Even fresher edits here!(Oops! Fixed, this time, for sure... until I spot the next wretched gremlin.)

2

Earlier:

Out, or alongside… however one expresses a distance both purely imaginary and barely crossable… away in the shimmering Fey Wilds, a mighty sorceress searched for her analogue. Lady Alyanara, rumored daughter of an exiled prince and a goddess, had crossed the veil using a ruined stone archway and powerful magic.

With sigil and sheer force of will, she converted that crumbling arch to a portal, then stepped on through. Left a time-stone in place, as she did not wish to return to the wrong location, hundreds of cycles too late.

On the Karandun side of the portal, the sun was just rising, the air chilly and fretful with gusty-sharp wind like a muttered, one-sided argument. The camp was noisy and active, half a mile back and a bit to the east; partly blocking the old imperial trade road.

On the other side, though, the sky danced with lights and two huge, swollen moons, Charr and Aqualia. The air was spicy and rich, filled with pollen and manna; just about coating her lungs with every deep breath. Stars burnt and pulsed overhead like a scatter of gems, changing position and color as suited them.

The season was spring at its loveliest, shading over to summer's first heat; warm and bursting with life, though the sun never quite rose here, and magical light came from every direction at once.

The trees of this place were giants; towering pillars of wood which supported whole cities, from which waterfalls traced lacy paths and vanished away in midair. Between any two of these forest titans, the view changed as Alyanara turned her rapt gaze. Here was a rocky and thundering seashore. There, a glimmering meadow. Elsewhere, a snowy and perilous crag, or a hollow void pocked with dead, ashen stars.

The sounds and scents were varied as well, being chiefly woodland florals and birdsong, with sometimes the call of a hunting displacer or wyvern. Often, the cry of felled prey. Warning enough.

Alyanara threw back her hood, allowing a shimmer of fey-lights, those smallest of faeries, to drift down and perch on her pale-golden hair. This was not her first visit, as the temple priests had led their young charges on several trips to find magical trinkets and life-giving herbs. It was the first time she'd been here alone, though, and the effect was quite powerful, pulling her into a half-dream.

Only, she hadn't come here to wander and gape. She'd come in search of herself. The sorrowing other who'd deserted family and home at the death of her husband. Shuddering, Aly made the high-elven sign against evil. Her own lord and spouse yet lived… troublesome wretch though he sometimes still was… and she'd grown to love him.

At first, because she'd known no better, having been claimed by his parents and wed to Galadin straight from her forty-year term as a temple maid. Then, because his ways had become familiar, exasperating and finally dear. She did not wish to lose him, and her other self's anguish was a hard thing to face, much less to seek out.

…Yet Valerian had come to their plane and rescued his analogue, freeing her Val from peril. Could she do less?

Alyanara drifted forward, only occasionally scuffing the mossy ground with her feet. The gravity was lighter, here, giving her much greater strength. She could sense, like a compass needle, the powerful draw of the Seelie Court. Of Titania, queen of Summer and Light (whose own lord was gone and not much missed, to judge by the laughing spirits and warm, playful breezes that tugged at Aly's clothing and hair).

Distance in the Fey-wild was more or less what you made of it. The span between Alyanara and her widowed analogue might have been ten-thousand miles or five yards. Rather depended on whose will was strongest. She caught the trace of her other self and followed it, not letting go of the portal's place in her mind.

Wonders drew her gaze and attention, from a herd of racing centaur folk to screeching wyverns mating aloft as they plunged through the sky. Sometimes they parted in time. Sometimes they cratered the ground like a pair of intertwined meteors.

But there was more: Flowers with beautiful faces, sweet songs and a thirst for blood called to the sorceress, who averted her gaze and moved on. There were mortal children, as well; kidnapped from parents long dead, skipping through the trees and calling her over. Giant boulder folk, too; so drowsy and slow that villages covered their rocky flanks and winged horses grazed on their heads. One of the giants gave her a ponderous wink as Alyanara passed by. She nodded and smiled, but did not pause to chat, as diversions were often fatal in this darkly enchanting place.

A sparkling river wound its way through the air overhead, complete with fishes and serpents that leapt both above and below; somehow always drawn back to that chuckling watery cylinder. Alyanara lifted a hand, just brushing its underside with her fingertips. The water felt cool and reviving, but she wasn't foolish enough to drink any. Knew better, having learnt from the priests what happened to those who ate or drank in the Fey-wilds.

Instead, carefully wiping her hand on her cloak, Alyanara pressed onward. Sights of phenomenal beauty and terrible danger kept her moving. It was every bit as hazardous to linger in the glade where an eladrin harper drew tears from the air with his song as it was to enter that frost-rimmed hole in the ground.

She was not here seeking love or adventure, so the sorceress steered a clear path for the most part. Some things would not be ignored, though, placing themselves so that she had to respond; answering riddles, paying in coin or just patting a warm, dappled flank and braiding a silken mane with white flowers.

People got lost here forever, that way, because they'd stopped to play with the children or settle a feud between faeries, and ended up staying for life. Alyanara avoided temptation until a muscular fellow… feathered serpent below and winged, handsome man above… rustled to a landing on the ground before her.

