an answer for that.

"They were called away to another great battle, for things had gone ill for the world, while Drake and Janielle were prevented from having adventures. They went forth in their flying ship, Northstar, to face a monstrous evil. Away on the other side of the world, where folk walk about on their hands and speak in outlandish, odd words. So, because a perilous quest is no place for a small baby, they left her with…"

"Their best friend from many adventures. The one they knew they could trust to take care of her," decided Mirielle. "A great wizard."

"Fighter," corrected Valerian, sorting sounds with an elf's sharp hearing.

"Wizard," insisted Mirielle, adding, "Well, sometimes he fights, but he's really a mage."

"Who is telling this story?" demanded Val. Then, "Strider is close to lying down, and you should be, too. I, erm… am just going to check on the wards. Back in a moment. (But he was most definitely a fighter.)"

"Wizard," he heard from the sleepy young girl, as he stepped from that firelit circle, drawing his blade.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

20

Beyond the wards, the fireglow dimmed to near nothing. Valerian's vision adjusted quickly, but he relied most on his hearing. There was, in brief surges, a sound like the erratic scatter of leaves. Moving oddly, ungracefully; as though someone was using all they had left to misty-step, or shadow-walk.

Val doubled the strength of the fire ward, willing this plane's strange, sluggish manna to do as he bade. Meanwhile, he tracked the strange sound. Moved toward it, readying sigil and sword. Nightshade's edges shone. Not with abjurance of evil, but anticipation; eager acceptance of battle.

Behind him, Val could feel Mirielle pounding and clawing at the magical force that enfolded her. Could sense her screaming, not for him, but at him. Strong, but untrained, she would not break through.

Lost track of the noise, again, hearing nothing but wind and dried leaves and ice-coated branches rubbing together. Then something burst out of a hollow tree, not six feet away.

It collided with Valerian, who twisted aside. Mostly. Sort of. Too conditioned to catch someone falling to just let them crash to the ground, unaided. The stubs of torn claws scrabbled across his mail shirt and sword belt. In stargleam and fore-dawn, he glimpsed velvet dark fur, near shredded at the right arm, where someone had dug out and destroyed a golden tattoo. Her tail… her beautiful, prehensile tail… was half gone. Not chopped, but sawed at and frozen, by someone who'd meant to cause pain.

"Salem!" he said, attempting to pin down and hold a half-maddened dust-whirl. "It's all right. You've reached friends. You are safe now, Milady."

The writhing Tabaxi produced a noise like a violin with sandpaper strings, still scraping at Val with mostly-shorn claws.

He managed to pin her wrists, dropping Nightshade in the process. Could not let the wards down. She might have been followed, and needed concealment.

"This way, Milady, quickly. I cannot speak to our readiness for confrontation."

Half carried the shuddering thief, smelling bloodied fur and near panic.

"He is fighting them!" she yowled. "He needs us! No time… please, please hurry!"

Her golden eyes were nearly all pupil, straining south toward ruined Snowmont. Val recalled Lionel's skinned, headless body, hanging from an arch of black ice. Given release and then to clean flame, like so many dead others. His pelt and head were doubtless now in some dark-elf's possession, meant for a trophy… but Salem did not need to know that.

Hauling her into a bracing hug, Val said,

"Salem, he's gone. Fought like an army, they said. Took many down with him. Just… the drow overwhelmed him with numbers, like dogs on a bear, but he made them pay for it."

The anguished sound that she made in mourning cut right to Val's heart. Thinking of Dad, then putting that weakness and sorrow as far away as he could, he got her through the ward and to safety.

"Your blanket," called the high-elf to Mirielle, who'd rushed to meet them as soon as a bubble appeared in the shield wall. "She is in shock, and needs warmth."

Mirielle's eyes widened, but she followed instructions; getting a blanket and day-brew, then searching the ground for herbs.

"Fen-mark and heart's ease, if you can find any," he advised her, helping the Tabaxi to a seat on the ground by the fire. She hadn't the balance or strength to perch on a log.