"Alyanara," he said, in a voice like strong, honeyed wine. "You come to us late, but thrice welcome for all your coquettish delay. Come, sorceress, dally a bit. Strengthen our blood and your magic with love."

His sleek plumage was black and gold, his skin deeply tanned and his long, braided hair like a river of smoke. His fierce falcon's eyes shone with pride and open desire. A Quetzali warrior, and one with a taste for two-legged females.

His clawed wings were only solid in battle or flight. On the ground, they shifted to misty suggestions, forming a sparkling cloak. At his hips, on either side, a pair of spurs curved out and down like two fangs. Nor was that all his armament, for the Quetzali bore also a spear, a coiled rope and long knife.

The sorceress returned his smile, fishing his name from the Quetzali's mind.

"Kraetar of Farmont," she replied, inclining her head in a very slight bow, but promising nothing at all. "Your suggestion is… unexpected, but not unwelcome. My business here is urgent, however, and there is not time for love-play. I seek myself of another plane, who has retreated here in deep sorrow."

Kraetar's expression darkened, but he signed understanding.

"Alyanara-who-weeps. Yes, I know of her. She it was who predicted your coming and bade us watch for you. Would you speak with her, Sorceress?"

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Alyanara nodded.

"Very much, yes, and with all speed," she responded, "for the need is great. Conduct me to her, if you please, Kraetar."

She had spoken his name aloud twice, now. There was power in that, for if she used it again, completing a three-speak, she might compel his obedience, here in the Fey-wild. But then, he knew hers as well, and had only to use it in formal address twice more. Surely aware of this, the Quetzali refrained, saying only,

"Follow, then, Sorceress. The one you seek is not far, but the way can seem long and confusing without a guide."

Kraetar remained on the ground, moving as a serpent does, in a smooth forward glide. His torso was carried well upright, enabling conversation. About something other than love, surprisingly.

"The second hatchling, son of your son…" he began.

"Val?" she supplied, not using her grandson's full name in this fell, lovely place.

"That one, yes," nodded Kraetar, smiling briefly. He had, not teeth, Aly noticed, but a serrated ridge of white beak-stuff in his mouth. "This Val has done a great service to one of our lost ones who wanders in exile. Officially, the matter is out of our hands, but… I would offer him this, in return for his aid."

The Quetzali spelled something out of a faerie pocket with a swift, furtive sigil, glancing around all the while as though concerned that someone might see what he was about and prevent it.

A largish, garnet-red egg dropped into his hand, softly lit from within by something that wriggled and moved there.

"For the second son of your son, if he is bold enough to master and raise it," said the Quetzali, passing the warm, humming egg to Alyanara. "A gift… or maybe a trial… for freeing one who was trapped."

The hand-signed 'my clutch-sister' was a mere flutter of fingers, quick and low as a whisper. Alyanara covered his sign with a flourish and bow.

"I thank you, Wind-rider," she said, using a harmless title rather than thrice-speak his name. "It has been many centuries since a Tarandahl last bestrode a griffin, but I believe that my grandson would welcome the challenge… either of him."

The egg was spelled into a warmed faerie pocket of her own, but not one so near as to bring it to hatching. She had no desire to deal with one of those ravenous, horrible monsters, herself. Nevertheless, Kraetar seemed gratified, just about glowing with satisfaction.

A bit of time passed in pleasant conversation about nothing that mattered, at all. Then, after traversing a distance of few steps and great length, they passed through a mid-forest portal, leaving the giant trees far behind.

Alyanara looked all about as they emerged onto a great, wind-swept plain, its surface dotted with rocky outcrops and stunted evergreens. But, more than dominating the landscape, something towered ahead that rivaled Starloft for sheer size and great age.

Clearly the work of giants, it was a mountain of granite and gold-veined quartz, carved into a series of complex, interlocking stone wheels. Mighty sigils the size of whole cities were inscribed on the rim of each cracked, mossy ring.

Festooned with vines and topped with dense forest, the massive stone arcs pierced the mountain and rose through the clouds to unguessable heights. A flock of white birds wheeled through the air alongside this great structure, too far away for their cries to be heard.

Very old and fallen to ruin, it was still breathtakingly grand… and oddly homey to one who'd dwelt many cycles in Starloft. Alyanara nodded, understanding why her other self would be drawn to this place, or at least to the cluster of ruined buildings that crouched at its base.

"She is there," said Kraetar, taking Alyanara's hand and kissing it lingeringly. "But I have stayed over-long and must leave you, now. Good fortune, Sorceress. The invitation stands, when next you visit the Fey-wild."

Alyanara squeezed the Quetzali's hand, which was scaled and ridged on its inner surface like a raptor's clawed foot.

"As the stars shine and winds blow, Sky-lord," she replied, smiling. "In the time and place that they bear me back to your side." And maybe she meant that.

"May it be soon," he said, pressing her hand in return. Then the Quetzali warrior unbunched his coils in one powerful spring, launching himself into the air. Wide, black-feathered wings spread out around him, clawed at the thumb-joint like a dragon's. Filling with magic and wind, they bore Kraetar aloft and very soon out of her sight.

Alyanara watched him go, then shook off his flirtatious glamor. Love and warfare were equally dangerous in the Fey-wild, and she had important business to attend to, as well as a husband.

On to the titans' enormous stone carving she went, making progress in odd fits and jerks. It was possible to walk for a candle mark's time without moving at all, then to cross seven leagues in a step… sometimes sideways or backward. Quite vexing, if one cared for logic or sense, but something an elf could adapt to.

At any rate, Alyanara got there at last; finding herself well inside the ruined stone city between one heartbeat and another. The rocky plain was behind her, now. A labyrinth of dark, narrow buildings all around, the paths between them curving and tangled as uncoiled rope.

The elven sorceress paused to get her bearings and allow her sense of place to adjust. One thing that there was none of at all in the Fey-wilds was iron or its mightier offspring, steel. Here, bronze, gold, silver and mithral, lumber and stone made up everything crafted or built, including the city around her. Being absent, iron's draw did not shift her senses at all, and there was no need to allow for its pull, in this place.

After a moment, she regained her grip on the other Aly's position and started moving, once more. There were no marks to guide her, for the buildings were windowless towers of dark stone, most of them having no ground-level door. That the city had long been abandoned was clear from the accumulation of dust, bones and dead leaves. Wind sighed, wandering lost and alone amid buildings that sounded aloud like reed pipes.

…but that didn't make it safe. She was attacked several times. Once, a young wyvern dropped from its perch high above, stooping like a red-scaled thunderbolt. Alyanara lifted a hand, inscribing and releasing a spell that enveloped the shrieking dragon, blasting it to sparkling motes and drifting, twirling bright shreds.

Next, as she approached a wide central square, a poisonous mist rose from the vine-covered ground, climbing to waist height in moments. Alyanara levitated above the worst of the stuff, which ate holes in her clothing and raised blisters on flesh. With a sigil of connection, Aly tied the wind's motion to that of her right hand, then clenched her fist, hard. The gas was swept up and compressed in one swift, violent grab, becoming a syrupy goo, then a solid lozenge of crystalized toxin. This she dropped into a weed-choked storm drain, watching as the plants turned brown, curled up and withered.

Then, because these things always happen in threes, a vampire struck. Lordly, commanding and beautiful, the predator stepped from shadow to whisper her name, showing the jagged teeth of a wolf. Chill white and deep black, with burning red eyes, dressed in the noble garb of an earlier age, it approached her.

"Come, Bright One," it whispered, using the name she'd had in the temple. "Come to your master."

Alyanara stepped backward, thinking quickly. There was no safe way to fight such a monster, which could infect the elf or drain her life with a touch, enslave her with words. Instead of direct battle, she opened a rift and summoned a bubble of dawn. Glowing pink, gold and lavender light filled the square at her word, along with the deep, droning chant of Oberyn's priests.

"Begone," she commanded, making a sign with her hands that only an altar-maid would have learnt. "I dispel thee back to the shadows you crawled from, drinker of blood." And then, in Empyrean, "Ashaloth, Ashaloth, Asherith!" Which was to say, 'Out, out, away!'

Surrounded and burning with light, seared by the gods' own language, that beautiful nightmare invoked an escape spell and vanished. Alyanara stood waiting a bit, readying magic and stronger words of command, but the vampire did not return. Wisely. Thankfully.

Once a seven-long heartbeat had safely passed, Alyanara resumed her path through that bleak, ruined city. Came at last to a rectangular pool of dark water, in which was reflected the giants' vast construct of interlocked rings.

Great menhirs of stone floated above the still pool, carved with bright sigils and slowly rotating. At the water's edge, very near, crouched the rock crystal form of a beautiful, sorrowning elf-woman. Her other self, more stone now than flesh; still trailing water like tears from that lovely, unmoving face.

Alyanara drew closer, pushing her way through waves of deep grief and inconsolable loss to reach her suffering analogue. The sheer, raw pain hurt her, as well, so the sorceress fought back with memory, freely offering every moment from her lord's safe return from his sea voyage, to their parting at camp, less than a day ago. All that this version of herself had lost. Conversations, occasional arguments, shared meals… acts of love… all were opened and shared with Alyanara-who-weeps.

"Bright One," said the sorceress, placing her warm, living hand on the statue's cold shoulder. "Arise. Come away. Your son has perished, and your grandsons battle to save the realm they have need of you."

Alyanara-who-weeps drew some strength from the transferred life of her twin, but…

'I cannot,' whispered the air, hummed those circling menhirs. 'It has been so very long and I haven't the strength.'

"You need not go alone," said the sorceress, feeling a bit of softening, some motion at last in that slim, hunched shoulder. "I shall be with you."

In mid speech, something happened. Where there had been two Alyanaras… one vital and warm, filled with purpose… one just about lost to her grief… there remained only a lone, reeling elf. She, or they, nearly fell to the ground. Only, this was no place to show weakness of will.

The statue was gone, and Alyanara was all at once twice what she had been.

"Let us go, then," they said, turning to face the abandoned city and desolate plain. "The time for tears is ended. Now, we will fight."