They did not move onward that night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

21

As for Gildyr, the druid had reappeared in the glade where he'd been attacked as a child. Where Karus the Forest Lord had been torn in half by a chaos-spawned manticore. Or, this plane's version.

Deeply shaken, he found himself at the base of a mighty oak. Not quite the same tree that he'd last stared at from below, seeing blood-spattered leaves and red-washed bark. Still in a fetal curl, trapped in a nightmare, the wood-elf felt small things… a child's toys, an eggshell-fine vase of fresh flowers… crunching beneath him.

Only, the raging horror of remembered pain, of (somehow) his own death, shoved all other sensation aside. He had been torn to pieces in this place, as Karus fought to reach him and high-elven hunters battled the monster with arrow and flame. The druid retreated into unconsciousness, fleeing the agony of crushed ribs and an acid-burnt limb.

He was not to be left there in anguish and fear, though. Here, this glade was a family shrine, maintained in memory of the happy, hopeful young boy who had died by this tree, leaving his family bereft.

First to appear was a tall, angry wood-elf paladin, bearing a sword whose curving blade still dripped clotting blood. His dark hair caught back in a half-bun, forehead slightly shaved, he looked, and was, ferocious, unyielding and utterly pitiless in the service of Hyrenn, his god. Heart like a clenched fist. Eyes that weren't windows but flat, icy walls.

Looking wildly around the clearing, this consummate warrior caught sight of Gildyr, lying crumpled up at the base of the tree where, so many cycles ago, a young boy had perished. Where a chaos-spawned monster had first eaten the child and then reared up to battle a mighty stag and a lot of worthless high-elves.

The paladin sheathed his sword, which glowed with winter night cold just long enough to freeze off that slow-gelling blood. Cautiously, too numbed to cup more than a flicker of hope, the warrior approached Gildyr's huddled body. Acorns crunched and fallen leaves crackled as he padded over and dropped to one knee.

"Gildyr… Cubby… is… are you…?"

But something was off. The younger elf's scent, slightly wrong. As the rest of his family began to appear, drawn by the sudden pull of their lost one's presence, the paladin surged to his feet and then turned away. Gran, mother and father… even the High Druid flashed into the clearing, gone suddenly wild with hope and longing.

But it was not their Gildyr who lay on the ground twitching and whimpering. Just some cynical mockery; an imposter, crafted and sent to strike where his people were softest.

"Arondyr!" Cried his father, darting forward. "You sensed him, too?"

His mother, Shavonne, said nothing at all, merely brushing her older son's armored shoulder as she swerved to crouch beside that false, other-Gildyr.

And Gran! The fragile old Sidhe had torn herself out of dreams of the past to collapse on the ground beside the imposter, howling with joy, stroking his wavy brown hair.

Let her. Let all of them. Not his business to shatter their hope… but he also did not have to stay. The apparition itself intended no malice, and looked enough like his lost little brother, somehow alive and grown up, that the paladin had to withdraw.

Arondyr growled softly, low in his throat. Let the others rejoice in what they believed they'd been given. Arondyr knew better. As the winter's frost brought starvation and death to all but the strong, so inevitable disappointment would end all their laughter and love.

His little brother had been murdered here; one tiny lost life, unnoticed by the victorious hunters. Their two children, a boy and a girl, had been perfectly safe, perched on the saddles in front of their lordships Keldaran and Lerendar.

Arondyr spat the foul taste of those names from his mouth, then strode away from the joyous group in the clearing. Better the truth than false joy. Better the bleak scythe of winter than weakness and famine. In the end, death came to all, from proud elf-lord to innocent cub. Hyrenn would not be denied, and Arondyr could wait.

But, not alone. Never unwitnessed.

Off in the forest, something lurched to its feet and staggered after him. Head down, half-starved and panting; shadowing the paladin's movements. His trial and his shame, and the only thing that he'd not yet offered to Hyrenn. The only way in which he'd dared to defy his pitiless god.

Laughter and babbling voices faded and blurred behind him as Arondyr slunk off. His forest senses attuned once again, making conversation, his own name being called, nothing but meaningless noise.

Out here, he communicated through glance, head-tilt, scent and soft growls. Here there was no love or compassion. Only reproduction. Only survival of species and pack.

He moved almost soundlessly, testing each step, sifting the cold, gusty wind for information. One drow already he'd run down and slain, here in his people's territory. A fleeing, terrified youth who hadn't lived long enough to beg for his worthless life. Dead now. Beheaded; bounding head trailing blood, saliva and tears. Still angered by that false Gildyr, the paladin actually hoped to track down more dark-elves, whatever their age or their gender.

Stopping now and again to pluck certain leaves, dig up roots, the warrior moved further away from the wood-elf settlement. It wasn't a peaceful walk.

Having tasted blood only once that day, his sword wanted more. The quivering drow had not been nearly enough. Arondyr growl-whined reprovingly, bidding it wait. Too much haste led to foolish rushes and lost prey. Too much of that meant starvation. Meant that winter's crippling bite would sink deep; weakening, chilling, draining.

He altered his path a bit, drawing closer to the beast that moved when he moved, dropped to a pained crouch whenever he paused. Sensing his approach, the creature settled to the leaf-littered ground with a long, weary groan. There, by a small stand of birch trees he found her. Wolf in actual form, where he was so only in spirit.

But, a wreck of a form. Ribs standing out, hair dulled and patchy, eyes filmed with illness and hate. He could sense her eyeing his throat, planning the rush, spring and bite she was far too weak to make happen.

His mind shifted back from hunter to wood-elf, then, as Arondyr reached into a faerie pocket for a fresh haunch of deer. Still warm. Still dripping. His share of what he'd brought down for the family, earlier.

"Astrea," he called to his withered and sick noble beast, this former queen of the forest. "Eat."

He did not simply toss the meat at the rumbling she-wolf. With no one around to see, no judge but his hungering sword, Arondyr built a small fire, conjured fresh water and set the meat before the other half of his soul.

"Eat," he repeated, adding, "please."

After a moment, her yellow eyes ceased drilling into his. She dropped her head and began tearing into the venison, making the haunch jerk and kick in a last parody of the flight he'd cut short.

The sword at his back grew colder, sensing the she-wolf's distraction and weakness.

End her, it keened. Cut the last tie and be Hyrenn's, forever more.

So simple a thing as that. Slaughter the beast he'd bonded to at his proving. The ball of grey fluff and blue eyes that he'd played with, cuddled in sleep, learned to hunt with. Side by side they'd run the forest, all the future before them. Then…

Then, Gildyr had died, horribly. Torn apart at his own proving by something twisted, evil, chaotic. A manticore, where none should have been.

The hunting party had driven that thing into Lobum, he was sure of it! They'd pushed it into the Trial Wood, where cubs, fawns and young elves were meant to be sheltered and safe. Their horses' hooves had trampled his baby brother's corpse into the ground as those uncaring hunters surrounded and battled their quarry.

Arondyr had helped his father, Gilcrest, find and pick up what was left of poor Cubby. Had helped Gilcrest bury the remains, giving the boy back to earth, roots and life. In the following days, he'd watched his mother harden. Seen his father plunge into useless diplomacy, seeking mercy from high-elves who had none. Worse, he'd watched Gran… loving, gentle, kind Gran… turn away into dreams of the past, where Gildyr, their Cubby, still scampered and played.

The heart-torn Forest Lord had departed. Maybe forever. And Arondyr…?

One night soon afterward, Arondyr had given himself to the chill and long darkness of winter, which always won in the end. He'd sworn vengeance, asking Hyrenn to grant him the strength and power he needed to battle chaos and defend his people. His pack.

That Astrea, his soul-friend and companion, would be part of the god's awful price, he hadn't realized and couldn't accept. And so, she withered, driven almost out of Arondyr's mind and heart by the one he'd sworn to serve. Undying, she starved. Unable to leave him, she suffered. Remembering love, she now hated him.

One sword stroke was all it would take. Her head would be shorn from that pitiful waste of a body. Their bond would be severed, and Arondyr would belong to Hyrenn, utterly and forever.

Only… he couldn't do it. Here and now, with no one watching, he drew closer to Astrea. Squatted down by her side. The sword demanded her life, longing to feed upon magical blood. That was the price of their further attunement, but Arondyr wouldn't pay.

Unable to help himself, the paladin stripped a gauntlet and reached forth his hand. Wanting… needing to caress that once noble head. Fondle those back-pointed ears.

Almost succeeded in touching her, then jerked his hand back, scant hair's breadth away from Astrea's snapping teeth.

"Leave me," he whispered hoarsely. "Find someone else."

Only, she couldn't. He knew that, and inside, he died of it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

22

Elsewhere, Val got Salem arranged by the fire. With half of his mind he attended to the wards, strengthening 'silence', 'darkness' and 'absence' particularly.

Mirielle scrambled back over with a handful of cold-withered leaves and bent stems: heart's ease, clear breath and, yes, fen-mark. Together with the stim-leaf she'd found for them earlier, steeped in the sugary day brew, the herbs made a healing drink.

Val held the Tabaxi against his chest, keeping her upright enough so that Mirielle's spoon-dribbled tea would stay and be swallowed. Salem jerked awake, fighting to rise. Kept repeating the plea to find and help Lionel. Val held her down, murmuring words of comfort he'd learnt from Katina.

Provided what emergency healing he could; preventing infection in sawed-short tail and the shredded hide of her arm. Someone had done their level best to destroy her tattoo, cutting near bone in some places. There were still a few sparkles of gold there. Still just a flutter of magic.

Valerian could not focus entirely on the task, however. Something was out there. Had pushed past the first of his alert lines. Two… no, three… of them. Moving slowly, pausing often, seeming to snuff at the ground. Hunting.

Wargs, their presence making his hands and throat burn where other-Val had been silenced. Drawing his cloak over Salem, Val pulled Mirielle closer, as well, signaling: quiet.

Brushing minds hot and fierce with blood-lust, he sent: 'There is no light, but moon-glow. There is no sound but the wind. No scent, but pinestraw and the picked-over flesh of a deer. Nothing and no one is here.'

Unconsciously put his free hand in the fire, clutching at embers; drawing strength and power. Not courage, though. A Tarandahl never lacked that.

The huge beasts snuffled and shifted nearby, talking to one another in short growls and whines, their shadowy forms like icy, fanged holes in the night.

'There is nothing here,' Val repeated, trying to suggest, not command, which would surely give them away.

Mirielle huddled close beside him, her breath coming fast. He could feel her heart fluttering as she grasped his cloak and her mace. Salem rumbled a cat-growl, causing three dirty blots in the night to pause and look over.

Then, away northward, something howled loudly. Not a warg. Rather, the worst imitation of a wolf's cry he'd ever heard. Literally could have done better, himself, spelling and hurling a bait-stone.

The wargs alerted, lifting ugly, saw-toothed heads. Then, keeping low to the ground, they split up; moving to surround the source of that quavering howl.

Trouble… for somebody else. And, for almost a breath, Val let it remain so. Then, as quietly as possible, the elf shifted Salem and rose to his feet. This was a matter for stealth and speed and striking from darkness. Mail shirt and sword would be useless. Instead, Val took up his bow, keeping the quiver a half-hair away in its faerie pocket, rather than slinging it.

Mirielle lifted her mace, making as if to join him, but Val shook his head, no.

"Salem needs care," he whispered. "Without it, she will die. Stay and tend to her."

The girl did not know how to wish for another's safe return. Had no way to express "be careful" or "come back", but her entire heart was in those upturned wide eyes.

Valerian took a moment he didn't really have to trace a sigil of protection on her forehead. She grasped at his hand, whispering urgently,

"Show me what you did. Show me how!"

Somewhere out there, some brave, stupid fool was still gurgling, trying to lead off the wargs. But Val showed Mirielle how to scribe Rayna: I protect. The girl then reached up with both arms, half climbing, half hauling him down to scrawl the sigil on his own forehead, shoulders and arms.

"Leave off," he protested, stifling a laugh. "You'll have me glow like a torch, for all of the forest to wonder at."

But it was well done, and it mattered, just the same. On his way out through the ward, he looked back at the girl and said, "Fighter."

Wasn't swift enough to escape her answering,

"Wizard!" though.

Outside, the forest seemed withdrawn and uneasy; fouled by the things that paced through it, hunting. Very faintly, dawn-glow was rising, along with a bit more wind, but no birds sang and no creature dared leave its hiding place. Except for one foolish elf.

Val nocked arrow to bow, moving as he so often had with Kalisandra; silent and swift. The first time, they'd snuck off to catch a manticore, and nearly gotten themselves killed. Later, the prey had been orcs. Now, by himself, three savage wargs.

From the sound of things, that persistent howler was trying to climb up a tree. Badly. Val slipped through the woods, tracking the wargs and a scrabbling, cursing howler. The first shot was easy.

A hairy, boulder-like haunch presented a mark that he couldn't have missed from a hundred feet, with a deflated court-ball. Breathe, draw, release… and the arrow hissed off. Struck warty hide and sank right on down to the fletching. Better than that, the steel arrowhead cast Sandy's gift, Moonlight.

The injured warg screamed, twisted and bit at its own back leg, but the arrow could not be dislodged. It ate at the warg from inside out. Staying out of its sight, Val paused to listen, then moved after one of its packmates.

'Frost Maiden,' he thought, 'these creatures defile your clean forest. Grant me stealth, Milady, that I may remove them.'

Must have worked, because he got the drop on the second warg, too. That beast came rushing over to investigate its thrashing, shriveling fellow. Practically gift wrapped and tied with a ribbon.

Val nocked a fresh arrow, its point also shining with pale, icy light. Lined up a shot, drew and released. Vesendorin's bow sang once again, sending the arrow straight at the unheeding beast. Good shot, cleaving heart and lungs cleanly, ending the creature's life between one breath and the other, but…

Valerian backed as it crashed to the ground beside its companion, both of them burning with cold, consuming white light. But, where was the other?

He'd lost track of the third warg over the noise of thrashing limbs and gutteral howls. Then, like a hairy black landslide, something exploded out of the wood to his right, almost too close to react to.

He pivoted, just ducking past huge, snapping jaws and breath like a public privy, on fire. Brought his bow up and around, but hadn't an arrow to hand. Half leapt, half scrambled backward, reaching into the faerie pocket, this time getting a nearly useless, unfletched fishing arrow.

The warg turned on its haunches, forepaws raised, knocking acorns and leaves out of the trees as it altered, flowed and stood erect. Right. A were-warg. Why not?

Val nocked, drew and fired the arrow, aiming for anything, anywhere at all on that rumbling mountain of chaos. He struck its nose, but the angle was bad. The fishing arrow drew blood, then bounced, to skitter off into the trees.

"My… meat…" growled the were-thing, in a voice like a tornado. "Pelt, eyes and entrails, to me. Ears for the master."

Sure. So…

He reflexively blasted a firebolt, nailing it square on the face. From the other side, as someone thudded up panting and shouting, an axe struck its neck. Fire flared from both of Val's hands at once, straight down that gaping maw. Blasted out the beast's eyes, nose and ears. At the same time, the axe blade bit cleanly through mangy dark hide, slicing gristle and bone; half-cleaving the were-thing's neck.

Roasted and nearly decapitated, the monster collapsed with a cratering THUD, right at Valerian's feet. He stood there a moment, wide-eyed and gasping. Then, as Hilt trundled over, bandy legs churning, Val got himself back together.

"A Tarandahl," he informed her, "is never afraid."

Planting a foot on the carcass, she jerked her axe out of the warg. Then, coming over to squint up at Val, the shop-dwarf grunted,

"And a good thing it is, too. Otherwise, we might've 'ad trouble."

Something chattered and bounced through the branches above them, scattering pinecones and beech nuts. A good sign, thought the elf.

"That," he said, "was the worst imitation of a warg's howl I've ever heard." Then, "I thank you, good dwarf, for drawing them off, but… how did you know where we were?"

He'd thought that his wards were quite good, but if any backwater merchant could see through them…

"Well, um… as t' that," Hilt dithered, looking uncomfortable. "That hardtack I gave ye fer 'alf price, before ye set off…"

Val put his bow away.

"What of it?" he asked.

"Well, y' see… it do get stolen a lot, by them as finger me merchandise an' then bolt from the store. So, um…"

Valerian put the pieces together. Arrived at,

"You placed a thief-trace on the provisions?" he asked. "You thought that I would take the supplies that you sold me, and not go after your folk?"

"Aye, well… these be dangerous times, Milord, and it came out fer th' best, din't it? Allowed me ter find ye in time t' help out."

A thief trace. As though she'd doubted his word; taken him for a common pickpocket. As though he would have accepted her wretched supplies in the first place, were the need not desperate. But,

"Yer Lordship," said Hilt, lifting a placating hand. "I b'ain't tryin' ter start nuthin'. If me doin's 're rude an' me speech 's rough, I apologize. I b'ain't quality, but I come 'ere ter 'elp. Din't mean no offense. Please, let it go."

Almost exactly as a young man of Starshire had once pleaded with Lerendar. Val surprised the worried merchant with a half-bow.

"You shame me, good dwarf," he said. "I am the one whose behavior is rough and ill-considered. Your help is most welcome."

She studied the elf for a long moment. Then, returning his courtesy, said,

"Let it all be forgot, then. I'm guessin' you've a fire and bit o' cheer, somewheres about?"

"This way," he told her, setting out through the dawn-lightened forest. Thought to retrieve his arrows, which Kalisandra's blessing and plain good luck had preserved. Cleansed of warg-blood, they went right back into their faerie pocket.

Mirielle was waiting anxiously when he opened the wards for himself and Hilt.

"Peace," he said to the girl, whose rush and embrace nearly bowled him over. "All is well."

As instructed, the child had looked after Salem; keeping her covered and warm, dosing her often with healing brew. The sight of Hilt spooked her into ducking behind Valerian, who let her stay hidden.

Glancing at a circle of glowing pink, tree-bordered sky, he said,

"In a candle-mark's time, we must leave. I shall attempt to heal Milady. In the meanwhile, I suggest that you get such rest as you can. It has been a very long night."

"Aye, that it 'as, Yer Lordship," agreed Hilt.

Very shortly, the shop dwarf was flat on her back with a provision sack for a pillow, snoring like summer thunder.

"She's going to wake up with lines on 'er face, smelling of cheese," observed Mirielle, with genuine satisfaction.

"Less rudeness to an ally," Val admonished his young page, mussing her curly short hair with one hand. Then, pushing aside weariness and phantom injuries, he set out to do what he could for Salem.

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Elsewhere, and just a bit earlier, Gildyr healed inside and out. Inside, because he was surrounded by well loved family and friends, even if not quite his own. Outside, because Gran dosed him with every steeped bark, shredded herb, stewed root and beetle's wing potion she knew of. Even the ones against bad breath and clumsiness.

There in his old room, at nearly the top of the family elm tree… in his small, cozy bed by the round window… Gildyr rested, letting nightmare fade like an early frost.

But, more than his skinny, weather-tanned hide, his heart and soul were repaired by the presence of someone he'd not looked to see again, this side of Oberyn's call. Late that same evening, Karus arrived, stepping from shadow into the family clearing.

Head lifted, wide golden antlers casting back splinters of firelight, nostrils quivering, the Lord of the Forest moved like a shining white ghost. Gildyr felt his coming. Fell-climbed-scrambled-ran stumbling out of his sick bed and room, out of the home elm, across the wide yard and straight to his soul friend. Straight to the noble beast that, here, had not been able to save his small boy.

Gildyr flung his arms around that powerful neck, sobbing incoherently. Karus snuffed him and lipped at his hair; drinking in the scent and presence of one so very like his own lost companion.

They grew stronger just being together. The fit was not perfect, but near enough to heal wounds that had bled for a lifetime.

Watching from outside the torch-glow, out in the forest, Arondyr felt his hackles rise at the scent and feel of powerful, other-plane magic. Someone had sent that mockery here, careless of how it would torment and befool everyone but him. Some high-elvish mage who would very much, very terribly pay.

Shaking his head, the paladin turned away and stalked off, trailed by a tottering, half-starved shadow.

Everyone else gathered close. There were many cycles of name-day presents to be opened at one great feast, here and now. Most were child-sized and silly. Toys, joke potions, fairings and the like. The last, though, was a man's bow and quiver of hunting arrows, quite the finest he'd ever seen.

Placing a hand on his youngest son's shoulder, Gilcrest said,

"Tis high-elf work, but blessed and cleansed by the Old Oak, himself."

Shavonne, his mother, said little. She'd never been much given to chatter, being more often her forest self. Her pack self.

She'd a gift of her own, one intended for a young boy… now man… who'd won through his proving. A very fine dagger, it was, with a volcano glass blade whose keen edge would have split drifting spider silk, lengthwise.

Gildyr's green eyes widened.

"But, I'm not… I…" he fumbled, searching for words.

Shavonne met his gaze, folding his hands over the gift with both of her own.

"Take, please, what would have been his. Allow me to see what I have only been able to dream of," she said, in a low and long-disused voice. Beautiful, dark-haired and distant, slim as a reed, she was his mother… almost. As he was the ghost of her murdered son.

"Thank you, life-giver," Gildyr replied, in the pack's formal way. "For him, for your lost one, I will accept your gifts and your love."

She leaned forward, then, and for just a moment, Shavonne's smooth cheek brushed his own. Then she withdrew; once more a thing of the wood and the gloaming, half-glimpsed by starlight.

Gilcrest changed the subject with a bluff, hearty joke, while Gran pushed a bowl heaped up with stew at him. Squirrel, his favorite. With acorn bread, cheese, fresh butter and apples, there was no finer meal in the world.

Gildyr ate on the ground, leaning back against Karus's muscular flank. Strider was high overhead. The night was breezy and cool, and the young druid was filled with something too big and too wondrous for words.

Then, just out of fire-glow range, he sensed something move. Saw the brief eye-shine of somebody out there, watching him eat. Hurriedly (but missing not one drop of gravy, tender meat or crisp vegetables) Gildyr finished his stew. Wiped the clay bowl clean with a hank of bread, then finished an apple in three rapid bites. The golden cheese he put away in a faerie pocket to save for later, or share with a friend.

Karus rose gracefully, first front legs, then back ones, nudging Gildyr up off the ground with his great, antlered head.

"I know," said the druid. "I see him, and I'll try, but… well… he is and he isn't my Arondyr."

The stag snorted, then fell to nibbling at Gildyr's shirt collar, his breath warm and sweet. And, again, there were no words for love returned, against all hope. For the regrowth of something dug out and slain, all those long years ago.

Gildyr hugged Karus tightly, letting their minds and their hearts flow together. Caressed long, mobile ears and a velvety muzzle. Fed the stag conjured greens and more bread. Then,

"I'll try," he repeated. "For both of them."

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